None of us has lived long without discovering that everything he has he pays for; that every gain has a corresponding loss; that a development even of one of our own faculties, is at the expense of the others. The wild wheat is small and dwarfed in size in its native state, but very hardy. Under persistent cultivation it grows bigger and more productive, but, unfortunately, susceptible to the frost. The wild rabbit when domesticated grows bigger and more beautiful, but loses his speed and cleverness. So it is all through life—it all comes in the bill—we cannot escape the day of reckoning.
If Pearl Watson had not had a taste for political speeches and debates; if she had read the crochet patterns in the paper instead of the editorials, and had spent her leisure moments making butterfly medallions for her camisoles, or in some other ladylike pursuit, instead of leaning over the well-worn railing around the gallery of the Legislative Assembly, in between classes at the Normal, she would have missed much; but she would have gained something too.
For one thing, she would have had an easier time getting a boarding-house in the Purple Springs District, and would not be standing looking disconsolately out at the Spring sunshine, one day at the end of April, wondering, with a very sore heart, why nobody wanted to give her board and shelter. It was a new and painful sensation for Pearl, and it cut deeply.
Mrs. Zinc could not keep her beyond May the first, for relatives were coming from the East. Mrs. Cowan could not take her, for she had too much to do as it was—and could not get help that wasn't more trouble than it was worth. They would waste more than their wages, and what they did not waste they would steal. Mrs. Cowan's tongue was unloosed by the memory of her wrongs, and it was half an hour before Pearl could get away. Mrs. Cowan had surely suffered many things at the hands of help of all nationalities. She had got them from employment bureaus, government and private; from the Salvation Army and from private friends in the old country. Her help had come from everywhere except from the Lord! No indeed, she couldn't take any one to board.
A careful canvass of the neighborhood had resulted in disappointment; not one home was available. Embarrassment had sat on the faces of many of the women when they talked with her about it, and Pearl was quick to see that there was something back of it all, and the antagonism of the unknown lay heavily on her heart.
The yellow Spring sun, like liquid honey, fell in benediction on the leafless trees, big with buds, and on the tawny mat of grass through which the blue noses of anemones were sticking. Cattle eagerly cropped the dead grass and found it good, and men were at work in the fields. They all had homes and beds, Pearl thought, with a fresh burst of homelessness.
She had prepared her blackboards for the next day, and made her desktidy, and was just about to leave for the day and walk the mile toMrs. Howser's to see if she could make it her abiding place, whenBessie Cowan came running with a letter.
"Please, teacher," said Bessie, out of breath from running, "Ma thought this might be an important letter, and you should have it right away. It came in our mail."
Pearl took it, wonderingly. It bore the official seal of the Department of Education. Only once had she received such a letter, and that was when she received permission to attend the Normal. When she opened it, she read:
"Dear Madam:—You have been recommended to us by the Principal of the Normal School for special work required by this Department, and we will be pleased to have you come to our office inside of the next week for instructions. We will pay you a salary of one hundred dollars a month, and travelling expenses, and we believe you will find the work congenial. Kindly reply as soon as possible."
Pearl's heart was throbbing with excitement. Here was a way of escape from surroundings which, for some unknown reason, were uncomfortable and unfriendly.
Bessie Cowan watched her closely, but said not a word. Bessie was a fair-skinned little girl, with eyes far apart, and a development of forehead which made her profile resemble a rabbit's.
"Thank you, Bessie" said Pearl, "I am glad to have this." She sat at her desk and began to write. Bessie ran home eagerly to tell her mother how the letter had been received.
Pearl decided to write an acceptance, and to 'phone home to her mother before sending it.
When the letter was written she sat in a pleasant dream, thinking of the new world that had opened before her. "Travelling expenses," had a sweet sound in her young ears—she would go from place to place, meet new people, and all the time be learning something—learning something—and forgetting.
Pearl winced a little when she recalled Mrs. Crock's words when she came through Millford on her way to Purple Springs:
"The doctor should be the candidate, but I guess Miss Keith won't let him. They say he's holdin' off to run for the Dominion House next Fall. You maybe could coax him to run, Pearl. Have you seen him lately? Miss Keith was down twice last week, and he went up for Sunday. It looks as if they were keepin' close company—oh well, he's old enough to know his own mind, and it will be nice to have the Senator's daughter livin' here. It would give a little style to the place, and that's what we're short of. But it's nothing to me—I don't care who he marries!"
Pearl had hurried away without answering. Mrs. Crocks' words seemed to darken the sun, and put the bite of sharp ice in the gentle spring breeze. Instead of forgetting him, every day of silence seemed to lie heavier on her heart; but one thing Pearl had promised herself—she would not mope—she would never cry over it!
She read the letter over and tried to picture what it would mean. A glow of gratitude warmed her heart when she thought of the Normal School Principal and his kindness in recommending her. She would fulfil his hopes of her, too. She would do her work well. She would lose herself in her work, and forget all that had made her lonely and miserable. It was a way of escape—the Lord was going to let her down over the wall in a basket.
There was a very small noise behind her, a faint movement as if a mouse had crossed the threshold.
She turned quickly, and gave a cry of surprise and delight.
At the door, shyly looking in at her, was a little boy of perhaps ten years of age, with starry eyes of such brilliance and beauty she could see no other feature. He looked like a little furry squirrel, who would be frightened by the slightest sound.
For a moment they looked at each other; then from the boy, in a trembling voice, clear and high pitched, came the words:
"Please, teacher!"
The tremble in his voice went straight to Pearl's heart.
"Yes, dear," she said, "come right in—I want you—I'm lonesome—and I like little boys like you."
His eyes seemed to grow more luminous and wistful.
"I can't come in," he said. "I can't come into the school at all—not the least little bit—I have an ungovernable temper."
"I'm not afraid," said Pearl gravely, "I am very brave that way, and don't mind at all. Who says you have?"
"The trustees," he said and his voice began to quiver. "They sent mother a letter about me."
"O, I know you now, James," said Pearl, "come in—I want to talk to you. I was going to see you just as soon as I got settled."
Cautiously he entered; the out-door wildness was in his graceful movements. He stooped a few feet away from her and said again:
"Please, teacher."
Pearl smiled back, reassuringly, and his eyes responded.
"Did you get a place yet?" he asked eagerly.
"No, I didn't," she answered. She was going to tell him that she would not need a place, for she was going away, but something stopped her. Somehow she could not dim the radiance of those eager eyes.
"Teacher!" he cried coming nearer, "would you come and live with us? My mother is just sweet, and she would like to have you. She is away today, to Millford, and won't be home till eight o'clock. I stayed at home because I wanted to see you. My mother watched you going to the houses—we can see all of them from our house—and every time you came away from them—she was glad. We have a spy-glass, and we could see—that's how we knew how nice you were, teacher"—he was almost near enough to touch her now. "You can have my bed if you will come."
Pearl wanted to draw him to her and kiss the fear forever from his face, but she was still afraid he might vanish if she touched him.
"My mother thinks you are nice," he said softly. "We saw you patting Cowan's dog and walking home with the children. One day we saw you walking home with Edgar Zinc. He held your hand—and my mother got to thinking that it might have been me that you had by the hand, and she cried that day, and couldn't tell why. It wasn't because she was lonely—because she never is lonely. How could she be when she has me? She tells me every day she is not lonely. But we'd like fine to have you live with us, teacher, because you're nice."
Pearl's arm was around him now, and he let her draw him over to her.
"Tell me all about yourself," she said, with a curious tugging at her heart.
"We're orphans," he said simply, "mother and I—that means our people are dead. We had no people, only just our daddy. We didn't need any people only him, and he's dead. And then we had Mr. Bowen—and he's dead. Don't it beat all how people die? Are you an orphan?"
Pearl shook her head.
James continued: "We're waiting here until I get bigger and mother gets enough money—and then we're going back. It's lovely to be going back. This isn't the real Purple Springs—we just called it that for fun, and because we love the name. It makes us happier when we say it. It reminds us. Mother will tell you if you live with us."
"At night we light the fire and watch it crackling, and I sit on mother's knee. Ain't I a big boy to sit on a lady's knee?—and she tells me. At Purple Springs there's pansies as big as plates—mother will draw them for you—and the rocks are always warm, and the streams are boiling hot, and nobody is ever sick there or tired. Daddy wouldn't have died if we'd stayed there. But there's things in life no one understands. We'll never leave when we go back."
The boy rambled on, his eyes shining with a great excitement. Pearl thought she was listening to the fanciful tales with which a lonely woman beguiled the weary hours for her little son It was a weirdly extravagant fairy story, and yet it fascinated Pearl in spite of it's unlikeness to truth. It had all the phantasy of a midsummer night's dream.
The boy seemed to answer her thoughts.
"Ain't it great to have something lovely to dream over, teacher? I bet you've got sweet dreams, too. Mother says that what kills people's souls is when they have no purple springs in their lives. She says she's sorry for lots of people They live and walk around, but their souls are dead, because their springs have dried up."
Pearl drew him closer to her. He was so young—and yet so old—so happy, and yet so lonely. She wanted to give him back a careless, happy, irresponsible childhood, full of frolicking fun and mischief, without care or serious thought. She longed to see him grubby-fisted bare-footed, tousle-haired, shouting and wrestling with her young tykes of brothers. It was not natural or happy to see a child so elfin, so remote, so conscious of the world's sorrows.
"Will you come with me now, teacher?" he asked eagerly.
Pearl could not resist the appeal. The sun hung low in an amber haze as they left the school and took the unfrequented road to the brown house on the hill—the house of mystery.
The air was full of the drowsy sounds of evening; cattle returning after their day's freedom in the fields, cow-bells tinkling contentedly. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked; and on the gentle breeze came the song of a hermit thrush, with an undertone of cooing pigeons. The acrid smell of burning leaves was in the air.
The river valley ran into the sunset with its bold scrub-covered banks, on the high shoulder of which the railway cut made a deep welt, purple now with evening. Every day the westbound train, with its gray smoke spume laid back on its neck like a mane, slid swiftly around the base of the hill until the turn in the river made it appear to go into a tunnel, for the opposite bank obscured it from view. It re-appeared again, a mile farther west, and its smoke could be followed by the eye for many miles as it made its way to the city. This year it was the Government's promise that the river would be bridged at Purple Springs and the road made more direct.
"Mother says no one could be lonely when they can see the trains," said James Gray. "Mother just loves the trains—they whistle to us every day. They would stop and talk to us only they're in such a hurry."
When her young escort led Pearl Watson into the living-room she gave an exclamation of delight. A low ceiling, with weathered beams; a floor covered with bright-colored, hand-made rugs, bookcases filled with books, a few pictures on the wall, and many pieces of artistically constructed furniture.
"Mother makes these in the winter, she and I. We work all evening, and then we make toast at the fireplace and play the phonograph and pretend we have visitors. Ever since we knew you were coming you've been our visitor, and now tonight I'll hide you, and mother will think I'm just pretending, and then you'll come out, and mother will think she's dreaming again."
Pearl helped her young friend to milk the two fine cows that came up to the bars expectantly, after which the evening meal was prepared, and Pearl was amazed at the deft manner in which the boy set about his work. He told her more about calories and food values and balanced meals than the Domestic Science Department at the Normal School had taught her.
"How do you know all this?" she asked him in surprise.
"Mother reads it in books and tells me. Mother learns everything first, and tells me—she is determined," said the boy gravely, "that I will have just as good a chance as other children. She says if she ever did anything that wasn't right, and which made it hard for me—she'll make it up. Mother says God is often up against it with people, too. He has to let things happen to them—bad things—but He can always make it up to them—and He will! Do you think that too, teacher?"
"I am sure of it," said Pearl, with a catch in her throat and a sudden chill of doubt. Were there some things which even God could not make up to us?
The fireplace was laid with red willow wood, and when everything was ready, and the hour had come when Mrs. Gray was expected home, Pearl and James waited in the big chair before the fire, which darted tongues of purple flame and gave a grateful heat, for the evening was chilly. They did not light the lamp at all, for the light from the fire threw a warm glow over the room.
A great peace seemed to have come to Pearl's heart. The neighbors of Purple Springs, with their inhospitable hearts, seemed far away and unreal. That thought in some occult way came to her with comforting power from the spirit which dwelt in this home.
For three years no friendly foot had come to this threshold, no one had directed a friendly thought to the woman who lived here, nor to the child; yet woman and child had lived on happily in spite of this, and now to Pearl, on whom the taboo of the neighborhood had also fallen, there came the peace of mind which could set quietly at defiance the opinion of the little world which surrounded her.
So intent were Pearl and James on the story that Pearl was telling they did not hear the buggy, which drove up to the house. Mrs. Gray got out and took out her parcels at the front door. The leaping flames from the fire-place in the pretty room, made a picture she loved well. It was so significant of home—and it is those who have not always had a home who love it best. She stopped to watch the light as it danced on the shelves of books and the brightly colored hangings and rugs.
Seeing Pearl in the big chair, with her arm around the boy, Annie Gray's heart gave a leap of rapture. Her boy had a companion—a human comrade other than herself. It had come at last! The dream had come true! She watched Pearl, fascinated, fearful. Was it a dream, or was there really a human being, and such a lovely one, a guest at her fireside?
With a quick movement she flung open the door James ran to his mother with a welcoming shout. Then Pearl stood up, and the two women shook hands without a word. They looked long into each other's eyes; then with a quick impulse, and a sudden illumination, Pearl put her arms around the older woman and kissed her.
Annie Gray held her away from her, so she could look at her again.Then with a laugh that was half a sob, she said:
"Prayers—are—sometimes—answered," and without any warning, surprising herself even more than she did the others—she began to cry. Three years is a long time.
When Pearl opened her eyes the next morning it was with a delicious sense of well-being, which increased as she looked about her. It may have been the satiny smoothness of the sheets, the silk eiderdown quilt, with its plumy yellow chrysanthemums, the pale yellow scrim curtains, across whose lower borders young brown ducks followed each other in stately procession; the home-made table with its gray linen runner, across which a few larger ducks paraded, and which held a large lamp, with a well-flounced shade; the soft buff walls, with their border of yellow autumn woods, sun-sweet and cool, with leaf-strewn paths that would be springy to walk on. It may have been these, for Pearl's heart could easily be set tingling by a flash of color that pleased her. But there is no doubt the room had a presence, a strong, buoyant, cheerful presence. It had been furnished to defy loneliness. Who could be lonely looking down at a thick plushy rug of woolly white sheep, shading into yellow, lying on the very greenest of grass, beside a whimsical little twisting stream that you were just sure had speckled trout in it, darting over its gravelly bottom, if your eyes were only quick enough to catch the flash of them; and who wouldn't be glad to wash in a basin that was just lined with yellow roses, with a few of them falling out over the sides; and who wouldn't accept the gift of a towel from a hospitable oak hand, which held out a whole bouquet of them—one on each finger; towels with all sorts of edgings and insertions and baskets of flowers and monograms on them just begging you to take your choice. And if anything else were needed to keep the heart from dull gray loneliness, or ugly black fear, on the wall over the bed was a big gilt-framed picture of an amber-eyed, white-collared, blessed collie dog, with the faintest showing of his red tongue, big and strong and faithful, just to remind you that though changes befall and friends betray and hopes grow cold, faithfulness and affection have not entirely vanished from the earth.
Pearl's sense of freedom, of power, of comfort, seemed to increase as she lay watching the spot of sunshine which fell on the rug with its flock of sheep and seemed to bring them alive. The whole room seemed to fit around her, the ceiling bent over her like a kind face, the walls, pictures, and furniture were like a group of friends encouraging her, inspiring her, soothing her.
Pearl searched her mind for a word to describe it. "It feels like—Saturday—" she said at last, "—freedom, rest, plans, ambitions—it has them all, and it has something deeper still in it—it is like a section of a tree, in which history can be read, storms and winds and sunshine," for Pearl knew instinctively that it was a tower-room that Annie Gray had made for an armor for her soul, so it would not be pierced by the injustice and unkindness of the world.
"They do not understand," Pearl said again, "that's all—they do not mean to be so horrid to her—it's queer how badly people can treat each other and their conscience let them get away with it. Even if Mrs. Gray had been all they said, she had not done any wrong to them—why should they feel called upon to punish her? Well, I can tell them a few things now."
A fire burned in the fireplace, and the breakfast-table was set in front of it. Mrs. Gray, in an attractive mauve house-gown, came in from the kitchen. She was a tall woman, with steel gray eyes, with pebblings of green—the eyes of courage and high resolve. Her features were classical in their regularity, and reminded Pearl of the faces in her history reproduced from the Greek coins, lacking only the laurel wreath. Her hair was beginning to turn gray, and showed a streak at each side, over her temples. A big black braid was rolled around her perfectly round head; a large green jade brooch, with a braided silver edge, fastened her dress. Her hands were brown and hard, but long, shapely and capable looking.
The boy was sleeping late, so Pearl and her hostess ate their breakfast alone.
"Will you let me stay with you, Mrs. Gray," Pearl asked, when breakfast was over. "I will make my own bed, keep my things tidy, try not to spill my tea. I will wipe my feet, close the screen door, and get up for breakfast."
Mrs. Gray looked across the table, with her dear eyes fastened on her guest. Suddenly they began to grow dim with tears.
"Pearl," she said, laughing, "I don't know what there is about you that makes me want to cry. I've gone through some rough places in life without a tear, but you seem to have a way all your own to start me off."
"But I don't hurt you, do I?" Pearl asked, in distress. "Surely I don't—I wouldn't do that for the world."
"Not a bit of it," laughed her hostess, as she wiped her eyes, and then, blinking hard to clear away the last traces of grief, she said:
"Pearl, before you come to board with me you should know something about me; you have no doubt heard some strange things."
Pearl did not deny it.
"And you should know the whole story, and then judge for yourself whether you consider I am a fit person to live with."
"But I do already," said Pearl. "I consider you a very proper and delightful person to live with. I don't want to know a thing about you unless you care to tell me. You don't know anything about me either—we both have to take a chance—and I am willing if you are."
"But there will be an insurrection in the neighborhood. They won't let you, Pearl. They can't forgive me for coming here without reference or character, and with a child, too."
"Well, he's a pretty fine child," said Pearl, "and, I should say, a sort of certificate for his mother."
"Well, no matter how fine a child he is—no matter what care a mother has taken in his training—nothing can atone, in the eyes of society for the failure of conforming to some of their laws. Society's laws, not God's laws. Society is no friend to women, Pearl."
"But it is just because people do not think," said Pearl, "They have made certain laws—and women have not made any protest, so the men think they are all right."
"And do you know why, Pearl?" she asked. "Women who are caught in the tangle of these laws, as I was, cannot say a word—their lips are dumb. The others won't say a word for fear of spoiling their matrimonial market. The worst thing that can be said of a woman is that she's queer and strong-minded—and defies custom. If you want to be happy, Pearl, be self-centered, virtuous, obey the law, and care nothing for others."
"You don't mean that," said Pearl. "You've been hard hit some way I do not want to know until you want to tell me. But I am going to stay with you if you will keep me. I am determined to stay."
Annie Gray's steely eyes clouded over again, like a sun-kissed lake when a cloud passes over it. They grew deeper, grayer, and of misty tenderness.
"You are doing something for me, Pearl, that I thought could never be done; you are restoring my faith. Remember, I have not been as unhappy as you may think. I had my happiness—that's more than some women can say. I have had the rapture, the blessedness of love—I've had it all—the rapture of holding and the agony of loss—I'm only thirty-one, but I've lived a thousand years. But, Pearl, you've done something for me already; you have set my feet again on something solid, and I am a different woman from yesterday. Some day I'll tell you a strange story until then, you'll trust me?"
"Until then—and far beyond it—forever," said Pearl. "I'll trust you—I have an idea you and I are going to stick together for a long time."
Pearl went back to the school and found her letter of acceptance in the desk. She tore it up and wrote another, thanking the department for their kindness in offering her such a splendid position, but explaining that she had decided to stay at the school at Purple Springs. She made her decision without any difficulty. There was a deep conviction that the threads of destiny were weaving together her life and Annie Gray's, and she knew, from some hidden source in her soul, that she must stand by. What she could do, was vague and unformed in her mind, but she knew it would be revealed to her.
Pearl, child of the prairie, never could think as clearly when her vision was bounded by walls. She had to have blue distance—the great, long look that swept away the little petty, trifling, hampering things, which so slavishly dominate our lives, if we will let them. So she took her way to a little lake behind the school, where with the school axe she had already made a seat for herself under two big poplar trees, and cut the lower branches of some of the smaller ones, giving them a neat and tidy appearance, like well-gartered children dressed for a picnic.
There were a few white birches mixed with the poplars, so delicately formed and dainty in their slender branches and lacy leaves, they looked like nice little girls with flowing hair, coming down to bathe in the blue lake, timidly trying out the water with their white feet. The trees formed a semi-circle around the east side of the lake, leaving one side open to view, and she could see the prairie falling away to the river, which made a wide detour at this point.
Pearl settled herself in her rustic seat, putting the newspaper, which she had left for the purpose, behind her back as she leaned against the tree, to keep the powdery bark from marking her blue coat, and leaning back contentedly, she drank in the spring sounds.
The sun, which stood almost at noon, seemed to draw the leaves out like a magnet; she could almost believe she saw them unfolding; above her head there was a perfect riot of bird's song, and a blue-bird, like a burst of music, went flashing across the water. A gray squirrel chattered as he ran up a tree behind her, and a rabbit, padding over the dead leaves on his way to the lake, made a sound like a bear.
Up through the tree tops there had climbed a few blue rags of smoke, for behind her a sleepy prairie fire was eating backward toward a ploughed fire-guard, and the delightful acrid smell brought back the memory of past prairie fires, pleasant enough to think of, as life's battles are, if they end victoriously. Not a breath stirred in the trees, and the prairie fire that smouldered so indolently was surely the gentlest of its race.
Suddenly there came a gust of wind through the trees, which set them creaking and crackling with vague apprehension, for the wind is always the mischief maker—the tattler—the brawler who starts the trouble—and the peaceful, slumbering absent-minded prairie fire, nibbling away at a few dead roots and grass, had been too much for it. Here was a perfectly good chance to make trouble which no wind could resist.
A big black cloud went over the sun, and all in a minute the placid waters of the lake were rasped into a pattern like the soles of new rubbers—the trees were bending—crows cawing excitedly, and the fire, spurred by the wind, went racing through the lake bottom and on its way up the bank toward the open country. The cattle, which had been feeding at the east side of the lake, sniffing danger, turned galloping home to furnish an alibi in case of trouble.
But the excitement was short-lived owing to a circumstance which the wind had overlooked. The wind had made a mistake in its direction, and so the fire had one wild, glorious race up the bank only to find its nose run right into a freshly ploughed fire-guard, steaming damp and richly brown. The fire sputtered, choked and died down, black and disappointed, leaving only a few smoking clumps of willows.
Then the wind, seeing no further chance of trouble, went crackling away over the tree tops, and the sun came back, brilliant and warm as ever, and there was nothing to show that there had been any excitement, save only the waves on the lake. The wind was gone, laughing and unrepentant, over the tree-tops; the sun had come back as genially as if it had never been away—but the lake could not forget, and it fretted and complained, in a perfectly human way, pounding the bank in a futile attempt to get back at some one. The bank had not been to blame, but it had to take the lake's repinings, while the real culprit went free and unreproached.
Pearl could tell what the lake was saying, as it lashed itself foaming and pounding just below her feet. It called to the world to listen.
"Look how I'm used," it sobbed, "and abused—and confused."
Pearl put her hands in the silk-lined pockets of her coat, and thought about what she had just seen.
"Life is like this," she said at last, "human nature is full of mischief. It loves to start trouble and fan a fire into a destructive mood; and there's only one way to stop it—plough a fire-guard. I wish there had been some one here to plough a fire-guard when the fires of gossip began to run here three years ago."
"I'll go now and dress up, and break the news to the neighborhood that I am going to the house at Purple Springs to board. There will be a row—there will be a large row—unless I can make the people understand, and in a row there is nothing so sustaining as good clothes—next to the consciousness of being right, of course," she added after a pause. An hour later, Pearl Watson, in her best dress of brown silk, with her high brown boots well polished, and her small brown hat, made by herself, with a band of crushed burnt orange poppies around the crown, safely anchored and softened by a messaline drape; with her hair drawn over the tops of her ears, and a smart fawn summer coat, with buttons which showed a spot of red like a pigeon-blood ruby. Pearl looked at herself critically in the glass:
"These things should not count," she said, as she fastened a thin veil over her face and made it very neat at the back with a hairpin, "but they do."
The Purple Springs district was going through a period of intense excitement. Housework languished, dough ran over, dish-water cooled. The news which paralyzed household operations came shortly after one o'clock, when Mrs. Cowan phoned to Mrs. Brownless that the teacher had just been in, and said she was going to board with the woman who lived alone. The teacher had said it, according to Mrs. Cowan, in the "most off-hand manner, just as if she said she had found her jackknife or her other rubber—just as easy as that, she said she had found a boarding house. Mrs. Howser could not take her, but Mrs. Gray could, and she was moving over right away."
Mrs. Cowan, according to her own testimony, nearly dropped. She did not really drop, but any one could easily have knocked her down; she could have been knocked down with a pin feather. She could not speak—she just stared. She went all "through other," and felt queer.
"Do you know that woman has a child?" she managed to say at last, and the teacher said, "Sure—one of the nicest I've ever seen—a perfect beauty."
Mrs. Cowan admitted to Mrs. Brownlees, who sympathized with her, that she did not know what to say then.
At last she said, "But she has no right to have a child," and the teacher said:
"Why not if she wants to. She's good to him, dresses him well and trains him well. My mother had nine—and got away with it—and likes them all. Having a child is nothing against her." Now, wasn't that an awful way for her to talk?
Mrs. Brownlees said it certainly was fierce! and the other listeners on the phone, for the audience had been augmented as the conversation proceeded, politely said nothing, but hung up their receivers with haste, and acquainted the members of their household with the disquieting news.
Mrs. Switzer threw her apron over her head and ran out to the pump, where Bill was watering his three-horse team. Bill received the news in that exasperating silence which is so hard to bear. When urged for an opinion, he said crustily: "Well, what's the girl goin' to do? None of you women would take her—she can't starve—and she can't sleep in the school woodpile. Mrs. Gray won't bite—she's a fine lookin' woman, drives a binder like a man, pays her debts, minds her own business. I don't see why it wouldn't be a good boardin' place."
In telling about it afterwards to Mrs. Howser, Mrs. Switzer said, "You know what men are like; in some ways they are hardly human—they take things so easy."
Pearl was surprised at the storm that burst, but soon realized the futility of further speech. They would not listen—they were so intent on proving the woman's guilt, they would hear no defence. From what they said, Pearl gathered that they knew nothing about Mrs. Gray except what the sewing-machine agent had told them, and even he had not claimed that he had any definite knowledge. The worst count against her was that she would not tell anything about herself. That she would not tell anything about herself, could only have one explanation! There must be nothing good to tell!
On Sunday, at the little stone church in the valley of the river Pearl took her place among the worshippers. The attendance was unusually large. A new bond of interest was binding the neighborhood together, and they spoke of it as they congregated in the church-yard before the service. Pearl sat inside and watched them as they talked together excitedly. Snatches of their conversation came to her. "Well-behaved people should stay with well-behaved people, I say"—this was from Mrs. Switzer.
The men did not join in the conversation, but stood around, ill at ease in their stiff collars, and made an attempt to talk about summer fallowing and other harmless topics. Their attitude to the whole affair was one of aloofness. Let the women settle it among themselves.
From the window where she sat Pearl could see far down the valley. The river pursued its way, happily, unperturbed by the wrongs or sorrows of the people who lived beside it. Sometimes it had reached out and drowned a couple of them as it had done last year—but no one held it against the river at all.
The rejuvenation of nature was to be seen everywhere, in springing grass and leafing tree. Everything could begin life over again. Why were the people so hard on Annie Gray, even if all they believed about her were true? Pearl wondered about the religion of people like the group who were so busily talking just outside the window. Did it not teach them to be charitable? The Good Shepherd, in the picture above the altar, had gone out to find the wandering sheep, even leaving all the others, to bring back the lost one, sorry that it had been wayward, not angry—but only sorry—Pearl hoped that they would look at it when they came in. She hoped too, that they would look at the few scattered tombstones in the churchyard, over which the birds were darting and skimming, and be reminded of the shortness of life, and their own need of mercy—and she hoped that some of the dead, who lay there so peacefully now, might have been sinners who redeemed the past and died respected, and that they might plead now with these just persons who needed no repentance.
But when the service was over, and a brief sermon on Amos and his good deeds, the congregation separated, and Pearl went back to the brown house with a heavy heart, and the cry of her soul was that God would show her a way of making the people understand. "Plough a fire-guard, O Lord," she prayed, as she walked, "and let these deadly fires of gossip run their noses square into it and be smothered. Use me if you can—I am here—ready to help—but the big thing is to get it done."
Around the open grate-fire that night, after James had gone to bed, Pearl and Mrs. Gray sat long before the pleasant wood fire For the first time Annie Gray felt she had found some one to whom she could talk and tell what was in her heart, and the story of the last eleven years was revealed, from the time that pretty Annie Simmons, fresh from Scotland, arrived at the Hudson's Bay post at Fort Resolution, coming by dog-train the last two hundred miles to her cousin, the factor's wife—the thin-lipped daughter of the Covenanters—who kept the pretty young cousin closely at work in the kitchen with her pots and pans when the traders came in, for Mrs. McPherson had no intention of losing Annie and her capable help after bringing her all the way from the Isle of Skye.
After a year of hard work, and some lonesome times, too, in the long, dark winter, there came to the Post a young trapper and prospector, Jim Gray.
"When I saw him," said the woman, with the silver bands of gray encircling her shapely head, "I knew him for my own man. He was tall and dark, with a boyish laugh that I loved, and a way of suddenly becoming very serious in the middle of his fun—a sort of clouding over of his face as if the sun had gone under for a minute."
She spoke haltingly, but Pearl knew what was in her heart, and her quick imagination painted in the details of each picture. She could see the homesick Scotch girl, in the far Northern post, hungry for admiration and love, and trying to make herself as comely as she could. She could sense all the dreams and longings, the hopes and thrills.
"Tell me more about him," Pearl urged.
"He had the out-of-doors look," said Mrs. Gray, "big, gentle, fearless. I knew as soon as I looked in his eyes that I would go with him if he asked me—anywhere. I would dare anything, suffer anything for him. Nothing mattered; you will know it some time, Pearl, I hope. It brings sorrow, maybe, but it is the greatest thing in life. Even now, looking back down these black years, I would do the same—I would go with my man.
"My cousin and her husband, the factor, forbade him the house when they saw what was happening. They had nothing against him. Every trapper said Jim Gray was straight as a gun-barrel. It was just that they would not let me go—they wanted my work, but I had already worked out my passage money, and considered myself free. They locked me in my room at night, and treated me like a prisoner. They said abominable things.
"One night a tapping came at the little square window It was a heavy, dark night in July, with thunder rolling in great shaking billows. It was Jim, and he asked me if I would come with him. He had spoken to the missionary at the post, who would marry us. Would I come? I did not know whether he had a house, or even a blanket. I only knew I loved him.
"Under cover of the storm Jim took out the window-frame, lifted me out, and we were off through the rain and the storm. But when we got to the missionary's he would not marry us—the factor had forbidden him. Jim would have taken me back but I was afraid. The factor had said he would shoot him if he ever came for me. He was a high-tempered man and ruled the post and every one in it with his terrible rages. What would you have done, Pearl?"
"Was there no one else?" said Pearl, "no magistrate—no other missionary or priest?"
"There was a missionary at the next post, sixty miles away. We could reach him in two days. What would you have done, Pearl?"
Pearl was living with her every detail, every sensation, every thrill.
"What would I have done?" she said, trembling with the excitement of a great decision. "I would have gone!"
Annie Gray's hand tightened on hers.
"I went," she said, "and I was never sorry. Jim was a man of the big woods; he loved me. The rain, which fell in torrents, did not seem to wet us—we were so happy."
"At the missionary's house at Hay River we were married, and the wife of the missionary gave me her clothes until mine dried. We stayed there three days and then we went on. Jim had a cabin in a wonderful hot springs valley, and it was there we were going. It would take us a month, but the weather was at its best, hazy blue days, continuous daylight, only a little dimming of the sun's light when it disappeared behind the mountains. We had pack-dogs from the post—Jim had left them there—and lots of provisions. I dream of those campfires and the frying bacon, and the blue smoke lifting itself up to the tree-tops."
She sat a long time silent, in a happy maze of memory.
"I had as much happiness as most women, but mine came all at once—and left me all at once. We reached the valley in September. I was wild with the beauty of it! Set in the mountains, which arched around it, was this wonderful square of fertile land, about six miles one way and seven the other. The foliage is like the tropics, for the hot springs keep off frost. The creeks which run through it come out of the rocks boiling hot—but cool enough to bathe in as they run on through the meadows. Their waters have a peculiar purplish tinge, which passes away after it stands a while, and a delicate aroma like a fragrant toilet water. I called it the Valley of purple springs'."
"Our house was of logs, and built on a rock floor, which was always warm. There were skins on the floor worth fortunes, for the animals came to the valley in winter by the hundreds, black foxes and silver, martins and bear. They came in, stayed a few days and passed out again. The ferns in the valley stood seven feet high, and the stalks were delicious when boiled and salted.
"Jim had planted a garden before he left, and we had everything, cabbages, cauliflower, beets, mushrooms. Jim got the skins he wanted—he didn't kill many—and we tanned them in the Indian way.
"At first the Indians had been afraid to come. They called it 'TheDevil's Valley,' and though the young bucks might come in and spend anight, just as a bit of bravado, they were frightened of it; but afterI came they took courage and came in.
"We found out that the water in the streams had healing power, and made one's skin feel soft as velvet, especially one stream which had the deepest color. One old squaw, whose eyes had been sore for years, was healed in three weeks and went back to her people with her wonderful tales of the valley. After that we had Indians with us all the time. They brought their sick children and their old people, and the results were marvelous. I never knew the stream to fail. Even the tubercular people soon began to grow rosy and well. The food seemed to have healing power, too, and some who came hollow-cheeked, feverish, choking with their cruel paroxysms of coughing, soon began to grow fat and healthy. At first the sick people just slept and slept on the warm rocks, and then came the desire to bathe in the stream, and after that they went searching for the herbs they needed.
"We lived there three years. At the end of the first year little Jim was born—my precious Jim, with his wonderful eyes, reflecting the beauty of the valley. The Indian women tanned the softest buckskin for his little things, and he had the most elaborately beaded garments. No little prince was ever more richly dressed. He grew lovlier every day."
Pearl could refrain no longer: "Why did you ever leave?" she asked breathlessly.
"Conscience," said Annie Gray, after a pause. "We couldn't keep it all to ourselves and be happy over it. We couldn't forget all the sick people to whom our purple springs would bring healing. Mind you, we tried to deaden our consciences; tried to make ourselves believe it was not our duty to give it to the world. We fought off these spells of conscience—we tried to forget that there was a world outside. But we couldn't—we owed a duty, which we had to pay.
"One day, with our winter catch of furs packed on the dogs, we came out. The Indians could not understand why we were leaving, and stood sorrowfully watching us as far as we could see them—there was a heaviness on our spirits that day, as if we knew what was coming.
"On the Judah Hill, at Peace River, came the accident. The train went over the bank. When I came to I was in the Irene Hospital there, with little Jim beside me quite unhurt. But I knew—I knew. I saw in the nurses' face—my Jim had been killed."
All the color had gone from her voice, and she spoke as mechanically as a deaf person.
"He was instantly killed—they did not let me see him.
"I went on. I knew what I should do. I would carry out as far as possible what Jim and I had started out to do. We had filed on the land, and I had the papers—I have them still. In Peace River we had sold the furs, and I had quite a lot of money, for furs were high that year.
"Jim had told me a lot about his father, a domineering but kindly old fellow, the local member of Parliament in a little Eastern town—a man who had had his own way all his life. Jim had not got along well with him, and had left home at eighteen.
"I remembered Jim had said that he wouldn't tell his father about the valley until he had talked it over with a lawyer and got everything settled, for the old man would run the whole thing. So when I went to his home I said little about our valley, except to tell them of the beauty of it.
"I was very unhappy. He raged about Jim and his wild ways. I could not bear it. He knew nothing of the real Jim that I knew, the tender, loving, sweet-souled Jim. I could see how he had raised the devil in the boy with his high-handed ways.
"He was passionately fond of the little Jim, and foolishly indulgent. He would give the child a dollar for a kiss, but if he did not come running to him the very moment he called he would be angry. Yet I could see that he adored the little fellow, and was very proud of his clever ways.
"One day he told me he was going to send Jim to a boy's school in England as soon as he was nine. I told him it could not be. Jim had said to me that we would bring up our boy in the wild, new country, where men are honorable and life is simple. I would follow Jim's wishes—our boy would not go to England. I defied him. I saw his temper then. He told me I had nothing to say about it, he was his grandson's guardian. Jim had made a will before he left home, making his father executor of his estate. He told me the father was the only parent the child had in the eyes of the law, and I had no claim on my boy.
"I had no one to turn to. Jim's mother was one of those sweet, yielding women, who said 'Yes, dear,' to everything he said. She followed him around, picking up the things he scattered and the chairs he kicked over in his fits of temper. Sometimes when he swore she dabbed her eyes with a daintily trimmed handkerchief. That was her only protest. She advised me to say nothing, but just do whatever 'father' told me, and I said I would see him in hell first, and at that she ran out with her fingers in her ears.
"Then a strange thing happened. McPherson, my cousin's husband, the factor from Fort Resolution, met Jim's father at a lodge meeting, and told him Jim and I had gone away without being married—the missionary had refused to marry us—and we had gone away. I think he knew better, for in the north country every one knows everyone else, and it was well known that Jim and I were married at Hay River. He came home raging and called me names. I'll never forget how they went crashing through my brain. He was a proud man, and this 'disgrace' of Jim's, as he said, was the finishing touch. But when he began to abuse Jim I raged too. I said things to him which perhaps had better been left unsaid. I was sorry afterwards, for Jim was fond of his father for all his blustering ways. I did not tell him that Jim and I were legally married, for the fear was on me that he could take little Jim from me, and it did not matter to me what they thought of me. I had one thought—and that was to keep my boy and bring him up myself—bring him up to be a man like his father.
"That night I left. I was proud, too, and I left money to pay for the time I had been with them. I had a few hundred dollars left, not enough to take me back to Purple Springs. My first plan was to get a housekeeper's position, but I soon found I could not do that—the work was hard, and Jim was not wanted. I worked as waitress in a restaurant, and as saleslady in a country store, but Jim was not getting the care he should have.
"One day I saw an advertisement in a paper. A prospector, crippled with rheumatism, wanted a housekeeper. It said 'a woman with sense and understanding,' and I liked the tone of it. It was blunt and honest.
"When I went to see him I found a grizzled old fellow of about sixty, who had been most of his life in the north, and when I found he had known Jim, and had trapped with him on the Liard River, and knew what a splendid fellow he was, I just begged him to let us stay. He was as glad to get me, as I was to find a home.
"I cared for him until he died. He was a good man, a man of the big woods, whose life was simple, honest and kindly.
"In the little town where we lived the people gossiped when I came to him. They wanted to know where I had come from, and all about me. I told them nothing. I was afraid. I had changed my name, but still I was afraid Jim's father might find me. Mr. Bowen thought it would be better if we were married, just to stop their tongues, but I couldn't marry him. Jim has always been just as real to me as when he was with me. Mr. Bowen was kind and gentlemanly always, and many a happy hour we spent talking of the big country with its untold riches. If I could have taken him to Purple Springs he could have been cured, but we knew he could not stand the journey, for his heart was weak.
"I went to night school while I was with him, and learned all I could for Jim's sake. But he died at last, and left me very lonely, for I had grown fond of him.
"By his will he left me all he had, and the deed of this farm was part of his estate. So, after his death, Jim and I came here. Mr. Bowen had advised me to stay on this farm—he had taken it because there were indications of oil, and he believed there would be a big strike here some day. He also left me four thousand dollars, and I have added to it every year. Sometimes I've been tempted to sell out and get back north, but Jim is too young yet, I think, I should go somewhere and let him go to school. I thought when I came he could go here. I have only one thought, one care, one ambition—I've lived my life—I've had my one good, glorious day, and now I want to see that Jim gets his.
"It's a queer story, isn't it, Pearl? I ran away and got married, and then I ran away from marriage to keep my boy. I could prove in a moment that my marriage was legal, of course, the certificate is here, and the marriage was registered by the missionary, who has come back now and lives in the city. But I dare not tell who I am—Jim does not know who his grandfather is."
"He surely couldn't take your boy," cried Pearl. "There is no justice in that."
"Only the unmarried mother has the absolute right to her child," said Annie Gray, as one who quotes from a legal document. "I talked to a lawyer whom Mr. Bowen sent for. He showed it to me in the law."
"Peter Neelands was right," said Pearl after a while, "it is exactly the sort of a law he said the other one was."
The two women sat by the fire, which by this time was reduced to one tiny red coal. There was not a sound in the house except the regular breathing of little Jim from the adjoining room. A night wind stirred the big tree in front of the house, and its branches touched the shingles softly, like a kind hand.
"I'll tell you the rest of it, Pearl, and why I am so frightened. Perhaps I grow fearful, living here alone, and my mind conjures up dreadful things. Jim's grandfather has moved to this Province from the East. I read about him in the papers. He is a powerful man—who gets his own way. He might be able to get doctors to pronounce me insane—we read such things. He has such influence."
"Who is he?" asked Pearl wonderingly.
"He is the Premier of this Province," said Annie Gray. "Now do you wonder at my fear?"
Pearl sat a long time silent. "A way will be found," she said.
"I wonder where they are," Pearl said to herself, as she looked anxiously out of the window of the school on Monday morning. The roads leading from the Purple Springs school lay like twisted brown ribbons on the tender green fields, but not a child, not a straw hat, red sweater, sun-bonnet; not a glint of a dinner-pail broke the monotony of the bright spring morning.
The farm-houses seemed to be enjoying their usual activity. The spielers among the hens were announcing that the day's business was off to a good start, with prospects never brighter, dogs barked, calves bawled, cow-bells jangled—there was even a murmur of talking.
"They are not dead," said Pearl, as she listened, bareheaded, at the gate, "not dead, except to me—but they are not going to let the children come!
"They have turned me down!"
At nine o'clock, a flash of hope lighted up the gloom that had settled on her heart. The Snider twins, two tiny black dots, side by side like quotation marks, appeared distinctly against the vivid green of their father's wheat field and continued to advance upon the school-house, until they were but half a mile away. Then, noticing that no one else was abroad, they turned about and retraced their steps in haste, believing it must be Sunday, or a holiday—or something.
They were quite right on the last guess. It was something. But not even the teacher knew just what. The school room was clammily, reproachfully silent, every tick of the elm clock which told off the time without prejudice, seemed to pile up evidence of a hostile nature.
Pearl's brows were knitted in deep thought, as she looked in vain down the sparkling roads. What was back of it all? What had she done, or failed to do? Why did no one want to give her board and shelter? This latest development—the boycott of the school—was of course a protest against her association with the woman of Purple Springs.
Pearl squared her shoulders and threw back her head. She remembered the advice she had given her young brothers, "Don't pick a fight. Don't hit harder than you need to—but when trouble comes, be facing the right way." She would try to keep her face in the right direction. Here was prejudice, narrowness, suspicion, downright injustice and cruelty—of this she was sure—there were other elements, other complications of which she had no knowledge. Peter Neelands had told her the Government was watching her, but she had not taken it seriously.
She began to wonder if the invitation to work in the Educational Department might not be a plan to get her safely out of the way until after the election. It seemed too absurd.
Life was not so simple and easy as she had thought, or was it true that the element of trouble was in her own mind. Did she attract trouble by some quality of heart or brain. But what else could she have done? Hadn't she told the truth and done what seemed right all the way? But to be turned down in her school—left alone—boycotted.
Pearl's depression, poignant and deep though it was, did not last long. There would be a way out—there was always a way out! She would be shown the way!
"They that are with us," said Pearl solemnly, struggling with a wave of self pity, "are greater than they that are against us. I wish I could get them all lined up and talk to them. There is no use in talking to them one by one—they won't listen—they're too busy trying to think of something to say back. But if I had them all together, I could make them see things—they would have to see it. They are positively cruel to Mrs. Gray, and the dear little Jim—and without cause—and they should be told. Nobody would be so mean—if they knew—even the old grandfather would feel sorry."
When ten o'clock came, and not one pupil had arrived, Pearl decided she would go over to the post-office for her mail. There would be a letter from home, and never before had she so much needed the loving assurance that she had a home where a welcome awaited her, even if the world had gone wrong. The Watson family would stand by her, no matter what the verdict of Purple Springs.
In addition to the home letter, with its reassuring news that four hens were set and the red cow had come in, and the boys had earned three dollars and fifteen cents on their gopher tails, and the twenty-fourth being a holiday. Jimmy would come over for her—in addition to this, there was a large square envelope from the city. The letter was from the Woman's Club, telling her that they were preparing a political play and wanted her to come at once to the city to take an important part. They had heard of her ability from Mr. Neelands. Would she please let them know at once?
A smile scattered the gloom on Pearl's face. Here was a way out. Would she go? To play an important part in a play? Would she go?
Pearl went down the road on light feet, to where Mr. Cowan, the Secretary, was ploughing stubble. Mr. Cowan was expecting a call, and dreading it, for in spite of careful rehearsing, he had been unable to make out a good case. He was an awkward conspirator, without enthusiasm, and his plain country conscience reminded him that it was a mean way to treat a teacher whom he—himself—had selected. But why hadn't she accepted the offer to go to the city, and get away from a neighborhood where she could not be comfortable. Naturally, he could not urge it—that would give away the whole game. But he could hardly keep from asking her.
He resolved to say as little as possible, when he saw her coming. There was no trace of either gloom or resentment in her face when she greeted him. Mr. Cowan was equally friendly.
"I want to ask you something, Mr. Cowan," said Pearl. "What is wrong with me? Why don't the people like me? What have I done?"
Mr. Cowan had stopped his team, and lifting the lines from behind his back, he wound them deliberately around the handles of the plow before speaking. His manner indicated that it was a long story.
"Well, you know what women are like. No one can reason with women, and they won't stand for you boarding with Mrs. Gray. They're sore on her—and don't think she's just what she should be—and—"
Pearl interrupted him:
"But, Mr. Cowan, even before I went there, there was something wrong. Why wouldn't they give me a boarding place? You thought that I could get a boarding place when you hired me. Come on, Mr. Cowan, you may just as well tell me—it's the easiest way in the end—just to speak out—it saves time. If you ask me not to tell—I won't."
George Cowan did not expect to be cornered up so closely, and in desperation he said what was uppermost in his mind:
"Why don't you take the offer to go to the city, that's a great chance."
He had forgotten to be discreet.
"I am going to," said Pearl quickly, "that's what I came over to tell you—I want to go. I wanted to ask you if it would be all right."
"Now you're talking," cried her trustee gladly—a great burden had been lifted from his heart. "Sure you can go—it would be a, shame for you to miss a chance like this."
In his excitement he hardly knew what he was saying. This was just what he had been hoping would happen. Wouldn't George Steadman be pleased! He had given out a delicate piece of work to be done, and it had been successfully managed.
"You were just fooling us by pretending you were going to board at Mrs. Gray's—weren't you? You knew all the time you were going to the city; You were just playing a joke on us—I know. Well the joke's on us all right, as the cowboys said when they hanged the wrong man."
George Cowan rubbed his hands; the whole world had grown brighter. The political machine was the thing—real team-play—that's what it was. It's hard to beat the machine—and the best of it all was, there was no harm done, and nobody hurt. She would be as safe as a church when she was in the employ of the Government—and in a good job too—away ahead of teaching. No government employee could mention politics. Some people thought women were hard to manage! but it just required a little brains—that was all. Diplomacy was the thing.
"You are sure you don't mind my going," said Pearl, "without notice?"
"Not a bit—and we'll be glad to have you back, say for the Fall term. I'll fix the salary too and make out your cheque for the full month. It wouldn't be right for us to stand in your way—of course you may not want to come back—but if you do just drop me a line. I suppose you will want to go home before you go into the city. I can take you over this afternoon in the car."
"Thank you, Mr. Cowan," Pearl said, "you are very kind. I'll be ready at one o'clock. But tell me—how did you know I had an invitation to the city? That was pretty clever of you."
Mr. Cowan was untwisting the lines from the plow handles preparatory to making another round. He suddenly remembered to be discreet, and winked one eye with indescribable slyness.
"A little bird whispered to me," he laughed.
At noon, when he told Mrs. Cowan about it, he said it was queer how that answer of his seemed to hit the teacher. She went away laughing, and he could hear her for fully a quarter of a mile kind of chuckling to herself.