THE WHITE PEACOCK
"Nor shall the aerial powers
Dissolve that beauty--destined to endure
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,
Thro' all vicissitudes."
Rocky slabs and mounds of Laurentian gneiss, forest trees and a young
wood interspersed with mats of juniper constituted the chief scenic
attraction in the vicinity of the Fall, so that it might truly be said,
all roads at St. Ignace lead to the Fall--it was so much more directly
beautiful. But Ringfield from choice walked away from the river and
struck inland by a miry sloppy path which was nevertheless beautiful
too, bordered by splendid ferns, mossy trunks upholding miniature pines
in their rich brown crevices, plants of aromatic teaberry, and at
intervals shallow golden pools where the wild white arum bloomed
alongside the pinkish purple of other water flowers.
His thoughts were not, however, upon all the lovely detail at his feet,
for just at present he found himself more interesting than the
landscape. A very unusual thing had occurred. Poussette, during the
drive home, had anticipated a more serious proposal on the morrow by
asking him briefly and to the point whether he would remain in the
Province, at St. Ignace in fact, and become pastor of the new church.
The small stipend which in all probability the Methodist Church would
cheerfully pay was to be augmented by Poussette's own gift. Not
content with presenting his favourite denomination with a building out
of debt and ready for use, he proposed also to equip it with a pastor
after his own heart, for he combined thoroughness with an impulsive
nature in a manner peculiar to himself. This Poussette was indeed a
character, an original. Very fat and with every indication of becoming
fatter still, fond of tweed suits and white waistcoats, and quick at
picking up English in a locality where the tongue was not prominent, he
owed much of his progressive spirit to the teachings of a certain
French Canadian named Magloire le Caron, born in the county of
Yamachiche but latterly an American citizen. This Magloire or Murray
Carson, as he was known in Topeka, Kansas, had numbered the young
Poussette among his hearers some ten years before when on tour in his
native country in the interests of a Socialistic order. The exodus of
French Canadians to the neighbouring "States" is frequently followed by
a change of name, so that, M. Lapierre or St. Pierre becomes Mr. Stone,
M. Dupont Mr. Bridge, M. Leblanc Mr. White, M. Lenoir Mr. Black, Leroy,
King, and so on.
Poussette was, to his credit, among those who gauged Le Caron's
sentiments fairly correctly, and he had no wish either to leave his
country or to change his name. Succeed he would--and did; make money
above all, but make it just as well in St. Ignace or Bois Clair as in
the States; learn English but not forget French, both were necessary;
become "beeg man," "reech man," but marry and live where his name would
be carried down most easily and quickly. As for his change of
religion, it was a good evening's entertainment to "seet roun," in the
bar and listen to Poussette's illustrated lecture entitled "How I
became a Methodist"; the illustrations being repeated sips of whisky
and water, imitations of different priests and anecdotes of indifferent
preachers.
Most of this Ringfield was familiar with, but while Poussette as a sort
of accepted "character," a chartered entertainer, was one thing,
Poussette as a patron, importunate, slightly quarrelsome, and
self-willed, was another. For a few months the arrangement might work
well enough, but for the entire winter--he thought of the cold, of the
empty church at service time, of the great snowdrifts lasting for weeks
and weeks, and more than this too, he thought of his plans for
self-improvement, the lectures he would miss, the professors and
learned men he would not meet, the companionship of other students he
must perforce renounce.
Reflections of this kind were continuing to occupy him when he suddenly
saw through the trees on the right hand the gleam of open water. He
had reached Five Mile Lake or Lac Calvaire, a spot he had heard of in
connexion with fabulous catches of fish, and on the opposite side of
the shining water he also discerned the roof of a large house, painted
red, and somewhat unusual in shape. That is, unusual in the eyes of
the person who saw it, for the steep, sloping roof, the pointed
windows, the stone walls, and painted doors, are everyday objects in
French Canada. The house at Lac Calvaire was a type of the superior
farm-house built in the eighteenth century by thrifty and skilful
fur-traders, manufacturers and lesser seigneurs, differing rather in
appearance and construction from the larger chateaux or manoirs, a few
of which at one time existed along the banks of the St. Laurent, but of
which now only three well-preserved examples survive. As the size of
the original grants of land or seigneuries varied, some eighteen,
twenty and twenty-five miles long by six, eight, twelve miles wide,
others less, certainly few larger, so the lesser properties, accounts
of which are rare among works dealing with the state of society at the
time, varied also. While numerous collections of facts pertaining to
the original fiefs or seigneuries (usually called _cadastres_) exist,
it is not so common to meet with similar attempts to define and
describe the exact position of others in the early colony beside the
seigneurs. The large land-holder figures prominently in colonial
documents, but the rise of the trader, the merchant, the notary, the
teacher, the journalist, is difficult to follow. Very often the
seigneur was also the merchant; to be _grand marchand de Canada_ in the
new colony signified solid pecuniary success.
As far back as the year 1682 the Sieur de la Chinay _et autres
marchands de Canada_ equipped, it is presumed at their own expense,
several ships, and proceeded to Port Nelson, raiding and burning the
Hudson Bay Post, and carrying away sixteen subjects of His Majesty.
The Sieur de Caen gave his name to the Society of Merchants still
farther back, in 1627. Henry, in 1598, and Francis, in 1540, each
granted letters patent and edicts confirming certain Court favourites
and nobles in possession of the great fur-bearing districts of
Hochelaga, Terres Neuves, and also of "_La Baye du Nord de Canada oui a
été depuis appelle Hudson est comprise_". It is plain that commerce
had as much to do with early colonization as the love of conquest,
ecclesiastical ambition, or the desire on the part of jaded adventurers
and needy nobles for pastures new. From the Sieur de Roberval to the
merchant princes of Montreal is an unbroken line of resolute men of
business enterprise, bearing in mind only that what the French began,
the English, or rather the Scotch, "lifted" with increasing vigour. In
1677 royal permission was given to open mines in Canada in favour of
the Sieur de Lagny. The "Compagnie du Castor de Canada," carried on
what even at this day would be regarded as an immense trade in beaver
skins. "La Manon," wrecked about 1700, carried beaver skins amounting
to 107,000,587 livres. The Sieur Guigne, known as the Farmer of the
Western Domain, paid at one time the sum of 75,000 livres per annum on
account of beavers.
In lesser degree the same was true of moose skins and of the finer furs
for apparel and ornament, and thus for many a long year honourable
names and well-descended families were found among those who bought and
sold and quarrelled and went to law in the spacious marketplace of Le
Bas Canada, with the wide and only partially known or understood
Atlantic rolling between them and the final court of appeal--His Most
Christian _Matie_ in France.
Nothing, it is certain, of this was in Ringfield's mind as he looked at
the steep roof and the stone walls of the house at Lac Calvaire. The
dwelling, like the country surrounding it, held little attraction,
still less what is called romance or glamour for him, for his was not a
romantic nature. Yet neither was he dull, and therefore the aspect of
the house moved him, out of curiosity alone, to skirt the banks of the
reed-fringed lake and find a nearer view of what struck him as unusual.
This was not difficult, as the lake was a short oval in shape, and
before he walked five or six hundred yards he came to the low stone
wall or fence which appeared to completely surround the manor and over
which he soon was desultorily leaning. The garden grew in front of him
somewhat fantastically, with irregular beds marked out with white
stones, and directly facing him was a badly hewn, clumsily scooped
fountain half filled with weeds and dirty water. Behind the house were
trim rows of dark poplars, and there appeared to be a long chain of
barns and other farm buildings extending into the very heart of a dense
plantation of pine. As he looked, still leaning on the low wall, the
place kindled into life and activity. Pigeons came from some point
near and settled on the rim of the fountain. From a door at the side
issued an old woman with a dish in her hand, followed by a couple of
dogs and four cats. These all disappeared among the barns. A minute
later a wagon came lazily along the road, driven by a dark-eyed,
habitant-hatted man who turned in at a gate without taking much notice
of the loiterer. Two plump, dark-eyed servant girls and a little boy
came round the corner of the largest barn; they were apparently dressed
in their best, carried prayer-books, and were evidently on their way to
evening service at St. Ignace, in the handsome church designated by the
heretic Poussette as a "big stone barn full of bad pictures". Finally
there emerged upon the scene, proceeding in a deliberate, dainty,
mincing manner along the garden walk, now rapidly drying in a burst of
fierce August sunshine, the most wonderful, the most imposing, yet the
most exquisite and delicate object Ringfield's eyes had ever beheld.
If a moment before he had thought of retracing his steps and turning
away from a house too full of people on a hot Sunday afternoon to
permit of further lingering in its vicinity, now, he found it
impossible to move, fascinated by the beauty of the rare creature
slowly coming towards him. For this was a white peacock, tempted by
the sudden radiance out to take the air. It paused for an instant as
if to consider the effect and stood, displaying a colossal fan of snowy
feathers, tipped with glittering frost-like filaments. Perhaps it
intuitively knew that Ringfield had never seen one of its kind before.
It continued to stand, while he continued to gaze, and two or three
times it shook that resplendent wheel of shining downy plumes,
trembling in each sensitive fibre with pride and glorification in its
beauty. With each shake, there fell upon the ear the tinkle as of some
faint and far-distant fairy bell; it was the friction of the
spear-shaped sparkling tips as they met in air.
Ringfield thought it the whitest thing he had ever seen. It was like
snow, or sugar, so finely spun and glistening. Then its air of
arrogance captivated him--the creature was so fully aware of its
charms. He spoke to it and the bird came on nonchalantly; then
gracefully executed a wide turn, carrying that shining palpitating tail
with it and walked back to the house. At the same moment he old woman
with the dish reappeared and commenced driving the bird before her.
"O don't do that!" exclaimed Ringfield, forgetting that probably she
knew no English. "The rain is over for a while. Let it have its walk.
I've never seen one like it before."
The old woman was smiling as if to encourage him, but he saw directly
that she did not understand him. He was answered however, and by a
voice from the doorway. The lady he had seen that morning at church
was addressing him. Laughing lightly, she came out to the garden and
Ringfield advanced to meet her. Thus they had the bird between them.
"I am speaking to the Reverend Mr. Ringfield?" said she pleasantly, and
the young man was reassured. This new acquaintance, whether
_châtelaine_ of the curious house or stranger, spoke excellent English.
"I saw you in church this morning," responded he. So much of a mutual
introduction was easy and necessary; after that, with a dignified
withdrawal of the peacock, conversation naturally turned to the subject
of the morning service.
"I do not think I can ask you inside," she said presently, "for like
many old houses, particularly those built of stone, ours is cold in
winter and hot or rather close in summer. We might walk toward the
poplar grove there, I should so like to speak to you about that sermon."
Ringfield assented with a pleased brightness.
"And what are your conclusions as to the sermon?" he said, when they
were seated in an old and crumbling arbour looking upon the lake. "I
am afraid I did not give myself quite enough time on this important
occasion. Preparation is everything."
"I do not allude exactly to the sermon, not the devotional part of it.
Sermons are not much in my line. I meant rather the reading you gave,
that wonderful description of the river, the fall, the waters issuing
from under the sanctuary--you see I have remembered the words--the
trees for medicine and healing, even the fish,--why I never thought
there could be anything like that in the Bible! You chose it
purposely, of course?" The young man did not reply for an instant. A
hint of flippancy in the speech of his companion seemed to create a
barrier between them.
"Purposely! Well, yes, I suppose I did. Purpose, intention, design,
must, should enter into all earnest preaching, and whatever may be the
faults of mine I endeavour at least to be that, to be earnest. But I
am glad you were struck with the parallel; not many in that
congregation would be at all likely to."
"You might have dwelt more upon that parallel in the sermon. I
expected you would."
"Well, no, there are canons of good taste, good form, as the world puts
it, in preaching as in other matters. It was sufficient to indicate
the parallel; people could then look up chapter and verse for
themselves. As no doubt you have done."
"Quite impossible. I do not possess a Bible."
Ringfield turned a reproachful eye upon her.
"We are Catholics, you see, or supposed to be. I have a 'Key of
Heaven' and five other devotional works. But I never read them."
The other was silent. Looking for the first time with serious interest
at the lady whose ease of manner and cultured speech were remarkable
for the place, he perceived that in a moment she had revealed much.
How few people, how few women in particular, would display a spirit of
utter frankness towards a stranger on so important a topic as religious
belief! And how quick she had been to appreciate the literary side at
least of his quotations from Ezekiel! What more was striking or
unusual about her he could not then take time to consider, for people
so recently complete strangers cannot, it is conceded, discuss each
other or a situation as they may after several days or weeks of
intimacy. He was conscious of feeling that in a certain sense he had
met with as clever a brain as his own and with some one in whose
personal history or life story there was an element of romance, of the
unexpected, the unconventional, absolutely foreign to his own
experience of life. He therefore hastened to change the subject.
"It may be that you have heard. If not, I may tell you that Mr.
Poussette has offered me the new church at St. Ignace. I took this
long walk out here to-day to think it over. I--well, frankly, I hardly
know what to say."
"In your profession you are not supposed to consult your own wishes,
but rather the general good. Is not that the case?"
Ringfield smiled, but also shot a look at his companion.
"I suppose I may put it that I have had a 'call'. A call to the new,
flourishing and highly attractive 'parish,' as our friends the
Anglicans call it, I should say, the 'mission,' of St. Ignace. I am
not speaking satirically, I might do worse."
"You are considering it, now, this afternoon?"
He paused for a mere fraction of a moment. "I was."
"In the meantime, you have another service this evening and I am
detaining you here when you should be on your way back to the Fall and
the village."
It was true. Ringfield was forgetting the time.
"Had it not been for the bird--" he began, and from that point the
conversation, at one time strongly personal and introspective, became
ordinary. Ringfield closed the gate behind him, lifted his hat and
turned back along the road without having ascertained the name of the
lady or her condition in life. The service hour arrived, so did the
small but enthusiastic congregation. The rain had entirely ceased and
the air was perceptibly cooler. The preacher had prepared a sermon of
more florid style than the one delivered in the morning, and he
appeared to have the absorbed attention of those who understood the
language, while the French contingent listened respectfully. The
passage of Scripture to be read aloud had been chosen since the
morning, since the afternoon walk in fact, but there was no one present
from the house at Lac Calvaire to hear and understand part of the
thirty-eighth chapter of Job, beginning with the verse, "By what way is
the light parted, which scattereth the east wind upon the earth?" and
ending with the thirteenth verse of the succeeding chapter, "Gavest
thou the goodly wings unto the peacocks?"