Purple Springs - Nellie L. McClung
"But why," interrupted Peter, with a very uneasy mind, "why shouldn't
women have something to say?"
"Are you married?" demanded his host.
"No, not yet," said Peter blushing.
"Well, when you're married--will you let your wife decide where you
will live? How you earn your living--and all that? No sir, I'll bet
you won't--you'll be boss, won't you? I guess so. Well, every man has
that right, absolutely. Here am I--I'm goin' to sell out here and buy
a hotel--there's good money in it, easy livin'. She--" there was an
unutterable scorn in his voice, "says she won't go--says it ain't
right to sell liquor. I say she'll come with me or get out. She might
be able to earn her own livin', but she can't take the kids. Accordin'
to law, children belong to the father--ain't that right? There's a man
comin' to buy the farm--I guess he would have been out today, only for
the storm. We have the bargain made--all but the signin' up."
Mrs. Paine stood still in the middle of the floor, and listened in
terror. "A man coming to buy the farm!" Every trace of color left her
face! Maybe it was not true.
He saw the terror in her face, and followed up his advantage.
"People have to learn to do as they're told when I'm round. No one can
defy me--I'll tell you that. Every one knows me--I can be led, but I
cant be driven."
Peter Neelands had the most uncomfortable feeling he had ever known.
He was not sure whether it was his utter aversion to the man who sat
in front of the stove, boasting of his sharp dealing, or a physical
illness which affected him, but a horrible nausea came over him. His
head swam--his eardrums seemed like to burst--every bone began to
ache.
The three days that followed were like a nightmare, which even time
could never efface or rob of its horror. The fight with the storm
had proven such a shock to him that for three days a burning fever,
alternating with chills, held him in its clutches, and even when the
storm subsided kept him a prisoner sorely against his will.
In these three days, at close range, he saw something of a phase of
life he had never even guessed at. He did not know that human beings
could live in such crude conditions, without comforts, without
even necessities. It was like a bad dream--confused, humiliating,
horrible--and when on the third day he was able to get into his
clothes his one desire was to get away--and yet, to leave his kind
hostess who had so gently nursed him and cared for him, seemed like an
act of desertion.
However, when he was on his feet, though feeling much shaken, and
still a bit weak, his courage came back. Something surely could be
done to relieve conditions like this.
The snow was piled fantastically in huge mounds over the fields, and
the railway cuts would be drifted full, so no train would run for
days. But Peter felt that he could walk the distance back to town.
His host made no objection, and no offer to drive him.
In the tiny bedroom off the kitchen, which Mrs. Paine had given him,
as he shiveringly made his preparations for leaving, he heard a
strange voice in the other room, a girl's voice, cheery, pleasant.
"I just came in to see how you are, Mrs. Paine. No thank you, I won't
put the team in the stable--I ran them into the shed. I am on my way
home from driving the children to school. Some storm, wasn't it? The
snow is ribbed like a washboard, but it is hard enough to carry the
horses."
Peter came out, with his coat and his hat in his hand, and was
introduced. His first thought was one of extreme mortification--three
days' beard was on his face. His toilet activities had been limited
in number. He knew he felt wretched, seedy, groggy--and looked it.
Something in Pearl's manner re-assured him.
"Going to town?" said she kindly, "rather too far for you to walk when
you are feeling tough. Come home with me if you are not in a hurry,
and I will drive you in this afternoon."
Peter accepted gladly.
He hardly looked at her, holding to some faint hope that if he did
not look at her she would not be able to see him either, and at this
moment Peter's one desire was not to be seen, at least by this girl.
In a man's coonskin coat she stood at the door, with her face rosy
with the cold. She brought an element of hope and youth, a new
spirit of adventure into the drab room, with its sodden, commonplace
dreariness. Peter's spirits began to rise.
Outside the dogs began to bark, and a cutter went quickly past the
window.
Mrs. Paine, looking out, gave a cry of alarm.
"Wait, Pearl! Oh, don't go!" she cried, "stay with me. It's the man
who is going to buy the farm. He said he was coming, but I didn't
believe him;" her hands were locking and unlocking.
Without a word, Pearl slipped off her coat and waited. She seemed
to know the whole situation, and instinctively Peter began to feel
easier. There was something about this handsome girl, with the
firmly-set and dimpled chin, which gave him confidence.
In a few moments Sylvester Paine and his caller came in from the
barn. Pearl stood beside Mrs. Paine, protectingly. Her face had grown
serious; she knew the fight was on.
Sylvester Paine nodded to her curtly, and introduced his guest to
every one at once.
"This is Mr. Gilchrist," he said, "and now we'll get to business. Get
the deeds." he said, to his wife shortly.
Mrs. Paine went upstairs.
"Who did you say the young lady is," asked Mr. Gilchrist, who thought
he recognized Pearl, but not expecting to see her here, wished to be
sure. Mr. Gilchrist, as President of the Political Association, had
heard about Pearl, and hoped she might be an able ally in the coming
election.
"This is Pearl Watson," said Mr. Paine, rather grudgingly. "This is
the girl that's working up the women to thinking that they ought to
vote. Her father and mother are good neighbors of mine, and Pearl was
a nice kid, too, until she went to the city and got a lot of fool
notions."
"I'm a nice kid yet," said Pearl, smiling at him, and compelling him
to meet her eye, "and I am a good neighbor of yours too, Mr. Paine,
for I am going to do something for you today that no one has ever
done. I'm going to tell you something."
She walked over to the table and motioned to the two men to sit
down, though she remained standing. Sylvester Paine stared at her
uncomprehendingly. The girl's composure was disconcerting. Her voice
had a vibrant passion in it that made Peter's heart begin to beat. It
was like watching a play that approaches its climax.
"Mr. Gilchrist probably does not understand that there is a small
tragedy going on here today. Maybe he does not know the part he is
playing in it. It is often so in life, that people do not know the
part they played until it is too late to change. You've come here
today to buy the farm."
Mr. Gilchrist nodded.
"Ten years ago this farm was idle land. Mr. and Mrs. Paine homesteaded
it, and have made it one of the best in the country. It has been hard
work, but they have succeeded. For the last five years Mr. Paine has
not been much at home--he has bought cattle and horses and shipped
them to the city, and has done very well, and now has nearly fifteen
thousand dollars in the bank. There is no cleverer man in the country
than Mr. Paine in making a bargain, and he is considered one of the
best horsemen in the Province. He pays his debts, keeps his word, and
there is no better neighbor in this district."
Sylvester Paine watched her open-mouthed--amazed. How did she know
all this? It made strange music in his ears, for, in spite of all his
bluster, he hungered for praise; for applause. Pearl's words fell like
a shower on a thirsty field.
"Meanwhile," Pearl went on, "Mrs. Paine runs the farm, and makes it
pay, too. Although Mrs. Paine works the hardest of the two, Mr. Paine
handles all the money, and everything is in his name. He has not
noticed just how old and worn her clothes are. Being away so much, the
manner of living does not mean so much to him as to her, for she is
always here. Mrs. Paine is not the sort of woman who talks. She never
complains to the other women, and they call her proud. I think Mrs.
Paine has been to blame in not telling Mr. Paine just how badly she
needs new clothes. He always looks very well himself, and I am sure he
would like to see her well dressed, and the children too. But she will
not ask him for money, and just grubs along on what she can get with
the butter money. She is too proud to go out poorly dressed, and so
does not leave home for months at a time, and of course, that's bad
for her spirits, and Mr. Paine gets many a cross look from her when he
comes home. It makes him very angry when she will not speak--he does
not understand."
"Mr. Paine's intention now is to sell the farm and buy the hotel in
Millford. He will still go on buying cattle, and his wife will run the
hotel. She does not want to do this. She says she will not do it--it
is not a proper place in which to raise her children. She hates the
liquor business. This is her home, for which she has worked."
"It is not much of a home; it's cold in winter and hot in summer. You
would never think a man with fifteen thousand dollars in the bank
would let his wife and children live like this, without even the
common decencies of life. That's why Mrs. Paine has never had any of
her own people come to visit her, she is ashamed for them to see how
badly off she is. No, it is not much of a home, but she clings to it.
It is strange how women and animals cling to their homes. You remember
the old home on the road to Hampton your people had, Mr. Gilchrist,
the fine old house with the white veranda and the big red barn? It was
the best house on the road. It burned afterwards--about three years
ago."
Mr. Gilchrist nodded.
"Well, we bought, when we came to our farm here, one of your father's
horses, the old Polly mare--do you remember Polly?"
"I broke her in," he said, "when she was three."
"Well, Polly had been away a long time from her old home, but last
summer when we drove to Hampton Polly turned in to the old place and
went straight to the place where the stable had stood. There was
nothing there--even the ruins are overgrown with lamb's quarters--but
Polly went straight to the spot. It had been home to her."
A silence fell on the room.
"There is no law to protect Mrs. Paine," Pearl went on, after a long
pause. "The law is on your side, Mr. Gilchrist. If you want the place
there is no law to save Mrs. Paine. Mr. Paine is quite right in saying
he can take the children, so she will have to follow. Mrs. Paine is
not the sort of woman to desert her children. She would live even in
a hotel rather than desert her children. The law is on your side,
gentlemen--you have the legal right to go on with the transaction."
"What law is this?" said Mr. Gilchrist.
"The law of this Province," said Pearl.
"Do you mean to say," said Mr. Gilchrist hotly, "that Mrs. Paine
cannot claim any part of the price of this farm as her own--or does
not need to sign the agreement of sale. Has she no claim at all?"
"She has none," said Pearl, "she has no more claim on this farm than
the dog has!"
"By Gosh! I never knew that," he cried. "We'll see a lawyer in town
before we do anything. That's news to me."
"Are you sure of it, Pearl?" Mrs. Paine whispered. "Maybe there's
something I can do. This young man is a lawyer--maybe he could tell
us."
Sylvester Paine was trying to recover his point of view.
"Can you tell us," Pearl asked Peter, who sat in a corner, intensely
listening, "what the law says."
"The law," said Peter miserably--as one who hates the word he is about
to utter--"gives a married woman no rights. She has no claim on her
home, nor on her children. A man can sell or will away his property
from his wife. A man can will away his unborn child--and it's a hell
of a law," he added fiercely.
Pearl turned to Robert Gilchrist, saying, "Mr. Gilchrist, the law is
with you. The woman and the three children have no protection. Mr.
Paine is willing that they should be turned out. It is up to you."
Mrs. Paine, who had come down the stairs with the deed in her hand,
laid it on the table and waited. For some time no one spoke.
Sylvester Paine looked at the floor. He was a heavy-set man, with a
huge head, bare-faced and rather a high forehead. He did not seem to
be able to lift his eyes.
"I suppose," continued Pearl, "the people who made the laws did not
think it would ever come to a show-down like this. They thought that
when a man promised to love and cherish a woman--he would look after
her and make her happy, and see to it that she had clothes to wear and
a decent way of living--if he could. Of course, there are plenty of
men who would gladly give their wives everything in life, but they
can't, poor fellows--for they are poor; but Mr. Paine is one of the
best off men in the district. He could have a beautiful home if he
liked, and his wife could be the handsomest woman in the neighborhood.
She is the sort of woman who would show off good clothes too. I
suppose her love of pretty things has made her all the sorer, because
she has not had them. I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Gilchrist, before
you closed the deal. Mrs. Paine would never tell you, and naturally
enough Mr. Paine wouldn't. In fact he does not know just how things
stand. But I feel that you should know just what you are doing if you
take this farm. Of course, it is hardly fair to expect you to protect
this woman's home and her children, and save her from being turned
out, if her husband won't--you are under no obligation to protect her.
She made her choice years ago--with her eyes open--when she married
Sylvester Paine. It seems ... she guessed wrong ... and now ... she
must pay!"
Mrs. Paine sank into a chair with a sob that seemed to tear her heart
out. The auburn hair fell across her face, her lovely curly hair, from
which in her excitement she had pulled the pins. It lay on the table
in ringlets of gold, which seemed to writhe, as if they too were
suffering. Her breath came sobbing, like a dog's dream.
Sylvester Paine was the first to speak.
"Pearl, you're wrong in one place," he said, "just one--you had
everything else straight. But you were wrong in one place."
He went around the table and laid his hand on his wife's head.
"Millie," he said, gently.
She looked up at him tearfully.
"Millie!"
He stood awkwardly beside her, struggling to control himself. All the
swagger had gone from him, all the bluster. When he spoke his voice
was husky.
"Pearl has got it all straight, except in one place." he said. "She's
wrong in one place. She says you guessed wrong when you married me,
Millie."
His voice was thick, and the words came with difficulty.
"Pearl has done fine, and sized the case up well ... but she's wrong
there. It looks bad just now, Millie--but you didn't make such a
rotten guess, after all. I'm not just sayin' what I'll do, but--"
"The deal is off, Bob," he said to Mr. Gilchrist, "until Mrs. Paine
and I talk things over."
And then Pearl quietly slipped into her coat and, motioning to Peter,
who gladly followed her, went out.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SEVENTH WAVE
The big storm had demoralized the long-distance telephone service, so,
that it was by night lettergram that George Steadman was commissioned
by the official organizer of the Government to find P.J. Neelands, who
had not been heard of since the morning of the storm. Mr. Steadman was
somewhat at a loss to know how to proceed.
He was very sorry about Mr. Neelands and his reported disappearance.
Mr. Neelands was one of the friendliest and most approachable of
the young political set, and Mr. Steadman had often listened to his
speeches, and always with appreciation. He wondered why Mr. Neelands
had come to Millford now without telling him.
At the hotel, nothing was known of the young man, only that he had
taken a room, registered, slept one night, and gone, leaving all his
things. Mr. Steadman was conducted to Number 17, and shown the meagre
details of the young man's brief stay. His toilet articles, of
sterling silver with his monogram, lay on the turkish towel, which at
once concealed and protected the elm top of the bureau; his two bags,
open and partly unpacked, took up most of the floor space in the room.
His dressing-gown was hung on one of the two hooks on the back of the
door, suspended by one shoulder, which gave it a weary, drunken look.
There was something melancholy and tragic about it all.
"In the midst of life we are in death," said George Steadman to
himself piously, and shuddered. "It looks bad. Poor young fellow--cut
off in his prime--he did not even have a fur coat! and went out never
thinking."
He examined the telegram again--"On business for the Government," it
said, "of a private nature. See 'Evening Echo' March 21st, Page 23."
What could that mean?
George Steadman did not take the "Evening Echo." He hated the very
sight of it. The "Morning Sun" was good enough for him. He remembered
the thrill of pride he had felt when his Chief had said one day in
debate, that he wanted nothing better than the "Sun" and the Bible.
It was an able utterance, he thought, reminding one of the good old
Queen's reply to the Ethiopian Prince, and should have made its appeal
even to the Opposition; but the leader had said, in commenting on it,
that he was glad to know his honorable friend was broad-minded enough
to read both sides!
And now he was told to look up the Opposition paper, and the very page
was given. His first thought was that it was a personal attack upon
himself. But how could that be? He never opened his mouth in the
house--he never even expressed an opinion, and as the campaign had not
yet begun--he had not done anything.
He read the telegram again. In desperation he went back to the long
distance booth, but found the line still out of order, and a wire had
come giving the details of the damage done by the storm. It would be
several days before communication could be established. There was no
help coming from headquarters, and from the wording of the telegram
there seemed to be a reason for their not giving clear details. He
must get a copy of the paper.
Reluctantly he went to the printing office and made known his errand.
Mr. Driggs was delighted to give him the paper--he had it some place,
though he very seldom opened any of his exchanges. He evidently bore
Mr. Steadman no ill-will for his plain talk two weeks ago. With some
difficulty he found it, with its wrapper still intact. It was a loose
wrapper, which slipped off and on easily. Mr. Steadman remarked
carelessly that there was an editorial in it to which his attention
had been drawn, on hearing which Mr. Driggs turned his head and winked
at an imaginary accomplice.
Mr. Steadman went over to the livery stable to find a quiet,
clover-scented corner in which he might peruse his paper. An intuitive
feeling cautioned him to be alone when he read it.
In the office, Mr. Steadman found a chair, and opened his paper.
Bertie, ever on the alert for human interest stories, watched from a
point of vantage. He told Mrs. Crocks afterwards about it.
"The paper seemed to tangle up at first and stick to his fingers. He
wrastled it round and round and blew on it, and turned over pages and
folded it back--Gee, there was a lot of it. It filled the whole table,
and pieces dropped on the floor. He put his foot on them, like as if
he was afraid they'd get away. At last he found something, and he just
snorted--I got as close as I could, but I couldn't see what it was.
There was a picture of a girl--and he read on and on, and snorted out
three times, and the sweat stood out on his face. Twice he cleared up
his throat like your clock does when it gets ready to strike, and
then he tore out a page of the paper and put it in his pocket, and he
gathered up the rest of it and burned it, all but one sheet that was
under the table, and I got it here."
Bertie brought home the news at six o'clock. Mrs. Crocks had a copy of
the paper in her hands at six-fifteen.
Meanwhile, George Steadman, was feeling the need of counsel. His head
swam, and a cruel sense of injustice ate into his heart. He was a
quiet man--he did not deserve this. All his life he had sidestepped
trouble--and here it was staring him in the face. In desperation he
went to Driggs, the editor. He was a shrewd fellow--he would know what
was best to be done.
He found Mr. Driggs still in a sympathetic mood. He threw back his
long black hair and read the article, with many exclamations of
surprise. In places he smiled--once he laughed.
"How can any one answer this, Driggs?" asked Mr. Steadman in alarm.
"What can be done about it? I wish you would write something about it.
I can't think who would do this. There were no strangers that day at
the school--not that I noticed. None of our people would do it. What
do you think about it, Driggs? Would the girl write it herself?"
"No," replied the editor honestly, "I am quite sure Pearl did not do
this."
Suddenly Mr. Steadman thought of the telegram and the missing man. He
resolved to take Driggs into his confidence.
Driggs was as quick to see the import of it as King James was to smell
gunpowder on that fateful November day when the warning letter was
read in Parliament.
"The Government have sent him out to investigate this in your behalf,"
he said.
"But where is he?" asked Mr. Steadman.
Mr. Driggs' bushy brows drew down over his eyes.
"There's one person can help us," he said. He threw on his
jute-colored waterproof and his faded felt hat. Mr. Steadman followed
him as he went quickly to the Horse Repository.
Bertie was hastily consulted, and Bertie as usual ran true.
"Sure I saw him," said Bertie. "Ain't he back yet? Gee! I'll bet he's
froze! He'll be dead by now for sure. He had on awful nice clothes,
but thin toes on his boots, sharp as needles, and gray socks with dots
on them, and a waist on his coat like as if he wore corsets, and gray
gloves--and a cane, Swell! He was some fine looker, you bet, but he
wouldn't last long in that storm."
"Where did he go, Bertie," asked Mr. Steadman, trying to hold his
voice to a tone of unconcern.
"He asked about teachers, and about how far it was to Watsons."
Mr. Driggs and Mr. Steadman's eyes met.
"If he's any place," said Bertie cheerfully, "he'll be there."
To the Watson's Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs determined to go,
although, by this time the evening was well advanced.
The storm had piled the snow into huge drifts which completely filled
the railway cuts, but fortunately for those who travelled the sleigh
roads, the snow was packed so hard that horses could walk safely over
it. Bridges over ravines were completely covered, people made tunnels
to the doors of their stables, and in some cases had to dig the snow
away from their windows to let the light in. But the sun had come
out warm, and the weather prophets said it was the last storm of the
season.
When Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs approached the Watson home, they
found every window lighted and several sleighs in the yard. From the
house came sounds of laughter and many voices.
"There is no funeral here," said Mr. Driggs lightly.
George Steadman shuddered, "he may never have reached here," he said
in a voice of awe.
They knocked at the woodshed door, but no one heard them. Then they
went quietly in, and finding the kitchen door open, went in.
Mr. Watson, who stood at the door of the "room," shook hands with them
quietly, and said in a whisper:--
"They're acting tableaux now, just step up to the door and see them.
The children are having a party. Pearl will explain it in a minute.
Just step in and watch; you're just in time--they're just goin' to do
King Canute."
The two men looked in. About a dozen young people were in the room,
which was well lighted by a gasoline hanging-lamp. The furniture
was pushed into a corner to leave a good floor space. A curtain was
suspended from one of the beams, and behind it there seemed to be
great activity and whispered directions. Every one was so intently
waiting, they did not notice that the audience had been augmented by
the two men at the door.
In front of the curtain came Pearl to announce the next tableaux:--
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said solemnly, although her audience
began to laugh expectantly, "we will now present to you a historical
tableaux, a living picture of a foolish old king, who thought he could
command the waves to stand still. Seated in his arm-chair on the shore
you will see King Canute. Behind him are the rugged hills of the Saxon
coast. Before him the sea tosses angrily. The tide is rolling in. Each
wave is a little bigger than the last, the seventh wave being the
largest of all. This tableaux, ladies and gentlemen, in the production
of which we have spared no trouble and expense, teaches the vanity of
human greatness. Careful attention has been given to detail, as you
will observe."
She disappeared behind the curtain for a moment, and when it was
pulled back by invisible hands--(broom wire handled by Mary) she was
discovered sitting robed in purple (one of the girls had brought her
mother's Japanese dressing-gown) with a homemade but very effective
crown on her head. Her throne was an arm-chair, raised on blocks of
wood. As King Canute, Pearl's eyes were eagle-like and keen, her whole
bearing full of arrogance and pride. Dramatically she waved her right
arm towards the sea, and in bitter words chided it for its restless
tossing, and commanded it to hear the words of the ALL HIGH, Great and
Powerful King, and stay--just--where--it--was!