"By gum," said the President, looking at the door through which she had disappeared, "don't these women beat all? They go where they like—they do as they like—they wear what they like—they don't care what men think, any more. They're bold—that's what they are! and I don't know as I believe in lettin' them vote—By Gosh!"
The organizer raised his hand in warning, and spoke sternly.
"Hold your tongue," he said, "they're a long way from votin'. Believe what you like—no one cares what you believe—but sit tight on it! I talked too much just now. Let's learn our lesson."
Bertie, whose other name was now lost in oblivion, and who was known as "Bertie Crocks" for purposes of identification, standing at the corner of the "Horse Repository," saw Miss Keith entering the doctor's office, and wondered again how any one ever thought a small town dull.
CHAPTER X
THE WOMAN WITH A SORE THOUGHT
The turning of a key; the opening of a door, are commonplace sounds to most of us; but to a prisoner, weary of his cell, they are sounds of unspeakable rapture. The dripping of a tap, may have in it the element of annoyance—if we have to get up and shut it off before we can get to sleep, but a thirsty traveller on the burning sands of the desert, would be wild with joy to hear it. All which is another way of saying that everything in life is relative.
On the day that Pearl spoke in the school-house, there sat in one of the seats listening to her, a sombre-faced woman, who rarely came to any of the neighborhood gatherings. The women of the neighborhood, having only the primary hypothesis of human conduct, said she was "proud." She did not join heartily in their conversations when they met her, and had an aloofness about her which could only be explained that way. She had a certain daintiness about her, too, in her way of dressing—even in the way she did her hair—and in her walk, which made the women say with certain resentment, that Mrs. Paine would like to be "dressy."
But if Mrs. Paine had any such ambitions, they were not likely to be achieved, for although she and her husband had lived for years in this favored district, and had had good crops, Sylvester Paine was known all over the country as a hard man. The women would have liked Mrs. Paine much better if she had talked more, and complained about him—she was too close-mouthed they said. They freely told each other, and told her, of their hopes, fears, trials and triumphs—but Mrs. Paine's communications were yea and nay when the conversation was on personal matters, and she had a way of closing her lips which somehow prevented questions.
But on the day when Pearl spoke in the school Mrs. Paine's face underwent a change which would have interested a student of human nature. Something which had been long dead, came to life again that day; fluttering, trembling, shrinking. In her eyes there came again the dead hopes of the years, and it made her face almost pitiful in its trembling eagerness. There was a dull red rage in her eyes too that day, that was not good to see, and she was determined that it should not be seen, and for that reason, she slipped away when Pearl was through, leaving some excuse about having the chores to do. She could not bear to speak to the women and have them read her face; she knew it would tell too much. But she must talk to Pearl. There were things that Pearl could tell her.