THE UNSEEN HAND
"The procession of our Fate, howe'er
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being
Of infinite benevolence and power."
Had Ringfield continued his conversation with the _châtelaine_ of
Clairville he would in all probability have asked a few questions about
her theatrical career, placing it in his imagination in one of the
large American centres to which in the seventies or eighties all
Canadian artists gravitated. In this he would have been wrong.
In a back street in the purely French quarter of Montreal stood a
pillared and placarded building once known as the home of an ambitious
coterie, the _Cercle Littéraire_, which met fortnightly to discuss in
rapid incisive Canadian French such topics as "Our National
Literature," "The Destiny of Canada," and "The Dramatists of France,"
from which all _politique_ was supposed to be eliminated. The building
had originally been a house and private bank belonging to a courtly
descendant of an old family, a De Lotbinière, who grew French walnut
and cherry trees, lettuces and herbs in the back garden. When the
banker died the _Cercle Littéraire_ bought the house for a small sum,
comparatively, seeing that it was built of good grey stone, had many
bright green shutters and an imposing façade of four pillars, and from
one part of it issued once a month the extremely high-class
journal--organ of the society--called "Le Flambeau," the other part
which comprised a fair-sized hall, retiring rooms, and secretary's
office and quarters, being altered to suit the needs of the _Cercle
Littéraire_. But in time the glories of the exclusive and classically
minded coterie faded, its leading spirits died or disappeared, the
superior monthly organ--torch for all the country--burnt itself out,
lost subscribers--in fact the whole business was declared insolvent,
and the nervous, gifted, but too sanguine editor-in-chief (there were
three editors), M. Anselme-Ferdinande Placide De Lery, _avocat_, and
the devoted, conscientious, but unprogressive secretary, old Amédée
Laframboise, scientific grubber and admirable violinist, had to get out
of Rue St. Dominique as best they could and go back to the law and the
local orchestra. For several years the house was vacant, and then at
last it held a still more gifted, more numerous, and, all things
considered, more successful coterie within its walls than "Le Flambeau"
had been able to procure for it. A certain travelling organization, a
company of good actors and actresses direct from Paris, which had
landed in America the previous year, giving comedies and pretty
domestic pieces in New York and other cities, not meeting with the
success it expected, came to French Canada in the hope of reaping
substantial profits in a congenial atmosphere. Ah--what a mistake was
this! To think that if in Philadelphia or Boston "Le Bourgeois
Gentilhomme" or "La Joie Fait Peur" did not make money, either play
would do so in the Montreal of thirty years ago! It was a mistake,
certainly, from the monetary point of view; on the other hand, many
friends were made, much good feeling and admiration prevailed and, in
short, the company, stranded in a Canadian town, found living cheap and
easily earned, plenty of good fellows--French--and settled down as a
local stock affair, fitting up at no great expense the banker's house
with the walnut-trees and bright green shutters under the name of the
Théâtre des Nouveautés.
This was the playhouse in which Mlle. Clairville acted. This was the
clever company which, secure in New France from blasé critics, produced
the comedies and tragedies of Molière, Corneille, Dumas, Halévy, Mme.
de Genlis, as well as serving up adaptations like "Le Vieux Oncle Tom,"
"Le Prince de Denmarque," "Le Condamné," "L'étranger," also attacking
with superb, delicious confidence the then popular operas of "La Grande
Duchesse," "La Belle Hélène," and "Il Trovatore." What acting it was,
so vigorous, dashing, resourceful! How Mme. d'Estarre jumped easily
from a Précieuse to Eva, and from Gertrude, a dark-eyed _bourgeoise_
Queen with frizzed hair and train of cotton velvet, to
Camille--wickedest play known at that time! Then when Mlle.
Pauline-Archange-Emma-Louise de Clairville joined the company, what a
Hamlet she made with her fine figure and her remarkably firm, white
hands, what a Phedre, once when the actor was ill, what an "Oncle Tom"!
What a Duchess of Gerolstein later, when the company discovered that it
could sing, collectively at least, and what a Helen, in flowing Greek
costume, fillet of gold braid, and sandals!
This was indeed Acting--to merge mannerisms, to defy fate and the jeers
of any sober English reporter who strayed into the Theatre of
Novelties! When Mme. d'Estarre found that she had to return to France
unexpectedly, on account of the ill health of her children, left behind
in a provincial town, she was given a grand benefit, and although the
public (who were getting a little tired of madame, she was over fifty)
did not respond as gallantly as might have been expected, the members
of the company with true Gallic chivalry made up the large amount
necessary to carry her across, bring her back and provide in the
interim for the afflicted children. This was Pauline's opportunity;
she naturally succeeded to the position of leading lady, and kept it
until her faults of temper developed and she had the pleasurable
excitement of a fierce quarrel with her manager. Thus, while her
talent was conceded, her stormy temperament prevented her achieving
anything like permanent success, and every few months she would
reappear at St. Ignace, live drearily in the dingy house, lecture the
servants, abuse and weep over her brother, when suddenly tiring of this
she would return and have to begin again at the foot of the ladder.
Ignorant of these cloudy and strenuous careers, Ringfield saw only an
impulsive and unhappy woman old enough to fascinate him by her unusual
command of language and imperiousness of conduct, and young enough for
warm ripe brunette beauty. To be plain, first love was already working
in him, but he did not recognize its signs and portents; he only knew
that an ardent wish to remain at St. Ignace had suddenly taken the
place of the tolerant and amused disdain with which he had once
considered Poussette's offer.
A couple of days later he had returned from a long afternoon on the
river when a man around the place named Crabbe came to him with a
letter. Opening it, he found it to contain another offer from a
prominent citizen of Radford, a large and thriving Western town, to
fill a certain pulpit of some distinction during the absence of the
pastor in Europe. The time mentioned was ten months and Ringfield sat
down at once to consider the importance of this offer. He would be at
last in a cultivated community. Much would be expected of him and he
would have every chance to put forth what was best in him. For several
years he had been labouring on the missionary circuit and the work was
hard indeed, with slender results. Here was sufficient remuneration,
comfortable housing in a more sympathetic climate, and the prospect of
receiving a still more important call in the future should he make his
mark. Such considerations, if mundane, need not also be mercenary;
each man is worthy of his hire and his pulse beat in pleased excitement
as he viewed the rosy outlook.
But--Miss Clairville! A vague foreboding of the truth flitted through
his brain; men wiser in love and affairs of the affections than our
young Methodist minister have been self-deceived, and although he
sternly put her image away he dimly avowed to himself that she was
already occupying far too much of his thought. Here was a clear way
opened, or so he imagined, referring each move as it occurred to the
guidance and knowledge of the Higher Power, and he could find no other
than an affirmative answer to the letter which he kept turning over in
his pocket, and still kept reading through the evening in the general
room. He had excused himself from the already over-convivial group on
the front verandah, and being provided with paper, sat at the table
composing his reply.
The lineaments of his singularly fine and noble countenance were easily
seen through the window where the guides, M. Desnoyers and Poussette
were sitting, and the vision of the black-coated, serious young scribe
inditing what he had informed them was a very "important" letter,
subdued the incipient revelry.
Poussette was uneasy. He had not yet received any direct answer from
Ringfield to his own offer, and for many reasons he preferred to attach
and retain him rather than any other "Parson" he had ever encountered.
But Ringfield was wrapped in his own thoughts and quite unconscious of
the highly improving spectacle he made, lifting his eyes only to nod
pleasantly to Mme. Poussette who had glided in and was sitting by the
window. His letters were three: one to Mr. Beddoe who had invited him
to Radford, another to his relatives on the farm at Grand River, and a
third to Miss Clairville. He had not hesitated to write to her, for
short as their intercourse had been, her emotional nature had
manifested itself so warmly and their talk had been so completely out
of the ordinary, that higher things than convention must always govern
their friendship. His conscientious side held itself responsible for a
slightly superfluous act of sudden interest and attachment, and the
mentor's tone in which he pleaded with her, to ask herself whether the
theatre must be her goal, would have deceived anybody unaccustomed to
cold analysis of motives. He gave her, in short, good advice in the
guise of kindly sentiments, ending by avowing himself her "friend in
Christ" and protesting that her true welfare and happiness would always
be of interest to him.
The letter written, he leant back, resolving not to send it by post but
by some ignorant, unsuspicious hand (therein was the new-found subtlety
and shyness of the true lover), and the change in attitude confused the
watchers outside who guiltily resumed their smoking and conversation.
And the strange, silent woman at the window, supposing Ringfield to be
in want of something--paper, stamp or ink--rose and stood by his side.
Thus she saw two envelopes addressed and ready for the mail, and a
third as yet innocent of any inscription. That she could read English
he doubted, yet he felt an objection to letting her look over his
shoulder. He rose, and going to the office, where Poussette hastily
preceded him, gave in the two letters for Ontario, and then informed
him of his decision.
The Frenchman's disappointment was genuine and comic, partaking of
tragedy and despair. Desnoyers was called in; also the guests and the
two guides, with servants forming a picturesque and interested
background, so that Ringfield suddenly found himself the centre of an
admiring, friendly, but inclining-to-be quarrelsome crowd. Nothing
occurred, however, to alter his decision, and, true to his idea of
duty, he set off two mornings later, having committed the letter for
Miss Clairville to the man called Crabbe, a slouching sort of
Englishman who occasionally served as guide, ran a small open-air
general store, and about whom there seemed to be some mystery, his
accent and grammar being out of the common.
Forty-eight hours after, Ringfield arrived at his destination, and
walking up from the train to the house of Mr. Beddoe, the gentleman who
had written to him, was shown into a small parlour to wait a few
minutes. Voices came from across the hall for a while, then he heard a
visitor depart and the next moment Mr. Beddoe himself entered the room.
The surprise of this individual on perceiving Ringfield was genuine and
complete; his countenance fell and he stood gazing.
"You did not expect me so soon, I see," said the young man easily.
"Well, I was in rather a quandary, something else having offered, so I
decided quickly, hating indecision. You got my note of acceptance all
right, I hope? It should have reached you _at the latest_ yesterday."
"Yes, yes," murmured Mr. Beddoe, "but, sit down, Mr. Ringfield, sit
down--the truth is--a rather peculiar thing has occurred. I--ah--I may
as well make you acquainted with it at once. Our pastor, who, without
being mentally weakened to any extent by a troublesome and obstinate
illness, for which, as you know, we have sent him abroad for a trip,
was extremely absent-minded in many little ways, and it has transpired
that before his departure he wrote himself to the Rev. Mr. Steers of
Bradford, arranging with him to take the pulpit for the time he should
be away. He neglected to inform us of the fact, but Mr. Steers came in
just after we had written to you, and as he is a married man with a
family, and as he certainly expected the duty and the remuneration for
a period, I felt that you would have to reconsider our offer. I sent
you a telegram embodying all this."
"I never got it. Telegraphic facilities are uncertain in that part of
Quebec. For example, St. Ignace is the village, but Bois Clair the
name of the post office, and there is no telegraph at either place.
Montmagny----"
"That was where we telegraphed," broke in Mr. Beddoe, "but probably
there was some delay in sending on the message and we did not look for
you quite so soon. Mr. Steers has just left; he is a very reasonable
sort of man, and if you think you are bound to keep us to our offer we
will talk it over with him."
The young man had taken a chair at Mr. Beddoe's invitation, but he
still clutched his florid and somewhat old-fashioned carpet-bag and he
did not make any suggestions.
"Of course," exclaimed the other, uneasy at the silence, "you will
remain here with us until the matter is settled, and I feel sure a
satisfactory settlement can be made. You spoke of an alternative.
Would that do for Mr. Steers?"
Ringfield roused himself to say that he did not think it would.
"It's not the place for a married man," he went on. "There are no
houses such as you are accustomed to up here; the people are mostly
French, the climate is extreme; it is, in short, only a mission, and as
I've just come from there, and understand the place, I think I had
better go back and leave Mr. Steers in possession of the field."
"Oh! But----" returned Mr. Beddoe, noticing a faint tinge of sarcasm
in the tone of the speaker, "we do not ask you to do this. It's all
most unfortunate! These great distances, so difficult to find a
person--we did our best."
Ringfield rose; there was clearly no reason why he should remain in
Radford whether he went back to St. Ignace or not, and just then the
condition of his purse was extremely important. This detail was set
right in time, in about two months; meanwhile a visit to his friends in
the country would give him an opportunity to decide as to his future
movements.
The sojourn on the farm occupied three days, at the end of which he did
what he knew he would do from the moment of meeting Mr. Beddoe. He
bought a ticket for Bois Clair with almost the last money he had in the
world, and within ten days of leaving Poussette's the steamer plying on
the river to St. Ignace deposited him at the familiar rickety wharf
once more.
It was nine o'clock and dark, with a light rain falling. The
passengers, mostly tourists, were stepping off in that timorous way
peculiar to people unaccustomed to the primitive, by the light of a
lantern waveringly but officially displayed by Crabbe, the surly guide
to whom Ringfield had given his letter, and behind Crabbe, a little
higher up on the bank, stood Poussette, whose costume as usual was
characteristic. He wore a checked tweed suit of light brown, a straw
hat, and an enormous chef's apron tied round his waist under his coat.
Visions of fried bass or lunge, of potatoes _sauté_, and even of hot
pancakes, danced before Ringfield's weary eyes, for he was both tired
and cold, and accordingly he gaily pushed his way through the loiterers
and fresh arrivals until he reached his host.
"Well, Poussette!" he cried, "I'm to be your man after all, it seems!
They didn't want me in the West, I found, or rather I thought it wiser
to come back and take advantage of your kind offer. I suppose you can
put me up somewhere for to-night, and to-morrow we can talk the matter
over."
The Frenchman had started violently on seeing Ringfield and a great
change came over his manner. Where was the welcome the minister had
looked for? On this fat, usually smiling countenance he could discern
naught but astonishment, disappointment, anger!
What could have happened during that futile journey westward and back?
Poussette vouchsafed no reply, no solution. He avoided the puzzled
stare of the other man, and after giving some orders in French to
Crabbe and the other guide, Martin, a very decent Indian, quickly went
up to the house without greeting his guests.
Ringfield was suddenly seized with a sense of the ludicrous. He told
himself that he managed to be _de trop_ wherever he went, but he also
firmly resolved that no temper, no caprice on his patron's part should
affect him now. If possible he must remain at St. Ignace and ignore
whatever had caused the singular change in Poussette's attitude. There
was indeed fish for supper, but he fancied that the cunning touch of
the chef was wanting, and he was right. Poussette had not entered the
kitchen.