The Homesteaders: A Novel of the Canadian West

  CHAPTER VIII

  INTO THE NIGHT

  Harris and Allan drove straight to the engine, never looking back tosee what became of the hired man. On the way the farmer explained tohis son what had taken place; that words had passed between them, butno blows had been struck, until Allan appeared on the scene.

  "Well, if that's the way of it, I'm sorry I hit him," said the youngman, frankly, "and when I see him I'll tell him so. I plugged him agood one, didn't I?--though, to be honest, he was hardly on his feet.But he sure landed me a stem-winder on the chin," he continued,ruefully rubbing that member, "so I guess we're about even."

  "He might 've broke your neck," said Harris. "You're too hot-headed,both of you...I can't make out what got into Jim, that he wouldn'tanswer a civil question. Jim was a good man, too." Perhaps thedisturbing suggestion entered Harris's mind that the question hadbeen none too civil, and he was really beginning to feel that afterall Jim might be the aggrieved party. But he crushed down such mentalsedition promptly. "It don't matter how good a man he was," hedeclared, "as long as I pay the piper I'm goin' to call the tune."

  "It puts us up against it for a water-man, though," said Allan,thoughtfully.

  "So it does," admitted Harris, who up to that moment had notreflected that his hasty action in dismissing Travers would result inmuch more delay than anything else that had occurred. "Well, we'llhave to get somebody else. We'll manage till noon, and then youbetter ride over to Grant's or Mormon's. They'll be able to lend aman or one of the boys for a day or two." It was significant thatalthough Harris was planning a considerable venture with Riles, whenhe wanted a favour his thought instinctively turned to his otherneighbours, Grant and Morrison.

  At noon Jim's chair was vacant, and the family sat down to dinneramid a depressing silence. No mention was made of the morning'sincident until the meal was well advanced, when Harris, feeling thathe ought in some way to introduce the subject, said: "Is Jim gone?"

  "Yes, he's gone," blazed Beulah. "You didn't expect he'd wait to kissyou good-bye, did you?"

  "One in the family is enough for that treatment," put in Allan, whoseswollen chin and stiff neck still biassed him against Travers.

  "He didn't, either. And if he did it's none of your business, youbig--"; she looked her brother straight in the face, her swollen eyestelling their own story, and repeated deliberately, "you big coward."

  Allan bit his lip. "You're about the only person, Beulah, that couldsay that and get off with whole skin. I suppose he told you I hit himbefore he was on his feet."

  "Well, he didn't. He didn't say you hit him at all, but he couldn'tdeny it, so we knew the truth. And we knew you must have taken somemean advantage, or you'd never have got near enough to leave a markon him."

  "Jim's quite a hero, all right. It's too bad he's gone."

  "It's a good job he's gone," said Harris. "By the way Beulah talksthings have gone far enough. I don't want my daughter marrying afarmer."

  "Her grandmother's daughter did," said Mary Harris.

  "Yes, I know, but things are different now. I look for somethingbetter for Beulah."

  It was characteristic of Harris, as of thousands of others, that,although a farmer himself, he looked for "something better" for hisdaughter. He was resigned to Allan being a farmer; his intimate,daily relationship with his son shrank from, any possibility ofseparation. But for his daughter--no. He had mapped out no career forher; she might marry a doctor, lawyer, merchant, tradesman, even aminister, but not a farmer. It is a peculiarity of the agriculturistthat, among all professions, he holds his own in the worst repute. Asa class he has educated himself to believe that everybody else makesan easy living off the farmer, and, much as he may revile the presentgeneration for doing so, he is anxious that his children should joinin the good picking. In later years has come a gradually broadeningconception that farming, after all, calls for brain as well asmuscle, and that the man who can wrestle a successful living fromNature has as much right to hold up his head in the world as theexperimenter in medicine or the lawyer playing hide-and-seek withJustice through the cracks in the Criminal Code. Herein is a germ ofthe cityward migration: the farmer himself is looking for "somethingbetter" for his children.

  "Jim was a good man," persisted his wife. "Don't you think youwere--well, perhaps, a little hasty with him?"

  Harris sat back. It was his wife's business to agree. For twentyyears and more she had been faithful in the discharge of that duty.That she should suggest an opinion out of harmony with his indicateda lack of discipline, not very serious, perhaps, but a seed which, ifpermitted to flourish, might develop to dangerous proportions.

  "So you're goin' to take his part, too? It's a strange thing if Ican't handle my hired help without advice from the house."

  Mary flushed at the remark. Any open quarrel with her husband,especially before the children--for she still thought of the man andwoman to her left and right as "the children"--was more painful toher than, any submission could have been. It would be so much easierto change the subject, to follow the line of least resistance, andforget the incident as quickly as possible. That had been herconstant policy after the first few years of their married life. Atfirst there had been troubles and difficulties, but she had graduallyadjusted herself to her niche, and their lives had run smoothlytogether because she never interrupted the current of his. But oflate the conviction had been coming home to her that some time,somewhere, she must make a stand. It was all very well meekly to fallin line as long as only her own happiness was concerned, but if thefuture of her children should be at stake, or if the justice of theirdealings with others should be the issue, then she would have tofight, and fight it out to a finish. And, quite unbidden, a strangesurge of defiance welled in her when her husband so frankly told herto mind her own business.

  "I was under the impression we were managing this farm together, youand I, John," she said, very calmly, but with a strange ring in hervoice. "When we came West I understood it was to build _our_ home. Ididn't know it was just to be _your_ home."

  The look of surprise with which Harris greeter her words wasabsolutely genuine. A hot, stinging retort sprang to his lips, but bya sudden effort he suppressed it. His wife's challenge, quiet,unruffled, but with evidence of unbending character behind it, insome way conjured something out of the past, and he saw her again,the greying locks restored to their youthful glory and the careworncheek abloom with the colour of young maidenhood as they had been inthe gathering shadows that night when they swore to build their ownhome, and live their own lives, and love each other, always, only,for ever and ever...And yet, to let her defiance go unchecked, tohave his authority challenged before his own children--it would bethe beginning of dissolution, the first crumblings of collapse.

  "We will talk about that some other time, Mary," he said. "If Jim hadanswered my question fairly, as he had a right to, instead of beatin'around the bush, I might 've let him off. But when I wanted to knowwhat kept him he simply parried me, makin' a fool of me and rubbin'it in with that infernal smile of his."

  "So that's what started it!" exclaimed Beulah. "Well, I'll tell youwhat kept him, if he wouldn't. The cattle got into the oats through abreak in the fence, and I couldn't get them out, and the dog wentki-yi-ing over the prairie after a rabbit, and just as I wasbeginning to--to--condense over it Jim came up and saved thesituation. What if he did keep your old engine waiting? There aremore important things than ploughing."

  "Aha!" said Harris, knowingly. "Well, I guess it's just as well ithappened as it did. Jim was gettin' altogether too good at runnin' atyour heels."

  "That's all the thanks he gets for working late and early, like noother hired man in the district. All right. You and Allan can milkthe cows to-night, for I won't--see?"

  Harris was accustomed to his daughter's frankness, and as a rule paidlittle regard to it. He was willing enough to be flayed, inmoderation, by her keen tongue; in fact, he look a secret delight inher unrestrained sallies, but that was different from
defiance. Hecould, and did, submit to any amount of cutting repartee, and felt asort of pride in her vigour and recklessness, but he had no notion ofcountenancing open mutiny, even from Beulah.

  "We'll talk about that some other time, too," he said. "And you'llmilk the cows tonight as usual."

  Beulah opened her lips as though to answer, but closed them again,arose, and walked out of the kitchen. For her the controversy wasover; the die was cast. Her nature admitted of any amount ofdisputation up to a certain point, but when the irresistible forcecrashed into the immovable object she wasted no wind on words. Withher war was war.

  Harris finished his meal with little relish. His daughter was very,very much to him, and an open rupture with her was among the lastthings to be imagined...Still, she must learn that the liberty ofspeech he allowed her did not imply equal liberty of action...Hiswife, too, had behaved most incredibly. After all, perhaps he hadbeen hasty with Jim. No doubt he would meet the boy in Plainville orsomewhere in the district before long, and he would then have a franklittle talk with him. And he would say nothing more of the incidentto his wife. He was beginning to feel almost amiable again whenrecollection of Beulah, and the regard which she was evidentlycultivating toward Travers, engulfed his returning spirits like acold douche. It must not come to that, whatever happened.

  "You better get over to Grant's, Allan, if you're goin'," he said ashe left the table. "I've some shears to change that'll keep me busyuntil you get back."

  An hour later Allan returned, accompanied by George Grant, andoperations in the field were resumed. Father and son were bothanxious to make up for lost time, and they worked that night longafter their usual hour for quitting. Just as the sun was settingGeorge Grant left a last tank of water at the end of the field andstarted for home. As he passed the buildings he saw Beulah in thegarden, and leaned over the fence for a short talk with her. The girlwas thankful the gathering dusk hid the colour of her cheeks. Georgecontinued on his way, but still the steady panting of the engine,louder now, it seemed, than during the day, came pulsing down on thecalm night air. The long twilight dragged on; the light faded out ofthe east and south, and at last shone like the spread of a crimsonfan only in the north-west. It was quite dark when the two men, tiredand dusty, came in at the close of their long day's labour.

  The table was set for two. "We have had our supper," Mary explained."We thought we wouldn't wait any longer."

  "That's all right," said Harris, trying to be genial. But he found itharder than he had supposed. He was very tired, and somewhatembarrassed following the unpleasantness at noon. He had no thoughtof apologizing, either to wife or daughter; on the contrary, heintended to make it quite clear to them that they had been at faultin the matter, but he would take his time about reopening thesubject. By waiting a day or two before reproving them he would showthat he was acting in a judicial spirit, and without any influence oftemper. Still...it was provoking that there should be nothing to talkabout.

  When supper was finished Allan went to the stables to give finalattention to the horses--a duty that had always fallen to Jim--andHarris, after a few minutes' quiet rest in his chair, began to removehis boots.

  "The cows are not milked, John," said his wife. She tried to speak ina matter-of-fact way, but the tremor in her voice betrayed the importof the simple statement.

  Harris paused with a boot half unlaced. While his recollection ofBeulah's defiance was clear enough, it had not occurred to him thatthe girl actually would stand by her guns. He had told her that shewould milk the cows tonight as usual, and he had assumed, as a matterof course, that she would do so. He was not accustomed to beingdisobeyed.

  "Where's Beulah?" he demanded.

  "I guess she's in her room."

  Harris laced up his boot. Then he started upstairs.

  "Don't be too hard on her, John," urged his wife, with a little catchin her voice.

  "I won't be too hard on anybody," he replied curtly. "It's a strangething you wouldn't see that she did as she was told. I suppose I haveto plug away in the field until dark and then come in and do anotherhalf-day's work because my women folk are too lazy or stubborn to doit themselves."

  If this outburst was intended to crush Mary Harris it had a verydifferent effect. She seemed to straighten up under the attack; thecolour came back to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and defiant.

  "John Harris," she said. "You know better than to say that your womenfolk are either lazy or stubborn, but there's a point whereimposition, even the imposition of a husband, has to stop, and you'vereached that point. You didn't have to stay in the field until dark.There's another day coming, and the ploughing'll keep. It isn't likethe harvest. It was just your own contrariness that kept you there.You fired the best man you ever had to-day, in a fit of temper, andnow you're trying to take it out on us."

  Harris looked at her for a moment; then, without speaking, hecontinued up the stairs. The difficulties of his position wereincreasing; it was something new to be assailed from the bosom of hisown family. He felt that he was being very unfairly used, but he hadno intention of shrinking from his duty as a husband and father, evenif its discharge should bring pain to all of them.

  He found Beulah in her room, ostensibly reading.

  "Why are the cows not milked?" he demanded.

  "I thought I made it clear to you at noon that they wouldn't bemilked by me," she answered, "and there didn't seem to be anybodyelse hankering for the job."

  "Beulah," he said, trying to speak calmly, "don't you think thisnonsense has gone far enough?"

  "Too far," she agreed. "But you started it--let's see you stop it."

  "Beulah," he said, with rising anger, "I won't allow you to talk tome like that. Remember I'm your father, and you've a right to do asyou're told. Haven't I given you everything--given you a home, andall that, and are you goin' to defy me in my own house?"

  "I don't want to defy you," she answered, "but if you're going to letyour temper run away with you, you can put on the brakes yourself.And as for all you've done for me--maybe I'm ungrateful, but itdoesn't look half so big from my side of the fence."

  "Well, what more do you want?" he demanded.

  "For one thing, I wouldn't mind having a father."

  "What do you mean? Ain't I your father?"

  "No!" she cried. "No! No! There's no father here. You're just theboss--the foreman on the farm. You board with mother and me. We seeyou at meal-times. We wouldn't see you then if you didn't have tomake use of us in that way. If you have a spare hour you go to town.You're always so busy, busy, with your little things, that you haveno time for big things."

  "I didn't know it was an offence to be busy," he answered. "It's workthat makes money, and I notice you can spend your share. You're neverso haughty about me workin' when you want a ten-dollar bill forsomethin'. Work may be a disgrace all right from your point of view,but money isn't, and in this country you don't get much of onewithout the other."

  "Now, Dad," she protested. "You're taking me up wrong. I don't thinkwork is a disgrace, and I'm willing to work as hard as anyone, but Ido think it's a shame that you should be thinking only of work, work,work, when you don't need to. I'd like to see you think about livinginstead of working. And we're not living--not really living, youknow--we're just existing. Just making little twenty-four hour cyclesthat don't get us anywhere, except older. Don't you see what I mean?We're living all in the flesh, like an animal. When you feed thehorses and put them under shelter you can't do anything more forthem. But when you feed and shelter your daughter you have only halfprovided for her, and it's the other half, the starving half, thatrefuses to starve any longer."

  "I'm not kickin' on religion, if that's what you mean, Beulah," hesaid. "You get goin' to church as often as you like, and--"

  "Oh, it's not religion," she protested. "At least, it's not justgoing to church, and things like that, although I guess it is a morereal religion, if we just understood. What are we here for, anyway?Come now, you're a man of sense a
nd experience, and you must havesettled that question in your own mind long ago. What's the answer?"

  "Well, I'm here just now to tell you those cows are to be milkedbefore--"

  "Yes, dodge it! You've dodged that question so long you daren't faceit. But there must be an answer somewhere, or there wouldn't be thequestion. There's Riles, now; he doesn't know there is such aquestion. He takes it for granted we're here to grab money. And then,there's Grants. They know there is such a question, and I'm sure thatto some extent they've answered it. You know, I like them, but Inever go into their house that I don't feel out of place. I feel likethey have something that I haven't--something that makes them veryrich and shows me how very poor I am. And it's embarrassing to feelpoor among rich folks. Why, to-night George Grant stopped on his wayhome to say a word to me, and what do you suppose he said? Nothingabout the weather, or the neighbours, or the crops. He asked me whatI thought of the Venezuelan treaty. Of course I'd never heard of sucha thing, but I said I hoped it would be for the best, or somethinglike that, but I was ashamed--so ashamed he might have seen it in thedusk. You see, they're living--and we're existing."

  If Beulah hoped by such argument to persuade her father, or even toinfluence him, she was doomed to disappointment. Harris listened toher patiently enough at first, but the conviction dawned upon himthat she had been reading some silly nonsense that had temporarilydistorted her young mind. Such foolishness, if allowed to take root,might have disastrous results. His daughter must learn to centre hermind on her work, and not be led away by whimsical notions that hadno place in a busy life.

  "You're talking a good deal of nonsense, Beulah," he said. "When youget older these questions won't worry you. In the meantime, your dutyis to do as you're told. Right now that means milk the cows. I'llgive you five minutes to get started."

  Harris went to his room. A little later Beulah, with a light cloakabout her shoulders and a suitcase in her hand, slipped quietly downthe front stairs and out into the night.