Clara Castigan

Chapter 5: Adela Spencer

There had long been a sort of friendly rivalry amongst the three principal families of Castle Crescent. There were the Percys of the Turret House, with their head of the family a sitting Member of Parliament in Ottawa, and their distant cousins spinning gold out of Lancashire's cotton mills with the ease and speed of Rumpelstiltskin. There were the Spencers, whose wealth, it was said, had been made in the banking and railroad businesses. The Spencers were not, in the private thoughts of Lady Percy, terribly accomplished or remarkably refined, but for their good luck in building up the family name, they were to be tolerated. If ever there was a salve to Lady Percy's wounded vanity, it was that Sir James's market foresight had been responsible for the Spencers' latest profit. Lady Percy took comfort in the knowledge, and Mrs. Spencer did her best to ignore it.

In the privacy of her husband's chambers, Mrs. Spencer railed against the Percy pride. Who did Lady Percy think she was, to rub her little successes in Mrs. Spencer's face? The Percys would have been nothing anymore were it not for Sir James's career in Ottawa. Mrs. Spencer thought herself quite as eminent as Lady Percy in the upper circles of Bloomvale. Never was such passion seen in the Spencer home as when Mrs. Spencer vented, the very incarnation of Katharina Minola untamed.

Like that other Shakespearean hero, Mr. Spencer was by no means the sort of man to take his wife's grievances meekly. Why ought he to suffer her shrill screeches? Mr. Spencer would grow cantankerous at his wife when she was in such a state, and when she was done, and he too had vented his spleen, he would withdraw to his library with his claret. He had once heard it said that the library was a married man's best friend, and he believed there to be nothing so necessary as having his own. There he would sit for hours, admiring the many volumes bound in their crisp and shiny newness, letting the memory of Mrs. Spencer's sharp tongue dissolve and slip away as a bubbly hot wax mold might melt off a bronze cast sculpture in the fiery pits of a potter's kiln.

Mr. Spencer was a bit of a poet.

There were also the Cowans, whose pedigree in Canada predated that of the Percys, for the first Cowans had been United Empire Loyalists richly compensated for their allegiance to the Crown. Like many old, established families with nothing more than property to their name, the Cowans had declined over the generations, and all that was left of its former greatness were a few bank shares, a bit of property in the southwest province which they rented to tenant farmers, and a comfortable income generated from the aforementioned investments. While this was more than even most families in the province could boast of having, it was but a small portion of what the Cowans had once held. The heir to what was left of the family wealth was a young woman, not yet one-and-twenty, quite pretty and attractive, but who was, all the same, to be the end of a great family. The Cowans were to be nothing more than history, for no one in Bloomvale could expect that Katharine Cowan's future husband---whoever he would turn out to be---would take his wife's name.

At the same assembly at which Rick Percy danced with Katharine Cowan, Miss Adela Spencer of Castle Crescent was heard to express what a shame it was that the Cowans would soon be no more. That Miss Cowan was a kind and gentle girl was of no consequence.

"Katharine Cowan is as sweet a girl as any," replied Miss Spencer's friend. "She will marry and have children."

"But it shall not be the same, my dearest Isabel. Will her husband take her name?"

"It is not the general practice that a husband takes his wife's name."

"My dearest Isabel," said Miss Spencer, "That is my point precisely. Once upon a time, Cowan was a name that opened doors in Upper Canada."

"I always thought it was the Percys that held the honour," replied her dearest Isabel.

"Evidently the Percys would like to think so. Miss Percy would have you believe nothing else, by the way she holds herself as though she were a lady of the London Ton. Look at her flirt with Mrs. Quentin's nephew! I hope he won't break her heart. The Percys were nothing, once upon a time, and neither were the Quentins."

"Miss Percy did not seem at all haughty to me at the punch table," said Isabel with some hesitation. "She was gracious."

"Is that so?" asked Miss Spencer, her eyes widening in surprise. "I should have liked to see it. Was Elspeth Percy fetching her own glass of punch? Or rather, should I say, tumbler of punch. Do you not think it shabby that at an assembly such as this, we should be served refreshment in a tumbler?"

"It isn't the way my aunt would have done it, that is for certain," admitted Miss Spencer's friend.

"Indeed, I should not think so. Mrs. Brunswick has such a refined taste in finery."

"She prides herself on that."

"Yes, yes, and why should she not? Maman has upon more than one occasion consulted her on matters of décor."

"Aunt has a tendency towards fastidiousness though," observed Isabel.

"I would not call her fastidious for all the world! But look you, there is Miss Cowan dancing not with Mr. Percy anymore, but with Mr. Clarion." Miss Spencer had lost sight of Rick Percy, but she was glad at least that he was no longer dancing.

"Oh, you mean Anthony," said Isabel after a great deal of squinting.

"Of course I meant him. To whom else could I have been referring?"

"Well, Anthony's father for instance. No one to my knowledge has ever called Anthony anything but his name."

"And is Clarion not his name?"

"It is," said Isabel slowly, "but I refer to his Christian name. No one has ever called him Mr. Clarion. That is for addressing his father."

"With formalities, it is never too late to begin. Anthony---Mr. Clarion---will come into a fortune of his own one day, and then he shall not be the little boy you and I once knew. I am sure he will have no time for those who cannot address him by the proper title."

"Your brother will come into a fortune of his own as well, will he not? I hope I will not have to call him Mr. Spencer."

"Of course you will; you must. Ladies outside a gentleman's family must never utter the Christian name of the gentleman unless there is a certain intimacy in the relations to permit it. For instance, I would never call Mr. Percy ‘Richard', for it would be immodest, even if we have danced together at a ball before."

"No one calls him that but his mother, I suspect," said Isabel with a laugh. "He always takes great pains to correct anyone who calls him anything but Rick. He will always be Rick to his friends."

"And you mustn't ever speak of a man's mother after that fashion, my dearest! Do you think Miss Cowan has any designs upon Mr. Clarion?"

"Oh good heavens, no. Miss Cowan is engaged! Besides, do you know, Anthony---Mr. Clarion---is---he is moving west."

"Indeed? Moving west?" Adela Spencer looked somewhat disappointed to hear this news. "When did you hear this?"

"Last week, when Anthony---Mr. Clarion---was visiting with my aunt."

"Did he visit your aunt? While you were there?"

"Well, yes."

"And you did not say a word to me of this!"

Isabel blushed. "What was there to tell?"

"Everything! You know how lively an interest I take in Mr. Clarion's welfare. I mean to say, that is, we have known each other for ever so long, and he is but a brother to me when I compare him to the likes of Mr. Percy. Do tell me more. How could you not think of telling me?"

"There was nothing to tell," protested Isabel. "Truly, Adela, nothing came to pass."

"Was something expected to pass?" Now Adela Spencer could not help feeling suspicious.

"I---had been led to assume---" Isabel stammered.

"Assume what?"

"Well, Anthony had spoken to Aunt Brunswick two months ago."

"Spoken to her? What about?"

"Oh, you must have suspected, if you did not know---although Aunt Brunswick did not positively forbid the match..."

"Match?"

"She said that he must show that he had made something of himself before she would let us marry. It isn't an engagement---truly, it is not---or I would have told you all---but he has, all the same, renewed his pledge, and though I have not said it aloud, he knows that I will not promise myself to another until he retracts his suit."

Adela Spencer, for once, could not speak.

"Oh, Adela, believe me, it made me cross for a time to not be able to say a word to you on the subject, but my aunt made me promise not to speak of it until it was firmly settled."

"And it is not settled yet, though you have given your vow that you will have no other?" asked Adela, fairly red in the cheeks. "You might have told me all the same, and here I have been going about supposing you to be a friend." Her face was flushed from the embarrassment of having alluded so warmly to Anthony Clarion a moment ago, and she worked hard now to pretend her disappointment was due to indignation at Isabel's secrecy.

"We are still friends, of course!" exclaimed Isabel Brunswick. "We mustn't quarrel over so slight a matter."

"To me it is indeed an unpardonable slight that you should have concealed such news from me."

"You did not want Anthony for yourself."

"No, thankfully I did not."

Now it was Isabel's turn to look cross. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean exactly what I said: I am thankful it is not I who is betrothed to Anthony Clarion, though he may be plenty rich, to be sure."

"I do not promise myself to him for his money. We have long held each other in high regard."

Adela could not think it to be a match very long in the making, not considering what she knew! "My dear Isabel," she said, "admiration may only carry a woman so far, where her heart and her hand are concerned. The years will change a woman's looks, you know, and comfort will alter a man's habits. You are perfectly right to hope for more than the ordinary fate of marriage. That is to say, do not think that I belittle your affection by suggesting something so distasteful as mercenary intentions."

Adela Spencer was in truth quite angry about the engagement. It was not that she had truly set her eyes on Anthony Clarion---no, she had begun to believe that she had spoken truthfully when she said that she was glad she had not been engaged to Anthony Clarion---but all the same, she had been the one whom Anthony Clarion had first courted. She had never received any indications from him that he had transferred his affections elsewhere. She had certainly not anticipated that plain, timid little Isabel Brunswick, upon whom she had lavished such attention and friendship, should settle on Anthony Clarion, should---nay---form designs on him.

"Young Clarion, engaged to little Isabel?" asked Adela's older brother with some amusement that night as their carriage drove them home from the assembly hall. "I would never have thought such a match possible. They are both of them exceeding shy and retiring; I wonder which of them broached the subject first."

"It was by Mrs. Brunswick's encouragement, no doubt."

"It would suit her nature," agreed her brother, "and yet, it is incredible."

"Nor did I expect it," said Adela in rather a huff. "Had I suspected, I would not have been so free and open to share my innermost thoughts with Isabel."

"Hold onto that thought," said Adam suddenly. "Do you mean to say that you were in love with Anthony Clarion as well?"

"No, certainly not. How could you suggest such a thing?"

"It would explain your anger at the two of them."

"No, Adam, you have it all wrong." Adela paused emphatically. "I am merely a trifle distraught that the woman I took to be my cherished friend and kindred spirit should take to the arts of concealment. It is this very behaviour which makes all womankind appear petty to lesser men."

Adam felt that his sister had enjoyed a trifle too much punch and was delighting in the drama of her words. A temper, Adela may have, but not temperance, and especially not after Lady Percy's famous cordial. Aloud, he said, "Let us be happy for Isabel Brunswick and Anthony Clarion. They are both very good people in their quiet way."

"Isabel is not worthy of your praise. Do you know? I once fancied making a match of you and Isabel, but now I see that it would never do."

"For evidently, Isabel's heart lies elsewhere." And Adam was glad of it.

"No, evidently, she has no heart."

"Come, I will not have you abuse her behind her back."

"Are you very disappointed that she should turn out this way? I never knew her to be fickle."

"She hasn't proven herself fickle," Adam assured his sister. "Anthony Clarion and his fiancée do no harm to anyone by falling in love with each other. This is one match that we can be sure will take place, and happily too."

"Is there a match that won't take place?" asked Adela instantaneously.

"What a gossipmonger you are, Addie. I meant you and Anthony Clarion, of course."

"Pah!" Adela's face was red again. "There was nothing of the sort."

"He did once go down on his knees for you."

"A poor boy's trick begot from his aunt's ridiculous books of etiquette."

"I am only teasing you, Addie. Do not bring Lady Percy into this."

"I shall bring in any name I like."

"You mean to say you do like Lady Percy?"

Adela suppressed an urge to hit her brother. "That is not at all what I meant! I like her even less than I like Mrs. Cowan. And I do feel sorry for Mrs. Cowan's daughter."

"Why should you pity her?" asked Adam. He thought well of Mrs. Cowan and her daughter, and did not think that there was a girl on Castle Crescent less likely to entangle herself in mischief than Katharine Cowan herself. "What has she done?"

"It's not what she has done. It's what her family has done. She is the sole heiress of the clan, and the Cowans will soon be no more. But who is her fiancé after all? Why should she give up her name to the son of a nobody?"

"Her fiancé's father is quite respectably established, I have heard."

"Ah, but in what establishment? Not the law, not the church, not in any genteel institution. His father is in trade, as the younger Mr. Small will be."

"And it will be a good thing for Katharine too. Mr. Small's business does well enough that his son and future daughter-in-law will never want for anything."

"But a tradesman!"

"You forget, Adela, Grandfather Spencer was a tradesman."

"I don't forget, but Father has raised us up, and Mother's family is quite respectable."

Adam was irritated by the insult implied against their deceased grandfather. "You must let go of your ideas of grandeur, Adela. We are hardworking, earnest folk, not fine English lords and dames. Respectability isn't a matter of birth, and even if it were, we have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I won't be called ‘folk' by you or anyone," Adela countered him.

"Then you'll have to settle for ‘silly goose', and that is only because I promised Mother not to call you anything worse."

Chapter 6: Another visitor to the neighbourhood

"Poor Katharine Cowan", as she had been privately called by Miss Spencer, had never felt herself to be in a state deserving of pity. It was true enough that she had lost her father early in her childhood, and that her mother had almost certainly felt herself to be alone in North America---but they had not been friendless. The household staff had been most understanding and sympathetic; they had worked tirelessly and on their own initiative to bring as much comfort as was possible to the newly-made widow and the fatherless child. This had been done out of a feeling of love and loyalty not unusual of those who served the generous hearted Mrs. Cowan. Much of her magnanimity she had managed to pass on to her only child. In Katharine, it came also with a softness and sweetness of temper which no one dared bruise. Widowhood had been made easier by the kindness of the Percys, for it was at the time of Mr. Cowan's death that Lady Percy had shown attention to the widow and an intimate friendship sprung.

As a little girl, Katharine had frequently been invited to the Turret House. She remembered playing dollies with a barely lisping Elspeth as much as she had tumbled about the grass chasing squirrels or plucked strawberries from the garden patch with Rick. Then one September, Rick had been sent off to a boarding school and Mrs. Cowan took to the idea of sending Katharine to a finishing school for young ladies; that had been the end of their childhood days. Up to that point, they had been privy to each other's secrets, but like all infant moments, those early confidences, too, came to an end.

These days, memory of their idyllic childhood was simply that---a memory to be spoken of fondly, to divert the onset of boredom on a slow, lazy Sunday afternoon, and then put away for another rainy day. Much had changed since they were little boy and girl. Richard Percy was going to be a physician, and Katharine---well, she was going to be married!

The story of how she met Louis Small of Thompson Small & Son was a tale of serendipity and, as Louis liked to say, fate. Oh, every memory associated with Louis was sweet to Miss Cowan; she had never experienced or imagined such attachment! Katharine and her mother had traveled to Montreal the previous summer as part of their tour of Quebec. At the train station, there had been a mix-up in the drawing of seats, and a young, handsome stranger who had heard all this, and noted the Cowans' desire to avoid a public confrontation and yet maintain what they had paid for, had offered to exchange seats with Mrs. Cowan. Conversation could not be avoided after that act of chivalry, and it came to be learned that Mr. Small was himself traveling to Montreal, to the very same inn at which the Cowans were to be lodged for the duration of their tour.

When it was said that Mr. Small was handsome, the report was indeed true. He had lush, dark curls of hair swept gently away from a broad forehead, a pair of balanced ears, large brown eyes that sparkled under every light, a strong but not obstinate nose, and when he smiled, his florid complexion lit up and his lips curled up to reveal two straight rows of small but well-shaped white teeth. He was a walking Adonis, but did not take notice of the looks of admiration he received. He spoke of no fiancé or sweetheart (they had exchanged opinions on every subject under the sun), he bore no locket containing tell-tale locks of hair in his pocket, and on his fingers, he wore no rings (not that either Mrs. Cowan or Miss Cowan would have acted on this). He had business in Montreal, which he must attend to on his father's behalf, but he admitted candidly that he hoped to see some of the sights around the city as well. He was only three-and-twenty and had not often traveled. It was also learned that his father was Thompson Small, owner and manager of the department store in Toronto.

Mr. Small was as efficient as he had said he would be, and after two days of business, he was soon able to join the Cowans on their explorations. The ladies felt all the advantage of traveling with a gentleman by their side. They shared a carriage to the Chutes Montmorency. They spent two days in the city of Quebec, where Mr. Small showed himself to be proficient in the French tongue. He inquired after the best restaurants on their behalf, discovered the most beautiful jardins and located the places that offered the finest view of the river St. Laurent. Although he could not return with them to Toronto (their tickets showed different dates of departure), he asked for permission to call on them once he was home, and permission was graciously granted.

Their fortnight's companionship was not taken for granted, for true to his word, Mr. Small came to call a week after the Cowans' return. He was invited to dine with them, he appeared at their parties, he sent tokens of kindness---flowers, fruits from the hothouse, books of their favourite poetry, a pair of fine kid gloves after learning that Miss Cowan had lost hers at a dance---and there was daily confirmation that the friendship had transposed to a higher pitch, such that it was natural for Mr. Small to find himself one day alone in the sitting room with Miss Cowan, to take her small delicate hands in his rougher ones, and to call her his own. The ivory gloves that were supposed to have been lost at a dance were produced on this occasion from Louis's riding coat pocket, and confessions of sweet nothings duly exchanged.

From its inception, the engagement had been no secret. There had been no effort on anyone's part to conceal the news, or to bask in it in the triumphant silence that some newly betrothed find necessary. It had all happened in the most matter-of-fact manner: the young people were in love, they had Mrs. Cowan's approval, and so they must be married. Louis Small lost no time in securing his father's blessing, and Mrs. Cowan lost no time in writing to her brother in England.

This brother of Mrs. Cowan, was named Theophilus Matthewson, and he was a writer. He had begun his career as a journalist for a penny newspaper, and was still writing for it when he added to his list of accomplishments a novel. He need not have started in anything. As the only son of a rich elderly gentleman, holding a great deal of property in Hertfordshire, Matthewson had not been required to take up a career upon his father's death. The life of the perfect and idle gentleman was his. All the best clubs in London opened their doors him, and the mothers of society opened their arms in the hopes of calling him their son one day. While these women were selfless enough to claim nothing for themselves, they wanted only what was best for their daughter---and, by God, they would have it! The battleground proved much to be a stalemate: the mamas schemed all the more furiously, the young man resisted with all the more ease.

"Why do you not settle down?" a close friend of Matthewson's late mother, a matronly Lady Bailey, had asked him last Christmas. She was a large bosomed woman in both figurative and literal terms. She welcomed into her domestic fold many protégés, for her own brief marriage had not been blessed with children. Of all the young people that she nurtured, Matthewson was her supreme project, either because he was her dearest Laurina's son, or because she could not believe that after six seasons thrown into the best of London society, Matthewson still had yet to find a wife. Lately she was beginning to feel the weight of the latter.

"I promised your mother that I would see you handsomely settled down," Lady Bailey had said. "Would you not wish to have an heir for your estate?"

"The air about Fallingbrook [this was the name of the Matthewson estate] was very much present when last I left it," the young man had replied, "but for your sake, I shall breathe deeply when I am there again, and inform you if any of it has gone missing."

"How clever, Theophilus. What do you take me for? I meant your line of succession, of course. You must establish one; it is your duty to set an example by securing the happiness that befits your class."

"But whether it is the duty of the woman to secure my personal happiness is another question."

"Why, there is no cause for concern on that front. There are young heiresses a-plenty who would die to make you happy."

"It sounds to me like a hopeless cause," observed Matthewson. "If that were the case, if she were to die before reaching the altar, she has no reason at all to think of making my happiness. I cannot presume to speak for other men, I would prefer my bride alive in soul and flesh. Would not you?"

The old woman smiled, in spite of her resolve to be stern. "You know what I mean. If you never marry, you will never have a family. Would you have Fallingbrook fall into the hands of a stranger when you are gone?"

"When I leave this excellent place, I doubt my primary concern would be what happened to the property, whereas if I had a wife and children to account for, it would be much harder to say the same and not have my conscience feel it. Therefore it seems to me that not to marry goes easiest with the conscience."

"You, at least, are not cut out to be a perpetual bachelor. It should not be hard to choose one from among the ladies. There were many young ladies at the Cavanagh Ball who would have been a credit to your family name."

"If I did not know you better, Lady Bailey, I would have thought you censured my family."

"And so you would, as you seem desirous of being obtuse."

"But as you say, there were many eligible partners at the Cavanagh Ball; I could hardly think of marrying any of them."

"Why not?"

"I would not know where to begin, or how to choose, especially when there is no telling them apart. Did you not observe?"

"What did you wish me to observe? They were all very nice young women that I introduced you to."

"Which is as much as to say there was nothing to discriminate one from the other but a little presentation and a great deal of fashion. I think ‘nice' is an adjective best applied to outward appearance than to character."

"Well, would you have a lady who was not fashionable and neat?"

"I do not mean that I want a dowdy country bumpkin or a Cockney girl who won't pronounce her h's, but there was not a lady at the Cavanagh Ball that I could have favoured above the rest---though they were all, as you deem, very ‘nice'. I certainly could not make a proposal to one without preparing to marry all of them."

"Theophilus!"

"You see, even you are shocked by the idea of polygamy."

"You are incorrigible. How your mother would scold you if she were to hear you now!"

"My mother was a good woman, bless her soul."

While Matthewson accepted his lot in life graciously, he had been adamant in one thing: he had not come to London society after four gruelling years of university merely to boast of having been an Oxford man. To begin a profession when neither his father nor the father before him held one made the task more difficult. Matthewson had not been at the bottom of his class, nor even in the middle, but though he was rather more inclined to be intelligent than not, it could hardly be said in the same breath that he graduated at the top. He had not the distinction of mind or the gravity of spirit necessary for legal work, nor did he wish to become a doctor or a banker, and so it was through serendipity that he found his niche in journalism.

After some years of writing, he decided that the scientific journal he started in was nothing to him if he could not reach the heart and soul of the reading public, and as his father was no longer alive to present any objections, Matthewson switched his loyalty to the daily newspaper. "But is it respectable?" Lady Bailey had asked.

"Hardly at all," Matthewson had answered nonchalantly, "but it will pass the time."

"Is diversion to be the road of a good Christian?"

"Perhaps not, but as the higher powers have intended that I should be a man of letters after a fashion, I ought never to be idle."

A novel had been begun about the time that Matthewson was introduced to a Miss Rosemary Gellis of Russell Square. They had been frequently thrown into each other's company in the spring, by Lady Bailey's doing. As Matthewson had never met a woman more handsome and encouraging as Miss Gellis, he soon fancied himself to be in love. Those were six months of glorious romance, six highly productive months as far as writing went. He wrote and revised everyday, and completed his project by Christmas. On the day that Matthewson intended to propose, however, Miss Gellis announced her engagement to an American grown rich from gold. Or had it been in diamonds? It did not matter; it was not anything that Matthewson could have offered. Bitterly he went back to his manuscript and rewrote its ending. His editor cried upon reading it. Critics hailed the novel a literary gem. He had only been five-and-twenty when success kissed his brow.

A second novel had been begun after Mrs. Adolphus Swithin, the former Miss Gellis, returned to Russell Square, a widow. Her husband, it turned out, had been much taken to drinking, gambling, and all manner of violent sports, and had been accidentally shot by one of his own friends while hunting fowl in the country. Mrs. Swithin did not look a day older as she stepped through the threshold of her mamma's house, but for the sombreness upon her brow (the doing of her mourning dress and veil) and the lines around the corner of her mouth (for she had not been adverse to lifting her veil in gentlemen's presence, the better that they should observe the beauty of her grief). In no time, Mrs. Swithin had set her sight again on Mr. Matthewson.

This time, the tone of Matthewson's novel was much darker and the plot took on the course of a mystery. He could not think back to the former Miss Gellis and to contrast that image with the desperate Mrs. Adolphus Swithin without some discomfort, and yes, mortification. There was to be no attraction between his protagonist and the detective, he decided, for what was once sweet could not remain palatable forever when the taint of greed and lust had wormed its way into the tongue. Critics commented on this second novel and reviews, for the most part, were more tepid than warm. To be quick to the point, Matthewson gave up all writing that was not journalism or dull, plodding review of books. He was now thirty, and still he kept his vow.

While marriage for him was no longer an object, Matthewson held no hostility against others marrying. He had received the communication from his sister Fenella, announcing the upcoming marriage of her only child. It had been years since Matthewson had seen his sister, though they corresponded as frequently as was permitted by the post. (The delivery and receipt of letters across the Atlantic left much to be desired.) Matthewson had never met his sister's child save for the precious first two years of the infant's life. The infant had now grown up to be quite a captivating young woman, Fenella wrote, and engaged to a young man of good family. The wedding was to be in five months' time. Would not her dearest brother come to Canada to pay his long-promised visit, and at the same time, to see his niece married? When Matthewson read this, he felt as though he had grown wizened as a walnut and that white whiskers had sprouted from his lips. A grown niece, to be married! He was quite an old man now, never mind that he was but thirty with a full crown of hair to prove it.

Matthewson wrote back with more than his usual alacrity: of course he would come; moreover, he would step into the place of Katharine's departed father if it were so desired, and give his niece away at church. How soon did Fenella wish him to arrive, and for how long ought he to stay? His sister need only write the words, and he would do everything to fulfill her wishes.

The exchange of letters had taken place during the spring months, and in July, Matthewson set forth on his adventure to Canada, bidding goodbye to Lady Bailey and good riddance to the mothers of society. After some days of grueling sailing and many bouts of seasickness, he was only too glad to be once more on land. Alas, not to the bustle and activity of the Southampton ports that he loved so much, but solid land, nonetheless. Montreal was a place he could grow used to eventually, he thought, if only he had practiced his French a little more. Then it was travel by rail to Toronto.

At the station, as he climbed out of the train with his bags, he caught out of the corner of his eye a woman of forty or more years of respectable dress hurrying towards him with a young woman and an elderly, fragile looking sort of man following at her heels. The younger woman was prettily flushed in the face, and the gentleman pale, wrinkled and looking in need of a glass of brandy, but he would have thought no more of them had the older woman not called out, "Theophilus, is that you?"

He turned to give the party a longer look, and he found himself drawn to the green eyes that were so distinctive of his late father (which Matthewson unfortunately did not share), and the Matthewson nose---not quite distinguished enough to be Roman, though not quite hooked enough to be called beaky. He knew her as well as he knew the portrait that hung in the gallery of Fallingbrook. "And if I am not?" he asked, the grin on his face betraying his recognition of Mrs. Fenella Cowan. Brother and sister laughed and embraced, examining each other's faces as though taking inventory of all that had changed and not changed over the years. Fenella had grown round since her visit to England six years ago, and her hair was turning grey, but her face was as cheerful to look at as before. And Matthewson, of course, was no longer a boy. The gentleman whom Matthewson had failed to recognize at first sight was the late Mr. Cowan's trusted valet, George. He had remained with the Cowans after his master's death.

"You were but a school boy when we met," said George in his wavering voice.

"Ah, but you treated me like your master's equal, and I was happier for it," said Matthewson.

The last of the party to be introduced was Mrs. Cowan's daughter, Katharine, whom Matthewson had never met. The light brown hair and green eyes were of course the spitting image of a younger Fenella. Katharine was indeed a fair girl, thought Matthewson. He could imagine how proud Katharine's father would have been to give her away at her wedding. He was also glad that Katharine had been kept out of English society. An heiress of thirty years residing in the country with a mere five thousand pounds would have been prey enough for the rakes that dotted the Ton and flocked the countryside; he dare not imagine what Katharine, with her fairness, youth and bank stocks might have become had her mother decided to remove the family to England after Mr. Cowan's death.

"And how was Lady Bailey when you left London?" asked Mrs. Cowan, linking arms with her brother. "Is she much as she used to be?"

"Talking incessantly about her ‘dear Laurina' whenever she could manage," said Matthewson. "She wished me to ask after you though, and to have me report to her ‘particularly' how Katharine looked."

"And what will you tell her?" asked Katharine from behind them.

"Oh, I haven't yet made up my mind, for what is ‘particular' to her is but ‘peculiar' to me. I shall have to make you out as quite a child, or no one shall believe me to be only thirty years old."

"Scandalous! A woman who is old enough to be married," corrected Mrs. Cowan. "You mustn't be vain about your age, Theophilus. Perhaps you ought to think of settling down."

"Is this the way of the world? I left England to escape the schemes of matchmaking mammas, only to be told to settle down by my own flesh and blood. Is there nothing else worth living for in this life but to be able to say ‘Here lies Theophilus Matthewson, the married man'?"

"It would be diverting if we could find a Beatrice for you," said Katharine, not missing the allusion.

"Still," Matthewson said, "I am too set in my bachelor ways to be of much use as anyone's husband."

They talked and laughed and chatted all the way from the station to Castle Crescent. "There is a grand house, if ever there was one," said Matthewson looking out the carriage window at a red brick manor that seemed nearly to tower over the rest. "Tell me not that this is your home, Fenella."

"You are not to laugh at it," replied his sister sternly. "That is the Turret House and it is the home of Sir James and Lady Percy. Sir James is our Member of Parliament and a good man."

"But it doesn't explain the architecture of the house, or what business anyone has to live in it."

"The Turret House is thought quite handsome," said Katharine, defending the place. "It is modern, but it has a perfectly charming interior and the rooms are quite spacious."

"Are you frequent guests of Sir James and Lady Percy?" asked Matthewson.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Cowan. "Tonight they are expecting us, and you shall see for yourself how hospitable they are."

"Will I have the honour of meeting Mr. Small?"

"Louis is ill," said Katharine after a slight hesitation.

Matthewson raised his eyebrows. "I hope it is nothing serious."

"Merely a stubborn cold," said his niece. "But I suggested that he rest rather than exert himself before he makes a full recovery."

"You speak as though people succumb to trifling colds."

"Would you wish to be in company when you have the headache and a sore throat?"

Matthewson had to concede that Katharine made an excellent point. He almost wished to add, though, that the fiancée's presence ought to be all that mattered. He thought that if he had been a young man engaged, he would not wish to be separated from his betrothed for even one dinner party, however disagreeable the rest of the company may be.

"Would you not rather Louis was quite well again before you met him?" asked Katharine.

"I certainly do not wish him to be worse when I do, but unless he were very ill-tempered when suffering from the cough and sneezes..."

"Louis is nothing but sweet temper," said Katharine. She did not like her uncle to pass judgment on her fiancé without having yet made his acquaintance. It did not seem fair, and she was not afraid to tell him---though in the most gentle terms.

"Still," replied her uncle after the reprimand was justly delivered, "I should hope to see more of your Louis when he is well, and I hope, for my own impatience's sake, that it will be soon." He bade her tell him more about Louis Small when they were home.

Their carriage stopped three houses away from the Turret House. Matthewson climbed out, stretched his arms and legs, and looked in wonder down the winding boulevard. Here, homes were constructed in a muddle of styles---some Georgian, some Gothic, and even one like a Tudor cottage---erected on what were not so much estates as divided lots. His eyes were drawn again to the Turret House. He saw a man lingering by the gate and decided to wave his hand in casual salute, as he had heard that this was one of the many customs of the land---to wave at one's neighbours. He could have been wrong about the custom though, for instantly, the man slipped around the corner and out of sight.

"Did you see that?" he asked his sister and his niece.

"See what?" asked Katharine.

"The man standing by the gates of the Turret House."

"There is no man there, uncle."

"A moment ago, I saw a man lingering about, and as soon as I waved to him, he vanished."

"Like a ghost, you mean?" asked Katharine teasingly. "Do you mean to tell me that you believe in phantoms and spirits?"

"I may have attended a séance before," Matthewson admitted, "But that is hardly what I mean (and I don't believe in crystal balls and table rapping nonsense either, so you need not jeer at your old uncle, Kate). There was a man there, at the gate."

"What business did you have to wave at a stranger?"

"Is it not the practice here?"

"Theophilus," said Mrs. Cowan, "We are not any more different here than you are in London, though our climates may be unlike." She met her daughter's eye and they laughed. Even George had a smile lurking about the corners of his wrinkled mouth.

"You may have a good laugh at me," said Matthewson with a mock sigh. "What do I know? I am but a foolish Englishman attempting to pass himself off as a colonialist. You ought to be glad at least that I am not a dandy."

Chapter 7: Lady Percy hosts a dinner party

Sir James did not return to Ottawa on the Monday as he had previously intended. Instead he remained at home, meeting once with his secretary, Mr. Hollander, in the library. Later he reassured his wife that all business had been taken care of for the week, and he might remain another day or two if so desired. His wife did desire it, and he had stayed. Lady Percy was happy to have him at home, especially as she had invited the Cowans and the Spencers to dine that evening. She could not bear the thought of Mr. Spencer sitting at the other end of her table, which was where she would have had to place him had no one of greater importance been present. She invited Mr. Hollander too, but he pleaded a prior engagement and would not stay.

Lady Percy had long planned to host the dinner as an unspoken favour to her daughter. She did not like Harvard law student Harry Quentin (she did not like Americans), the one who had danced three sets with Elspeth at the assembly. Elspeth could do no worse by marrying Adam Spencer, whom Lady Percy did approve of. (Whether Mr. Spencer's son had any such plans for himself was not important.) Lady Percy also cherished a small hope in her heart that her son might take advantage of the opportunity to mend his relations with his father.

"You will not guess who is to come dine with us this evening," Elspeth announced during a break in her morning lessons with Clara. The two young ladies were sipping glasses of lemonade, as they reclined in their chairs on the verandah overlooking the garden.

"I shall not guess, as you evidently desire to tell me."

"You see? Have I not always said you were clever? Our guests this evening are---" (Elspeth gave a suitably dramatic pause) "Miss Adela Spencer and family."

"Is that so very bad?" asked Clara in amusement. It was no secret that her pupil did not like Adela Spencer, and that the strength of this feeling was returned tenfold, but that was hardly reason to be shocked by the news. The Spencers frequently dined with them at the Turret House, and they were not all insufferable. The son of the family was one of Rick's friends at university. One must learn to endure three quarters of the clan for the one-quarter that was perfectly amiable.

"‘Bad'?" repeated Elspeth. "No, it is positively dreadful!"

"I don't suppose there is anything that can be done about it. By this time, one must assume that the invitations have been sent, delivered and accepted."

"I cannot believe Mamma does not realize what a trial it will be to sit down at the same table as Adela Spencer."

"Lady Percy will not put you up next to Adela Spencer, I am quite sure of it. She never has."

"No? Perhaps not, but it will go doubly worse for Rick if he is obliged by courtesy to accompany Adela Spencer to the table, as he has done on countless occasions when at home."

"Perhaps he ought not to be persuaded to take his holidays too frequently," said Clara. It would put a stop to Rick's nonsense.

"And yet it is unnatural for a young man not to long for his home and to yearn for those whom he loves."

Clara ignored Elspeth's slyness. "Would you rather Rick had been led by more tender and noble feelings than plain courtesy when escorting Adela Spencer?" she asked.

"Ah, that is a good point you make, but yet I fear for Rick."

"What is this I hear about fearing for me?" Rick had seen Clara sitting on the verandah with his sister and the pitcher of lemonade between them, and with all the zeal of a devoted puppy, had come to join them. Clara offered him a glass, which he took eagerly.

Elspeth sighed. "Two words: Adela Spencer."

Her brother grimaced. "I know all about it. Mamma told me this morning."

"Is there nothing we could do to prevent having to share a room with her for above a quarter of an hour?"

"She is hardly the bearer of the plague," said Clara.

"Because she is much worse," said Rick. He had made the mistake of going to the last charity ball organized by the Knights of York with Adela Spencer. It had been a favour to Adela's brother, who had in turn escorted Elspeth. Ever since that event, Adela had looked upon Rick as quite her own. He had no desire to be anyone's possession, save one woman's. "I wish something could be done."

"Such as feigning sudden illness?" asked Clara. "Be caught by an unexpected chill? Or say there is scarlet fever going about, and pray that Miss Spencer has never had it before?"

"Those are not at all bad suggestions," said Elspeth.

"Come, you are neither of you children," said Clara. "Surely you can endure an evening in her presence. It is the least you can do by Lady Percy."

Her reprimand was deserved, and if it left Elspeth yet untouched, it did find its mark in Rick. Rick saw what weakness he had demonstrated; if it was ungentlemanlike to mock a young lady he barely knew in her presence, it was just as mean to do it in her absence.

It was not until much later in the day that he could find the opportunity to ask for Clara's pardon.

"I have nothing to forgive," said Clara in some confusion at finding herself alone in the drawing room with Rick. She had been helping Lady Percy to set a flower arrangement on the pianoforte and had not heard Rick follow her into the room. Had she known how long Rick had been standing by the doorway, observing her actions and committing to memory the way the light fell upon her coil of hair and steady features, she would have left him instantly.

"But you do," said Rick. He would be bold. "Earlier today, I was most unthinking, most unfeeling, when I joined Elspeth in expressing my opinion of Miss Spencer. I can see now, why you do not return my feelings. You think me a boy still. I have not yet your wisdom or your judicious temper."

Clara was wary of his tone. "Let us not go back to that..."

"But we must---or in any case, I must. I have tried so hard since the assembly to be what you wished for me to be---sensible, distant, cold. But how could I remain untouched when you are within reach? Do you not remember your aunt and your promise?"

Memory of her aunt, and of the resentful parting words they exchanged, came back to her. What had it to do with Rick? But of course---it would all have been so easy for her if she could feign love for Elspeth's brother; she could be a lady of standing and consequence, she could go back to her aunt's home and taunt her aunt with her success. But the thought lasted only for a moment. Clara reprimanded herself for considering such temptation. "Why do you bring up the subject of my aunt?" she asked, trying to be angry.

"Because I like you very much and I want to help you." He took another step towards her. "You know I could."

"Please," she entreated, "Don't go on. You don't mean it."

"You cannot tell a man to extinguish feelings that have been six years in the making, and then expect him to douse his passion when---when there is food for fire wherever he goes."

Despite her mortification at the situation, she could not help laughing at his overwrought metaphor. "I am not ‘wherever you go'," she said carefully.

"Of course I meant it figuratively." Rick hesitated. "And yet I do not. When you are not present, do you really believe that I do not think about you?"

"Stop this nonsense at once, before it is too late."

"Could I not change your mind, if I could show you that I can change, that I am capable of being much more than you think?"

"I do not want you to change. Why should you change for me? And I do not want you to change me either."

Rick grasped her hand. "And now?"

"It cannot be," Clara repeated. She wrest her hand from his, and yet she could not slip out of the vice that was formed now by Rick's arms before her and the pianoforte against her back. "I made myself very clear on every occasion," she said calmly. "My answer remains the same and it always will."

There was a movement just outside the door, and Rick darted away instantly. Lady Percy entered the drawing room, with her guests following behind.

For Clara, the entrance of the visitors was both a great relief and most inopportune. Rick's latest boldness had been disquieting---she had never known him to be so audacious towards her---and she was glad for any distraction. However, she feared that some of the guests, if not all of them, had guessed what had just passed between Rick and herself. If no words could explain her discomfort, surely her paleness did. She reassured herself that whatever Lady Percy might be thinking of her, she knew her own conduct to be beyond reproach.

But Clara need not have been anxious, for although Lady Percy had observed the scene as she might have observed a Gainsborough (which is to say that she did not see much, for she did not possess an artistic mind), she did not think of remarking upon it at that moment. She was much more occupied with other thoughts. The Cowans and the Spencers were old family acquaintances, and if they had not always been friends, they at least dined at each others' table, and played rounds of rubber when they were so inclined. These were friends that needed to be impressed. Rick's folly could be dealt with later.

There was, tonight, an addition to the party. This addition was Mrs. Cowan's much younger brother---the fateful offspring of a second marriage, and an English gentleman of property and consequence in his own right. Lady Percy took exceptional delight in the stranger. From the first moment, she felt instinctively that Mr. Matthewson would be the life of the party. His claims to handsomeness were not many, but the few that existed made her feel what fortune it would be to be young and giddy again. Mr. Matthewson's blue eyes, which looked out from under a pair of dark brows, were trained to gaze at each speaker with an attentive steadiness, and the dimple on his left cheek often appeared as though out of nowhere when he smiled. And he did have a natural tendency to smile. It was these features that always managed to surprise his acquaintances and impress upon them the fact of his affability. Otherwise, Theophilus Matthewson was no Apollo. He was too tall---all neck, arms and legs. His hair was a thick dark wave that grew low over his forehead and had to be swept back, his lips were rather full and red for a man's mouth, and his nose---like his sister's---was prominent, though not beaky. Still, Lady Percy wanted him for a son-in-law. All previous designs on Adam Spencer were forgotten.

Lady Percy quickly set her mind to work. The absence of Miss Cowan's fiancé worked rather in her favour. She quietly persuaded Rick to take Miss Spencer to dinner (much to Rick's chagrin) while pretending to hold her daughter back so that she might speak a word with her. As if on cue, Adam Spencer volunteered to take Miss Cowan to dinner, leaving all but Elspeth and Miss Castigan among the young ladies without a gentleman to accompany them. She knew that there could be no mistake as to whom Mr. Matthewson would choose.

Matthewson was amused that for all the airs the Bloomvale Percys gave themselves as cousins of the ever-important Lancashire Percys, they hardly suspected what little esteem the manufacturing clan held for the presumptions Lady Percy displayed. He also felt that the etiquette of London's stuffy drawing rooms ought to have stayed out of the parlour of the colonial home. Good manners may have demanded that Matthewson accompany his hostess's daughter to the dinner table, but the incorrigible streak of mischief in Theophilus was not about to suffer acquiescence. With Miss Elspeth Percy on one arm, he gallantly offered his other to Miss Castigan, who was grateful for any arm that did not belong to a very different sort of young man.

Much to Lady Percy's frustration, conversation at the dinner table fell into three main camps, none of them being one with which she might have elevated her daughter above the other young ladies. Sir James and Mr. and Mrs. Spencer spoke of railroad amalgamations and the national policy, and were to be thus occupied for the rest of the meal. Mr. Adam Spencer would join them from time to time, but was for the most part sharing his observations of the academic life with Miss Cowan, Miss Spencer and Rick Percy. Lady Percy plunged bravely into questions about Mr. Matthewson's England, but found her efforts diverted into a discussion of his grand passion. At the mention of books, she thought it wise to introduce the subject of Elspeth's love of the printed word, but her daughter contradicted her with a silvery laugh and a cry that it was "all an exaggeration and one of Mamma's fancies, to which you needn't pay any notice."

"But upon my word, I have it from Miss Castigan that there is no telling you to put down a book once you have set your mind to read it," said Lady Percy, hoping to smooth over her ruffled spirits.

"And indeed, Miss Castigan does me more justice than I deserve," Elspeth emphasized. "Mrs. Radcliffe I read well and often enough, but I'm afraid, Mr. Matthewson, I am not a great reader in general and can only enjoy novels."

"An appreciation for novels is an appreciation for human sensibility and passion," said Matthewson. "It is nothing to be ashamed of. Who was it that first wrote that, ‘the person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel must be intolerably stupid'?"

"I would not know."

"Have you read any works by Anthony Trollope? For he is both prolific and very popular. Or the great Charles Dickens?"

"Heavens, no, and it was not from want of trying. I once picked up Bleak House but could not get past the bleakness of the title." There was polite laughter from her listeners. A little cleverness coming from a pretty, lively girl will always garner attention.

"You may give it another chance?" asked Matthewson.

"That rather depends. I am not one accustomed to giving second chances."

"Does that mean that once you have resolved to dislike a book, your dislike of it is unbending?"

"Not ‘unbending', but as a principle, a book that cannot capture my interest from the first is hardly likely to sustain my attention. Why must one spend half a day with ten dull chapters for the sake of one good one?"

"It is a rather harsh principle you have. You would not apply the same to people."

"That rather depends too. Oh, but it is true, Mr. Matthewson. For example, I have no patience for philosophers."

"Then it is a pity that I come from a family that values philosophy."

"You ought to speak to Miss Castigan then," said Elspeth, although without really meaning to divide Mr. Matthewson's attention from her being. "She would have me read a little philosophy, which I have not a head on my shoulders for. She says I must, if I am to consider myself a reader at all."

"Are you so severe on the reading habits of others?" asked Matthewson, turning to the woman seated at his right hand, whom he now recalled he had heard very little from all evening.

Clara Castigan did not like to be thus singled out. "Miss Percy misrepresents my opinion," she said quietly.

As she gave no indication of going further, Matthewson prompted her for an explanation.

"I have merely encouraged Miss Percy to pick up other forms of literature, not only novels," she answered. "I would have Miss Percy read poetry too, if I did not know that she was already enjoying Keats. You may call that severity if you like, but I call it being well read."

"I've always thought," said Mrs. Spencer, momentarily breaking from Sir James's discussion of the western country to join theirs, "That ladies need not devote too much of their cares to philosophy. It is not their province. What have they to learn from the ancients about starching and ironing, or commanding a household?"

"Have you yourself ever picked up Plato or Aristotle, madam?" asked Matthewson, doubting whether a fine lady such as Mrs. Spencer could know much about starching or ironing either.

"No, Mr. Matthewson, but I do not imagine it to be a great loss."

"That is a matter of opinion," said Lady Percy, though she herself did not read philosophy either.

"Everything in the world is a matter of opinion," agreed Elspeth.

"Would you really say that and believe it, Miss Percy?" asked Matthewson.

"Well, why shouldn't I?" she replied archly. "Everyone has an opinion on everything, and if we are not informed and persuaded to act by opinion, then I would like to be told how it is that we know what we know in the world, and what drives us to behave as we do."

"What does Miss Castigan think?"

Everyone turned to Clara expectantly.

"What would you have me answer, Mr. Matthewson?" said Clara hesitantly.

"Only your point of view regarding the statement that ‘everything in the world is a matter of opinion'."

"You put me in a difficult position," said Clara, for she knew by his look that he meant for her to concur; but though she was not well disposed to her pupil's idea, she was not yet well acquainted enough to be comfortable allying with Mr. Matthewson.

"But I would very much like to hear your voice on the subject," said the gentleman encouragingly.

"It seems to me," said Clara, "that even if everyone cast an opinion on everything in the world, it does not follow that all opinions combined make up the world and all that exists within it."

Matthewson had her explain further.

"Well, a chair is a physical object, not an opinion, and to us, it exists---though Plato would argue that the chair we sit on is merely our opinion of what a true chair as found in nature ought to be (in other words, our imitation of a chair as God would have made it). Leaving aside Plato's theory of forms, if an object is tangible to us, it is not an opinion anymore, but the result of someone's action. That is as far as opinion may be credited for constituting our world." Clara paused, face flushed.

"I could not have said it better."

"And yet," Clara said slowly, "is such a view not bleak?"

"No, I hope not. I think it beautiful."

"But if imitation were but a shadow of the truth, and our world is nothing but imitation, then is our world a place of nothing true? Plato's suggestion that there is a form of everything in nature that is more beautiful and glorious than that which exists to us fills me with wonder, and yet, the conclusion that follows---that our world is no better than a chain of futile replications---is so cold as to be not worth living for."

Matthewson was much pleased that he had made the young woman beside him talk. Until now, he had not heard her utter so many consecutive words. "You do know The Republic well," he said, raising his glass towards her. "But I have to disagree on one point. I do not think it is futile. I like to think that Plato does not mean for us to despair over the myth of the forms, but rather, to hold God's (or nature's) work in awe."

Clara was uncertain whether he meant to make fun of her or whether the compliment was genuine. There was not, however, time to debate the matter in her head, for the gentleman had continued.

"Mrs. Spencer is right to say that the ancients do not champion the demands of housekeeping as they do the running of a polity," said Matthewson. "Nor do they seem to flatter women with much compliment beyond heralding their sense of duty as nurturers, but I beg to differ on the point that it is not women's domain to read philosophy. Philosophy has not spoiled Miss Castigan here. I am sure a little Plato and Aristotle would not hurt her sex as people, if not as sisters, daughters and mothers."

"But what do you say of Aristotle's deprecation of women?" asked Clara, now made braver by her previous speech. "He believed that we are inferior to men in all that is honourable and good---that we are cold where we ought to be warm, and lack reason, courage and passion. What have you to say to that?"

"Only that if women are to discredit Aristotle, they must, as you do, read his arguments so that they may be irrevocably refuted."

"Or perhaps you might say that Aristotle is not the only ancient worth our study," Clara pointed out.

"Certainly, there is that as well. Aristotle is by no means my favourite of the philosophers, Miss Castigan, though his explanation for the existence of political society is one that I will always cherish. As for other writings, the classical dramas make for an excellent examination into human psychology, and I would not for the world omit them from any room that endeavours to be called a library."

"Even Oedipus Rex?"

"Yes, even Oedipus Rex. But putting aside the dramas, I would advise a little of the Roman philosophers; I mean particularly the Stoics. In our age of prizing the spine-thrilling romances and grand passions above all else, some wise observations from Marcus Aurelius or Epictetus can be rather refreshing."

" ‘And though you are not yet a Socrates, you ought, however, to live as one desirous of becoming a Socrates'," quoted Clara.

"Chapter 50 of the Enchiridion," answered Matthewson, with discernible pleasure. "In my opinion, one of the pithiest lines of the entire text. How did you come by such a text? My circle of acquaintance is surely too small, for I have met few who know of Epictetus."

"My father read philosophy at Oxford," said Clara.

Rick Percy had heard Clara's response and felt his curiosity much piqued by the mention of her father. He had never, to his knowledge, ever been told anything of her father, or even her parentage. He knew that they had been dead for many years, and that Clara had been raised almost entirely by her uncle and aunt. But that Clara's father had been an Oxford man, and the reason for her interest in books! More interesting still was the fact that it should be a stranger who would pry this information out of her! But the next words that Rick heard reassured him that his green-eyed monster could be kept at bay.

Matthewson said, "I should like to meet your father one day. I was at Oxford too. To which college did he belong? I was at Magdalen."

"My father passed away when I was only an infant," said Clara, without going on.

"Miss Castigan does not like to talk of the past," whispered Miss Percy.

For once, Matthewson looked embarrassed. "I beg your pardon, Miss Castigan. I did not mean to be insolent."

"We mustn't expend all our energies on the dead," Rick interrupted, "or my mother will never forgive us for neglecting her dishes."

Chapter 8: After Dinner Chat

When the ladies withdrew from the table, Mr. Spencer's son made a small movement as though to go with them, but the young man was detained by his father. Sir James, meanwhile, strode over to a side cabinet and brought out a sparkling Viennese decanter. It was a Percy heirloom, and he allowed only the finest of the sweet wines to sit in its crystalline depths. Sir James began to pour for each guest a glass of the ruby content. Everyone watched with curiosity as Mr. Spencer's son held a hand over his glass and said, "Not for me, thank you, Sir."

"Do you mean you do not take port?" asked Sir James, though not in complete incredulity. "This is very good quality, I can assure you. Direct from France."

"I beg your pardon if I caused any offence, Sir, but I have grown accustomed to lessening my consumption of wine and spirits. A glass of water will do very well for me."

"You are not ill, I hope?" said Sir James. "Surely a young, hardworking banker such as yourself may leave off work for an evening without too much guilt."

"It has little to do with work," said Adam steadily.

"Adam is enthralled with the temperance movement," said Mr. Spencer, with some disparagement in his tone. "There is no use persuading him to see otherwise."

"You took wine with your dinner," Sir James pointed out.

"Not more than a glass, but that is certainly more than enough to last the evening," said Adam. He did not show himself to be irritated by his father's scorn. Those who had been around to watch Adam Spencer grow up were well acquainted with his composure and even spirit. Acquaintances and friends did sometimes wonder from where Adam Spencer attained such coolness and poise. To be sure, he had not inherited them. Mr. Spencer the father was rough and inclined to be loud and brash in all matters of living. Mrs. Spencer was a woman possessing a shrewd understanding of the hierarchy of Bloomvale society and understood that a shrill voice was all that was needed to make more timid adversaries tremble in their shoes. Such parents did not, however, ruffle Adam Spencer.

"Rubbish! ‘Enough to last an evening'," exclaimed Mr. Spencer. "Such scruples embarrass me."

"My sister busies herself with the temperance union," said Matthewson, nodding at Adam Spencer as a sign of respect. "I cannot say that I wholly agree with her arguments, but I can see why there is the perception that we have need of it."

"Do you mean that you refuse to take any as well, Mr. Matthewson?" asked Sir James, pausing before his guest's glass.

"Oh, I shall take a little, thank you," said Matthewson, not to be unflapped. "Hypocritical of me, perhaps, but I won't say no to a little in moderation."

Rick Percy now saw his chance to put the Englishman in his place. "What do you mean by saying that you understand the need for the temperance union, but that you don't agree with it, Mr. Matthewson?"

"You imagine that I contradict myself, no doubt," said Matthewson, somewhat amused

"More than that, certainly. You stated hypocrisy, for one."

"Perhaps I did not express myself well. I only hoped to suggest that there are some men and their families that might benefit from the exercise of moderation. There is virtue in restraint."

"None of us here is in need of restraint, I would hope."

"Indeed, I would never to suggest such impudence under anyone's roof."

Rick could not have the satisfaction of giving his rejoinder, for his friend spoke then of Mrs. Cowan's endeavours.

"She is a woman of courage, that much is for certain," said Adam. "She and Miss Cowan have not had a great deal of success convincing our neighbours of otherwise, but mother and daughter continue in their efforts to end intemperance---or at least, to limit it."

"Is courage all that is required of a woman to win a man's admiration?" Rick challenged his friend.

"Not all, but it ought to form a great deal of it," said Adam.

"Alas for beauty, modesty and virtuousness!"

("I fancy no two men could define those nouns in exactly the same way," mused Matthewson aloud, but no one heeded him.)

"Women cannot be virtuous, in my opinion, unless they also have courage," said Adam.

"Virtuous or not, tell me why Mrs. Cowan should care at all how, or whether men drank at home?" asked Mr. Spencer the father. "It is preposterous that any man should have to account his habits to a woman, and a woman who is neither his wife nor mistress."

"Please do not mention the last word here," said Sir James. "I will not hear of jokes of that nature in my house."

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Spencer apologetically. "I meant to be emphatic about my point. My point is, it is not Mrs. Cowan's business at all whether I chose to drink or not. Is a man not to enjoy pleasures which by providence has been so freely given us, without being preached to by a woman? You don't ever see female reverends, do you?"

"Father, I wish you would remember that Mr. Matthewson is in the room," said Adam.

"That's alright," said Matthewson, "No harm done as yet. Mr. Spencer raised an interesting point, in any case. Speak of pleasures, and I am sure some will point out (and perhaps rightly too) that faced with innumerable temptations, we mortals fall short of saintliness. If a man with all his sins may preach, it ought hardly to surprise us that a woman can."

Sir James, hearing this, mentally labelled Matthewson a radical. He would endeavour to talk less to the man. "What is the reason for your disapproval of drink, Adam?" he asked, turning to Mr. Spencer's son.

"There is something evil in revelling in drink," said Adam. "Excess ought not to be tolerated. Is a helpless woman to suffer a drunken, violent husband for years quietly until one of them goes to their grave? Or if we don't speak of violence, then let us speak of folly. Think of what foolishness and indignity men have committed and contemplated committing when they lose their sobriety. It is---it is Dionysian."

"And a Christian is not to partake in a little understanding of the Ancient Greeks under good regulation?" challenged Rick.

"Upon my word, son, Matthewson has made a classical scholar of you," observed Sir James, much to Rick's chagrin.

"Don't let us talk of the subject again," said Mr. Spencer, after giving a load groan. "Now, Sir James, you were to tell me more about this Dominion Plan of yours."

"Not mine," Sir James corrected him. "Sir Marcus Boldwood's Dominion Plan."

Matthewson listened with interest as Sir James explained the policy of the government. The objective was to eliminate its trade dependency on the south and to concentrate on westward expansion. "We cannot depend always on the Americans," explained Sir James. "Reciprocity would never favour us as it favours them. Now, it seems only natural to me that as we are to open up the west, we must have railroads built to lead us there. Only imagine the wealth to be made, and all of it to remain within our dominion! The west is rich in timber and ore. We shall bring them back to the heart of this great land, where it shall be manufactured, and we shall sell it back to our own people. Go west, and we sidestep any need for the American middleman."

"What I want to know is that is it safe to invest any amount of my estate in the Victory Pacific Trunk Railway?" said Mr. Spencer at the end of Sir James's speech, with very little indication that he had understood anything that he had heard.

"Quite the safest one if you are to invest in railways," said Sir James.

"What we ought to do is speak with its board of directors, and an accountant and engineer from the company," said Adam Spencer. "It is hardly wise to lay our money down on a line that has yet to be built without at least understanding its financial situation."

"I can assure you that its financial situation must be good. Perhaps you have not heard that it is lobbying Ottawa for a contract to build the first national line?" asked Sir James.

"What of the other companies that are likewise lobbying for the contract?"

"But that is exactly it, Adam," exclaimed Sir James. "It would not be a prospect anymore if one were to wait until after it has been built. By then, everyone will want in and the price of shares will have gone up. They will never be as affordable as they are now. Get in early, double the profit---maybe even triple it."

"Has the Victory Pacific shown some figures to prove its superiority over the other companies?" asked Adam. Matthewson, who said nothing throughout this entire exchange as he trusted not himself to say anything that would please his host, silently applauded young Spencer for his pluck. It was no wonder the young man spoke of admiring a courageous woman over a pretty face.

"Its history and its growth---which has been greater than any other---makes it worthy of our consideration," said Sir James loftily.

"If you put your money on it, I'll follow suit," said Mr. Spencer.

"I would not be so hasty, Father," said Adam. "Sir James, I mean no offence and bear no ill-will, only it is a departure from our earlier investments, and it would seem wise to wait a little and see."

"A little caution would not hurt anyone," agreed Rick. "You ought to wait a little too, Pappa. What Adam says is wise and pragmatic."

Sir James turned to his son. "You know little about investments. Do you realize that the making of a man lies in the difference of a day?"

So was the unmaking of one, thought Matthewson.

After the gentlemen had finished their port and smoked their cigars (only Sir James and Mr. Spencer the father smoked), the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room for coffee and cake. Matthewson made his rounds about the room, chatting with everyone. Lady Spencer urged him to take more coffee, quite forgetting that he had not yet had any. Miss Spencer was on her sweetest behaviour when she stopped him for a moment with a request to describe London and Paris to her---or rather, she wished to have him hear her enthuse about the cities, and to be in complete agreement with her.

"I should ever so like to be in Paris," exclaimed the young lady. "Is it not ever so beautiful all the year round?"

"I have heard that Paris was not always a beautiful sight," said Matthewson, thinking of the uprising of the previous year. He had not been there, of course, but he had heard and read much about it. He had a colleague, a good friend, who had been the correspondent for the Daily at the time of the unrest, and Paris had not been described as an attractive city. He had seen the photographs: those had been even worse.

"Oh, I could never believe it," said Miss Spencer, with a pretty little pout. "Surely you mean to tease me, you who have had the advantage of going to Paris whenever you wish."

"Do I? I hope I do not." Matthewson took the first opportunity to escape by indicating that he was going to seek coffee and refreshments.

Of all the people present at the party, man or woman, Matthewson liked Miss Castigan best. Her responses at dinner had interested him, and he wondered whether there was more good sense to beget from her. He was content when he saw that she had taken over from Miss Percy the task of handing out the coffee and tea. He waited patiently and endeavoured to be the last to be served. He took his coffee, and waited for Miss Castigan to serve herself before plunging her into a tête-à-tête. He began by begging her pardon for passing hasty opinion on her earlier.

In spite of her wariness of Mr. Matthewson, Clara was happy to have someone to converse with. She had already avoided Rick all evening. She balanced her cup carefully on her saucer as she and Mr. Matthewson sought for a place to sit. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said in reply to her companion. She was unable to recall what umbrage he might have caused, for if anyone's behaviour had bordered on brazenness, it may very well have been hers, for she had refused to side with his argument. They sat down on the remaining pair of chairs in the room, but neither seemed to notice how uncomfortable the chairs were. "What did you say that might have offended me?"

"I remember calling you severe unjustly before I had understood you."

"Is that all?" asked Clara, a bemused expression on her face. They had talked about philosophers at Lady Percy's table, which was almost certainly a rarity at the Turret House.

"Well, this was not the response I had been hoping for. I had wanted you to say, ‘I forgive you'."

"But why?"

"You see, it is an attempt at gallantry thwarted: you are determined not to find fault, and I am determined that you must. What are we to do?" He was glad to see the corners of Miss Castigan's mouth twitch up.

"I can hardly agree with you, can I?" she said.

"It does make the beginning of a friendship something less than smooth."

"Are we to be friends?"

"I hope that we might, though I hardly know you, and you perhaps had not heard of me until this evening."

"I had not," Clara admitted. "But now that you have been introduced to the family, and Lady Percy is determined to like you---" ("Does she?"---"Most certainly."---"Well, that is a relief.") "---we will surely see and hear more of you. Perhaps we will soon find your books in Sir James's library."

"Oh, not likely. I don't flatter myself to think I could be read here---not when the Percys occupy themselves far more agreeably."

"You could not already know of their habits."

"Nothing that I cannot surmise. Am I correct to suppose that they do not spend a great deal of time reading?"

Clara was quick to defend them. "There is nothing wrong in that. We do not all have to be readers in this world to be happy and useful."

"But for yourself, would you say the same? That you could be happy without a good book in your possession?"

"Perhaps not ‘possession'. I do not own a great deal, and not all of them might meet your standard of ‘the good'. Sir James keeps a very good library, which he is gracious in sharing, and what he does not have, I may find at the lending library or at Mr. Edward's shop. A borrowed book, a dog-earred, well-thumbed book lent by a discerning friend, is more than enough to satisfy me."

"I will be sure to remember that ‘dog-earred, well-thumbed book' in the future," said Matthewson. His eyes fairly smiled.

"Your sister says that you write and have published books."

"Nothing of consequence."

"I would not be so hasty to dismiss my own work if I could endeavour to have it printed."

"Do you write too?" asked Matthewson in surprise.

Clara blushed. "No, no, nothing like that. I only wish I had the talent. I meant that if anyone did publish, they have nothing of which to be ashamed."

"I am glad to hear it. You, I suspect, will not endeavour to find me written into my own tales."

"But I suppose every author must impart some aspect of their nature into the creation of their characters, whether it is done consciously or not."

"If I do, I hope it is unconsciously done. It seems extraordinary to me that anyone should consider their own lives remarkable enough to deserve the attention of the reading public."

"Are you so severe of those who share your craft?"

"I am always anxious not to give anyone too many expectations concerning my nature and disposition. I have many vices, I'm afraid, and---" There was a positive twinkle in his smile. "I doubt boasting of them would improve your estimation of me."

"I will judge you only by your actions," said Clara solemnly. "So long as you do not act upon your vices, my good opinion of you is safe. That is---if having my good opinion mattered at all."

"Of course it would. We may have just met, but an agreeable friend or two will be just the thing to set me up for the rest of my stay."

"And how long do you stay in Canada, Mr. Matthewson?"

"Three months, unless my sister implores me to remain longer, and then I must return to England. It is not likely that Fenella will ask me to stay. She may very well ask me to leave before three months' end. You see, I can be a great deal of trouble for her, not least of all, a busybody of the London Ton variety."

"It must come of being a writer by profession."

"And not a very good one at that."

"But you write for a daily paper---and you have published two books!"

"Only two, and they were published under my pseudonym."

"At this point, I suppose it would be customary to ask what name you publish under."

"Not in the least. No one has ever asked."

"Do you mean because it is easily found out?"

"No, I mean that few are interested. In London, my acquaintances and friends know me only as an indolent gentleman journalist. They may read what I write, but we none of us much care. I am no Dickens, and they don't wish to be known as the friend of a mediocre author."

"Would you have preferred not to work?"

"I work because I must," said Matthewson. "It is quite simple. I cannot remain always the idle gentleman with no profession but to eat and sleep." He paused, when he perceived that Mr. Spencer fit his description. "I mean not to offend those who pass such existence in bliss, and if I do offend, I apologize. I speak only for myself. I have spent several summers in just that fashion, and agreeable as it seemed at first to be demanded nothing by anybody, the redundancy of the leisurely life need hardly be described."

Clara understood what Mr. Matthewson meant. An idle summer, during which the days melted into one another in a blur of diversions and pleasure was all very well when there was hope that such mindlessness might not be eternal; but she had lived in exactly such mode under her aunt's roof, realizing that it was all there was to live for, and she would not do it again unless she had earned it.

"When you spoke at dinner of Plato," said Matthewson, gently now, "did you believe what you said to be true?"

"I should hope that I always express myself truthfully."

"I ask because I have been thinking about what you said, and I must ask you to consider this: is our hope of imitating the ideal world so bleak? Could it not be said that what makes the world worth living for is not achievement of truth per se, but progress towards truth? It is like the unfolding of a novel: it is the criminal intrigue, the rally of unlikely lovers, or what-have-you, that readers want to read about---not ‘happily ever after'. Of course everyone wants to see ‘happily ever after' on the last page of the last chapter, but it is only half the fascination, and it certainly does not fill up 300 pages of text."

"There are those who prefer to know the details of a happy ending that a sentence cannot communicate," Clara pointed out.

"Yes, there is that; but I challenge their claims to be privy to such sacred knowledge. The bliss of two lovers properly belong to the lovers and to them alone. If they want more, the dissatisfied reader had better develop an imagination!"

When Clara could not say anything against this, Matthewson said, with a sheepish, boyish grin on his face that he could not help, "I speak too harshly and make a poor philosopher. It was but a fancy of the moment. It is nothing to compare to Plato."

There was laughter from another part of the room. They watched the younger people chatting merrily to one another---and even Elspeth and Adela Spencer seemed civil to one another.

"Are you well acquainted with the Spencers?" Matthewson asked, watching his niece and Adam Spencer. They were laughing at something, and young Spencer was more animated than at any other time during the evening. Gone was the grave young man defending the women's temperance movement. He had not realized that Katharine and Adam knew each other very well.

"I am a little acquainted with them."

"Tell me about Adam Spencer's character."

Clara watched as Adam Spencer conversed with Katharine Cowan. Adam had been attentive towards Katharine, but so he always had been. Was that what worried Mr. Matthewson? she thought. In that regard, she was certain she could quell her companion's concern, and she told him so plainly. "Adam Spencer is all that is honourable and good in a gentleman. He is wise. He is not in the least..." She stopped.

"...like his forebears?" Matthewson supplied in a quiet but helpful voice.

She tried not to smile. "Remember that I did not say so."

"Certainly, for I said it."

When at last it was time for the guests to go, Matthewson insisted that she shake hands with him, as a sign of friendship. Matthewson's hand was large and strongly built, but his touch was firm and affable, and much like what Clara had observed of his temperament that evening. Clara liked people who made themselves easy to like, and she wondered whether it were possible for a second meeting to be as pleasant as the first. She went to bed thinking that Theophilus Matthewson was a name that one could learn to find beautiful, but for a man to be all charming, sensible and thoughtful could only be too good to be true.

©2006 Copyright held by the author.

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