Part 26 (1/2)
The Hotel Champlain is a hostelry not on the list which promises the highest cla.s.s of entertainment for the tourist; one has not to go there unless one is French or in some way connected with or interested in French life and character, yet the _cuisine_ is excellent and the rooms clean and neat. The occasional presence of pompous Senators from the provinces on their way to the legislative halls of the capital ensures a certain average of cooking and attendance; at other times prevail the naturally comfortable instincts of the host and hostess, M. and Mme.
Alphonse Prefontaine, a couple bearing the same initials as the Poussettes, the wife a Natalie too, but extremely different in ideals and character. Thus, monsieur, the host, had voyaged, been to ”Paris, France,” emphasized in case you should think he meant that village, Paris, Ontario; had written a brochure on his travels and was a great patron of such arts as at that time the French population of Montreal were privileged to offer. Madame, the wife, with well-frizzed black hair, strong features and kindly dark eyes, was handsome enough for a Lady Mayoress, had excellent if a little showy taste in dress and had reared a large and healthy family.
To their comfortable roof Crabbe repaired rather than to any English one, because he was not yet completely reinstated in his own self-respect, and to patronize places suited to him in a prosperous future might now invite too much criticism. The Prefontaines knew Miss Clairville well and had heard from her of the rich Englishman to whom she was about to be married, and Crabbe was therefore received with more than Gallic fervour, a.s.signed one of the best rooms, and after seeing a clergyman and attending to other matters touching the approaching ceremony, shut himself up with certain ma.n.u.scripts that he wished to look over before mailing them to England. He had arrived at noon on the day of Henry Clairville's death and the next morning accordingly brought him the news in print. He grew thoughtful for a while, meant to dispatch a telegram of condolence to Pauline, then forgot it as he became interested in his work. Two poems in particular came in for much revision: ”The Lay of an Exiled Englishman,” and ”Friends on the Astrachan Ranch,” pleased him with their lines here and there, yet the general and final effect seemed disappointing to his fine critical side; like many another he saw and felt better than he could perform.
”A Tennysonian ring, I fear. Yet what man alive and writing now can resist it? It slides into the veins, it creeps along the nerves, it informs us as we speak and move and have our being. I'll read aloud--ghastly perhaps, but the only way to judge effect.”
He began, and the long lines rose and fell with precision and academic monotony; he was no elocutionist, but read as authors read their own works, as Schubert played his own music, and as he read the snow fell in thick swirling ma.s.ses outside his window and the cold grew more and more penetrating and intense. A knock at the door roused him. It was a servant of the house who spoke English. The host had sent to know whether the guest was warm.
”Well, come to think of it,” said Crabbe, ”I'm not too warm, by any means. You can tell them to fire up downstairs, certainly. What time is luncheon here?”
”Do you mean dinner, sir?”
”Oh, yes, dinner, of course. One o'clock? Very well.”
”No order, sir? For the bar, I mean?”
Crabbe stared at the speaker then straightened himself and looked out of the window. Was it snowing at St. Ignace, and on Henry Clairville's grave? Would Pauline go into mourning?
”No, I think not. A bottle of Ba.s.s at my dinner--that's all.”
The interruption over, he went back to his poetry, and this time read on until he had finished. Then he was silent, staring at the table with his legs straight out in front of him, and his hands in his pockets.
”What rot your own poetry can sound!” he finally observed with a frown.
”Verse certainly needs an audience, and there's a turn, a lilt that reminds me of Carleton occasionally--that won't do. Must go at it again. Must go at it again. Better have a smoke.”
He found and lit his pipe, read over the stanzas, this time in his head, and the room grew steadily colder, until he could hardly stand it. He rang the bell.
”Look here! Tell Mr. Prefontaine his guests are freezing in this house. Get him to fire up, there's a good fellow--and--look here? How soon will dinner be ready?”
”Not for some time, sir. Perhaps, if you're cold, a hot Scotch----”
But Crabbe was again buried in his work. At one he dined, very much admired by Mme. Prefontaine and her three daughters; he had his innocent tipple and then went back to his room. By three o'clock it was growing dark and he rose to pull down the blind, when a step outside in the hall arrested him. The step seemed familiar, yet incongruous and uncongenial; it was followed by a knock, and, going forward, Crabbe opened the door to Ringfield.
Astonishment showed in the Englishman's face, but he spoke amiably enough and invited the young man inside. Ringfield's countenance wore its perennial grave aspect, but it could also be seen that at that moment he was suffering from the cold. He wore no m.u.f.fler, and his hands were encased in mere woollen gloves; he had also the appearance of being a martyr to influenza, and Crabbe regarded him with his usual contemptuous familiarity.
”What's brought you to town this infernally cold day?” he said.
”You're not going to be married, you know.”
The pleasantry did not apparently disconcert the other, but he looked carefully around as if searching for something before he answered.
”To be candid, I followed you here to have a talk with you.”
”The deuce you did--white choker and all! You have a cheek, haven't you? Then you must be pretty flush, after all, even if you have not any expectations, like me, Ringfield. You've never congratulated me, but let that pa.s.s. As you are here, what do you want to talk about?”
The two stood facing each other, with the paper-strewn table between them.
”I should almost think you could guess,” murmured Ringfield with an effort to be easy. ”But before I, at least, can do any talking I must get warm. I'm chilled--chilled to the bone.” And indeed he looked it.
His hollow eyes, his bluish lips, his red hands and white fingers indicated his condition, and he had also a short, spasmodic cough, which Crabbe had never noticed at St. Ignace. Suddenly in the guide there awoke the host, the patron, and he drew the blind, placed chairs and grumbled at the stove-pipe.
”Oh for an open fire!” he cried. ”Eh, Ringfield? One of your little Canadian open stoves would do, a grate--anything to sit before! Why, man, I'm afraid you have got a touch of the ague, or something worse, perhaps pneumonia.”