Margaret Maliphant

								

father.
The squire was an ardent Conservative, and father was--well,
whatever he was, he was opposed to the squire; and as he was one of
those people who have the rare gift of imparting their convictions
and their enthusiasms to others, he had great influence among the
working-classes, and his influence was not favorable to the squire's
party. And yet father was no politician. I knew nothing about shades
in these matters at that time, and because father was not a Tory
I imagined that he must be a Liberal. But he was not a Liberal,
still less was he a Radical, in the party sense of the word. As I
have said, he belonged to no party. The reforms that he wanted were
social reforms, and they could only be won by the patient struggles
of the people who required them. That was what he used to say, and I
suppose that was why he devoted all his strength to encouraging the
working-classes, and cared so little for their existing rulers. But I
did not understand this at the time; it was not till long afterwards
that I appreciated all that my father was. Then it occurred to me to
wonder how he had come by such advanced ideas living in a quiet country
village, and I remembered of a sudden some words that he had said to me
one day when I had asked him about a little crayon sketch that always
hung above the writing-table in his business-room. It was the portrait
of a young man with a firm square chin, a sensitive mouth, liquid,
fiery eyes. He wore his hair brushed back off his broad forehead, and
had altogether a foreign air. It was a fascinating face.
"That, Meg," he had said, "was a great man--a man who made war against
the strong, who helped the poor and down-trodden, and fought for the
laws of justice and liberty. He gave his affections, his goods, his
brains, and his life to the service of others. He died poor, but was
rich. He was a real Christian. His name was Camille Lambert."
He said no more, and I never liked to broach the subject again; for
mother had told me afterwards that he had had a romantic friendship
for the young Frenchman shortly after her engagement to him, and that
he could never bear to speak of him after the time when he laid him to
rest under the shadows of the old abbey church.
Mother could tell me little about him beyond the fact that he was some
years older than father, and that his parents had belonged to the
remnants of that colony of French refugees who had inhabited our town
during the last century, and still left their names to many existing
houses. Indeed, I thought no more of it at the time; but when long
afterwards I remembered the matter, I hunted up a little manuscript
pamphlet in father's handwriting, telling the story of his friend's
life.
Camille Lambert was a disciple of St. Simon, who had died when my
father was yet but a lad. Of an eager and romantic temperament, his
enthusiasm had been early fired by those exalted doctrines, and he had