INTO THE NIGHT
Harris and Allan drove straight to the engine, never looking back to
see what became of the hired man. On the way the farmer explained to
his son what had taken place; that words had passed between them, but
no blows had been struck, until Allan appeared on the scene.
"Well, if that's the way of it, I'm sorry I hit him," said the young
man, frankly, "and when I see him I'll tell him so. I plugged him a
good one, didn't I?--though, to be honest, he was hardly on his feet.
But he sure landed me a stem-winder on the chin," he continued,
ruefully rubbing that member, "so I guess we're about even."
"He might 've broke your neck," said Harris. "You're too hot-headed,
both of you...I can't make out what got into Jim, that he wouldn't
answer a civil question. Jim was a good man, too." Perhaps the
disturbing suggestion entered Harris's mind that the question had
been none too civil, and he was really beginning to feel that after
all Jim might be the aggrieved party. But he crushed down such mental
sedition promptly. "It don't matter how good a man he was," he
declared, "as long as I pay the piper I'm goin' to call the tune."
"It puts us up against it for a water-man, though," said Allan,
thoughtfully.
"So it does," admitted Harris, who up to that moment had not
reflected that his hasty action in dismissing Travers would result in
much more delay than anything else that had occurred. "Well, we'll
have to get somebody else. We'll manage till noon, and then you
better ride over to Grant's or Mormon's. They'll be able to lend a
man or one of the boys for a day or two." It was significant that
although Harris was planning a considerable venture with Riles, when
he wanted a favour his thought instinctively turned to his other
neighbours, Grant and Morrison.
At noon Jim's chair was vacant, and the family sat down to dinner
amid a depressing silence. No mention was made of the morning's
incident until the meal was well advanced, when Harris, feeling that
he ought in some way to introduce the subject, said: "Is Jim gone?"
"Yes, he's gone," blazed Beulah. "You didn't expect he'd wait to kiss
you good-bye, did you?"
"One in the family is enough for that treatment," put in Allan, whose
swollen chin and stiff neck still biassed him against Travers.
"He didn't, either. And if he did it's none of your business, you
big--"; she looked her brother straight in the face, her swollen eyes
telling their own story, and repeated deliberately, "you big coward."
Allan bit his lip. "You're about the only person, Beulah, that could
say that and get off with whole skin. I suppose he told you I hit him
before he was on his feet."
"Well, he didn't. He didn't say you hit him at all, but he couldn't
deny it, so we knew the truth. And we knew you must have taken some
mean advantage, or you'd never have got near enough to leave a mark
on him."
"Jim's quite a hero, all right. It's too bad he's gone."
"It's a good job he's gone," said Harris. "By the way Beulah talks
things have gone far enough. I don't want my daughter marrying a
farmer."
"Her grandmother's daughter did," said Mary Harris.
"Yes, I know, but things are different now. I look for something
better for Beulah."
It was characteristic of Harris, as of thousands of others, that,
although a farmer himself, he looked for "something better" for his
daughter. He was resigned to Allan being a farmer; his intimate,
daily relationship with his son shrank from, any possibility of
separation. But for his daughter--no. He had mapped out no career for
her; she might marry a doctor, lawyer, merchant, tradesman, even a
minister, but not a farmer. It is a peculiarity of the agriculturist
that, among all professions, he holds his own in the worst repute. As
a class he has educated himself to believe that everybody else makes
an easy living off the farmer, and, much as he may revile the present
generation for doing so, he is anxious that his children should join
in the good picking. In later years has come a gradually broadening
conception that farming, after all, calls for brain as well as
muscle, and that the man who can wrestle a successful living from
Nature has as much right to hold up his head in the world as the
experimenter in medicine or the lawyer playing hide-and-seek with
Justice through the cracks in the Criminal Code. Herein is a germ of
the cityward migration: the farmer himself is looking for "something
better" for his children.
"Jim was a good man," persisted his wife. "Don't you think you
were--well, perhaps, a little hasty with him?"
Harris sat back. It was his wife's business to agree. For twenty
years and more she had been faithful in the discharge of that duty.
That she should suggest an opinion out of harmony with his indicated
a lack of discipline, not very serious, perhaps, but a seed which, if
permitted to flourish, might develop to dangerous proportions.
"So you're goin' to take his part, too? It's a strange thing if I
can't handle my hired help without advice from the house."
Mary flushed at the remark. Any open quarrel with her husband,
especially before the children--for she still thought of the man and
woman to her left and right as "the children"--was more painful to
her than, any submission could have been. It would be so much easier
to change the subject, to follow the line of least resistance, and
forget the incident as quickly as possible. That had been her
constant policy after the first few years of their married life. At
first there had been troubles and difficulties, but she had gradually
adjusted herself to her niche, and their lives had run smoothly
together because she never interrupted the current of his. But of
late the conviction had been coming home to her that some time,
somewhere, she must make a stand. It was all very well meekly to fall
in line as long as only her own happiness was concerned, but if the
future of her children should be at stake, or if the justice of their
dealings with others should be the issue, then she would have to
fight, and fight it out to a finish. And, quite unbidden, a strange
surge of defiance welled in her when her husband so frankly told her
to mind her own business.
"I was under the impression we were managing this farm together, you
and I, John," she said, very calmly, but with a strange ring in her
voice. "When we came West I understood it was to build _our_ home. I
didn't know it was just to be _your_ home."
The look of surprise with which Harris greeter her words was
absolutely genuine. A hot, stinging retort sprang to his lips, but by
a sudden effort he suppressed it. His wife's challenge, quiet,
unruffled, but with evidence of unbending character behind it, in
some way conjured something out of the past, and he saw her again,
the greying locks restored to their youthful glory and the careworn
cheek abloom with the colour of young maidenhood as they had been in
the gathering shadows that night when they swore to build their own
home, and live their own lives, and love each other, always, only,
for ever and ever...And yet, to let her defiance go unchecked, to
have his authority challenged before his own children--it would be
the beginning of dissolution, the first crumblings of collapse.
"We will talk about that some other time, Mary," he said. "If Jim had
answered my question fairly, as he had a right to, instead of beatin'
around the bush, I might 've let him off. But when I wanted to know
what kept him he simply parried me, makin' a fool of me and rubbin'
it in with that infernal smile of his."
"So that's what started it!" exclaimed Beulah. "Well, I'll tell you
what kept him, if he wouldn't. The cattle got into the oats through a
break in the fence, and I couldn't get them out, and the dog went
ki-yi-ing over the prairie after a rabbit, and just as I was
beginning to--to--condense over it Jim came up and saved the
situation. What if he did keep your old engine waiting? There are
more important things than ploughing."
"Aha!" said Harris, knowingly. "Well, I guess it's just as well it
happened as it did. Jim was gettin' altogether too good at runnin' at
your heels."
"That's all the thanks he gets for working late and early, like no
other hired man in the district. All right. You and Allan can milk
the cows to-night, for I won't--see?"
Harris was accustomed to his daughter's frankness, and as a rule paid
little regard to it. He was willing enough to be flayed, in
moderation, by her keen tongue; in fact, he look a secret delight in
her unrestrained sallies, but that was different from defiance. He
could, and did, submit to any amount of cutting repartee, and felt a
sort of pride in her vigour and recklessness, but he had no notion of
countenancing open mutiny, even from Beulah.
"We'll talk about that some other time, too," he said. "And you'll
milk the cows tonight as usual."
Beulah opened her lips as though to answer, but closed them again,
arose, and walked out of the kitchen. For her the controversy was
over; the die was cast. Her nature admitted of any amount of
disputation up to a certain point, but when the irresistible force
crashed into the immovable object she wasted no wind on words. With
her war was war.
Harris finished his meal with little relish. His daughter was very,
very much to him, and an open rupture with her was among the last
things to be imagined...Still, she must learn that the liberty of
speech he allowed her did not imply equal liberty of action...His
wife, too, had behaved most incredibly. After all, perhaps he had
been hasty with Jim. No doubt he would meet the boy in Plainville or
somewhere in the district before long, and he would then have a frank
little talk with him. And he would say nothing more of the incident
to his wife. He was beginning to feel almost amiable again when
recollection of Beulah, and the regard which she was evidently
cultivating toward Travers, engulfed his returning spirits like a
cold douche. It must not come to that, whatever happened.
"You better get over to Grant's, Allan, if you're goin'," he said as
he left the table. "I've some shears to change that'll keep me busy
until you get back."
An hour later Allan returned, accompanied by George Grant, and
operations in the field were resumed. Father and son were both
anxious to make up for lost time, and they worked that night long
after their usual hour for quitting. Just as the sun was setting
George Grant left a last tank of water at the end of the field and
started for home. As he passed the buildings he saw Beulah in the
garden, and leaned over the fence for a short talk with her. The girl
was thankful the gathering dusk hid the colour of her cheeks. George
continued on his way, but still the steady panting of the engine,
louder now, it seemed, than during the day, came pulsing down on the
calm night air. The long twilight dragged on; the light faded out of
the east and south, and at last shone like the spread of a crimson
fan only in the north-west. It was quite dark when the two men, tired
and dusty, came in at the close of their long day's labour.
The table was set for two. "We have had our supper," Mary explained.
"We thought we wouldn't wait any longer."
"That's all right," said Harris, trying to be genial. But he found it
harder than he had supposed. He was very tired, and somewhat
embarrassed following the unpleasantness at noon. He had no thought
of apologizing, either to wife or daughter; on the contrary, he
intended to make it quite clear to them that they had been at fault
in the matter, but he would take his time about reopening the
subject. By waiting a day or two before reproving them he would show
that he was acting in a judicial spirit, and without any influence of
temper. Still...it was provoking that there should be nothing to talk
about.
When supper was finished Allan went to the stables to give final
attention to the horses--a duty that had always fallen to Jim--and
Harris, after a few minutes' quiet rest in his chair, began to remove
his boots.
"The cows are not milked, John," said his wife. She tried to speak in
a matter-of-fact way, but the tremor in her voice betrayed the import
of the simple statement.
Harris paused with a boot half unlaced. While his recollection of
Beulah's defiance was clear enough, it had not occurred to him that
the girl actually would stand by her guns. He had told her that she
would milk the cows tonight as usual, and he had assumed, as a matter
of course, that she would do so. He was not accustomed to being
disobeyed.
"Where's Beulah?" he demanded.
"I guess she's in her room."
Harris laced up his boot. Then he started upstairs.
"Don't be too hard on her, John," urged his wife, with a little catch
in her voice.
"I won't be too hard on anybody," he replied curtly. "It's a strange
thing you wouldn't see that she did as she was told. I suppose I have
to plug away in the field until dark and then come in and do another
half-day's work because my women folk are too lazy or stubborn to do
it themselves."
If this outburst was intended to crush Mary Harris it had a very
different effect. She seemed to straighten up under the attack; the
colour came back to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and defiant.
"John Harris," she said. "You know better than to say that your women
folk are either lazy or stubborn, but there's a point where
imposition, even the imposition of a husband, has to stop, and you've
reached that point. You didn't have to stay in the field until dark.
There's another day coming, and the ploughing'll keep. It isn't like
the harvest. It was just your own contrariness that kept you there.
You fired the best man you ever had to-day, in a fit of temper, and
now you're trying to take it out on us."
Harris looked at her for a moment; then, without speaking, he
continued up the stairs. The difficulties of his position were
increasing; it was something new to be assailed from the bosom of his
own family. He felt that he was being very unfairly used, but he had
no intention of shrinking from his duty as a husband and father, even
if its discharge should bring pain to all of them.
He found Beulah in her room, ostensibly reading.
"Why are the cows not milked?" he demanded.
"I thought I made it clear to you at noon that they wouldn't be
milked by me," she answered, "and there didn't seem to be anybody
else hankering for the job."
"Beulah," he said, trying to speak calmly, "don't you think this
nonsense has gone far enough?"
"Too far," she agreed. "But you started it--let's see you stop it."
"Beulah," he said, with rising anger, "I won't allow you to talk to
me like that. Remember I'm your father, and you've a right to do as
you're told. Haven't I given you everything--given you a home, and
all that, and are you goin' to defy me in my own house?"
"I don't want to defy you," she answered, "but if you're going to let
your temper run away with you, you can put on the brakes yourself.
And as for all you've done for me--maybe I'm ungrateful, but it
doesn't look half so big from my side of the fence."
"Well, what more do you want?" he demanded.
"For one thing, I wouldn't mind having a father."
"What do you mean? Ain't I your father?"
"No!" she cried. "No! No! There's no father here. You're just the
boss--the foreman on the farm. You board with mother and me. We see
you at meal-times. We wouldn't see you then if you didn't have to
make use of us in that way. If you have a spare hour you go to town.
You're always so busy, busy, with your little things, that you have
no time for big things."
"I didn't know it was an offence to be busy," he answered. "It's work
that makes money, and I notice you can spend your share. You're never
so haughty about me workin' when you want a ten-dollar bill for
somethin'. Work may be a disgrace all right from your point of view,
but money isn't, and in this country you don't get much of one
without the other."
"Now, Dad," she protested. "You're taking me up wrong. I don't think
work is a disgrace, and I'm willing to work as hard as anyone, but I
do think it's a shame that you should be thinking only of work, work,
work, when you don't need to. I'd like to see you think about living
instead of working. And we're not living--not really living, you
know--we're just existing. Just making little twenty-four hour cycles
that don't get us anywhere, except older. Don't you see what I mean?
We're living all in the flesh, like an animal. When you feed the
horses and put them under shelter you can't do anything more for
them. But when you feed and shelter your daughter you have only half
provided for her, and it's the other half, the starving half, that
refuses to starve any longer."
"I'm not kickin' on religion, if that's what you mean, Beulah," he
said. "You get goin' to church as often as you like, and--"
"Oh, it's not religion," she protested. "At least, it's not just
going to church, and things like that, although I guess it is a more
real religion, if we just understood. What are we here for, anyway?
Come now, you're a man of sense and experience, and you must have
settled that question in your own mind long ago. What's the answer?"
"Well, I'm here just now to tell you those cows are to be milked
before--"
"Yes, dodge it! You've dodged that question so long you daren't face
it. But there must be an answer somewhere, or there wouldn't be the
question. There's Riles, now; he doesn't know there is such a
question. He takes it for granted we're here to grab money. And then,
there's Grants. They know there is such a question, and I'm sure that
to some extent they've answered it. You know, I like them, but I
never go into their house that I don't feel out of place. I feel like
they have something that I haven't--something that makes them very
rich and shows me how very poor I am. And it's embarrassing to feel
poor among rich folks. Why, to-night George Grant stopped on his way
home to say a word to me, and what do you suppose he said? Nothing
about the weather, or the neighbours, or the crops. He asked me what
I thought of the Venezuelan treaty. Of course I'd never heard of such
a thing, but I said I hoped it would be for the best, or something
like that, but I was ashamed--so ashamed he might have seen it in the
dusk. You see, they're living--and we're existing."
If Beulah hoped by such argument to persuade her father, or even to
influence him, she was doomed to disappointment. Harris listened to
her patiently enough at first, but the conviction dawned upon him
that she had been reading some silly nonsense that had temporarily
distorted her young mind. Such foolishness, if allowed to take root,
might have disastrous results. His daughter must learn to centre her
mind on her work, and not be led away by whimsical notions that had
no place in a busy life.
"You're talking a good deal of nonsense, Beulah," he said. "When you
get older these questions won't worry you. In the meantime, your duty
is to do as you're told. Right now that means milk the cows. I'll
give you five minutes to get started."
Harris went to his room. A little later Beulah, with a light cloak
about her shoulders and a suitcase in her hand, slipped quietly down
the front stairs and out into the night.