Fruits of the Earth (7 page)

“I know, I know….”

“If you know, what's the fuss about? You said you didn't know what the work was for. That's it. To build up a place any man can be proud of, a place to leave to my children for them to be proud of.”

Ruth looked up. “Where do I come in?”

“Aren't you going to profit by my labours?”

“Profit! You probably pride yourself on being a good provider. You are. I've all I want except what I need: a purpose in life.”

“Don't you have the children?”

She burst into tears.

Abe drew a chair to the table and sat down by her side. Thence he caught sight of the boy. “Where is Jim?” he asked.

“I don't know, daddy.”

“Go. Run along. Find Jim and play with him.”

Obediently the child slipped from his chair and left the room, passing through the door into the dusk.

“Listen here,” Abe said for the third time. “I am willing to do anything in my power. Do you want to read? Buy books or magazines? Whatever you wish. Why don't you spend money on clothes, on pretty things such as girls and young women want?”

“What for? For whom should I doll myself up? I am ugly. What's the use? I am getting stout.”

“I'll tell you,” Abe went on. “Next time I go to Somerville, I'll open an account for you at the new bank. I'll deposit a couple of hundred. I'll give you that much or more every year. To do with as you please. What you need, for yourself or the children, I'll pay for. This is to be yours. I don't want you to feel that you have to give an account of what it's spent on. I won't ask. I promise you that. Use it in any way you please. I know it's hard, living that way, all by yourself. It will get better. The children will be company soon. That right?”

Ruth did not answer; but she was drying her tears with her apron.

Abe went to the door. “Charlie, Jim!” he called. “Bed-time.”

And the children, who were only too well aware that something was or had been wrong, came in at once, casting furtive glances at their parents. They went straight to the bedroom.

Abe returned to the barn where Bill Crane was milking.

For a while things remained normal between man and wife. No more than normal; they kept swinging about the neutral point, with only one change, namely that both made an endeavour to smooth matters over by a mutual show of tolerance and consideration.

But the essential difficulty was not removed. Abe was uncomfortably aware of the fact that, at the decisive moment, he had evaded the issue. But he had his hands full. The weed problem was becoming acute. As soon as the plough had done its work, the cultivator had to be started, followed by the drag; or the weeds would choke the wheat next year.

Then came the harvest. It was a good year, but the work was not easy. The rains had been ample; the straw was heavy; and a new weed had made its appearance: wild buckwheat, commonly called bind-weed. Its long, tough vines wound themselves about wheels and sickles of the binder till the horses could no longer pull the machine. Ordinarily two men are kept busy stooking the sheaves which one binder cuts. This year, what with the delays met by the machine, that proportion was reversed: one good man could have kept up with two binders. But since Abe had fallowed a quarter section, he could not afford to buy new implements. He fretted when, a dozen times a day, he saw Bill and Nicoll going idle while he stood between horses and sickles and furiously cut and slashed at the choking weeds. At last, in order to keep two men busy where there was work only for one, he made them haul the sheaves from the west of the field to the east, to clear the stubble for ploughing. Even so, he knew he would be crowded for time.

Summer and fall went by. Night after night Abe came home after dark–hot, dusty, exhausted. There was no time, no energy left to devote to his household; and the fact that he
knew he was neglecting a thing of fundamental importance made him cross and monosyllabic. He began to have glimpses of the truth that his dream of economic success involved another dream: that of a family life on the great estate which he was building up. At the early age of thirty-six he had moments of an almost poignant realization of “the futility of it all.”

When he threshed–rather late, for no thresherman cared to come into this district till the work in more settled areas was done–he was disappointed; in spite of heavy sheaves the crop averaged only nineteen bushels to the acre, with an acreage of only a quarter section. His income from this source was below two thousand five hundred dollars.

Yet he deposited two hundred dollars in Ruth's bank; and eight hundred he set aside for building. By the time he had paid his debt to the implement dealer and his taxes, reducing his indebtedness at the bank by half, he had nothing left. He told Ruth of his deposit to her credit and the sum set aside for enlarging the house; but he withheld the fact that he had been unable to balance his accounts. He expected her to express satisfaction at the growth of her account–or was it growing? But she received the announcement with a mere nod and, on the doubtful point, volunteered no information.

Winter came. It had been Abe's intention to use coal for fuel; but, being determined not to touch that eight hundred dollars, he made up his mind to haul wood once more. To do so, he had to go a distance of forty miles, for timber of a size sufficient to make the trip worth while could no longer be found at any point nearer than that. He had to stay out overnight. He left Bill at home to look after feeding and milking; for he did not trust him with any but routine work.

Altogether, this was the most anxious winter he had spent on the farm. He resented it that he, a man farming three
quarter sections, should have to make these long, tiring drives to save a hundred and fifty dollars. He never spent money unreasonably; yet he had to effect petty economies. He
must
have more land! He
must
get to a point where he farmed on a scale which would double his net income from a decreasing margin of profit. Nicoll's way was not his. He could not be satisfied with the fact that, if he killed a pig and a calf in the fall, there was meat in the house. To him, farming was an industry, not an occupation.

Spring came. He was planning to add two rooms to the house. Yet, since it was a makeshift–for never would he be satisfied with a patchwork house–he was unwilling to go to the expense involved. Still, Ruth must be considered.

One day, just before it was time to overhaul the implements needed for the spring work, he stopped in town and called on his sister. The doctor was at the store, to which a fully equipped dispensary and drug department had just been added, an extension of the business urgently needed since the necessity of getting prescriptions filled still diverted a good deal of trade to Somerville.

As Abe entered, Mary mentioned the fact of her husband's absence.

“That's all right. It was you I wanted to see.”

“Sit down, Abe.”

“How does it look to you, Mary? Am I making progress?”

Mary laughed. “You are the talk of the neighbourhood. Never was there a farmer like you, they say.”

Abe felt comforted and encouraged. “Sometimes I am getting despondent. I am everlastingly short of money.”

“Is not that very natural? You are always buying land and equipment.”

“Not always…. I suppose it is foolish to worry.”

“Look at what you have done. You have three quarter sections, clear, paid for. And such a barn.”

“I have the money to add two bedrooms to the house. It does seem necessary, does it not?”

“Well–”

“There isn't room for Ruth to turn around in.”

“Does she complain?”

“No, no…I believe she resents the fact that Bill's wife has a better place to live in than she. It's only temporary, of course. The fact is, I hate to spend money on a makeshift which I'll tear down in a year or two. I need an additional seeder and binder and God knows what.”

Mary pondered. “I've always feared it. She doesn't cooperate.”

“I don't say that,” Abe forestalled her hurriedly.

“I know. I see what I see. Suppose I make another attempt?” She looked at Abe out of friendly eyes, from behind heavy-rimmed glasses.

Abe mused dejectedly. Then he rose. “Perhaps–”

“I'll go to-morrow.”

“Day after. I'll have to go to Somerville. I've got to have that additional seeder before the work starts.”…

On the last of March–there was still snow on the ground–Mary, in fur coat and close-fitting hat, alighted in the yard where Bill was sawing wood. He came to take horse and cutter. The three older children were playing about the granary. Frances, no doubt, was asleep.

When Ruth opened to the knock, her lips tightened. She stepped back, inviting her sister-in-law by a gesture to enter; her very movement declined the other woman's kiss.

“Bill tells me Abe went away,” Mary said.

“I believe he did. He isn't in.”

With a glance Mary had swept the interior of the room. Plates were inverted on the oilcloth of the table; cups in their saucers. It
was
a small room for the family of four children. Ruth seemed enormous in girth. Mary removed her glasses to wipe them. It was hard to begin. She had planned to admire things to find the way to Ruth's heart. But there was nothing to admire. She resolved upon perfect frankness.

“Ruth, I know it is hard. The fact is, Abe is living through a crisis.”

Ruth stiffened. “He has told you, has he?”

“You may think I have no right to interfere.”

“I do. Why does he not speak for himself? Why send you?”

“It isn't as simple as all that. He doesn't send me. He came to speak of his difficulties.”

“He went to discuss his wife with his sister.”

“Not at all. He never mentioned you. I'm afraid you don't quite understand Abe. He has a dream which is all-in-all to him. He is in financial troubles. As I said, he is living through a crisis.”

“He has been living through one crisis after another.”

“It's the pioneer's lot. The pioneer used to live through periods of actual starvation. To-day, with settled districts all around, distress takes the form of financial stringency. It was bound to come. Perhaps you don't give him full credit for what he has achieved.”

“Who says I don't? But why buy more and more machinery and land?”

“It's the way of the west.”

“But that isn't the point.”

“What is, Ruth?”

“I can't discuss it.”

Mary shrugged her shoulders. “Frances asleep?” she asked at last.

Ruth rose and opened the door to the bedroom. That room, no larger than the dining-room, held four beds and a wardrobe. On one of the beds the little girl was lying, her head surrounded by yellow curls, damp with sleep. She was two years old.

Mary entered, bent down, and kissed the child without waking her. Strongly moved, she turned back to the dining-room. She had no children of her own, much as she longed for them; and her emotion made her forget that Ruth had shown her the child only in order to let her see the crowded condition of the house.

“I am more than sorry, Ruth,” she said as the door was closed.

Ruth went with her into the yard, wrapping her apron about her bare arms. She called the other children; she could afford to be generous; her victory over her sister-in-law was but too apparent.

“This is your Aunt Mary,” she said as in formal introduction.

The boys held out their hands; but Marion hid behind the skirts of her mother.

Mary bent down, a pained look in her eyes. “I am not only your aunt, I am your godmother too.”

But the child remained shy, and escaped. Bill came with horse and cutter.

“I am more than sorry, Ruth,” Mary repeated, holding out her hand, which Ruth touched with her finger-tips, a triumphant smile on her lips….

Just as Mary who had been crying, turned the corner
into Main Street on her way home, she caught sight of Abe coming from the east and stopped to wait for him.

Abe, in the cutter drawn by his bronchos, sat erect and stern. As he saw her, he drew up his eyebrows in a questioning way.

Mary shook her head. “I am afraid, Abe, Ruth is right.”

Abe nodded. “So long then.” And he proceeded on his way.

It did not matter! Was Mary against him too?

Arrived at home, he went straight to the house. What he had to say had only been made harder by that ill-judged mission of Mary's.

The children were sitting at table, having their supper. That discomposed him; he must wait. He entered the bedroom and changed into overalls. Then he went to the barn to keep himself busy.

When he returned, Ruth was waiting for him. He spoke at once.

“Look here, Ruth. I want you to help me. I can't build this spring.”

“Was that the news your sister was to break to me?”

“It was not. She didn't know. Listen here. I've got to have more land. That fellow Fairley who owns the northeast quarter saw me in town. I didn't know he lived there. He wants to sell and had a buyer offering a thousand dollars. I couldn't afford to let the land go into other hands. It's vital for me to have it. I offered eleven hundred. That's what he was waiting for. I had to use the eight hundred set aside for the new rooms. You will consider that a breach of faith. I
am
breaking faith with you. But I'll add at least one room to this shack in the fall; that's the best I can do. I am not my own master.”

Ruth laughed. “Do you notice it at last?”

“Notice what?”

“That you are not your own master?”

Abe stared. This extension of his meaning might be just or unjust as you looked upon it. “Can't be helped. I've got to have the land.”

Again Ruth laughed.

“Ruth,” Abe said stormily, “don't you see how I'm fixed? It took all I could do last fall to make both ends meet. I had to use cream cheques to pay off part of my loan at the bank. Once I get that quarter broken, things will ease up. My hand was forced. It would be a waste of money anyway to enlarge this shack beyond what's absolutely necessary. In a year or two I'll build a real house. Surely I should be able to ask my wife to put up with things for a while.”