The Homesteaders: A Novel of the Canadian West

  CHAPTER XI

  THE PRICE OF "SUCCESS"

  At last the ploughing was finished, and, although the rich smell ofwheat in the milk filled the air, it still would be almost a monthbefore the ripening crops were ready for the binder. Harris felt thathe could now allow himself a breathing spell, and that theopportunity to investigate the rich lands of the Farther West was athand. Many nights, while Mary milked the cows, he had walked over toRiles', and the two had discussed their forthcoming venture untilthey had grown almost enthusiastic over it. Riles, it must be said,was the leading spirit in the movement; although already possessed ofsufficient land and means to keep him in comfort through hisadvancing years, the possibility of greater wealth, and particularlyof wealth to be had without corresponding effort, was a lurealtogether irresistible. And Harris fell in with the plan readilyenough. A quarter of a century having elapsed since his formerhomesteading, he was now eligible again to file on free Governmentland; Allan could do the same, and, by also taking advantage of thepurchase of script, it was possible to still further increase theirholdings. In addition to all this, Riles had unfolded a scheme forstaking two or three others on free homestead land: it would benecessary, of course, to provide them with "grub" and a small wageduring the three years required to prove up, but in consideration ofthese benefactions the titles to the land, when secured, were to bepromptly transferred to Riles and Harris. This was strictly againstthe law, but the two pioneers felt no sense of crime or shame fortheir plans, but rather congratulated themselves upon their cunningthough by no means original scheme to evade the regulations.

  Harris found the task of disclosing his intentions to his wife moreunpleasant than he would have supposed, and it took him some days tomake up his mind to broach the subject. He felt that he was doingwhat was for the best, and that his business judgment in the mattercould hardly be challenged; and yet he had an uncomfortable feelingthat his wife would not fall in with his plans. That, of course,would not be allowed to affect his plans; since Beulah's departurenothing but the most formal conversation had taken place in theirhousehold; yet it would certainly be easier for him if Mary shouldgive her encouragement to his undertaking. He felt that he wasentitled to this, for was it not for her that he was making thesacrifice? Was not all he had hers? And were not all his laboursdirected toward increasing her reserve against the rainy day? And yetinstinctively he felt that she would oppose him.

  It was the evening of a long day in July when, very much to Mary'ssurprise, her husband took the handle of the cream separator fromher. To the sad-hearted woman it seemed that the breach was at lengthbeginning to heal, and that happiness would shortly return to theirhearthside. Below the din of the separator she actually found herselfhumming an old love-song of the 'eighties.

  But her happiness was of short duration. When the milk had been runthrough, and the noise of the whirling bowl no longer preventedconversation, Harris immediately got down to business.

  "Allan and me will be leavin' for the West in a day or two," he said."I suppose you can get along all right for a few weeks until harvest.Bill (the hired man) will be here."

  In an instant she saw the motive behind his apparent kindness, andthe hopes she had just entertained only deepened the flood ofresentment which swept over them. But she answered quietly andwithout apparent emotion: "That's unfortunate, as I was planning fora little trip myself."

  "You!" he exclaimed. "You plannin' a trip! Where in the world do youwant to go?" Such a thing as Mary going on a trip, and, above all,unaccompanied by himself, was unheard of and unthinkable.

  "Yes, I thought I would take a little trip," she continued. "I'vebeen working here pretty hard for something over twenty-five years,and you may say I've never been off the place. A bit of a holidayshouldn't do me any harm."

  "Where do you think of goin'?" he demanded, a sudden suspicionarising in his mind. "Goin' to visit Jim and Beulah?"

  "I think you might at least be fair to Beulah," she retorted. "If youhad read her letter, instead of putting it in the stove, you wouldhave known better."

  "I ain't interested in anythin' Beulah may have to say, and any otherletters that fall into my hands will go in the same direction. Andwhat's more, she's not goin' to have a visit from any member of thisfamily at the present time. I'm goin' out West to take up land, andAllan's goin' with me. It ain't fair or reasonable for you to try toupset our plans by a notion of this kind."

  "It isn't a notion, John, it's a resolve. If you are bound to take upmore land, with more work and more worry, why go ahead, but rememberit's your own undertaking. I helped to make one home in thewilderness, and one home's enough for me."

  "Don't be unreasonable," he answered. "There's a great opportunityright now to get land for nothin' that in a few years will be worthas much or more than this here. I'm ready to go through the hardshipand the work for the sake of what it will do for us. We can beindependently rich in five years, if we just stand together."

  "Independent of what?" she asked.

  "Why, independent of--of everything. Nothin' more to worry about andplenty laid up for old age. Ain't that worth a sacrifice?"

  "John," she said, turning and raising her eyes to his face. "Answerme a straight question. What was the happiest time in your life?Wasn't it when we lived in the one-roomed sod shanty, with scarcely acent to bless ourselves? We worked hard then, too, but we had timefor long walks together across the prairies--time to sit in the duskby the water and plan our lives together. We have done well; we haveland, horses, machinery, money. But have we the happiness we knewwhen we had none of these? On the contrary, are you not worriedmorning, noon, and night over your work and your property? Don't youcomplain about the kind of help the farmers have to hire nowadays,and the wages they have to pay? And if you get more land won't allyour troubles be increased in proportion? John, sit down and thinkthis thing over. We don't need more property; what we need is achance to enjoy the property we already have. The one thing wehaven't got, the one thing it seems we can't get, is time. Time tothink, time to read, time for walks on the prairie, time for sunsets,and skies, and--and kindness, and all the things that make life real.We have the chance to choose now between life and land; won't youthink it all over again and let us seek that which is really worthwhile?"

  "Now I know where Beulah got her nonsense," he retorted. "All thistalk about real life is very fine, but you don't get much life, realor any other kind, unless you have the cash to pay down for it. Youcan't buy beefsteaks with long walks over the prairie, nor clotheyourself and family with sunsets. For my part I want some realsuccess. We've done pretty well here, as you say, but it's only abeginnin' to what we can do, if we set about it, and don't wait untilthe cheap land is all gone. I don't see why you should go back on meat this time o' life, Mary. We've stood together for a long while,and I kinda figured I could count on you."

  "So you can, John; so you can to the very last, for anything that isfor your own good, but when you set your heart on something thatmeans more trouble and hardship and won't add one iota to yourhappiness, I think it is my duty to persuade you if I can. We've beendrifting apart lately; why not let us both go back to the beginningand start over again, and by kindness, and fairness, and liberality,and--and sympathy, try to recover something of what we have lost?"

  "I have always thought I had been liberal enough," he said. "Didn't Ibuild you a good house and buy furniture for it, and do I stint youin what you spend, either on the table or yourself? More than that,didn't I put the title to the homestead in your name? And ain't Iready to do the same with the new homestead, if that's the sticker?"

  "I never thought of such a thing," she protested. "And you shouldn'tclaim too much credit for putting the homestead quarter in my name.You know when you bought the first railroad land you were none toosure how things would come out, and you thought it might be a wiseprecaution to have the old farm land in your wife's name."

  "That's all the thanks I get," he said bitterly. "Well, I'll take thenew one in my
own name, but I'll take it just the same. If you don'twant to share in it you won't have to. But for the present it's yourduty to stay here and run things till we get back."

  "What are you going to do after you get your new farm? You can't worktwo farms a thousand miles apart, can you?"

  "Oh, I guess that won't worry us long. The Americans are comin' innow with lots o' good money. I was figurin' up that this place, as agoin' concern, ought to bring about forty thousand dollars, and I'llbet I could sell it inside of a week."

  "Sell it?" she exclaimed. "You don't mean that you intend to sellthis farm?"

  "Why not? If somebody else wants it worse'n we do, and has the moneyto pay for it, why shouldn't I sell it?"

  The tears stood in her eyes as she answered: "In all these yearswhile we have been building up this home I never once thought of itas something to sell. It was too near for that--a part of ourselves,of our very life. It seemed more like--like one of the children, thana mere possession. And now you would sell it, just as you might sella load of wheat or a fat steer. Is this place--this home where wehave grown old and grey--nothing to you? Have you no sentiment thatwill save it from the highest bidder?"

  "Sentiment is a poor affair in business," he answered. "Property wasmade t' sell; money was made t' buy it with. The successful man isthe one who has his price for everythin', and knows how t' get it. Asfor growin' old and grey on this farm, why, that's a grudge I haveagainst it, though I don't think I'm very grey and I don't feel veryold. And if I get my price, why shouldn't I sell?"

  "Very well," she answered. "I've nothing more to say. Sell it if youmust, but remember one thing--I won't be here to see it pass into thehands of strangers." She straightened herself up, and there was afire in her eye that it reminded him of the day when she had electedto share with him the hardships of the wilderness, and in spite ofhimself some of his old pride in her returned. "I leave to-morrow fora visit, and I may be gone some time. You reminded me of yourliberality a few minutes ago; prove it now by writing me a cheque formy expenses. Remember I will expect to travel like the wife of aprosperous farmer, a man whose holdings are worth forty thousanddollars cash."

  "So that's your decision, is it? You set me at defiance; you try t'wreck my plans by your own stubbornness. You break up my family pieceby piece, until all I have left is Allan. Thank God, the boy, atleast, is sound. Well, you shall have your cheque, and I'll make it abig one that it may carry you the farther."

  Even in the teeth of his bitterness the mention of Allan's namestrained the mother's heart beyond her power of resistance, and sheturned with outstretched arms towards her husband. For a moment hewavered, the flame of love, still smouldering in his breast, leapingup before the breath of her response. But it was for a moment only.Weakness would have meant surrender, and surrender was the one thingof which Harris was incapable. He had laid out his course with aclear conscience; he was sincerely working for the greatest good tohis family, and if his wife was determined to stand in her own lightit was his duty to pursue the course in defiance of her. So hechecked the impulse to take her in his arms and walked stolidly tohis desk in the parlour.

  He returned shortly and placed a cheque in her hands. She looked atit through misty eyes, and read that it was for two hundred dollars.It represented a two-hundredth part of their joint earnings, and yethe thought he was dealing liberally with her; he half expected, infact, that his magnanimity would break her down where his firmnesshad failed. But she only whispered a faint "Thank you," and slowlyfolded the paper in her fingers. He waited for a minute, suspectingthat she was overcome, but as she said nothing more he at lengthturned and left the house, saying gruffly as he went out, "Whenthat's done I'll send you more if you write for it."

  It was now ten at night, and almost dark, but Harris's footstepsinstinctively turned down the road toward Riles'. Riles' reputationin the community was that of a hardworking, money-grubbing farmer,with a big bony body, and a little shrivelled soul, if indeed thelatter had not entirely dried up into ashes. A few years ago Harrishad held his neighbour in rather low regard, but of late he had beenmore and more impressed with Riles' ability to make his farm pay,which was as great as or greater than his own, and what he had oncethought to be hardness and lack of humanity he now recognized assimply the capacity to take a common-sense, business view ofconditions.

  At the gate he met Allan, returning from spending a social hour withthe grant boys.

  "Where going, Dad?" the younger man demanded.

  "Oh, I thought I'd take a walk over t' Riles'. There's a lot o'things t' talk about."

  "What's the matter, Dad?" The strained composure of his father'svoice had not escaped him.

  "Nothin'...I might's well tell you now; you'll know it in a littlewhile anyway...Your mother is goin' away--on a visit."

  "Like Beulah's visit, I suppose. So it's come to this. I've seen itfor some time, Dad, and you must 've seen it too. But you're notreally goin' to let her go? Come back to the house with me--surelyyou two can get together on this thing, if you try."

  "I have tried," said Harris, "and it's no use. She's got thosenotions like Beulah--quittin' work, and twilights and sunsets and allthat kind o' thing. There's no use talkin' with her; reason don'tcount for anything. I gave her a good pocketful of money, and toldher to write for more when she needed it. She'll get over her notionspretty soon when she gets among strangers. Go in and have a talk withher, boy; there's no use you bein' at outs with her, too. As for me,I can't do anything more."

  "I suppose you know best," he answered, "but it seems--hang it, it'sagainst all reason that you two--that this should happen."

  "Of course it is. That's what I said a minute ago. But reason don'tcount just now. But you have your talk with her, and give her anyhelp you can if she wants t' get away at once."

  Allan found his mother in her room, packing a trunk and gentlyweeping into it. He laid his hand upon her, and presently he foundher work-worn frame resting in his strong arms.

  "You're not going to leave us, mother, are you?" he said. "Youwouldn't do that?"

  "Not if it could be helped, Allan. But there is no help. Your fatherhas set his heart on more land, and more work, and giving up thishome, and I might as well go first as last. More and more he isgiving his love to work instead of to his family. I bear him noill-will--nothing, nothing but love, if he could only come out ofthis trance of his and see things in their true light. But as timegoes on he gets only deeper in. Perhaps when I am away for a whilehe'll come to himself. That's our only hope."

  The boy stood helpless in this confliction. He had always thought ofdifficulties arising between people, between neighbours, friends, ormembers of a family, because one party was right and the other wrong.It was his first experience of those far more tragic quarrels whereboth parties are right, or seem to be right. He knew something of thedepth of the nature of his parents, and he knew that beneath anundemonstrative exterior they cherished in secret a loveproportionate to the strength of their characters. But the longcourse down which they had walked together seemed now to beseparating, through neither will nor power of their own; it was asthough straight parallel lines suddenly turned apart, and neitherlost its straightness in the turning.

  So he comforted his mother with such words as he could. Loyalty tohis father forbade laying any of the blame on those shoulders, and toblame his mother was unthinkable; so with unconscious wisdom he spokenot of blame at all. Presently it occurred to him to think of hismother's departure as temporary only, and with joy he found that shereadily accepted the notion.

  "Of course, while we are away, why shouldn't you have a visit?" hesaid. "Here you have been chained down to this farm ever since I canremember, and before. We can easy enough arrange about the cows; andBill can board with one o' the neighbours, or batch, and you can justhave a good trip and a good rest, and nobody needs it more. And then,when I get settled on my own homestead, you'll come and keep housefor me, won't you?"

  "You're sure you'll want me?" she asked,
greatly comforted by hismood. "Perhaps you'll be getting your own housekeeper, too."

  "Not while I can have you," he answered. "You'll promise, won't you?Nothing that has happened, or can happen, will keep you from makingmy home yours, will it? And when Dad gets settled again, and gets allthese worries off his mind, then things'll be different, and you'llcome, even if he is there?"

  "Yes, I'll come, even if he is there, if you ask me," she promised.

  Harris did not come back that night. A light rain came up, and heaccepted the excuse to sleep at Riles'. The truth was, he feared forhis resolution if it should be attacked by both his wife and son.Surrender now would be mere weakness, and weakness was disgrace, andyet he feared for himself if put to the test again. So he stayed atRiles', and the two farmers spent much of the night over their plans.It had been decided that they were to leave within the next couple ofdays, but Harris broke the news that his wife was going on a visit,and that arrangements would have to be made for the care of the farm.He carefully concealed the fact that Mary was leaving against hiswill, or as the result of any difference. Such an admission wouldhave damaged him in the estimation of Riles, who would have put itdown to weakness. In Riles' code no insubordination should betolerated from man or beast, but least of all from a wife. He wouldhave found ready means to suppress any such foolishness.

  Riles took the suggestion of a few days' delay with poor grace.

  "Yes, an' while you're chasing up an' down fer a housekeeper theYankees get all the homesteads. They're comin' in right now by thetrainload, grabbin' up everythin' in sight. We'll monkey round heretill the summer's over, an' then go out an' get a sand farm, orsomething like. Couldn't your wife do her visitin' no other time?"

  "I'll tell you, Riles," said Harris, who had no desire to pursue atopic which might lead him into deep water, "you go ahead out and getthe lay of the land, and I'll follow you within a week. I'll do that,for sure, and I'll stand part of your expenses for going ahead,seein' you will be kind o' representin' me."

  The last touch was a stroke of diplomacy. The suggestion that Harrisshould pay part of his expenses swept away Riles' bad humour, and heagreed to go on the date originally planned, and get what he called"a bede on the easy money," while Harris completed his arrangementsat home.

  He was to get "a bede on the easy money" in a manner which Harrislittle suspected.

  ***

  When Harris returned home the next forenoon he found that Mary hadalready left for Plainville. He sat down and tried to think, but thehouse was very quiet, and the silence oppressed him...He looked athis watch, and concluded he had still time to reach Plainville beforethe train would leave. But that would mean surrender, and surrendermeant weakness.