THE PRICE OF "SUCCESS"
At last the ploughing was finished, and, although the rich smell of
wheat in the milk filled the air, it still would be almost a month
before the ripening crops were ready for the binder. Harris felt that
he could now allow himself a breathing spell, and that the
opportunity to investigate the rich lands of the Farther West was at
hand. Many nights, while Mary milked the cows, he had walked over to
Riles', and the two had discussed their forthcoming venture until
they had grown almost enthusiastic over it. Riles, it must be said,
was the leading spirit in the movement; although already possessed of
sufficient land and means to keep him in comfort through his
advancing years, the possibility of greater wealth, and particularly
of wealth to be had without corresponding effort, was a lure
altogether irresistible. And Harris fell in with the plan readily
enough. A quarter of a century having elapsed since his former
homesteading, he was now eligible again to file on free Government
land; Allan could do the same, and, by also taking advantage of the
purchase of script, it was possible to still further increase their
holdings. In addition to all this, Riles had unfolded a scheme for
staking two or three others on free homestead land: it would be
necessary, of course, to provide them with "grub" and a small wage
during the three years required to prove up, but in consideration of
these benefactions the titles to the land, when secured, were to be
promptly transferred to Riles and Harris. This was strictly against
the law, but the two pioneers felt no sense of crime or shame for
their plans, but rather congratulated themselves upon their cunning
though by no means original scheme to evade the regulations.
Harris found the task of disclosing his intentions to his wife more
unpleasant than he would have supposed, and it took him some days to
make up his mind to broach the subject. He felt that he was doing
what was for the best, and that his business judgment in the matter
could hardly be challenged; and yet he had an uncomfortable feeling
that his wife would not fall in with his plans. That, of course,
would not be allowed to affect his plans; since Beulah's departure
nothing but the most formal conversation had taken place in their
household; yet it would certainly be easier for him if Mary should
give her encouragement to his undertaking. He felt that he was
entitled to this, for was it not for her that he was making the
sacrifice? Was not all he had hers? And were not all his labours
directed toward increasing her reserve against the rainy day? And yet
instinctively he felt that she would oppose him.
It was the evening of a long day in July when, very much to Mary's
surprise, her husband took the handle of the cream separator from
her. To the sad-hearted woman it seemed that the breach was at length
beginning to heal, and that happiness would shortly return to their
hearthside. Below the din of the separator she actually found herself
humming an old love-song of the 'eighties.
But her happiness was of short duration. When the milk had been run
through, and the noise of the whirling bowl no longer prevented
conversation, Harris immediately got down to business.
"Allan and me will be leavin' for the West in a day or two," he said.
"I suppose you can get along all right for a few weeks until harvest.
Bill (the hired man) will be here."
In an instant she saw the motive behind his apparent kindness, and
the hopes she had just entertained only deepened the flood of
resentment which swept over them. But she answered quietly and
without apparent emotion: "That's unfortunate, as I was planning for
a little trip myself."
"You!" he exclaimed. "You plannin' a trip! Where in the world do you
want to go?" Such a thing as Mary going on a trip, and, above all,
unaccompanied by himself, was unheard of and unthinkable.
"Yes, I thought I would take a little trip," she continued. "I've
been working here pretty hard for something over twenty-five years,
and you may say I've never been off the place. A bit of a holiday
shouldn't do me any harm."
"Where do you think of goin'?" he demanded, a sudden suspicion
arising in his mind. "Goin' to visit Jim and Beulah?"
"I think you might at least be fair to Beulah," she retorted. "If you
had read her letter, instead of putting it in the stove, you would
have known better."
"I ain't interested in anythin' Beulah may have to say, and any other
letters that fall into my hands will go in the same direction. And
what's more, she's not goin' to have a visit from any member of this
family at the present time. I'm goin' out West to take up land, and
Allan's goin' with me. It ain't fair or reasonable for you to try to
upset our plans by a notion of this kind."
"It isn't a notion, John, it's a resolve. If you are bound to take up
more land, with more work and more worry, why go ahead, but remember
it's your own undertaking. I helped to make one home in the
wilderness, and one home's enough for me."
"Don't be unreasonable," he answered. "There's a great opportunity
right now to get land for nothin' that in a few years will be worth
as much or more than this here. I'm ready to go through the hardship
and the work for the sake of what it will do for us. We can be
independently rich in five years, if we just stand together."
"Independent of what?" she asked.
"Why, independent of--of everything. Nothin' more to worry about and
plenty laid up for old age. Ain't that worth a sacrifice?"
"John," she said, turning and raising her eyes to his face. "Answer
me a straight question. What was the happiest time in your life?
Wasn't it when we lived in the one-roomed sod shanty, with scarcely a
cent to bless ourselves? We worked hard then, too, but we had time
for long walks together across the prairies--time to sit in the dusk
by the water and plan our lives together. We have done well; we have
land, horses, machinery, money. But have we the happiness we knew
when we had none of these? On the contrary, are you not worried
morning, noon, and night over your work and your property? Don't you
complain about the kind of help the farmers have to hire nowadays,
and the wages they have to pay? And if you get more land won't all
your troubles be increased in proportion? John, sit down and think
this thing over. We don't need more property; what we need is a
chance to enjoy the property we already have. The one thing we
haven't got, the one thing it seems we can't get, is time. Time to
think, time to read, time for walks on the prairie, time for sunsets,
and skies, and--and kindness, and all the things that make life real.
We have the chance to choose now between life and land; won't you
think it all over again and let us seek that which is really worth
while?"
"Now I know where Beulah got her nonsense," he retorted. "All this
talk about real life is very fine, but you don't get much life, real
or any other kind, unless you have the cash to pay down for it. You
can't buy beefsteaks with long walks over the prairie, nor clothe
yourself and family with sunsets. For my part I want some real
success. We've done pretty well here, as you say, but it's only a
beginnin' to what we can do, if we set about it, and don't wait until
the cheap land is all gone. I don't see why you should go back on me
at this time o' life, Mary. We've stood together for a long while,
and I kinda figured I could count on you."
"So you can, John; so you can to the very last, for anything that is
for your own good, but when you set your heart on something that
means more trouble and hardship and won't add one iota to your
happiness, I think it is my duty to persuade you if I can. We've been
drifting apart lately; why not let us both go back to the beginning
and start over again, and by kindness, and fairness, and liberality,
and--and sympathy, try to recover something of what we have lost?"
"I have always thought I had been liberal enough," he said. "Didn't I
build you a good house and buy furniture for it, and do I stint you
in what you spend, either on the table or yourself? More than that,
didn't I put the title to the homestead in your name? And ain't I
ready to do the same with the new homestead, if that's the sticker?"
"I never thought of such a thing," she protested. "And you shouldn't
claim too much credit for putting the homestead quarter in my name.
You know when you bought the first railroad land you were none too
sure how things would come out, and you thought it might be a wise
precaution to have the old farm land in your wife's name."
"That's all the thanks I get," he said bitterly. "Well, I'll take the
new one in my own name, but I'll take it just the same. If you don't
want to share in it you won't have to. But for the present it's your
duty to stay here and run things till we get back."
"What are you going to do after you get your new farm? You can't work
two farms a thousand miles apart, can you?"
"Oh, I guess that won't worry us long. The Americans are comin' in
now with lots o' good money. I was figurin' up that this place, as a
goin' concern, ought to bring about forty thousand dollars, and I'll
bet I could sell it inside of a week."
"Sell it?" she exclaimed. "You don't mean that you intend to sell
this farm?"
"Why not? If somebody else wants it worse'n we do, and has the money
to pay for it, why shouldn't I sell it?"
The tears stood in her eyes as she answered: "In all these years
while we have been building up this home I never once thought of it
as something to sell. It was too near for that--a part of ourselves,
of our very life. It seemed more like--like one of the children, than
a mere possession. And now you would sell it, just as you might sell
a load of wheat or a fat steer. Is this place--this home where we
have grown old and grey--nothing to you? Have you no sentiment that
will save it from the highest bidder?"
"Sentiment is a poor affair in business," he answered. "Property was
made t' sell; money was made t' buy it with. The successful man is
the one who has his price for everythin', and knows how t' get it. As
for growin' old and grey on this farm, why, that's a grudge I have
against it, though I don't think I'm very grey and I don't feel very
old. And if I get my price, why shouldn't I sell?"
"Very well," she answered. "I've nothing more to say. Sell it if you
must, but remember one thing--I won't be here to see it pass into the
hands of strangers." She straightened herself up, and there was a
fire in her eye that it reminded him of the day when she had elected
to share with him the hardships of the wilderness, and in spite of
himself some of his old pride in her returned. "I leave to-morrow for
a visit, and I may be gone some time. You reminded me of your
liberality a few minutes ago; prove it now by writing me a cheque for
my expenses. Remember I will expect to travel like the wife of a
prosperous farmer, a man whose holdings are worth forty thousand
dollars cash."
"So that's your decision, is it? You set me at defiance; you try t'
wreck my plans by your own stubbornness. You break up my family piece
by piece, until all I have left is Allan. Thank God, the boy, at
least, is sound. Well, you shall have your cheque, and I'll make it a
big one that it may carry you the farther."
Even in the teeth of his bitterness the mention of Allan's name
strained the mother's heart beyond her power of resistance, and she
turned with outstretched arms towards her husband. For a moment he
wavered, the flame of love, still smouldering in his breast, leaping
up before the breath of her response. But it was for a moment only.
Weakness would have meant surrender, and surrender was the one thing
of which Harris was incapable. He had laid out his course with a
clear conscience; he was sincerely working for the greatest good to
his family, and if his wife was determined to stand in her own light
it was his duty to pursue the course in defiance of her. So he
checked the impulse to take her in his arms and walked stolidly to
his desk in the parlour.
He returned shortly and placed a cheque in her hands. She looked at
it through misty eyes, and read that it was for two hundred dollars.
It represented a two-hundredth part of their joint earnings, and yet
he thought he was dealing liberally with her; he half expected, in
fact, that his magnanimity would break her down where his firmness
had failed. But she only whispered a faint "Thank you," and slowly
folded the paper in her fingers. He waited for a minute, suspecting
that she was overcome, but as she said nothing more he at length
turned and left the house, saying gruffly as he went out, "When
that's done I'll send you more if you write for it."
It was now ten at night, and almost dark, but Harris's footsteps
instinctively turned down the road toward Riles'. Riles' reputation
in the community was that of a hardworking, money-grubbing farmer,
with a big bony body, and a little shrivelled soul, if indeed the
latter had not entirely dried up into ashes. A few years ago Harris
had held his neighbour in rather low regard, but of late he had been
more and more impressed with Riles' ability to make his farm pay,
which was as great as or greater than his own, and what he had once
thought to be hardness and lack of humanity he now recognized as
simply the capacity to take a common-sense, business view of
conditions.
At the gate he met Allan, returning from spending a social hour with
the grant boys.
"Where going, Dad?" the younger man demanded.
"Oh, I thought I'd take a walk over t' Riles'. There's a lot o'
things t' talk about."
"What's the matter, Dad?" The strained composure of his father's
voice had not escaped him.
"Nothin'...I might's well tell you now; you'll know it in a little
while anyway...Your mother is goin' away--on a visit."
"Like Beulah's visit, I suppose. So it's come to this. I've seen it
for some time, Dad, and you must 've seen it too. But you're not
really goin' to let her go? Come back to the house with me--surely
you two can get together on this thing, if you try."
"I have tried," said Harris, "and it's no use. She's got those
notions like Beulah--quittin' work, and twilights and sunsets and all
that kind o' thing. There's no use talkin' with her; reason don't
count for anything. I gave her a good pocketful of money, and told
her to write for more when she needed it. She'll get over her notions
pretty soon when she gets among strangers. Go in and have a talk with
her, boy; there's no use you bein' at outs with her, too. As for me,
I can't do anything more."
"I suppose you know best," he answered, "but it seems--hang it, it's
against all reason that you two--that this should happen."
"Of course it is. That's what I said a minute ago. But reason don't
count just now. But you have your talk with her, and give her any
help you can if she wants t' get away at once."
Allan found his mother in her room, packing a trunk and gently
weeping into it. He laid his hand upon her, and presently he found
her work-worn frame resting in his strong arms.
"You're not going to leave us, mother, are you?" he said. "You
wouldn't do that?"
"Not if it could be helped, Allan. But there is no help. Your father
has set his heart on more land, and more work, and giving up this
home, and I might as well go first as last. More and more he is
giving his love to work instead of to his family. I bear him no
ill-will--nothing, nothing but love, if he could only come out of
this trance of his and see things in their true light. But as time
goes on he gets only deeper in. Perhaps when I am away for a while
he'll come to himself. That's our only hope."
The boy stood helpless in this confliction. He had always thought of
difficulties arising between people, between neighbours, friends, or
members of a family, because one party was right and the other wrong.
It was his first experience of those far more tragic quarrels where
both parties are right, or seem to be right. He knew something of the
depth of the nature of his parents, and he knew that beneath an
undemonstrative exterior they cherished in secret a love
proportionate to the strength of their characters. But the long
course down which they had walked together seemed now to be
separating, through neither will nor power of their own; it was as
though straight parallel lines suddenly turned apart, and neither
lost its straightness in the turning.
So he comforted his mother with such words as he could. Loyalty to
his father forbade laying any of the blame on those shoulders, and to
blame his mother was unthinkable; so with unconscious wisdom he spoke
not of blame at all. Presently it occurred to him to think of his
mother's departure as temporary only, and with joy he found that she
readily accepted the notion.
"Of course, while we are away, why shouldn't you have a visit?" he
said. "Here you have been chained down to this farm ever since I can
remember, and before. We can easy enough arrange about the cows; and
Bill can board with one o' the neighbours, or batch, and you can just
have a good trip and a good rest, and nobody needs it more. And then,
when I get settled on my own homestead, you'll come and keep house
for me, won't you?"
"You're sure you'll want me?" she asked, greatly comforted by his
mood. "Perhaps you'll be getting your own housekeeper, too."
"Not while I can have you," he answered. "You'll promise, won't you?
Nothing that has happened, or can happen, will keep you from making
my home yours, will it? And when Dad gets settled again, and gets all
these worries off his mind, then things'll be different, and you'll
come, even if he is there?"
"Yes, I'll come, even if he is there, if you ask me," she promised.
Harris did not come back that night. A light rain came up, and he
accepted the excuse to sleep at Riles'. The truth was, he feared for
his resolution if it should be attacked by both his wife and son.
Surrender now would be mere weakness, and weakness was disgrace, and
yet he feared for himself if put to the test again. So he stayed at
Riles', and the two farmers spent much of the night over their plans.
It had been decided that they were to leave within the next couple of
days, but Harris broke the news that his wife was going on a visit,
and that arrangements would have to be made for the care of the farm.
He carefully concealed the fact that Mary was leaving against his
will, or as the result of any difference. Such an admission would
have damaged him in the estimation of Riles, who would have put it
down to weakness. In Riles' code no insubordination should be
tolerated from man or beast, but least of all from a wife. He would
have found ready means to suppress any such foolishness.
Riles took the suggestion of a few days' delay with poor grace.
"Yes, an' while you're chasing up an' down fer a housekeeper the
Yankees get all the homesteads. They're comin' in right now by the
trainload, grabbin' up everythin' in sight. We'll monkey round here
till the summer's over, an' then go out an' get a sand farm, or
something like. Couldn't your wife do her visitin' no other time?"
"I'll tell you, Riles," said Harris, who had no desire to pursue a
topic which might lead him into deep water, "you go ahead out and get
the lay of the land, and I'll follow you within a week. I'll do that,
for sure, and I'll stand part of your expenses for going ahead,
seein' you will be kind o' representin' me."
The last touch was a stroke of diplomacy. The suggestion that Harris
should pay part of his expenses swept away Riles' bad humour, and he
agreed to go on the date originally planned, and get what he called
"a bede on the easy money," while Harris completed his arrangements
at home.
He was to get "a bede on the easy money" in a manner which Harris
little suspected.
***
When Harris returned home the next forenoon he found that Mary had
already left for Plainville. He sat down and tried to think, but the
house was very quiet, and the silence oppressed him...He looked at
his watch, and concluded he had still time to reach Plainville before
the train would leave. But that would mean surrender, and surrender
meant weakness.