Chapter 29

RETURN TO VANDELEUR

September 20, 1889

The Grange was a gracious place, the most famous of all the fine residences in Toronto. Leonard Babington’s first sight of it came one Sunday when he managed to extract Owen Staples from Lillian Hewitt’s embrace long enough to have an afternoon walk together. The Grange stood like a fortress on high ground on McCaul Street, surrounded by terraced gardens. “It’s like a Georgian manor house,” Owen told Leonard. “Made of bricks, but you can hardly see them under all those vines. Belonged to Mayor Boulton until he died, then his wife up and married Goldwin Smith. They still live there.”

In Leonard’s view, Goldwin Smith, a writer of often contentious opinions, was one of the great intellectual and political minds of the nineteenth century. He’d read about Smith’s work with the Canada First movement and he agreed wholeheartedly with the idea of being for Canada as long as you were for the Imperial connection as well. He’d heard Smith had put money into the Evening Telegram but pulled out over John Ross Robertson’s insistence on backing the Conservative party.

“A fine house for a great man,” Leonard said.

“I guess, but how is it that some people come off with so much, while the rest of us have to scratch and scrounge for crumbs?” Owen asked. “Especially folks like your friends the Leppards and the Teets’s up in Grey County.”

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Leonard said. “Some do it by hard work, others by conniving and stealing, and some people just get it handed to them.” He winced as he said that, realizing he’d been favoured with the legacy of Vandeleur Hall. Recovering, he added: “Rosannah Leppard wouldn’t have dreamt such a place as The Grange could exist.” Just the saying of her name brought a catch to Leonard’s throat. Rosannah could have been nothing but a scullery maid in the mansion they strood before. Leonard had a troubling dream that night. Rosannah appeared before him, reminding him he hadn’t yet found out who was responsible for her death. He awoke with a start, and it took him a long time to get back to sleep.

Leonard thought no more of Goldwin Smith or his great house until one day when John Ross Robertson brought up Smith’s name. Leonard was in the publisher’s office taking notes for a speech Robertson would be making to the opening of the Industrial Exhibition. He wanted to talk about Toronto’s reputation for law and order. Leonard’s knowledge of the courts and the proclivity of the denizens of The Ward to flout the law made him just the man, Robertson told Leonard, to help him with his speech.

“That man’s the greatest thinker of our time,” Robertson said of Goldwin Smith, “but I disagree with his every thought. Would you like to meet him?”

The occasion was the publication of Smith’s new book, Canada and the Canadian Question. He was holding the celebration in the library that Harriette had built for him at The Grange. With Mr. Robertson guiding the way, Leonard found himself among thirty men who were crowded into the room to hear Smith talk of his latest project. Leonard thought it a jocular crowd, good-natured from the flow of fine liquor and eager to hear the latest quips that might fall from the lips of this notoriously free wheeling observer. After a half hour’s reading from his book, Smith retired to a sideboard cabinet where a waiter was serving whisky and gin. Smith was a handsome man, clean-shaven, and on this occasion he wore an ascot necktie that added a splash of colour to a white shirt, a dark vest, and a brown coat. Leonard edged to the front long enough to introduce himself and pose a question: What is the greatest problem facing Canada?

“What is wanting in this country is unity,” Smith answered. “Quebec’s a theocracy, like an antediluvian animal preserved in ice. Ontario is a world unto itself. If the North West ever fills up, Old Canada will be dwarfed and the centre of power will shift westward. The disappearance of your Indians, of course, will be of little loss to humanity. I explain all this in my book.”

Leonard had hastily scanned a few pages back at the office. He was left with the impression that Smith was writing off Canada, suggesting its destiny lay in union with the United States.

“Do you really believe our future is to be an American state?” Leonard asked. “I know some think it a grand idea but it hardly seems practical to me.”

Smith swirled the gin in his glass before answering. “The idea of a United Continent of North America is both grand and practical,” he said. “It would secure free trade and intercourse over a vast area, with external safety and internal peace.”

“But what of our manufactures? The National Policy?”

“Babington, remember this: the great industry of Ontario is farming, despite the efforts of protectionists to make it a manufacturing country. Let’s concentrate on what we do best – grow food.”

Leonard had one more question.

“Growing food, that’s right, we’re good at that. But many of our farmers are in abject poverty. Where I come from, Grey County, some folks, the Irish especially, are hard up. What can be done to help them?” As he asked the question, a vision of Rosannah scrubbing clothes in the Leppard shack filled his mind.

“Ah, the Irish,” Goldwin Smith answered. “Amiable but thriftless, a saint-worshipping, priest-ridden race.”

Leonard saw he wouldn’t get much sympathy from this man for the struggles of a few no-account Irish hidden away in the Queen’s Bush. Other men were coming forward to demand the attention of the great thinker. Leonard heard more of Smith’s ideas as he fended off questions from his guests. For all his dismay at Goldwin Smith’s slurs toward the Irish and the Indians, Leonard thought his other insights dazzling. Through the chatter of the guests, he picked up bits and pieces of his remarks: “The sapling of Canadian literature cannot grow beneath the shadow of the parent tree … The merit of Ontario landscape painters will someday be recognized in England … Farm cookery is vile – fried pork, bread ill-baked, heavy pies coarse and strong, that account for the advertisements of pills which everywhere meet the eye.”

It was bewildering. What Leonard heard impressed him but gave him no new insight into what still remained the unfulfilled mission of his life – solving the mystery of Rosannah Leppard’s death. Nor did it prepare him for the news he received when he got home. A note had arrived from Owen Staples. Angus McIntosh had jumped from the Queen Street bridge into the Don River. He’d left a letter accusing Leonard of hounding him to his death.

Astonishing news. Trembling, Leonard dropped Owen’s letter to the floor. Blamed again for something not his fault – was this to be his fate? Angry now, he picked up the note and ripped it to shreds.

Leonard felt his stomach tighten and his head throb when he walked into the editorial department at the Telegram the morning after the suicide. He had shivered in bed during the night and his heart had raced at an alarming rate. He awoke determined not to take the blame for the old reporter’s tragic end. People weren’t always rational when they wrote suicide notes, he told himself. McIntosh had been on the edge for a long time and nothing Leonard had done could have pushed him over.

“Are we printing the suicide note?” Leonard asked the men around the reporter’s table. He let the question hang in the air.

Tom White, who was searching through a pile of newspapers for stories missed by the Evening Telegram, finally answered. “Mr. Robinson says to make no mention of it. Nothing about how McIntosh has been dispirited and gloomy. Just a paragraph that the poor sod fell into the river. All a misadventure.”

Hearing this, Leonard’s heart slowed its pace. He went to Black Jack Robinson’s office where he found him scrawling an editorial on a piece of brown wrapping paper that he’d found lying on his desk.

“Ah, Babington, let me read you a line of what I’ve written about Goldwin Smith’s book. Listen to this:”

Professor Goldwin Smith’s book is distinctively a great effort. It will charm all by the power of its style without, let us hope, enforcing acceptance of its conclusions. For the hopes of Young Canada outrun his beliefs. Its heart craves a destiny nobler than that which he assigns to this Dominion.

“A backhanded compliment, I’d say,” Leonard answered. “And one I’d agree with. But I want to talk to you about McIntosh. I’ll not let him reach back from the grave and blame me for his death.”

Black Jack Robinson was used to dealing with the frequent disputes between men at the Evening Telegram. A hotheaded, conceited bunch, he often called them. Always trying to impose their wills on those around them. Leonard had been different, he had to admit.

“I spoke to Mr. Robertson this morning. You’ll have to see what he thinks. He’s at church meetings today and he’ll be out of town for a week or so, down to New York. Just carry on until he gets back. Who knows what he’s thinking? A man of very strict morals, you know.”

Black Jack’s remarks left Leonard with a hollow feeling in his chest. He tried to put McIntosh out of his mind and carry on as if nothing had happened. If the Evening Telegram thought he bore a shred of guilt over McIntosh, he’d have it out with the proprietor. He wasn’t going to live again through what happened at the Globe. He avoided his usual beer sessions at the Queen’s Hotel and went straight to Mrs. Coles’s boardng house every night. Owen Staples did his best to help Leonard keep up his spirits. “Everybody knows you did McIntosh no harm,” he told him over and over. A week went by.

Leonard had just returned from his police rounds when he found a note telling him to go to Mr. Robertson’s office. He saw the proprietor at his desk. He knocked on the glass door and went in.

“This McIntosh business,” Robertson began. “How do you feel about it?”

“I feel damn put upon,” Leonard answered. He was growing agitated. “Everybody’s been going around as if nothing had happened. I’d like to get it cleared up. I hardly ever spoke to the man.”

“We know you had nothing to do with what happened to McIntosh,” the proprietor told Leonard. “He’d been acting crazy for months. But I was worried how you’d react. Thought it best to just let things play out, see how you handled the situation.”

“You’ve been testing me,” Leonard challenged John Ross Robertson.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But why?”

“To satisfy myself you’re fit for a higher position.”

“What higher position?”

“In the service of the people – as a Member of Parliament.”

“I had that idea once, but I’ve given up on it,’ Leonard said.

“I know all about that. Richard Langley is an old friend of mine. Speaks very highly of you. Too bad they couldn’t use you in ‘87, but their loss has been the Telegram’s gain. Now, we’ve got to get ready for an election in 1891. It could be difficult, the Liberals have that young Frenchie, Wilfrid Laurier. He’ll have Quebec behind him. I’m tempted to run myself, but I’ve got my hands full here at the paper.”

Leonard felt a flicker of excitement. He’d never gotten over having his hopes raised, and then dashed, that time he went to Ottawa. If he could get into the governent, he might be able to force a re-examination of Rosannah’s murder and Cook’s trial. “What did you have in mind?” he asked.

“Richard Langley is scouting out Liberal seats he thinks we could pick off. Grey South, that’s near where you’re from, has a Liberal member. Some doctor by the name of George Landerkin. From some little town, Hanover. Langley will be in Toronto tomorrow. He’d like you to go with him up to Grey County to get a feel for things on the ground. That’s if you’re interested. I told him it would be all right with me.”

A return to politics was the last thing Leonard had expected. Richard Langley hadn’t forgotten him, after all. And the publisher was willing to free him from his work. Of course, he’d have to move back to Vandeleur Hall. He could see himself traipsing around the County, appealing for votes. With Langley’s backing, he’d no doubt have the support of influential Conservatives like Dr. Sproule and James Masson. And out of it all, he’d work for a better justice system that would put an end to the hanging of victims such as Cook Teets. Leonard was no lawyer, but for that very reason he could speak for the common man, let the powers in Ottawa know what the people wanted.

Leonard told the publisher he would be very glad to accompany Langley to Grey County. If the party felt he would be a suitable candidate, and with Mr. Robertson’s backing, he would take it on.

The arrival of Richard Langley at the Telegram was celebrated in Mr. Robertson’s office with sandwiches and tea. Leonard and the chief clerk were soon in deep discussion of the details of their coming foray. It seemed as if the past five years had vanished – everything that was happening fit into the picture Leonard had built in his mind when it had first been suggested that he get into politics. That night, Mr. Robertson hosted a dinner party attended by some of the leading men in the party. Only a few had brought their wives. There was much optimistic talk about the next election, in which it was assumed Leonard would play an important part.

“I hope you didn’t think I was putting you off when I wrote that letter,” Langley told Leonard. “I promised we’d look for another opportunity. We’ve just had to wait for the right moment.”

Two days later, after the chief clerk’s meetings with key party men in the three Toronto ridings, the two took the train north. They got off at Flesherton Station and went straight to Munshaw’s Hotel where they rented rooms. Leonard had decided not to go to Vandeleur Hall, or to say anything more to Langley about Rosannah’s murder. There’d be time for that later. Tomorrow, they would visit the Vandeleur Fall Fair. It would be a good chance for Leonard to meet people he hadn’t seen in years. He would let it be known he might stand for election in 1891.

At the hotel, Aaron Munshaw gave Leonard a loud welcome and set the two up in the best corner rooms in the house. “It’s not every day that one of our finest comes home,” he said on hearing that Leonard might be taking up residence again at Vandeleur Hall. He insisted on providing scotch and ale on the house at supper, and passed in and out of the dining room every few minutes to check on the progress of their meal. The next morning, groggy and not a little hung over, Leonard and Langley got up in time to make their way to the Orange Hall where a crowd had gathered to watch the parade that would launch the Fall Fair. Assorted farmers drove their prize cattle down the Beaver Valley Road. Then came the marchers, a ragtag bunch of Orangemen supported by a few veterans of General Middleton’s Royal Canadian Dragoons, the men who had put down the Riel Rebellion. The march past brought lusty cheers at the reviewing stand where a special guest took the salute. He was Colonel Patrick Galloway, Adjutant-General of the Canadian Miltia. He had been lured to Vandeleur by promise of a wild turkey hunt.

“Damn, it’s dusty here,” Leonard heard Colonel Galloway complain. The marchers had stirred up clouds of dust and Colonel Galloway beat at his pants with his riding crop in a vain attempt to keep his uniform clean.

Tents and booths had been erected in a field across the road from the Orange Hall. Farmwives offered their best craft work and baked goods while children pranced around the pony rides. Leonard and Langley wandered among the exhibits. Leonard waved to old acquaintances and stopped to chat with past neighbours. Scarth Tackaberry was there with his wife and children. When he saw Leonard, he backed off and pushed the children toward the pony rides. He wouldn’t want to chance Rosannah’s name being raised in front of his wife, Leonard thought. Amanda Brodie motioned Leonard aside, eager to engage him in a private conversation. He was relieved when they were distracted by a sudden commotion in front of a nearby tent.

“Gad, what a beastly little animal.” It was Richard Langley, holding his arm against his chest, blood on his sleeve. He had wandered off while Leonard had been talking to Amanda. “He’s bitten me, anybody got a tourniquet?” Young Tom Couey was pulling on the leash that restrained his pet fox, Red, from a second attack. “Get Dr. Sproule,” Leonard shouted. “And in the meantime get that fox out of here. He could be rabid, drooling the way he is.” A cry went up for the doctor, who was judging cattle in a field a hundred yards away. Fifteen minutes passed before Dr. Sproule arrived, collected his medical bag from the booth behind him, and bandaged Langley‘s arm.

“A most unfortunate incident,” Dr. Sproule told Leonard. “I didn’t expect this kind of welcome for our guest. Glad to hear you’re considering jumping in, by the way. With Langley behind you, the party men in Grey County shouldn’t be hard to convince.” Encouraged as he was by these words, Leonard worried about the fox bite. There was to be a dinner that night in the community hall. Richard Langley was to introduce him as an up and coming journalist who was giving up his trade and returning home to serve the party. Leonard had prepared some remarks.

“We’ll get you back to the hotel and let you rest up for tonight,” Leonard said. “A few hours in bed and you’ll be shipshape again.”

When Leonard went to rouse Langley at five o’clock, he found a man who was confused about where he was and what he was doing. He drank two glasses of water and fell back on his pillow. It was obvious he was in no condition to attend the dinner. Leonard went downstairs, asked Aaron Munshaw to look in on his guest throughout the evening, and got into a buggy for the drive to Vandeleur.

Leonard’s arrival alone at the dinner caused consternation among the party men who had come expecting to meet an important official from Ottawa, in Vandeleur on behalf of Sir John A. Macdonald. They had been told it was time to hatch plans for the next election.

“Oh, it’s just you, Leonard, where’s that Langley fellow?” asked Emmett Cartwright. He had managed Dr. Sproule’s campaigns in Grey East and had looked forward to expanding his fiefdom to the adjoining riding of Grey South. Other men chatted among themselves while sipping whisky or beer. When dinner was announced, Dr. Sproule took the seat at the end of the table. He said grace, proposed a toast to Queen Victoria, and expressed regrets at the absence of Richard Langley. Leonard was growing more nervous by the moment. Without Langley present to endorse him, he wondered how he would convince these men he could carry the party flag against a well-regarded Liberal incumbent.

Small talk dwindled after a serving of coffee and apple pie and Dr. Sproule tapped a knife against his cup to gain the attention of the dozen men in the room.

“Gentlemen, we expected to meet a distinguished official of Sir John A’s government here tonight. I am truly sorry that a most unfortunate accident has deterred our guest, Mr. Richard Langley. As you know, he was the subject of an unprovoked attack by a fox at the Fair this afternoon. He is resting quietly tonight, at Munshaw’s Hotel.”

“As if that’s possible in that den of iniquity,” somebody called out. The men all laughed. Dr. Sproule continued, tapping his cup again for order. “I understand it had been Mr. Langley’s intention to speak on behalf of Leonard Babington, who has evinced an interest in standing on behalf of our party in Grey South.” He went on to recall Leonard’s presence at the Cook Teets trial, and his spirited campaign in the Vandeleur Chronicle (“a now defunct journal”) in support of clemency for the condemned man. “I show no favour for whoever the party might wish as our standard-bearer in our neighbour riding, but I am glad to ask Leonard to say a few words in his own behalf.”

For a moment, Leonard felt an intruder in his own hometown. He looked at the men around the table. Two of them, he recalled, had been advertisers in the Chronicle. Others he had vague memory of from his teaching days. He knew he was in unchartered waters, and he thought of his time on the lake boats when he knew he could rely on the captain to make port safely. This was different. None of the men here tonight looked especially friendly, and they were not going to hear the glowing recommendation he had counted on from Richard Langley. Still, he was determined to deliver his message of needful reform.

When he got to his feet, Leonard found he had forgotten the words he had carefully rehearsed. He had to say something, so he began with a tribute to Richard Langley. “I too am sorry Mr. Langley cannot be with us, because it is he who has encouraged me to offer myself in the cause of our party. I met Mr. Langley when I went to Ottawa to make further investigations into the death of Rosannah Leppard.” Hardly had he got those words out, than Leonard realized he had made a mistake. The men here did not want to hear about Rosannah or Cook Teets. They did not wish to entertain thoughts on how the justice system could be improved. They were interested, as Langley had hinted to him more than once, in better prices for their crops, how they might secure a government contract, or have the Owen Sound harbour deepened so bigger ships could bring in more cargo, at lower cost.

Having raised the Teets trial, Leonard felt compelled to state his thoughts on the changes in criminal law that he would support as a Member of Parliament. A man must be allowed to testify on his own behalf – something that had been denied Cook Teets. Judges need to remind juors they should acquit if the Crown has not proven the guilt of an accused beyond a reasonable doubt. As he spoke he remembered other things he had planned to talk about – the appeal to British loyalty against Liberal annexationism, the benefits of Sir John’s National Policy, and the need to bring more settlers into Grey County. Murmurs of approval went around the table as he touched on these topics. He spoke of the dilemma of the village of Hanover – the hometown of the Liberal MP – split, as it was, half in Grey County and half in Bruce County. “Roads on one side are gravel, the other dirt. Our Liberal friend seems content to remain mired in the muck.” Laughter. A bit of humour would help win these fellows over, Langley had told Leonard. He spoke hurriedly, wanting the ordeal to be done. He paid his respects to Dr. Sproule, and assured the men he would keep their best interests at heart in all matters concerning the party and the government. Richard Langley would be up and about in a few days, he was sure, and he looked forward to meeting privately with every man present. There was a flurry of applause when he sat down.

“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to carry it off,” Leonard said later to Dr. Sproule. “You were fine, considering it was your first speech,” the doctor told him. He left unsaid whether he thought Leonard had won the approval of the men at the dinner.

The next day, Richard Langley and Leonard took the train back to Toronto. Leonard understood that the chief clerk didn’t feel up to going about the countryside while recovering from a fox bite. Leonard wanted to stay on, thinking he would look up Scarth Tackaberry and others who might, at long last, reveal more of what they knew about Rosannah’s death. Dr. Sproule discouraged Leonard’s remaining in Grey County. He told him that without Langley at his side, it would be difficult to gain the support of the party’s influential men. “You’re better off waiting until you can get back up here together.”