  It was a morning of ominous calm, with an hour of bright sun, gradually softening into a white shadow, as a fleecy cloud of fairy whiteness rolled over the sun's face, giving a light on the earth like the garish light in a tent at high noon, a light of blinding whiteness that hurts the eyes, although the sun is hidden. It was as innocent a looking morning as any one would wish to see, still, warm, bright, with a heavy brooding air which deadens sound and makes sleighs draw hard and horses come out in foam. James Crocks, of the Horse Repository, sniffed the air apprehensively, bit a semi-circle out of a plug of tobacco, and gave orders that no horse was to leave the barn that day, for "he might be mistaken, and he might not," but he thought "we were in for it." Other people seemed to think the same, for no teams could be seen on any of the roads leading to the village. It was the kind of morning on which the old timers say, "Stay where you are, wherever it is—if there's a roof over you!" Wakening from a troubled dream of fighting gophers that turned to wild-cats, Mr. Neelands, in No. 17, made a hurried toilet, on account of the temperature of the room, for although the morning was warm, No. 17 still retained some of last week's temperature, and to Mr. Neelands, accustomed to the steam heat of Mrs. Marlowe's "Select Boarding House—young men a specialty"—it felt very chilly, indeed. But Mr. Neelands had his mind made up to be unmoved by trifles. After a good breakfast in the dining room, Mr. Neelands walked out to see the little town—and to see what information he could gather. The well-dressed young man, with the pale gray spats, who carried a cane on his arm and wore a belted coat, attracted many eyes as he swung out gaily across the street toward the livery stable. His plans were still indefinite. Bertie, who was in charge of the stable, gazed spell-bound on the vision of fashion which stood at the door, asking about a team. Bertie, for once, was speechless—he seemed to be gazing on his own better self—the vision he would like to see when he sought his mirror. "I would like to get a team for a short run," said Mr. Neelands politely. "Where you goin'," asked Bertie. Mr. Neelands hesitated, and became tactful. "I am calling on teachers," he said, on a matter of business, "introducing a new set of books for school libraries." It was the first thing Mr. Neelands could think of, and he was quite pleased with it when he said it. It had a professional, business-like ring, which pleased him. "A very excellent set of books, which the Department of Education desire to see in every school," Mr. Neelands elaborated. Then Bertie, always anxious to be helpful and to do a good deed, leapt to the door, almost upsetting Mr. Neelands in his haste. Bertie had an idea! Mr. Neelands did not connect his sudden departure with his recent scheme of enriching the life of the country districts with the set of books just mentioned, and therefore waited rather impatiently for the stableboy's return. Bertie burst in, with the same enthusiasm. "See, Mister, here's the teacher you want; I got her for you—she was just going to school." Bertie's face bore the same glad rapture that veils the countenance of a cat when she throws a mouse at your feet with a casual "How's that." Mr. Neelands found himself facing a brown-eyed, well-dressed young lady, with big question marks in both eyes, question marks which in a very dignified way demanded to know what it was all about. In his confusion, Mr. Neelands, new in the art of diplomacy, blundered: "Is this Miss Watson?" he stammered. The reply was definite. "It is not, and why did you call me." Icicles began to hang from the roof. Mr. Neelands would have been well pleased if they had fallen on him, or a horse had kicked him—or anything. He blushed a ripe tomato red. Bertie, deeply grieved, reviewed the situation. "He said he wanted to see the teachers, and I just went and got you—that's all—you were the nearest teacher." "Awfully sorry," began Mr. Neelands, "I did not know anything about it. I'm am just a stranger, you see." There was something in Miss Morrison's eye which simply froze the library proposition. He could not frame the words. "If you have any business with me you may make an appointment at the school. People who have business with the teachers generally do come to the school—not to the livery stable," she added, in exactly the tone in which she would have said "All who have failed to get fifty per cent. in arithmetic will remain after four," a tone which would be described as stern, but just. Mr. Neelands leaned against a box-stall as Miss Morrison passed out. He wiped his face with the polka-dot handkerchief, and the word which the Cabinet Minister had used came easily to his lips. "Why didn't you speak to her when you got a chance?" asked Bertie, anxious to divert the blame and meet railing with railing. He was always getting in wrong just trying to help people. Darn it all! Mr. Neelands could still think of no word but the one. "I wish it had been Pearl," said Bertie, "Gee! she wouldn't ha' been so sore; she'd just laughed and jollied about it." "So you know Pearl, do you?" Mr. Neelands could feel a revival of interest in life; also the stiffness began to leave his lips, and his tongue felt less like tissue paper. "I guess everyone knows Pearl," said Bertie, with a consciousness of superiority on at least one point. Whereupon he again fulfilled the promises of youth, the leadings of his birth star and the promptings of his spirit guides, and told all he knew about the whole Watson family, not forgetting the roses he had taken to her, and Mrs. Crock's diagnosis of it all. He had an interested listener to it all, and under the inspiration which a sympathetic hearing gives he grew eloquent, and touched with his fine fancy the romantic part of it. "Mrs. Crocks says she believes Pearl is pretty sweet on the Doctor. Pearl is one swell girl, and all that, but Mrs. Crocks says the Doctor will likely marry the Senator's daughter. Gee! I wouldn't if I was him. She hasn't got the style that Pearl has—she rides a lot and has nerve—and all that, but she's bow-legged!" His tone was indescribably scornful. Mr. Neelands gasped. "Yep," went on Bertie complacently, "we see a lot here at the stable and get to know a lot—one way'n another—we can't help it. They come and go, you know." "The doctor won't run for Parliament—he turned it down. Mrs. Crocks thinks the Senator maybe persuaded him not to—the Senator is for the Government, of course, and it is the other side wanted the doctor; anyway, that suits old Steadman; he'll likely go in again on account of the bridge at Purple Springs. Every one wants to get work on it with the Spring hangin' back the way it is." "How about a horse? I want to take a drive into the country," said Mr. Neelands. "No horse can go out of here today," answered Bertie. "Mr. Crocks says there'll be storm, and he won't take no chances on his horses. He says people can judge for themselves and run risks if they want to, he'll decide for the horses—and they can't go." "O, all right," said Mr. Neelands. "How far is it to the Watson farm?" "Are you going out?" asked Bertie. "Better phone and see if she's at home. Here's the phone—I'll get her." Mr. Neelands laid a restraining hand on Bertie's arm. "Easy there, my friend," he said, his tone resembling Miss Morrison's in its commanding chilliness, "How far is it to the Watson farm?" "Five miles in summer, four in winter," Bertie answered a little sulkily. "You would call this winter, I suppose," said the traveller, looking out at the darkening street. "I'd call it—oh, well, never mind what I'd call it—I'm always talking too much—call it anything you like." Bertie grew dignified and reserved. "Call it the first of July if you like! I don't care." That is how it came that Mr. Neelands took the out-trail when all the signs were against travelling, but to his unaccustomed eye there was nothing to fear in the woolly grayness of the sky, nor in the occasional snowflake that came riding on the wind. The roads were hard-packed and swept clean by the wind, and the sensation of space and freedom most enjoyable. Mr. Neelands as he walked filed away tidily in his mind the information received. There were valuable clues contained in the stable-boy's chatter, Which he would tabulate, regarding the lady of his quest. She was popular, approachable, gifted with a sense of humor, and perhaps disappointed in love. No clue was too small to be overlooked—and so, feeling himself one of the most deadly of sleuths, Mr. Neelands walked joyously on, while behind him there gathered one of the worst blizzards that the Souris Valley has known. The storm began with great blobbery flakes of snow, which came elbowing each other down the wind, crossing and re-crossing, circling, drifting, whirling, fluttering, so dense and thick that the whole air darkened ominously, and the sun seemed to withdraw from the world, leaving the wind and the storm to their own evil ways. The wind at once began its circling motions, whipping the snow into the traveller's face, blinding and choking him, lashing him mercilessly and with a sudden impish delight, as if all the evil spirits of the air had declared war upon him. He turned to look back, but the storm had closed behind him, having come down from the northwest and overtaken him as he walked. His only hope was to go with it, for to face it was impossible, and yet it seemed to have no direction, for it blew up in his face; it fell on him; it slapped him, jostled him, pushed him, roared in his ears, smothering him, drowning his cries with malicious joy. No cat ever worried or harrassed a mouse with greater glee than the storm fiends that frolicked through the valley that day, took their revenge on the city man, with his pointed boots, his silk-lined gloves, his belted coat and gray fedora, as he struggled on, slipping, choking, falling and rising. It seemed to him like a terrible nightmare, in its sudden, gripping fury. It pounded on his eyeballs until he was not sure but his eyes were gone; it filled his mouth and ears, and cold water trickled down his back. His gloves were wet through, and freezing, for the air grew colder every minute, and the terror of the drowning man came to him. He struggled on madly, like a steer that feels the muskeg closing around him. He did not think; he fought, with the same instinct that drives the cattle blindly, madly on towards shelter and food, when the storm lashes them and the hunger rage drives them on. Sylvester Paine, shaking the snow from his clothes like a water spaniel, and stamping all over the kitchen, was followed by his wife, who vainly tried to sweep it up as fast as it fell. She made no remonstrance, but merely swept, having long since earned that her liege lord was never turned aside from his purpose by any word of hers. When he was quite done, and the snow was melting in pools on the floor, he delivered his opinion of the country and the weather: "This is sure a hell of a country," he said, "that can throw a storm like this at the end of March." She made no reply—she had not made either the country or the weather, and would not take responsibility for them. She went on wiping up the water from the floor, with rebellion, slumbering, hidden rebellion in every movement, and the look in her eyes when she turned to the window, was a strange blending of rage and fear. "Why don't you answer me," he said, turning around quickly, "Darn you, why can't you speak when your spoken to?" "You did not speak to me," she said. "There was nothing for me to say." He looked at her for a moment—her silence exasperated him. She seemed to be keeping something back—something sinister and unknown. "Well, I can tell you one thing," he went on, in a voice that seemed to be made of iron filings, "you may not answer when I speak to you—you'll do what you're told. I'm not going to slave my life out on this farm when there's easier money to be made. Why should you set yourself above me, and say you won't go into a hotel? I have the right to decide, anyway. Better people than you have kept hotels, for all your airs. Are you any better than I am?" "I hope so," she said, without raising her eyes from the floor. She rose quietly and washed out her floorcloth, and stood drying her hands on the roller towel which hung on the kitchen door. There was an air of composure about her that enraged him. He could not make it out. The quality which made the women call her proud kindled his anger now. The storm tore past the house, shaking it in its grip like a terrier shaking a rat. It seemed to mock at their trivial disputes, and seek to settle them by drowning the sound of them. His voice rang above the storm:— "I'll sell the farm," he shouted. "I'll sell every cow and horse on it. I'll sell the bed from under you—I'll break you and your stuck-up ways, and you'll not get a cent of money from me—not if your tongue was hanging out." The children shrank into corners and pitifully tried to efface themselves. The dog, with drooping tail, sought shelter under the table. Sylvester Paine thought he saw a shrinking in her face, and followed up his advantage with a fresh outpouring of abuse. "There's no one to help you—or be sorry for you—you haven't a friend in this neighborhood, with your stuck-up way. The women are sore on you—none of them ever come to see you or even phone you. Don't you think I see it! You've no one to turn to, so you might as well know it—I've got you!" His last words were almost screamed at her, as he strove to make his voice sound above the storm, and in a sudden lull of the storm, they rang through the house. At the same moment there was a sound of something falling against the door and the dog, with bristling hair, ran out from his place of shelter. Mrs. Paine turned quickly to the door and opened it, letting in a gust of blinding snow, which eddied in the room and melted on the hot stove. A man, covered with snow, lay where he had fallen, exhausted on the doorstep. "What's this," cried Paine, in a loud voice, as he ran forward; "where did this fellow come from?" In his excitement he asked it over and over again, as if Mrs. Paine should know. She ventured no opinion, but busied herself in getting the snow from the clothes of her visitor and placing him in the rocking chair beside the fire. He soon recovered the power of speech, and thanked her gaspingly, but with deep sincerity. "This is a deuce of a day for any one to be out," began the man of the house. "Any fool could have told it was going to storm; what drove you out? Where did you come from, anyway?" Mrs. Paine looked appealingly at him:— "Let him get his breath, can't you, see, he is all in," she said quietly, "he'll tell you, when he can speak." In a couple of hours, Peter Neelands, draped in a gray blanket, sat beside the fire, while his clothes were being dried, and rejoiced over the fact that he was alive. The near tragedy of the bright young lawyer found dead in the snow still thrilled him. It had been a close squeak, he told himself, and a drowsy sense of physical well-being made him almost unconscious of his surroundings. It was enough for him to be alive and warm. Mrs. Paine moved about the house quietly, and did all she could with her crude means to make her guest comfortable, and to assure him of her hospitality. She pressed his clothes into shape again, and gave him a well-cooked dinner, as well served as her scanty supplies would allow, asking no questions, but with a quiet dignity making him feel that she was glad to serve him. There was something in her manner which made a strong appeal to the chivalrous heart of the young man. He wanted to help her—do something for her—make things easier for her. The afternoon wore on, with no loosening of the grip of the storm, and Peter began to realize that he was a prisoner. He could have been quite happy with Mrs. Paine and the children, even though the floor of the kitchen was draughty and cold, the walls smoked, the place desolate and poor; but the presence of his host, with his insulting manners, soon grew unbearable. Mr. Paine sat in front of the stove, smoking and spitting, abusing the country, the weather, the Government, the church. Nothing escaped him, and everything was wrong. A certain form of conceit shone through his words too, which increased his listener's contempt. He had made many sharp deals in his time, of which he was inordinately proud. Now he gloated over them. Fifteen thousand dollars of horse notes were safely discounted in the bank, so he did not care, he said, whether spring came or not. He had his money. The bank could collect the notes. Peter looked at him to see if he were joking. Surely no man with so much money would live so poorly and have his wife and children so shabbily dressed. Something of this must have shown in his face. "I've made money," cried Sylvester Paine, spitting at the leg of the stove; "and I've kept it—or spent it, just as I saw fit, and I did not waste is on a fancy house. What's a house, anyway, but a place to eat and sleep. I ain't goin' to put notions into my woman's head, with any big house—she knows better than to ask it now. If she don't like the house—the door is open—let her get out—I say. She can't take the kids—and she won't go far without them." He laughed unpleasantly: "That's the way to have them, and by gosh! there's one place I admired the old Premier—in the way he roasted those freaks of women who came askin' for the vote. I don't think much of the Government, but I'm with them on that—in keepin' the women where they belong." "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." |
|
