RANDOLPH OLIPHANT CUT QUITE a swath when he arrived in Halifax in 1886. He was the first passenger to alight from the first train to use the newly laid tracks coming eastwards from Vancouver to Halifax. Oliphant had such flair in dress and demeanour that reporters singled him out for interview. He did not disappoint them, with his readiness of comment and dramatic phrasing.
“Thrill of a lifetime,” he said. “Absolute thrill of a lifetime to be so wonderfully transported across this wild young nation. Over the formidable Rocky Mountains, flying across the flat grasslands, swerving round great lakes, racing alongside the grand St. Lawrence, and finally coming to a halt in this most charming city. And do you know… it was all so smooth on that luxurious train, not a drop of champagne was spilled. Not a drop!” He gave pause for those who laughed or tittered then he pointed, with a swirl of his gold-tipped walking stick, to the harbour, the stone citadel on the hill, and the houses with their towers, porches, and trellises painted fanciful colours. “Such a pretty city! I plan to settle here. And you may quote me on that.” Randolph Oliphant tipped his stylish hat.
The reporters stepped aside, some shaking their heads, some smirking, but all pleased with the colourful copy, as Oliphant made his way along the new station platform where a brass band was playing to the crowd that included the mayor, leading citizens, and politicians. Standing beside Joseph Howe, a Father of Confederation, was Herbert Wilkinson and family. Oliphant bowed to them in passing.
Meg noted everything visible about him. Light brown hair, blue eyes, unfashionably clean-shaven face. He wore a three-piece, fine wool suit with striped close-fitting trousers. His homburg hat was brushed to a shine, his shirt collar winged, his silk tie red paisley, a matching hanky protruding from his upper pocket. Porters followed him with not just one but two wagonloads of luggage.
When interviewed further by the press, Oliphant described himself as a man of many parts, a Continental who had a broom business in New York, which he had sold then moved to a gold-mining town in British Columbia where he had endured the tragic loss of his wife. She was unparalleled in womankind. He would mourn her to the end of his days.
What would he do in Halifax? Start another broom business and build himself a new house, with electric lights, telephone, and all. They would find him a sociable fellow. He liked to participate in theatrical productions and entertain at home on occasion.
“What rubbish they print in newspapers today!” Herbert turned noisily to another page. “Being the first off the train doesn’t make him of endless interest.”
When Emma read the article she put it down in distaste. “I’m sure it is of interest to every widow and spinster in the city. It sounds like an advertisement. Does the man have no shame?”
Meg and Alice sneaked the paper up to their bedroom. “He does sound rich,” said Alice. “But if he acts on the stage, what lady would want him?”
“I’d like to meet him,” said Meg. “He sounds interesting.”
Halifax was a small city, dominated by British immigrants. Those who had grown rich in various businesses tended to socialize together, forming their own pack. But it was loosely ordered and open to newcomers of means who appeared similar to themselves. Randolph Oliphant was welcomed, indeed lured into the social circle, but he proved to be a disappointment to eligible women, although he looked and behaved well enough.
He stayed at The Waverly, an inn of high repute on Barrington Street while he set about building a four-bedroom house on the outskirts of town and converting a warehouse on Upper Water Street into a broom factory. He said he was born into a family of broom makers in The Netherlands, then educated at Oxford. He kept a horse and covered buggy for use during the frequently inclement weather of Halifax, plus a handsome black steed for riding around town. He was a regular attendee and financial supporter of the theatres. He performed with great flourish in amateur theatre fundraising events. This decreased his attractiveness with a few ladies but so increased it with one spunky thirty-year-old widow of means that, after a lavish dinner party at her home, she contrived to detain Randolph after the others had departed and made a thinly veiled proposal to him.
A look of genuine sympathy and regret came over Randolph as he reached across the blue velvet chaise lounge and took her hand. “My dear Mrs. MacPherson, you are the loveliest of ladies. But everyone must understand, I simply cannot love again. My heart was taken by my Cecilia. It went with her. Do you understand? I simply cannot love again.”
What tosh! thought Mrs. MacPherson. Pure melodrama.
When Randolph’s house was built and furnished, he held a summer party, inviting a wide assortment of people, including the Honourable Member of the Legislature, Herbert Wilkinson and wife. Oliphant’s housewarming party was the talk of the season. Surely he would entertain in the best style, having a house with such modern conveniences.
The house itself was wooden clapboard, gaily painted like other Maritime homes, though Oliphant’s was more colourful than most, with red walls, corn yellow doors, and a wide wraparound verandah painted in two shades of sea blue. On the house top was a small “widow’s walk” with a spectacular view of Halifax harbour, its small central island, and lighthouse. Fiddlers played merry tunes on the verandah. The many guests, greeted at the door by Randolph himself, were told to wander through the rooms as they wished. There was no staff to guide them, or indeed to serve the food and drink.
A keg of beer and bottles of wine were set out in the dining room where people were invited to serve themselves and construct their own sandwiches of freshly sliced warm roast beef and lettuce with pungent horseradish or sweet relishes. For dessert, there were raspberry tarts with dabs of soured cream.
This kind of party set the city circles talking with even greater perplexity about Randolph Oliphant. With such an expensive house, why didn’t he employ more staff to entertain in finer style? Finger food was not the order of the day! Ladies with parasols and gloves simply couldn’t cope with dripping beef in buns. They learned that he had only one servant, a housekeeper who lived out, in the Negro community. And there she was at the party, a Mrs. Rivers, spoken to by Oliphant as if she were a guest, though she was clearly more comfortable refurbishing the provisions and clearing away.
The exterior of the house was really too gaily painted, some decided. With people milling about, it looked like a circus carousel. The interior was also strikingly decorated, with dark green striped wallpaper in the entrance and dark red in the salon. But some ladies argued this was the height of Victorian fashion, as were the leather settee and armchairs. They had seen the like in Paris and London hotels. Then Randolph informed them that New York and Boston were his favourite haunts. His finer furnishings and large framed portraits of Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde had been brought from there. They were hung proudly in the entrance hall like family portraits. All the furnishings were arranged with such a good sense of comfort and décor that people were inclined to say the house had a woman’s touch, but since it was Randolph’s doing, they called it artistic.
Although there was no need for lighting on such a bright summer’s day, everyone wanted to see the switching on of the light fixtures. There was electric lighting in some of the public buildings in Halifax, but it was rare in private homes. As anticipated, Randolph called all to attention for the switching on of the lights. The ceremony was performed in the library where his impressive collection of books lined the walls and the chandelier of lights was brightest. Randolph raised his hand and turned the switch. “Let there be light!”
The light fixtures gave a brief flicker then expired.
“Ah well,” said Randolph with a dramatic shrug. “Sometimes they work. And sometimes they don’t. He giveth and He taketh away. Praise the Lord and pass the wine.”
People could not decide if Oliphant was religious or sacrilegious.
“He certainly enjoys his drink,” Emma observed to Herbert.
Guests followed Randolph upstairs where they found the eerie part of his home. One of the bedrooms was devoted entirely to his dead wife. It was painted a dusty pink with white trim. The velvet drapes were a darker shade of rose, with white lace hanging over the window panes. The single four-poster bed had a stack of white embroidered pillows propped up at the head and a soft high mound of covers topped with a pale green satin quilt. The white sheet with crocheted edging was drawn back over the quilt as though it were bedtime for the occupant.
“This is Cecilia’s room.” Randolph stood with his hand on the doorknob. “I had to part with my wife but I could not bear to part with her things. You may look in as you please. I must attend downstairs.”
The gentlemen backed away but the women could not resist stepping in, looking curiously around at all the details. The dressing table with silver brush, comb, hand mirror, powder box, pearl necklace and earrings in a velvet box.
“This is like Miss Havisham’s in Great Expectations,” said Emma. “I can’t quite believe it.”
“These clothes are real enough,” said another, opening the pine wardrobe, poking her nose amongst colourful silk evening gowns, cotton day dresses, a fine wool navy skirt with matching jacket and white blouse. “Wouldn’t mind having these for myself.”
Emma and others withdrew in distaste as the bolder and downright nosey pulled drawers open to see lace hankies, fine silk underclothes and nightgowns neatly preserved. In the dressing table drawer were lip colours, rouge, and eye powders.
“What kind of a woman wears rouge!”
“You’d be surprised. A lot do.”
“I wouldn’t want my husband to know all my beauty secrets.”
“Ladies! We are speaking of the dead. Let us pay our respects. Cecilia was clearly beloved. Poor Randolph. I’m afraid he’ll be in mourning for the rest of his life. He’s a true Romantic.”
“I find it all too extreme,” said Mrs. MacPherson. “Honestly speaking, this room gives me the shivers.”
But those who had not been rejected by Randolph felt sympathy for him in seeing the kind of shrine he had created in Cecilia’s room. They wanted all the more to rescue him.
Appalled at the opening of drawers in another’s household, and not inclined to gossip, Emma reported to her daughters only certain aspects of Mr. Oliphant’s home and party. “I was most curious, “she said, “to see the workings of his telephone. But it was never put to use. I cannot imagine what it is like to speak to someone you can’t see.”
“I will have a telephone when I marry,” said Alice. “I want a husband with a telephone and electric lights.”
“Tell us more about Mr. Oliphant,” said Meg. “His library. What kind of books does he have?”
“He’s a well-read man,” said Herbert. “I’ll say that for him. He’s a Liberal who keeps abreast of things. Quite a free thinker. He’s actually much more serious minded than his manner suggests. There’s more to him than meets the eye.”
Although he was accepted into the pack at Halifax, Randolph remained a loner, wandering off a few times a year to New York and Boston, running his broom business, continuing to be a useful dinner guest, an affable host, and gentlemanly escort.