"This is a deuce of a day for any one to be out," began the man of the house. "Any fool could have told it was going to storm; what drove you out? Where did you come from, anyway?"
Mrs. Paine looked appealingly at him:—
"Let him get his breath, can't you, see, he is all in," she said quietly, "he'll tell you, when he can speak."
In a couple of hours, Peter Neelands, draped in a gray blanket, sat beside the fire, while his clothes were being dried, and rejoiced over the fact that he was alive. The near tragedy of the bright young lawyer found dead in the snow still thrilled him. It had been a close squeak, he told himself, and a drowsy sense of physical well-being made him almost unconscious of his surroundings. It was enough for him to be alive and warm.
Mrs. Paine moved about the house quietly, and did all she could with her crude means to make her guest comfortable, and to assure him of her hospitality. She pressed his clothes into shape again, and gave him a well-cooked dinner, as well served as her scanty supplies would allow, asking no questions, but with a quiet dignity making him feel that she was glad to serve him. There was something in her manner which made a strong appeal to the chivalrous heart of the young man. He wanted to help her—do something for her—make things easier for her.
The afternoon wore on, with no loosening of the grip of the storm, and Peter began to realize that he was a prisoner. He could have been quite happy with Mrs. Paine and the children, even though the floor of the kitchen was draughty and cold, the walls smoked, the place desolate and poor; but the presence of his host, with his insulting manners, soon grew unbearable. Mr. Paine sat in front of the stove, smoking and spitting, abusing the country, the weather, the Government, the church. Nothing escaped him, and everything was wrong.
A certain form of conceit shone through his words too, which increased his listener's contempt. He had made many sharp deals in his time, of which he was inordinately proud. Now he gloated over them. Fifteen thousand dollars of horse notes were safely discounted in the bank, so he did not care, he said, whether spring came or not. He had his money. The bank could collect the notes.
Peter looked at him to see if he were joking. Surely no man with so much money would live so poorly and have his wife and children so shabbily dressed. Something of this must have shown in his face.
"I've made money," cried Sylvester Paine, spitting at the leg of the stove; "and I've kept it—or spent it, just as I saw fit, and I did not waste is on a fancy house. What's a house, anyway, but a place to eat and sleep. I ain't goin' to put notions into my woman's head, with any big house—she knows better than to ask it now. If she don't like the house—the door is open—let her get out—I say. She can't take the kids—and she won't go far without them."
He laughed unpleasantly: "That's the way to have them, and by gosh! there's one place I admired the old Premier—in the way he roasted those freaks of women who came askin' for the vote. I don't think much of the Government, but I'm with them on that—in keepin' the women where they belong."