The Second Chance

by Nellie L. McClung

  CHAPTER XXXV

  THE LURE OF LOVE AND THE WEST

  If you've heard the wild goose honking, if you've seen the sunlit plain, If you've breathed the smell of ripe grain, dewy, wet, You may go away and leave it, say you will not come again, But it's in your blood, you never can forget.

  THERE is a belief, to which many sentimental people still hold, inspite of all contradictory evidence, that marriages are arranged inheaven, and that no amount of earthly wire-pulling can alter thedecrees of the Supreme Court. Many beautiful sentiments have beenexpressed, bearing on this alluring theme, but none morecomprehensive than Aunt Kate Shenstone's brief summary: "You'll getwhoever is for ye, and that's all there is to it."

  Theoretically, Mrs. Burrell was a believer in this doctrine ofnon-resistance, modified, however, by the fact that she alsobelieved in the existence of earthly representatives of the heavenlymatrimonial bureau, to whom is entrusted the pleasing duty ofselecting and pairing. Of this glorious company, Mrs. Burrellbelieved herself a member in good standing, and one who stood highupon the honour roll. Therefore, having decided that Arthur shouldmarry Martha Perkins she proceeded to arrange the match with aboldness that must have made the angels tremble.

  She planned an evening party, and wrote to Arthur asking him to bringMartha, but forgot to send Martha an invitation, which rather upsether plans, for Martha declined to go. Mrs. Burrell, however, not tobe outdone, took Arthur aside and talked to him very seriously abouthis matrimonial prospects; but Arthur brought the conversation to anabrupt close by telling her he had not the slightest intention ofmarrying, and had quite made up his mind to go back to England assoon as the harvest was over.

  When Mrs. Burrell was telling her husband about it she was almost intears.

  "If he goes to England, John, we'll never see him again; he'll marryan English girl--I know it. They're so thick over there he can't helpit, when he sees so many dangling after him! He'll just have to marryone of them."

  "To thin them out, I suppose you mean," her husband said, smiling."Don't worry, anyway, and above all things, don't interfere. Leavesomething for Providence to do."

  After Mrs. Cavers and Libby Anne had gone, life in the Perkins's homesettled down to its old pleasing monotony. The schoolmaster foundMartha a willing and apt pupil, and came to look forward withpleasure to the evenings he spent helping her to understand the worldin which she was living. Dr. Emory paid his regular visits, seekingwith the magic arts of music to draw Arthur's thoughts down thepleasant lanes of love. Pearl Watson, like a true general, kept astrict oversight of everything, but apparently took no active partherself; only on Saturday afternoons, which she usually spent withMartha, she had Martha tell her the stories she had read during theweek. At first the telling was haltingly done, for Martha was notgifted with fluent speech, but under the spell of Pearl's sympatheticlistening, her story-telling powers developed amazingly.

  When the summer days came, with their wealth of flowers and singingbirds, to Martha the whole face of Nature seemed changed; she heardnew music in the meadowlark's ringing note, and the plaintive pipingof the whippoorwill. The wild roses' fragrant beauty, the gorgeouscolouring of the tiger-lilies and moccasin flowers, the changing huesof the grainfields at noon-day as the drifting clouds threw racingshadows over them, were all possessed of a new charm, a new power tothrill her heart, for the old miracle of love and hope had come toMartha, the old witchery that has made "blue skies bluer and greenthings greener," for us all. There was the early rising in the dewymornings when the river-valley was filled with silvery mist, throughwhich the trees loomed gray and ghostly; there was the quivering heatof noonday, that played strange tricks on the southern horizon, wheneven the staid old Tiger Hills seemed to pulsate with the joy ofsummer; and, then the evenings, when the day's work was done, and thewestern sky was all aglow with crimson and gold.

  One quiet Sunday evening in harvest time, Martha and Arthur stoodbeside the lilac hedge and watched the sun going down behind theBrandon Hills. Before them stretched the long field of ripeninggrain. There was hardly a leaf stirring on the trees over theirheads, but the tall grain rustled and whispered of the abundance ofharvest.

  As they listened to the rustling of the wheat Martha said: "I havebeen trying to think what it sounds like, but can think of nothingbetter than the bursting of soap-bubbles on a tub of water, andthat's a very unpoetical comparison."

  "I think it's a very good one, though," Arthur said, absently.

  "And it seems to whisper: 'Plenty, plenty, plenty,' as if it wouldtell us we need not rush and worry so," she went on. "I love tolisten to it. It has such a contented sound."

  Arthur sighed wearily, and looking up, Martha saw his face was sadwith bitter memories.

  "What is it, Arthur?" she said, drawing nearer in quick sympathy.

  "I'm all right," he answered quickly, but, with an effort; "just alittle bit blue, perhaps."

  "How can anyone be blue to-night with everything so beautiful andfull of promise?" Martha cried.

  "There are other things--beside these," he said gloomily.

  Martha shrank back at his words, for she knew of whom he wasthinking. Then a sudden rage seized her, and she turned and faced himwith a new light burning in her eyes.

  "You must forget her!" she cried. "You must! She cares nothing foryou. She, never loved you, or she would not have treated you sobadly. She soon let you go when she got what she thought, was abetter chance. Why do you go on loving her?" She seized his arm andshook him. "It's foolish, it's weak--why do you do it? I wouldn'twaste a thought on any one who cares nothing for me--it isn't--itisn't----" she stopped abruptly, and the colour surged into her paleface.

  "Oh, Arthur, forgive me for speaking so." All the anger had gone fromher voice. "I cannot bear to see you so unhappy. Try to forget her.The world is wide and beautiful."

  In the western sky a band of crimson circled the horizon.

  "Martha," Arthur said gently, "you are one of the truest friends afellow ever had, and I know you think I am foolish and sentimental,but I am just a little bit upset to-day. I saw her last night--sheand--her husband were on the train going to Winnipeg, and I saw themat the station. She's lovelier than ever. This sounds foolish to you,I know, Martha, but that's because you don't know. I hope you willnever know."

  Martha turned away hastily.

  "All this," he continued, waving his hand toward the evening sky andthe quiet landscape, "all this reminds me of her. You know, Martha,when you look at the sun for a while you can see suns everywhere youlook; that's the way it is with me."

  The colour was fading from the sky; only the faintest trace ofrose-pink tinged the gray clouds.

  "I think I shall go home to England," Arthur said, after a longsilence. "I shall go home for a while, and then, perhaps--pshaw! Idon't know what I shall do." In the failing light he could not seethe pallor of Martha's face, neither did he notice that she shiveredas if with cold.

  The sunset glory had all gone from the clouds; there was nothing leftnow but the ashes.

  "I am sorry you are going," Martha said steadily. "We will miss you."

  The schoolmaster, who was sitting by the kitchen window, noticedMartha's white face when she came into the house and guessed thecause. Looking after Arthur as he walked rapidly down the road to hisown house, Mr. Donald shook his head sadly, murmuring to himself:"Lord, who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"

  When Martha went up to her own room she sat before the mirror as shehad done that at other night two years before, and looked sadly ather face reflected there. She recalled his words: "She is lovelierthan ever"--this was what had won and held his love. Oh, this cruel,unjust world, where the woman without beauty has to go lonely,hungry, unmated--it was not fair; she stretched out her arms in anagony of longing.

  "Thursa cares nothing for him, and I would gladly die to save himpain!" she whispered hoarsely.

  She tore off her collar roughly and threw it from her; she took downhe
r hair and brushed it almost savagely; then she went to the openwindow, and, leaning on the casement, listened to the rustling of thewheat. It no longer sang to her of peace and plenty, but inexorable,merciless as the grave itself, it spoke to her of heart-break andhopes that never come true.

  * * *

  In September Arthur went to England. After he had gone, Martha wentabout her work with the same quiet cheerfulness. She had always beena kind-hearted neighbour, but now she seemed to delight in deeds ofmercy. She still studied with the school-master, who daily admiredthe bravery with which she hid her heartache. Martha was making afight, a brave fight, with an unjust world. She would study--shewould fit herself yet for some position in life when her parents nolonger needed her. Surely, there was some place where a woman wouldnot be disqualified because she was not beautiful.

  Arthur had written regularly to her. Looking ahead, she dreaded thetime when he would cease to write, though she tried to prepare for itby telling herself over and over again that it must surely come.

  Arthur's last letter came in November, and now with Christmas comingnearer, Martha was lonelier than ever for a word from him. The weekbefore Christmas she looked for his letter every day. Christmas evecame, a beautiful moonlight, sparkling night, with the merry jingleof sleighbells, in the air, but no letter had yet come.

  Mr. and Mrs. Perkins and Bud had driven in to Millford to attend theconcert given by the Sunday-school, but Martha stayed at home. Whenthey were gone, and she sat alone in the quiet house, a greatrestlessness seized her. She tried to read and then to sew, but hermind, in spite of her, would go back to happier days. It was notoften that Martha allowed herself to indulge in self-pity; butto-night, as she looked squarely into the future and saw itstretching away before her, barren and gray, it seemed hard to keepback the tears. It was not like Martha to give way to her emotions;perhaps it was the Christmas feel in the air that gripped her heartwith new tenderness.

  She finished making the pudding for the Christmas dinner, and put thelast coat of icing on the Christmas cake, and then forced herself todress another doll for one of the neighbour's children. Sometimes thetears dimmed her eyes, but she wiped them away bravely.

  Suddenly a loud knock sounded on the door. Martha sprang up in someconfusion, and hastily tried to hide the traces of her tears, butbefore she was ready to open the door it opened from without andArthur stood smiling before her.

  "Oh, Arthur!" she cried, her face glowing with the love she could nothide. "I was just thinking that you had stopped writing to me."

  "Well, I have, too," he laughed; "letters are not much good anyway. Iknew you were here, for I met the others on the road," he continued,as he hung his overcoat on its old nail behind the door, "and so Ihurried along, for I have a great many things to tell you. No," inanswer to her question, "I have not had supper--I couldn't wait. Iwanted to see you. I've made, a big discovery."

  Martha had put the tea-kettle on and was stirring the fire.

  "Don't bother getting any supper for me until I tell you what I foundout."

  She turned around and faced him, her heart beating faster at theeagerness in his voice.

  "Martha, dear," he said, "I cannot do without you--that's thediscovery I made. I have been lonely--lonely for this broad prairieand you. The Old Country seemed to stifle me; everything is so littleand crowded and bunched up, and so dark and foggy--it seemed tosmother me. I longed to hear the whirr of prairie chickens and seethe wild ducks dipping in the river; I longed to hear the sleighscreaking over the frosty roads; and so I've come home to allthis--and you, Martha," He came nearer and held out his arms. "You'rethe girl for me."

  Martha drew away from him. "Arthur, are you sure?" she cried."Perhaps it's just the country you're in love with. Are you sure itisn't just the joy of getting back to it all. It can't be me--I amonly a plain country girl, not pretty, not educated, not clever,not----"

  He interrupted her in a way that made further speech not onlyimpossible but quite unnecessary.

  "Martha, I tell you it is you that makes me love this country. When Ithought of the sunlit prairie it was your dear eyes that made itglorious. Your voice is sweeter than the meadowlark's song atsunrise. You are the soul of this country for me--you stand for itall. You are the sunshine, the birdsong, the bracing air, the broadoutlook, the miles of golden wheat. Now, tell me, dear, for youhaven't told me yet, are you glad to see me back?"

  "But what would your mother say?" Martha asked, evading his question."Arthur, think of the people at home."

  He opened his pocket-book and took out a leather case. Springing thelid, he handed it to her, saying: "My mother knows all about you, andshe sends you this."

  Martha took out the beautiful necklace of pearls and read the tenderlittle note, inside the case. Her eyes filled with happy tears, andlooking up into Arthur's smiling face, her last doubt vanished.

  A few hours later, when the old clock on the wall, slowly struck themidnight hour, telling them that another Christmas morning had come,they listened to it, hand in hand without a spoken word, but in theirhearts was the echo of all the Christmas bells that were ringingaround the world.