To Him That Hath

R >> Ralph Connor >> To Him That Hath


"Hold on, Wigglesworth," said Captain Jack quietly, catching his arm.
"Were you beating up this kid?" he asked, turning to the young man.

"Nae buddie's beatin' up the lad," said Mack quietly.

"It was me," said the girl, turning a defiant face to Captain Jack.

"You? Why! great Scot! Blest if it isn't Annette."

"Yes, it's me," said the girl, her face a flame of colour.

"By Jove, you've grown up, haven't you? And it was you that--"

"Yes, that big brute was abusing Steve here."

"What? Little Steve Wickes?"

"He was, and I pitched him into the fence. He hit his head and cut it, I
guess. I didn't mean--"

"Served him right enough, too, I fancy," said Captain Jack.

"I'll 'ave the law on the lot o' ye, I will. I'm a poor workin' man,
but I've got my rights, an' if there's a justice in this Gawd forsaken
country I'll 'ave protection for my family." And Mr. Wigglesworth,
working up a fury, backed off down the lane.

"Don't fear, Wigglesworth, you'll get all the justice you want. Perhaps
Sam will tell us--Hello! Where is Sam?"

But Sam had vanished. He had no mind for an investigation in the
presence of Captain Jack.

"Well, well, he can't be much injured, I guess. Meantime, can I give you
a lift, Annette?"

"No, thank you," said the girl, the colour in her cheeks matching the
crimson ribbon at her throat. "I'm just going home. It's only a little
way. I don't--"

"The young leddy is with me, sir," said the young Scotchman quietly.

"Oh, she is, eh?" said Captain Jack, looking him over. "Ah, well,
then--Good-bye, Annette, for the present." He held out his hand. "We
must renew our old acquaintance, eh?"

"Thank you, sir," said the girl.

"'Sir?' Rot! You aren't going to 'sir' me, Annette, after all the fun
and the fights we had in the old days. Not much. We're going to be good
chums again, eh? What do you say?"

"I don't know," said Annette, flashing a swift glance into Captain
Jack's admiring eyes. "It depends on--"

"On me?"

"I didn't say so." Her head went up a bit.

"On you?"

"I didn't say so."

"Well, let it go. But we will be pals again, Annette, I vow. Good-bye."
Captain Jack lifted his hat and moved away.

As he reached his car he ran up against young Rupert Stillwell.

"Deucedly pretty Annette has grown, eh?" said Stillwell.

"Annette's all right," said Jack, rather brusquely, entering his car.

"Working in your box factory, I understand, eh?"

"Don't really know," said Jack carelessly. "Probably."

The crowd had meantime faded away with Captain Jack's going.

"Did na know the Captain was a friend of yours, Annette," said Mack,
falling into step beside her.

"No--yes--I don't know. We went to Public School together before the
war. I was a kid then." Her manner was abstracted and her eyes were
far away. Mack walked gloomily by her on one side, little Steve on the
other.

"Huh! He's no your sort, A doot," he said sullenly.

"What do you say?" cried Annette, returning from her abstraction. "What
do you mean, 'my sort'?" Her head went high and her eyes flashed.

"He would na look at ye, for ony guid."

"He did look at me though," replied Annette, tossing her head.

"No for ony guid!" repeated Mack, stubbornly.

Annette stopped in her tracks, a burning red on her cheeks and a
dangerous light in her black eyes.

"Mr. McNish, that's your road," she said, pointing over his shoulder.

"A'll tak it tae," said McNish, wheeling on his heel, "an' ye can hae
your Captain for me."

With never a look at him Annette took her way home.

"Good-bye, Steve," she said, stooping and kissing the boy. "This is your
corner."

"Annette," he said, with a quick, shy look up into her face, "I like
Captain Jack, don't you?"

"No," she said hurriedly. "I mean yes, of course."

"And I like you too," said the boy, with an adoring look in his deep
eyes, "better'n anyone in the world."

"Do you, Steve? I'm glad." Again she stooped swiftly and kissed him.
"Now run home."

She hurried home, passed into her room without a word to anyone. Slowly
she removed her hat, then turning to her glass she gazed at her flushed
face for a few moments. A little smile curved her lips. "He did look at
me anyway," she whispered to the face that looked out at her, "he did,
he did," she repeated. Then swiftly she covered her eyes. When she
looked again she saw a face white and drawn. "He would na look at ye."
The words smote her with a chill. Drearily she turned away and went out.



CHAPTER V

THE RECTORY


The Rectory was one of the very oldest of the more substantial of
Blackwater's dwellings. Built of grey limestone from the local quarries,
its solid square mass relieved by its quaint dormer windows was softened
from its primal ugliness by the Boston ivy that had clambered to the
eaves and lay draped about the windows like a soft green mantle. Built
in the early days, it stood with the little church, a gem of Gothic
architecture, within spacious grounds bought when land was cheap. Behind
the house stood the stable, built also of grey limestone, and at one
side a cherry and apple orchard formed a charming background to the grey
buildings with their crowding shrubbery and gardens. A gravelled winding
drive led from the street through towering elms, a picturesque remnant
from the original forest, to the front door and round the house to the
stable yard behind. From the driveway a gravelled footpath led through
the shrubbery and flower garden by a wicket gate to the Church. When
first built the Rectory stood in dignified seclusion on the edge of the
village, but the prosperity of the growing town demanding space for its
inhabitants had driven its streets far beyond the Rectory demesne on
every side, till now it stood, a green oasis of sheltered loveliness,
amid a crowding mass of modern brick dwellings, comfortable enough but
arid of beauty and suggestive only of the utilitarian demands of a busy
manufacturing town.

For nearly a quarter of a century the Rev. Herbert Aveling Templeton,
D.D., LL.D., for whom the Rectory had been built, had ministered in
holy things to the Parish of St. Alban's and had exercised a guiding and
paternal care over the social and religious well-being of the community.
The younger son of one of England's noble families, educated in an
English Public School and University, he represented, in the life of
this new, thriving, bustling town, the traditions and manners of an
English gentleman of the Old School. Still in his early sixties, he
carried his years with all the vigour of a man twenty years his junior.
As he daily took his morning walk for his mail, stepping with the brisk
pace of one whose poise the years had not been able to disturb, yet
with the stately bearing consistent with the dignity attaching to
his position and office, men's eyes followed the tall, handsome,
white-haired, well set up gentleman always with admiration and, where
knowledge was intimate, with reverence and affection. Before the recent
rapid growth of the town consequent upon the establishment of various
manufacturing industries attracted thither by the unique railroad
facilities, the Rector's walk was something in the nature of public
perambulatory reception. For he knew them all, and for all had a word
of greeting, of enquiry, of cheer, of admonition, so that by the time
he had returned to his home he might have been said to have conducted a
pastoral visitation of a considerable proportion of his flock. Even yet,
with the changes that had taken place, his walk to the Post Office was
punctuated with greetings and salutations from his fellow-citizens in
whose hearts his twenty-five years of devotion to their well-being,
spiritual and physical, had made for him an enduring place.

The lady of the Rectory, though some twenty years his junior, yet, by
reason of delicate health due largely to the double burden of household
cares and parish duties, appeared to be quite of equal age. Gentle in
spirit, frail in body, there seemed to be in her soul something of the
quality of tempered steel, yet withal a strain of worldly wisdom
mingled with a strange ignorance of the affairs of modern life. Her life
revolved around one centre, her adored husband, a centre enlarged as
time went on to include her only son and her two daughters. All others
and all else in her world were of interest solely as they might be more
or less closely related to these, the members of her family. The town
and the town folk she knew solely as her husband's parish. There were
other people and other communions, no doubt, but being beyond the pale
they could hardly be supposed to matter, or, at any rate, she could not
be supposed to regard them with more than the interest and spasmodic
concern which she felt it her duty to bestow upon those unfortunate
dwellers in partibus infidelium.

Regarding the Public School of the town with aversion because of its
woefully democratic character, she was weaned from her hostility to that
institution when her son's name was entered upon its roll. Her eldest
daughter, indeed, she sent as a girl of fourteen to an exclusive English
school, the expense of which was borne by her husband's eldest brother,
Sir Arthur Templeton, for she held the opinion that while for a boy
the Public School was an excellent institution with a girl it was
quite different. Hence, while her eldest daughter went "Home" for her
education, her boy went to the Blackwater Public and High Schools, which
institutions became henceforth invested with the highest qualifications
as centres of education. Her boy's friends were her friends, and to them
her house was open at all hours of day or night. Indeed, it became
the governing idea in her domestic policy that her house should be the
rallying centre for everything that was related in any degree to her
children's life. Hence, she quietly but effectively limited the circle
of the children's friends to those who were able and were willing to
make the Rectory their social centre. She saw to it that for Herbert's
intimate boy friends the big play room at the top of the house, once a
bare and empty room and later the large and comfortable family living
room, became the place of meeting for all their social and athletic
club activities. With unsleeping vigilance she stood on guard against
anything that might break that circle of her heart's devotion. The
circle might be, indeed must be enlarged, as for instance to take in the
Maitland boys, Herbert's closest chums. She was wise enough to see the
wisdom of that, but nothing on earth would she allow to filch from her a
single unit of the priceless treasures of her heart.

To this law of her life she made one glorious, one splendid exception.
When her country called, she, after weeks of silent, fierce, lonely,
agonised struggle gave up her boy and sent him with voiceless, tearless
pride to the War.

But, when the boy's Colonel wrote in terms of affectionate pride of
her boy's glorious passing, with new and strange adaptability her heart
circle was extended to include her boy's comrades in war and those who
like herself had sent them forth. Thenceforth every khaki covered lad
was to her a son, and every soldier's mother a friend.

As her own immediate home circle grew smaller, the intensity of her
devotion increased. Her two daughters became her absorbing concern. With
the modern notion that a girl might make for herself a career in life
she had no sympathy whatever. To see them happily married and in homes
of their own became the absorbing ambition of her life. To this end
she administered her social activities, with this purpose in view she
encouraged or discouraged her daughters' friendships with men. With the
worldly wisdom of which she had her own share she came to the conclusion
that ineligible men friends, that is, men friends unable to give her
daughters a proper setting in the social world, were to be effectively
eliminated. That the men of her daughters' choosing should be gentlemen
in breeding went without saying, but that they should be sufficiently
endowed with wealth to support a proper social position was equally
essential.

That Jack Maitland had somehow dropped out of the intimate circle of
friends who had in pre-war days made the Rectory their headquarters was
to her a more bitter disappointment than she cared to acknowledge even
to herself. Her son and the two Maitland boys had been inseparable in
their school and college days, and with the two young men her daughters
had been associated in the very closest terms of comradeship. But
somehow Captain Jack Maitland after the first months succeeding his
return from the war had drawn apart. Disappointed, perplexed, hurt, she
vainly had striven to restore the old footing between the young man and
her daughters. Young Maitland had taken up his medical studies for a
few months at his old University in Toronto and so had been out of touch
with the social life of his home town. Then after he had "chucked" his
course as impossible he had at his father's earnest wish taken up
work at the mills, at first in the office, later in the manufacturing
department. There was something queer in Jack's attitude toward his old
life and its associations, and after her first failures in attempting
to restore the old relationship her eldest daughter's pride and then her
own forbade further efforts.

Adrien, her eldest daughter, had always been a difficult child, and her
stay in England and later her experience in war work in France where for
three years she had given rare service in hospital work had somehow made
her even more inaccessible to her mother. And now the situation had been
rendered more distressing by her determination "to find something to
do." She was firm in her resolve that she had no intention of patiently
waiting in her home, ostensibly busying herself with social duties but
in reality "waiting if not actually angling for a man." She bluntly
informed her scandalised parent that "when she wanted a man more than
a career it would be far less humiliating to frankly go out and get
him than to practise alluring poses in the hopes that he might deign to
bestow upon her his lordly regard." Her mother wisely forebore to argue.
Indeed, she had long since learned that in argumentive powers she was
hopelessly outclassed by her intellectual daughter. She could only
express her shocked disappointment at such intentions and quietly plan
to circumvent them.

As to Patricia, her younger daughter, she dismissed all concern. She was
only a child as yet, wise beyond her years, but too thoroughly immature
to cause any anxiety for some years to come. Meantime she had at first
tolerated and then gently encouraged the eager and obvious anxiety of
Rupert Stillwell to make a footing for himself in the Rectory family.
At the outbreak of the war her antipathy to young Stillwell as a slacker
had been violent. He had not joined up with the first band of ardent
young souls who had so eagerly pointed the path to duty and to glory.
But, when it had been made clear to the public mind that young Stillwell
had been pronounced physically unfit for service and was therefore
prevented from taking his place in that Canadian line which though it
might wear thin at times had never broken, Mrs. Templeton relieved him
in her mind of the damning count of being a slacker. Later, becoming
impressed with the enthusiasm of the young man's devotion to various
forms of patriotic war service at home, she finally, though it must be
confessed with something of an effort, had granted him a place within
the circle of her home. Furthermore, Rupert Stillwell had done extremely
well in all his business enterprises and had come to be recognised as
one of the coming young men of the district, indeed of the Province,
with sure prospects of advancement in public estimation. Hence, the
frequency with which Stillwell's big Hudson Six could be seen parked on
the gravelled drive before the Rectory front door. In addition to this,
Rupert and his Hudson Six were found to be most useful. He had abundance
of free time and he was charmingly ready with his offers of service. Any
hour of the day the car, driven by himself or his chauffeur, was at the
disposal of any member of the Rectory family, a courtesy of which Mrs.
Templeton was not unwilling to avail herself though never with any
loss of dignity but always with appearance of bestowing rather than
of receiving a favour. As to the young ladies, Adrien rarely allowed
herself the delight of a motor ride in Rupert Stillwell's luxurious car.
On the other hand, had her mother not intervened, Patricia would have
indulged without scruple her passion for joy-riding. The car she adored,
Rupert Stillwell she regarded simply as a means to the indulgence of her
adoration. He was a jolly companion, a cleverly humourous talker, and an
unfailing purveyor of bon-bons. Hence he was to Patricia an ever welcome
guest at the Rectory, and the warmth of Patricia's welcome went a long
way to establish his position of intimacy in the family.

It was not to be supposed, however, that that young lady's gracious
and indeed eager acceptance of the manifold courtesies of the young
gentleman in question burdened her in the very slightest with any sense
of obligation to anything but the most cavalier treatment of him, should
occasion demand. She was unhesitatingly frank and ready with criticism
and challenge of his opinions, indeed he appeared to possess a fatal
facility for championing her special aversions and antagonising her
enthusiasms. Of the latter her most avowed example was Captain Jack, as
she loved to call him. A word of criticism of Captain Jack, her hero,
her knight, sans peur et sans reproche and her loyal soul was aflame
with passionate resentment.

It so fell on an occasion when young Stillwell was a dinner guest at the
Rectory.

"Do you know, Patricia," and Rupert Stillwell looked across the dinner
table teasingly into Patricia's face, "your Captain Jack was rather
mixed up in a nice little row to-day?"

"I heard all about it, Rupert, and Captain Jack did just what I would
have expected him to do." Patricia's unsmiling eyes looked steadily into
the young man's smiling face.

"Rescued a charming young damsel, eh? By the way, that Perrotte girl has
turned out uncommonly good looking," continued Rupert, addressing the
elder sister.

"Rescuing a poor little ill-treated boy from the hands of a brutal
bully and the bully's brutal father--" Patricia's voice was coolly
belligerent.

"My dear Patricia!" The mother's voice was deprecatingly pacific.

"It is simply true, Mother, and Rupert knows it quite well too, or--"

"Patricia!" Her father's quiet voice arrested his daughter's flow of
speech.

"But, Father, everyone--"

"Patricia!" The voice was just as quiet but with a slightly increased
distinctness in enunciation, and glancing swiftly at her father's face
Patricia recognised that the limits of her speech had been reached,
unless she preferred to change the subject.

"Yes, Annette has grown very pretty, indeed," said Adrien, taking up
the conversation, "and is really a very nice girl, indeed. She sings
beautifully. She is the leading soprano in her church choir, I believe."

"Captain Jack Maitland appeared to think her quite charming," said
Rupert, making eyes at Patricia. Patricia's lips tightened and her eyes
gleamed a bit.

"They were in school together, I think, were they not, Mamma?" said
Adrien, flushing slightly.

"Of course they were, and so was Rupert, too--" said Patricia with
impatient scorn, "and so would you if you hadn't been sent to England,"
she added to her sister.

"No doubt of it," said Rupert with a smile, "but you see she was
fortunate enough to be sent to England."

"Blackwater is good enough for me," said Patricia, a certain stubborn
hostility in her tone.

"I have always thought the Blackwater High School an excellent
institution," said her mother quickly, "especially for boys."

"Yes, indeed, for boys," replied Stillwell, "but for young ladies--well,
there is something in an English school, you know, that you can't get in
any High School here in Canada."

"Rot!" ejaculated Patricia.

"My dear Patricia!" The mother was quite shocked.

"Pardon me, Mother, but you know we have a perfectly splendid High
School here. Father has often said so."

Her mother sighed. "Yes, for boys. But for girls, I feel with Rupert
that you get something in English schools that--" She hesitated, looking
uncertainly at her elder daughter.

"Yes, and perhaps lose something, Mamma," said Adrien quietly. "I mean,"
she added hastily, "you lose touch with a lot of things and people,
friends. Now, for instance, you remember when we were all children,
boys and girls together, at the Public School, Annette was one of the
cleverest and best of the lot of us, I used to be fond of her--and the
others. Now--"

"But you can't help growing up," said Rupert, "and--well, democracy is
all right and that sort of thing, but you must drift into your class you
know. There's Annette, for instance. She is a factory hand, a fine girl
of course, and all that, but--"

"Oh, I suppose we must recognise facts. Rupert, you are quite right,"
said Mrs. Templeton, "there must be social distinctions and there are
classes. I mean," she added, as if to forestall the outburst she saw
gathering behind her younger daughter's closed lips, "we must inevitably
draw to our own set by our natural or acquired tastes and by our
traditions and breeding."

"All very well in England, Mamma. I suppose dear Uncle Arthur and our
dear cousins would hardly feel called upon to recognise Annette as a
friend."

"Why should they?" challenged Rupert.

"My dear Patricia," said her father, mildly patient, "you are quite
wrong. Our people at home, your uncle Arthur, I mean, and your cousins,
and all well-bred folk, do not allow class distinctions to limit
friendship. Friends are chosen on purely personal grounds of real worth
and--well, congeniality."

"Would Uncle Arthur, or rather, Aunt Alicia have Annette to dinner, for
instance?" demanded Patricia.

"Certainly not," said her mother promptly.

"She would not do anything to embarrass Annette," said her father.

"Oh, Dad, what a funk. That is quite unworthy of you."

"Would she be asked here now to dinner?" said Rupert. "I mean," he added
in some confusion, "would it be, ah, suitable? You know what I mean."

"She has been here. Don't you remember, Mamma? She was often here. And
every time she came she was the cleverest thing, she was the brightest,
the most attractive girl in the bunch." Her mother's eyebrows went up.
"In the party, I mean. And the most popular. Why, I remember quite well
that Rupert was quite devoted to her."

"A mere child, she was then, you know," said Rupert.

"She is just as bright, just as attractive, as clever now, more so
indeed, as fine a girl in every way. But of course she was not a factory
girl then. That's what you mean," replied Patricia scornfully.

"She has found her class," persisted Rupert. "She is all you say, but
surely--"

"Yes, she is working in the new box factory. Her mother, lazy, selfish
thing, took her from the High School."

"My dear Patricia, you are quite violent," protested her mother.

"It's true, Mamma," continued the girl, her eyes agleam, "and now she
works in the box factory while Captain Jack works in the planing mill.
She is in the same class."

"And good friends apparently," said Rupert with a malicious little grin.

"Why not? We would have Captain Jack to dinner, but not Annette."

Her father smiled at her. "Well done, little girl. Annette is a fine
girl and is fortunate in her champion. You can have her to dinner any
evening, I am quite sure."

"Can we, Mamma?"

"My dear, we will not discuss the matter any further," said her mother.
"It is a very old question and very perplexing, I confess, but--"

"We don't see Captain Jack very much since his return," said her father,
turning the conversation. "You might begin with him, eh, Patsy?"

"No," said the girl, a shade falling on her face. "He is always busy.
He has such long hours. He works his day's work with the men and then he
always goes up to the office to his father--and--and--Oh, I don't know,
I wish he would come. He's not--" Patricia fell suddenly silent.

"Jack is very much engaged," said her mother quietly.

"Naturally he is tied up, learning the business, I mean," said the elder
sister quietly. "He has little time for mere social frivolities and that
sort of thing."

"It's not that, Adrien," said Patricia. "He is different since he came
back. I wish--" She paused abruptly.

"He is changed," said her mother with a sigh. "They--the boys are all
changed."

"The war has left its mark upon them, and what else can we expect?" said
Dr. Templeton. "One wonders how they can settle down at all to work."

"Oh, Jack has settled down all right," said Patricia, as if analysing
a subject interesting to herself alone. "Jack's not like a lot of them.
He's too much settled down. What is it, I wonder? He seems to have quit
everything, dancing, tennis, golf. He doesn't care--"