Fruits of the Earth (40 page)

“Well,” Ruth said evenly, “nobody wants more rain.”

“Guess not.” McCrae looked about the room. “You all alone?”

“Yes. My daughter is away.”

“That so?”

Ruth, taking the bull by the horns, turned full on him, one arm on the table. “Mr. McCrae, why did you take advantage of Frances?”

His eyes narrowed; but he held his smile. “I? Take advantage of Frances?”

“Yes.”

“Who says I did?”

“She does.”

“Frances, eh?”

“I got Abe out of the way to talk matters over. I was afraid he might go to extremes.”

“He doesn't know?”

“He doesn't suspect.”

The young man sat very still. His smile vanished as if he were dropping a mask. “Mrs. Spalding, I love Frances.”

Ruth winced. But as she went on, she might have been discussing a trifle of no importance. “Then why did you take advantage of her?”

“I don't know,” he replied with a despondent shrug of his shoulders. “Something in me does these things. I can't help myself.”

“You don't know why. But you don't deny the fact?”

“I don't deny.”

Ruth's resolution gave way. Her bosom heaving, she burst into tears.

The young man felt shaken. Resting one elbow on the table and ruffling his hair, he looked up. “Where is Frances?”

“I won't tell you.”

“Mrs. Spalding, we must talk this over.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“You take this too hard. What difference does it make?
Not many girls marry to-day without having had to do with a man.”

Through her tears Ruth looked straight at him. “Is that so?” “Believe me, you are old-fashioned. These things mean nothing.”

“Does a child mean nothing?”

He leaned back, bewildered. “There's a child? Surely not yet?”

“Not yet, of course,” Ruth said dryly.

Again he ruffled his hair. “I'll have to take care of the child.”

“In your own family?”

“No!” he said precipitately. “Grace mustn't know.”

“How can you keep it a secret?”

“I'll pay for the child's keep.”

“And the other expenses?” Ruth sat as if driving a bargain, uncertain whether she had gone far enough.

“I'll pay for everything. As sure as I live.”

“Where is the money to come from?”

“I'll find it. I'll borrow. I have friends.”

“Then,” Ruth lifted herself to her feet, unable to go on, “you will have to ask them first to go bail for you.”

The detective stepped forth, baring the badge on his vest.

“I suppose that will do?” Ruth asked.

“That will do nicely, madam. Thank you.” He stepped to McCrae's side and fastened a handcuff around his right wrist.

McCrae, standing rigid, made no resistance. “Mrs. Spalding,” he said, “I'll get a divorce from Grace and marry Frances.”

“Marry Frances!” Then, scornfully, “I thought you loved your wife so much that you did not even want her to know.”

“You'll be sorry for this!” he threatened in sudden anger.

Nicoll stirred in the den. McCrae, becoming aware of this further presence, turned to the man by his side. “Can I see my wife?”

“Right-o! Take you theah myself,” the constable answered politely.

Half an hour later, certain papers having been signed by Ruth and Nicoll, these two were left alone for a moment.

“I'm sorry,” Nicoll said, clasping his grey beard pensively with one hand. “That's all I can say, Mrs. Spalding.”

Ruth nodded, in tears. “You'll act as though you knew nothing?”

“Of course,” Nicoll replied and took his leave….

That night, Ruth slept from sheer exhaustion: a dull, dead sleep annulling reality. Next morning, not a memory seemed left of what she had gone through. She lay between sleeping and waking, listening for sounds to tell her that Abe was stirring. When the ghost of a memory returned, she sat up; and inconsequently the fact that she was stout and unwieldy interfered with the realization of other things. She cried. She was all alone, helpless and alone. That was what twenty-one years had brought her to. Twenty-one years ago she had been full of hope, joy, pride. Only now did she understand Abe. But if he had remained faithful to her it was because other things had occupied him to the exclusion of guilty thoughts: not because he had desired only her. The struggle which that insight had cost her had made her hard; but she did not blame him. She rose and went to the dresser to put her clothes on before the mirror, looking at herself with that distaste which, in the past, she had often thought she saw in Abe's face.

Then she went down. The huge, empty house oppressed her. She took her breakfast in the kitchen, standing, feeling desolate.

Then she left the house to do the chores which, but for her, would remain undone. By doing them, she was asking Abe's forgiveness. The bitterness of a past decade was gone. Would Abe ever seek her because he needed her as she needed him? That would redeem her life….

She was glad to find the work hard as she carried oats and hay….

The morning wore on. Another hot day. The season of storms was past: this was the last of the summer before the fall. From all about, as Ruth went to and fro, the deafening trilling of the crickets invaded the oasis of the yard. The sky was filled with the haze which, disappearing, left the atmosphere dry with summer dust. For the first time Ruth, too, felt the immensity of the prairie like a menace: as if she must get away from its threat. Yet she dreaded the house.

As the morning merged into noon, her excitement gained on her again. Her pulse was fast; she could hear the thud of her heart. At last she went in and mechanically tidied the rooms. Then she went upstairs and lay down on her bed. The house, the farm, all life were disorganized.

What did it mean? The law! The common justification of punishment is its deterrent effect. With that justification something was wrong: punishment arose from another cause: from the feeling which invaded her when she thought of McCrae: he deserved death because she must revenge herself; his death would give her satisfaction. Oh, how she needed Abe! How absolutely she would trust him!

“You take this too hard…. These things mean nothing.” That was not Abe's view. Yet, what had happened, had happened. It could not be changed. Suddenly she regretted what she had done. Her hatred had exhausted itself by being indulged in. She felt uncertain again….

The day went by. Ruth did not even think of rising for her dinner. She had to get these things clear in her mind.

They were clear as night fell; and a measure of firmness returned. The whole trend of her resolutions had been reversed. She would go to town in the morning and, over the telephone, withdraw the charge. Others were involved; let them act; she must save what was left to her: the chance of a peaceful old age with Abe. Mary had been right; she, Ruth, had made a mistake. If she withdrew in time, the man would be careful what he said. Abe might still be kept in ignorance.

On Saturday morning, having done the chores, she dressed for the trip and hitched the aged pony to what had been the children's buggy.

By ten, the weather still being unchanged, she arrived at Morley. Her conveyance she left at the livery stable.

Thence she went to the telephone office to put in a long-distance call for Mr. Inkster. She waited till the connection was made, surprised to find nothing disturbed in the routine of things.

She was going to undo what she had done. She felt that she was going to act on a lower plane: listening to the voice of expediency. Like Abe she had been urged on by the fundamental revolt against injustice: by the age-old desire to replace the blind flow of events and the yielding to impulse by something conformable to human reason; by the need to make a moral order prevail where chaos had ruled. This man had transgressed the law that is born within us; she had tried to vindicate that law by invoking another, made by men, never doubting that in the result the two were identical. She had done exactly what Abe would have done. In doing what she was going to do, she was frustrating the very course which he would have taken. She was plunged back into uncertainty.

A bell rang in the toll booth. “Mr. Inkster is on the wire.”

Blindly she stumbled into the booth, her hands trembling. “That Mr. Inkster? Mrs. Spalding speaking.”

“Oh, yes. The preliminary hearing is over. McCrae is out on bail.”

“He is out?” Ruth asked in amazement.

“He handled his case very skilfully. He had witnesses on hand to confirm his assertions.”

Ruth trembled from head to foot. She knew that the operator was listening in. How could she put her question without letting her into the secret? “What was the sum?” she stammered.

“Two hundred dollars.”

A cry broke from the woman in the booth.

“In my opinion,” the lawyer went on, callous to implications conveyed by his words, “a trial, therefore, will offer no chance.”

Ruth felt a sudden revulsion which impelled her in the very direction which she meant to reverse. She could not accept the verdict implied. She would have been willing to withdraw a charge which offered a chance of success. To do so under defeat was bitter. “What happened?”

“He made it appear highly probable that the girl–”

“It went without saying that he would try to do that.”

“That he would try. Not that he would succeed.”

“Succeed? With whom?”

“With the magistrate and–myself.”

“You don't mean to say–”

“It went like most cases. His witness was willing to go under oath.”

“Who was it?”

“I forget the name–an engineer with one of the railways.”

Ruth was unconscious of the fact that she was holding
the receiver in her hand. She did not grasp the words she heard. Then she realized that the man would never be silent when he triumphed. He would boast of the fact. “What do you advise?” she asked at last.

“Settle out of court. If it's a question of money, now is the time.”

“But it is not.”

“You gave me to understand–”

“I wanted him punished. I wanted justice done. I wanted–”

“Mrs. Spalding, all this leads to nothing. Will you kindly instruct me whether to get in touch with the defendant's counsel?”

“No.” Then, seeing no way out, she did under compulsion what she had come to do of her own free will. “I withdraw the charge.”

“Very well,” said the voice at the other end of the wire. “I shall send the papers for your signature by to-morrow's mail.”

Mechanically Ruth replaced the receiver and left the booth. The operator called after her. She had forgotten to pay the fee.

She was in a turmoil. She did not believe in the guilt of the girl. How could a daughter of hers be guilty? The path of the law was closed; but the desire to see the man punished revived in all its strength.

Where was she to go? Not to Mary's house. There she would go when her mind was made up. To protect Abe was no longer an issue with Ruth. She knew she was vastly more at one with him than his sister. Through her own feelings she had had another revelation of Abe. Abe must come at once. Human law left her without support. The letter killeth….

She went to the end of Main Street where the road led north. She turned and went on into the open prairie. In front
of the trees which screened the village in the north, she would be invisible from Hilmer's and Elliot's houses. She crossed the ditch and went east to the grove of poplars invading the prairie. There she sat down on the ground.

A long while she cried, her feeling of helplessness and impotence poignant. Her whole being was once more a single urge and impulse: to crush that man! For a decade she had lived only in her children and through them. And this man had arisen….

Then the chaos of her feelings resolved itself again into that call for Abe. She staggered to her feet. There was only one course left.

Mary and the doctor were at home. For the first time in Ruth's experience, there was disagreement between man and wife.

“You know?” Ruth asked as she sat down.

“About the arrest?” Mary asked with acerbity. “It's the talk of the countryside. The papers report it.”

“You will find it was a useless step, Ruth,” said the doctor.

“The man must be punished.”

“It is not a case for the law.”

“He is out on bail.”

The doctor nodded. “So the papers say. I should withdraw the charge.”

“And let the man go unpunished?”

“It is my belief that no flagrant wrong goes unpunished.”

“If you had listened to me,” Mary said, “you would not have started this. The more you bestir yourself, the sooner Abe will know.”

“The sooner Abe knows,” said the doctor, “the better.”

Ruth looked at him. Was he an ally?

“Frances,” he went on, “is Abe's child as well as Ruth's.
You want to keep him in ignorance. It cannot be done; if it could, it would be wrong. When he hears of it, we shall all be to blame in his eyes.”

“He will do something rash!” Mary exclaimed.

“No matter what he will do. Nobody has the right to do it for him.”

“You said,” Ruth interposed, “this is not a case for the law. For whom is it a case?”

“For me and others. For all who know of it. This thing is vastly more ramified than you think; and not only McCrae is involved. I have talked to a number of people who do not know that Frances is among the victims. For two years there has been talk. Half the district has run wild. There's the oldest Hartley boy; there is Henry Topp; and Slim. It is a whole gang. The district has been without its leader. It has been run in opposition to its natural leader. That is an acknowledged fact. McCrae and others, it is said, cannot be trusted with woman or girl for the space of minutes. I have urged certain parents to take action; we wished to place the guilt. In this case, at last, we know. One man, at least, will be an outlaw henceforth. His neighbours will close their doors against him. No merchant in town will sell him supplies. On the road, people will refuse him the time of the day. Unless he can live on his farm as in the wilderness, he will have to leave.”