A RURAL AUTOCRAT
"The discipline of slavery is unknown
Amongst us--hence the more do we require
The discipline of virtue."
The presence of Enderby at the Tremblay concert had not been altogether
due to the excellence of the programme or the merit of the
beneficiaries; he had in fact driven over with the intention of
speaking to Ringfield on a subject of some importance--the future of
the child in the basket chair. This excellent but domineering
storekeeper was the leader of society at Hawthorne; the settlement was
not rich in old families, either English or French, and very early in
his career he and his wife had taken the helm and continued to hold it,
preserving strict notions of etiquette and maintaining a decorous state
which would have become the Lieut.-Governor of a Province. Large,
stern and florid, he was always the same in manner whether serving
behind his counter or taking up the money on Sundays: shining example
of intelligence, thrift, and British insularity, such a man as Clarence
Enderby carries the love of British institutions all over the globe,
and one forgives his syntax for the sake of his sincerity. He had
always been a fiery conservative and a staunch member of the Church of
England; and two or three months before Ringfield's arrival he had
organized what was known to all beholders passing his shop by a
japanned sign hanging outside as the "Public Library," a collection of
forty-seven volumes of mixed fiction in which the charming and highly
illuminative works of E. P. Roe were chiefly conspicuous, reposing in a
select corner of the establishment, somewhat towards the centre, and
equidistant from the dry goods, rubbers, hardware and hammocks, and
from the candies, groceries, fancy jewellery and sheet music. The
proprietors of these country "general stores" are great men in their
way: years ago they rolled up fortunes for themselves in their
district; potential Whiteleys and Wanamakers, they were the true
pioneers in the departmental store business, and on a lilliputian scale
"Enderby's" would have compared very well with the Army and Navy Stores
of London. Absence of competition creates a monopoly, and Enderby's
was the best store in a large district including Hawthorne, St. Ignace,
Beauscley, his only rival being the Yankee referred to by Crabbe, who
did not, however, bear a very good character, having been detected in
smuggling some of those old French brandies and liqueurs, although he
was outwardly a teetotaller and his place had no licence. Enderby, on
the other hand, always drank a glass of beer with his Sunday dinner;
indeed, the arrival of the malt of which his wife and daughter also
partook, was a part of Sunday observance, while on birthdays and other
anniversaries wine or toddy made their appearance. But extreme
regularity and temperance in all things was a strong feature of his
character, and he was therefore exceedingly jealous of the honour and
good moral standing of the village, and the harbouring of Angeel had
been for a long time a matter involving much worry. At the picnic
Ringfield's ill-timed allusion to "sinners" had hurt him most
particularly, and the more he thought of it the more he grew convinced
that the minister could throw some light on the origin of the child and
the manner in which it had come to be living at Hawthorne; for up to
the present time almost complete ignorance prevailed. This was in
itself extraordinary since the area was so small and the population so
settled, but shrewd guessers were nearly hitting the mark when they
supposed, from certain memories, inferences, and coincidences, that the
child belonged to Miss Clairville, and this was precisely the point
which offended the store-keeper; had the affair originated in his own
parish, no matter how disreputably, he would have guarded the secret,
striven to make the best of it, or, if the case abounded in direct
violations of morality by those above him in station, all the more he
would have preserved an absolutely rigid silence. His contention
was--that the business belonged to some other parish, probably that of
St. Ignace, and that when strangers, ignorant of this, visited
Hawthorne, they took it for granted that Angeel was part of the
village, thus bringing undeserved slur and unmerited obloquy upon an
innocent community, and he took advantage of the concert to ask for a
few words with Ringfield. The latter had just been compelled to
witness the desertion of Pauline as she went off with Crabbe and Miss
Cordova when he turned to find Enderby waiting to speak to him.
Poussette had withdrawn.
"I hardly know, sir, just how I ought to introduce the subject," said
the butcher, in his loftiest manner, eyeing the minister up and down.
"For I have hardly ever spoke to a clergyman of your denomination
before."
Ringfield with a somewhat constrained smile assured the speaker that he
was mortal and fairly rational, although he was a Methodist.
"Yes, of course, I know that, and there is those who might have found
great enjoyment in that there prayer you gave us, sir, some time back,
great profit I may say, without fear of exaggeration."
"Prayer?" repeated the other, for a moment forgetting the incident
alluded to. "Oh, yes, I know what you mean; it was, I understand, a
trifle long for the occasion, a trifle long perhaps, but I spoke from
my heart and with my heart, and I forgot probably that you were all
waiting, and the viands were kept waiting too and so forth. I shan't
offend again, I hope."
"I 'ope not, sir, I 'ope not. Now this evening you did it all to
perfection, and all were very much obliged to you."
"Thank you, thank you very much," said Ringfield, his gaze wandering
off to the hall where glimpses of drapery and musical clinking of
bangles and bracelets assailed his senses. Miss Clairville was never
without earrings and other jewelry, and if the proper idea of ornament
is to attract attention to the parts thus graced, in her case there was
reason for her wearing such, since she possessed both beautifully
shaped ears and fine hands and arms.
"But, sir, the length of prayers is not all! Some of us could--I say
this without fear of exaggeration--could go through the entire Litany
and the Apostles' Creed backwards, which would take a man some time,
and yet what would be the good of it? Stands to reason, sir, there
must be something more than length, mere length of time in prayers."
"Of course, of course. You are quite right, Enderby."
"There must be appropriateness and truth and feeling, but none of it
must bear too direct, says you--on the parties present or the occasion,
be it wedding or funeral, or christening, or a mere social affair like
the Harvest Home yonder. I see how it is with you; you can't always
help it, for you can't always control your thoughts and likewise your
words, not having no notes."
"But what did I say amiss on that occasion?" began Ringfield, nervously
divining that this lecture was but the prelude to the statement that in
some way he had offended. "I am quite sure, I am positively certain,
that I had no intention of using words or phrases which were the
reverse of appropriate or true, yet you seem to think that I was thus
unfortunate."
Enderby gave a great sigh. "If you don't remember you mustn't find
fault with my remembering, for it made quite a stir at the time. It
quite took my wife's appetite away, sir."
"What did?" said Ringfield shortly.
"Your saying in that grieved, yet bold way, that we were all sinners,
and that sinners were sitting even then at that very board."
"Was that all?" exclaimed the minister with sudden relief, and an
uncontrollable smile. "Surely you are accustomed to that. Surely you
do not consider yourselves in Hawthorne to be so perfect, so
infallible, as to be beyond criticism and impatient of censure! If so,
all I can say is I am very glad I used those terms, and I should say, I
should think, that no matter what Church you belong to, you, Enderby,
would see the absurdity of rating me for offering a prayer couched in
the language most natural to me, and of which I am not ashamed. Do you
deny that we are all sinners?"
"I do not, sir, and that is just what my wife and others complains of.
You did not content yourself with saying we were _all_ sinners; you
said 'if any sinners lurked at the board,' as if pointing the finger,
and it is for an explanation of that I have come to you to-night, sir.
We all felt that the presence at the feast of the unfortunate little
girl you of course observed, must 'ave 'ad something to do with it, and
I think you ought to know, coming among us as you did, and may do
again, just how we felt about it. I'll tell you all I know, and then
I'd be obliged if you, sir, would tell me what you know."
Ringfield looked helplessly around but there was no hope of diverting
Enderby's attention; he must go through with it and only trust that he
might be believed, and once again that slight sense of the ludicrous
came upon him. Tragedy was in the air; yet, as often happens in real
life, it was being pushed to comedy point, and he grudged even the
shadow of a jest at this important crisis in his dealings with Miss
Clairville, who was now sitting at supper with the new edition of
Crabbe.
"You had better take a chair, Enderby," he said, setting the example.
"Thank you, sir, and I 'ope I am not detaining you. I wish to say,
sir, that now for eight years the constant presence of the child and
its nurse in our little village has been a source of much trouble and
talk. We are a united and respectable, most respectable community,
sir."
The sternness with which this remark was given led Ringfield to say
soothingly, "I am sure you are--it is, I mean. I am quite sure you
are."
"Not only respectable, and has always been so, but superior."
"Yes, yes, I understand."
"And therefore it goes against our grain to 'ave 'arboured the
maid--that's what we used to call them in England--and the time has
come, I think, to do something about it."
"I see. Yes, the position is a difficult one. How did she come to the
village in the first place? She was not born there, then?"
"No, sir, I am thankful to say, unless greatly and cruelly deceived.
The manner of her coming, or rather of her being found, was this; the
young person who has charge of her, who is now about twenty-three by
all counts, has always been light headed, and cannot or will not,
explain clearly who she is or where she comes from. All we know of her
is that she came here with the child one stormy night in the middle of
winter, just like the stage or a story book, appearing at the Rectory
and carrying an anonymous letter begging for shelter and charity. Mr.
Abercorn found them--it was on Christmas Eve--and he took them in to
his wife and she to the kitchen. The girl was a pretty dark-haired
slip of fifteen or so, with the light manner and the gay laugh you may
have noticed, gay but empty, and could give no account of herself; the
child not as bad as she has since grown to be, but already strange
looking, and some thought as stupid as the girl."
An exclamation of dismay escaped from Ringfield.
"Better if it had been!" he cried.
"Well, I may say that I agree with you, sir. The rector and his wife
got a home for them in the village, and although we have learned
something about them it is very little, and as the money for their
support comes from here, I thought it time, sir, to look more
thoroughly into the affair."
"From here? You are sure?"
Ringfield was ready to defend, even shield, Miss Clairville if
necessary.
"It was brought or sent by one of the servants at the Manor House out
by the lake. Without fear of exaggeration, sir, I may state that we
'ave long known this to be the case; Antoine Archambault, the young man
around this room not ten minutes ago, is the bearer, and he, I suppose,
knows all about it--the girl is apparently his sister, or in some way
related to him--but I wouldn't care to talk to him about it and so,
sir, I come to you."
"But I know nothing!" exclaimed Ringfield, rising. "Nothing whatever,
not nearly as much as you do. It is no use speaking to me upon the
matter. I cannot assist you in the least. What do you propose to do?"
"Why," said Enderby, flushing a darker red and rising ponderously,
"this is what we propose to do, for we're tired of the affair, as isn't
ours, and never was by right. The child will soon be grown up, if it
lives, and it's getting stronger on its legs every day and will soon be
playing with the other children. We don't want it--we don't want it
any longer at Hawthorne, and we propose to find the parents and bestow
it again upon those to whom it originally belonged. That's what we
propose, and we look to you, sir, to help us."
"Whom do you suspect, or have you direct proof and knowledge?"
Ringfield, to whom the situation was full of anguish, could hardly
frame his sentences. "Pray recollect," he continued, "that in these
unhappy cases it is not always wise, not always necessary, to press the
matter home. I am a strong believer in the natural expiation that
people undergo who allow themselves to err in these directions; the
mere fact that the person or persons responsible for Angeel have had
her removed to a distant parish while still caring for her shows how
deeply the affair has been felt. I would not advise you to be hasty."
"'Asty--says you--'asty? After a matter of eight years? I'm sorry I
didn't begin before this," cried the exasperated storekeeper, holding
the virtues and morals of all Hawthorne as it were in his hand. "You
ask me if I suspect any one and I answer--that I do," and he huskily
whispered Miss Clairville's name.
Knowing what would be expected of him, Ringfield strove to appear even
more greatly shocked than he was, and retreated a step or two in
consternation.
"Be very careful," he managed to say sternly, "be extremely careful how
you thus refer to a lady who bears, I am told, a very high character in
her native place, even if she has been obliged to seek the town and the
theatre for her living."
"You 'ave not heard this mentioned before?"
"Never."
"But Miss Clairville attends your church?"
"She certainly has attended a few of the services, but I do not think
she has ever openly made a profession of the faith; she remains at
heart, I think, a Catholic. Perhaps," said Ringfield, lamely, "you
might see Father Rielle about this. As parish priest and as a friend
of her brother's he would be the proper person to advise you. And now,
having assured you that I know nothing more than I have learnt in the
last few moments from yourself, you must excuse me if I leave you. It
is late, and I perceive your wife and daughter are growing restless in
the hall. Are you driving back to Hawthorne to-night?"
"I am," returned Enderby, hastily looking at his watch; "but I shall
come over again, sir, and see what can be done. In the meantime, will
you not assist me in some way--by speaking to Antoine, who has picked
up a little English, or by conferring with the priest?"
Ringfield hesitated.
"The question is," he replied, "whether as this affair is now
practically inside another parish and another village, I have any
business to interest myself in it at all. Well,--I will think about
it, Enderby, I will think about it, and possibly I may be able to help
you. You would like to get the child away? I see the propriety, even
the need of that."
He suddenly thought of something which had not occurred to him before.
"How would it be if I were to assume control of the affair for you?
Supposing that without much trouble, I and Father Rielle look into the
matter and endeavour to remove the child from her present home and have
her admitted to some institution? Would you still insist on its being
done in such a way that parentage and--and so on, must all be made
clear?"
Enderby was silent, but the angry flushing of his face had subsided a
little. Ringfield saw his chance and pressed it home.
"Try and see if that would not be the better way--to let me control the
matter and quietly take the child away without any fuss and scandal and
naming of names. In the meantime I can make my inquiries and
communicate with you. Dr. Renaud now--he will be able to advise us,
and I should think your own rector and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Abercorn,
for I hear the lady has done a great deal of the parish work; but if
you think it better to leave it entirely to me, I will see what can be
done."
"The rector, sir, is easy, terrible easy in his ways; he would let
anything go on for any length of time to save trouble.
Well--good-night to you, sir, and you may expect to see me again soon."
"Good-night, Enderby, good-night. We have had a very successful
entertainment, I think.--Here is Poussette going to turn us out; it's
after eleven!"
An unusual hauteur in the Frenchman's demeanour did not escape the
minister, who was not, however, disposed to ask any questions. The
truth was--the unexpected turn in Crabbe's fortunes had been partially
explained to the host, but to no one else, and secrecy had been
impressed upon him. The ex-guide had displayed a wealth of money, had
received and dispatched letters and telegrams full of suggestive
mysteries, and--most wonderful of all--had not called for drinks.
Poussette was so far keeping his own vow made to Ringfield and Miss
Cordova, but at any moment an outbreak might occur, for excitement
breeds thirst even in sober individuals.
Outside the lighted window walked Ringfield to and fro, waiting till
the Englishman should emerge and go to his shack, but as the reader
knows this did not happen. He saw the light carried about, then it
entirely disappeared, and afterwards two lights appeared upstairs, but
in opposite ends of the house; Crabbe had escorted Pauline to her door
and then betaken himself to the small room at one side which coincided
with that occupied by Miss Cordova at the other. It was not long
before everything was dark and quiet, and Ringfield, extremely baffled
and uneasy, turned to go home. But Alexis Gagnon, supposing the
minister upstairs and asleep, had locked the door, and now the only
mode of entrance possible was the undignified one of climbing the rude
fence and scaling the well-remembered balcony which led to his room.
This brought him very close to Pauline's chamber, looking on the
familiar balcony, but he could detect nothing wrong or unusual;
Poussette was wrapped in sleep and even Martin, the Indian guide and
choreman, had evidently long gone his rounds and entered the house.
Ringfield could not be expected to understand the sudden change in
Crabbe's fortunes, and he spent the rest of that night in dreary and
bitter speculations as to the probable causes which had led Pauline to
desert him openly for the Englishman. Why had he not the power, the
audacity, the social courage which the guide undoubtedly possessed, to
seize her and bear her off bodily on these occasions? This--a relic of
savagery--would alone overcome the ease with which Crabbe confronted
him, and despite vices and faults usually carried off the palm. As one
progressed the other retrograded; the Englishman, dreaming of a good
name and character restored, lay peacefully beneath Poussette's roof,
not worrying about Pauline, for he knew that, short of the marriage
ceremony, he had the strongest right and authority any man could have
over her; while Ringfield, distrusting and suspecting every one around
him, tossed and sighed all night, wondering what stability there was in
her mind and what worth he might set upon her promises. Some
deterioration, some loss of fine simplicity, some decrease in his
healthy optimism, was already visible in his look and bearing; he in
his turn was discovering the impotence of Nature to heal, sooth, or
direct, and it might have been said of him that he began to go in and
out without noting the objects so suggestive and inspiring--the sky,
the thundering flood, the noble wood, the lonely river. As Crabbe had
cried to him in utter desolation of soul--what had Nature to do with a
man's heart and self and life? Nature mocked him, passed him by,
viewed him coldly. Poetry--did not Crabbe quote poetry? The
bitterness of Job, the pessimism of Solomon, began to colour his
attitude of mind, and thus by slow degrees his physical powers declined
from their original high level. He did not get enough sleep, he did
not eat enough food, he took long walks with his eyes on the ground, he
found visiting a bore and preaching a stumblingblock. Nothing saps the
strength like the rotting virus of jealousy; nothing so alters the face
and vilifies the expression as living in a state of perpetual dislike
and suspicion of any person or persons; as Crabbe's countenance
cleared, as his eye brightened and his complexion lost its dissipated
blotchy hue, Ringfield suffered by comparison. He seemed to fail in
some mysterious indefinable way; his thick hair looked thinner on his
temples, his eyes were larger and the set of his mouth reminded one of
Father Rielle in its slow, new writhing smile. If this were Love--how
should any escape? But not only Love, but Hate, and Doubt, and Fear,
were all warring in a good man's breast.