The boundaries of the platform began to wriggle. They had heard Mr. Steadman before—he often came in and made speeches—but he never brought any oranges—or peanuts or even "Farmers' Mixed."
"Youth is a time of deep impressions," went on the chairman; "wax to receive—granite to retain. Youth was the time of learning, and he hoped every boy and girl in his presence would earnestly apply himself and herself to their books, for only through much study could success be attained. That is what put him where he was today."
More wriggles, and some discussion at his feet!
He was glad to know that one of Mr. Donald's pupils had been able to do so well in the city. Three cheers for the country! He had always believed it was the best place to be brought up—and was glad to say that he too, had spent his youth on a farm. Most of the successful men of the world came from the farms.
He believed absolutely in education for women, education of a suitable kind, and believed there was a definite place for women in the world—a place which only women could fill. That place was the home—the quiet precincts of home—not the hurly-burly of politics—that was man's sphere—and a hard sphere it was, as he knew well. He didn't wish to see any woman in such a hard life, with its bitter criticism and abuse. He was sorry to notice that there was a new agitation among women in the city—it had come up in the session just closed—that women wanted to vote.
Mr. Steadman threw out his hands with a gesture of unconcern:
"Well," I say, "let them vote—if they want to—let them run the whole country; we'll stay at home. It's time we had a rest, anyway!"
A little dry cackle of laughter went over the room at this, in whichMr. Donald did not join—so it got no support from the pupils ofChicken Hill, who faithfully followed their teacher's lead.
Mr. Steadman went on blithely:
"I am old fashioned enough to want my wife to stay at home. I like to find her there when I come home. I don't want her to sit in Parliament; she hasn't time—for one thing."
Mrs. Steadman sat in front, with the purple plume in her hat nodding its approval:
"And I say it in all kindness to all women—they havn't the ability. They have ability of their own, but not that kind. Parliaments are concerned with serious, big things. This year, the program before our Provincial Parliament, is Good Roads. We want every part of this Province to enjoy the blessing of of good roads, over which they can bring their produce to market, binding neighborhoods together in the ties of friendship. Good roads for everyone is our policy."
"Now what do women know about making roads? They are all right to go visiting over the roads after they are built, but how much good would they be in building them?"
This was greeted with another scattered rattle of laughter, followed by a silence, which indicated intense listening. Even the restless edging of the platform knew something was happening, and listened.
"Our Opposition is coming forward with a foolish program of fads and fancies. They want the women to have the vote; they want to banish the bar! They want direct legislation. These are all radical measures, new, untried and dangerous. With women voting, I have no sympathy, as I said. They are not fitted for it. It is not that I do not love women—I do—I love them too well—most of them."
He paused a moment here—but no one laughed. The audience did not believe him.
"There are some women in the city whom I would gladly send to jail. They are upsetting women's minds, and hurting the homes. Don't let us take any chances on destroying the home, which is the bulwark of the nation. What sight is more beautiful then to see a mother, queen of the home, gathering her children around her. She can influence her husband's vote—her son's vote.—she has a wider and stronger influence than if she had the vote to herself. Her very helplessness is her strength. And besides, I know that the best women, the very best women do not want to sit in Parliament. My wife does not want to—neither did my mother—no true woman wants to, only a few rattle-brained, mentally unbalanced freaks—who do not know what they want."
Pearl smiled at this. She had heard this many times.
"Now, as to banishing the bar, you all know I am not a drinker. I can take it—or leave it—but I am broad minded enough to let other people have the same privilege that I ask for myself. Men like to gather in a friendly way, chat over old times or discuss politics, and have a glass, for the sake of good fellowship, and there's no harm done. There are some, of course, who go too far—I am not denying that. But why do they do it? They did not get the right home training—that is why. In the sacred precincts of home, the child can be taught anything—that's the mother's part, and it is a more honorable part than trying to ape men—and wear the pants."
This brought a decided laugh—though if Mr. Steadman had been sensible to thought currents, he would have felt twinges in his joints, indicating that a storm was brewing. But he was having what the preachers call a "good time," and went merrily on.
"Direct legislation is a dangerous thing, which would upset representative government. It is nothing less than rabble rule, letting the ignorant rabble say what we are to do. Our vote is too wide now, as you know, when every Tom, Dick and Harry has a vote, whether they own an inch of ground or not. Your hired man can kill your vote, though you own a township of land. Do you want to give him more power? I think not! Well if the opposition ever get in power, the women and the hired men, and even the foreigners will run the country, and it will not be fit to live in. We're doing all right now, our public buildings, our institutions are the best in Canada. We have put the flag on every schoolhouse in the country—we have good, sane, steady government, let us stick to it. I believe that the next election will see the good ship come safely into port with the same old skipper on the bridge, and the flag of empire proudly furling its folds in the breeze. We have no fears of the fads and fancies put forward by short-haired women and long-haired men."
That being the end of his speech, the place where his superior always sat down, amidst thunderous applause. Mr. Steadman sat down, too, forgetting that he had been asked to be the Chairman, and introduce Pearl.
The applause which followed his remarks, was not so vociferous as he had expected, partly because there were no "Especially instructed clappers." No one was very enthusiastic, except Mrs. Steadman, who apparently agreed with all he said.
Rising to his feet again he said: "The good ladies have bountifully provided for our needs today—what would we do without the ladies? but before we come to that very interesting item on our program, we are going to hear from Pearl Watson. Pearl Watson is one of the girls who has taken full advantage of our splendid educational system, than which there is none better in Canada—or in the world. As a member of the Legislature, I am justly proud of our Department of Education, and today we will be entertained by one of our own products, Pearl Watson, on whom we might well hang the label 'Made in Canada.' I do not know whether she intends to say a piece—or what, but bespeak for her a respectful and courteous hearing."
Mr. Steadman sat down, adjusting his gold and blue tie, and removed his glasses, which he put away in a large leather case that closed with a snap. His attitude indicated that the real business of the day was over, now that he had spoken.
Pearl came forward and stepped to the platform, displacing temporarily one of the twins, to make a space where she might step. Having restored him safely, she turned to the people. There was a smile in her eyes that was contagious. The whole roomful of people smiled back at her, and in that moment she established friendly relations with her audience.
"It has been a real surprise to me," she began, in a conversational tone, "to hear Mr. Steadman make a speech. I am sure his colleagues in the House would have been surprised to have heard him today. He is a very quiet man there—he never speaks. The first night I went to the House with a crowd of Normalites, I pointed out our member, to let those city girls see what we could raise in the country—but it seems the speeches are all made by half a dozen, the others just say 'Aye' when they're told. All on one side of the House say 'Aye'; the other side say 'No.' I have heard Mr. Steadman say 'Aye,' lots of times—but nothing more. The Premier, or one of the Cabinet Ministers tells them when to say it—it all looks very easy to me. I would have thought even a woman could do it. The girls used to tease me about how quiet my representative was. He sat so still that it just seemed as if he might be asleep, and one girl said she believed he was dead. But one day, a window was left open behind him—and he sneezed, and then he got right up and shut it—Do you remember that day, Mr. Steadman?"
He shook his head impatiently, and the expression of his face was not pleasant. Still, no one would attribute anything but the friendliest motive to Pearl's innocent words.
"My! I was glad that day," she said, "when you sneezed, it was a quick stop to the rumor—I tell you—and I never heard any more about it. I am sorry Mr. Steadman is not in favor of women voting, or going to Parliament, and thinks it too hard for them. It does not look hard to me. Most of the members just sit and smoke all the time, and read the papers, and call the pages. I have seen women do far harder work than this. But of course what Mr. Steadman says about building roads all over the country, is a new one on me. I did not know that the members were thinking of doing the work! But I guess they would be glad to get out and do something after sitting there all cramped up with their feet asleep for the whole winter."
"Still, I remember when Mr. Steadman was Councillor here, and there was a bridge built over Pine Creek—he only let the contract—he did not build it—it was his brother who built it!"
There was a queer thrill in the audience at this, for Bill Steadman had got the contract, in spite of the fact that he was the poorest builder in the country—and the bridge had collapsed inside of two years. George Steadman winced at her words.
But Pearl, apparently innocent of all this, went on in her guileless way:
"I think Mr. Steadman is mistaken about women not wanting to sit in Parliament. He perhaps does not know what it feels like to stand over a wash-tub—or an ironing board—or cook over a hot stove. Women who have been doing these things long would be glad to sit anywhere!"
There was a laugh at this, in which Mr. Steadman made a heroic attempt to join, shaking his head as he did so, to counteract any evil effect which the laugh might cause.
"But I did not intend to speak of politics," said Pearl, "I intended to tell you how glad I am to be back to Chicken Hill School, and how good home looks to me. No one knows how to appreciate their home until they have left it—and gone away where no one cares particularly whether you are sick or well—happy or miserable. Do you boys find it pretty hard to wash your necks—and you wish your mother hadn't such a sharp eye on you—be glad you have some one who thinks enough of you to want your neck to be clean. You hate to fill the wood-box, do you? O, I know what a bottomless pit it is—and how the old stove just loves to burn wood to spite you. But listen! By having to do what you do not want to do, you are strengthening the muscles of your soul—and getting ready for a big job.
"Having to do things is what makes us able to do more. Did you ever wonder why you cannot walk on water. It is because water is so agreeable—it won't resist you. It lets you have your own way.
"The teachers at the Normal talked to us every Friday afternoon, about our social duties, and rural leadership and community spirit and lots of things. They told us not to spend our time out of school tatting and making eyelet embroidery, when there were neighborhoods to be awakened and citizens to be made. That suits me fine, for I can't tat anyway. One of the girls tried to show me, but gave it up after three or four tries. She said some could learn, and some couldn't. It was heredity—or something.
"Anyway, Dr. McLean said teachers were people who got special training for their work, and it was up to them to work at it, in school and out. He said that when we went out to teach, we could be a sort of social cement, binding together all the different units into one coherent community, for that's what was needed in Canada, with its varied population. One third of the people in Canada do not speak English, and that's a bad barrier—and can only be overcome by kindness. We must make our foreign people want to learn our language, and they won't want to, unless they like us.
"He said Canada was like a great sand-pile, each little grain of sand, beautiful in its own way, but needing cement to bind it to other grains and it was for us to say whether we would be content to be only a sand pile, or would we make ourselves a beautiful temple.
"I wish I could give it all to you—it was great to hear him. He said no matter how fine we were as individuals, or how well we did our work, unless we had it in our hearts to work with others, and for others—it was no good. If we lacked social consciousness, our work would not amount to much. I thought of our old crumply horn cow. She always gave a big pail of milk—but if she was in bad humor, she would quite likely kick it over, just as the pail was full. I used to think maybe a fly had stung her, but I guess what was really wrong was that she lacked social consciousness. She did not see that we were depending on her.
"That's why the liquor traffic is such a bad thing, and should be outlawed. Individuals may be able to drink, and get away with it, but some go under, some homes are made very unhappy over it. If we have this social consciousness, we will see very clearly that the liquor traffic must go! No matter how much some people will miss it. If it isn't safe for everybody, it isn't safe for anybody. I used to wish Dr. McLean could talk to the members of Parliament.
"He told us one of the reasons that the world had so many sore spots in it was because women had kept too close at home, they were beginning to see that in order to keep their houses clean, they would have to clean up the streets, and it was this social consciousness working in them, that made them ask for the vote. They want to do their share, outside as well as in.
"There was a woman who came and talked to us one day at the Normal. She is the editor of the Women's section of one of the papers, and she put it up to us strong, that there was work for each of us. We had to make a report of her address, and so I remember most of it.
"She said that Canada is like a great big, beautiful house that has been given to us to finish. It is just far enough on so that you can see how fine it is going to be—but the windows are not in—the doors are not hung—the cornices are not put on. It needs polishing, scraping, finishing. That is our work. Every tree we plant, every flower we grow, every clean field we cultivate, every good cow or hog we raise, we are helping to finish and furnish the house and make it fit to live in. Every kind word we say or even think, every gracious deed, if it is only thinking to bring out the neighbor's mail from town, helps to add those little touches which distinguish a house from a barn.
"We have many foreign people in this country, lonesome, homesick people—sometimes we complain that they are not loyal to us—and that is true. It is also true that they have no great reason to be loyal to us. We are not even polite to them, to say nothing of being kind. Loyalty cannot be rammed down any ones' throat with a flag-pole."
Mr. Steadman cleared his throat at this—and seemed about to speak—but she went on without noticing:
"Loyalty is a gentle growth, which springs in the heart. The seeds are in your hands and mine; the heart of our foreign people is the soil—the time of planting is now—and the man or woman who by their kindness, their hospitality, their fair dealing, honesty, neighborliness, makes one of the least of these think well of Canada, is a Master Builder in this Empire.
"If we do not set ourselves to finish the house, you know what will happen to it. I remembered this part of her speech because it made me think about our school-house the year before Mr. Donald came—when we could not get a teacher. Do you remember? Windows were broken mysteriously—the rain beat in and warped and drenched and spoiled the floors. The chimney fell. Destruction always comes to the empty house, she said—the unfinished house is a mark for the wantonly mischievous. To keep what we have, we must improve it from year to year. And to that end we must work together—fighting not with each other—but with conditions, discouragements, ignorance, prejudice, narrowness—we must be ready to serve, not thinking of what we can get from our country, but what we can give to it."
In the silence that fell, the people sat motionless. They did not notice that Pearl was done speaking—for their thoughts went on—she had given them a new view of the service they might give.
Mrs. Piper, on whose heart, Pearl's words had fallen like a benediction, saw that in making her rag-carpet, over which she had worked so hard—she was helping to furnish one little corner of her country, for it would make her front room a brighter place, and there her children, and the boys and girls of the neighborhood would have good times and pleasant memories. She had thought of it in a vague way before, but Pearl had put it into words for her—and her heart was filled with a new rapture. It was worth while to work and struggle and try her best to make a pleasant home. There was a purpose in it all—a plan—a pattern.
Even Mrs. Thompson had a glimmering of a thought regarding her precious flowers, the slips of which she never gave away. With them she could gladden the hearts of some of her neighbors, and Noah Thompson, her husband, who made it his boast that he never borrowed or lent, became suddenly sorry he had refused a neck yoke to his Russian neighbor.
George Steadman, too, found his soul adrift on a wide sea, torn away from the harbor that had seemed so safe and land-locked, so unassailable; and on that wider sea there came the glimpses of a sunrise, of a new day. It puzzled him, frightened him, angered him. In the newness of it all, he detected danger. It blew across his sheltered soul like a draught, an uncomfortable, cold-producing draught—and when he found himself applauding with the others, he knew that something dangerous, radical, subtle and evil had been let loose—the girl would have to be watched. She was a fire-brand, an incendiary—she would put notions in peoples' heads. It was well he had heard her and could sound the warning. But he must be politic—he would not show his hand. The children were singing, and every one had risen. Never before had he heard the Chicken Hill people sing like this:
"O Canada, our home, our native land,True, patriot love, in all our sons command;With glowing hearts we see thee rise,Thou true land, strong and free,And stand on guard, O CanadaWe stand on guard for thee."
The children began the second verse, the people following lamely, for they did not know the words; but the children, proud of their superior knowledge, and with a glow in their impressionable little hearts, sang exultantly—this song of home and country.
The Chicken Hill correspondent of the Millford "Mercury" described the meeting in the school as follows:
"The Chicken Hill School was the scene of a happy gathering on Friday afternoon last, when the neighbors and friends gathered to welcome home Pearl Watson, who has just completed a successful First Class Teacher's Normal course in Winnipeg. Pearl is a great favorite, and certainly disappointed no one, for she gave an address on present day questions which will not soon be forgotten. Pearl is an out and out believer in temperance and woman suffrage, and before she was through, she had every one with her—as one man put it, he'd like to see the woman vote, if for nothing else than to get Pearl Watson into parliament, for there would sure be hides on the barn door if she ever got there, and a rustling of dry bones."
"After Pearl's address, the ladies of the district served refreshments, and a good time was spent. Pearl's arm must have ached, shaking hands, and if she could be spoiled with praise, she would be spoiled for sure, but Pearl is not that kind. It is rumored that she will be offered the Purple Springs school, and if she accepts, we congratulate Purple Springs."
When George Steadman read the Chicken Hills news, his face became a yellowish gray color—much like the hue of badly laundried clothes. His skin prickled, as if with an electric current, for hot rage ate into his soul. His name was not even mentioned. He wasn't there at all—and he was the member for Millford. Of all the silly rot—well, he'd see about it.
On Monday morning, with the offending sheet in his hand, Mr. Steadman made his way to the "Mercury" office, a dingy, little flat-roofed building, plastered with old circus posters outside, and filled with every sort of junk inside. At an unpainted desk piled high with papers, sat the editor. His hair stood up like a freshly laundried, dustless mop; his shirt was dirty; his pipe hung listlessly in his mouth—upside down, and a three days' crop of black beard peppered his face. He looked like a man who in early youth had slept on newspapers and drank ink, and who now would put his feet on the table if there had been room, but there was scarcely room for them on the floor, for it was under the table that he kept his exchanges. There were shelves around the walls, but they were filled with rubber boots, guns, baskets of letters, a few books, miscellaneous articles of clothing and some empty tobacco jars.
So on account of the congested condition on and under the table, Mr. Driggs was forced to sit in an uncomfortable position, with his legs and those of the table artistically entwined.
Mr. Steadman began, without replying to the editor's friendly greeting:
"Who writes this balderdash from our district," he asked harshly.
"Professional secret," replied Mr. Driggs, speaking through his shut teeth, for he did not wish to dislodge his pipe; the last time he let it out of his mouth he had had no end of a time finding it. "Never give away names of contributors, not etiquette."
"I don't care a hang for your etiquette—I want to know. The member for Millford was not in a trifling mood.
"Sorry," said Mr. Driggs, holding his pipe still closer.
"See here, Driggs," said Mr. Steadman haughtily, "do you know who you're talking to—I have it in my power to throw you a good deal of business one way'n another—I've thrown you a good deal of business. There's an election coming on—there will be bills, cards, streamers, what not; good money in printing for the Government—do you savvy?"
"I savvy," said Mr. Driggs cheerfully.
"Well then"—George Steadman was sure now he was going to get the information—"who writes this this stuff from Chicken Hill?"
"I don't know," said the editor calmly, "honest, I don't. This was a new one—strange writing—and all that. I called up Pearl Watson to see if there had been a meeting, and she verified it, but didn't tell me anything. She said you presided. Then I ran the item—I thought it was very good—what's wrong with it? It seemed like real good country correspondence to me—with that bucolic freshness which we expect to find in country contributors, perhaps not the literary polish found in Stoddarts' lectures, but rattling good stuff just the same."
"See here Driggs," the other man interrupted, "listen to me. There's an election coming on—you've always been with us—I don't know what you think—and it don't matter. This girl Watson is against us—and she's as smart as they make them, and has plenty of nerve. Now I don't want to see that girl's name in the paper again. A few more spreads like this—and every district in the country will want her. She don't know her place—she's got nerve enough to speak anywhere. She spits out things, hardly knowing what she means—she's dangerous, I tell you. If the other side got hold of her and primed her what to say, she could do us a lot of harm—here, for mind you, she's got a way with her. We don't want any trouble. There's a little talk of runnin' Doc. Clay, but I believe he's got more sense than to try it. The last man that ran against me lost his deposit. But, understand, Driggs, no mention of this girl, cut out her name."
Then Mr. Driggs slowly took his pipe from his mouth, and laid it carefully on the lowest pile of papers. It's position did not entirely suit him, and he moved it to another resting place. But the effect was not pleasing even then—so he placed it in his pocket, taking a red handkerchief from his other pocket, and laying it carefully over the elusive pipe, to anchor it—if that were possible.
"Mr. Steadman," he said, in his gentlest manner, "sit down."
Removing an armful of sale bills from the other chair, he shoved it over to his visitor, who ignored the invitation.
"You must not attempt to muzzel the press, or take away our blood-bought liberties. Blood-bought liberties is good! It's a serious matter to come to a natural born, heaven inspired Editor, and tell him to curb his news instinct. Pearl Watson is a particular friend of mine. Pearl's sayings and doings are of interest to me as a citizen, therefore, I reason they are of interest to all citizens. She is a young lady of great charm, who does honor to our little town. I stand absolutely for home boosting. Shop at home—shop early—sell your hammer and buy a horn—my motto! Pearl Watson—one of the best ads we have—I'm for her."
"All right," said Mr. Steadman harshly, "you defy me then, and when you defy me, you defy the Government of the Province, the arm of the Government reaches far—Driggs, and you know that before you are done, I'll put you out of business before two weeks have gone by. You owe every one—you owe the paper people—you owe on your printing press. Your creditors are all friends of the Government. All I have to do is to say the word and they'll close you out. The Government will put a man in here who has sense enough to do as he is told."
Mr. Driggs' faced showed more concern than he had exhibited before. There were certain bills he owed—forgotten to be sure in normal times—but now they came up blinking to the light, rudely disinterred by Mr. Steadman's hard words. They had grown, too, since their last appearance, both in size and numbers—and for a moment a shade of annoyance went over his face. Details of business always did annoy him!
But an inner voice cautioned him to be discreet. There was always a way around a difficulty. Mr. Driggs believed in the switch system which prevails in our railroading. When two trains run towards each other on a track one must go off on a switch, to avoid a collision. It does not take long and when the other train has gone roaring past, the switched train can back up and get on the track and go serenely on—he resolved to be tactful.
"Mr. Steadman," he said, "I am surprised at all this. Pearl is only a slip of a girl. What harm can she do you? You are absolutely solid in this neighborhood. The government has this country by the throat—the old machine works perfectly. What are you afraid of?"
"We're not afraid—what have we to be afraid of? We have only sixteen opposition members in the House—and they're poor fish. We're solid enough—only we don't want trouble. The women are getting all stirred up and full of big notions. We can hold them down all right—for they can't get the vote until we give it to them—that's the beauty of it. The Old Man certainly talked plain when they came there askin' for the vote. He just laid them out. But I can see this girl has been at their meetings—and women are queer. My women, even, thought there was a lot of truth in what the Watson girl said. So there was—but we're not dealing with truth just now—politics is not a matter of truth. We want to get this election over without trouble. We want no grief over this, mind you—everything quiet—and sure. So you got your orders right now. Take them or leave them. But you know where your bread is buttered, I guess."
Mr. Steadman went out of the office, shutting the door with a strong hand. The editor buried his face in his hands and gently massaged his temples with his long-ink-stained fingers, and to all appearance, his soul was grieved within him. It seemed as though his proud spirit was chafing at the bonds which the iniquitous patronage system had laid on him.
For brief period he sat thus, but when he raised his head, which he did suddenly, there was a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face which spread and widened until it burst into a laugh which threatened to dislodge the contents of the table. He threw himself back in his swing chair and piled both feet on the table, even if there was no room for them—if ever there had come a time in his history when he was in the mood to put his feet on the table, that time was now.
He addressed his remarks to his late guests:
"You fragrant old he-goat, you will give orders to me, will you—you are sure some diplomat—you poor old moth-eaten gander, with your cow-like duplicity."
Mr. Driggs could not find the figure of speech which just suited the case, but he was still trying.
"You poor old wall-eyed ostrich, with your head in the sand, thinking no one can see you, you forget that there is a portion of your anatomy admirably placed—indeed in my mind's eye I can see the sign upon it. It reads 'Kick me.' It is an invitation I will not decline. He thinks he can wipe our good friend Pearlie off the map by having her name dropped from the Millford 'Mercury,' forgetting that there are other ways of reaching the public eye. There are other publications, perhaps not in the class with the Millford 'Mercury,' but worthy little sheets too.
"There is the 'Evening Echo,' struggling along with a circulation of a quarter of a million—it will answer our purpose admirably. I will write the lead today while the lamp of inspiration burns, and I will hear Pearl speak, and then oh, beloved, I will roll up my sleeves and spit on my hands and do a sketch of the New Woman—Pearlie, my child—this way lies fame."
When Pearl left him so abruptly, Dr. Clay found himself battling with many emotions. His first impulse was to call her back—tell her everything. Pearl was not a child—she would know what was best. It was not fair to deceive her, and that was just what he had done, with the best intentions.
But something held him back. The very heart of him was sick and full of bitterness at the sudden slap which fate had given him. His soul was still stinging with the pain of it. Everything was distorted and queer, and in the confusion of sensations the outstanding one was the instinct to hide all knowledge of his condition. No one must know. He would go to see the old doctor and swear him to secrecy. After all, his life was his own—he was under obligation to no one to stretch it out miserably and uselessly.
He would go on as long as he could, and live it out triumphantly. He would go out like Old Prince. He thought of the hymn which gives thanks to God, "Who kindly lengthens out our days," and the thought of it was mingled with something like scorn. He did not want any lengthening out of his time if there could not be real power, real service in each day. He would live while he lived, and die when he had to, and with that resolution he tried to get back his calmness of spirit.
Looking at himself in the glass, he had to admit his face was haggard, and thinner than it had been, and he knew he had lost weight. Still, that could be recovered—he was not going to worry or think about himself. He had always contended that disease was ninety per cent. imagination and ten per cent. reality, and now he was going to see. Every one is under the death sentence; the day is set for each man. "I am no worse off," he thought, "than I was before—if I could only see it that way—and I will—I am going to be the Captain of my soul—even though it may be for a very short cruise—no disease or whimpering weakness will usurp my place—'Gladly I lived—gladly I died. And I laid me down with a will,'" he quoted, but his mouth twisted a little on the words. Life was too sweet. He loved it too well to lay it down gladly. O no, there could be no pretence of gladness.
He found himself thinking of Pearl, and the tender, loving, caressing light in her eyes, her impulsive kiss—her honest words of heavenly sweetness; what a girl she was! He had watched her grow from a little bright-eyed thing, who always interested him with her wisdom, her cheerfulness, her devotion to her family, until now, when she had grown to be a serious-minded, beautiful girl, with a manner full of repose, dignity, grace—a wonderfully attractive girl—who looked honestly into his eyes and told him she loved him, and he had had to turn away from his happiness and tell her it could not be. And he had seen the dimming of those shining eyes and the tightening of her lips. He had had to hurt Pearl, and that was the bitterest thought of all.
Again the temptation came to tell her! But the stern voice of conscience cried out to him that if she knew she would consider herself bound to him, and would not take her liberty, and the finest years of her young life would be spent in anxiety and care.
"I might live to be an old man," he said bitterly. "If I were sure I could drop out soon, it would not matter so much. Pearl would still have her life ahead of her, and I would come to be but a memory, but as it is—there's but one straight and honorable course—and I will take it."
Then he thought of the roses, and wrote a card and a note, and called Bertie at the Livery Stable to come to the office. When Bertie arrived, much out of breath, the doctor charged him to be quick in his errand of delivering them. Bertie was anxious to talk, and volunteered the information that Pearl Watson was an awful pretty girl, but Mrs. Crocks had just met her on the street and been talkin' to her a little while, and she thought Pearl was gettin' pretty stuck up.
"Bertie, dear," the doctor said, not unkindly, "did any one ever tell you that you talk too easy?"
"Sure they did," said Bertie honestly, "but Mrs. Crocks likes me to talk."
"O well," the doctor smiled, "you and Mrs. Crocks are not really dangerous—but Bertie, remember this, silence does not often get any one into trouble, and if you are ever in doubt about whether to tell things or not—don't tell them! It's the best way—now, will you try to remember?"
"Yes, sir," said Bertie pleasantly.
All of which Bertie carefully hid in his heart, but his object in so doing was not to attain the scriptural sequence—"that he sin not with his mouth," It was that he might rehearse it accurately to Mrs. Crocks!
The doctor had forgotten all about the committee who were going to wait on him that evening to receive his decision regarding the coming election. His mind had been too full of his own affairs. But promptly at eight o'clock, his office bell rang, and the gentlemen came in.
It seemed years to the doctor since he had seen them. Life had so changed for him in the interval. The committee had come back with greater enthusiasm than ever. Corroborative evidence had been pouring in; the doctor was the only man who could defeat the present member.
"Doctor, it is sure up to you," said the President, a stocky man, whose face had a patchy beard resembling a buffalo-robe on which the moths had played their funny tricks, "and I'll tell you why. The women are beginning to raise hell all over the country. They have societies now, and they're holding debates, and getting up plays—and all that. They have the Government scared. My stars, I remember the time women didn't bother no more about politics than a yellow dog does about religion. But that good day is gone. They're up and comin' now, and comin' with a whoop. Now, that's why we want you,—at least it's one reason—the women like you—you have a way with them—you listen to them—and feel sorry over their aches and pains—cure them—if you can—but the big thing is—you feel sorry. Now, if you will run, the women will try to make their men vote for you—I don't think any one of the women will go against you. The men here are mostly for the Government, and this year they have the bridge at Purple Springs for a bait. It's goin' on for sure—work for every one—that votes right. The Government has been in so long, you've just had to be on their side to hold your job—they have their fingers on everything. You know our candidate has lost his deposit for three elections—but there's a chance this year—if you'll run."
Then the field organizer took up the argument. He was a young man sent out from the city office to rally the faithful and if possible see that the best candidates were selected. He was a shop-worn young man, without illusions. He knew life from every angle, and it was a dull affair in his eyes.
"Politics is a game of wits," he said; "the smartest one wins, and gets in and divides the slush money. The other side howl—because they didn't get any. We're sore now because we haven't had a look-in for fourteen years—we're thirsty and dry—and we long for the water-brooks—which is, government jobs. There's just one distinction between the parties," he said, "one is in and one is out! That's all. Both parties have the same platform too, there is only one principle involved, that is the principle of re-election. But it really seems as if our time is coming."
Young Mr. Summersad lighted a cigarette and blew billows of smoke at the ceiling. His whole bearing was that of a man who had drunk the cup of life to the very dregs and found even the dregs tasteless and pale.
"You are pessimistic," said the doctor, "you surely take a materialistic view of the case. Is it really only a matter of getting in to the public treasury? That hardly seems worth a man's effort; it looks more like a burglar's job."
"I mean, Clay," said the organizer, with slightly more animation, "the political game is not a game of sentiment or of high resolves. One man cannot do much to change the sentiment of a whole province; we must take things as we find them. People get as good government as they deserve—always. This year the advantage comes to us. 'It is time for a change' is always a good rallying cry, and will help us more than anything."
"What is the opposition platform this year," said the doctor, "what would I have to believe? Haven't you decided on a program, some sort of course of action?"
"O sure," replied the other, "we have a great platform—woman suffrage—banish the bar—direct legislation—we have a radical platform—just the very thing to catch the people. I tell you everything is in our favor, and with your popularity here, it should be a cinch."
The doctor looked at him, without enthusiasm.
"But the platform needn't worry you," he hastened to explain, "it's not necessarily important—it's a darn good thing to get in on—but after that—"
"It can be laid away," said the doctor, "for another election. Well now, as I understand it, the case against the present Government is just that. They promised prohibition years ago, and got in on that promise—but broke it joyously, and canned the one man who wanted to stand for it—that's why they deserve defeat and have deserved it all these years. But if the Opposition have the same ethics, what's the use of changing. Better keep the robbers in we know, than fly to others that we know not of."
While the organizer had been speaking, the remainder of the committee were vaguely uncomfortable. He was not getting anywhere; he was spoiling everything. They knew the doctor better than he did.
The doctor stood up, and there was something about the action which announced the adjournment of the meeting.
"It does not appeal to me," he said, "not as outlined by you. It's too sodden, too deeply selfish. I see no reason for any man who has a fairly decent, self-respecting job, to give it up and devote his time to politics, if you have given me a correct picture of it."
The organizer became deeply in earnest:—
"Look here, Clay," he said, "don't be hasty. I'm telling you the truth about things, that's all. You can be as full of moral passion as you like—the fuller the better. The Opposition can always be the Simon-pure reformers. I'm not discouraging you—in fact, we want you to be that."
The doctor interrupted him, impatiently:—
"But I must not expect anything to come of it. Moral reform—and all that—is fine for election dope, but governments have no concern with it, these promises would not be carried out."
"I am not saying what we mean," said Mr. Summersad, with abundant caution; "I say we want to defeat the Government—that's our business. We want to get in—further than that we have no concern. The new Premier will set our policy. But if you ask me my opinion, I do not mind telling you that I don't think any government of men are very keen on letting the women vote—why should they be? But there's always a way out. What will happen is this—if our fellows get in, they will grant a plebiscite, men only voting of course, and it will go strong against the women—but that will let us out."
The doctor's eyes snapped:—
"That's surely a coward's way out," he said, "and why should any woman have to ask for what is her right. Women, although they are not so strong as men, do more than half the work, and bear children besides, and yet men have been mean enough to snatch the power away from them and keep it. Well, you have certainly been frank, Mr. Summersad, I must thank you for that. I will be equally frank. I do not see that there is anything to choose between the two parties. If your presentation of the case is correct, the country is in a bad way, and the political life is a re-incarnation of that fine old game of 'pussy wants a corner!' I never did see much in it, so I will decline the nomination. I am sorry, Mr. Gilchrist," he said to the local President. His words had a ring of finality.
When the committee were leaving they met Miss Keith, of Hampton, on the street. Miss Keith was worth looking at, with her white fox furs, high-heeled shoes and long black ear-rings. Miss Keith carried a muff as big as a sheaf of wheat, and a sparkling bead-bag dangled from her wrist. Miss Keith's complexion left nothing to be desired. When she passed the committee there came to them the odor of wood violets. The committee were sufficiently interested to break into a group on the corner and so be able to turn around and watch her, without appearing to stop for that purpose.
She went into the doctor's office.
"By gum," said the President, looking at the door through which she had disappeared, "don't these women beat all? They go where they like—they do as they like—they wear what they like—they don't care what men think, any more. They're bold—that's what they are! and I don't know as I believe in lettin' them vote—By Gosh!"
The organizer raised his hand in warning, and spoke sternly.
"Hold your tongue," he said, "they're a long way from votin'. Believe what you like—no one cares what you believe—but sit tight on it! I talked too much just now. Let's learn our lesson."
Bertie, whose other name was now lost in oblivion, and who was known as "Bertie Crocks" for purposes of identification, standing at the corner of the "Horse Repository," saw Miss Keith entering the doctor's office, and wondered again how any one ever thought a small town dull.
The turning of a key; the opening of a door, are commonplace sounds to most of us; but to a prisoner, weary of his cell, they are sounds of unspeakable rapture. The dripping of a tap, may have in it the element of annoyance—if we have to get up and shut it off before we can get to sleep, but a thirsty traveller on the burning sands of the desert, would be wild with joy to hear it. All which is another way of saying that everything in life is relative.
On the day that Pearl spoke in the school-house, there sat in one of the seats listening to her, a sombre-faced woman, who rarely came to any of the neighborhood gatherings. The women of the neighborhood, having only the primary hypothesis of human conduct, said she was "proud." She did not join heartily in their conversations when they met her, and had an aloofness about her which could only be explained that way. She had a certain daintiness about her, too, in her way of dressing—even in the way she did her hair—and in her walk, which made the women say with certain resentment, that Mrs. Paine would like to be "dressy."
But if Mrs. Paine had any such ambitions, they were not likely to be achieved, for although she and her husband had lived for years in this favored district, and had had good crops, Sylvester Paine was known all over the country as a hard man. The women would have liked Mrs. Paine much better if she had talked more, and complained about him—she was too close-mouthed they said. They freely told each other, and told her, of their hopes, fears, trials and triumphs—but Mrs. Paine's communications were yea and nay when the conversation was on personal matters, and she had a way of closing her lips which somehow prevented questions.
But on the day when Pearl spoke in the school Mrs. Paine's face underwent a change which would have interested a student of human nature. Something which had been long dead, came to life again that day; fluttering, trembling, shrinking. In her eyes there came again the dead hopes of the years, and it made her face almost pitiful in its trembling eagerness. There was a dull red rage in her eyes too that day, that was not good to see, and she was determined that it should not be seen, and for that reason, she slipped away when Pearl was through, leaving some excuse about having the chores to do. She could not bear to speak to the women and have them read her face; she knew it would tell too much. But she must talk to Pearl. There were things that Pearl could tell her.
That night she called Pearl on the phone. The other receivers came down quickly, and various homely household sounds mingled in her ears—a sewing-machine's soft purring in one house—a child's cry in another—the musical whine of a cream separator in a third. She knew they were all listening, but she did not care. Even if she could not control her face, she could control her voice.
When Pearl came to the phone, Mrs. Paine invited her to come over for supper the next night, to which Pearl gave ready acceptance—and that was all. The interested listeners were disappointed with the brevity of the conversation, and spoke guardedly and in cipher to each other after Pearl and Mrs. Paine had gone: "Somebody is away, see! That's why! Gee! some life—never any one asked over only at such times—Gee! How'd you like to be bossed around like that?"
"She did not begin right—too mealy-mouthed. Did you hear what he's going to buy? No! I'll tell you when I see you—we've too big an audience right now. Don't it beat all, the time some people have to listen in—"
"O well, I don't care! Anything I say I'm ready to back up. I don't pretend I forget or try to twist out of things."
One receiver went up here, and the sound of the sewing-machine went with it.
Then the conversation drifted pleasantly to a new and quicker way of making bread that had just come out in the "Western Home Monthly."
The next evening Pearl walked over the Plover Slough to see Mrs. Paine. She noticed the quantity of machinery which stood in the yard, some under cover of the big shingled shed, and some of it sitting out in the snow, gray and weather-beaten. The yard was littered, untidy, prodigal, wasteful—every sort of machine had evidently been bought and used for a while, then discarded. But within doors there was a bareness that struck Pearl's heart with pity. The entrance at the front of the house was banked high with snow, and evidently had not been used all winter, and indeed there seemed no good reason for its ever being used, for the front part of the house, consisting of hall, front room opening into a bed-room, were unfurnished and unheated.
Mrs. Paine was genuinely, eagerly glad to see Pearl, and there was a tense look in her eyes, an underglow of excitement, a trembling of her hands, as she set the table, that did not escape Pearl.
But nothing was said until the children had gone to bed, and then Mrs.Paine departed from her life-long habit of silence, and revealed toPearl the burdens that were crushing her.
She was a thin woman, with a transparency about her that gave her the appearance of being brittle. Her auburn hair curled over her white forehead, and snakily twisted around her ivory white ears. Her eyes were amber-brown, with queer yellow lights that rose and fell as she talked, and in some strange way reminded Pearl of a piece of bird's-eye maple. She was dressed in the style of twenty years before, with her linen collar inside the high collar of her dress, which was fastened with a bar pin, straight and plain like herself. In the centre of the pin was a cairn-gorm, which reflected the slumbering yellow light in her eyes. The color of her face was creamy white, like fine stationery.
"I thought all my hopes were dead, Pearl," she said with dry lips, "until you spoke, and then I saw myself years ago, when I came out of school. Life was as rosy and promising, and the future as bright to me then as it is to you now. But I got married young—we were brought up to think if we did not get married—we were rather disgraced, and in our little town in Ontario, men were scarce—they had all come West. So when I got a chance, I took it."
Pearl could see what a beautiful young girl she must have been, when the fires of youth burned in her eye—with her brilliant coloring and her graceful ways. But now her face had something dead about it, something missing—like a beautifully-tiled fireplace with its polished brass fittings, on whose grate lie only the embers of a fire long dead.
Pearl thought of this as she watched her. Mrs. Paine, in her agitation, pleated her muslin apron into a fan.
The tea-kettle on the stove bubbled drowsily, and there was no sound in the house but the purring of the big cat that lay on Pearl's knee.
"Life is a funny proposition, Pearl," continued Mrs. Paine, "I often think it is a conspiracy against women. We are weaker, smaller than men—we have all the weaknesses and diseases they have—and then some of our own. Marriage is a form of bondage—long-term slavery—for women."
Pearl regarded her hostess with astonished eyes. She had always known that Mrs. Paine did not look happy; but such words as these came as a shock to her romantic young heart.
"It isn't the hard work—or the pain—it isn't that—it's the uselessness of it all. Nature is so cruel, and careless. See how many seeds die—nature does not care—some will grow—the others do not matter!"
"O you're wrong, Mrs. Paine," Pearl cried eagerly; "it is not true that even a sparrow can fall to the ground and God not know it."
Mrs. Paine seemed about to speak, but checked her words. Pearl's bright face, her hopefulness, her youth, her unshaken faith in God and the world, restrained her. Let the child keep her faith!
"There is something I want to ask you, Pearl," she said, after a long pause. "You know the laws of this Province are different from what they are in Ontario."
Her voice fell, and the light in her eyes seemed to burn low, like night-light, turned down.
"He says," she did not call her husband by name, but Pearl knew who was meant, "he says that a man can sell all his property here without his wife's signature, and do what he likes with the money. He wants to sell the farm and buy the hotel at Millford. I won't consent, but he tells me he can take the children away from me, and I would have to go with him then. He says this is a man's country, and men can do as they like. I wonder if you know what the law is?"
"I'm not sure," said Pearl. "I've heard the women talking about it, but I will find out. I will write to them. If that is the law it will be changed—any one could see that it is not fair. Lots of these old laws get written down and no one bothers about them—and they just stay there, forgotten—but any one would see that was not fair, 'Men would not be as unjust as that'!"
"You don't know them", said Mrs. Paine; "I have no faith in men. They've made the world, and they've made it to suit themselves. My husband takes his family cares as lightly as a tomcat. The children annoy him."
She spoke in jerky sentences, often moistening her dry lips, and there was something in her eyes which made Pearl afraid—the very air of the room seemed charged with discords. Pearl struggled to free her heart from the depressing influence.
"All men are not selfish," she said, "and I guess God has done the best He could to be fair to every one. It's some job to make millions of people and satisfy them all."
"Well, the Creator should take some responsibility," Mrs. Paine interrupted, "none of us asked to be born—I'm not God, but I take responsibility for my children. I did not want them, but now they are here I'll stand by them. That's why I've stayed as long as this. But God does not stand by me."
Her voice was colorless and limp like a washed ribbon. It had in it no anger, just a settled conviction.
"See here, Mrs. Paine," began Pearl, "you've been too long alone in the house. You begin to imagine things. You work too hard, and never go out, and that would make an archangel cross. You've just got to mix up more with the rest of us. Things are not half so black as they look to you."
"I could stand it all—until he said he could take away my home," the words seemed to come painfully. "I worked for this," she said, "and though it's small and mean—it's home. Every bit of furniture in this house I bought with my butter money. The only trees we have I planted. I sowed the flowers and dug the place to put them. While he is away buying cattle and shipping them, and making plenty of money—all for himself—I stay here and run the farm. I milk, and churn, and cook for hired men, and manage the whole place, and I've made it pay too, but he has everything in his own name. Now he says he can sell it and take the money…. Even a cat will fight and scratch for its hay-loft."
"Oh well," said Pearl, "I hope you won't have to fight. Fighting is bad work. It's a last resort when everything else fails. Mr. Paine can be persuaded out of the hotel business if you go at it right. He does not understand, that's all. That's what causes all the misery and trouble in life—it is lack of understanding."
Mrs. Paine smiled grimly: "It's good to be young, Pearl," she said.
After a while she spoke again: "I did not ask you over entirely for selfish reasons. I wanted to talk to you about yourself; I wanted to warn you, Pearl."
"What about!" Pearl exclaimed.
"Don't get married," she said; "Oh don't, Pearl, I can't bear to think of you being tied down with children and hard work. It's too big a risk, Pearl, don't do it. We need you to help the rest of us. When I listened to you the other day I came nearer praying than I have for many years. I said, 'Oh, Lord, save Pearl,' and what I meant was that He should save you from marriage. You'll have lots of offers."
"None so far," laughed Pearl, "not a sign of one."
"Well, you'll get plenty—but don't do it, Pearl. We need you to talk for us."
"Well, couldn't I talk if I were married?" asked Pearl, "I have heard married women talk."
"Not the same; they haven't the heart. People cannot talk if their own hearts are sore. That's why we want to keep you light-hearted and carefree. I wish you would promise me, Pearl, that you won't marry."
Pearl hesitated, hardly knowing how to meet this.
"That's asking a lot, Mrs. Paine. Every girl hopes to marry some time," she said, at last, and if the light had been better Mrs. Paine would have seen the color rising in Pearl's cheeks; "And you are wrong in thinking that all men are mean and selfish. My father is not. We've been poor and all that, but we're happy. My father has never shirked his share of the work, and he has only one thought now, and that is to do well for us. There are plenty of happy marriages. I—can't promise not to but there's no danger yet—I have no notion of it."
"All right, Pearl," said Mrs. Paine, "keep away from it. Some way I can't bear to think of you tied down with a bunch of kids, and all your bright ways dulled with hard work and worry. Well, anyway, you'll talk about it—about the vote I mean."
"All the time," Pearl laughingly responded. "Wherever two or three gather Pearl Watson will rise and make a few remarks unless some one forcibly restrains her. I will promise that—that's easy."
When Pearl walked home that night the moon was trying to shine through a gray rag of a cloud that was wrapped around its face. The snow on the road caught the muffled rays of light, and she could see her way quite well after her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. There was a close, protecting feeling about the gray darkness that suited her mood. It was a comfortable, companionable night, with a soft air full of pleasant sounds of dogs barking, and sleigh-bells, and with the lights in the neighbors' houses for company. Pearl was not conscious of fear. All her life she had gone about in the night as fearlessly as by day.
Mrs. Paine's words troubled her. Was it possible life could be as dull and drab a thing as it seemed to her. Perhaps, though, she had never been in love! She had married because she did not want to be an old maid. Only love can redeem life from its common-place monotony. Maybe that was why things had gone wrong.
She thought about Mrs. Paine's words about being tied down with children and hard work, and how she had pleaded with her to be warned! Pearl tried to make the warning real and effective—tried to harden her heart and fill it with ambitions, in which love and marriage had no place. She tried to tell herself it was her duty to never marry; she would be free to work for other women. She tried to think of a future apart from marriage, apart from the hopes and dreams that had been so dear and sweet. Could it be that she was being called of God to be a leader in a new crusade against injustice? Was it her part to speak for other women? Since the day she spoke in the school there had been a glowing wonder in her heart which told her she could move people to higher thinking and nobler action. She had seen it in their eyes that day. She had seen the high resolve in their faces, seen it, and been glad and fearful too. Was it possible that God was calling her to declare a message to the people, and could it be that it was for this reason her sweet dreams had been so suddenly broken?
Pearl stopped in the road in her agitation of spirit, as the possibility of this surged over her. Every sound seemed to have died away, not a dog barked or a tree creaked in the gray darkness which shrouded the world. Even the lights in the houses seemed to hold a steady gleam, without as much as winking an eye—waiting for her answer.
The whole world seemed to be holding its breath expectantly, in a waiting, quivering silence. It was as if her name had been called; the curtain had rolled up, and a great audience waited.
A sudden, helpless feeling set her heart beating painfully into her throat, a smothering sense of fear, quite new to her, who had never known fear.
"I can't do it!" broke from her, in a cry; "Don't ask me, Lord, I can't! I can't do it alone—but give me the desire of my heart, oh, Lord, and I will never tremble or turn back or be afraid. I will declare the truth before kings!"