"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.