Purple Springs - Nellie L. McClung
"Why," asked Pearl quickly.
"Well you see, she got in first, so to speak. She bought the farm
beside the river, and it was her that called the place 'Purple
Springs.' It's an outlandish name, but it seems to kind a' stick.
There's no springs at all, and they are certainly not purple. But she
made the words out of peeled poplar poles, with her axe, and put them
up at the front of her house, facin' the track, and the blamed words
stick. Mind you, she must have spent months twistin' and turnin' them
poles to suit her and get the letters right, and she made a rustic
fence to put them on. They're so foolish you can't forget them. She's
queer, that's all--and she won't tell who she is, nor where she came
from--and she seems to have money."
Pearl looked at him inquiringly. There must be more than that to the
story, she thought.
"The women will tell you more about her--that's sure. They gabble a
lot among themselves about her--I don't know--we think it best to
leave her alone. No woman has any right to live alone the way she
does--it don't look well."
"Well, anyway," Mr. Cowan spoke hurriedly, as one who has been
betrayed into trifling feminine matters, and is anxious to get back to
man's domain, "we'll take you--at seventy-five dollars a month, and
I guess you can get board at Mrs. Zinc's here at about fifteen. That
ain't bad wages for a girl your age. You can stay at Mrs. Zinc's
anyway till you look around--Mrs. Zinc don't want a boarder. Girls can
fit in any place--that's one reason in our neighborhood we like a girl
better--there's no trouble about boardin' them. They can always manage
somehow. Even if things ain't very good--it don't seem to phaze
them--same as a man. We had a man once, and we had to pay him
twenty-five dollars a month extra, and gosh--the airs of him--wanted
a bed to himself and a hot dinner sent to the school. By Gum! and got
it! We'll be lookin' for you at the middle of the month, and you can
stay at Mrs. Zinc's and look around."
When the delegation had departed, Pearl acquainted her mother with the
result of their visit. Mrs. Watson had retired to the kitchen, all of
a flutter, as soon as the visitors came.
"I'm going to Purple Springs, Ma," she said, "to take the school, and
they'll give me seventy-five dollars a month."
Mrs. Watson sat down, dramatically, and applied her print apron to her
eyes--an occasion had come, and Mrs. Watson, true to tradition, would
make the most of it. Her mother had cried when she left home--it was a
girl's birthright to be well cried over--Pearlie Watson would not go
forth unwept!
"Cheer up, Ma," said Pearl kindly, "I'm not going to jail, and I'm not
taking the veil or going across the sea. I can call you up for fifteen
cents, and I'll be bringing you home my washing every two weeks--so I
will not be lost entirely."
Mrs. Watson rocked herself disconsolately back and forth in her chair,
and the sound of her sobs filled the kitchen. Mrs. Watson was having a
good time, although appearances would not bear out the statement.
"It's the first break, Pearlie, that's what I'm thinkin'--and every
night when I lock the door, I'll be lockin' you out--not knowin' where
ye are. When a family once breaks you never can tell if they'll ever
all be together again--that's what frightens me. It was bad enough
when you went to the city--and I never slept a wink for two nights
after you'd gone. But this is worse, for now you're doin' for yourself
and away from us that way."
"Gosh, Ma," spoke up Mary, "you sure cry easy; and for queer things. I
think it's grand that Pearl can get out and earn money, and then when
I get my entrance, I'll go to the city and be a teacher too. You're
going to get back what you've spent on us, ma, and you ought to be in
great humor. I'm just as proud of Pearl as I can hold, and I'll be
tellin' the kids at school about my sister who is Principal of the
Purple Springs School."
"Principal, Assistant and Janitor," laughed Pearl, "that gives a
person some scope--to be sure."
Mrs. Watson hurriedly put up the ironing-board, and set to work. She
would get Pearl ready, though she did it with a heavy heart.
Pearl finished her sewing and then went upstairs to make her small
wardrobe ready for her departure, and although she stepped quickly and
in a determined fashion, there was a pain, a lonely ache in her heart
which would not cease, a crying out for the love which she had hoped
would be hers.
"I wonder if I will ever get to be like ma," she thought, as she lined
the bottom of her little trunk with brown paper, and stuffed tissue
paper into the sleeves of her "good dress," "I wonder! Well, I hope I
will be like her in some ways, but not in this mournful stuff--I won't
either. I'll sing when I feel it coming on me--I will not go mourning
all my days--not for any one!"
She began to sing:--
"Forgotten you? Yes, if forgetting
Is thinking all the day
How the long days pass without you.
Days seem years with you away!"
Pearl's voice had a reedy mellowness, and an appeal which sent the
words straight into Mary's practical heart. Mary, washing
dishes below, stopped, with a saucer in her hand, and listened
open-mouthed:--
"If the warm wish to see you and hear you,
And hold you in my arms again,
If that be forgetting--you're right, dear,
And I have forgotten you then!"
Her voice trailed away on the last line into a sob, and Mary,
listening below, dropped a tear into the dish-water. Then racing up
the stairs, she burst into Pearl's room and said admiringly:
"Pearl, you're a wonder. It's an actress you ought to be. You got me
blubbering, mind you. It's so sad about you and your beau that's had a
row, and both of you actin' so pale and proud, you made me see it
all. Sing it again! Well, for the love of Pete--if you ain't ready to
blubber too. That's good actin', Pearl--let me tell you--how can you
do it?"
Pearl brushed away the tears, and laughed: "I just hit on the wrong
song--that one always makes me cry, I can see them, too, going their
own ways and feeling so bad, and moping around instead of cutting out
the whole thing the way they should. People are foolish to mope!"
Pearl spoke sternly.
"I think you sing just lovely," said Mary, "now go on, and I'll get
back to the dishes. Sing 'Casey Jones'--that's the best one to wash
dishes to. It's sad, too, but it's funny."
Mrs. Watson held the iron to her cheek to test its heat, and
listened--too--as Pearl sang:--
"Casey Jones--mounted to the cabin,
Casey Jones--with the orders in his hand,
Casey Jones--mounted to the cabin
And took his farewell tri-ip--to the promised land!"
"It's well for them that can be so light-hearted," she said, "and
leave all belonging to them--as easy as Pearl. Children do not know,
and never will know what it means, until one of their own ups and
leaves them! It's the way of the world, one day they're babies, and
the next thing you know they're gone! It's the way of the world, but
it's hard on the mother."
Pearl came down the stairs, stepping in time with Casey Jones's
spectacular home-leaving:--
"The caller called Casey, at--a half-past-four,
He kissed his wife at the station door."
"How goes the ironing, honest woman," she said, as she lovingly patted
her mother's shoulder. "It's a proud old bird you ought to be getting
one of your young robins pushed out of the nest--instead of standing
here with a sadness on your face."
The mother tried to smile through her tears.
"Pearlie, my dear, you're a queer girl--you never seem to think of
what might happen. It may be six weeks before you can get home--with
the roads breaking up--and a lot can happen in that time. Sure--I
might not be here myself," she said, with a fresh burst of tears.
"Ma, you're funny," laughed Pearl, "I wish you could see how funny
you are. Every Christmas ever since I can remember, that's what you
said--you might never live to see another, and it used to nearly break
my heart when I was little, and until I made up my mind that you were
a poor guesser. You said it last Christmas just the same, and here
you are with your ears back and your neck bowed, heading up well for
another year. You're quite right in saying you may not be here, but if
you are not you'll be in a better place. Sure, things may happen, but
it's better to have things happen than to be scared all the time that
they may happen. The young lads may take the measles and then the
mumps, and the whooping-cough to finish up on--and the rosey-posey is
going around too. But even if they do--it's most likely they will get
over it--they always have. Up to the present, the past has taken care
of the future. Maybe it always will."
"O yes, I know there's always a chance things will go wrong--I know
it, Ma--" Pearl's eyes dimmed a little, and she held her lips tighter;
"there's always a chance. The cows may all choke to death seeing
which of them can swallow the biggest turnip--the cats may all have
fits--the chickens may break into the hen-house and steal a bag of
salt, eat it and die. But I don't believe they will. You just have to
trust them--and you'll have to trust me the same way. Just look, Ma--"
She took a five-dollar bill from her purse and spread it on the
ironing-board before her mother. "Fifteen o' them every month! See
the pictures that's on it, of the two grand old men. See the fine
chin-whiskers on His Nibs here! Ain't it a pity he can't write his
name, Ma, and him President of the Bank, and just has to make a bluff
at it like this. Sure, and isn't that enough to drive any girl out to
teach school, to see to it that bank presidents get a chance to learn
to write. Bank presidents always come from the country; I'll be having
a row of them at Purple Springs--I'm sure. They will be able to tell
in after years at Rotary Club luncheons how they ran barefooted in
November, and made wheat gum--and chewed strings together. They just
like to tell about their chilblains and their stone-bruises."
Her mother looked at her wonderingly: "You think of queer things,
Pearl--I don't know where you get it--I can't make you out--and
there's another thing troubling me, Pearl. You are goin' away--I don't
suppose you will be livin' much at home now. You'll be makin' your own
way."
She paused, and Pearl knew her mother was laboring under heavy
emotion. She knew she was struggling to say what was difficult for her
to get into words.
"When you've been away for a while and then come back to us, maybe
you'll find our ways strange to you, for you're quick in the pick-up,
Pearl, and we're only plain workin' people, and never had a chance at
learnin'. There may come a time when you're far above us, Pearl, and
our ways will seem strange to you. I get worried about it, Pearl, for
I know if that time ever comes, it will worry you too, for you're not
the kind that can hurt your own and not feel it."
Pearl looked at her mother almost with alarm in her face, and the
fears that had been assailing her that her family were beyond the
social pale came back for a moment. But with the fear came a
fierce tenderness for all of them. She saw in a flash of her quick
imagination the tragedy of it from her mother's side, and in her heart
there was just one big, burning, resolute desire, that pain from this
source might never smite her mother's loving heart. The hard hands,
the sunburnt face, the thin hair that she had not taken time to care
for; the hard-working shoulders, slightly stooped; the scrawny neck,
with its tell-tale lines of age; were eloquent in their appeal. Pearl
saw the contrast of her mother's life and what her own promised to
be, and her tender heart responded, and when she spoke, it was in
an altered tone. All the fun had gone from it now, and it was not a
child's voice, nor a girl's voice, but a woman's, with all a woman's
gentleness and understanding that spoke.
"Mother," she said, "I know what is in your heart, and I will tell you
how I feel about it. You're afraid your ways may seem strange to me.
Some of them are strange to me now. I often wonder how any one can be
as unselfish as you are and keep it up day in and day out, working for
other people. Most of us can make a good stab at it, and keep it up
for a day or so, but to hit the steady pace, never looking back and
never being cross or ugly about it--that's great!"
"And about the other ... If ever there comes a time when an honest
heart and a brave spirit in a woman seems strange to me, and I get
feeling myself above them--if I ever get thinking light of honesty and
kindness and patience and hard work, and get thinking myself above
them--then your ways will be strange to me, but not until then!"
Mrs. Watson's face cleared, and a look of pride shone in her eyes.
Her face seemed to lose some of its lines, and to reflect some of the
lavish beauty of her daughter.
"You've comforted me, Pearl," she said simply, "and it's not the first
time. Whatever comes or goes, Pearl, you'll know we are proud of you,
and will stand back of you. Your outspoken ways may get you into
trouble, but we'll always believe you were right. We haven't much to
give you--only this."
"Sure and what more would any one want, leavin' home," Pearl was back
to the speech of her childhood now. "That's better than a fur coat to
keep out the cold, and the thought of my own folks makes me strong to
face the world, knowin' I can always come home even if everything else
is closed. That's good enough!"
Pearl kissed her mother affectionately, and went back to her work
upstairs, and soon Mary and her mother heard her singing. Mary stopped
scrubbing the kitchen floor, and Mrs. Watson left the iron so long on
Teddy's shirt that it left a mark:
"Say Au Revoir," sang Pearl, "but not goodbye,
The past is dead--love cannot die,
T'were better far--had we not met,
I loved you then--I love you yet."
There was something in her voice that made her mother say, "Poor
child, I wonder what's ahead of her."
CHAPTER XII
THE MACHINE
Seated in one of the billowy tapestry chairs of the Maple Leaf Club,
with a mahogany ash-stand at his elbow and the morning paper in his
hand, the Cabinet Minister gave an exclamation which began far down in
the throat, tore upward past his immaculate collar, and came forth as
a full-sized round word of great emphasis and carrying power.
It brought to him at once Peter Neelands, one of the ambitious young
lawyers of the city, who was just coming into prominence in political
circles.
"What did you say, sir?" Peter asked politely.
The Cabinet Minister controlled his indignation admirably, and with
his pudgy knuckles rapped the offending newspaper, with the motion
used by a carpenter when trying to locate the joist in a plastered
wall, as he said:--
"Here is absolutely the most damnably mischievous thing I have seen
for years, and this abominable sheet is featuring it on the Women's
Page. They will all read it--and be infected. Women are such utterly
unreasonable creatures. This is criminal."
"What is it, sir?" Peter asked deferentially.
The older man handed him the paper, and sat back in his chair, with
his fat hands clasped over his rotund person, and an expression of
deep disgust in his heavy gray eyes.
"Anything!--anything!--" he cried, "to gain a political advantage.
They will even play up this poor little uneducated, and no doubt,
mentally unfit country girl, and put in her picture and quotations
from her hysterical speeches. They never think--or care--for the
effect this will have on her, filling her head with all sorts of
notions. This paper is absolutely without a soul, and seems determined
to corrupt the country. And on the Women's Page, too, where they will
all read it!"
"By Jove! that was good"--exclaimed the young man, as he read.
"What was good--are you reading what I gave you to read?" came from
the older man.
"Yes, about this girl at Millford, it says: 'In the discussion that
followed, the local member heatedly opposed the speaker's arguments
favoring the sending of women to Parliament, and said when women sat
in Parliament, he would retire--to which the speaker replied that this
was just another proof of the purifying effect women would have on
politics. This retort naturally brought down the house, and the local
member was not heard from again'--terribly cheeky, of course, but
rather neat, sir, don't you think?"
The Cabinet Minister took a thick cigar from his vest pocket, without
replying.
"Who is the member from Millford," he demanded.
"George Steadman, sir, a big, heavy-set chap--very faithful in his
attendance, sir, absolutely reliable--never talks, but votes right."
"I don't recall him," said the great man, after a pause, "but your
description shows he's the sort we must retain."
He lit his cigar, and when it was drawing nicely, removed it from his
mouth, and looked carefully at it, as if he expected to find authentic
information in it regarding private members. Failing this, he put it
back in his mouth, and between puffs went on:--
"Let me see--they are wanting a bridge near there, aren't they? on the
Souris?"
"Yes sir, at Purple Springs."
"All right--we ought to be able to hold the fort there with the
bridge--but the trouble is, this thing will spread, and when the
campaign warms up, this girl will be in demand."
He lapsed into silence again.
Peter, still holding the paper, volunteered:--
"She seems to be one of those infant prodigies who could sing 'The
Dying Nun,' and recite 'Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight,' before she
could talk plainly."
The Cabinet Minister gave no sign that he was listening--mental
agitation was written on his face.
"But we must head her off some way, I'll admit--I don't mind saying
it--though of course it must not be repeated--these damnable women are
making me nervous. I know how to fight men--I've been fighting them
all my life--with some success."
"With wonderful success, sir!" burst in Peter.
The older man threw out his hands in a way that registered modesty.
It had in it the whole scriptural injunction of "Let another praise
thee--and not thine own mouth."
"With some success," he repeated sternly, "but I cannot fight women.
You cannot tell what they will do; they are absolutely unreliable;
they are ungrateful, too. Many of these women who form the cursed
Women's Club, are women I have been on friendly terms with; so has
the Chief. We have granted them interviews; we have listened to their
suggestions; always with courtesy, always with patience. We have
asked them to come back. In certain matters we have acceded to their
requests--in some unimportant matters--" he added quickly. "But what
is the result? Is there any gratitude? Absolutely none. Give them
an inch--they will take a mile. Women are good servants, but bad
masters."
"Don't you think, sir," said Peter, much flattered by being talked to
in this friendly way by the great man, "don't you think it is these
militant suffragettes in England who are causing the trouble? Before
they began their depredations, women did not think of the vote. It is
the power of suggestion, don't you think, and all that sort of thing?"
They were interrupted just then by the arrival of Mr. Banks, one of
the Government organizers, who, ignoring Peter's presence, addressed
himself to the Cabinet Minister. His manner was full of importance.
Mr. Banks had a position in the Public Works Department, and
occasionally might be found there. Sometimes he went in for his mail,
and stayed perhaps half an hour.
He addressed the Cabinet Minister boldly:--
"Did you see this? Looks like trouble, don't it? What do you suggest?"
Mr. Banks did not remove either his hat or his cigar. Cabinet
Ministers had no terror for him--he had made cabinet ministers. If Mr.
Banks had lived in the time of Warwick that gentleman might not have
had the title of "King-Maker."
"What do you think yourself," asked the Cabinet Minister
deferentially, "you know the temper of the country perhaps better than
any of us; shall we notice this girl or just let her go?"
Mr. Banks laughed harshly.
"We can't stop her, as a matter of fact--she isn't the kind that can
be shut up. There's nothing to her--I've made inquiries. The people
have known her since she was born, and ran the country barefooted--so
we can't send her a 'Fly--all is discovered' postcard. It won't work.
People all honest--can't get any of them into trouble--and then let
them off--and win her gratitude. This is a difficult case, and the
other side will play it up, you bet. The girl has both looks and
brains, and a certain style. She went to the Normal with my girl. My
kid's crazy about her."
"Do her people need money?" asked Peter; he was learning the inner
side of politics.
His suggestion was ignored until the pause became painful--then the
organizer said severely:--
"Nobody needs money, but every one can use it. But money is of no
use in this case. This has to be arranged by tact. Tact is what few
members of the party have; their methods are raw."
"But there is no harm done yet," said Peter hopefully, "a few country
people in a bally little school-house, and the girl gets up and
harangues. She's been to the city, and knows a few catch phrases.
There's nothing to it. We wouldn't have known of it--only for the
enthusiastic friend who pours his drivel into this paper."
Mr. Banks looked at Peter in deep contempt.
"Whoever wrote this does not write drivel, Peter," he said, with a
note of fatigue in his voice. "He has made out a good case for this
girl. Every one who reads this wants to see her. I want to see her,
you want to see her--that's the deuce of it."
"Well, why don't you go," said Peter, "or send me? I'd like to go.
Perhaps it would be better to send a young man. I often think--"
Mr. Banks looked at him with so much surprise in his usually heavy
countenance that Peter paused in confusion.
"I often think," he braved the disgust he had evoked, and spoke
hurriedly to get it said before the other man had withered him with
his eyes; "I often think a young man can get along sometimes--girls
will tell him more, feeling more companionable as it were--" He
paused, feeling for a convincing climax.
But in spite of Mr. Banks' scorn of Peter Neelands' efforts at solving
their new difficulty, he soon began to think of it more favorably,
coming to this by a process known as elimination. No one else wanted
to go; he could not think of anything else. Peter would not do any
harm--he was as guileless as a blue-eyed Angora kitten, and above all,
he was willing and anxious to get into the game. This would give him
an opportunity. So Mr. Banks suddenly made up his mind that he would
authorize a cheque to be drawn on the "Funds." It could easily be
entered under "Inspection of Public Bridges," or any old thing--that
was a mere detail.
The Cabinet Minister, who was later acquainted with the plan, and had
by that time recovered his mental composure, almost spoiled everything
by declaring it was a most unwise move, and absolutely unnecessary.
"Leave her alone," he declared, as he sipped his whiskey and
soda--"people like that hang themselves if they get enough rope. What
is she anyway--but an unlearned, ignorant country girl, who has been
in the city and gathered a few silly notions, and when she goes home
she shows off before her rustic friends. My dear boy," he addressed
Peter now, from an immeasurable distance, "the secret of England's
greatness consists of letting every damn fool say what he likes,
they feel better, and it does no harm. We must expect criticism and
censure--we are well able to bear it, and with our men in every
district, there is little to fear. We'll offset any effect there may
be from this girl's ravings by sending the Chief out for one speech."
The Minister of Public Works lapsed into meditation and drummed
pleasantly with his plump, shining hand on the table beside him. The
sweet mellowness which had been Mr. Walker's aim for years, lay on his
soul. The world grew more misty and golden every moment, and in this
sunkissed, nebulous haze, his fancy roamed free, released from sordid
cares--by Mr. Walker's potent spell. It was a good world--a good world
of true friends, no enemies, no contradiction of sinners or other
disagreeable people, nothing but ease, praise, power, success,
glorious old world, without any hereafter, or any day of accounting.
Tears of enthusiasm made dewy his eyes--he loved everybody.
"The old Chief has a hold on the people that cannot be equalled. I
thought it was wonderful last night at the banquet, the tribute be
paid to his mother. It reveals such a tender side of him, even though
he has received the highest honor the people can give him, yet the
remembers so tenderly the old home and its associations. That's his
great secret of success--he's so human--with faults like other men,
but they only make him all the more beloved. He is so tolerant of all.
When that poor simpleton stuffed the ballot-box--out somewhere in the
Blue Mountains, a really clever piece of work too, wonderfully well
done--with the false bottom--I don't see how they ever discovered
it--but it is hard to deceive the enemy--there's no piece of crooked
work they are not familiar with. He was nearly crazy when they caught
him at it--thought he could be put in jail--he forgot, the poor boob
... who he was working for.... I'll never forget how fine the old
Chief allayed his fears--'All for a good cause, my boy,' he said, in
that jovial way of his, 'I have no fear--the Lord will look after His
own.' No wonder he can get people to work for him. It is that hearty
good nature of his, and he never preaches to any one, or scolds. He
was just as kindly to the poor fellow as if he had succeeded. It was
wonderful."