Purple Springs - Nellie L. McClung
Mr. Steadman cleared his throat at this--and seemed about to
speak--but she went on without noticing:
"Loyalty is a gentle growth, which springs in the heart. The seeds
are in your hands and mine; the heart of our foreign people is the
soil--the time of planting is now--and the man or woman who by
their kindness, their hospitality, their fair dealing, honesty,
neighborliness, makes one of the least of these think well of Canada,
is a Master Builder in this Empire.
"If we do not set ourselves to finish the house, you know what will
happen to it. I remembered this part of her speech because it made me
think about our school-house the year before Mr. Donald came--when
we could not get a teacher. Do you remember? Windows were broken
mysteriously--the rain beat in and warped and drenched and spoiled the
floors. The chimney fell. Destruction always comes to the empty house,
she said--the unfinished house is a mark for the wantonly mischievous.
To keep what we have, we must improve it from year to year. And to
that end we must work together--fighting not with each other--but with
conditions, discouragements, ignorance, prejudice, narrowness--we must
be ready to serve, not thinking of what we can get from our country,
but what we can give to it."
In the silence that fell, the people sat motionless. They did not
notice that Pearl was done speaking--for their thoughts went on--she
had given them a new view of the service they might give.
Mrs. Piper, on whose heart, Pearl's words had fallen like a
benediction, saw that in making her rag-carpet, over which she had
worked so hard--she was helping to furnish one little corner of her
country, for it would make her front room a brighter place, and there
her children, and the boys and girls of the neighborhood would have
good times and pleasant memories. She had thought of it in a vague way
before, but Pearl had put it into words for her--and her heart was
filled with a new rapture. It was worth while to work and struggle and
try her best to make a pleasant home. There was a purpose in it all--a
plan--a pattern.
Even Mrs. Thompson had a glimmering of a thought regarding her
precious flowers, the slips of which she never gave away. With them
she could gladden the hearts of some of her neighbors, and Noah
Thompson, her husband, who made it his boast that he never borrowed or
lent, became suddenly sorry he had refused a neck yoke to his Russian
neighbor.
George Steadman, too, found his soul adrift on a wide sea, torn
away from the harbor that had seemed so safe and land-locked, so
unassailable; and on that wider sea there came the glimpses of a
sunrise, of a new day. It puzzled him, frightened him, angered him.
In the newness of it all, he detected danger. It blew across his
sheltered soul like a draught, an uncomfortable, cold-producing
draught--and when he found himself applauding with the others, he
knew that something dangerous, radical, subtle and evil had been let
loose--the girl would have to be watched. She was a fire-brand, an
incendiary--she would put notions in peoples' heads. It was well he
had heard her and could sound the warning. But he must be politic--he
would not show his hand. The children were singing, and every one had
risen. Never before had he heard the Chicken Hill people sing like
this:
"O Canada, our home, our native land,
True, patriot love, in all our sons command;
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
Thou true land, strong and free,
And stand on guard, O Canada
We stand on guard for thee."
The children began the second verse, the people following lamely, for
they did not know the words; but the children, proud of their superior
knowledge, and with a glow in their impressionable little hearts, sang
exultantly--this song of home and country.
CHAPTER VIII
THE POWER OF INK
The Chicken Hill correspondent of the Millford "Mercury" described the
meeting in the school as follows:
"The Chicken Hill School was the scene of a happy gathering on Friday
afternoon last, when the neighbors and friends gathered to welcome
home Pearl Watson, who has just completed a successful First Class
Teacher's Normal course in Winnipeg. Pearl is a great favorite, and
certainly disappointed no one, for she gave an address on present day
questions which will not soon be forgotten. Pearl is an out and out
believer in temperance and woman suffrage, and before she was through,
she had every one with her--as one man put it, he'd like to see
the woman vote, if for nothing else than to get Pearl Watson into
parliament, for there would sure be hides on the barn door if she ever
got there, and a rustling of dry bones."
"After Pearl's address, the ladies of the district served
refreshments, and a good time was spent. Pearl's arm must have ached,
shaking hands, and if she could be spoiled with praise, she would be
spoiled for sure, but Pearl is not that kind. It is rumored that she
will be offered the Purple Springs school, and if she accepts, we
congratulate Purple Springs."
When George Steadman read the Chicken Hills news, his face became a
yellowish gray color--much like the hue of badly laundried clothes.
His skin prickled, as if with an electric current, for hot rage ate
into his soul. His name was not even mentioned. He wasn't there at
all--and he was the member for Millford. Of all the silly rot--well,
he'd see about it.
On Monday morning, with the offending sheet in his hand, Mr. Steadman
made his way to the "Mercury" office, a dingy, little flat-roofed
building, plastered with old circus posters outside, and filled with
every sort of junk inside. At an unpainted desk piled high with
papers, sat the editor. His hair stood up like a freshly laundried,
dustless mop; his shirt was dirty; his pipe hung listlessly in his
mouth--upside down, and a three days' crop of black beard peppered his
face. He looked like a man who in early youth had slept on newspapers
and drank ink, and who now would put his feet on the table if there
had been room, but there was scarcely room for them on the floor, for
it was under the table that he kept his exchanges. There were shelves
around the walls, but they were filled with rubber boots, guns,
baskets of letters, a few books, miscellaneous articles of clothing
and some empty tobacco jars.
So on account of the congested condition on and under the table, Mr.
Driggs was forced to sit in an uncomfortable position, with his legs
and those of the table artistically entwined.
Mr. Steadman began, without replying to the editor's friendly
greeting:
"Who writes this balderdash from our district," he asked harshly.
"Professional secret," replied Mr. Driggs, speaking through his shut
teeth, for he did not wish to dislodge his pipe; the last time he let
it out of his mouth he had had no end of a time finding it. "Never
give away names of contributors, not etiquette."
"I don't care a hang for your etiquette--I want to know. The member
for Millford was not in a trifling mood.
"Sorry," said Mr. Driggs, holding his pipe still closer.
"See here, Driggs," said Mr. Steadman haughtily, "do you know who
you're talking to--I have it in my power to throw you a good deal of
business one way'n another--I've thrown you a good deal of business.
There's an election coming on--there will be bills, cards, streamers,
what not; good money in printing for the Government--do you savvy?"
"I savvy," said Mr. Driggs cheerfully.
"Well then"--George Steadman was sure now he was going to get the
information--"who writes this this stuff from Chicken Hill?"
"I don't know," said the editor calmly, "honest, I don't. This was a
new one--strange writing--and all that. I called up Pearl Watson to
see if there had been a meeting, and she verified it, but didn't tell
me anything. She said you presided. Then I ran the item--I thought it
was very good--what's wrong with it? It seemed like real good country
correspondence to me--with that bucolic freshness which we expect to
find in country contributors, perhaps not the literary polish found in
Stoddarts' lectures, but rattling good stuff just the same."
"See here Driggs," the other man interrupted, "listen to me. There's
an election coming on--you've always been with us--I don't know what
you think--and it don't matter. This girl Watson is against us--and
she's as smart as they make them, and has plenty of nerve. Now I don't
want to see that girl's name in the paper again. A few more spreads
like this--and every district in the country will want her. She don't
know her place--she's got nerve enough to speak anywhere. She spits
out things, hardly knowing what she means--she's dangerous, I tell
you. If the other side got hold of her and primed her what to say, she
could do us a lot of harm--here, for mind you, she's got a way with
her. We don't want any trouble. There's a little talk of runnin' Doc.
Clay, but I believe he's got more sense than to try it. The last man
that ran against me lost his deposit. But, understand, Driggs, no
mention of this girl, cut out her name."
Then Mr. Driggs slowly took his pipe from his mouth, and laid it
carefully on the lowest pile of papers. It's position did not entirely
suit him, and he moved it to another resting place. But the effect was
not pleasing even then--so he placed it in his pocket, taking a red
handkerchief from his other pocket, and laying it carefully over the
elusive pipe, to anchor it--if that were possible.
"Mr. Steadman," he said, in his gentlest manner, "sit down."
Removing an armful of sale bills from the other chair, he shoved it
over to his visitor, who ignored the invitation.
"You must not attempt to muzzel the press, or take away our
blood-bought liberties. Blood-bought liberties is good! It's a serious
matter to come to a natural born, heaven inspired Editor, and tell
him to curb his news instinct. Pearl Watson is a particular friend of
mine. Pearl's sayings and doings are of interest to me as a citizen,
therefore, I reason they are of interest to all citizens. She is a
young lady of great charm, who does honor to our little town. I stand
absolutely for home boosting. Shop at home--shop early--sell your
hammer and buy a horn--my motto! Pearl Watson--one of the best ads we
have--I'm for her."
"All right," said Mr. Steadman harshly, "you defy me then, and when
you defy me, you defy the Government of the Province, the arm of the
Government reaches far--Driggs, and you know that before you are done,
I'll put you out of business before two weeks have gone by. You owe
every one--you owe the paper people--you owe on your printing press.
Your creditors are all friends of the Government. All I have to do is
to say the word and they'll close you out. The Government will put a
man in here who has sense enough to do as he is told."
Mr. Driggs' faced showed more concern than he had exhibited before.
There were certain bills he owed--forgotten to be sure in normal
times--but now they came up blinking to the light, rudely disinterred
by Mr. Steadman's hard words. They had grown, too, since their last
appearance, both in size and numbers--and for a moment a shade of
annoyance went over his face. Details of business always did annoy
him!
But an inner voice cautioned him to be discreet. There was always a
way around a difficulty. Mr. Driggs believed in the switch system
which prevails in our railroading. When two trains run towards each
other on a track one must go off on a switch, to avoid a collision. It
does not take long and when the other train has gone roaring past, the
switched train can back up and get on the track and go serenely on--he
resolved to be tactful.
"Mr. Steadman," he said, "I am surprised at all this. Pearl is only a
slip of a girl. What harm can she do you? You are absolutely solid in
this neighborhood. The government has this country by the throat--the
old machine works perfectly. What are you afraid of?"
"We're not afraid--what have we to be afraid of? We have only sixteen
opposition members in the House--and they're poor fish. We're solid
enough--only we don't want trouble. The women are getting all stirred
up and full of big notions. We can hold them down all right--for they
can't get the vote until we give it to them--that's the beauty of it.
The Old Man certainly talked plain when they came there askin' for the
vote. He just laid them out. But I can see this girl has been at their
meetings--and women are queer. My women, even, thought there was a lot
of truth in what the Watson girl said. So there was--but we're not
dealing with truth just now--politics is not a matter of truth. We
want to get this election over without trouble. We want no grief over
this, mind you--everything quiet--and sure. So you got your orders
right now. Take them or leave them. But you know where your bread is
buttered, I guess."
Mr. Steadman went out of the office, shutting the door with a strong
hand. The editor buried his face in his hands and gently massaged his
temples with his long-ink-stained fingers, and to all appearance, his
soul was grieved within him. It seemed as though his proud spirit was
chafing at the bonds which the iniquitous patronage system had laid on
him.
For brief period he sat thus, but when he raised his head, which he
did suddenly, there was a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face
which spread and widened until it burst into a laugh which threatened
to dislodge the contents of the table. He threw himself back in his
swing chair and piled both feet on the table, even if there was no
room for them--if ever there had come a time in his history when he
was in the mood to put his feet on the table, that time was now.
He addressed his remarks to his late guests:
"You fragrant old he-goat, you will give orders to me, will you--you
are sure some diplomat--you poor old moth-eaten gander, with your
cow-like duplicity."
Mr. Driggs could not find the figure of speech which just suited the
case, but he was still trying.
"You poor old wall-eyed ostrich, with your head in the sand, thinking
no one can see you, you forget that there is a portion of your anatomy
admirably placed--indeed in my mind's eye I can see the sign upon it.
It reads 'Kick me.' It is an invitation I will not decline. He thinks
he can wipe our good friend Pearlie off the map by having her name
dropped from the Millford 'Mercury,' forgetting that there are other
ways of reaching the public eye. There are other publications, perhaps
not in the class with the Millford 'Mercury,' but worthy little sheets
too.
"There is the 'Evening Echo,' struggling along with a circulation of
a quarter of a million--it will answer our purpose admirably. I will
write the lead today while the lamp of inspiration burns, and I will
hear Pearl speak, and then oh, beloved, I will roll up my sleeves
and spit on my hands and do a sketch of the New Woman--Pearlie, my
child--this way lies fame."
CHAPTER IX
THE DOCTOR'S DECISION
When Pearl left him so abruptly, Dr. Clay found himself battling
with many emotions. His first impulse was to call her back--tell her
everything. Pearl was not a child--she would know what was best. It
was not fair to deceive her, and that was just what he had done, with
the best intentions.
But something held him back. The very heart of him was sick and full
of bitterness at the sudden slap which fate had given him. His soul
was still stinging with the pain of it. Everything was distorted and
queer, and in the confusion of sensations the outstanding one was the
instinct to hide all knowledge of his condition. No one must know. He
would go to see the old doctor and swear him to secrecy. After all,
his life was his own--he was under obligation to no one to stretch it
out miserably and uselessly.
He would go on as long as he could, and live it out triumphantly.
He would go out like Old Prince. He thought of the hymn which gives
thanks to God, "Who kindly lengthens out our days," and the thought
of it was mingled with something like scorn. He did not want any
lengthening out of his time if there could not be real power, real
service in each day. He would live while he lived, and die when he
had to, and with that resolution he tried to get back his calmness of
spirit.
Looking at himself in the glass, he had to admit his face was haggard,
and thinner than it had been, and he knew he had lost weight. Still,
that could be recovered--he was not going to worry or think about
himself. He had always contended that disease was ninety per cent.
imagination and ten per cent. reality, and now he was going to see.
Every one is under the death sentence; the day is set for each man. "I
am no worse off," he thought, "than I was before--if I could only see
it that way--and I will--I am going to be the Captain of my soul--even
though it may be for a very short cruise--no disease or whimpering
weakness will usurp my place--'Gladly I lived--gladly I died. And I
laid me down with a will,'" he quoted, but his mouth twisted a little
on the words. Life was too sweet. He loved it too well to lay it down
gladly. O no, there could be no pretence of gladness.
He found himself thinking of Pearl, and the tender, loving, caressing
light in her eyes, her impulsive kiss--her honest words of heavenly
sweetness; what a girl she was! He had watched her grow from a little
bright-eyed thing, who always interested him with her wisdom, her
cheerfulness, her devotion to her family, until now, when she had
grown to be a serious-minded, beautiful girl, with a manner full of
repose, dignity, grace--a wonderfully attractive girl--who looked
honestly into his eyes and told him she loved him, and he had had to
turn away from his happiness and tell her it could not be. And he had
seen the dimming of those shining eyes and the tightening of her lips.
He had had to hurt Pearl, and that was the bitterest thought of all.
Again the temptation came to tell her! But the stern voice of
conscience cried out to him that if she knew she would consider
herself bound to him, and would not take her liberty, and the finest
years of her young life would be spent in anxiety and care.
"I might live to be an old man," he said bitterly. "If I were sure I
could drop out soon, it would not matter so much. Pearl would still
have her life ahead of her, and I would come to be but a memory, but
as it is--there's but one straight and honorable course--and I will
take it."
Then he thought of the roses, and wrote a card and a note, and called
Bertie at the Livery Stable to come to the office. When Bertie
arrived, much out of breath, the doctor charged him to be quick in his
errand of delivering them. Bertie was anxious to talk, and volunteered
the information that Pearl Watson was an awful pretty girl, but Mrs.
Crocks had just met her on the street and been talkin' to her a little
while, and she thought Pearl was gettin' pretty stuck up.
"Bertie, dear," the doctor said, not unkindly, "did any one ever tell
you that you talk too easy?"
"Sure they did," said Bertie honestly, "but Mrs. Crocks likes me to
talk."
"O well," the doctor smiled, "you and Mrs. Crocks are not really
dangerous--but Bertie, remember this, silence does not often get any
one into trouble, and if you are ever in doubt about whether to tell
things or not--don't tell them! It's the best way--now, will you try
to remember?"
"Yes, sir," said Bertie pleasantly.
All of which Bertie carefully hid in his heart, but his object in so
doing was not to attain the scriptural sequence--"that he sin not
with his mouth," It was that he might rehearse it accurately to Mrs.
Crocks!
The doctor had forgotten all about the committee who were going to
wait on him that evening to receive his decision regarding the coming
election. His mind had been too full of his own affairs. But promptly
at eight o'clock, his office bell rang, and the gentlemen came in.
It seemed years to the doctor since he had seen them. Life had so
changed for him in the interval. The committee had come back with
greater enthusiasm than ever. Corroborative evidence had been pouring
in; the doctor was the only man who could defeat the present member.
"Doctor, it is sure up to you," said the President, a stocky man,
whose face had a patchy beard resembling a buffalo-robe on which the
moths had played their funny tricks, "and I'll tell you why. The women
are beginning to raise hell all over the country. They have societies
now, and they're holding debates, and getting up plays--and all that.
They have the Government scared. My stars, I remember the time women
didn't bother no more about politics than a yellow dog does about
religion. But that good day is gone. They're up and comin' now, and
comin' with a whoop. Now, that's why we want you,--at least it's one
reason--the women like you--you have a way with them--you listen to
them--and feel sorry over their aches and pains--cure them--if you
can--but the big thing is--you feel sorry. Now, if you will run, the
women will try to make their men vote for you--I don't think any one
of the women will go against you. The men here are mostly for the
Government, and this year they have the bridge at Purple Springs for
a bait. It's goin' on for sure--work for every one--that votes right.
The Government has been in so long, you've just had to be on their
side to hold your job--they have their fingers on everything. You know
our candidate has lost his deposit for three elections--but there's a
chance this year--if you'll run."
Then the field organizer took up the argument. He was a young man sent
out from the city office to rally the faithful and if possible see
that the best candidates were selected. He was a shop-worn young man,
without illusions. He knew life from every angle, and it was a dull
affair in his eyes.
"Politics is a game of wits," he said; "the smartest one wins, and
gets in and divides the slush money. The other side howl--because they
didn't get any. We're sore now because we haven't had a look-in
for fourteen years--we're thirsty and dry--and we long for the
water-brooks--which is, government jobs. There's just one distinction
between the parties," he said, "one is in and one is out! That's all.
Both parties have the same platform too, there is only one principle
involved, that is the principle of re-election. But it really seems as
if our time is coming."
Young Mr. Summersad lighted a cigarette and blew billows of smoke at
the ceiling. His whole bearing was that of a man who had drunk the cup
of life to the very dregs and found even the dregs tasteless and pale.
"You are pessimistic," said the doctor, "you surely take a
materialistic view of the case. Is it really only a matter of getting
in to the public treasury? That hardly seems worth a man's effort; it
looks more like a burglar's job."
"I mean, Clay," said the organizer, with slightly more animation, "the
political game is not a game of sentiment or of high resolves. One man
cannot do much to change the sentiment of a whole province; we must
take things as we find them. People get as good government as they
deserve--always. This year the advantage comes to us. 'It is time for
a change' is always a good rallying cry, and will help us more than
anything."
"What is the opposition platform this year," said the doctor, "what
would I have to believe? Haven't you decided on a program, some sort
of course of action?"
"O sure," replied the other, "we have a great platform--woman
suffrage--banish the bar--direct legislation--we have a radical
platform--just the very thing to catch the people. I tell you
everything is in our favor, and with your popularity here, it should
be a cinch."
The doctor looked at him, without enthusiasm.
"But the platform needn't worry you," he hastened to explain, "it's
not necessarily important--it's a darn good thing to get in on--but
after that--"
"It can be laid away," said the doctor, "for another election. Well
now, as I understand it, the case against the present Government is
just that. They promised prohibition years ago, and got in on that
promise--but broke it joyously, and canned the one man who wanted to
stand for it--that's why they deserve defeat and have deserved it all
these years. But if the Opposition have the same ethics, what's the
use of changing. Better keep the robbers in we know, than fly to
others that we know not of."
While the organizer had been speaking, the remainder of the committee
were vaguely uncomfortable. He was not getting anywhere; he was
spoiling everything. They knew the doctor better than he did.
The doctor stood up, and there was something about the action which
announced the adjournment of the meeting.
"It does not appeal to me," he said, "not as outlined by you. It's
too sodden, too deeply selfish. I see no reason for any man who has a
fairly decent, self-respecting job, to give it up and devote his time
to politics, if you have given me a correct picture of it."
The organizer became deeply in earnest:--
"Look here, Clay," he said, "don't be hasty. I'm telling you the truth
about things, that's all. You can be as full of moral passion as
you like--the fuller the better. The Opposition can always be the
Simon-pure reformers. I'm not discouraging you--in fact, we want you
to be that."