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As for Ringfield, no one missed him very acutely until Saturday morning, when, upon the receipt of a letter from Mme. Prefontaine, "Poussette's" was thrown into considerable excitement. Pauline, who could rarely keep anything to herself, read her letter aloud and immediately jumped up in terror. "Why did not some one tell me they were together; together, at the Hotel Champlain?
I remember his eyes." "What are you talking about now?" said the other angrily. "I'll swear you knew something of that hole and meant to see me go down through it." Ringfield smiled with that slow, wry smile of his. "I knew nothing of the hole. But I am not so sure that I would be sorry if I saw you go down through it this moment, so long as it was not my direct work.
Ringfield held his breath, but had enough sense to lie down again in the straw, and feign slumber; happily the priest did not concern himself with the loft, but the absence of the bird he had expected to find, caged and waiting, seemed to mystify him.
A whole row of these usually hung from the ceiling of a small outhouse close at hand, and Ringfield had already taken one, lighted it, and was a quarter of a mile along the road; Poussette, fearing this, made such insane haste, "raw haste, half-sister to Delay," that the blanketing of the horse and the other preliminaries took more time than usual, and he had hardly driven out of the gate when Father Rielle, who had changed his mind, also left the kitchen from where his sharp ears had caught these various sounds, and searching for a third lantern, found one, lighted it, and set off on foot behind Poussette in the buggy.
"But perhaps I'd better do as you say; don't detain him now. When he's gone I'll get you out of this somehow." Thus in a few minutes Ringfield entered the barn, found Pauline, as he supposed alone; but afterwards, watching from the high road, saw the guide emerge and noted the familiar relation in which they stood in front of the stricken pine.
He shut the door, after piloting the other in, and led the way into a sort of dining and living room, in the middle of which was a long, narrow table covered with white oilcloth, graced by a monster bouquet of wild-flowers, grasses and ferns at the end; at the other end was a tumbler and a bottle and Ringfield saw clearly enough that it held whisky.
Perhaps whisky doesn't suit you. I know it was gin you wanted. 'The gin within the juniper began to make him merry. Lots of people don't know that's Tennyson. Eh, Ringfield? Afraid? Afraid of imperilling your immortal soul? Nuisance a soul. Great nuisance. Great mistake. Well are you or are you not going to drink this other glass? I can't see good stuff wasted. I'm astonished at you.
"Then you must not talk of hating. Love your enemies, Mr. Ringfield, and bless them that persecute you. That isn't in the Catholic Manual in those words perhaps, but I have seen it somewhere, I think in the Testament Nouveau. You see I am always 'good Methodist' as our friend Poussette would say."
"I've had enough of them, too much, as I said before. You be warned, Ringfield! You keep out of trouble! I wouldn't swear that I did not take to drink on account of them, and then, look here the trouble followed me out to this country, even to St. Ignace, even to this hut and hole. What d'ye think of that?"
"You are in trouble, trouble of the soul, some perplexity of the mind? Tell me then how I can help?" And Ringfield answered: "Father Rielle, I wish to confess to you. I wish you to hear a confession." "Oh! Monsieur, think! We are not of the same communion. You have said so yourself. You would perhaps ridicule my holy office, my beloved Church!" "No, no! I am too much in earnest."
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