A SAIL! A SAIL!
The buds may blow and the fruit may grow
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere;
But whether the rain or the sun or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
_----James Whitcomb Riley._
THE first week after Thursa's marriage Arthur kept to his own house,
and the neighbours, with fine' tact, stayed away. Many and varied
were the ways they took of showing the sincerity of their sympathy. A
roast of "spare ribs," already cooked, was left one day mysteriously
on his door-step; the next day a jar of pincherry jelly and a roll of
jelly-cake were there. His mail was brought to him daily by one or
other of the neighbours, and when it seemed to John Green's kind
heart that Arthur's mail was very small and uninteresting, he brought
over several back numbers of the Orillia Packet, one of which
contained obituary verses that his own cousin had composed, and which
Mr. Green marked with wavy ink lines, so that Arthur would be sure to
see them. Mr. Green thought that his cousin's lachrymal symposium on
the uncertainty of all things human should be very comforting to
Arthur in his present mental state. Little parcels, too, came
mysteriously through the mail to Arthur. One day it was a pair of
socks, from an anonymous contributor; another time there came a pair
of woollen mittens, red and blue, done in that intricate pattern
which is known to the elect as "Fox and Geese." A little slip of
paper, pinned on the wrist of one, stated that they were "from a
friend," and Arthur shrewdly suspected that Aunt Kate Shenstone had
sent them. The evil significance of the gift was not known to the
giver, and not noticed by the recipient.
These new evidences of neighbourly solicitude carried the intended
message, for they brought to his mind the comfort of knowing that
there were loyal-hearted friends all around him who were sincerely
sorry for his disappointment.
It was a week before Arthur left his own house, and then he went for
his bread to the Perkins home. If he had not been so burdened with
his own trouble he would surely have noticed how carefully Martha was
dressed, how light her step, how happy her face. The tiny speck on
the horizon had been a sail, sure enough. It might not be coming her
way--it might never see the shipwrecked sailor--but it was a sail!
Pearlie Watson, the very day after the wedding, began to do some
hard thinking on Martha's behalf. One fact--stood out above all
others--there was a chance for Martha now, if she could only qualify.
Pearl talked it over with her Aunt Kate, who was a woman of the
world, and had seen many marriages and much giving in marriage. Aunt
Kate was hopeful, even confident, of the outcome of the present case.
"Of course Martha'll get him!" she said. "Why shouldn't she? I never
in all my life seen better hard soft soap than what she makes, and
her bread is as light as a feather, you could make a meal of it; and
now since she's took to fluffin' her hair, and dressin' up so' nice,
she's a good enough lookin' girl. She ain't as educated as he is, of
course, but land alive! you couldn't beat that hard soft soap of
hers, no matter what education you had."
Pearl shook her head and wished that she could share her aunt's
optimism, but she felt that something more than a knowledge of
soap-making was needed for a happy married life. On her way to school
she thought about it so hard that it seemed to her that any one
coming behind her would be sure to find some of her thoughts in the
snow.
Mr. Donald, who saw that something was troubling her, inquired the
cause of her worried face.
"Of course, I do not want to know if it is a secret, Pearl," he said;
"but it may be that I could help you if I knew all about it."
Pearl looked at him before replying.
"It isn't a secret that I was told and promised, not to tell. It is
something that I found out by accident, or, at least, all by my own
self, and still it's not to be talked about, only among friends."
Mr. Donald nodded.
Pearl went on: "Maybe now you're just the one that could help me. I
believe I will tell you all about it."
This was at recess. The children were out playing "shinney." They
could hear the shouts of the contending sides. Pearl told him her
hopes and fears regarding Martha. "Martha's all right at heart, you
bet," she concluded; "she's good enough for Arthur or any one,
really. If she had vulgar ways or swore when she got mad, or sassed
her Ma, or told lies, or was stingy or mean or anything like that, it
would be far worse and harder to get rid of, because nothing but a
miracle of grace will cast out the roots of sin, and then even it is
a big risk to marry any one like that, because you're never sure but
one tiny little root may be left, and in due season it may bust up
and grow."
"It may, indeed," Mr. Donald said, smiling. Then he added, when his
smile had faded: "'Bust up and grow' are the words to express it."
"But if Martha could only get smoothed up in education, and know
about William the Conqueror, and what causes tides, and could talk a
little more and answer back a little smarter like, it would be all
right, I do believe."
"I have known men to marry uneducated women, and be very fond of
them, too," said Mr. Donald thoughtfully. "Some of the Hudson's Bay
factors married squaws."
"I know," Pearl agreed. "Old Louie Baker, the surveyor's guide, told
Pa about his squaw, Rosie. He Eked Rosie fine, and thought she was
real pretty when there wasn't a white woman in sight, but when the
white women began to come into the country he got ashamed of poor
Rosie, and every day she seemed to get dirtier and greasier, and her
toes turned in more; and, anyway, Mr. Donald, it's hard for a woman
to feel that she isn't just up to the mark. Gettin' married ain't all
there is to it, you bet. It's only in books that they say people git
married, and leave it like that, for that's when the real hard times
begin--keepin' it up and makin' it turn out well. That's the hard
part."
Mr. Donald looked at her in wonder. "You have wisdom beyond your
years, Pearl," he said gravely.
"All Martha needs is more education, and there's lots of it lyin'
around loose--it's stickin' out of every-thing--it's in the air and
on the ground, and all over, and it seems too bad if Martha can't
grab holt of some of it, and her so anxious for it."
"The well is deep, and she has nothing to draw with," the
schoolmaster quoted absently.
Pearl recognized the words, and quickly answered: "Do you mind that
the woman was wrong about that when she said there was nothing to
draw with? Well, now, I believe Martha has something to draw with,
too--she has you and me, so she has. You have the education that
Martha needs. I'm gettin' it every day. Can't you and I pass it on to
Martha?"
"How, Pearl?" he asked.
"I don't know just yet. I haven't got it thought out that far. But
there's some way, there's always some way to help people."
It was time to call school then, and no more was said until the next
day, when Mr. Donald said to Pearl: "I believe events are coming our
way. Mrs. Steadman told me last night that she was going to Ontario
for three months, and I am to go elsewhere to board. I wonder would
Mrs. Perkins take me in?"
Pearl gave an exclamation of joy. "Would she?" she cried. "You bet
she would, and you could help Martha every night. Isn't it just dandy
the way things happen?"
That night Pearl went to see Martha on her way home from school.
Pearl was to find out if the teacher would be taken to board.
Martha was alone in the house, her father and mother having gone to
Millford. When Pearl knocked at the door, Martha opened it. A
spelling-book was in her hand, which she laid down hurriedly.
Pearl made known her errand. It was too good to be delayed.
"Say, Martha, isn't it great? He'll help you every night--he can tell
you the most interesting things--he gets lots of newspapers and
magazines, and he knows about electricity and politics and poetry and
everything, and a person can get educated just by listening to him."
Martha stood looking at Pearl a minute, then suddenly threw her arms
around her. "You are my good angel, Pearl Watson!" she cried. "You
are always bringing me good things. Of course we'll take him, and be
glad to have him; and I'll listen to him, you may be sure; and Pearl,
I just can't help telling you that I'm so happy now--I can't tell you
how happy I am."
Martha's brimming eyes seemed to contradict her words, but Pearl, who
understood something of the springs of the heart, understood.
"I can't help being happy," Martha went on. "I tell myself that it's
wicked for me to feel so glad Thursa's gone, when he's so miserable
over it. But she wouldn't ever have suited him, would she, Pearl?
She'd have made him miserable before long, and herself, too; but
that's not all the reason that I'm glad she's gone," she added,
truthfully.
Martha's face was hidden on Pearl's shoulder as she said this.
"I know about it," Pearl said. "I found it all out that day when you
were showing me the room, and I'm just as pleased as you are, or
pretty near. Of course, it would never have done for him to marry
Thursa, and the way it all turned out would convince any one that
Providence ain't feelin' above takin' a hand in people's affairs. She
was nice and pretty, and all that, but she's the kind that would
always have sour bread, and you bet, sour bread cuts love; she'd be
just like Dave Elder's wife, it tires her dreadful to sweep the
floor; but she can go to three dances a week, and then she lies on
the lounge all day and says her nerves are bad. But, Martha, you do
right to be glad. It's never wrong to be happy. God made everything
to have a good time. Look at the gophers and birds, and even the
mosquitoes--they have a bang-up time while it lasts. We've got to be
happy every chance we get. Whenever you see it passin' by take a grab
at it. I mind, when I was a wee little thing, I had a piece of bright
blue silk that I had found, and it was just lovely; it put me through
a whole winter takin' a look at it now and then. I had to stay at
home while Ma was washing, and it was pretty cold in the house
sometimes, but the blue silk kept me heartened up. It's just like a
piece on Arthur's phonograph--here and there in it there's a little
tinklin' song, so sweet and liltin' it just cuts into yer heart; but,
mind you, you don't get much o' that at a time. There's all kinds of
clatterin' crash, smash, and jabber on both sides of it, cuttin' in
on both ends of it, and just when yer gettin' tired of rough house,
in she sails again sweeter than ever, just puttin' yer heart
crossways with the sweetness of it. It keeps ringin' in my ears all
the time, that dear little ripplin', tinklin' tune, and perhaps it
needed all that gusty buzzin' and rip-roarin' to drive the sweetness
clean into you. That's the way it is always; Martha; we've got to
listen for the little song whenever we can hear it."
"I am listening to it all the time, Pearl," Martha said softly. "It
may not be meant for me at all, but it is sweet while it lasts, and I
can't help hearing it, can I, Pearl?"
Pearl kissed her friend warmly and whispered words of hope, and then,
fearing that this might be faith without works, heard her spell a
page of words from Bud's old speller.