At last he spoke. "You"re right, Pearl," he said. "Some one did read it and pa.s.s it on to me, and it would have been better for me if I"d stayed closer to what she taught me."
"Ain"t it queer how things turn out?" Pearl exclaimed, after a long pause. "Now, I"ve often wondered why Christ had to die--it seemed a terrible thing to happen to Him, and Him that lovin" and kind--do you mind how gentle and forgivin" He was?"
Sandy Braden nodded.
"Well, Mr. Donald and I have been talkin" about it quite a bit, and at first we thought it shouldn"t have happened, but now it looks as if G.o.d had to strike hard to make people listen, and to show them what a terrible thing sin is. Death ain"t nothin" to be afraid of, nor sufferin" either. Sin is the only thing to be real scared of. It wasn"t the rusty nails through His hands that made the dear Lord cry out in agony--it was the hard hearts of them that done it. Bill Cavers"s death has done good already, for it has closed your bar, and no one knows how many men and boys that may save; and you"re a different man now, thinking different thoughts, ain"t you?"
"I"m a mighty unhappy man," he said sadly. "I"m different that way, that"s a sure thing."
Pearl looked at him closely, as if she would see the inner working of his mind.
"Mr. Braden, I know just what you"re like," she said. "Did you ever see a man "trying to stand still on a bicycle? That"s no harder than what you"re tryin" to do. You"ve stopped doin" wrong, but you haven"t gone on, and you"re in great shape to take a bad fall. If you"d just get busy helpin" people you"d soon get over bein" sad and down-hearted. You"re feelin" bad over Bill Cavers"s death. Why don"t you make Bill"s death count for something good? You"re a smart man, and everybody likes you. If you was to teach a Bible cla.s.s every one would come to hear you."
"I"ll bet they would," he said, shrugging his shoulders and laughing almost bitterly.
"Well, then," said Pearl, "don"t let the chances all go by you. Do you know, I often look at trees and feel sorry for them?"
"Why?" he asked curiously.
"Because they can"t do a thing to help each other; and I often wonder if they"re the people who wouldn"t lift a finger to help any one when they were livin", and so they were turned into trees when they died, and now they see grubs and worms crawlin" over their own folks, maybe, and they can"t lift a leaf to help them. Mr. Donald read us a story in school about a man who was awful mean while he lived and wouldn"t help anybody, and when he died he had to wander up and down the world and see people starvin" and all sorts of sad sights, but he couldn"t do a single thing for them, though he wanted to bad enough, because he had forged a chain that bound him hand and foot while he was livin", all unbeknownst to himself. Did you ever read that little book, Mr. Braden?"
"I did," he said. "I read that story, but I had almost forgotten it.
I haven"t thought of it for years."
"It"s a good story," said Pearl meaningly.
"I guess it is," he answered, smiling.
When they reached the Watson home, Mrs. Watson and Aunt Kate came out and thanked Mr. Braden profusely for his kindness in "givin" the childer a lift." Danny, who had been bored by the serious nature of the conversation, had gone to sleep, and was carried snoring into the house.
Mr. Braden admired the display of poppies and asters, which still made a brave show of colour against the almost leafless trees of the bluff, and when Pearl ran over to pick him a bouquet of asters, was it by accident--or does anything ever happen by accident--that she put in some leaves of sweet-mary?
CHAPTER XXIV
TRUE GREATNESS
A shipwrecked sailor, waiting for a sail; No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts --A blaze upon the waters to the east, A blaze upon the waters to the west, --but no sail.
_----From Enoch Arden._
ALMOST every person in the neighbourhood was interested in Arthur Wemyss"s new home which he had built on the bank of Plover Creek, a small stream that dawdled aimlessly across the prairie from Lang"s Lake to the Souris River. Plover Creek followed the line of least resistance all the way along, not seeming to care how often it changed its direction, but zigzagging and even turning around and doubling on itself sometimes. Its little dimpled banks, treeless save for clumps of silver willow, gave a pleasing variety to the prairie scenery.
It was on one of the highest of these banks that Arthur had built his house, and it was a pleasant outlook for any one who loves the long view that the prairie gives, where only the horizon obstructs the vision.
Behind the house, which faced the setting sun, was an old "buffalo run," a narrow path, gra.s.s-grown now, but beaten deep into the earth by the hoofs of innumerable buffalo that long ago came down to the little stream to drink. It had been a favourite killing-place, too, for the Indians, as the numerous buffalo bones, whitened by the sun and frost of many seasons, plainly showed.
Arthur had made a fantastic "rockery" of skulls and shanks and ribs, and filled it in with earth, enough to furnish growth for trailing nasturtiums, whose bright red and yellow blossoms were strangely at variance with their sombre setting.
Arthur had won for himself many friends among the people of the neighbourhood by his manly, upright ways and by his courteous manner, and every one in the neighbourhood, particularly the women, were interested in the coming of Thursa. Mrs. Motherwell, Mrs. Slater, and Mrs. Watson had each promised to set a hen on thirteen eggs--which number is supposed to lose its unluckiness when applied to eggs--to give Thursa a start in poultry. Arthur thanked them warmly, but just for a minute he found himself wondering how Thursa would look feeding chickens. He knew that she was adorable at tennis or golf, and although attending to fowl is not really more strenuous than these, still it is different. But everything looks rosy at twenty-five, and Arthur was supremely happy dreaming of the coming of Thursa.
His father and mother had sent him a phonograph for his Christmas present the previous year, and it had been an unending source of comfort and pleasure to him as well as to his neighbours and friends.
There was one record that Arthur put on only when he was alone, for it was Thursa"s own voice singing to him from across the sea--the song of all others he loved to hear, for every note, every word of it, throbbed with tenderness and love:
"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart, My rosary, my rosary."
Often when his day"s work was over and he sat in his little house, as the velvet-footed dusk came creeping down the Plover Creek, Thursa"s bird-like voice, so clear and precious and full of dearest memories, would fill the little room with heavenly sweetness and carry him back again to the dear days at home, when they wandered hand in hand beside the English hedges "white with laughing may."
There was only one person in the community with whom Arthur felt really at home and to whom he could speak freely, and that was Martha Perkins, for although Martha did not talk much she was a pleasant listener, and Arthur always came away rested and cheered. "She is a jolly good sort, Martha is," he often told himself, "a real comfortable sort of person." In return for Martha"s kindness to him Arthur brought her books and magazines when he found that Martha now spent most of her time reading instead of working at the never-ending needlework.
All through the harvest Arthur had had working for him a stolid-faced son of toil, whose morose face began to "get on his nerves," and it was partly to get away from this depressing influence that Arthur went much oftener to see Martha than he had up to this time. His man was "no company and spoiled his solitude," he said. When the harvest was over and his farm hand had gone it seemed quite natural for him to keep up his visits regularly, and since Bud had gone the family were very glad of his cheery presence.
One Friday night Arthur did not come for his bread as was his custom, and when Martha took it over herself the next morning she found him suffering from a bad attack of la grippe. Then followed for Martha five sweet days of never-to-be-forgotten happiness, when Arthur, fevered and restless, would exclaim with joy when she came in. Martha was a born nurse, quiet, steady, and cheerful, and no matter how Arthur"s head was aching when she came in, he always felt better just to have her near, and the touch of her hand, work-hardened though it was, on his forehead, always had the effect of soothing him.
She went every night and morning to Arthur"s house, bringing with her enough tempting eatables to feed two healthy men; for Martha was strongly imbued with the idea that to eat well was a sure road to recovery. In Arthur"s case her faith was justified, for on the morning of the sixth day she found him so much better that she realized the happy days were over. Arthur no longer needed her.
"My word, Martha," he said, "you have been a welcome sight to me this week. You are like the good fairy of the tales. I have been noticing how you have improved the house. Thursa will thank you when she comes: I am sure you and Thursa will be the greatest pals ever. I was just thinking, Martha, what a comfortable sort of person you are anyway. You do know how to make people feel easy in their minds. It is wonderful. I never saw any one like you in that way."
Any person looking at Martha then would not have called her a plain girl, so radiant did her face become at these words of praise.
"It"s my only gift," she said with her slow smile. "I cannot sing or talk or look nice. I can only bake and scrub and sew and keep things tidy."
"Well, that is a gift, I tell you, a real good one. People who talk sometimes talk too much, and you can"t live on singing, you know, though it is one of the greatest gifts." He was thinking of Thursa"s chirrupy little treble, which to him was the sweetest music on earth.
"Thursa will brighten us all when she comes. Just to hear her laugh, Martha, would chase away the blues any day. She has the most adorable little ways. You do not mind hearing me rave about her, do you, Martha? You know, you are the only person I can talk to about her, and when you see her you won"t blame me at all."
Martha was putting on her wraps to go home, and fortunately he could not see her face.
"That"s all right, Arthur," she said bravely. "I like to hear you talk--about her," which came as near to being a deliberate falsehood as Martha had ever told in all her honest life.
The arrangements for Arthur"s wedding were all made. Thursa was coming the first week in December and would stay with Martha until Christmas Day. Arthur"s house was not quite ready yet. Martha, glad to feel that she was of any service to him, made great preparations for the coming of Thursa.
Her own bedroom, which was to be used by Thursa, was re-papered and painted; the new rag carpet that Martha had put away in her cupboard "in case" was put on the floor; new lace curtains, bought out of the b.u.t.ter money, replaced the frilled art muslin that had been at the windows. Martha"s best pin-cushion, her best stand-covers and pillow-shams were all brought out for Thursa"s use. It seemed very fitting to her that her treasures should be used by Arthur"s bride.
She thought of it all sadly, but without bitterness.
One afternoon Aunt Kate and Pearl came over, and Martha invited them to come upstairs and see the room she had made ready for Thursa.
"Upon my word, Martha," Aunt Kate said, as she looked admiringly at Martha"s tastefully arranged room, "you"re fixin" up as if you were goin" to be married yerself, and I just hope this English girl of his is all he thinks she is, and not a useless tool like some of them are. I mind well one Englishwoman who lived neighbour to me down in Ontario, nice woman, too, but sakes alive, she was a dirty housekeeper. She was a cousin to the Duke of something, but she"d make a puddin" in the wash-basin just the same. I"d hate awful to see Arthur get a girl like that. I suppose you haven"t heard him say whether she"s been brought up thrifty. It means a lot, let me tell you. I"ve seen women that could throw out as much at the back door as their man could bring in the front. You don"t know, do you, whether or not she"s savin"?"
"I don"t know, I"m sure," Martha said. "I don"t think she has much experience, but she can learn. It"s no trick to do housework."
"Well, now, Martha, you"re wrong, for it is a trick," Aunt Kate said positively. "It"s the finest thing a woman can know. A man will get tired of a pretty face, but he ain"t likely to tire of good vittles and well-mended clothes; and if he came home hungry and found her playin" the piano and no dinner ready, it would make him swear, if anything would."
Aunt Kate went down-stairs then to help Mrs. Perkins do some sewing, and Pearl and Martha were left alone.