THE STORM
It was a morning of ominous calm, with an hour of bright sun,
gradually softening into a white shadow, as a fleecy cloud of fairy
whiteness rolled over the sun's face, giving a light on the earth like
the garish light in a tent at high noon, a light of blinding whiteness
that hurts the eyes, although the sun is hidden. It was as innocent
a looking morning as any one would wish to see, still, warm, bright,
with a heavy brooding air which deadens sound and makes sleighs draw
hard and horses come out in foam.
James Crocks, of the Horse Repository, sniffed the air apprehensively,
bit a semi-circle out of a plug of tobacco, and gave orders that no
horse was to leave the barn that day, for "he might be mistaken, and
he might not," but he thought "we were in for it."
Other people seemed to think the same, for no teams could be seen on
any of the roads leading to the village. It was the kind of morning
on which the old timers say, "Stay where you are, wherever it is--if
there's a roof over you!"
Wakening from a troubled dream of fighting gophers that turned to
wild-cats, Mr. Neelands, in No. 17, made a hurried toilet, on account
of the temperature of the room, for although the morning was warm,
No. 17 still retained some of last week's temperature, and to Mr.
Neelands, accustomed to the steam heat of Mrs. Marlowe's "Select
Boarding House--young men a specialty"--it felt very chilly, indeed.
But Mr. Neelands had his mind made up to be unmoved by trifles.
After a good breakfast in the dining room, Mr. Neelands walked out to
see the little town--and to see what information he could gather. The
well-dressed young man, with the pale gray spats, who carried a cane
on his arm and wore a belted coat, attracted many eyes as he swung out
gaily across the street toward the livery stable.
His plans were still indefinite. Bertie, who was in charge of the
stable, gazed spell-bound on the vision of fashion which stood at the
door, asking about a team. Bertie, for once, was speechless--he seemed
to be gazing on his own better self--the vision he would like to see
when he sought his mirror.
"I would like to get a team for a short run," said Mr. Neelands
politely.
"Where you goin'," asked Bertie.
Mr. Neelands hesitated, and became tactful.
"I am calling on teachers," he said, on a matter of business,
"introducing a new set of books for school libraries."
It was the first thing Mr. Neelands could think of, and he was quite
pleased with it when he said it. It had a professional, business-like
ring, which pleased him.
"A very excellent set of books, which the Department of Education
desire to see in every school," Mr. Neelands elaborated.
Then Bertie, always anxious to be helpful and to do a good deed, leapt
to the door, almost upsetting Mr. Neelands in his haste. Bertie had
an idea! Mr. Neelands did not connect his sudden departure with his
recent scheme of enriching the life of the country districts with the
set of books just mentioned, and therefore waited rather impatiently
for the stableboy's return.
Bertie burst in, with the same enthusiasm.
"See, Mister, here's the teacher you want; I got her for you--she was
just going to school."
Bertie's face bore the same glad rapture that veils the countenance of
a cat when she throws a mouse at your feet with a casual "How's that."
Mr. Neelands found himself facing a brown-eyed, well-dressed young
lady, with big question marks in both eyes, question marks which in a
very dignified way demanded to know what it was all about.
In his confusion, Mr. Neelands, new in the art of diplomacy,
blundered:
"Is this Miss Watson?" he stammered.
The reply was definite.
"It is not, and why did you call me."
Icicles began to hang from the roof. Mr. Neelands would have been
well pleased if they had fallen on him, or a horse had kicked him--or
anything.
He blushed a ripe tomato red. Bertie, deeply grieved, reviewed the
situation.
"He said he wanted to see the teachers, and I just went and got
you--that's all--you were the nearest teacher."
"Awfully sorry," began Mr. Neelands, "I did not know anything about
it. I'm am just a stranger, you see."
There was something in Miss Morrison's eye which simply froze the
library proposition. He could not frame the words.
"If you have any business with me you may make an appointment at the
school. People who have business with the teachers generally do come
to the school--not to the livery stable," she added, in exactly the
tone in which she would have said "All who have failed to get fifty
per cent. in arithmetic will remain after four," a tone which would be
described as stern, but just.
Mr. Neelands leaned against a box-stall as Miss Morrison passed out.
He wiped his face with the polka-dot handkerchief, and the word which
the Cabinet Minister had used came easily to his lips.
"Why didn't you speak to her when you got a chance?" asked Bertie,
anxious to divert the blame and meet railing with railing. He was
always getting in wrong just trying to help people. Darn it all! Mr.
Neelands could still think of no word but the one.
"I wish it had been Pearl," said Bertie, "Gee! she wouldn't ha' been
so sore; she'd just laughed and jollied about it."
"So you know Pearl, do you?" Mr. Neelands could feel a revival of
interest in life; also the stiffness began to leave his lips, and his
tongue felt less like tissue paper.
"I guess everyone knows Pearl," said Bertie, with a consciousness of
superiority on at least one point. Whereupon he again fulfilled the
promises of youth, the leadings of his birth star and the promptings
of his spirit guides, and told all he knew about the whole Watson
family, not forgetting the roses he had taken to her, and Mrs. Crock's
diagnosis of it all.
He had an interested listener to it all, and under the inspiration
which a sympathetic hearing gives he grew eloquent, and touched with
his fine fancy the romantic part of it.
"Mrs. Crocks says she believes Pearl is pretty sweet on the Doctor.
Pearl is one swell girl, and all that, but Mrs. Crocks says the Doctor
will likely marry the Senator's daughter. Gee! I wouldn't if I was
him. She hasn't got the style that Pearl has--she rides a lot and has
nerve--and all that, but she's bow-legged!" His tone was indescribably
scornful.
Mr. Neelands gasped.
"Yep," went on Bertie complacently, "we see a lot here at the stable
and get to know a lot--one way'n another--we can't help it. They come
and go, you know."
"The doctor won't run for Parliament--he turned it down. Mrs. Crocks
thinks the Senator maybe persuaded him not to--the Senator is for the
Government, of course, and it is the other side wanted the doctor;
anyway, that suits old Steadman; he'll likely go in again on account
of the bridge at Purple Springs. Every one wants to get work on it
with the Spring hangin' back the way it is." "How about a horse? I
want to take a drive into the country," said Mr. Neelands.
"No horse can go out of here today," answered Bertie. "Mr. Crocks says
there'll be storm, and he won't take no chances on his horses. He says
people can judge for themselves and run risks if they want to, he'll
decide for the horses--and they can't go."
"O, all right," said Mr. Neelands. "How far is it to the Watson farm?"
"Are you going out?" asked Bertie. "Better phone and see if she's at
home. Here's the phone--I'll get her."
Mr. Neelands laid a restraining hand on Bertie's arm. "Easy there,
my friend," he said, his tone resembling Miss Morrison's in its
commanding chilliness, "How far is it to the Watson farm?"
"Five miles in summer, four in winter," Bertie answered a little
sulkily.
"You would call this winter, I suppose," said the traveller, looking
out at the darkening street.
"I'd call it--oh, well, never mind what I'd call it--I'm always
talking too much--call it anything you like." Bertie grew dignified
and reserved. "Call it the first of July if you like! I don't care."
That is how it came that Mr. Neelands took the out-trail when all the
signs were against travelling, but to his unaccustomed eye there
was nothing to fear in the woolly grayness of the sky, nor in the
occasional snowflake that came riding on the wind. The roads were
hard-packed and swept clean by the wind, and the sensation of space
and freedom most enjoyable.
Mr. Neelands as he walked filed away tidily in his mind the
information received. There were valuable clues contained in the
stable-boy's chatter, Which he would tabulate, regarding the lady
of his quest. She was popular, approachable, gifted with a sense of
humor, and perhaps disappointed in love. No clue was too small to be
overlooked--and so, feeling himself one of the most deadly of sleuths,
Mr. Neelands walked joyously on, while behind him there gathered one
of the worst blizzards that the Souris Valley has known.
The storm began with great blobbery flakes of snow, which came
elbowing each other down the wind, crossing and re-crossing, circling,
drifting, whirling, fluttering, so dense and thick that the whole air
darkened ominously, and the sun seemed to withdraw from the world,
leaving the wind and the storm to their own evil ways.
The wind at once began its circling motions, whipping the snow
into the traveller's face, blinding and choking him, lashing him
mercilessly and with a sudden impish delight, as if all the evil
spirits of the air had declared war upon him.
He turned to look back, but the storm had closed behind him, having
come down from the northwest and overtaken him as he walked. His only
hope was to go with it, for to face it was impossible, and yet it
seemed to have no direction, for it blew up in his face; it fell on
him; it slapped him, jostled him, pushed him, roared in his ears,
smothering him, drowning his cries with malicious joy. No cat ever
worried or harrassed a mouse with greater glee than the storm fiends
that frolicked through the valley that day, took their revenge on the
city man, with his pointed boots, his silk-lined gloves, his belted
coat and gray fedora, as he struggled on, slipping, choking, falling
and rising. It seemed to him like a terrible nightmare, in its sudden,
gripping fury.
It pounded on his eyeballs until he was not sure but his eyes were
gone; it filled his mouth and ears, and cold water trickled down his
back. His gloves were wet through, and freezing, for the air grew
colder every minute, and the terror of the drowning man came to him.
He struggled on madly, like a steer that feels the muskeg closing
around him. He did not think; he fought, with the same instinct that
drives the cattle blindly, madly on towards shelter and food, when the
storm lashes them and the hunger rage drives them on.
Sylvester Paine, shaking the snow from his clothes like a water
spaniel, and stamping all over the kitchen, was followed by his wife,
who vainly tried to sweep it up as fast as it fell. She made no
remonstrance, but merely swept, having long since earned that her
liege lord was never turned aside from his purpose by any word of
hers.
When he was quite done, and the snow was melting in pools on the
floor, he delivered his opinion of the country and the weather: "This
is sure a hell of a country," he said, "that can throw a storm like
this at the end of March."
She made no reply--she had not made either the country or the weather,
and would not take responsibility for them. She went on wiping up the
water from the floor, with rebellion, slumbering, hidden rebellion
in every movement, and the look in her eyes when she turned to the
window, was a strange blending of rage and fear.
"Why don't you answer me," he said, turning around quickly, "Darn you,
why can't you speak when your spoken to?"
"You did not speak to me," she said. "There was nothing for me to
say."
He looked at her for a moment--her silence exasperated him. She seemed
to be keeping something back--something sinister and unknown.
"Well, I can tell you one thing," he went on, in a voice that seemed
to be made of iron filings, "you may not answer when I speak to
you--you'll do what you're told. I'm not going to slave my life out
on this farm when there's easier money to be made. Why should you set
yourself above me, and say you won't go into a hotel? I have the right
to decide, anyway. Better people than you have kept hotels, for all
your airs. Are you any better than I am?"
"I hope so," she said, without raising her eyes from the floor. She
rose quietly and washed out her floorcloth, and stood drying her hands
on the roller towel which hung on the kitchen door. There was an air
of composure about her that enraged him. He could not make it out. The
quality which made the women call her proud kindled his anger now.
The storm tore past the house, shaking it in its grip like a terrier
shaking a rat. It seemed to mock at their trivial disputes, and seek
to settle them by drowning the sound of them.
His voice rang above the storm:--
"I'll sell the farm," he shouted. "I'll sell every cow and horse on
it. I'll sell the bed from under you--I'll break you and your stuck-up
ways, and you'll not get a cent of money from me--not if your tongue
was hanging out."
The children shrank into corners and pitifully tried to efface
themselves. The dog, with drooping tail, sought shelter under the
table.
Sylvester Paine thought he saw a shrinking in her face, and followed
up his advantage with a fresh outpouring of abuse.
"There's no one to help you--or be sorry for you--you haven't a friend
in this neighborhood, with your stuck-up way. The women are sore on
you--none of them ever come to see you or even phone you. Don't you
think I see it! You've no one to turn to, so you might as well know
it--I've got you!"
His last words were almost screamed at her, as he strove to make his
voice sound above the storm, and in a sudden lull of the storm, they
rang through the house.
At the same moment there was a sound of something falling against
the door and the dog, with bristling hair, ran out from his place of
shelter.
Mrs. Paine turned quickly to the door and opened it, letting in a
gust of blinding snow, which eddied in the room and melted on the hot
stove.
A man, covered with snow, lay where he had fallen, exhausted on the
doorstep.
"What's this," cried Paine, in a loud voice, as he ran forward; "where
did this fellow come from?"
In his excitement he asked it over and over again, as if Mrs. Paine
should know. She ventured no opinion, but busied herself in getting
the snow from the clothes of her visitor and placing him in the
rocking chair beside the fire. He soon recovered the power of speech,
and thanked her gaspingly, but with deep sincerity.
"This is a deuce of a day for any one to be out," began the man of the
house. "Any fool could have told it was going to storm; what drove you
out? Where did you come from, anyway?"
Mrs. Paine looked appealingly at him:--
"Let him get his breath, can't you, see, he is all in," she said
quietly, "he'll tell you, when he can speak."
In a couple of hours, Peter Neelands, draped in a gray blanket, sat
beside the fire, while his clothes were being dried, and rejoiced
over the fact that he was alive. The near tragedy of the bright young
lawyer found dead in the snow still thrilled him. It had been a close
squeak, he told himself, and a drowsy sense of physical well-being
made him almost unconscious of his surroundings. It was enough for him
to be alive and warm.
Mrs. Paine moved about the house quietly, and did all she could with
her crude means to make her guest comfortable, and to assure him of
her hospitality. She pressed his clothes into shape again, and gave
him a well-cooked dinner, as well served as her scanty supplies would
allow, asking no questions, but with a quiet dignity making him feel
that she was glad to serve him. There was something in her manner
which made a strong appeal to the chivalrous heart of the young man.
He wanted to help her--do something for her--make things easier for
her.
The afternoon wore on, with no loosening of the grip of the storm,
and Peter began to realize that he was a prisoner. He could have been
quite happy with Mrs. Paine and the children, even though the floor
of the kitchen was draughty and cold, the walls smoked, the place
desolate and poor; but the presence of his host, with his insulting
manners, soon grew unbearable. Mr. Paine sat in front of the
stove, smoking and spitting, abusing the country, the weather, the
Government, the church. Nothing escaped him, and everything was wrong.
A certain form of conceit shone through his words too, which increased
his listener's contempt. He had made many sharp deals in his time, of
which he was inordinately proud. Now he gloated over them. Fifteen
thousand dollars of horse notes were safely discounted in the bank,
so he did not care, he said, whether spring came or not. He had his
money. The bank could collect the notes.
Peter looked at him to see if he were joking. Surely no man with so
much money would live so poorly and have his wife and children so
shabbily dressed. Something of this must have shown in his face.
"I've made money," cried Sylvester Paine, spitting at the leg of the
stove; "and I've kept it--or spent it, just as I saw fit, and I did
not waste is on a fancy house. What's a house, anyway, but a place to
eat and sleep. I ain't goin' to put notions into my woman's head, with
any big house--she knows better than to ask it now. If she don't like
the house--the door is open--let her get out--I say. She can't take
the kids--and she won't go far without them."
He laughed unpleasantly: "That's the way to have them, and by gosh!
there's one place I admired the old Premier--in the way he roasted
those freaks of women who came askin' for the vote. I don't think much
of the Government, but I'm with them on that--in keepin' the women
where they belong."
"But why," interrupted Peter, with a very uneasy mind, "why shouldn't
women have something to say?"
"Are you married?" demanded his host.
"No, not yet," said Peter blushing.
"Well, when you're married--will you let your wife decide where you
will live? How you earn your living--and all that? No sir, I'll bet
you won't--you'll be boss, won't you? I guess so. Well, every man has
that right, absolutely. Here am I--I'm goin' to sell out here and buy
a hotel--there's good money in it, easy livin'. She--" there was an
unutterable scorn in his voice, "says she won't go--says it ain't
right to sell liquor. I say she'll come with me or get out. She might
be able to earn her own livin', but she can't take the kids. Accordin'
to law, children belong to the father--ain't that right? There's a man
comin' to buy the farm--I guess he would have been out today, only for
the storm. We have the bargain made--all but the signin' up."
Mrs. Paine stood still in the middle of the floor, and listened in
terror. "A man coming to buy the farm!" Every trace of color left her
face! Maybe it was not true.
He saw the terror in her face, and followed up his advantage.
"People have to learn to do as they're told when I'm round. No one can
defy me--I'll tell you that. Every one knows me--I can be led, but I
cant be driven."
Peter Neelands had the most uncomfortable feeling he had ever known.
He was not sure whether it was his utter aversion to the man who sat
in front of the stove, boasting of his sharp dealing, or a physical
illness which affected him, but a horrible nausea came over him. His
head swam--his eardrums seemed like to burst--every bone began to
ache.
The three days that followed were like a nightmare, which even time
could never efface or rob of its horror. The fight with the storm
had proven such a shock to him that for three days a burning fever,
alternating with chills, held him in its clutches, and even when the
storm subsided kept him a prisoner sorely against his will.
In these three days, at close range, he saw something of a phase of
life he had never even guessed at. He did not know that human beings
could live in such crude conditions, without comforts, without
even necessities. It was like a bad dream--confused, humiliating,
horrible--and when on the third day he was able to get into his
clothes his one desire was to get away--and yet, to leave his kind
hostess who had so gently nursed him and cared for him, seemed like an
act of desertion.
However, when he was on his feet, though feeling much shaken, and
still a bit weak, his courage came back. Something surely could be
done to relieve conditions like this.
The snow was piled fantastically in huge mounds over the fields, and
the railway cuts would be drifted full, so no train would run for
days. But Peter felt that he could walk the distance back to town.
His host made no objection, and no offer to drive him.
In the tiny bedroom off the kitchen, which Mrs. Paine had given him,
as he shiveringly made his preparations for leaving, he heard a
strange voice in the other room, a girl's voice, cheery, pleasant.
"I just came in to see how you are, Mrs. Paine. No thank you, I won't
put the team in the stable--I ran them into the shed. I am on my way
home from driving the children to school. Some storm, wasn't it? The
snow is ribbed like a washboard, but it is hard enough to carry the
horses."
Peter came out, with his coat and his hat in his hand, and was
introduced. His first thought was one of extreme mortification--three
days' beard was on his face. His toilet activities had been limited
in number. He knew he felt wretched, seedy, groggy--and looked it.
Something in Pearl's manner re-assured him.
"Going to town?" said she kindly, "rather too far for you to walk when
you are feeling tough. Come home with me if you are not in a hurry,
and I will drive you in this afternoon."
Peter accepted gladly.
He hardly looked at her, holding to some faint hope that if he did
not look at her she would not be able to see him either, and at this
moment Peter's one desire was not to be seen, at least by this girl.
In a man's coonskin coat she stood at the door, with her face rosy
with the cold. She brought an element of hope and youth, a new
spirit of adventure into the drab room, with its sodden, commonplace
dreariness. Peter's spirits began to rise.
Outside the dogs began to bark, and a cutter went quickly past the
window.
Mrs. Paine, looking out, gave a cry of alarm.
"Wait, Pearl! Oh, don't go!" she cried, "stay with me. It's the man
who is going to buy the farm. He said he was coming, but I didn't
believe him;" her hands were locking and unlocking.
Without a word, Pearl slipped off her coat and waited. She seemed
to know the whole situation, and instinctively Peter began to feel
easier. There was something about this handsome girl, with the
firmly-set and dimpled chin, which gave him confidence.
In a few moments Sylvester Paine and his caller came in from the
barn. Pearl stood beside Mrs. Paine, protectingly. Her face had grown
serious; she knew the fight was on.
Sylvester Paine nodded to her curtly, and introduced his guest to
every one at once.
"This is Mr. Gilchrist," he said, "and now we'll get to business. Get
the deeds." he said, to his wife shortly.
Mrs. Paine went upstairs.
"Who did you say the young lady is," asked Mr. Gilchrist, who thought
he recognized Pearl, but not expecting to see her here, wished to be
sure. Mr. Gilchrist, as President of the Political Association, had
heard about Pearl, and hoped she might be an able ally in the coming
election.
"This is Pearl Watson," said Mr. Paine, rather grudgingly. "This is
the girl that's working up the women to thinking that they ought to
vote. Her father and mother are good neighbors of mine, and Pearl was
a nice kid, too, until she went to the city and got a lot of fool
notions."
"I'm a nice kid yet," said Pearl, smiling at him, and compelling him
to meet her eye, "and I am a good neighbor of yours too, Mr. Paine,
for I am going to do something for you today that no one has ever
done. I'm going to tell you something."
She walked over to the table and motioned to the two men to sit
down, though she remained standing. Sylvester Paine stared at her
uncomprehendingly. The girl's composure was disconcerting. Her voice
had a vibrant passion in it that made Peter's heart begin to beat. It
was like watching a play that approaches its climax.
"Mr. Gilchrist probably does not understand that there is a small
tragedy going on here today. Maybe he does not know the part he is
playing in it. It is often so in life, that people do not know the
part they played until it is too late to change. You've come here
today to buy the farm."
Mr. Gilchrist nodded.
"Ten years ago this farm was idle land. Mr. and Mrs. Paine homesteaded
it, and have made it one of the best in the country. It has been hard
work, but they have succeeded. For the last five years Mr. Paine has
not been much at home--he has bought cattle and horses and shipped
them to the city, and has done very well, and now has nearly fifteen
thousand dollars in the bank. There is no cleverer man in the country
than Mr. Paine in making a bargain, and he is considered one of the
best horsemen in the Province. He pays his debts, keeps his word, and
there is no better neighbor in this district."
Sylvester Paine watched her open-mouthed--amazed. How did she know
all this? It made strange music in his ears, for, in spite of all his
bluster, he hungered for praise; for applause. Pearl's words fell like
a shower on a thirsty field.
"Meanwhile," Pearl went on, "Mrs. Paine runs the farm, and makes it
pay, too. Although Mrs. Paine works the hardest of the two, Mr. Paine
handles all the money, and everything is in his name. He has not
noticed just how old and worn her clothes are. Being away so much, the
manner of living does not mean so much to him as to her, for she is
always here. Mrs. Paine is not the sort of woman who talks. She never
complains to the other women, and they call her proud. I think Mrs.
Paine has been to blame in not telling Mr. Paine just how badly she
needs new clothes. He always looks very well himself, and I am sure he
would like to see her well dressed, and the children too. But she will
not ask him for money, and just grubs along on what she can get with
the butter money. She is too proud to go out poorly dressed, and so
does not leave home for months at a time, and of course, that's bad
for her spirits, and Mr. Paine gets many a cross look from her when he
comes home. It makes him very angry when she will not speak--he does
not understand."
"Mr. Paine's intention now is to sell the farm and buy the hotel in
Millford. He will still go on buying cattle, and his wife will run the
hotel. She does not want to do this. She says she will not do it--it
is not a proper place in which to raise her children. She hates the
liquor business. This is her home, for which she has worked."
"It is not much of a home; it's cold in winter and hot in summer. You
would never think a man with fifteen thousand dollars in the bank
would let his wife and children live like this, without even the
common decencies of life. That's why Mrs. Paine has never had any of
her own people come to visit her, she is ashamed for them to see how
badly off she is. No, it is not much of a home, but she clings to it.
It is strange how women and animals cling to their homes. You remember
the old home on the road to Hampton your people had, Mr. Gilchrist,
the fine old house with the white veranda and the big red barn? It was
the best house on the road. It burned afterwards--about three years
ago."
Mr. Gilchrist nodded.
"Well, we bought, when we came to our farm here, one of your father's
horses, the old Polly mare--do you remember Polly?"
"I broke her in," he said, "when she was three."
"Well, Polly had been away a long time from her old home, but last
summer when we drove to Hampton Polly turned in to the old place and
went straight to the place where the stable had stood. There was
nothing there--even the ruins are overgrown with lamb's quarters--but
Polly went straight to the spot. It had been home to her."
A silence fell on the room.
"There is no law to protect Mrs. Paine," Pearl went on, after a long
pause. "The law is on your side, Mr. Gilchrist. If you want the place
there is no law to save Mrs. Paine. Mr. Paine is quite right in saying
he can take the children, so she will have to follow. Mrs. Paine is
not the sort of woman to desert her children. She would live even in
a hotel rather than desert her children. The law is on your side,
gentlemen--you have the legal right to go on with the transaction."
"What law is this?" said Mr. Gilchrist.
"The law of this Province," said Pearl.
"Do you mean to say," said Mr. Gilchrist hotly, "that Mrs. Paine
cannot claim any part of the price of this farm as her own--or does
not need to sign the agreement of sale. Has she no claim at all?"
"She has none," said Pearl, "she has no more claim on this farm than
the dog has!"
"By Gosh! I never knew that," he cried. "We'll see a lawyer in town
before we do anything. That's news to me."
"Are you sure of it, Pearl?" Mrs. Paine whispered. "Maybe there's
something I can do. This young man is a lawyer--maybe he could tell
us."
Sylvester Paine was trying to recover his point of view.
"Can you tell us," Pearl asked Peter, who sat in a corner, intensely
listening, "what the law says."
"The law," said Peter miserably--as one who hates the word he is about
to utter--"gives a married woman no rights. She has no claim on her
home, nor on her children. A man can sell or will away his property
from his wife. A man can will away his unborn child--and it's a hell
of a law," he added fiercely.
Pearl turned to Robert Gilchrist, saying, "Mr. Gilchrist, the law is
with you. The woman and the three children have no protection. Mr.
Paine is willing that they should be turned out. It is up to you."
Mrs. Paine, who had come down the stairs with the deed in her hand,
laid it on the table and waited. For some time no one spoke.
Sylvester Paine looked at the floor. He was a heavy-set man, with a
huge head, bare-faced and rather a high forehead. He did not seem to
be able to lift his eyes.
"I suppose," continued Pearl, "the people who made the laws did not
think it would ever come to a show-down like this. They thought that
when a man promised to love and cherish a woman--he would look after
her and make her happy, and see to it that she had clothes to wear and
a decent way of living--if he could. Of course, there are plenty of
men who would gladly give their wives everything in life, but they
can't, poor fellows--for they are poor; but Mr. Paine is one of the
best off men in the district. He could have a beautiful home if he
liked, and his wife could be the handsomest woman in the neighborhood.
She is the sort of woman who would show off good clothes too. I
suppose her love of pretty things has made her all the sorer, because
she has not had them. I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Gilchrist, before
you closed the deal. Mrs. Paine would never tell you, and naturally
enough Mr. Paine wouldn't. In fact he does not know just how things
stand. But I feel that you should know just what you are doing if you
take this farm. Of course, it is hardly fair to expect you to protect
this woman's home and her children, and save her from being turned
out, if her husband won't--you are under no obligation to protect her.
She made her choice years ago--with her eyes open--when she married
Sylvester Paine. It seems ... she guessed wrong ... and now ... she
must pay!"
Mrs. Paine sank into a chair with a sob that seemed to tear her heart
out. The auburn hair fell across her face, her lovely curly hair, from
which in her excitement she had pulled the pins. It lay on the table
in ringlets of gold, which seemed to writhe, as if they too were
suffering. Her breath came sobbing, like a dog's dream.
Sylvester Paine was the first to speak.
"Pearl, you're wrong in one place," he said, "just one--you had
everything else straight. But you were wrong in one place."
He went around the table and laid his hand on his wife's head.
"Millie," he said, gently.
She looked up at him tearfully.
"Millie!"
He stood awkwardly beside her, struggling to control himself. All the
swagger had gone from him, all the bluster. When he spoke his voice
was husky.
"Pearl has got it all straight, except in one place." he said. "She's
wrong in one place. She says you guessed wrong when you married me,
Millie."
His voice was thick, and the words came with difficulty.
"Pearl has done fine, and sized the case up well ... but she's wrong
there. It looks bad just now, Millie--but you didn't make such a
rotten guess, after all. I'm not just sayin' what I'll do, but--"
"The deal is off, Bob," he said to Mr. Gilchrist, "until Mrs. Paine
and I talk things over."
And then Pearl quietly slipped into her coat and, motioning to Peter,
who gladly followed her, went out.