The Homesteaders: A Novel of the Canadian West

  CHAPTER IX

  CRUMBLING CASTLES

  At the foot of the garden Beulah paused irresolute, the suit-caseswinging gently in her hand. She had made no plans for the decisivestep events of the day had forced upon her, but the step itself shefelt to be inevitable. She was not in love with Jim Travers; she hadturned the whole question over in her mind that afternoon, weighingit with judicial impartiality, supposing all manner of situations totry out her own emotions, and she had come to the conclusion thatTravers was merely an incident in her life, a somewhat inspiringincident, perhaps, but an incident none the less. The real thing--thevital matter which demanded some exceptional protest--was the narrowand ever narrowing horizon of her father, a horizon bounded only bymaterial gain. Against this narrowing band of outlook her vigorousspirit, with its dumb, insistent stretchings forth to the infinite,rebelled. It was not a matter of filial duty; it was not a matter oflove; to her it was a matter of existence. She saw her ideals dimlyenough at best, and she would burst every cord of affection andconvention rather than allow them to be submerged in the grey,surrounding murk of materialism.

  Perhaps it was custom and the subtle pullings of association thatdrew her feet down the path across the bench to the edge of thestream that gurgled gently in the still night. She stood on thegravel by the water's edge, packed firm by the wagon-wheels oftwenty-five years, and watched her image as it swayed gently in thesmoothly running current. There was no moon, but the stars shone downin their midnight brilliance, and the water lay white and glisteningagainst the black vagueness of the bushy banks. She stooped and letit fondle her fingers. It was warm and smooth...But it was shallow atthe ford...Farther up it was quite deep... The stars blinked astrange challenge from the sky, as though to say, "Here is the treeof knowledge, if you dare to drink thereof."

  At length she turned her back on the stream and retraced her steps upthe path. The house loomed very sombre and still in the quiet night.A light shone dimly from her father's window. At intervals a deep,contented sighing came from the cows in the barnyard. She took thepath past the house and down to the corral, where she paused, her eararrested by the steady drone of milking. A lantern sitting on theblack earth, cast a little circle of light, and threw a docile cow indreadful silhouette against the barn. And by that dim light Beulahdiscerned the bent form of her mother, milking.

  "Mother, this is too much!" the girl exclaimed.

  Her mother started and looked up. "You're leaving us, Beulah?" sheasked. There was no reproach in her voice, nor even surprise, but akind of quiet sorrow. "I couldn't let the poor brutes suffer," sheexplained.

  "Yes, I'm leaving," said Beulah. "I can't stand it any longer."

  The mother sighed. "I've seen it coming for some time," she said, atlength. "I suppose it can't be helped."

  "You're so passive," returned the girl, with a touch of impatience."You make me want to fight. Of course it can be helped, but it can'tbe helped by always giving in."

  "Your father has met one of his own mettle at last," said the mother,and the girl fancied she detected a note of pride, but whether offather, or daughter, or both, she could only guess. "Well, it's allvery sad. Your father is a good man, Beulah...I should send you backto your bed, but somehow I can't. I--I don't blame you, Beulah."

  She had finished the last cow. Beulah helped with the pails of milk,and the two women went back to the house together. When Mary hadwashed her hands she took her daughter's face between her palms andkissed her on the cheeks. Slowly Beulah's arms stole about her neck,and it took all the steel in her nature to prevent surrender.

  "It's not you I'm going from," she managed to say. "You understandthat, don't you? I'll write to you often, and we'll surely meetbefore long...But I've just got to. There's no other way out."

  "Stay till morning, Beulah. Your father may be disposed to give andtake a little then, and you'll do the same, won't you?...Oh, my girl,don't break up our home like this!"

  "You can't break up what you haven't got. Aside from you, why shouldI call this place home? I work here, and get my board and clothes.Well, I can work other places, and get my board and clothes. If I'vegot to be a cog in a money-making machine, I will at least choose themachine."

  "What plans have you made? Where are you going?"

  "Haven't made any plans, and don't know where I'm going. But I'mgoing. At present that's enough. The plans will come along as they'reneeded."

  "Have you any money?" asked the mother, with a brisk effort atcheerfulness. She was already planning for her daughter in the newworld she was about to enter.

  "Enough to start me. That's all I need. I can earn more. It's notwork I'm afraid of, although I suppose father won't be able to see itthat way. He'll put all this down to laziness and obstinacy. It'sneither. It's just a plain human craving to _live_."

  "I sometimes wonder whether I'll be able to stand it through to theend," her mother whispered, somewhat fearfully, as though frightenedby the admission. "I've--I've seen it coming with you, and I can'thelp feeling that perhaps this is only the beginning."

  "Oh, mother, if you should!" cried the girl. "That would do it--thatwould open his eyes. He'd see then that there is something in theworld besides wheat and cows, after all. You know, I think he's in akind of trance. He's mesmerized by wheat. It was so necessary inthose first years, when he was fighting against actual starvation,that it has become a kind of mania. Nothing short of some great shockwill bring him out of it. If you would come--if you would only cometoo, things would be different."

  "But I couldn't do that," said the mother, after a silence, and asthough speaking with herself. "He's my husband, Beulah. You don'tunderstand."

  They talked then, in secret, sorrowful confidence, of many things,things for their ears only, and the grey was returning in thenorthern sky when the girl again left the house, and this time swungresolutely down the road that led to Plainville. Her heart was now atrest, even at peace. In the sacred communion of that last hour shehad come to see something of her mother's problem and sacrifice; andalthough she was going out into the world alone, she felt thatsomewhere, some time, was a solution that would reunite the brokenfamily and tune their varying chords in harmony. The North star shonevery brightly amid the myriad finer points of light that filled theheavens. She raised her face to the cold rays. The stars had always astrange fascination for her. Their illimitable distances, theirinfinite number, their ordered procession--all spelled to her aPurpose--a Purpose that was bigger than wheat and land and money, aPurpose that was life, the life for which she groped vaguely butbravely in the darkness.

  From an unhappy sleep in his room upstairs John Harris was awakenedby the whine of the cream separator. A quiet smile stole across hisstrong, still handsome face. "Beulah has decided to be sensible," hewhispered to himself.

  ***

  In the morning the Harris household was early as usual. The farmerand his son gave their attention to the horses while Mary preparedbreakfast, and it was not until they were seated at the table thatHarris noticed his daughter's absence.

  "Where's Beulah?" he demanded.

  "I don't know," his wife replied.

  "Ain't she up yet?"

  "I don't know."

  Harris rose from the table and went upstairs. He entered hisdaughter's room without knocking. The bed had not been slept in, anda strange apprehension suddenly tightened about his chest. Hereturned quickly to the kitchen.

  "Mary," he said, "I want to know where Beulah is."

  "I can't tell you where she is, John. She left here last night."

  "Left here? Do you mean that she has run away?"

  "Not just that, perhaps, but she has gone, and I'm not looking forher back for a while." The mother's voice was dry, and she talked inthe restraint of subdued emotion.

  "And you knew she was going?"

  "I knew before she left. I didn't--"

  "No. You didn't think it was worth mentioning to me. Just a matter wecould talk about any time. I suppose you thought I wouldn't
care."

  "Well, you didn't seem to care very much, John. You gave your ordersand went to bed. Beulah could obey or get out. You might have knownshe had enough of your own spirit to soon settle that question. Shesettled it just as you would have settled it if you had been in herplace."

  "Oh, of course, I'm to blame for the whole thing," said Harris, andhis throat was thick as he spoke. His daughter was very dear to him,and that she would leave home had never entered his head. Why shouldshe? Wasn't he a good father? Didn't he give her a good home, withplenty to eat and wear, and a little money to spend from time totime, and no questions asked? What more could a man do than that?Already his heart was crying out for his daughter--the cry of brokenstrings which never knew their strength until they broke. But to showany emotion, or to express regret for anything he had done, meantsurrender, and if there was one thing John Harris could not do it wassurrender. Not that he felt he had done anything wrong, or evenimprudent; he was sincerely sorry for what had happened, but not forhis part in it. And, lest gentleness should be mistaken for weakness,he clothed his real feelings in sharp words to his wife.

  "Of course, you must take her part. I suppose you advised her to go.It was an awful thing for me to tell her she must do her work, but asmall thing for her to run away. Well, I hope she likes it. If shethinks I'm going to hitch up a buggy and go chasing around theneighbourhood, begging her to come back, she's mistaken. She's goneof her own free will, and she can come back of the same, or not atall."

  "I wouldn't look for her back too soon," remarked Allan. "Looks to meas though this thing had all been figured out ahead. Jim wentyesterday morning; Beulah goes last night. Just a chance if theyain't married by this time."

  "So that's it, is it?" exclaimed Harris, jumping up from hisuntouched breakfast. There was a fierce light in his eye and adetermination in his face that boded ill to any who opposed him. Heseized his wife roughly by the shoulder. "And you were a party tothis, were you? You--you wouldn't even stop at that? Well, I'll stopit. I'll stop him, if I do it with a bullet. I'll show him whetherany--any--_hired man_--can cross me in a matter of my own family."

  His wife had risen, and was clinging to his wrists, half forprotection, half in suppliance. "Now, John," she pleaded, "don't berash. You don't know that Beulah's gone with Jim, and you haven't aword of proof of it."

  "Proof! What more proof do I want? When did ever Beulah carry on likethis before? Didn't she always do as she was told? And haven't theybeen thick as molasses this while back? Wasn't it over wasting timewith her that Jim got fired, and not a word of admission of the realfacts from him? What more do you want than that? And on top of it allyou help her away, and keep it a secret from me as long as you can. Idaresay you knew their plans from the first. You thought I wouldn'tbe interested in that, either."

  "I didn't know it," she protested, "and I don't believe it. I don'tbelieve either Beulah or Jim had any such thought in their head. Buteven if they did, Jim Travers is as decent a young man as there is inPlainville district, and you've nothing to be ashamed of except yourown temper, that drove them away in the way they went."

  "I won't listen to that kind of talk from you any longer," saidHarris sternly. "I'll chase the young reprobates to earth, if ittakes all summer. And unless you can clear yourself of being mixed upin this--well, there'll be something to settle on that score, too.Hitch up the drivers, Allan, and be quick about it."

  "You're not going to leave your ploughing, are you?" asked his wife.The words sprang to her lips without any misintent. It was such anunusual thing for her husband, on any account, to leave the farm workunfinished. The practice on the Harris homestead was work first, allother considerations second.

  "That's enough of your sarcasm," he snapped. "I would think when ourname is threatened with a disgrace like this you would be as anxiousto defend it as I am. How is it you go back on me in a moment likethis? You're not the woman you once were, Mary."

  "And you're not the man you once were, John," she answered. "Oh,can't you see that we're just reaping what has been sown--the cropwe're been raising through ail these years? Beulah's very life hasbeen crying out for action, for scope, for room, for something thatwould give her a reason for existence, that would put a purpose intoher life, and we've not tried to answer that cry. I blame myself asmuch as you, John, perhaps more, because I should have--read herheart--I should have seen the danger signals long ago. But I was sobusy, I didn't think. That's the trouble, John, we've been so busy,both of us, we haven't taken time to keep up with her. The presentgeneration is not the past; what was enough for you and me isn'tenough for our children. It doesn't do any good to scold--scoldingdoesn't change conditions; but if we'd stopped and thought andstudied over them we might have changed them--or cured them. Wedidn't, John; you were too busy with your wheat and your cattle, andI was too busy with my house-work, and what have we made of it? We'vegathered some property together, and our cares have grown inproportion, but that which was more to us than all the property inthe world we have lost--because we valued it less." The tears wereslowly coursing down her cheeks, and her thin, work-worn arms werestealing about his neck. "Don't think, dear," she whispered, "thatI'm indifferent, or that this hurts me less than you, or that I wouldshield myself from one iota of my just blame, but let us face thefact that it has been our mistake rather than Beulah's."

  He removed her arms, not ungently. "I never thought it would come tothis," he said. "I thought I humoured her every way I could. As forour hard work--well, work makes money, and I noticed Beulah couldspend her share. There was no protesting about the work that earnedthe money when she wanted a new hat or a new dress, and she generallygot what she wanted."

  "You don't understand, John. It wasn't the work, it was the making agod of work, and giving it so much of our lives that there was noneleft for her. That's why she looked somewhere else--if she has lookedsomewhere else."

  "Allan works as hard and harder than ever Beulah did, and Allandoesn't feel that way about it."

  "That's true," she admitted, "but Allan's ambition is work. He worksand is satisfied, but Beulah thinks, and is not satisfied. It's thedifference in their nature, and we didn't take it intoconsideration." In every phrase she tried to link his blame withhers, that the burden might unite instead of separate them.

  "If she'd thought a little more before this mad prank it would havebeen better for everybody," he said, "Well, she'll have plenty oftime to think yet." He stepped to the kitchen door, and from the nailabove took down the repeating-rifle.

  "You're not going to take that!" she cried. "Don't take that, John.It can't possibly do any good, and it may do a lot of harm."

  "I won't do anything foolish," he answered, "but I'll take it along,just the same."

  Allan, with the drivers harnessed to the top buggy, was now at thedoor. Without saying good-bye to his wife Harris joined him, and thetwo set off on their search. Almost at the gate they met GeorgeGrant, who had come over to haul water for another day's ploughing.He stopped in some surprise at the turnout.

  "I guess we won't be ploughing to-day," said Harris. He hesitatedbefore George's questioning look, and a certain sense of family shamecame upon him. But it was evident that he could hardly search forBeulah without mentioning her departure, and he might as well make aclean breast of the affair.

  "Nothing wrong at home, I hope, Mr. Harris?" said the youngneighbour, noting his troubled appearance. "Nobody sick, oranything?"

  "Yes, there is something wrong," said Harris, trying vainly toconceal the bitterness in his voice. "Beulah's left us."

  "Who, Beulah? I can hardly believe that, Mr. Harris. It was only lastnight I was talking with her."

  "Well, she's gone. Left through the night. We--well, I'll tell you,George--we had a little disagreement, but I'd no notion she'd take itso much to heart. Of course you know about the trouble with Jimyesterday. Taking everything together--there won't be no ploughingto-day." Harris had said more than he meant; he could feel the colourmounting into his hair,
and the bad English of his last wordsbetrayed a subtle recklessness rather than carelessness of speech.

  "Don't you believe a word of it," said George. "I know Jim, and Iknow Beulah, and if anybody else hinted what you've said you'd wantto use that rifle on them. Like enough Beulah's staying somewherearound the neighbourhood, and she'll be back when she has time tothink it over."

  "That proves you _don't_ know Beulah," said Allan. "As for Jim, I wasnever able to get below that smile, and I saw more of him than youdid, George."

  "Well, I hope you find a way out," said George, sincerely. "It wouldhave been like her to come over to our place, but she isn't there.Maybe you'll find her at Morrison's."

  "That's possible," said Harris. "We'll go over there, anyway."

  But Morrisons knew no more of Beulah's whereabouts than did George,and inquiry at other homes in the neighbourhood was equally futile.Harris shrank from carrying his search into the town, as he dreadedthe publicity that would be attached to it. He was a subscriber,somewhat in arrears, to the local paper, and by calling on the editorand squaring up for a year in advance he could probably make himselfsolid in that quarter, but the gossip of the villagers could not besilenced by any such simple method. But as the day wore on and thesearch continued fruitless he finally found himself in Plainville. IfBeulah and Jim were really married the Presbyterian minister would belikely to know something of the matter, and the Rev. Andrew Guthriewas a man of sense and discernment. Harris had frequently gone tohear him preach before the labours of the farm had grown to theirpresent magnitude, and he even yet contributed five dollars a year tothe stipend.

  Mr. Guthrie received his guest cordially, albeit with some wondermentas to which member of the family might be sick, but delicacy forbadea direct question. Now, in agricultural communities it is somethingof an offence to approach any matter of importance by frontal attack.There must be the due amount of verbal skirmishing, reconnoitering,and out-flanking before the main purpose is revealed. Consequently,Harris, for all his torture of suspense, spent some minutes in adiscussion of the weather, the crops, and the prospect of a labourshortage in harvest.

  "They'll be all well at home, I hope?" said Mr. Guthrie at length,feeling that the custom of the community had been sufficientlyhonoured.

  "Yes, all that's there," said Harris.

  "All that's there? I didn't know any of your folks were away. PerhapsMrs. Harris is down East? I'm sure a summer amid the orchards of herold home would be a delight to her, and, of course, Mr. Harris, youare able to gratify yourself in these little matters now. Things arenot what they were in the early days, Jack, when I preached in TomMorrison's log-house, and you led the bass at the services. I'llwarrant that voice of yours could sing yet if you gave it a chance."

  Harris received these remarks with a mixture of feelings. Theminister's reference to his financial standing carried with it acertain gratification, but it consorted poorly with his recentconversations with his wife and with his present mission.

  "And Beulah?" continued the minister, conscious that his first shothad gone wild. "She's a fine young woman now. I see her in churchoccasionally. In fact, I was speaking with Mrs. Burton, the choirleader, a day or so ago, and Beulah's name was mentioned between us."

  "It was about Beulah I came to see you," said Harris, with avertedeyes. Then in a few words he gave his version of what he knew andwhat he suspected.

  "I fear I can add nothing to your information," said Mr. Guthrie."They haven't been here, and, as you say, if Beulah contemplatedmarriage I think she would have called on me. Travers, too, I knew alittle, and thought him a decent chap. But we must find the girl andtalk this over quietly with her. Is there any place in town she wouldbe likely to go to? What about Mrs. Goode's boarding-house? I willjust call up on the telephone. I can make inquiry without thenecessity of any explanations."

  Inquiry at the house of Mrs. Goode brought a strong ray of light outof the darkness. Beulah had been there during the morning, and hadexplained that she was leaving on the west-bound train, which evennow was thrumming at the station. On learning this, without a word,Harris sprang into the buggy, while Allan brought a sharp cut of thewhip across the spirited horses. They reached the railway stationhalf a minute too late; the train was already pulling out, and asHarris's eyes followed it in anger and vexation they plainly saw JimTravers swing lithely on to the rear platform.

  With an oath the farmer reached for his rifle, but Allan wrenched itfrom his hands before any onlookers noted the action. "Don't be afool," he whispered, and started the horses homeward.