A knock sounded on the door, and when he opened it, the station agent was there, with a long box in his hand.
"It's marked 'Rush,' so I thought I had better shoot it over to you,Doc," he said.
"Thanks, old man," the Doctor said mechanically, and put the box down on the table. On a white label, in bright red letters, stood out the word 'Perishable.'
The word struck him like a blow between the eyes. "Perishable!" Then here was something to which he might feel akin. He opened the box, with detached interest. A sweet breath of roses proclaimed the contents. He had forgotten about sending for them until now—Pearl's roses for this day—nineteen American Beauties!
He carefully unpacked the wrapping, and held up the sheaf of loveliness, and just for one moment had the thrill of joy that beauty had always brought to him. Pearl's roses! The roses, with which he had hoped to say what was in his heart—here they were, in all their exquisite loveliness, and ready to carry the words of love and hope and tenderness—but now … he had nothing to say … love and marriage were not for him!
He sat down heavily, beside the table over which the roses lay scattered, spilling their perfume in the room.
He fingered them lovingly, smoothing their velvety petals with a tender hand, while his mind sought in vain to readjust itself to the change the last two hours had brought.
He turned again to the fire, which glowed with blue and purple lights behind the windows of isinglass, curling and flaming and twisting, with fascinating brilliance. Long he sat, watching it, while the sounds outside in the street grew less and less, and at last when he went to the window, he found the street in darkness and in silence. The moon had set, and his watch told him it was two o'clock.
The wind whimpered in the chimney like a lonesome puppy, rising and falling, cying out and swelling with eerie rhythm; a soft spring wind, he knew it was, that seemed to catch its breath like a thing in pain.
Looking again at the roses, he noticed that the leaves were drooping. He hastily went into the dispensary and brought out two graduates filled with water to put them in; but when he lifted them—he saw, with poignant pain—they were gone past helping—they were frost-bitten.
Then it was that he gathered them in his arms, with sudden passion, and as he sat through the long night, he held them closely to him, for kin of his they surely were—these frosted roses, on whose fragrant young hearts the blight had so prematurely fallen!
At daybreak, when the light from the eastern sky came in blue at the window blind, and the gasoline lamp grew sickly and pale, the doctor went to bed. He had thought it all out and outlined his course of action.
He did not doubt the old doctor's word; his own knowledge gave corroborative evidence that it was quite true, and he wondered he had not thought of it. Still, there was something left for him to do. He would play up and play the game, even if it were a losing fight. His own house had fallen, but it would be his part now to see that the minimum amount of pain would come to Pearl over it. She was young, and had all the world before her—she would forget. He had a curious shrinking from having her know that he had the disease, for like most doctors, he loathed the thought of disease, and had often quoted to his patients in urging them to obey the laws of physiological righteousness, the words of Elbert Hubbard that "The time would come when people would feel more disgrace at being found in a hospital than in a jail, for jails were for those who broke men's laws, but those in the hospital had broken the laws of God!"
He shuddered now when he thought of it, it all seemed so unnecessary—so wantonly cruel—so so inexplicable.
Above all, Pearl must not know, for instinctively he felt that if she knew he was a sick man, she would marry him straight away—she would be so sweet about it all, and so hopeful and sure he would get well, and such a wonderfully skilful and tender nurse, that he would surely get well. For one blissful but weak moment, which while it thrilled it frightened him still more—he allowed himself to think it would be best to tell her. Just for one weak moment the thought came—to be banished forever from his mind. No! No! No! disaster had come to him, but Pearl would not be made to suffer, she would not be involved in any way.
But just what attitude to take, perplexed him. Those big, soft brown eyes of hers would see through any lie he tried to invent, and he was but a poor liar anyway. What could he tell Pearl? He would temporize—he would stall for time. She was too young—she had seen so little of the world—it would be hard to wait—he believed he could take that line with her—he would try it.
When he awakened, the sun was shining in the room, with a real spring warmth that just for a minute filled him with gladness and a sense of wellbeing. Then he remembered, and a groan burst from his lips.
The telephone rang:
Reaching out, he seized it and answered.
"It's me," said a voice, "It's Pearl! I am coming in—I know you're tired after yesterday, and you need a long sleep—so don't disturb yourself—I'll be in about two o'clock—just when the sun is brightest—didn't I tell you it would be finer still today?"
"You surely did, Pearl," he answered, "however you knew."
"I'm not coming just to see you—ma wants a new strainer, and Bugsey needs boots, and Mary has to have another hank of yarn to finish the sweater she's knitting—these are all very urgent, and I'll get them attended to first, and then…."
She paused:
"Then you'll come and see me, Pearl"—he finished, "and we'll have the meeting which we adjourned three years ago—to meet yesterday."
"That's it," she said, "and goodbye until then."
He looked at his watch, it was just ten—there was yet time.
Reaching for the telephone, he called long distance, Brandon. "Give meOrchard's greenhouses," he said.
After a pause he got the wire:
"Send me a dozen and a half—no, nineteen—American Beauty roses on today's train, without fail. This is Dr. Clay of Millford talking."
He put back the telephone, and lay back with a whimsical smile, twisting his mouth. "The frosted ones are mine," he said to himself, "there will be no blight or spot or blemish on Pearl's roses."
It was quite like Pearl to walk into the doctors' office without embarrassment. It was also like her to come at the exact hour she had stated in her telephone message—and to the man who sat waiting for her, with a heart of lead, she seemed to bring the whole sunshine of Spring with her.
Ordinarily, Dr. Clay did not notice what women wore, they all looked about the same to him—but he noticed that Pearl's gray coat and furs just needed the touch of crimson which her tam o'shanter and gloves supplied, and which seemed to carry out the color in her glowing cheeks. She looked like a red apple in her wholesomeness.
He had tried to get the grittiness of the sleepless night out of his eyes, and had shaved and dressed himself with the greatest care, telling himself it did not matter—but the good habit was deeply fastened on him and could not be set aside.
There was nothing about the well-dressed young man, with his carefully brushed hair and splendid color, to suggest disease. Pearl's eyes approved of each detail, from the way his hair waved and parted back; the dull gold and purple tie, which seemed to bring out the bronze tones in his hair and the steely gray of his eyes; the well-cut business suit of rough brown tweed, with glints of green and bronze, down to the dark brown, well-polished boots.
Pearl was always proud of him; it glowed in her eyes again today, and again he felt it, warming his heart and giving him the sense of well-being which Pearl's presence always brought. All at once he felt rested and full of energy.
When the first greetings were over, and Pearl had seated herself, at his invitation, in the big chair, he said, laughing:
"'Tis a fine day, Miss Watson."
"It is that!" said Pearl, with her richest brogue, which he had often told her he hoped she would never lose.
"And you are eighteen years old now," he said, in the same tone.
"Eighteen, going on nineteen," she corrected gaily.
"All right, eighteen—going on—nineteen. Three years ago there was a little bargain made between us—without witnesses, that we would defer all that was in our minds for three years—we'd give the matter a three years' hoist—and then take it up just where we left it!"
She nodded, without speaking.
"Now I have thought about it a lot," he went on, "indeed I do not think a day has gone by without my thinking of it, and incidentally, I have thought of myself and my belongings. I wish to draw your attention to them—I am twenty-nine years old—I've got a ten years' start of you, and I will always expect to be treated with respect on account of my years—that's clearly understood, is it?"
He was struggling to get himself in hand.
"Clearly understood," she repeated, with her eyes on him in unmistakable adoration.
"Six years ago," he seemed to begin all over gain—"I came out of college, with all sorts of fine theories, just bubbling over with enthusiasm, much the same as you are now, fresh from Normal, but somehow they have mostly flattened out, and now I find myself settling down to the prosy life of a country doctor, who feeds his own horses and blackens his own boots, and discusses politics with the retired farmers who gather in the hardware store. I catch myself at it quite often. Old Bob Johnson and I are quite decided there will be a war with Germany before many years. We don't stop at Canadian affairs—the world is not too wide for us! Yes, Pearl, here I am, a country doctor, with an office in need of paint—a very good medical library—in need of reading—a very common-place, second-rate doctor—who will never be a great success, who will just continue to grub along. With you, Pearl, it is different. You have ambition, brains—and something about you that will carry you far—I always knew it—and am so glad that at the Normal they recognized your ability."
A puzzled look dimmed the brightness of her eyes just for a moment, and the doctor stumbled on.
"I am all right, as far as I go—but there's not enough of me—I'm not big enough for you, Pearl."
Pearl's eyes danced again, as she looked him up and down, and he laughed in spite of himself.
"For goodness sake, girl," he cried, "don't look at me, you make me forget what I was saying—I can't think, when you train those eyes of yours on me."
Pearl obediently turned her head away, but he could still see the dimple in her cheeks.
"I have had a long fight with myself, Pearl," and now that he was back to the truth, his voice had its old mellowness that swept her heart with tenderness—"a long fight—and it is not over yet. I'm selfish enough to want you—-that is about 99.9% of me is selfish, the other infinitesimal part cries out for me to play the man—and do the square thing—I am making a bad job of this, but maybe you understand."
He came over and turned her head around until she faced him.
"I have begun at the wrong end of this, dear, I talk as if you had said—you cared—I have no right to think you do. I should remember you are only a child—and haven't thought about—things like this!"
"O, haven't I, though," she cried eagerly. "I've been thinking—all the time—I've never stopped thinking—I've had the loveliest time thinking."
The doctor went on in a measured tone, as one who must say the words he hates to utter. All the color had gone from his voice, all the flexibility. It was as hard as steel now, and as colorless as a dusty road.
"Pearl, I am going to say what I should say, not what I want to say…. Supposing I did induce you to marry me now. Suppose I could … in ten years from now, when you are a woman grown, you might hate me for taking advantage of your youth, your inexperience, your childish fancy for me—I am not prepared to take that risk—it would be a criminal thing to run any chances of spoiling a life like yours."
Her eyes looked straight into his, and there was a little muttered cry in them that smote his heart with pity. He had seen it in the faces of little children, his patients, who, though hurt, would not cry.
"And I am selfish enough to hope that in a few years, when you are old enough to choose, you will think of what I am doing now, and know the sacrifice I am making, and come to me of your own free will—no, I did not intend to say that—I do not mean what I said—the world is yours, Pearl, to choose as you will—I have no claim on you! You start fair."
Pearl's cheeks had lost a little of their rosy glow, and her face had taken on a cream whiteness. She stood up and looked at him, with widely opened eyes. A girl of smaller soul might have misunderstood him, and attributed to him some other motive. Though Pearl did not agree with him, she believed every word he had said.
"Supposing," she said eagerly, "that I do not want to start fair—and don't want to be free to choose—supposing I have made my choice—supposing I understand you better than you do yourself, and tell you now that you are not a second-hand doctor—that you are a sun and a shield to this little town and country, just as you have been to me—you bring health and courage by your presence—the people love and trust you—suppose I remind you that you are not only a doctor, but the one that settles their quarrels and puts terror into the evil-doer. Who was it that put the fear into Bill Plunkett when he blackened his wife's eyes, and who was it that brought in the two children from the Settlement, that were abused by their step-father, and took the old ruffian's guns away from him and marched him in too! That's a job for a second-rate doctor, isn't it? I hear the people talking about you, and I have to turn my back for fear they hear my eyes shouting out, 'That's my man you're praising' and here he is, telling me he is a second-rate doctor! Is that what you were when the fever was so bad, and all the Clarke's had it at once, and you nursed six of them through it? Mrs. Clarke says the only undressing you did was to loosen your shoe-laces!"
"Don't you see—I know you better than you do yourself. You don't see how big your work is. Is it a small thing to live six years in a place and have every one depending on you, praising you—loving you—and being able to advise them and lead the young fellows anyway you like—making men of them, instead of street loafers—and their mothers so thankful they can hardly speak of it."
"You evidently don't know what we think of you, any of us—and here I am—I don't know when it began with me—the first day I saw you—I think, when I was twelve—I've been worshipping you and treasuring up every word you ever said to me. I don't know whether it is love or not, it's something very sweet. It has made me ambitious to look my best, do my best and be my best. I want to make you proud of me—I will make you proud of me—see if I don't—I want to be with you, to help you, look after you—grow up with you—I don't know whether it is love or not—it—is something! There is nothing too hard for me to do, if it is for you—everything—any thing would be sweet to me—if you were with me. Is that love?"
She was standing before him, holding his hand in both of hers, and her eyes had the light in them, the tender, glowing light that seemed to flame blue at the edges, like the coal fire he had watched the night before.
Impulsively he drew her to him, and for a moment buried his face in her warm, white neck, kissing the curling strands of her brown hair.
"O Pearl," he cried, drawing away from her, "O Pearl—you're a hard girl to give up—you make me forget all my good resolutions. I don't want to do what I ought to do. I just want you."
There was a smothered cry in his voice that smote on Pearl's heart with a sudden fear. Mothers know the different notes in their children's cries—and in Pearl, the maternal instinct was strong.
She suddenly understood. He was suffering, there was a bar between them—for some reason, he could not marry her!
She grew years older, it seemed, in a moment, and the thought that came into her brain, clamoring to be heard, exultantly, insistently knocking for admission, was this—her mother's pessimistic way of looking at life was right—there were things too good to be true—she had been too sure of her happiness. The thought, like cold steel, lay against her heart and dulled its beating. But the pain in his eyes must be comforted. She stood up, and gravely took the hand he held out to her.
"Doctor," she said steadily, "you are right, quite right, about this—a girl of eighteen does not know her own mind—it is too serious a matter—life is too long—I—I think I love you—I mean I thought I did—I know I like to be with you—and—-all that—but I'm too young to be sure—and I'll get over this all right. You're right in all you say—and it's a good thing you are so wise about this—we might have made a bad mistake—that would have brought us unhappiness. But it has been sweet all the time, and I'm not sorry—we'll just say no more about it now and don't let it worry you—I can stand anything—if you're not worried."
He looked at her in amazement—and not being as quick as she, her words deceived him, and there was not a quiver on her lips, as she said:
"I'll go now, doctor, and we'll just forget what we were saying—they were foolish words. I'm thinking of going North to teach—one of the inspectors wrote me about a school there. I just got his letter today, and he asked me to wire him—I'll be back at the holidays."
She put the red tam on her brown hair, tucking up the loose strands, in front of the glass, as she spoke. Manlike, he did not see that her hands trembled, and her face had gone white. He sat looking at her in deep admiration.
"What a woman you are, Pearl," broke from his lips.
She could not trust herself to shake hands, or even look at him. Her one hope was to get away before her mask of unconcern broke into a thousand pieces by the pounding of her heart, which urged her to throw her arms around him and beg him to tell her what was really wrong—oh, why wouldn't he tell her!
"You'll think of this dear," he said, "in a few years when you are, I hope, happily married to the man of your choice, and you will have a kindly thought for me, and know I was not a bad sort—you'll remember every word of this Pearl, and you will understand that what is strange to you now—and you will perhaps think of me—and if not with pleasure, it will at least be without pain."
He wanted to give her the roses, which had come just a few moments before she came in, but somehow he could not frame a casual word of greeting. He would send them to her.
She was going now.
"Pearl, dearest Pearl," he cried "I cannot let you go like this—and yet—it's best for both of us."
"Sure it is," she said, smiling tightly, to keep her lips from quivering. "I'm feeling fine over it all." The pain in his voice made her play up to her part.
"I can't even kiss you, dear,'" he said. "I don't want you to have one bitter memory of this. I want you to know I was square—and loved you too well to take the kiss, which in after life might sting your face when you thought that I took advantage of your youth. A young girl's first kiss is too sacred a thing."
Suddenly Pearl's resolution broke down. It was the drawn look in his face, and its strange pallor.
She reached up and kissed his cheek.
"A little dab of a kiss like that won't leave a sting on any one's face," she said.
She was gone!
When Pearl came out of the doctor's office into the sunshine of the village street, she had but one thought—one overwhelming desire, expressed in the way she held her head, and the firm beat of her low-heeled shoes on the sidewalk—she must get away where she would not see him or the people she knew. She realized that whatever it was that had come between them was painful to him, and that he really cared for her. To see her, would be hard on him, embarrassing to them both, and she would do her share by going away—and she remembered, with a fresh pang—that when she had spoken of this, he had made no objection, thus confirming her decision that for her to go would be the best way.
The three glorious years, so full of hopes and dreams, were over! Pearl's house of hopes had fallen! All was over! And it was not his fault—he was not to blame. Instinctively, Pearl defended him in her mind against a clamorous sense of injustice which told her that she had not had a square deal! The pity of it all was what choked her and threatened to storm her well guarded magazine of self-control! It was all so sudden, so mysterious and queer, and yet, she instinctively felt, so inexorable!
Pearl had always been scornful of the tears of lovelorn maidens, and when in one of her literature lessons at the Normal, the sad journey of the lily-maid on her barge of black samite, floating down the river, so dead and beautiful, with the smile on her face and the lily in her hand, reduced form A to a common denominator of tears, and made the whole room look like a Chautauqua salute, Pearl had stoutly declared that if Elaine had played basketball or hockey instead of sitting humped up on a pile of cushions in her eastern tower, broidering the sleeve of pearls so many hours a day, she wouldn't have died so easily nor have found so much pleasure in arranging her own funeral.
But on this bright March day, the village street seemed strangely dull and dead to her, with an empty sound like a phone that has lost its connection. Something had gone from her little world, leaving it motionless, weary and old! A row of icicles hung from the roof of the corner store, irregular and stained from the shingles above, like an ugly set of ill-kept teeth, dripping disconsolately on the sidewalk below, and making there a bumpy blotch of unsightly ice!
In front of the store stood the delivery sleigh, receiving its load of parcels, which were thrown in with an air of unconcern by a blocky young man with bare red hands. The horse stood without being tied, in an apparently listless and melancholy dream. A red and white cow came out of the lane and attempted to cross the slippery sidewalk, sprawling helplessly for a moment, and then with a great effort recovered herself and went back the way she came, limping painfully, the blocky young man hastening her movements by throwing at her a piece of box lid, with the remark that that would "learn her."
The sunshine so brilliant and keen, had a cold and merciless tang in it, and a busy-body look about it, as if it delighted in shining into forbidden corners and tearing away the covers that people put on their sorrows, calling all the world to come and see! Pearl shuddered with the sudden realization that the sun could shine and the wind could blow bright and gay as ever, though hearts were writhing in agony!
She hoped she would not see any of the people she knew, for the pain that lay like a band of ice around her heart might be showing in her face—and Pearl knew that the one thing she could not stand was a word of sympathy. That would be fatal. So she hurried on. She would send a wire of acceptance to her inspector friend, and then go over to the stable for her horse, and be on her way home.
But there is something whimsical about fate. It takes a hand in our affairs without apology, and throws a switch at the last moment. If Pearl had not met Mrs. Crocks at the corner, just before she took the street to the station, this would have been a different story. But who knows? We never get a chance to try the other way, and it is best and wisest and easiest of comprehension to believe that whatever is, is best!
Mrs. Crocks was easily the best informed person regarding local happenings, in the small town of Millford. She really knew. Every community has its unlicensed and unauthorized gossips, who think they know what their neighbors are thinking and doing, but who more often than not get their data wrong, and are always careless of detail. Mrs. Crocks was not one of these.
When Bill Cavers got drunk, and spent in one grand, roaring spree all the money which he and his wife and Libby Anne had saved for their trip to Ontario, there were those who said that he went through six hundred dollars that one night, making a rough guess at the amount. Mrs. Crocks did not use any such amateur and unsatisfactory way of arriving at conclusions. She did not need to—there was a way of finding out! To the elevator she went, and looked at the books under cover of looking up a wheat ticket which her husband had cashed and found that Bill Cavers had marketed seventeen hundred and eight dollars worth of wheat. From this he had paid his store bill, and the blacksmith's bill, which when deducted, left him eight hundred and fourteen dollars—she did not bother with the cents. The deductions were easily verified—both the storekeeper and the blacksmith were married men!
This was the method she followed in all her research—careful, laborious and accurate at all costs, with a fine contempt for her less scientific contemporaries. The really high spots in her life had been when she was able to cover her competitors with confusion by showing that their facts were all wrong, which process she referred to as "showing up these idle gossips."
James Crocks, her husband, had chosen for himself a gentler avocation than his wife's, and one which brought him greater peace of mind—proprietor of the big red stable which spread itself over half a block, he had unconsciously defined himself, as well as his place of business, by having printed in huge white letters with black edging across the shingled roof, the words:
Here the tired horses could forget the long trail and the heavy loads, in the comfortable stalls, with their deep bedding of clean straw; and here also, James Crocks himself was able to find the cheerful company, who ate their meals in quietude of heart, asking no questions, imputing no motives, knowing nothing of human intrigue, and above all, never, never insisting that he tell them what he thought about anything! Most of his waking hours were spent here, where he found the gentle sounds of feeding horses, the honest smell of prairie hay and the blessed absence of human chatter very soothing and restful.
As time went on, and James Crocks grew more and more averse to human speech—having seen it cause so much trouble one way'n another, Mrs. Crocks found it was an economy of effort to board one of the stable boys, and that is how it came about that Mr. Bertie Peters found himself called from the hay-mow above the stable, to his proprietors' guest chamber, and all the comforts of a home, including nightly portions of raisin pie—and best of all, an interested and appreciative audience who liked to hear him talk. Mrs. Crocks as usual had made a good choice, for as Bertie talked all the time, he was sure to say something once in a while. A cynical teacher had once said of Bertie, that he never had an "unuttered thought."
But even though the livery stable happenings as related by Bertie gave Mrs. Crocks many avenues of information, all of her prescience could not be explained through that or any other human agency. The young doctor declared she had the gift or divination, was a mind reader, and could see in the dark! Many a time when he had gone quietly to the stable and taken out his team without as much as causing a dog to bark, removing his sleigh bells to further cover his movements, and stealing out of town like an absconding bank-teller, to make a call, returning the same way, still under cover of night, and flattering himself that he had fooled her this time, she would be waiting for him, and timed her call to the exact minute. Just as he got in to his room after putting his team away, his phone would ring and Mrs. Crocks would ask him about the patient he had been to see. She did not always call him, of course, but he felt she knew where he had been. There was no explanation—it was a gift!
Pearl had been rather a favorite with Mrs. Crocks when the Watsons family lived in Millford, but since they had gone to the farm and prosperity had come to them as evidenced by their better clothes, their enlarged house, their happier faces, and more particularly Pearl's success in her school work in the city, all of which had appeared in the local paper, for the editor was enthusiastic for his own town—Mrs. Crock's friendly attitude had suffered a change. She could put up with almost anything in her friends, but success!
But when she met Pearl on the street that day, her manner was friendly.
"Hello stranger," she said, "I hear you have been doing big things down there in the city, winnin' debates and makin' speeches. Good for you, Pearl—I always said you were a smart girl, even when your people were as poor as get-out. I could see it in you—but don't let it spoil you, Pearl—and don't ever forget you are just a country girl. But I am certainly glad you did so well—for your mother's sake—many a time I was dead sorry for her having to work so hard! It's a comfort to her now to see you doin' so well. Where have been now? I saw you comin' out of the doctor's office just now—anybody sick? You're not looking as pert as usual yourself—you haven't been powdering' your face, I hope! No one sick, eh? Just a friendly call then, was it? See here, Pearl—when I was young, girls did not do the chasin', we let the men do that, and I'm here to tell you it's the best way. And look here, there's enough girls after Doctor Clay without you—there was a man from the city telling Bertie at the stable that he seen our doctor in a box at the Opera with the Senator's daughter two weeks ago, and that she is fair dippy about him, and now that he is thinking of goin' into politics, it would be a great chance for him. The other side are determined to make him run for them against old Steadman, and the old lady is that mad she won't let his name be mentioned in the house. She says the country owes it to Mr. Steadman to put him in by acclamation! And the doctor hasn't accepted it yet. The committee went to see him yesterday and he turned them down but they won't take no for an answer, and they asked him to think it over—I suppose he told you all about it—"
For the first time Mrs. Crocks stopped for breath. Her beady eyes were glistening for excitement. Here was a scoop—if Pearl would only tell her. She would be able to anticipate the doctor's answer.
"What is he goin' to do, Pearl, I know he would tell you; I have always said that doctor thinks more of you than he does of any of the other girls! What did he say about it, will he take it?"
Pearl was quite herself now—composed, on her guard, even smiling.
"I think the doctor would prefer to make his own announcement," she said, "and he will make it to the committee."
Mrs. Crocks' eyes narrowed darkly, and she breathed heavily in her excitement. Did Pearl Watson mean to tell her in as many words, to mind her own business. But in Pearl's face there was no guile, and she was going on her way.
"Don't be in a hurry, Pearl," said Mrs. Crocks, "can't you wait a minute and talk to an old friend. I am sure I do not care a pin whether the doctor runs or not. I never was one to think that women should concern themselves with politics—that surely belongs to the men. I have been a home body all my life, as you know, and of course I should have known that the doctor would not discuss his business with a little chit like you—but dear, me, he is one terrible flirt, he cannot pass a pretty face. Of course now he will settle down no doubt, every one thinks he will anyway, and marry Miss Keith of Hampton—the Keith's have plenty of money, though I don't believe that counts as much with the doctor as family, and of course they have the blue blood too, and her father being the Senator will help. What! must you go—you're not half as sociable as you used to be when you brought the milk every morning to the back door—you sure could talk then, and tell some of the weirdest things. I always knew you would be something, but if you freeze up like a clam when you meet old friends—it does not seem as if education has improved you. Can't you stay and talk a minute?"
"I could stay," said Pearl, "and I can still talk, but I have not been able to talk to you. You see I do not like to interrupt any one so much older than myself!"
When Pearl walked away, Mrs. Crocks looked after her with a look of uncertainty on her face. Pearl's words rang in her ears!
"She's smart, that kid—she's smart—I'll say that for her. There is not a man in town who dare look me in the eye and take a rise like that out of me, but she did it without a flicker. So I know I had her mad or she wouldn't have said it, but wasn't she smooth about it?"
Then her professional pride asserted itself, reminding her that a slight had been put upon her, and her mood changed.
"Of all the saucy little jades," she said to herself—"with the air of a duchess, and the fine clothes of her! And to think that her mother washed for me not so long ago, and that girl came for the clothes and brought them back again! And now listen to her! You put your foot in it, Pearl my young lady, when you rubbed Jane Crocks the wrong way, for people cannot do that and get away with it! And remember I am telling you."
When Pearl left Mrs. Crocks standing on the street she walked quickly to the station, but arriving there with the yellow blank in her hand, she found her intention of accepting a school in the North had grown weak and pale. She did not want to go to North, or any place. She suddenly wanted to stay. She would take a school some place near—and see what was going to happen; and besides—she suddenly thought of this—she must not decide on anything until she saw Mr. Donald, her old teacher, and got his advice. It would not be courteous to do anything until she saw him, and tomorrow was the day he wanted her to go to the school to speak to the children. Why, of course, she could not go—-and so Pearl reasoned in that well-known human way of backing herself up in the thing she wanted to do! So she tore off a couple of blank forms and put them in her purse, and asked the agent if he knew how the train from the East was, and he gave her the assurance that it had left the city on time and was whoopin' it along through the hills at Cardinal when last heard from—and stood a good chance of getting in before night.
All the way home, Pearl tried to solve the tangle of thoughts that presented themselves to her, but the unknown quantity, the "X" in this human equation, had given her so little to work on, that it seemed as though she must mark it "insufficient data" and let it go! But unfortunately for Pearl's peace of mind it could not be dismissed in that way.
One thing was evident—it was some sudden happening or suggestion that had changed his attitude towards her, for there was no mistaking the tenderness in his messages over the phone the day before—and why did he remember the day at all, if it were only to tell her that she was too young to really know her own mind. The change—whatever it was—had taken place in the interval of his phoning, and her visit, and Mrs. Crocks had said that a committee had gone to see him and offer him the nomination! What difference would that make? The subtle suggestion of the senator's daughter came back to her mind! Was it possible—that the Watson family were—what she had once read of in an English story—'socially impossible.' Pearl remembered the phrase. The thought struck her with such an impact that she pulled her horse up with a jerk, and stood on the road in deep abstraction.
She remembered the quarrel she had once had with a girl at school. It all came back in a flash of rage that lit up this forgotten corner of her memory! The cause of the quarrel did not appear in the record, but that the girl had flung it at her that her people were nothing and nobody—her mother a washerwoman and her father a section hand—now stood out in letters of flame! Pearl had not been angry at the time—and she remembered that her only reason for taking out the miserable little shrimp and washing her face in the snow was that she knew the girl had said this to be very mean, and with the pretty certain hope that it would cut deep! She was a sorrel-topped, anaemic, scrawny little thing, who ate slate-pencils and chewed paper, and she had gone crying to the teacher with the story of Pearl's violence against her.
Mr. Donald had found out the cause, and had spoken so nicely to Pearl about it, that her heart was greatly lifted as a result, and the incident became a pleasant recollection, with only the delightful part remaining, until this moment. Mr. Donald had said that Pearl was surely a lucky girl, when the worst thing that could be said to her was that her two parents had been engaged in useful and honorable work—and he had made this the topic for a lesson that afternoon in showing how all work is necessary and all honorable. Out of the lesson had grown a game which they often played on Friday afternoons, when a familiar object was selected and all the pupils required to write down the names of all the workers who had been needed to bring it to perfection.
And the next day when lunch time came, Mr. Donald told them he had been thinking about the incident, and how all that we enjoy in life comes to us from our fellow-workers, and he was going to have a new grace, giving the thanks to where it belonged. He said God was not the kind of a Creator who wanted all the glory of the whole world—for he knew that every man and woman or boy or girl that worked, was entitled to praise, and he liked to see them thanked as they deserved.
A new grace was written on the board, and each day it was repeated by all the pupils. Pearl remembered that to her it had seemed very grand and stately and majestic, with the dignity and thrill of a pipe-organ:
"Give us to know, O God, that the blessings we are about to enjoy have come to us through the labors of others. Strengthen the ties of brotherhood and grant that each of us may do our share of the world's work."
But the aesthetic emotions which it sent through her young soul the first time she said it, did not in any way interfere with the sweet satisfaction she had in leaning across the aisle and wrinkling up her nose at her former adversary!
She began to wonder now if Mr. Donald had been right in his idealistic way of looking at life and labor. She had always thought so until this minute, and many a thrill of pride had she experienced in thinking of her parents and their days of struggling. They had been and were, the real Empire-builders who subdued the soil and made it serve human needs, enduring hardships and hunger and cold and bitter discouragements, always with heroism and patience. The farm on which they now lived, had been abandoned, deserted, given up for a bad job, and her people had redeemed it, and were making it one of the best in the country! Every farm in the community was made more valuable because of their efforts. It had seemed to Pearl a real source of proper pride—that her people had begun with nothing, and were now making a comfortable living, educating their children and making improvements each year in their way of living and in the farm itself! It seemed that she ought to be proud of them, and she was!
But since she had been away, she learned to her surprise that the world does not give its crowns to those who serve it best—but to those who can make the most people serve them, and she found that many people think of work as a disagreeable thing, which if patiently endured for a while may be evaded ever afterwards, and indeed her mother had often said that she was determined to give her children an education, so they would not need to work as hard as she and their father had. Education then seemed to be a way of escape.
Senator Keith, of Hampton, with his forty sections all rented out, did not work. Miss Keith, his daughter, did not work. They did not need to work—they had escaped!
It was quite a new thought to Pearl, and she pondered it deeply. The charge against her family—the slur which could be thrown on them was not that of dishonor, dishonesty, immorality or intemperance—none of these—but that they had worked at poorly paid, hard jobs, thereby giving evidence that they were not capable of getting easier ones. Hard work might not be in itself dishonorable—but it was a confession.
Something in Pearl's heart cried out at the injustice of this. It was not fair! All at once she wanted to talk about it to—some one, to everybody. It was a mistaken way of looking at life, she thought; the world, as God made it, was a great, beautiful place, with enough of everything to go around. There is enough land—enough coal—enough oil. Enough pleasure and beauty, enough music and fun and good times! What had happened was that some had taken more than their share, and that was why others had to go short, and the strange part of it all was that the hoggish ones were the exalted ones, to whom many bowed, and they—some of them—were scornful of the people who were still working—though if every one stopped working, the world would soon be starving.
"It is a good world—just the same," said Pearl, as she looked away to her left, where the Hampton Hills shoved one big blue shoulder into the sky-line. "People do not mean to be hard and cruel to each other—they do not understand, that's all—they have not thought—they do not see."
From the farm-houses set back in the snowy fields, came the cheerful Spring sounds of scolding hens and gabbling ducks, with the occasional bark of a dog. The sunshine had in it now no tang of cold or bitterness, for in Pearl's heart there had come a new sense of power—an exaltation of spirit that almost choked her with happiness. Her eyes flashed—her hands tingled—her feet were light as air. Out of the crushing of her hopes, the falling of her house of dreams, had come this inexplicable intoxication, which swept her heart with its baptism of joy.
She threw back her head and looked with rapture into the limitless blue above her, with something of the vision which came to Elisha's servant at Dothan when he saw the mountains were filled with the horses and the chariots of the Lord!
"It is a good world," she whispered, "God made it, Christ lived in it—and when He went away, He left His Spirit. It can't go wrong and stay wrong. The only thing that is wrong with it is in people's hearts, and hearts can be changed by the Grace of God."
A sudden feeling of haste came over her—a new sense of responsibility—there were so many things to be done. She roused the fat pony from his pleasant dream, to a quicker gait, and drove home with the strange glamour on her soul.
When Pearl rode in to the farmyard, she saw her brother Tommy coming in great haste across the fields, waving his arms to her with every evidence of strong excitement. The other children were on their way home, too, but it was evident that Thomas had far outrun them. Tommy had a tale to tell.
"There is going to be real 'doin's' at the school on Friday," he cried, as soon as he was within calling distance of her. "Mr. Donald has asked all the big people, too, and the people from Purple Springs, and the women are going to bring pies and things, and there will be eats, and you are to make the speech, and then maybe there will be a football match, and you can talk as long as you like, and we are all to clap our hands when your name is mentioned and then again when you get up to speak—and it's to be Friday."
Tommy told his story all in one breath, and without waiting to get a reply, he made his way hurriedly to the barn where his father and Teddy were working. There he again told it, with a few trifling variations. "You are all to come, and there will be a letter tomorrow telling you all about it, but it is a real big day that is going to be at school, and all the big people, too, and it is to hear Pearl talk about what she saw and heard in the city, and there will be cakes and stuff to eat and the Tuckers said they would not come and Jimmy said 'Dare you to stay away' and they did not take his dare."
Teddy, in true brotherly fashion, professed some doubts of the success of the undertaking.
"Pearl is all right to talk around home, but gee whiz, I don't believe she can stand right up and talk like a preacher, she'll forget what she was goin' to say, I couldn't say two words before all those people."
John Watson went on with the fanning of the wheat. He had stopped the mill only long enough to hear Tommy's message, and Teddy's brotherly apprehensions, he made no comment. But a close observer would have noticed that he worked a little faster, and perhaps held his shoulders a little straighter—they had grown stooped in the long days when he worked on the section. Although his shoulders had sagged in the long hard struggle, there had always burned in his heart the hope that better days would come—and now the better days were here. The farm was doing well—every year they were able to see that they were making progress. The children were all at school, and today—today Pearlie was asked to speak to all the people in the neighborhood. Pearlie had made a name for herself when she got the chance to get out with other boys and girls. It was a proud day for John Watson, and his honest heart did not dissemble the pride he felt in his girl.
Pearl herself had a momentary feeling of fear when she heard the plans that were being made. The people she knew would be harder to speak to than strangers. But the exaltation that had come to her heart was still with her, and impelled her to speak. There were things which should be said—great matters were before the country. Pearl had attended many political meetings in the city, and also as many sessions of the Legislature as she could, and so she knew the Provincial political situation, and it was one of great interest.
The government had been in power for many years and had built up a political machine which they believed to be invincible. They had the country by the throat, and ruled autocratically, scorning the feeble protests of the Opposition, who were few in number and weak in debate. Many a time as Pearl sat in the Ladies' Gallery and listened to the flood of invective with which the cabinet ministers smothered any attempt at criticism which the Opposition might make, she had longed for a chance to reply. They were so boastful, so overbearing, so childishly important, it seemed to her that it would be easy to make them look ridiculous, and she often found herself framing replies for the Opposition. But of course there was a wide gulf between the pompous gentlemen who lolled and smoked their black cigars in the mahogany chairs on the redcarpeted floor of the House, and the bright-eyed little girl who sat on the edge of her seat in the gallery and looked down upon them.
She had been in the gallery the day that a great temperance delegation had come and asked that the bar might be abolished, and she had listened to every word that had been said. The case against the bar had been so well argued, that it seemed to Pearl that the law-makers must be moved to put it away forever. She did not know, of course, that the liquor interests of the province were the strong supporters of the Government, and the source of the major portion of their campaign funds; that the bars were the rallying places for the political activities of the party, and that to do away with the bars would be a blow to the Government, and, as the Premier himself had once said, "No Government is going to commit suicide," the chances for the success of the delegation were very remote. Pearl did not know this, and so she was not prepared for it when the Premier and one of his Ministers stoutly defended the bar-room as a social gathering place where men might meet and enjoy an innocent and profitable hour.
"It is one of our social institutions that you are asking us to destroy," cried the Minister of Education, "and I tell you frankly that we will not do it. The social instincts distinguish man from the brute, and they must be cherished and encouraged. Your request is not in the best interests of our people, and as their faithful representatives who seek to safeguard their interests and their highest welfare, we must refuse."
And the Government desks were pounded in wild enthusiasm! And Pearl had come away with a rage in her heart, the wordless rage of the helpless. After that she attended every meeting of the Suffrage Society, and her deep interest and devotion to the cause won for her many friends among the suffrage women.
The news of the proposed meeting in the school brought out many and varied comments, when it was received in the homes of the district. Mr. Donald sent to each home a letter in which he invited all the members of each family to be present to "do honor to one who has brought honor to our school and district."
Mrs. Eben Snider, sister of Mrs. Crocks, a wizened little pod of a woman with a face like parchment, dismally prophesied that Pearl Watson would be clean spoiled with so much notice being taken of her. "Put a beggar on horseback," she cried, when she read the invitation, "and you know where he will ride to! The Watsons are doing too well—everything John Watson touches turns to money since he went on that farm, and this last splurge for Pearl is just too much. I won't be a party to it! It is too much like makin' flesh of one and fowl of the other. Mr. Donald always did make too much of a pet of that girl, and then all those pieces in the paper, they will spoil her, no girl of her age can stand it—it is only puttin' notions in her head, and from what I can hear, there's too much of that now among women. I never had no time to be goin' round makin' speeches and winnin' debates, and neither has any other decent woman. It would suit Pearl better to stay at home and help her mother; they say she goes around town with her head dressed up like a queen, and Jane says she's as stiff as pork when a person speaks to her. I'll tell Mr. Donald what I think of it."
At the Steadman home, the news of the meeting had a happier reception, for Mr. Steadman, who was the local member of Parliament, was asked to preside, and as the elections were likely to take place before the year was out, he was glad of this chance to address a few remarks to the electors. He had been seriously upset ever since he heard that the young doctor was to be offered the nomination for the Liberals. That would complicate matters for him, and make it imperative that he should lose no opportunity of making himself agreeable to his constituents.
Before the news of the meeting was an hour old, Mr. Steadman had begun to arrange his speech, and determined that he would merely make a few happy random extempore remarks, dashed off in that light, easy way which careful preparation can alone insure; and Mrs. Steadman had decided that she would wear her purple silk with the gold embroidery, and make a Prince of Wales cake and a batch of lemon cookies—some of them put together with a date paste, and the rest of them just loose, with maybe a date or a raisin in the middle.
Mrs. Watson was in a state of nerves bordering on stage fright, from the time that Tommy brought home the news, a condition which Pearl did her best to relieve by assuming a nonchalance which she did not feel, regarding the proposed speech.
"What ever will you talk about, Pearlie, dear," her mother cried in vague alarm; "and to all them people. I don't think the teacher should have asked ye, you could do all right with just the scholars, for any bit of nonsense would ha' done for them, but you will have to mind what you are sayin' before all the grown people!"
Pearl soaked the beans for tomorrow's cooking, with an air of unconcern.
"Making a speech is nothing, Ma," she said, "when a person knows how. I have listened to the cabinet ministers lots of times, and there's nothing to it. It is just having a good beginning and a fine flourish at the end, with a verse of poetry and the like of that—it does not matter what you say in between. I have heard the Premier speak lots of times, and they go crazy over him and think he is a wonderful speaker. He tells how he was once a farmer's boy and wandered happily over the pasture fields in his bare feet, and then how he climbed the ladder of fame, rung by rung—that is fine stuff, every one likes that; and whenever he got stuck he told about the flag of empire that waves proudly in the breeze and has never known defeat, and the destiny of this Canada of ours, and the strangers within our gates who have come here to carve out their destiny in this limitless land, and when he thought it best to make them sniffle a little he told about the sacred name of mother, and how the tear-drop starts at mention of that dear name, and that always went big, and when he began to run down a little, he just spoke all the louder, and waved his arms around, and the people did not notice there was nothing coming; we used to go over and listen to the speeches and then make them when the teachers were not in the room—it was lots of fun. I know lots of the Premier's speeches right off. There is nothing to it, Ma, so don't you be frightened."
"Pearl, you take things too light," said her mother severely, "a person never knows when you are in earnest, and I am frightened about you. You should not feel so careless about makin' speeches, it is nothing to joke about. I wish you would be for writin' out what you are goin' to say, and then we could hear you go over it, and some one could hold the paper for you and give you the word if you forget—it would be the safest way!"
"All right, Ma," said Pearl, "I'll be making it up now while I peel the potatoes."
While they were talking there came a knock at the door, and when it was opened, there stood Bertie from the livery stable, with a long green-wrapped box in his hand, which he gave to Mrs. Watson, volunteering without delay, all the information he had regarding it. Bertie never failed to reveal all the truth as he knew it—so, keeping nothing back, he gave the history of the box so far as he had been able to gather it.
"It's for Pearl—and the doctor sent it out. I don't know why he didn't give it to her when she was in, for she was in his office—it's flowers, for it is marked on it—and they came from Hampton."
Bertie would have stayed to see the flowers opened, for he knew that Mrs. Crocks would be much interested to know just what they were, and what Pearl said, and what her mother said—and if there was a note inside—and all the other good stuff he would be able to gather, but Pearl took them, with an air of unconcern, and thanking Bertie, said quite carelessly:
"Don't wait for an answer, Bertie, I can phone if there is any need, and I know you are in a hurry—we must not keep you."
And before Bertie knew what had happened, he found himself walking away from the door.
When the roses had been put in water, and each of the children had been given a smell and a feel of the velvety petals, and Mrs. Watson had partially recovered from the shock that the sight of flowers in the winter, always gave her for they reminded her so of her father's funeral, and the broken pillar which the Oddfellows sent; Pearl read the card:
"To Pearl—eighteen-going-on-nineteen,Hoping that the years will bring her nothingbut joy."
It was written on one of the doctor's professional cards, and that was all. But looking again into the envelope there was a folded note which she did not read to the assembled and greatly interested group. When she was alone in the little beamed room upstairs, she read it:
"Dear Pearl:—I forgot to give you the roses when you were in this afternoon. Accept them now with my deep affection. You have been a bright spot in my life, and you will always be that—like a red rose in a dull room. Your success will always be very dear to me, and my prophecy is that you will go far. I will always think of you with deepest admiration and pride. Ever yours,
Pearl read it twice; then impulsively pressed it to her cheek.
"It sounds like good-bye," she said, with her lips trembling, "it sounds like the last of something. Why won't he tell me? It is not like him."
A wither of loneliness went over her face as she clasped the note between her hands.
"I don't believe it is that," she said fiercely. "I won't believe it!" Mrs. Crocks' words were taunting her; "the doctor thinks more of blue blood than he does of money, and if he goes into politics it will mean a lot to him to be related to the senator."
An overwhelming rage was in Pearl's heart, in spite of her determination not to believe the suggestion; a blind, choking rage—it was all so unfair.
"My dad is more of a man than Senator Keith," she said to herself, "for all his fine clothes and his big house. He was nothing but a heeler for the party, and was made Senator because there was no dirty job that he would not do to get votes for them. I know how he bought liquor for the Galicians and brought them in by the car-load to vote, like cattle, and that's blue blood, is it? Sure it is—you can see it in his shot-silk face and his two bad old eyes swollen like oysters! If the doctor wants him he can have him, and it's blamed little frettin' I'll do!… My dad eats with his knife, does he? All right, he bought the knife with honest money, and he earned what's on it too. All the dirty money they have would not buy him, or make him do a mean trick to any one. I am not ashamed of him—he suits me, and he can go on eating with his knife and wearing his overalls and doing anything he wants to do. He suits me!"
When Pearl went back to the kitchen, her father was taking off his smock. Supper was ready, and he and Teddy had just come in. The dust of the fanning-mill was on his face and his clothes. His unmittened hands were red and rough, and bore traces of the work he had been doing. In his hair were some of the seeds and straws blown out by the mill. There was nothing very attractive about John Watson, unless it was his kindly blue eye and the humorous twist of his mouth, but in Pearl's heart there was a fierce tenderness for her father, a protective love which glorified him in her eyes.
"Did you hear the news, pa," she cried, as she impulsively threw her arms around his neck. "Did you know that I am going to speak in the school, and they are all coming out to hear me. Are you glad, Pa, and do you think I can do it?"
Her burning cheek was laid close to his, and he patted her shoulder lovingly.
"Do I think you can do it, Pearlie, that I do—you can do whatever you go at—I always knew that."
"Pearl, child," cried her mother, "don't be hugging your Pa like that, and you with your good dress on; don't you see the dust and dirt on him—you will ruin your clothes child."
Pearl kissed him again, and gave him one more hug, before she said, "It is clean dirt, Ma, and it will brush off, and I just couldn't wait; but sure and it's clean dirt anyway."
"It is gettin' colder," said John Watson, as he hung up his smock behind the door, "our Spring is over for awhile, I think. I saw two geese leggin' it back as fast as they could go, and each one scoldin' the other one—we'll have a good spell or winter yet, I am afraid, in spite of our two warm days and all the signs of Spring."
"Weather like you is too good to last," said Mrs. Watson complacently,"I knew it wasn't the Spring, it was too good to last."
Pearl went to the window and looked out—already there was a threat of snow in the whining wind, and as she watched, a stray flake struck the window in front of her.
"It was too good to last," she said with a sigh which broke into a sob in the middle, "It was too good to be true!"
If there was any lack of enthusiasm among the parents it had no reflection in the children's minds, for the Chicken Hill School, after the great announcement, simply pulsated with excitement. Country children have capabilities for enjoyment that the city child knows nothing about, and to the boys and girls at Chicken Hill the prospect of a program, a speech from Pearl Watson, and a supper—was most alluring. Preparations were carried on with vigor. Seats were scrubbed by owners, and many an ancient landmark of ink was lost forever. Frayed window blinds that had sagged and dropped, and refused to go up or down, were taken down and rolled and put back neat and even, and the scholars warned not to touch them; the stove got a rubbing with old newspapers; mousy corners of desks were cleaned out—and objectionable slate rags discarded. Blackboards were cleaned and decorated with an elaborate maple leaf stencil in green and brown, and a heroic battle cry of "O Canada, we stand on guard for thee" executed in flowing letters, in the middle. Mary Watson was the artist, and spared no chalk in her undertaking, for each capital ended in an arrow, and had a blanket of dots which in some cases nearly obliterated its identity. But the general effect was powerful.
The day before, every little girl had her hair in tight braids securely knotted with woollen yarn. Boudoir caps were unknown in the Chicken Hill School, so the bare truth of these preparations were to be seen and known of all. Maudie Steadman had her four curls set in long rags, fastened up with pins, Mrs. Steadman having devised a new, original way of making Maudie's hair into large, loose "natural" curls, which were very handsome, and not until this day did Mrs. Steadman show to the public the method of "setting."
Mr. Donald had placed all details of the entertainment in the hands of Mary Watson and Maudie Steadman, and no two members of a House-Committee ever worked harder, or took more pleasure in making arrangements.
"Let's not ask the Pipers—they're dirt poor," said Maudie, when they sat down at noon to make out the list of providers.
"Indeed, we will," said Mary, whose knowledge of the human heart was most profound. "If people are poor, that's all the more reason why they would be easily hurt, and it's not nice for us to even know that they are poor. We'll ask them, you bet—and Mrs. Piper will bring something. Besides—if we didn't ask them to bake, they wouldn't come—and that's the way rows start in a neighborhood. We'll manage it all right—and if there are any sandwiches left over—we'll send them to the smaller children, and the Pipers will come in on that. It ain't so bad to be poor," concluded Mary, out of her large experience, "but it hurts to have people know it!"
When Pearl, with her father and mother arrived at the school on the afternoon of the meeting, it came to her with a shock, how small the school was, and how dreary. Surely it had not been so mouse-gray and shabby as this when she had been there. The paint was worn from the floor, the ceiling was smoked and dirty, the desks were rickety and uneven—the blackboards gray. The same old map of North America hung tipsily between the blackboards. It had been crooked so long, that it seemed to be the correct position, and so had escaped the eye of the House-Committee, who had made many improvements for this occasion.
In the tiny porch, there were many mysterious baskets and boxes and tin pails of varying sizes, and within doors a long table at the back of the room had on it many cups and saucers, with a pile of tissue paper napkins. A delightful smell of coffee hung on the air.
Pearl wore her best brown silk dress, with a lace collar and cuff set contributed the Christmas before by her Aunt Kate from Ontario, and at her waist, one of the doctor's roses. The others had been brought over by Mary, and were in a glass jar on the tidy desk, where they attracted much attention and speculation as to where they had come from. They seemed to redeem the bare school-room from utter dreariness, and Pearl found herself repeating the phrase in the doctor's letter, "Like a rose in a dark room."
The children were hilariously glad to see Pearl, and her lightness of heart came back to her, when a group of them gathered around her to receive her admiration and praise for their beautifully curled hair, good clothes and hair ribbons. Bits of family history were freely given to her too, such as Betty Freeman's confidential report on her mother's absence, that she dyed her silk waist, and it streaked, and she dyed it again—and just as soon as she could get it dry, she would come—streaks or no streaks—and would Pearl please not be in a hurry to begin.
Then the meeting was called to order, and the smaller children were set like a row of gaily colored birds around the edge of the platform, so their elders could sit on their little desks in front, and the schoolroom was filled to its last foot of space. There were about a dozen chairs for the older people.
Pearl had gone to the back of the room to speak to the old gardener from Steadman's farm, a shy old man, who just naturally sought the most remote corner for his own. Her affectionate greeting brought a glow into his face, that set Pearl's heart throbbing with joy:
"It's good to see you, Pearl," he said, "you look like a rose to me, and you don't forget an old friend."
Pearl held the hard old gnarled hand in her own, and her heart was full of joy. The exaltation of the day she rode home was coming to her. Love was the power that could transform the world. People everywhere, all sorts of people, craved love and would respond to it. "If I can cheer up poor old Bill Murray, and make him look like this, with a glisten in his eyes, I'm satisfied," she thought.
To Mr. Donald Pearl looked like a rose, too, a rose of his own growing, and his voice trembled a little when he called the meeting to order and in his stately way bade everyone welcome.
"I am going to hand over the meeting to Mr. Steadman in a moment," he said, "but before I do I wish to say that the Chicken Hill School is very proud today to welcome one of its former pupils, Miss Pearl Watson."
At this the gaily colored company who bordered the platform, burst into ecstatic hand clapping, in which the older members joined rather shamefacedly. Demonstrations come hard to prairie people.
"The years she spent in this school were delightful years to me," went on Mr. Donald. "She helped me with the younger children—she helped me to keep up enthusiasm for the work—she helped me to make life pleasant for all of us—she did more—she helped me to believe that life is worth the struggle—she helped me to believe in myself. I was not surprised that Pearl made a record in her work in the city; she could not fail to do that. She is in love with life—to me, she is the embodiment of youth, with all its charms and all its promise."
"I have wanted to hear her impressions of the city. Nothing, to her, is common-place—she sees life through a golden mist that softens its sharp outlines. I am glad that every one could come today and give a welcome home to our first graduate from Chicken Hill School!"
This threatened to dislodge the seating arrangement on the platform, for in their enthusiastic applause, the Blackburn twins on account of the shortness of their legs and the vigor of their applause, lost their balance and fell. But they bore it well, and were restored without tears! The excitement was so great that no one of the young row would have known it if they had broken a bone!
"And now I will ask our local member, Mr. Steadman, to take charge of the meeting, and give the neighborhood's welcome to our first graduate!"
Then Mr. Steadman arose! He was a stout man, with a square face, and small, beady black eyes and an aggressive manner; a man who felt sure of himself; who knew he was the centre of his own circle. There was a well-fed, complacent look about him too which left no doubt that he was satisfied with things as they were—and would be deeply resentful of change. There was still in his countenance some trace of his ancestor's belief in the Divine right of kings! It showed in his narrow, thought-proof forehead, and a certain indescribable attitude which he held toward others, and which separated him from his neighbors. Instinctively, the people who met him, knew he lacked human sympathy and understanding, but he had a hold on the people of his constituency, for through his hands went all the Government favors and patronage. Anyone who wanted a telephone, had to "see Mr. Steadman." The young people who went to the city to find employment, were wise to see Mr. Steadman before they went. So although he was not liked, he had a prestige which was undeniable.
Mr. Steadman began his remarks by saying how glad he was to be offered the chair on this glad occasion. He always liked to encourage the young, and he believed it our duty to be very tolerant and encouraging to youth.