"We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains;
We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains;
We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run,
Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun;
We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land,
Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command,
Felt the thrill of Springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned
thought
That the season's birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot."
_Prairie Born._
"Plainville has a sure-enough singer at last," declared Alice Goode to
her mother the morning after the Grant party.
"That'll be the new-comer at Grand's," said Mrs. Goode, who had a
talent, amounting almost to genius, for mispronouncing proper names.
"You're on," Alice agreed. "I don't claim to be much of a judge of
warbles, but I like her samples."
"You'll be gettin' her into the choir, for the Grands are Presbyterians.
You want to speak to the minister about her, Alice."
"Sure I do, but it means war with Mrs. Fairley. She's led the choir so
long and so far she's sure to flare up at the prospect of a real singer
breakin' in. But I don't care. She only keeps me because she knows I
can't sing either. Here's where the fat goes into the fire."
Alice went to the telephone and called up the Rev. Andrew Guthrie.
"Hello--that you, Mr. Guthrie?--hello--Alice Goode speaking--yes--say, you
ought to been at Grant's dance last night--what's that?--Oh, that don't
matter--Me?--well, I just went on church business, rustlin' new chickens
for your flock, an' I caught one, a lulu--Mr. Grant's niece, an' she can
sing some. Say, Mr. Guthrie, you get after her to join the choir, before
the Methodists get busy.... No, don't leave it to Mrs. Fairley, she's
too jealous. Just get her to sing with us once, an' Mrs. Fairley can
come in or stay out, as the weather suits her.... Perhaps, but she's an
old crank, anyway. She spoils the effect of the sermons, an' that ain't
fair to you, Mr. Guthrie. That's why I go to dances instead of
prayer-meeting.... That's right, drive out and see her. She'll change
the look of those empty pews, or I'm no guesser."
Whether it was due to the doubtful compliments of this conversation or
the unquestionable sincerity which prompted Alice Goode's suggestion may
never be known, but the fact is that the Reverend Mr. Guthrie called
that afternoon on Mrs. Fairley, and deftly announced that a friend of
the Grants' was staying with them, and, he understood, would be willing
to take advantage of the facilities afforded by the choir. Now, Mrs.
Fairley, good woman, never attended anything so worldly as a dance, and
supposed that the recruit was some country girl anxious for a chance to
be seen by the congregation. She had no objection to an additional
worshipper in the choir--the meanest service of the Lord must not be
despised, Mr. Guthrie--so long as she proved bidable, Mr. Guthrie, and
did not spoil the effect of those who could sing. Armed with this
authority from the autocrat of the choir, Mr. Guthrie hitched up horse
and cutter and drove to the Grant homestead. It was a place where he
always found a warm welcome, and he would gladly have called oftener,
had it not been for the jealousy of some of his parishioners who
objected when he failed to visit them, and gave him little courtesy when
he did. He remained to tea, and, indeed, long after, and when at last he
drove home it was with feelings of mingled gratification and mistrust.
"Well, Mary," he announced, as his wife helped to remove his great-coat,
"I have found an addition for our choir. But I rather suspect that she
will soon be the choir, and the present members will constitute the
addition. Mrs. Fairley made two conditions; that the new-comer should
not spoil the music, and should be amenable to those in authority,
meaning herself. Both these conditions I will guarantee, but there are
cases when authority forsakes officials and returns to its original
source--the people. And when the congregation have heard Miss Vane sing,
they will insist on a change in the leadership of the choir."
"Oh, it may not be so bad as that," said his wife, always eager to
smooth the difficulties from the path of her over-worked and under-paid
husband.
"So good as that, you mean," exclaimed Andrew Guthrie, exultantly.
The next Sunday saw a new face in the choir, and the expectant glances
of the congregation indicated that a large percentage of Mr. Guthrie's
flock had not attained to the godliness of Mrs. Fairley, who eschewed
dances.
The opening hymn was announced, and before three bars were sung a buzz
of excitement was electrifying the congregation. At the end of the first
line Mrs. Fairley stopped and looked straight at Miss Vane. For ten
years, whenever Mrs. Fairley stopped singing, the music stopped, and so
accustomed had the organist become to this understanding, that she
expected always to double back when the familiar voice was no longer
heard. But this morning a new precedent was established. Mrs. Fairley
stopped, but the music went on. The new singer sang on, quite
unconscious of the epoch-making nature of her hardihood. For one full
line Mrs. Fairley remained silent, and in that brief space of time she
surrendered for ever the leadership of the choir of Plainville
Presbyterian church.
After the service Mrs. Fairley went to the minister. Her chagrin was
apparent, and it was evident that she blamed him for no small share of
her undoing.
"I think it was quite unnecessary to bring that young woman into the
choir," she said. "We were getting along very well, and the music was
all that Plainville desired."
"No one, surely, will complain of the music," said Mr. Guthrie, very
mildly, "but if this young woman wishes to take part in the singing, how
shall we despise even the meanest service of the Lord? And how shall we
avoid accepting that service? We must not ask her to remain away, and we
cannot ask her not to sing when we rise to worship Him with psalms and
hymns. It is, therefore, merely a question of whether she shall sing in
the choir or in the congregation."
This view of the situation was a bomb-shell to Mrs. Fairley. If Miss
Vane's presence in the choir was aggravating, in the congregation it
would become demoralising. As argument failed her she answered, hotly:
"Well, if the people don't want my singing, they won't have to listen to
it."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Mr. Guthrie. "We must all give what
service we can----"
But Mrs. Fairley had flounced down the aisle and out of the church.
So it came about that Miss Vane was officially declared leader of the
choir. Her position necessitated her coming to town twice on Sundays and
once during the week, and although her cousins were always glad enough
to drive her in, it was observed that Mr. Gardiner frequently relieved
them of the duty.
Burton, also, was afforded the opportunity of meeting Miss Vane at
church, and occasionally waiting on her in the store, but their
acquaintance developed slowly. He found himself while in her presence
hampered by a self-consciousness amounting to bashfulness. Thus, while
they frequently met at the rink, he had never asked her to skate. He
wondered whether she thought of him at all.
And so the winter wore on, and at length the spring was in the land. For
five months the wind had studiously avoided the south-west, but now it
fell into that favoured quarter, and the snow shrank before its balmy
breath. The sun beat down with June brilliancy; the creeks and ponds
filled with blue snow-water; the life that had lain dormant since
November stirred itself in sod, and flower, and leaf. In the town the
period of depression was followed by one of great activity; every
merchant, implement dealer, and tradesman was working under high
pressure to keep up with the demands of his customers. Gardiner's store
shared in the general prosperity; in fact, as the proprietor thought,
they were receiving rather more than their share. This meant busy days
for Burton and his employer, but both were eager for work, and from week
to week Gardiner postponed his intention of engaging another clerk. He
was well satisfied with Burton, and had freely congratulated himself
upon securing for a moderate wage a young man of so much value to his
store. But circumstances were already in the mould which were destined
to alter his opinion.
On an evening late in May, Gardiner left the store early, saying his
horse needed exercise, and as the day's work was practically over he
would go out for a drive. Burton remained to tidy the store and lock up,
but he noticed that Gardiner's horse took the well-known road to
Grants'.
As he was sweeping behind the counter a young woman entered the store,
and Burton, looking up, was surprised to see Miss Vane.
"I hope I am not too late, Mr. Burton. I have had a number of errands to
do for Aunty, and it always takes longer than one expects. I wonder if
you will let me have this small bill of groceries?"
"You are not too late; you are just in time," assured Burton, who felt
that the moment was the most opportune of the whole day.
He quickly filled the order, and said, "If you will tell me where your
buggy is, Miss Vane, I will take your packages around and put them in
it."
"Oh, I have no buggy this time, I'm walking."
"Walking! You surely do not intend to walk home with all these parcels?"
"They are not heavy, and besides, I am to walk only as far as Mrs.
Delt's. Harry will meet me there later in the evening. They are very
busy on the farm at present, and I told them it was quite unnecessary to
drive me to town."
Burton wrestled with his thoughts. Here, surely, was an opportunity to
offer a service which could be construed only as a business courtesy.
"If you can wait until I close the store--it will be only a minute--I
should be very glad to carry your parcels."
"Oh, that is too much--I could not expect you to do that."
"It is not too much--unless you say it is."
Miss Vane laughed. Hers was a quiet, mirthful laugh, like a vocal smile.
"If your offer is made as a kindness to me, I cannot accept it; if it is
your own desire, I cannot refuse."
"It is my desire," said Burton. There was no other answer, although he
felt that the reply shattered his theory about a business courtesy.
Soon they were walking gaily along the road leading out of the village.
This ran by the amusement grounds, where the young men of the town were
gathering for an evening's baseball practice. Burton and his companion
were not unnoticed.
The talk was of the commonplace: the weather, the seeding, the life of
town and country; Burton careful, discriminating in his speech; Miss
Vane frank, impetuous, but correct. They had almost reached Delt's when
the young woman, placing her fingers to her throat, uttered a cry of
dismay.
"I believe I've lost my brooch," she explained, in answer to Burton's
anxious inquiry. "It was a gift from Brother Harry, and----"
She found no words to express her emotion, which Burton knew to be
greater than she cared to admit.
"I don't think you need worry," the young man said. "The sun is just
setting, and we still have an hour of fair light. I noticed the brooch
when we left the store, so it must be on the road. I will hurry back and
find it."
"We will," she corrected.
Burton set the packages down a little way from the road, and the two
hurried back through the gathering twilight, keeping a keen look-out as
they walked. It was not until they were almost at the recreation grounds
that a faint glint in the dust attracted Burton's eye. He lifted the
precious trifle and restored it to the delighted owner, whose profuse
thanks called forth blushes that might be seen even in the dusk which
was now silently enwrapping all the familiar objects of the prairie and
roadside. Retracing their steps they walked more slowly; it became quite
dark, but a mild wind blew from the south-west, and there was just
enough eeriness in the situation to suggest the necessity of a man's
protection. Finally they arrived at Delt's gate, where Harry Grant and
young Mrs. Delt were awaiting Miss Vane with growing anxiety.
A horse and buggy swung past them as they left the main road, and Harry
Grant called out:
"Ah, here you are at last! And who is this? Why, I declare, if it isn't
our friend Burton. That accounts for the delay. 'In the spring a young
man's fancy,' you know."
Gardiner, returning from his fruitless drive to the Grants' home, heard
the words and recognized the voice.
And they troubled his sleep that night, and for many nights to come.