"Not even that, Renaud, not even that. But leave them--good cats, good friends."

The cats curled up again in conscious att.i.tudes, while from under the vast and ancient bed came a loud and insistent purring, rising and falling with triumphant, happy cadences--the song of the mother-cat, impervious to all save her immediate surroundings.

"If they were dogs," cried Miss Clairville, in fretful fear and mortification, "they would not sleep like that! They would know you were ill, dying, and they would keep watch and show affection. I always hated cats, and now I shall hate them more than ever."

"What are cats?" said the doctor with a yawn, which vanished as he glanced down at his patient. "Come, you are here to arrange a few details with monsieur your brother--make haste then. Madame, some water and a little brandy in it! So. Now, Mademoiselle, attend."

"There is not so much for me to say," said the sick man, pressing Pauline's hand with wistful entreaty, "as there is from me to hear from you yourself. I have confessed my fault, my sin, and yet, not my sin, Pauline. Angele is my child, by Artemise Archambault, as you have always known, but she is more, she is my daughter, legitimately begotten, in proper wedlock. This you did not know, my poor Pauline.

She is a true Clairville, my sister, a De Clairville, I should say."

Pauline was now entirely overcome with a new emotion, that of intense surprise and consternation; instantly the consequences of legitimizing "Angeel" rushed at her. Instead of a low _liaison_ there was marriage; the child and she were heirs alike; they were relations and should be friends, and what she had feared to hear timidly broached--some plan to keep the child near her--would now be insisted upon.

"Oh!" she cried, drawing away, "this is worse than anything I came prepared to hear! This is the worst, cruellest of all. Far better had she been nameless, far, far better. Perhaps--ah! yes--now I understand; he is ill, he wanders, he does not know what he is saying."

"Tell her, Renaud."

"It is all true, mademoiselle. Believe what he says, for he was never clearer in the head, not often so clear in life and health as now."

At this she broke down completely, sobbing aloud. The priest gently intervened.

"I cannot allow this, my daughter. You must respect the hour, the condition of monsieur, the place, the death-bed of a Christian, mademoiselle!"

Pauline's sudden sharp sobs were all that could be heard. She had never wept like this in her life before.

"What is it you want me to do? Not take her with me, not have her to live with me? I could not, Henry, I could not. Even if I could overcome my horror of her--poor innocent child, for it is not her fault she is as she is--I have no right to visit her on Edmund when we are married. Yes, yes--you must see that we shall be separated. Angele and her mother--oh! it is not possible--yet I must call her so since you say it, your wife, Henry, the Archambault girl, will live here.

They will be comfortable, and if we do well where we are going, if Edmund comes into his money----"

Clairville interrupted her.

"It is of him, too, Hawtree, that I would speak. I fear, I fear--he is not what he should be, to be your husband, my poor Pauline. His talk--he has told me much of his past, of women, other women.

Pauline--he has loved in many places."

"Yes, but I was the last--and best!" broke from Miss Clairville in a burst of self-pity. Her eager accents lent pathos to the triumphant declaration and she fancied the priest laughing in his corner! the doctor gave a snort of ridicule and even the lips of the impa.s.sive nurse seemed to contract with a contemptuous smile.

"He tells you so, he tells you so. Well, may it be so then, and Heaven bless you, Pauline. If I--if I----" his lean hand moved jerkily; it wandered in search of her head, but instead of those dark locks of hair it fell on the back of a cat. Pauline was swayed by extraordinary and clashing emotions. He--her hated and despised brother--was trying to bless her, to lay unsanctified and sinful yet yearning hands upon her, and it was a blow to her pride to learn forbearance in such a school and from such a teacher. But he had spoken almost his last words. He collapsed, groaning, and the doctor and Mme. Poussette each pa.s.sed an arm under him. Father Rielle appeared at the bedside with the sacrament.

"Not for a minute or two," said Dr. Renaud. "He is still worried in his mind. It is you, mademoiselle, always you. He is uneasy about the child. I know what he wishes; that you will be friendly with her, treat her as your own blood, stay here with her, it may be, for a season. Promise, mademoiselle, and quickly."

"I cannot! I cannot!"

"Nonsense! Promise--and at once."

Father Rielle whispered in her ear: "Promise, my daughter."

"It will be useless. I should not keep such a promise."

"What does that matter? Promise--to soothe his dying moments, even if you break it afterwards. The Church thus orders, and the Church will make good, will console."

Thus hemmed in, Pauline bent and gave her promise; much shaken and still violently sobbing, she then left the room and Renaud accompanied her. The act was significant, the leech of the body withdrawing to make room for the leech of the soul. The door was softly drawn to by Mme. Poussette; the low sound of Father Rielle's voice was heard at intervals, then there was a silence. Ten minutes later the priest and nurse came out, throwing wide the door on the remains of Henry Clairville, just pa.s.sed from this world to the next. At the same instant, a strange incongruous sound came from the room, and Pauline, wide-eyed and panting, stopped sobbing, and stood up with her hands pressed over her heart. It was the penetrating chant of three l.u.s.ty kittens, new-born, blind and helpless, yet quick to scent their mother and grope towards her furry bosom.

Madame hastily re-entered, driving all the cats before her, including the outraged mother, who took this summary eviction with hoa.r.s.e and angry cries, and the kittens, gathered roughly into madame's ap.r.o.n, continued to emit shrill, smothered squeals all the way to the kitchen.

Dr. Renaud pa.s.sed in to verify the death, and the incident of the cats was not lost upon him; indeed, it appealed to his professional instinct.

"In the midst of Death we are in Life," he remarked jocularly, stepping back into the hall to get ready for the drive homeward.

Miss Clairville glanced at these preparations, and speedily made up her mind. She had grown quiet and was already relieved at the prospect of leaving Clairville immediately.

"It cannot matter now whether I go or stay, surely! Dr. Renaud, I go with you, is it not so?"

"Faith--it doesn't matter any longer now, as you say. Quick with you then, for I have much in the village to arrange; a Clairville does not die every day. Madame has the young Antoine with her, she will not be afraid. I can send somebody out to sit with her, and you will be best at Poussette's."

The day was cold but bright and intensely sunny, and Pauline's relief and grat.i.tude to the doctor brought back her colour; she sat up, casting her care behind her, and let him talk.

"Well, there was not much to be done with him; the 'pic' had weakened the system, and after so many years of incarceration in a sleeping-room the chest and lungs were delicate; hence the congestion and cause of death. Well, well--let me see--I remember your brother twenty-three years ago when I first came to St. Ignace. A strange, bookish, freakish character, but a gentleman, that goes without saying, Ma'amselle Pauline. And you, just a little black-haired girl, reciting French tragedy in the untidy garden! Ah--ah! I see it clearly--no father, no mother, save old Victoria Archambault, and yet you grew up a handsome young lady, always thinking of making your fortune, eh? And you cannot have made it yet or you would not be contemplating marriage with our friend the Englishman."

Pauline's face changed at this; the barred gate stood out over her eyes, and with ease and happiness fading from her mouth and expression she turned on Renaud.

"Who was there to help me make it or to care if I made it at all? Now that you know the truth and see what Henry is and was, how could I be anything or do anything in such a _milieu_! You taunt me, you--who profess to have known nothing of the Archambault affair all these years!"

"I give you the word of honour, mademoiselle, I swear it to you--I knew nothing! Recollect--your brother never would admit a doctor, you were strong and healthy and much away from Clairville; of the child I only heard from those at Hawthorne and I did not connect what I did hear with either you or the seigneur, as he liked to call himself. These afflicted ones, these peculiar ones--Mme. Poussette kept the secret well. But two days ago he sent for me and told me everything; how he was properly married in the parish of Sault au Recollet to Artemise Archambault, she, the half-witted, the empty-headed--G.o.d knows whether that was the charm or what--and of the birth of the child, he told me.

What could you expect from the union of two such natures? If you marry, mademoiselle, mate neither with a bad temper nor an unbridled thirst."

"Ah, be quiet, Dr. Renaud! You are the blunt well-wisher, I suppose, a type I detest! How can I help myself! I have chosen, and you know the Clairville character."

"Yes, I know, but count before you jump--'tis safer. Jesting aside, ma'amselle, and although I come from a death-bed I jest with a light heart as one who sees on the whole enough of life and never too much of death--you are still too young and too brilliant a woman to marry anything but well. But I have said, I have finished."

"And not too soon"--was Miss Clairville's inward thought, as with new fears p.r.i.c.king at her heart she kept silence, so unusual a thing with her that the garrulous Renaud observed it and endeavoured to correct his pessimism.

"Enough of Life and not too much of Death," he repeated, gaily flourishing his whip. "It has a queer sound, that, eh? But it is like this, ma'amselle; when I bring to life, when I usher into this world, I see the solemnity and the importance of life in front of me and I am sad; it makes me afraid. When I a.s.sist at the grave I am calm and happy, light-hearted even, because there our responsibility for one another ceases, so long as we keep the Ma.s.ses going."

"The Ma.s.ses! For their souls you mean, for his soul? How then--do you believe that, Dr. Renaud?"

"Eh? Believe--mademoiselle? Come, you take me at a disadvantage. Am I not a good Catholic then? Pardon me, but I never discuss these questions. Without the Church we should be much worse than we are, and faith--some of us are about as bad as we can be already."

Pauline, tired out, said no more, but leaning back fell into dreaming of her marriage and of the life before her. Her brother was gone, peacefully and honourably on the whole; of Angeel it was not necessary to think, and if Artemise were to remain at Clairville as its mistress, a very good way might be opened toward conciliating the neighbourhood and of managing the child for the future. The Archambaults would most likely all return, evict Mme. Natalie Poussette, who would return to her husband, and Clairville Manor again a.s.sume the lively air of a former period, with French retainers young and old overrunning the house and grounds.

Once more in thought Miss Clairville saw the culmination of her hopes all revolving around the interesting Hawtree, and once more she began in fancy to add to, sort over, and finally pack away the airy trousseau which must now be enriched by at least one sober black suit, hat and mourning veil.

CHAPTER XXIV

RELAPSE

"How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell How he broke faith----"