Nellie L. McClung - The Next of Kin

N >> Nellie L. McClung >> The Next of Kin

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In New Zealand the first political activity of women was directed
toward lowering the death-rate among children, by sending out trained
nurses to care for them and give instruction to the mothers. Ours will
follow the same line, because the heart of woman is the same
everywhere. Dreams will soon begin to come true. Good dreams always
do--in time; and why not? There is nothing too good to be true! Here
is one that is coming!

Little Mary Wood set out bravely to do the chores; for it was
Christmas Eve, and even in the remoteness of the Abilene Valley, some
of the old-time festivity of Christmas was felt. Mary's mother had had
good times at Christmas when she was a little girl, and Mary's
imagination did the rest. Mary started out singing.

It was a mean wind that came through the valley that night; a wind
that took no notice of Christmas, or Sunday, or even of the brave
little girl doing the chores, so that her father might not have them
to do when he came home. It was so mean that it would not even go
round Mary Wood, aged eleven, and small for her age--it went straight
through her and chattered her teeth and blued her hands, and would
have frozen her nose if she had not at intervals put her little hand
over it.

But in spite of the wind, the chores were done at last, and Mary came
back to the house. Mary's mother was always waiting to open the door
and shut it quick again, but to-night, when Mary reached the door she
had to open it herself, for her mother had gone to bed.

Mary was surprised at this, and hastened to the bedroom to see what
was wrong.

Mary's mother replied to her questions quite cheerfully. She was not
sick. She was only tired. She would be all right in the morning. But
Mary Wood, aged eleven, had grown wise in her short years, and she
knew there was something wrong. Never mind; she would ask father. He
always knew everything and what to do about it.

Going back to the kitchen she saw the writing-pad on which her mother
had been writing. Her mother did not often write letters; certainly
did not often tear them up after writing them; and here in the
home-made waste-paper basket was a torn and crumpled sheet. Mary did
not know that it was not the square thing to read other people's
letters, and, besides, she wanted to know. She spread the letter on
the table and pieced it together. Laboriously she spelled it out:--

"I don't know why I am so frightened this time, Lizzie, but I am black
afraid. I suppose it is because I lost the other two. I hate this
lonely, God-forsaken country. I am afraid of it to-night--it's so big
and white and far away, and it seems as if nobody cares. Mary does
not know, and I cannot tell her; but I know I should, for she may be
left with the care of Bobbie. To-night I am glad the other two are
safe. It is just awful to be a woman, Lizzie; women get it going and
coming, and the worst of it is, no one cares!"

Mary read the letter over and over, before she grasped its meaning.
Then the terrible truth rolled over her, and her heart seemed to stop
beating. Mary had not lived her eleven years without finding out some
of the grim facts of life. She knew that the angels brought babies at
very awkward times, and to places where they were not wanted a bit,
and she also knew that sometimes, when they brought a baby, they had
been known to take the mother away. Mary had her own opinion of the
angels who did that, but it had been done. There was only one hope:
her father always knew what to do.

She thawed a hole in the frosted window and tried to see down the
trail, but the moon was foggy and it was impossible to see more than a
few yards.

Filled with a sense of fear and dread, she built up a good fire and
filled the kettle with water; she vigorously swept the floor and
tidied the few books on their home-made shelf.

It was ten o'clock when her father came in, pale and worried. Mary saw
that he knew, too.

He went past her into the bedroom and spoke hurriedly to his wife; but
Mary did not hear what they said.

Suddenly she heard her mother cry and instinctively she ran into the
room.

Her father stood beside the bed holding his head, as if in pain.
Mary's mother had turned her face into the pillow, and cried; and even
little Bobbie, who had been awakened by the unusual commotion, sat up,
rubbing his eyes, and cried softly to himself.

Mary's father explained it to Mary.

"Mrs. Roberts has gone away," he said. "I went over to see her to-day.
We were depending on her to come over and take care of your
mother--for a while--and now she has gone, and there is not another
woman between here and the Landing."

"It's no use trying, Robert," Mrs. Wood said between her sobs; "I
can't stay--I am so frightened. I am beginning to see things--and I
know what it means. There are black things in every corner--trying to
tell me something, grinning, jabbering things--that are waiting for
me; I see them everywhere I look."

Mr. Wood sat down beside her, and patted her hand.

"I know, dear," he said; "it's hell, this lonely life. It's too much
for any woman, and I'll give it all up. Better to live on two meals a
day in a city than face things like this. We wanted a home of our own,
Millie,--you remember how we used to talk,--and we thought we had
found it here--good land and a running stream. We have worked hard and
it is just beginning to pay, but we'll have to quit--and I'll have to
work for some one else all my life. It was too good to be true,
Millie."

He spoke without any bitterness in his voice, just a settled sadness,
and a great disappointment.

Suddenly the old dog began to bark with strong conviction in every
bark, which indicated that he had really found something at last that
was worth mentioning. There was a sudden jangle of sleighbells in the
yard, and Mary's father went hastily to the door and called to the dog
to be quiet. A woman walked into the square of light thrown on the
snow from the open door, and asked if this was the place where a nurse
was needed.

Mr. Wood reached out and took her big valise and brought her into the
house, too astonished to speak. He was afraid she might vanish.

She threw off her heavy coat before she spoke, and then, as she wiped
the frost from her eyebrows, she explained:--

"I am what is called a pioneer nurse, and I am sent to take care of
your wife, as long as she needs me. You see the women in Alberta have
the vote now, and they have a little more to say about things than
they used to have, and one of the things they are keen on is to help
pioneer women over their rough places. Your neighbor, Mrs. Roberts, on
her way East, reported your wife's case, and so I am here. The
Mounted Police brought me out, and I have everything that is needed."

"But I don't understand!" Mr. Wood began.

"No!" said the nurse; "it is a little queer, isn't it? People have
spent money on pigs and cattle and horses, and have bonused railways
and elevator companies, or anything that seemed to help the country,
while the people who were doing the most for the country, the
settlers' wives, were left to live or die as seemed best to them.
Woman's most sacred function is to bring children into the world, and
if all goes well, why, God bless her!--but when things go wrong--God
help her! No one else was concerned at all. But, as I told you, women
vote now in Alberta, and what they say goes. Men are always ready to
help women in any good cause, but, naturally enough, they don't see
the tragedy of the lonely woman, as women see it. They are just as
sympathetic, but they do not know what to do. Some time ago, before
the war, there was an agitation to build a monument to the pioneer
women, a great affair of marble and stone. The women did not warm up
to it at all. They pointed out that it was poor policy to build
monuments to brave women who had died, while other equally brave women
in similar circumstances were being let die! So they sort of frowned
down the marble monument idea, and began to talk of nurses instead.

"So here I am," concluded Mrs. Sanderson, as she hung up her coat and
cap. "I am a monument to those who are gone, and the free gift of the
people of Alberta to you and your wife, in slight appreciation of the
work you are doing in settling the country and making all the land in
this district more valuable. They are a little late in acknowledging
what they owe the settler, but it took the women a few years to get
the vote, and then a little while longer to get the woman's point of
view before the public."

Mary Wood stood at her father's side while the nurse spoke, drinking
in every word.

"But who pays?" asked Mary's father--"who pays for this?"

"It is all simple enough," said the nurse. "There are many millions
of acres in Alberta held by companies, and by private owners, who live
in New York, London, and other places, who hold this land idle,
waiting for the prices to go up. The prices advance with the coming-in
of settlers like yourself, and these owners get the benefit. The
Government thinks these landowners should be made to pay something
toward helping the settlers, so they have put on a wild-lands tax of
one per cent of the value of the land; they have also put a telephone
tax on each unoccupied section, which will make it as easy for you to
get a telephone as if every section was settled; and they have also a
hospital tax, and will put up a hospital next year, where free
treatment will be given to every one who belongs to the municipality.

"The idea is to tax the wild land so heavily that it will not be
profitable for speculators to hold it, and it will be released for
real, sure-enough settlers. The Government holds to the view that it
is better to make homes for many people than to make fortunes for a
few people."

Mary's father sat down with a great sigh that seemed half a laugh and
half a sob.

"What is it you said the women have now?" asked Mary.

The nurse explained carefully to her small but interested audience.
When she was done, Mary Wood, aged eleven, had chosen her life-work.

"Now I know what I'll be when I grow big," she said; "I intended to be
a missionary, but I've changed my mind--I am going to be a Voter!"

CHAPTER VIII

"PERMISSION"

He walked among us many years,
And yet we failed to understand
That there was courage in his fears
And strength within his gentle hand:
We did not mean to be unkind,
But we were dull of heart and mind!

* * * * *

But when the drum-beat through the night
And men were called, with voice austere,
To die for England's sake--and right,
He was the first to answer, "Here!"
His courage, long submerged, arose,
When at her gates, knocked England's foes!

* * * * *

And so to-day, where the brave dead
Sleep sweetly amid Flemish bowers,
One grave, in thought, is garlanded
With prairie flowers!

And if the dead in realms of bliss
Can think on those they knew below,
He'll know we're sorry, and that this
Is our poor way of saying so!

The war has put a new face on our neighborhood life; it has searched
out and tried the hidden places of our souls, and strange, indeed,
have been its findings. By its severe testings some of those who we
thought were our strongest people have been abased, and some of the
weak ones have been exalted. There were some of our people who were
good citizens in the normal times of peace, but who could not stand
against the sterner test of war; and then again we have found the true
worth of some of those whom in our dull, short-sighted way we did not
know!

Stanley Goodman came to our neighborhood when he was a lad of sixteen.
The Church of England clergyman, who knew his people in England,
brought him to Mrs. Corbett, who kept the Black Creek Stopping House,
and asked her if she could give him a room and look after him. He told
her of the great wealth and social position of the family who were
willing to pay well for the boy's keep.

"If they are as well off as all that," said Mrs. Corbett, "why are
they sending the wee lad out here, away from all of them?"

The clergyman found it hard to explain. "It seems that this boy is not
quite like the other members of the family--not so bright, I take
it," he said; "and the father particularly is a bit disappointed in
him!"

"Do you mean," said Mrs. Corbett, "that they are ashamed of the poor
little fellow, and are sending him out here to get rid of him? Faith,
if that's the kind of heathen there is in England I don't know why
they send missionaries out here to preach to us. Bad and all as we
are, there is none of us that would do the like of that!"

"They will provide handsomely for him in every way, Mrs. Corbett, and
leave no wish ungratified," the minister said uneasily.

Mrs. Corbett was a difficult person in some ways.

"Oh, sure, they will give him everything but love and home, and
that'll be what the poor wee lad will hunger for! Money is a queer
thing for sure, when it will make a mother forget the child that she
brought into the world!"

"I think the mother--from what I can gather--wanted to keep the boy,
but the father is a very proud man, and this lad aggravated him some
way just to see him, and the mother yielded to his wishes, as a true
wife should, and for the sake of peace has withdrawn her objections."

"A poor soft fool, that's all she is, to let a domineering old
reprobate send her poor lad away, just because he did not like to see
him around, and him his own child! And even you, Mr. Tilton, who have
been out here living with civilized people for three years, have
enough of the old country way in you yet to say that a true wife
should consent to this to please the old tyrant! Faith, I don't blame
the Suffragettes for smashing windows, and if I wasn't so busy feeding
hungry men, I believe I would go over and give them a hand, only I
would be more careful what I was smashing and would not waste my time
on innocent windows!"

"But you will take him, won't you, Mrs. Corbett? I will feel quite
easy about him if you will!"

"I suppose I'll have to. I can't refuse when his own have deserted
him! I would be a poor member of the Army if I did not remember Our
Lord's promise to the poor children when their fathers and mothers
forsake them, and I will try to carry it out as well as I can."

Stanley was soon established in the big white-washed room in Mrs.
Corbett's boarding-house. He brought with him everything that any boy
could ever want, and his room, which he kept spotlessly clean, with
its beautiful rug, pictures, and books, was the admiration of the
neighborhood.

Stanley understood the situation and spoke of it quite frankly.

"My father thought it better for me to come away for a while, to see
if it would not toughen me up a bit. He has been rather disappointed
in me, I think. You see, I had an accident when I was a little fellow
and since then I have not been--quite right."

"Just think of that," Mrs. Corbett said afterwards in telling it to a
sympathetic group of "Stoppers." "It wouldn't be half so bad if the
poor boy didn't know that he is queer. I tried to reason it out of
him, but he said that he had heard the housekeeper and the parlor-maid
at home talking of it, and they said he was a bit looney. It wouldn't
be half so bad for him if he was not so near to being all right! If
ever I go wrong in the head I hope I'll be so crazy that I won't know
that I'm crazy. Craziness is like everything else--it's all right if
you have enough of it!"

"Stanley is not what any one would call crazy," said one of the
Stoppers; "the only thing I can see wrong with him is that you always
know what he is going to say, and he is too polite, and every one can
fool him! He certainly is a good worker, and there's another place he
shows that he is queer, for he doesn't need to work and still he does
it! He likes it, and thanked me to-day for letting him clean my team;
and as a special favor I'm going to let him hitch them up when I am
ready to go!"

Stanley busied himself about the house, and was never so happy as when
he was rendering some service to some one. But even in his happiest
moments there was always the wistful longing for home, and when he was
alone with Mrs. Corbett he freely spoke of his hopes and fears.

"It may not be so long before they begin to think that they would like
to see me; do you think that it is really true that absence makes the
heart grow fonder--even of people--like me? I keep thinking that maybe
they will send for me after a while and let me stay for a few days
anyway. My mother will want to see me, I am almost sure,--indeed, she
almost said as much,--and she said many times that she hoped that I
would be quite happy; and when I left she kissed me twice, and even
the governor shook hands with me and said, 'You will be all right out
there in Canada.' He was so nice with me, it made it jolly hard to
leave."

Another day, as he dried the dishes for her, assuring her that it was
a real joy for him to be let do this, he analyzed the situation
again:--

"My father's people are all very large and handsome," he said, "and
have a very commanding way with them; my father has always been
obeyed, and always got what he wanted. It was my chin which bothered
him the most. It is not much of a chin, I know; it retreats, doesn't
it? But I cannot help it. But I have always been a bitter
disappointment to him, and it really has been most uncomfortable for
mother--he seemed to blame her some way, too; and often and often I
found her looking at me so sadly and saying, 'Poor Stanley!' and all
my aunts, when they came to visit, called me that. It was--not
pleasant."

Every week his letter came from home, with books and magazines and
everything that a boy could wish for. His delight knew no bounds.
"They must think something of me," he said over and over again! At
first he wrote a letter to his mother every day, but a curt note came
from his father one day telling him that he must try to interest
himself in his surroundings and that it would be better if he wrote
only once a week! The weekly letter then became an event, and he
copied it over many times. Mrs. Corbett, busy with her work of feeding
the traveling public, often paused long enough in her work of peeling
the potatoes or rolling out pie-crust to wipe her hands hastily and
read the letter that he had written and pass judgment on it.

Feeling that all green Englishmen were their legitimate prey for
sport, the young bloods of the neighborhood, led by Pat Brennan, Mrs.
Corbett's nephew, began to tell Stanley strange and terrible stories
of Indians, and got him to send home for rifles and knives to defend
himself and the neighborhood from their traitorous raids, "which were
sure to be made on the settlements as soon as the cold weather came
and the Indians got hungry." He was warned that he must not speak to
Mrs. Corbett about this, for it is never wise to alarm the women. "We
will have trouble enough without having a lot of hysterical women on
our hands," said Pat.

After the weapons had come "The Exterminators" held a session behind
closed doors to see what was the best plan of attack, and decided that
they would not wait for the Indians to begin the trouble, but would
make war on them. They decided that they would beat the bushes for
Indians down in the river-bottom, while Stanley would sit at a certain
point of vantage in a clump of willows, and as the Indians ran past
him, he would pot them!

Stanley had consented to do this only after he had heard many tales of
Indian treachery and cruelty to the settlers and their families!

The plan was carried out and would no doubt have been successful, but
for the extreme scarcity of Indians in our valley.

All night long Stanley sat at his post, peering into the night, armed
to the teeth, shivering with the cold wind that blew through the
valley. His teeth chattered with fright sometimes, too, as the bushes
rustled behind him, and an inquisitive old cow who came nosing the
willows never knew how near death she had been. Meanwhile his
traitorous companions went home and slept soundly and sweetly in their
warm beds.

"And even after he found out that we were fooling him, he was not a
bit sore," said Pat. "He tried to laugh! That is what made me feel
cheap--he is too easy; it's too much like taking candy from a kid. And
he was mighty square about it, too, and he never told Aunt Maggie how
he got the cold, for he slipped into bed that morning and she didn't
know he was out."

Another time the boys set him to gathering the puff-balls that grew in
abundance in the hay meadow, assuring him that they were gopher-eggs
and if placed under a hen would hatch out young gophers.

Stanley was wild with enthusiasm when he heard this and hastened to
pack a box full to send home. "They _will_ be surprised," he said.
Fortunately, Mrs. Corbett found out about this before the box was
sent, and she had to tell him that the boys were only in fun.

When she told him that the boys had been just having sport there came
over his face such a look of sadness and pain, such a deeply hurt
look, that Mrs. Corbett went back to the barn and thrashed her sturdy
young nephew, all over again.

When the matter came up for discussion again, Stanley implored her not
to speak of it any more, and not to hold it against the boys. "It was
not their fault at all," he said; "it all comes about on account of my
being--not quite right. I am not quite like other boys, but when they
play with me I forget it and I believe what they say. There
is--something wrong with me,--and it makes people want--to have sport
with me; but it is not their fault at all."

"Well, they won't have sport with you when I am round," declared Mrs.
Corbett stoutly.

Years rolled by and Stanley still cherished the hope that some day
"permission" would come for him to go home. He grew very fast and
became rather a fine-looking young man. Once, emboldened by a
particularly kind letter from his mother, he made the request that he
should be allowed to go home for a few days. "If you will let me come
home even for one day, dearest mother," he wrote, "I will come right
back content, and father will not need to see me at all. I want to
stand once more before that beautiful Tissot picture of Christ holding
the wounded lamb in his arms, and I would like to see the hawthorn
hedge when it is in bloom as it will be soon, and above all, dear
mother, I want to see you. And I will come directly away."

He held this letter for many days, and was only emboldened to send it
by Mrs. Corbett's heartiest assurances that it was a splendid letter
and that his mother would like it!

"I do not want to give my mother trouble," he said. "She has already
had much trouble with me; but it might make her more content to see me
and to know that I am so well--and happy."

After the letter had been sent, Stanley counted the days anxiously,
and on the big map of Canada that hung on the kitchen wall he followed
its course until it reached Halifax, and then his mind went with it
tossing on the ocean.

"I may get my answer any day after Friday," he said. "Of course I do
not expect it right off--it will take some little time for mother to
speak to father, and, besides, he might not be at home; so I must not
be disappointed if it seems long to wait."

Friday passed and many weeks rolled by, and still Stanley was hopeful.
"They are considering," he said, "and that is so much better than if
they refused; and perhaps they are looking about a boat--I think that
must be what is keeping the letter back. I feel so glad and happy
about it, it seems that permission must be coming."

In a month a bulky parcel came to him by express. It contained a
framed picture of the Good Shepherd carrying the lost lamb in his
arms; a box of hawthorn blossoms, faded but still fragrant, and a book
which gave directions for playing solitaire in one hundred and
twenty-three ways!!

Mrs. Corbett hastened to his room when she heard the cry of pain that
escaped his lips. He stood in the middle of the floor with the book in
his hand. All the boyishness had gone out of his face, which now had
the spent look of one who has had a great fright or suffered great
pain. The book on solitaire had pierced through his cloudy brain with
the thought that his was a solitary part in life, and for a few
moments he went through the panicky grief of the faithful dog who
finds himself left on the shore while his false master sails gayly
away!

"I will be all right directly," he stammered, making a pitiful effort
to control his tears.

Mrs. Corbett politely appeared not to notice, and went hastily
downstairs, and although not accustomed to the use of the pen, yet she
took it in hand and wrote a letter to Stanley's father.

"It is a pity that your poor lad did not inherit some of your hardness
of heart, Mr. Goodman," the letter began, "for if he did he would not
be upstairs now breakin his and sobbin it out of him at your cruel
answer to his natural request that he might go home and see his
mother. But he has a heart of gold wherever he got it I don't know,
and it is just a curse to him to be so constant in his love for home,
when there is no love or welcome there for him. He is a lad that any
man might well be proud of him, that gentle and kind and honest and
truthful, not like most of the young doods that come out here drinkin
and carousin and raisin the divil. mebbe you would like him better if
he was and this is just to tell you that we like your boy here and we
dont think much of the way you are using him and I hope that you will
live to see the day that you will regret with tears more bitter than
he is sheddin now the way you have treated him, and with these few
lines I will close M corbett."

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