CHAPTER XXXIII
THE CORRECTION LINE
It's a purty good world, this is, old man, It's a purty good world this is; For all its follies and shows and lies, Its rainy weather, and cheeks likewise, And age, hard hearing, and rheumatiz; We're not a faultin' the Lord's own plan; All things jest At their best, It's a puny good world, old man.
_----James Whitcomb Riley._
ON THE Sunday afternoon following the big storm, when the delayedpassenger train on the C. P. R. slowly ploughed its way throughsnowbanks into the station at Newbank, there alighted from it a youngman with bearded face. The line had been tied up since the storm onThursday night, but early on Sunday afternoon the agent at Newbank,where the railway crosses the Souris on the long wooden bridge, gaveout the glad word that "she" would be down "sometime soon," and theinhabitants--seventeen in number--congregated on the small platformwithout delay. They were expecting neither friends nor parcels. Butthere would be a newspaper or two, pretty old now, as some peoplereckon the age of newspapers, but in Newbank a newspaper is verywisely considered new until it has been read, and news is always newsuntil you have heard it, no matter how long after the occurrence.
Another good reason for all the inhabitants putting in such a promptappearance is that some one might get off, and hearing other peopletell about an arrival is not quite the same thing as seeing it forone's self.
On this particular occasion, as old No. 182 came sweepingmajestically into the station, everybody was glad that they werethere to see it. There was snow on the engine, snow on the cars, andsnow every place, that snow could possibly stick. While the trainwaited the conductor walked around the platform speaking genially toevery one. Even the small boys called "Hello, Dave!" to him. "Dave"had run on this line since it had been built, three years before, andeverybody knew him. He discussed the tie-up on the line with thepostmaster, apparently taking no notice of the fact that the trainwas pulling out. However, as the last coach passed him, he swunghimself up with easy grace, quite as an afterthought, much to theadmiration of the small but appreciative band of spectators.
On the platform were left the mailbag, two Express parcels, and threemilk cans. The people of Newbank stood watching the train as it ranslowly over the long bridge, shaking all the valley with its thunder,then they turned and walked over to the store to get their newspapersand discuss the news.
"Say, I'd hate to live in one of them out-of-the-way places where younever get to hear what's goin' on," said Joe McCaulay, sententiously."It's purty nice, I tell ye, to get a newspaper every week, jest asreg'lar as the week comes."
This had been a particularly interesting arrival of the train, forthere had been one passenger. He did not wait long enough for anyoneto have a good look at him, but struck right across the drifts towardthe river, as if he knew where he was going. There was only oneperson who claimed to have seen his face, and that was a very oldlady who was unable to go to the station on account of rheumatism,but who always kept a small hole thawed in the frosting of herbedroom window, and managed in this way to see a good deal of whatwas going on outside. When the other members of her household camehome, and told of the young man's coming off the train and hurriedlysetting out across country without letting anyone see him or ask himwhere he came from, where he was going, who he was, what did he want,or any simple little thing like that, the aged grandmothertriumphantly informed them that he was just a boy with his first cropof whiskers--he carried nothing in his hand--he wasn't even a pedlaror a book-agent--he didn't look around at all--he was sure of theroad, but he must have some reason for not wanting to be known. Notmany rheumatic old ladies, with only a small eye-hole in a frozenwindow, would have observed as much, and she was naturally quiteelated over the fact that she had seen more than the people who wentto the station, and the latter were treated to some scathing remarksabout the race not always being to the swift, but the way sheexpressed it was that it is not "always them that runs the fastestthat sees the most."
The young man whose coming had aroused this comment walked rapidlyover the hard-packed drifts. There had been no teams on the roadsince the storm, and there was not much danger of meeting anyone, butin any event, he thought his crop of black whiskers would be asufficient disguise. He did not want any-one to know him. Not that hecared, he told himself, recklessly, but it would be just as well notto see any of them. It seemed ages to the lad since he had left thisplace, though it was only six months since he had said good-bye toLibby Anne in the purple September twilight.
Things looked odd to him as he walked quickly over the driftstoward the old Cavers house. The schoolhouse was more dingy anddesolate-looking; the houses and barns all seemed smaller; there wasthe same old mound on the Tiger Hills on the southern horizon,--theone that people said had been built by the Mound Builders, but whenyou came up to it, is just an ordinary hill with a hay-meadowat the foot; the sandhills, too, were there still, with theirsentinel spruce-trees, scattered and lonesome. Looking over atthe schoolhouse, Bud remembered the day he thrashed Tom Steadmanthere--it came back to him with a thrill of pleasure; and then camethe memory of that other day at the school, when he had told Mr.Burrell that he was going to try to let the good seed grow in hisheart, and when he had been so full of high resolves. Small good ithad done him, though, and Mr. Burrell had been quick to believe evilof him. Bud's face burned with anger even now. But he could get alongwithout any of them!
Since leaving home six months before, Bud had had a variedexperience. He went to Calgary first, and got a job on a horse-ranch,but only stayed a month; then he worked in a livery stable in Calgaryfor a while, but a restless mood was on him, and he left it, too,when his first month was served. He then came to Brandon and foundwork in a livery stable there. The boy was really homesick, though hedid not let himself admit the fact. His employer was a shrewd oldhorse-man, and recognizing in Bud a thoroughly reliable driver, soonraised his wages and gave him a large share of the responsibility. Hehad in his stable a fine young pacer, three years old, for which hewas anxious to secure a mate. Bud told him about his pacing colt athome, and the liveryman suggested that Bud go home and bring back thecolt, and they would have a team then that would make the otherfellows "sit up and take notice."
"I've surely earned that colt," Bud was thinking bitterly when hecame near the Cavers' house. "If the old man won't give him to me,there are other ways of getting him."
He noticed with alarm that there were no signs of life around theCavers house, but then remembered that this being Sunday, Mrs. Caversand Libby Anne would be at church in the schoolhouse. He would go inand wait for them; he knew just how Libby Ann's eyes would sparklewhen she, saw him--and what would she say when she saw what he had inthe little box in his pocket?
The day had grown dull and chilly, and a few snowflakes camewandering listlessly down--as if the big storm had not entirelycleared the air. No barking dog heralded Bud's approach; no column ofsmoke rose into the air. The unfrosted windows stared coldly at him,and when he turned around the corner of the house he started backwith an exclamation of alarm, for one of the panels of the door hadbeen blown in and a hard snowdrift blocked the entrance.
He went to the curtainless window and looked in. The stove was there,red with rust; two packing-boxes stood on the floor, and from one ofthose protruded Libby Anne's plaid dress. Through the open bedroomdoor he could see Libby Anne's muslin hat hanging on the oppositewall. It looked appealingly at him through the cold silence of thedeserted house. His first thought was that Libby Anne and her motherhad gone East, but as the furniture was still in the house, and theboxes of clothing, this thought had to be abandoned. But where werethey? Why were Libby Anne's clothes here?
Just then Bud noticed the little hand-sleigh that he had made forLibby Anne, standing idly behind the stove, and it brought to hiseyes a sudden rush of tears--his little girl was dead; the littlegirl who had loved him. He remembered how she had clung to him thatnight he came to say good-bye, and begged him to co
me back, and now,when he came back, there was only the muslin hat and the sleigh andthe plaid dress to tell him that he was too late!
Bud retraced his steps sadly to the road and made his way to theschoolhouse, which lay straight on his road home. In his anxiety forLibby Anne, he forgot about it being the hour for service. Theschoolyard was blown clean and bare. In the woodpile he noticed"shinney-sticks" where their owners had put them for safe-keeping--heknew all the "hidie-holes," though it was years and years since hehad played "shinney" here. His boyhood seemed separated from him by awide gulf. Since leaving home he had been to church but seldom, forBud made the discovery that many another young man makes, that thepeople who go to church and young people's meetings are not always asfriendly as the crowd who frequent the pool-rooms and bars. Bud hadbeen hungry for companionship, and he had found it, but in placesthat did not benefit him morally.
The minister's cutter, in front of the shed, called to hisremembrance the fact that this was the hour for service, which nodoubt was going on now. "It's a wonder they still keep it up," hethought, rather contemptuously.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to go into theporch--he, would hear what was going on, anyway, and perhaps he couldsee if Mrs. Cavers were there. Suddenly some one began to sing--thevoice was strange, and yet familiar, like something had heard long,long, ago. When he realized that it was Mrs. Cavers he was listeningto, a sudden impulse seized him to rush in. Libby Anne must be therebeside her mother--she was always beside her.
"was it for crimes that I have done, He groaned upon the tree?"
Mrs. Cavers was singing alone, it seemed, in her sweet thin voice.
"Oh, no," Bud said to himself, "I guess it was not for any crimes sheever did."
The day had grown darker and colder, biting wind began to whirl hardlittle around the porch. Mrs. Cavers sang on:
"Well may the sun in darkness hide, And shut his glories in. When Christ, the mightly Saviour died For man, the creatures sin."
Then he heard Mr. Burrell say, quite distinctly: "Ye that do trulyand earnestly repent of your sins and are in love and charity withyour neighbours, and intend to lead a new life ... draw near withfaith and take this holy sacrament to your comfort ... meeklykneeling upon your knees."
Bud heard a few moving forward--he knew who they were, just the samefew--he had gone with them once, more fool he was--what was the useof that man talking about love and charity when the very first chancehe got he would turn a fellow down?
"... Who in the same night that he was betrayed took bread and brakeit, saying: 'Take, eat; this is my body which was broken for you thisis my blood of the New Testament, which was shed for you ....'"
This one sentence came out to him clearly, fastening itself on hismind, and though in a vague way he heard the service through, hismind was busy with the thought that the Saviour of men had beenbetrayed by a friend, betrayed to his death, and had died blessingand forgiving his enemies.
" ... the same night that he was betrayed."
The solemnity of it all fell on the boy's heart. He had knelt thereonce, and heard those words and taken these tokens of the Lord'sdeath, with his heart swelling with love for Him who had not evenrefused to die. It had been a glorious day of June sunshine, whenthrough the open windows came the robin's song and the prairie breezeladen with the perfume of wolf-willow blossoms and sweet-grass. Heremembered how the tears had risen unbidden to his eyes--happy tearsof love and loyalty--and he had felt that nothing could ever separatehim from the Master whom he loved. But now he stood on the outside ofthe door--he was an outsider--he had no part in this. He made a stepbackward--he would go away--he would hear no more--he had come backfor the pacing colt--he was done with this neighbourhood and home--hewas done with religion!
"Drink ye this in remembrance that Christ's blood was shed for you."
The voice sounded at Bud's elbow, as if calling him to stay. Hehesitated--they were not nearly done yet--there was no danger ofanyone coming out--everyone stayed for the whole service, he knew,even if they didn't take part.
"Our Father, who art in heaven," he heard them all repeat, and quiteunconsciously he began to follow the words with them. It was like anold friend coming out to meet him.
"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass againstus."
Bud stopped abruptly, he couldn't say that--he would not forgive--hehad been bitterly wronged, and he would never forgive--he had donewhat was right, and what had he got for it? He tried to summon backto him the anger that had kept alive his resolve to stay away fromhome. Instead of anger and bitterness he found his, heart swellingwith the old love for the One who, the same night that he wasbetrayed, took bread and broke it, saying: "Take, eat; this is mybody, which was broken for you."
Some one was praying--it was Mr. Burrell--every word came to Budclearly.
"Dear Lord," the minister prayed, "be one with us to-day, and grantthat the great appeal which Thou dost make in the broken body and theshed blood may find an answer in every heart that hears. Compel uswith it to consecrate our lives to Thee. If there is any root ofbitterness in our lives, let us bring it to where the shadow of theCross may fall upon it. Oh, dear Lord, bless all those who havewandered from Thee. Bless the dear boy of our prayers who may havewandered far, but who, we believe, will never be deaf to the call ofthe Spirit. We praise Thee for prayers answered--for sick oneshealed--for lives redeemed--and we humbly crave Thy mercy for us all.Amen."
What strange power was in these words to make Bud Perkins suddenlyrealize that only one thing mattered? He opened the door and walkedin. The people heard the door open and some one come quickly towardthe front. They saw the minister step down from the platform and intothe aisle, where he clasped a black-bearded youth in his arms. For afull minute no one spoke; then Roderick Ray, the Scottish Covenanter,broke into singing:
"O dying Lamb, Thy precious blood Shall never lose its power Till all the ransomed church of God Be saved to sin no more."
What a scene of rejoicing was in the schoolhouse that dark March day!Roderick Ray slapped Bud on the back again and again, crying:"Wonderful! Wonderful!" Mr. Perkins hung on to Bud's arm as if hewere afraid he might lose him again, and told him over and over againwhat a time he had been having with hired help. "There's nothing likeyour own you bet." Even George Steadman shook hands with Bud, andtold him he was glad to see him back again.
While Mrs. Cavers, in answer to his eager inquiry, was telling Budall about Libby Anne's illness, and the great kindness of his fatherand mother and Martha Pearl Watson whispered to Mr. Perkins: "Now'sthe time to clear up Bud's name about that wheat plugging. Tell themwho did it." In the excitement of the moment there did not seemanything odd in the suggestion. Pearl was shrewd enough to know thatthe psychological moment had come.
Mr. Burrell was still standing with his hand on Bud's shoulder, as ifhe could never let go of him. Pearl whispered to the minister to askthe people to sit down for a few minutes, for Mr. Perkins hadsomething to say to them. Mr. Burrell did as Pearl had asked him.Then Mr. Perkins addressed a few words to the congregation which wereprobably as strange a closing as any sacramental service has everhad.
"Well, friends," he said, "I believe I have a few words to say. Ishould have said them before, I guess. In fact, I should have saidthem when the thing happened, but I'm a terrible man to put offthings that I don't like to do. But I'm so glad to get Buddie homethat I don't mind tellin' ye that he didn't have nothin' to do withthat wheat pluggin'--that was my idea entirely--in fact, Bud raisedCain about us ever pluggin' grain, and said he'd not stand for it anymore. I ain't much used to speakin' in church, as you know. I'vealways kept my religion in my wife's name, and I may not be talkingin a suitable way at all. I'm a good deal like old Jimmie Miller wasat a funeral one time. Jimmie had took a glass or two too much, andjust when the minister asked them to walk around and view theremains, old Jimmie jumped up and proposed the health of the brideand groom. Well, of course, someone
grabbed him and pulled him down,and says: 'Sit down, man, this is a funeral!' 'Well,' says Jimmie,speakin' pretty thick, 'I don't care what it is, but it's a verysuccessful event any way.' That's the way I feel--it's the happiestday I've known for quite a while." Thomas Perkins suddenly stoppedspeaking and blew his nose noisily on a red handkerchief. Theneighbours, looking at him in surprise, realized that there wasstrong emotion behind his lightly spoken words.
It seemed to be quite a natural thing for them to sing "Praise God,from whom all blessings flow," and for the hand-shaking to begin allover again. They were only a handful of very ordinary people in adesolate-looking, unpainted schoolhouse that dark Sunday afternoon,but a new spirit seemed suddenly to have come over them, a new spiritthat made them forget their worries and cares, their sordidjealousies and little meannesses, the spirit of love and neighbourlykindness, and there were some there who remembered that old promiseabout the other One who will come wherever "two or three are gatheredtogether," and thought they felt the Unseen Presence.
A few hours later Bud was sitting in the cushioned rocking-chair ofthe tent before a cheerful fire that blazed in the Klondike heater.On the lounge sat his father, mother and Mrs. Cavers.
Libby Anne, in a pale blue kimono, and wrapped in a warm shawl, wason Bud's knee, holding in her hands a gold locket and a chain, andsaying over and over to herself in an ecstasy: "Bud did come back andI'm Bud's girl."
Mr. Perkins was in radiant good-humour. "By George, it's great tohave Buddie home!" he said, "and our kid here gettin' better. Let metell you, Buddie, we've had a pretty dull, damp time around here;things have been pretty blue, and with no one to help me with thestock since Ted left. I was tellin' ye about Ted, wasn't I? Well,sir, we've been up against it all right, but now I'm feelin' so goodI could whoop and yell, and still, I kinda feel I shouldn't. I'm agood deal like old Bill Mills, down at the Portage, the time the boys'shivaried' him. You see, just the day after the first woman wasburied old Bill started in to paint up his buckboard, and as soon asthe paint was dry he was off huntin' up another woman; and he gother, too, a strappin' fine big Crofter girl--by George! you shouldsee her milkin' a cow--I passed there one day when she was milkin',and I can tell you she had a big black-and-white Holstein cow shakin'to the horns! Well, anyway, when Bill and the girl got married, theboys came to 'shivaree' them. The old woman was just dead two months,and when the noise started Bill came out, mad as hops, and told themthey should be ashamed of themselves making such a racket at a housewhere there had so lately been a funeral! That's how it is with us,eh, what? By George, it's great altogether to have Buddie home."