Purple Springs - Nellie L. McClung
But even as she spoke, a small wave came rolling in, gently lapping
the shore. It was Danny Watson, with a small white apron tied around
his person, which at each revolution, made a white crest of breaking
foam.
The King re-doubled his imprecations, and commands, tearing his
hair and threatening to rend his garments, but wave after wave came
rhythmically to shore, growing in size and speed, until the seventh
wave, crested with foam--a pillow-case torn across and fastened with
safety-pins--came crashing to her feet, amid thunderous applause.
When the company, with the king at one end and the first and smallest
wave at the other, stood up to take their applause, and respond to
curtain calls, next to Pearl stood the seventh wave--crested with
foam, dishevelled of hair--a four days' growth of whiskers on his
face--but a happy-looking wave--nevertheless.
Mr. Steadman grabbed hold of his friend hysterically. He could not
speak.
"Well, thank God, he's not dead anyway," he gasped at last.
"But I fancy," murmured Mr. Driggs, "that he is dead--to the cause!"
"Make a speech, Pearl," cried one of the company. "Mr. Neelands would
like to hear you do that one of the Premier's, when he laid the
cornerstone, about 'the generations yet unborn.' Go on, Pearl, that's
a good one!"
"Don't forget 'the waves of emigration breaking at our feet'!" said
Mary, handing Pearl one of Teddy's coats.
Pearl slipped on the coat, carefully adjusting the collar. Then
fingering an imaginary watch-chain, she began. Her face grew
grave--her neck seemed to thicken. Her voice was a throaty contralto.
"We are gathered here today." she declaimed, "to take part in a
ceremonial, whose import we cannot even remotely guess! Whose full
significance will be revealed, not in your time or mine, but to the
generations yet unborn!"
Peter Neelands gave a shout of recognition! Mr. Driggs felt a strong
hand on his arm. George Steadman whispered hoarsely. "Come away,
Driggs. That girl frightens me. This is no place for us!"
CHAPTER XV
THE COMING OF SPRING
The Spring was late, cruelly late, so late indeed that if it had been
anything else but a season, it would have found itself in serious
trouble--with the door locked and a note pinned on the outside telling
it if it could not come in time it need not come at all. But the
Spring has to be taken in, whenever it comes--and be forgiven too, and
even if there were no note on the door, there were other intimations
of like effect, which no intelligent young Spring could fail to
understand. Dead cattle lay on the river bank, looking sightlessly up
to the sky. They had waited, and waited, and hung on to life just as
long as they could, but they had to give in at last.
Spring came at last, brimful of excitement and apologies. It was a
full-hearted, impulsive and repentant young Spring, and lavished all
its gifts with a prodigal hand; its breezes were as coaxing as June;
its head burned like the first of July; its sunshine was as rich and
mellow as the sunshine of August. Spring had acknowledged its debt
and the overdue interest, and hoped to prevent any unpleasantness by
paying all arrears and a lump sum in advance; and doing it all with
such a flourish of good fellowship that the memory of its past
delinquency would be entirely swept away!
The old Earth, frozen-hearted and bleached by wind and cold, and
saddened by many a blighted hope, lay still and unresponsive under the
coaxing breezes and the sunshine's many promises. The Earth knew what
it knew, and if it were likely to forget, the red and white cattle
on the hillside would remind it. The Earth knew that these same warm
breezes had coaxed it into life many times before, and it had burst
into bud and flowers and fruit, forgetting and forgiving the past with
its cold and darkness, and the earth remembered that the flowers had
withered and the fruit had fallen, and dark days had come when it had
no pleasure in them, and so although the sun was shining and the warm
winds blowing--the earth lay as unresponsive as the pulseless cattle
on its cold flat breast.
But the sun poured down its heat, and the warm breezes frolicked into
the out-of-the-way places, where old snowdrifts were hiding their
black faces, and gradually their hard hearts broke and ran away in
creeping streams, and the earth returned to the earth that gave it; a
mist too, arose from the earth, and softened its bare outlines, and
soon the first anemone pushed its furry nose through the mat of gray
grass, and scored another victory on the robin; the white poplar
blushed green at its roots; the willows at the edge of the river
reddened higher and higher, as the sap mounted; headings of mouse-ears
soon began to show on their branches--a green, glow came over the
prairie, and in the ponds, It millions of frogs, at the signal from an
unknown conductor, burst into song.
Then it was that the tired old Earth stopped thinking and began to
feel--a thrill--a throb--a pulsing of new life--the stirring of new
hopes which mocked its fears of cold or frost or sorrow or death.
The Souris Valley opened forgiving arms to the repentant young Spring,
and put forth leaves in gayest fashion. The white bones, fantastically
sticking through faded red hides, were charitably hidden by the grass,
so that the awakened conscience of the tender young Spring might not
be unduly reminded of its cruelty and neglect.
The woman who lived alone at Purple Springs always expected great
things of the Spring. She could not grow accustomed to the coldness of
her neighbors, or believe that they had really cut her off from any
communication, and all through the winter which had just gone she had
kept on telling herself that everything would be different in the
Spring. Looking day after day into the white valley, piled high with
snow, she had said to herself over and over again: "There shall be no
more snow--there shall be no more snow"--until the words began to mock
her and taunt her, and at last lost their meaning altogether like an
elastic band that has stretched too far. If she had been as close a
student of the Bible as her mother, back in Argylshire, she would have
known that her impatience with the snow, which all winter long had
threatened and menaced her, and peered at her with its thousand eyes,
was just the same feeling that prompted John on the Isle of Patmos,
wearied by the eternal breaking of the waves on his island prison, to
set down as the first condition in the heavenly city: "There shall be
no sea."
Three years before, Mrs. Gray had come to the Souris Valley, and
settled on the hill farm. It had been owned by a prospector, who once
in a while lived on it, but went away for long periods, when it was
believed he had gone north into that great unknown land of fabled
riches. He had not been heard from for several years, and the people
of the neighborhood had often wondered what would be done with the
quarter-section, which was one of the best in the district, in case he
never came back. The Cowan's, who lives nearest, had planted one of
the fields, and used the land for the last two seasons. The Zinc's had
run their cattle in the pasture, and two of the other neighbors were
preparing to use the remaining portions of the farm, when there
arrived Mrs. Gray and her seven-year-old son to take possession.
It was Mr. Cowan who demanded to know by what right she came, and when
she had convinced him by showing him the deed of the farm, she came
back at him by demanding that he pay her the rent for the acres he had
used, which he did with a bad grace.
She had not been long in the neighborhood when there came to
demonstrate a new sewing machine a drooping-eyed, be-whiskered man,
in a slim buggy, drawn by a team of sorrel ponies. He claimed to have
known Mrs. Gray in that delightfully vague spot known as "down East,"
and when he found how eagerly any information regarding her was
received, he grew eloquent.
Mrs. Cowan departed from her hard and fast rule, and the rule of her
mother before her, and asked him to stay for dinner, and being an
honest man, in small matters at least, the agent did his best to pay
for his victuals. He told her all he knew--and then some, prefacing
and footnoting his story with the saving clause "Now this may be only
talk--but, anyway, it is what they said about her." He was not a
malicious man--he bore the woman, who was a stranger to him, no
grudge; but that day as he sat at dinner in the Cowan's big, bare
kitchen, he sent out the words which made life hard for the woman at
Purple Springs.
So much for the chivalry of the world and the kindly protection it
extends to women.
Vague rumors were circulated about her, veiled, indefinite
insinuations. The Ladies' Aid decided they would not ask her to join,
at least not until they saw how things were going. She might be all
right, but they said a church society must be careful.
The women watched each other to see who would go to see her first. She
came to church with her boy, to the little church on the river flat,
and the minister shook hands with her and told her he was glad to
see her. But the next week his wife, spending the afternoon at Mrs.
Cowan's, "heard something," and the next Sunday, although he shook
hands with her and began to say he was glad to see her, catching Mrs.
Cowan's eye on him, he changed his sentence and said he was glad to
see so many out.
All summer long the women at Purple Springs held to the hope that
someone would come to see her. At first she could not believe they
were wilfully slighting her. It was just their way, she thought. They
were busy women; she often saw them out in their gardens, and at such
times it was hard for her to keep from waving to them.
The woman who lived the nearest to her, geographically, was Mrs.
Cowan, and one day--the first summer--she saw Mrs. Cowan beating rugs
on the line, and as the day was breezy, it seemed as if she waved her
apron. Mrs. Gray waved back, in an ecstacy of joy and expectation--but
there came no response from her neighbor--no answering signal, and as
the lonely woman watched, hoping, looking, praying--there rolled
over her with crushing sadness the conviction that all her hopes of
friendliness were in vain. The neighborhood would not receive her--she
was an outcast. They were condemning her without a hearing--they were
hurling against her the thunders of silence! The injustice of it ate
deeply into her soul.
Then it was that she began to make the name "Purple Springs" out of
the willow withes which grew below the house. She made the letters
large, and with a flourish, and dyed them the most brilliant purple
they would take, and set them on a wire foundation above her gate. The
work of doing it gave solace to her heart, and when the words were set
in place--it seemed to her that she had declared her independence,
and besides, they reminded her of something very sweet and
reassuring--something which helped her to hold her head up against the
current of ill thoughts her neighbors were directing toward her.
That was the year the school was built, and no other name for it but
"Purple Springs" was even mentioned, and when the track was extended
from Millford west, and a mahogany-red station built, with a tiny
freight shed of the same color, the name of Purple Springs in white
letters was put on each end of the station. So, although the neighbors
would not receive the woman, they took the name she brought.
Her son Jim, a handsome lad of seven, went to school the first day it
was opened. Her mother heart was fearful for the reception he might
get, and yet she tried to tell herself that children were more just
than their elders. They would surely be fair to Jim, and when she
had him ready, with his leather book-bag, his neat blue serge
knickerbocker suit, his white collar and well-polished boots, she
thought, with a swelling of pride, that there would not be a handsomer
child in the school, nor one that was better cared for.
Down the hill went Jim Gray, without a shadow on his young heart. So
long as he had his mother, and his mother smiled at him, life was all
sunshine.
He gave his name to the teacher, and answered all her questions
readily, and was duly enrolled as a pupil in Grade I, along with
Bennie Cowan, Edgar Zinc and Bessie Brownlees, and set at work to make
figures. He wondered what the teacher wanted with so many figures, but
decided he would humor her, and made page after page of them for her.
By noon the teacher decided, on further investigation, to put Master
James Gray in Grade II, and by four o'clock he was a member in good
standing of Grade III.
That night there was much talk of James Gray, his good clothes, and
his general proficiency, around the firesides of the Purple Springs
district.
The next day Bennie Cowan, who was left behind in Grade I, although a
year older than Jim Gray, made the startling announcement:
"Jim Gray has no father."
He sang the words, gently intoning, as if he took no responsibility of
them any more than if they were the words of a song, for Bennie was a
cautious child, and while he did not see that the absence of a father
was anything to worry over, still, from the general context of the
conversation he had heard, he believed it was something of a handicap.
The person concerned in his announcement, being busy with a game of
marbles, did not notice. So quite emboldened, Bennie sang again, "Jim
Gray has no father--and never had one."
The marble game came to an end.
"Do you mean me?" asked Jim, with a puzzled look.
The others stopped playing, too. It was a fearsome moment. Jim Gray
was the most unconcerned of the group.
"That's all you know about it," he said carelessly, as he shut one eye
and took steady aim at the "dib" in the ring, "I've had two."
"Nobody can have two fathers--on earth," said Bessie Brownlees
piously--"we have one father on earth and one in heaven."
"Mine ain't on earth," said Jimmy, "mine are both in heaven."
That was a poser.
"I'll bet they're not," said Bennie, feeling emboldened by Jim's
admission of a slight irregularity in his paternal arrangements.
"How do you know?" asked Jim, still puzzled. It did not occur to him
that there was anything unfriendly in the conversation--"You never saw
them!"
"Well," said Bennie, crowded now to play his highest card, "anyway,
your mother is a bad woman."
Jim looked at him in blank astonishment. His mother a bad woman, his
dear mother! The whole world turned suddenly red to Jim Gray--he did
not need any one to tell him that the time had come to fight.
The cries of Bennie Cowan brought the teacher flying. Bennie, with
bleeding lip and blackened eyes, was rescued, and a tribunal sat
forthwith on the case.
James Gray refused to tell what Bennie Cowan had said. His tongue
could not form the words of blasphemy. The other children, all of whom
had heard his history unfavorably discussed at home, did not help him,
and the case went against the boy who had no friends. Exaggerated
tales were told of his violence. By the end of the week he had struck
Bennie Cowan with a knife. A few days later it was told that he had
kicked the teacher. Nervous mothers were afraid to have their children
exposed to the danger of playing with such a vicious child.
One day a note was given to him to take home. It was from the
trustees, asking Mrs. Gray if she would kindly keep her son James at
home, for his ungovernable temper made it unsafe for other children to
play with him.
That was three years ago. Annie Gray and her son were as much a
mystery as ever. She looked well, dressed well, rode astride, wore
bloomers, and used a rifle, and seemed able to live without either the
consent or good-will of the neighborhood.
In harvest time she still further outraged public opinion by keeping
a hired man, who, being a virtuous man, who had respect for public
opinion, even if she hadn't, claimed fifteen dollars a month extra for
a sort of moral insurance against loss of reputation. She paid the
money so cheerfully that the virtuous man was sorry he had not made it
twenty!
It was to this district, with its under-current of human passions,
mystery and misunderstanding, that Pearl Watson came. The miracle of
Spring was going on--bare trees budding, dead flowers springing; the
river which had been a prisoner all winter, running brimming full,
its ice all gone, and only little white cakes of foam riding on its
current. Over all was the pervading Spring smell of fresh earth, and
the distant smoulder of prairie fires.
CHAPTER XVI
PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF CLAY
When the train came in from the west, Dr. Clay stepped off and walked
quickly to his office. He called at the drug store before going to his
private office, and inquired of the clerk:
"Any one wanting me, Tommy?"
"Sure--two or three--but nothing serious. Bill Snedden wanted you to
come out and see his horse."
"See his horse!" exclaimed the doctor in surprise.
"Yes, Democracy hasn't been feeling well. Just sort of mopin' around
the stall. Not sick--just out of sorts, you know, down-hearted like."
"Well, why doesn't he get Dr. Moody? Horses are not my line."
"O but he says this is different. Democracy is more like a human being
than a horse, and Dr. Moody don't know much about a horse's higher
nature. He says he's scared to have Dr. Moody come out anyway--every
time he comes, a horse dies, and he's gettin' superstitious about it.
T'aint that he has anything against Dr. Moody. He spoke well of him
and said he was nice to have around in time of trouble, he's so
sympathetic and all that, but he don't want to take any chances with
Democracy. He would have liked awful well to see you, doctor. I told
him you'd be home tonight, and he'll give you a ring. No, there was
nothing serious. There was a young fellow here from the city came out
to see Pearl Watson, they said, about some set of books or something.
He got lost in the storm, and frozen pretty badly. He's out at Watsons
yet, I think. But they didn't phone, or anything--at least, I didn't
get it. I just heard about it."
"All right, Tommy," said the doctor, and went on.
In his own apartment he found everything in order. Telephone messages
were laid beside his mail. His slippers and house-coat were laid out.
The coal fire gleamed its welcome.
The doctor's heart was lighter than it had been. His interview with
the old doctor had been very encouraging.
"You are looking better, Clay," the old man had said. "Have you gained
in weight? I thought so. You are going a little easier, and sleeping
out--that's right. And you see you can save yourself in lots of
ways--don't you? Good! I'm pleased with you. I hear they are after you
to run against the Government. You won't touch it, of course. No good
for a man in your condition. Anyway, a doctor has his own work--and if
you keep your head down, and get away every winter, you'll live to be
an old man yet."
The doctor sat down to read his mail. There were the usual letters
from old patients, prospective patients, people who had wonderful
remedies and had been cruelly snubbed by the medical profession. He
glanced through them casually, but with an absentmindedness which did
not escape his housekeeper when she came in.
Mrs. Burns was determined to tell him something, so determined, that
as soon as she entered, he felt it coming. He knew that was why she
came. The bluff of asking him if he got his telephone messages was too
simple.
Mrs. Burns was a sad looking woman, with a tired voice. It was not
that Mrs. Burns was tired or sad, but in that part of the East from
which she had come, all the better people spoke in weary voices of
ladylike weakness.
"Well, Mrs. Burns," the doctor said, "what has happened today?" He
knew he was going to get it anyway--so he might as well ask for it.
"George Steadman was in an awful state about the young fellow who came
out from the city to see Pearl Watson. He got lost in the storm, and
stayed three days at Paines, and then Pearl came over and took him
home with her. Some say the Government sent him about the piece in the
paper, and some say he's her beau. I don't know. Mrs. Crocks saw Pearl
when she brought him in, and she could get nothing out of her. He's at
the hotel still, though nobody seems to know what his business is."
"O well," laughed the doctor, "we'll just have to watch him. Don't
leave washings on the line, and lock our doors--he can't scare us."
Mrs. Burns afterwards told Mrs. Crocks that "Doctor Clay can be
very light at times, and it seems hardly the thing, considering his
profession."
Mrs. Burns could never quite forgive herself for leaving so early that
night, and almost lost her religion, because no still small voice
prompted her to stay. Just as she left the office, the young man, the
mysterious stranger, came to the door, and Mrs. Burns knew there was
no use going back through the drug store and listening at the door.
The doctor had heavy curtains at each door in his office, and had a
way of leaving the key in the door, that cut off the last hope. So she
went home in great heaviness of spirit.
P.J. Neelands presented his card, and was given a leather chair
beside the fire. He asked the doctor if he might smoke, and was given
permission.
"I am going to talk to you in confidence, Doctor Clay," he said,
nervously. "I guess you're used to that."
The doctor nodded encouragingly: "That's what doctors are for. Go
right on, Mr. Neelands."
"The fact of the matter is--I'm in love," said Peter, taking the head
plunge first.
"O that's nothing," said the doctor. "I mean--that's nothing to worry
about."
"But she does not care a hang for me. In fact, she laughs at me."
Peter's face was clouded in perplexity.
"But I'll begin at the beginning: I belong to the Young Men's
Political Club in the city, and I was sent out here--at least, I
mean I asked to come on a delicate mission. I'm speaking to you
confidentially, of course."
"Of course," said the doctor, "have no fears."
"Well, perhaps you saw this." He produced the article that had caused
the fluttering in the Governmental nest.
The doctor suddenly came to attention.
"Do you know who wrote it? No! Well anyway, I came out to see about
it--to investigate--look over the ground. But, doctor, I got the
surprise of my life. This girl is a wonder."
"Well," the doctor's sympathetic manner had gone. He was sitting
up very straight in his chair now, and his eyes were snapping with
suppressed excitement. "What did you think you could do about it? Did
you think you could stop her--hush her up--or scare her--or bribe
her--or what?"
"I did not know," said Peter honestly. "But I want to tell you what
happened. I was three days at Paine's--caught by the storm--do you
know them? Well, it's a good place to go to see what women are up
against. I was mad enough to throw old Paine out of his own house, and
I found out he was going to sell the farm over her head, and By Jove!
I see why the women want to vote, don't you?"
"I've always seen why," replied the doctor. "I thought every one with
any intelligence could see the justice of it." The doctor's manner was
losing its friendliness, but Peter, intent on his own problems, did
not resent it.
"Well, just when this man Gilchrist came to sign the papers, the
morning I left, she came in--Pearl Watson, I mean--and Doctor, I
never heard anything like it. Talk about pleading a case! She did not
plead--she just reviewed the case--she put it up to Gilchrist--it was
marvellous! If she had asked me to shoot the two of them, I would
have done it. She had me--she has me yet--she's the most charming,
sweet-souled and wonderful girl I ever saw."
The doctor endeavored to speak calmly:
"Well, what about it?" he said. "I agree with you--she is all of
that."
"I am going back to resign from the party. I am going to throw my
weight on the other side," Peter spoke with all the seriousness
of youth. "The girl has shown me what a beastly, selfish lot the
politicians are, and I am going back to denounce them, if they won't
change. But I want to ask you something, Doctor--you won't think I am
cheeky, will you? She gave me absolutely no hope--but girl's sometimes
change their minds. I would wait for years for her. I simply can't
live without her. I thought from the way she spoke there was some
one else--if there is--I will just crawl away and die--I can't live
without her!"
"O shut up," said the doctor impatiently. "Better men than you have to
live without--the women they love--that's foolish talk."
"Well, tell me, doctor," cried Peter desperately, "I just have to
know. Is there any reason why I can't hope to win her? Do you know of
any reason--you know Pearl well. Is there any reason that you know of?
Has any one any right--to stop me from trying?"
The doctor considered. Here was just the situation he had told Pearl
he hoped would arise. This young fellow was clean, honest, and there
was no doubt of his deep sincerity. He had told Pearl she must forget
him. He had tried to mean it, and here it was--here was the very
situation he said he hoped for. He would play up--he could make
himself do what was right, no matter how he felt.