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"I don't wonder you're sick you haven't been eatin' enough to keep a canary bird alive. Go on right into the house now. I'll feed your team." "It beats all what happens to our help," Mrs. Motherwell complained to Pearl, as they washed the breakfast dishes. "It looks very much as if Arthur is goin' to be laid up, too, and the busy time just on us." Pearl was troubled. Why should Arthur be sick?
Sam Motherwell and his wife were nominally Presbyterians. At the time that the Millford Presbyterian Church was built Sam had given twenty-five dollars toward it, the money having been secured in some strange way by the wiles of Purvis Thomas, the collector. Everybody was surprised at Sam's prodigality. The next year, a new collector for Purvis Thomas had gone away called on Mr. Motherwell.
"Yes, they were," Mrs. Motherwell said quietly. Pearl set the porridge on the back of the stove and ran out to where the poppies nodded gaily. Never before had they seemed so beautiful. Mrs. Motherwell watched her through the window bending over them. Something about the poppies appealed to her now. She had once wanted Tom to cut them down, and she thought of it now. She tapped on the window.
Sam Motherwell stood up and struck the table with his fist. "Ettie," he said, "I am a hard man, a danged hard man, and as you say I've never given away much, but I am not so low down yet that I have to reach up to touch bottom, and the old woman will not go to the poor house if I have money enough to keep her out!" Sam Motherwell was as good as his word.
Motherwell is a true poet. But oh, I don't believe in your John Clares, Thomas Davises, Whittiers, Hallocks and still less in other names which it would be invidious to name again. How pert I am! But you give me leave to be pert, and you know the meaning of it all, after all.
Pearl asked, nodding toward the house. "Who? So-Bossie?" "No, Mrs. Motherwell." "Well, no," he answered slowly. "You haven't heard of her having a fit, have you?" "No," Pearl answered wonderingly. "Then we're safe in saying that the secret has been kept from her." "Does it hurt her, though?" Pearl asked. "It would, very much, if she knew it," the young man replied gravely.
"Yes'm, I'm comin'. I'll help you, Tom. Keep a stout heart and all will be well." Pearl knew all about frustrated love. Ma had read a story once, called "Wedded and Parted, and Wedded Again." How would Mrs. Motherwell like it if poor Tom began to pine and turn from his victuals.
The tragedies, the sins, the misdeeds of thirty years ago were as fresh in his memory as the scandal of yesterday. No man had ever been tempted beyond his strength but Sam Motherwell knew the manner of his undoing. He extended no mercy to the fallen; he suggested no excuse for the erring. The collector made known his errand. Sam became animated at once.
Motherwell knew at one glance that Tom would learn no good from her she was such a flighty looking thing! Flowers on the under side of her hat! So poor Tom grew up a clod of the valley. Yet Mrs. Motherwell would tell you, "Our Tom'll be the richest man in these parts.
I'd like to see the clouds though. I'll bet they're a sight, just like what Camilla sings about: Dark is His path on the wings o' the storm. In the kitchen below the Motherwells gathered with pale faces. The windows shook and rattled in their casings. "Keep away from the stove, Tom," Mrs. Motherwell said, trembling. "That's where the lightnin' strikes." Tom's teeth were chattering.
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