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  “And you sitting there like a bump on a log, and never telling us!” exclaimed Stella, with reproach.

  “Stella, you have a great deal too much to say,” replied her brother. “Suppose you try sitting like a bump on a log. We won’t complain. Yes, the Squire seems to have made up his mind about the defence, and my seniors haven’t done much else to-day.”

  “Rawlins saw him hitched up in front of your place for about two hours this morning,” said Mr. Williams. “I told him I thought that was good enough, but we didn’t say anything, Rawlins having heard it was to be Flynn from Toronto. And I hadn’t forgotten the Grand Trunk case we put down to you last week without exactly askin’. Your old man was as mad as a hornet – wanted to stop his subscription; Rawlins had no end of a time to get round him. Little things like that will creep in when you’ve got to trust to one man to run the whole local show. But I didn’t want the Mercury to have another horse on us.”

  “Do you think you’ll get a look in, Lorne?” asked Dr. Harry.

  “Oh, not a chance of it. The old man’s as keen as a razor on the case, and you’d think Warner never had one before! If I get a bit of grubbing to do, under supervision, they’ll consider I ought to be pleased.” It was the sunniest possible tone of grumbling; it enlisted your sympathy by its very acknowledgement that it had not a leg to stand on.

  “They’re pretty wild about it out Moneida way,” said Dr. Harry. “My father says the township would put down the bail three times over.”

  “They swear by the Squire out there,” said Mr. Horace Williams, liberally applying his napkin to his moustache. “He treated some of them more than square when the fall wheat failed three years running, about ten years back: do you remember, Mr. Murchison? Lent them money at about half the bank rate, and wasn’t in an awful sweat about getting it in at that either.”

  “And wasn’t there something about his rebuilding the school-house at his own expense not so long ago?” asked Dr. Drummond.

  “Just what he did. I wanted to send Rawlins out and make a story of it – we’d have given it a column, with full heads; but the old man didn’t like it. It’s hard to know what some people will like. But it was my own foolishness for asking. A thing like that is public property.”

  “There’s a good deal of feeling,” said Lorne. “So much that I understand the bank is moving for change of venue.”

  “I hope they won’t get it,” said Dr. Drummond sharply. “A strong local feeling is valuable evidence in a case like this. I don’t half approve this notion that a community can’t manage its own justice when it happens to take an interest in the case. I’ve no more acquaintance with the Squire than ‘How d’ye do?’ and I don’t know his son from Adam; but I’d serve on the jury to-morrow if the Crown asked it, and there’s many more like me.”

  Mr. Williams, who had made a brief note on his shirt cuff, restored his pencil to his waistcoat pocket. “I shall oppose a change of venue,” said he.

  FIVE

  It was confidently expected by the Murchison family that when Stella was old enough she would be a good deal in society. Stella, without doubt, was well equipped for society; she had exactly those qualities which appealed to it in Elgin, among which I will mention two – the quality of being able to suggest that she was quite as good as anybody without saying so, and the even more important quality of not being any better. Other things being equal – those common worldly standards that prevailed in Elgin as well as anywhere else in their degree – other things being equal, this second simple quality was perhaps the most important of all. Mr. and Mrs. Murchison made no claim and small attempt upon society. One doubts whether, with children coming fast and hard times long at the door, they gave the subject much consideration; but if they did, it is highly unlikely to have occurred to them that they were too good for their environment. Yet in a manner they were. It was a matter of quality, of spiritual and mental fabric; they were hardly aware that they had it, but it marked them with a difference, and a difference is the one thing a small community, accustomed comfortably to scan its own intelligible averages, will not tolerate. The unusual may take on an exaggeration of these; an excess of money, an excess of piety, is understood; but idiosyncrasy susceptible to no common translation is regarded with the hostility earned by the white crow, modified, among law-abiding humans, into tacit repudiation. It is a sound enough social principle to distrust that which is not understood, like the strain of temperament inarticulate but vaguely manifest in the Murchisons. Such a strain may any day produce an eccentric or a genius, emancipated from the common interests, possibly inimical to the general good; and when, later on, your genius takes flight or your eccentric sells all that he has and gives it to the poor, his fellow townsmen exchange shrewd nods before the vindicating fact.

  Nobody knew it at all in Elgin, but this was the Murchisons’ case. They had produced nothing abnormal, but they had to prove that they weren’t going to, and Stella was the last and most convincing demonstration. Advena, bookish and unconventional, was regarded with dubiety. She was out of the type; she had queer satisfactions and enthusiasms. Once as a little girl she had taken a papoose from a drunken squaw and brought it home for her mother to adopt. Mrs. Murchison’s reception of the suggested duty may be imagined, also the comments of acquaintances – a trick like that! The inevitable hour arrived when she should be instructed on the piano, and the second time the music teacher came her pupil was discovered on the roof of the house, with the ladder drawn up after her. She did not wish to learn the piano, and from that point of vantage informed her family that it was a waste of money. She would hide in the hayloft with a novel; she would be off by herself in a canoe at six o’clock in the morning; she would go for walks in the rain of windy October twilights and be met kicking the wet leaves along in front of her “in a dream.” No one could dream with impunity in Elgin, except in bed. Mothers of daughters sympathized in good set terms with Mrs. Murchison. “If that girl were mine –” they would say, and leave you with a stimulated notion of the value of corporal punishment. When she took to passing examinations and teaching, Elgin considered that her parents ought to be thankful in the probability that she had escaped some dramatic end. But her occupation further removed her from intercourse with the town’s more exclusive circles: she had taken a definite line, and she pursued it, preoccupied. If she was a brand snatched from the burning, she sent up a little curl of reflection in a safe place, where she was not further interrupted.

  Abby, inheriting all these prejudices, had nevertheless not done so badly; she had taken no time at all to establish herself; she had almost immediately married. In the social estimates of Elgin the Johnsons were “nice people,” Dr. Henry was a fine old figure in the town, and Abby’s chances were good enough. At all events, when she opened her doors as a bride, receiving for three afternoons in her wedding dress, everybody had “called.” It was very distinctly understood, of course, that this was a civility that need not lead to anything whatever, a kind of bowing recognition, to be formally returned and quite possibly to end there. With Abby, in a good many cases, it hadn’t ended there; she was doing very well, and as she often said with private satisfaction, if she went out anywhere she was just as likely as not to meet her brothers. Elgin society, shaping itself, I suppose, to ultimate increase and prosperity, had this peculiarity, that the females of a family, in general acceptance, were apt to lag far behind the males. Alec and Oliver enjoyed a good deal of popularity, and it was Stella’s boast that if Lorne didn’t go out much it needn’t be supposed he wasn’t asked. It was an accepted state of things in Elgin that young men might be invited without their sisters, implying an imperturbability greater than London’s, since London may not be aware of the existence of sisters, while Elgin knew all sorts of more interesting things about them. The young men were more desirable than the young women; they forged ahead, carrying the family fortunes, and the “nicest” of them were the young men in the banks. Others might be more substantial, but th
ere was an allure about a young man in a bank as difficult to define as to resist. To say of a certain party-giver that she had “about every bank clerk in town” was to announce the success of her entertainment in ultimate terms. These things are not always penetrable, but no doubt his gentlemanly form of labour and its abridgement in the afternoons, when other young men toiled on till the stroke of six, had something to do with this apotheosis of the bank clerk, as well as his invariable taste in tailoring, and the fact that some local family influence was probably represented in his appointment. Privilege has always its last little stronghold, and it still operates to admiration on the office stools of minor finance in towns like Elgin. At all events, the sprouting tellers and cashiers held unquestioned sway – young doctors and lawyers simply didn’t think of competing; and since this sort of thing carries its own penalty, the designation which they shared with so many distinguished persons in history became a byword on the lips of envious persons and small boys, by which they wished to express effeminacy and the substantive of “stuck-up.” “D’ye take me fur a bank clurk?” was a form of repudiation among corner loafers as forcible as it was unjustifiable.

  I seem to have embarked, by way of getting to the Milburns’ party – there is a party at the Milburns and some of us are going – upon an analysis of social principles in Elgin, an adventure of difficulty, as I have once or twice hinted, but one from which I cannot well extricate myself without at least leaving a clue or two more for the use of the curious. No doubt these rules had their nucleus in the half-dozen families, among whom we may count the shadowy Plummers, who took upon themselves for Fox County, by the King’s pleasure, the administration of justice, the practice of medicine and of the law, and the performance of the charges of the Church of England a long time ago. Such persons would bring their lines of demarcation with them, and in their new milieu of backwoods settlers and small traders would find no difficulty in drawing them again. But it was a very long time ago. The little knot of gentry-folk soon found the limitations of their new conditions; years went by in decades, aggrandizing none of them. They took, perforce, to the ways of the country, and soon nobody kept a groom but the doctor, and nobody dined late but the Judge. There came a time when the Sheriff’s whist club and the Archdeacon’s port became a tradition to the oldest inhabitant. Trade flourished, education improved, politics changed. Her Majesty removed her troops – the Dominion wouldn’t pay, a poor-spirited business – and a bulwark went with the regiment. The original dignified group broke, dissolved, scattered. Prosperous traders foreclosed them, the spirit of the times defeated them, young Liberals succeeded them in office. Their grandsons married the daughters of well-to-do persons who came from the north of Ireland, the east of Scotland, and the Lord knows where. It was a sorry tale of disintegration with a cheerful sequel of rebuilding, leading to a little unavoidable confusion as the edifice went up. Any process of blending implies confusion to begin with; we are here at the making of a nation.

  This large consideration must dispose of small anomalies, such as the acceptance, without cant, of certain forms of the shop, euphemized as the store, but containing the same old vertebral counter. Not all forms. Dry goods were held in respect and chemists in comparative esteem; house furnishings and hardware made an appreciable claim, and quite a leading family was occupied with seed grains. Groceries, on the other hand, were harder to swallow, possibly on account of the apron, though the grocer’s apron, being of linen, had several degrees more consideration than the shoemaker’s, which was of leather, smaller trades made smaller pretensions; Mrs. Milburn could tell you where to draw the line. They were all hard-working folk together, but they had their little prejudices; the dentist was known as “Doc,” but he was not considered quite on a medical level; it was doubtful whether you bowed to the piano-tuner, and quite a curious and unreasonable contempt was bound up in the word “veterinary.” Any thing “wholesale” or manufacturing stood, of course, on its own feet; there was nothing ridiculous in molasses, nothing objectionable in a tannery, nothing amusing in soap. Such airs and graces were far from Elgin, too fundamentally occupied with the amount of capital invested, and too profoundly aware how hard it was to come by. The valuable part of it all was a certain bright freedom, and this was of the essence. Trade was a decent communal way of making a living, rooted in independence and the general need; it had none of the meaner aspects. Your bow was negligible to the piano-tuner, and everything veterinary held up its head. And all this again qualified, as everywhere, by the presence or absence of the social faculty, that magnetic capacity for coming, as Mrs. Murchison would say, “to the fore,” which makes little of disadvantages that might seem insuperable, and, in default, renders null and void the most unquestionable claims. Any one would think of the Delarues. Mr. Delarue had in the dim past married his milliner, yet the Delarues were now very much indeed to the fore. And, on the other hand, the Leverets of the saw mills, rich and benevolent; the Leverets were not in society simply, if you analysed it, because they did not appear to expect to be in it. Certainly it was well not to be too modest; assuredly, as Mrs. Murchison said, you put your own ticket on, though that dear soul never marked herself in very plain figures; not knowing, perhaps, for one thing, quite how much she was worth. On the other hand, “Scarce of company, welcome trumpery,” Mrs. Murchison always emphatically declared to be no part of her social philosophy. The upshot was that the Murchisons were confined to a few old friends and looked, as we know, half humorously, half ironically, for more brilliant excursions, to Stella and “the boys.”

  It was only, however, the pleasure of Mr. Lorne Murchison’s company that was requested at the Milburns’ dance. Almost alone among those who had slipped into wider and more promiscuous circles with the widening of the stream, the Milburns had made something like an effort to hold out. The resisting power was not thought to reside in Mr. Milburn, who was personally aware of no special ground for it, but in Mrs. Milburn and her sister, Miss Filkin, who seemed to have inherited the strongest ideas, in the phrase of the place, about keeping themselves to themselves. A strain of this kind is sometimes constant, even so far from the fountain head, with its pleasing proof that such views were once the most general and the most sacred defence of middle-class firesides, and that Thackeray had, after all, a good deal to excuse him. Crossing the Atlantic they doubtless suffered some dilution; but all that was possible to conserve them under very adverse conditions Mrs. Milburn and Miss Filkin made it their duty to do. Nor were these ideas opposed, contested, or much traversed in Elgin. It was recognized that there was “something about” Mrs. Milburn and her sister – vaguely felt that you did not come upon that thinness of nostril, and slope of shoulder, and set of elbow at every corner. They must have got it somewhere. A Filkin tradition prevailed, said to have originated in Nova Scotia; the Filkins never had been accessible, but if they wanted to keep to themselves, let them. In this respect Dora Milburn, the only child, was said to be her mother’s own daughter. The shoulders, at all events, testified to it; and the young lady had been taught to speak, like Mrs. Milburn, with what was known as an “English accent.” The accent in general use in Elgin was borrowed – let us hope temporarily – from the other side of the line. It suffered local modifications and exaggerations, but it was clearly an American product. The English accent was thought affected, especially the broad “a.” The time may come when Elgin will be at considerable pains to teach itself the broad “a,” but that is in the embroidery of the future, and in no way modifies the criticism of Dora Milburn.

  Lorne Murchison, however, was invited to the dance. The invitation reached him through the post: coming home from office early on Saturday he produced it from his pocket. Mrs. Murchison and Abby sat on the verandah enjoying the Indian summer afternoon; the horse-chestnuts dropped crashing among the fallen leaves, the roadside maples blazed, the quiet streets ran into smoky purple, and one belated robin hopped about the lawn. Mrs. Murchison had just remarked that she didn’t know why, at
this time of year, you always felt as if you were waiting for something.

  “Well, I hope you feel honoured,” remarked Abby. Not one of them would have thought that Lorne should feel especially honoured; but the insincerity was so obvious that it didn’t matter. Mrs. Murchison, cocking her head to read the card, tried hard not to look pleased.

  “‘Mrs. Milburn. At Home,’” she read. “‘Dancing.’ Well, she might be at home dancing, for all me! Why couldn’t she just write you a little friendly note, or let Dora do it? It’s that Ormiston case,” she went on shrewdly. “They know you’re taking a lot of trouble about it. And the least they could do, too.”

  Lorne sat down on the edge of the verandah with his hands in his trousers pockets, and stuck his long legs out in front of him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “They have the name of being nifty, but I haven’t got anything against the Milburns.”

  “Name!” ejaculated Mrs. Murchison. “How long ago was it the Episcopalians began that sewing circle business for the destitute clergy of Saskatchewan?”

  “Mother!” put in Abby, with deprecation.

  “Well, I won’t be certain about the clergy, but I tell you it had to do with Saskatchewan, for that I remember! And anyhow, the first meeting was held at the Milburns’ – members lent their drawing-rooms. Well, Mrs. Leveret and Mrs. Delarue went to the meeting – they were very thick just then, the Leverets and the Delarues. They were so pleased to be going that they got there about five minutes too soon, and they were the first to come. Well, they rang the bell and in they went. The girl showed them into the front drawing-room and asked them to sit down. And there in the back drawing-room sat Mrs. Milburn and Miss Filkin, and never spoke to them! Their own denomination, mind you, too! And there they might have been sitting still if Mrs. Leveret hadn’t had the spirit to get up and march out. No, thank you. No Milburns for me.”