Читать книгу Purple Springs - Nellie L. McClung - Страница 4

It was the last day of February, the extra day, dead still, and biting cold, with thick, lead-colored skies shading down to inky blue at the western horizon. In the ravine below John Watson's house trees cracked ominously in the frost, and not even a rabbit was stirring. The hens had not come out, though an open door had extended an invitation, and the tamworths had burrowed deeper into the stack of oat straw. The cattle had taken refuge in the big shed, and even old Nap, in spite of his thick Coat, had whimpered at the door to be let in.

Looking out of the western window, Pearl Watson, with a faint wrinkle between her eyebrows, admitted to herself that it was not a cheerful day. And Pearl had her own reasons for wanting fine weather, for tomorrow was the first of March, and the day to which she had been looking forward for three years to make a momentous decision.

The thought of this day had gone with her in the three years that had passed, like a radiant gleam, a glorious presence that brightened and idealized every experience of life, a rainbow that glorified every black cloud, and there had been some clouds in her life black enough to bring out the rainbows' colors too; as when her mother's serious illness had called her back from the city, where she was attending school. But each day had brought her one day nearer the great day, which now she could call "Tomorrow."

It had never occurred to Pearl to doubt the young doctor's sincerity, when, three years before, he had said he would wait until she was eighteen years old before he asked her something.

"And it will depend on your answer," he had said, "what sort of a day it is. It may be a dark, cold, horrible day, with cruel, biting wind, or it may be a glorious day, all sunshine and blue sky—that will all depend on your answer." And she had told him, honestly and truthfully, not being skilled in the art of coquetry, that "it generally was fine on the first of March."

That the young doctor might have forgotten all about the incident never crossed her mind in the years that followed. She did not know that there was witchery in her brown eyes and her radiant young beauty that would stir any young man's heart and loosen his tongue, causing him to say what in his sober moments he would regard as foolishness.

Pearl did not know this; she only knew that a great radiance had come to her that day, three years before, a radiance whose glory had not dimmed. Every thought and action of her life had been influenced by it, and she had developed like a fine young tree on which the spring sunshine had perpetually fallen, a fine young tree that had been sheltered from every cold blast, watered by the rains and bathed in perpetual sunshine, for Pearl's young heart was fed from the hidden springs of love and romance. For her the darkest night was lighted by stars; for her the birds sang of love and hope and happiness; for her the commonest flower was rich in beauty and perfume; and so the end of the three years found her a well developed, tall, boyishly athletic girl, with a color in her cheeks like an Okanagon peach, hair of richest brown, with little gleams of gold, waving back naturally from a high forehead; a firm chin, with a dimple; and great brown eyes, full of lights, and with a dazzling brilliance that registered every thought of her brain and emotion of her heart.

From the time when she was twelve years old the young doctor, who had then just come to Millford, had been her hero—worshipped afar, and in great secrecy.

Many a time when the family lived in the village, and Pearl was left to mind the swarm of boys while her mother was out working, she had raced to the window just to see him drive by, and, having seen him and perhaps caught a smile or nod, if he noticed her, she would go back to her strenuous task of keeping her young brothers clothed and happy and out of the wealth of a quickened imagination she would tell them more and more wonderful tales of the glorious world into which their young feet had strayed.

When the doctor had time and inclination to talk to her, Pearl's young heart swam in a crimson sea of delight, but if by any chance he hurried by, his mind filled with other things, she suffered for a brief season all the pangs of unrequited affection, and looked anxiously in the glass many times to see if her face showed signs of early decay.

But the mood soon passed and optimism again reigned. During the times of depression many a sunflower had its yellow petals torn away, as she sought to wring from it definite information regarding the state of his affections. If the sunflower brought in an adverse decision, without a moment's hesitation Pearl began upon another, and continued until a real, honest, authentic flower declared in her favor. But that she did not really trust the oracles was shown by the great frequency with which she consulted them!

As she grew older, Pearl would have liked to talk to some one about her dreams, but it was hard to begin. There was really nothing to tell. She might as well try to explain the sparkle of the sunshine, or the joyousness of the meadowlark's song in the spring, as to try to analyze the luminous wonder that had come into her own heart that day when the purple mist lay on the Tiger Hills, and the snowdrifts were beginning to sink and sag and break into little streams. It could not be done.

But still she wondered what experiences other people had had, and wished that someone would talk to her about it. At the Normal the girls had talked about "crushes" and "mashes" and people having a "bad case," and she knew that the one qualification they demanded in matters of the heart was that the young man should have the means and inclination to "show a girl a good time." She could not talk to them—there did not seem to be any point of contact. And when the subject of love and marriage was discussed around the family circle, her mother's dictum was always brief and concise:

"You'll get who's for ye—and you'll have your number. There's lots of trouble for them that don't marry, and there's lots more for them that do. But there's no use in advisin' or warnin'; it's like the pigs and the hot swill—one will stick in his nose and run away squalin'; the next one will do the same, and the next and the next. They never take warnin's; it's the way of the world!"

But nothing dimmed the glory of Pearl's rainbow dream or stilled the happy songs her heart sang day and night. She had often pictured the day the Doctor would come and tell her that the three years were past. He would drive out with his team, for the snow would be too deep for his car, and she would first hear the sleigh-bells, even before old Nap would begin to bark, and he would come in with his cheeks all red and glowing, with snow on his beaver coat; and he would tell her it was too fine to stay in, and wouldn't she come for a ride?

So sure was she that he would come that she had laid out on her bed, in the little room under the rafters, her heavy coat, overshoes and scarf, and had spent some time deciding whether her red tam or the brown velvet hat was the most becoming, and finally favored the tam, because she had once heard the Doctor say that red was the color for winter, and besides, the brown hat had a sharp rim that might give a person a nasty poke in the eye … in case. …

She made all her preparations on the day before, because, she told herself, a doctor's time was so uncertain that he might, remembering this, be afraid of being called away on The Day, and so come a day sooner.

Pearl thought of all this as she stood at the window and looked out on the bare farm yard, swept clean of beast or fowl by the bitter cold which had driven them all indoors. A bright fire burned in the Klondike heater, and from the kitchen came the cheerful song of a canary. The house was in a state of great tidiness, with its home made lounge in front of the fire, piled high with gaily flowered cushions, and the brightly striped rag carpet which was the culmination of the united efforts of the family the winter before, and before the fire a tiger-striped cat with her paws stretched out to the heat.

Pearl was alone in the room, for all the children were at school, her father and Teddy out, and her mother in the kitchen making the last of the mincemeat into pies, which sent out a real baking odor of cinnamon and cloves; a roast of pork that had been "doing too fast," was now sitting on the top of the high oven, its angry, sparking, sizzling trailing off into a throaty guttering. Some sound or smell of it seemed to have penetrated Nap's dreams, for he wakened suddenly and sat up, licking his lips and pounding the floor with his tail.

Suddenly the telephone rang, the three short and one long, which indicated that it was the Watson family who were wanted. Pearl's heart thrilled with expectation. Of course he would phone before he came to make sure she was at home. The receiver was in her hands in a moment.

"Hello!" she called, almost choking with excitement.

"Will you tell your father," called back a man's voice at the end of the wire, "that the cattle are coming home from the range. Last night's snow was too much for them, and Jim Fidler has just phoned through to warn us. They're comin' on mad for feed, tramplin' and bawlin', and they'll hit your place first—mos' likely—tho' they may turn south at Beckers—better phone Beckers and see."

"All right!" said Pearl, in a steady voice, "all right, and thank you."

Pearl hastily put on a coat and went to the barn to give the unwelcome news to her father and Teddy, who were busy fanning out the weed seeds from the seed grain.

"They're comin' airly," said John Watson, slowly, as he shook down the bag of seed wheat that he had just filled; "but I guess they are the best judge of whether they can make a livin' outside any longer. Well, what we have we'll share, anyway. There's no use in contradictin' a bunch of hungry steers. Keep a watch on the phone, Pearlie dear, and find out which way they turn at Beckers'. We'll open up an oat stack for them, anyway—so if they come rampin' in in the middle of the night there'll be something ready."

Pearl ran back across the wind-swept yard to the house, for the one thought in her mind was that a message might come over the phone for her! Ordinarily the home-coming of the hungry cattle would have been an event of such importance that it would have driven out all others; but there was only one consuming thought in her mind today.

When she came in the phone was ringing, and her mother, with her hands in the pie-crust, said: "Pearlie, dear, run in to the phone—that's twice it's rung since you were out, and sure I couldn't go—and me this way."

Pearl took the receiver down and found a conversation in progress. She had no thought of listening in—for at once she surmised it might be a message regarding the cattle going to one of the other houses. The first sentence, however, held her in its grip, and all thought of what she was doing was driven from her mind.

"They are going to offer the doctor the nomination tomorrow—he'll make the best run of any one in these parts."

It was a man's voice, far away and indistinct.

"That will please Miss Morrison—she always wanted to get into politics;" it was a woman who replied—"but I'm not so sure she has any chance, the doctor is a pretty cautious chap. I often think he has a girl somewhere—he goes to Hampton pretty often."

"He's not worried over women, believe me," the man's voice cut in. "I think he likes that young Watson girl as well as any one, and she has them all skinned for looks—and brains too, I guess."

The woman's voice came perceptibly nearer, and seemed to almost hiss in her ear—unconsciously she felt the antagonism. "That's absurd," she said, with sudden animation; "why, these people are nobody, the mother used to wash for me a few years ago. They are the very commonest sort—the father was only a section man. The doctor enjoys her cute speeches, that's all, but there's absolutely nothing in it—he as much as told me so."

Pearl hung up the receiver with a click, and, pressing her lips together, walked over to the window with two crimson spots burning like danger signals on her cheeks. When Pearl's soul was burdened she always wanted to get outside, where the sky and the wind and the big blue distance would help her to think. But the day was too cold for that, so instinctively she walked to the window, where the short afternoon sun was making a pale glow on the heavy clouds.

Old Nap came from his place behind the table and shoved his cold nose into her hand, with a gentle wagging of his tail, reminding her that all was not lost while she still had him.

Dropping down on her knees beside him, Pearl buried her face in his glistening white collar, and for one perilous moment was threatened with tears. But pride, which has so often come to our rescue just in time, stepped into her quivering young heart, she stood up and shook her head like an angry young heifer.

"'Common,' are they?" she said, with eyes that darted fire; "not half common enough—decent people that do their work and mind their own business—helpin' a friend in need and hurtin' no wan—it would be a better world if people like them were commoner! 'And the mother washed for ye, did she, you dirty trollop? Well, it was a God's mercy that some one washed for you, and it was good clane washin' she did, I'll bet—and blamed little she got for it, too, while you lay in your bed with your dandruffy hair in a greasy boudoir cap, and had her climb the stairs with your breakfast. And you'd fault her for washin' for you—and cleanin' your house—you'd fault her for it! I know the kind of ye—you'd rather powder ye'r neck than wash it, any day!"

No one would recognize the young Normalite who two weeks before had taken the highest marks in English, and had read her essay at the closing exercises, and afterwards had it printed, at the editor's request, in the Evening Echo, for Pearl's fierce anger had brought her back again to the language of her childhood.

"And he as much as told you, did he?" she whispered, turning around to glare in stormy wrath at the unoffending telephone—"he as much as told you there was nothing in it?"

Pearl puckered her lips and shut one eye in a mighty mental effort to imagine what he would say, but in trying to hear his words she could only see his glowing face, the rumpled hair she loved so well, and then her voice came back like a perfect phonograph record, that strong, mellow, big voice which had always set her heart tingling and drove away every fear. She couldn't make him say anything else but the old sweet words that had lived with her for the last three years.

The storm faded from her eyes in a moment, and in the rush of joy that broke over her, she threw herself down beside old Nap and kissed the shiny top of his smooth black head. Then going over to the telephone, she shook her fist at it:

"Did my mother wash for you, ma'am? She did—and you never had better washin' done! Are we common people?—we are, and we're not ashamed. We're doin' fine, thank you—all the children are at school but me, and I've gone thro' the public school and Normal too. The crops are good—we have thirty head of cattle and six horses, sound in wind and limb. Some day we'll have a fine new house, and we'll live all over it too. John Watson did work on the section, and they'd be fine and glad to get him back. He owes no man a dollar, and bears no man a grudge. I wouldn't change him for the Governor-General for me dad—and now listen—I'm tellin' ye something, I'm goin' to marry the doctor—if he wants me—and if you don't like it there's a place you can go to. I'll not be namin' it in the presence of Nap here, for he's a good Christian."

"And you, sir,"—she addressed the telephone again—"I thank you for your kind words regarding brains and looks. I hope it is a true word you speak, for I may need both before I'm done."

The home-coming of the cows at eventime has been sung about, written about, talked about, painted, and always it has had in it the restfulness of evening—the drowsy whirr of insects' wings, the benediction of the sunset, the welcoming gladness of a happy family. But these pictures have not been painted by those of us who have seen the hungry cattle come in from the range when the snow covers the grass, or the springs dry up, and under the influence of fear they drive madly on.

All day long the range cattle, about three hundred in number had searched the river bottom for the grass which the heavy snowfall of the night before had covered; searched eagerly, nervously all the while, bawling, ill-naturedly pushing and horning, blaming each other in a perfectly human way. Disconsolately they wandered over the river to the other bank feeling sure they would find grass there, only to find the snow over everything, and not even a little rosebush showing its head.

Then it was that the old cow, an acknowledged leader of the herd, who bore the name of the "Broncho," on account of her wildness, her glaring red eyes and her branching horns, with an angry toss of her head to shake the water from her eyes, lifted her voice in one long, angry, rolling bellow that seemed to startle the whole herd. It had in it defiance, and determination. Like the leading spirit among the leprous men who sat at the gate of Samaria, the "Broncho" gathered up the feeling of the meeting in one long soul-stirring, racuous bawl, which, interpreted, meant, "Why sit we here until we die?"

The primitive law of self-preservation was at work—even a cow will not starve quietly. The grass had been scarce for days, and she had lain down hungry each night for a week; and now, when the grass had gone entirely, the old cow had taken her determination; she would go home and demand her right to live. This thought surging through her soul, gave decision to her movements. Whether the other cattle came or not did not matter in the least—she knew what she was going to do. The strong northwest wind which began to whip the fresh snow into loose waves, turned the cattle to face the south east, in which direction the settlement lay. Miserable cattle, like miserable people, are easily led. It is only the well-fed and comfortable who are not willing to change their condition, and so when the others saw the "Broncho" forging up the hill, the whole herd, as if at a word of command, lurched forward up the bank.

They surged onward, bawling, crowding, trampling, hooking without mercy. Companions they had been for months before, eating together, sleeping together, warming each other, playing together sometimes when the sun was bright. That was all forgotten now, for the hunger-rage was on them, and they were brutes, plain brutes, with every kind instinct dead in their shivering breasts. They knew but one law, the law of the strongest, as they drove onward, stumbling and crowding, with the cold wind stinging them like a lash.

The night closed in, dark and cheerless, closed in early, under the dull gray, unrelenting skies, and although lights blinked out cheerfully from uncurtained windows, and willow plumes of smoke spread themselves on the cold night air above all the farm-houses, the hearts of the people were apprehensive.

It was the last day of February—green grass was still far away—and the cattle, hungry, red-eyed and clamorous, were coming home!