“No. She was a stranger. For an instant she looked around as if she expected some one, then she followed the crowd. There must have been an automobile waiting or she took a street car. Something whirled her out of sight in a few seconds.”
“Well we will get her in range again. Now for the most minute description you can give.”
The Harvester hesitated. He did not care to describe the Dream Girl to any one, much less the living, suffering face and poorly clad form of the reality.
“Cut out your scruples,” laughed the doctor. “You have asked me to help you; how can I if I don’t know what kind of a woman to look for?”
“Very tall and slender,” said the Harvester. “Almost as tall as I am.”
“Unusually tall you think?”
“I know!”
“That’s a good point for identification. How about her complexion, hair, and eyes?”
“Very large, dark eyes, and a great mass of black hair.”
The doctor roared.
“The eyes may help,” he said. “All women have masses of hair these days. I hope—”
“Her hair is fast to her head,” said the Harvester indignantly. “I saw it at close range, and I know. It went around like a crown.”
The doctor choked down a laugh. He wanted to say that every woman’s hair was like a crown at present, but there were things no man ventured with David Langston; those who knew him best, least of any. So he suggested, “And her colouring?”
“She was white and rosy, a lovely thing in the dream,” said the Harvester, “but something dreadful has happened. That’s all wiped out now. She was very pale when she left the car.”
“Car sick, maybe.”
“Soul sick!” was the grim reply.
Then Doctor Carey appeared so disturbed the Harvester noticed it.
“You needn’t think I’d be here prating about her if I wasn’t FORCED. If she had been rosy and well as she was in the dream, I’d have made my hunt alone and found her, too. But when I saw she was sick and in trouble, it took all the courage out of me, and I broke for help. She must be found at once, and when she is you are probably the first man I’ll want. I am going to put up a pretty stiff search myself, and if I find her I’ll send or get her to you if I can. Put her in the best ward you have and anything money will do—”
The face of the doctor was growing troubled.
“Day coach or Pullman?” he asked.
“Day.”
“How was she dressed?”
“Small black hat, very plain. Gray jacket and skirt, neat as a flower.”
“What you’d call expensively dressed?”
The Harvester hesitated.
“What I’d call carefully dressed, but—but poverty poor, if you will have it, Doc.”
Doctor Carey’s lips closed and then opened in sudden resolution.
“David, I don’t like it,” he said tersely.
The Harvester met his eye and purposely misunderstood him.
“Neither do I!” he exclaimed. “I hate it! There is something wrong with the whole world when a woman having a face full of purity, intellect, and refinement of extreme type glances around her like a hunted thing; when her appearance seems to indicate that she has starved her body to clothe it. I know what is in your mind, Doc, but if I were you I wouldn’t put it into words, and I wouldn’t even THINK it. Has it been your experience in this world that women not fit to know skimp their bodies to cover them? Does a girl of light character and little brain have the hardihood to advance a foot covered with a broken shoe? If I could tell you that she rode in a Pullman, and wore exquisite clothing, you would be doing something. The other side of the picture shuts you up like a clam, and makes you appear shocked. Let me tell you this: No other woman I ever saw anywhere on God’s footstool had a face of more delicate refinement, eyes of purer intelligence. I am of the woods, and while they don’t teach me how to shine in society, they do instil always and forever the fineness of nature and her ways. I have her lessons so well learned they help me more than anything else to discern the qualities of human nature. If you are my friend, and have any faith at all in my common sense, get up and do something!”
The doctor arose promptly.
“David, I’m an ass,” he said. “Unusually lop-eared, and blind in the bargain. But before I ask you to forgive me, I want you to remember two things: First, she did not visit me in my dreams; and, second, I did not see her in reality. I had nothing to judge from except what you said: you seemed reluctant to tell me, and what you did say was—was—disturbing to a friend of yours. I have not the slightest doubt if I had seen her I would agree with you. We seldom disagree, David. Now, will you forgive me?”
The Harvester suddenly faced a window. When at last he turned, “The offence lies with me,” he said. “I was hasty. Are you going to help me?”
“With all my heart! Go home and work until your head clears, then come back in the morning. She did not come from Chicago for a day. You’ve done all I know to do at present.”
“Thank you,” said the Harvester.
He went to Betsy and Belshazzar, and slowly drove up and down the streets until Betsy protested and calmly turned homeward. The Harvester smiled ruefully as he allowed her to proceed.
“Go slow and take it easy,” he said as they reached the country. “I want to think.”
Betsy stopped at the barn, the white doves took wing, and Ajax screamed shrilly before the Harvester aroused in the slightest to anything around him. Then he looked at Belshazzar and said emphatically: “Now, partner, don’t ever again interfere when I am complying with the observances of my religion. Just look what I’d have missed if I hadn’t made good with that order!”
Chapter 6
To Labour and to Wait
“We have reached the ‘beginning of the end,’ Ajax!” said the Harvester, as the peacock ceased screaming and came to seek food from his hand. “We have seen the Girl. Now we must locate her and convince her that Medicine Woods is her happy home. I feel quite equal to the latter proposition, Ajax, but how the nation to find her sticks me. I can’t make a search so open that she will know and resent it. She must have all the consideration ever paid the most refined woman, but she also has got to be found, and that speedily. When I remember that look on her face, as if horrors were snatching at her skirts, it takes all the grit out of me. I feel weak as a sapling. And she needs all my strength. I’ve simply got to brace up. I’ll work a while and then perhaps I can think.”
So the Harvester began the evening routine. He thought he did not want anything to eat, but when he opened the cupboard and smelled the food he learned that he was a hungry man and he cooked and ate a good supper. He put away everything carefully, for even the kitchen was dainty and fresh and he wanted to keep it so for her. When he finished he went into the living-room, stood before the fireplace, and studied the collection of half-finished candlesticks grouped upon it. He picked up several and examined them closely, but realized that he could not bind himself to the exactions of carving that evening. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked her door. Every day he had been going there to improve upon his work for her, and he loved the room, the outlook from its windows; he was very proud of the furniture he had made. There was no paper-thin covering on her chairs, bed, and dressing table. The tops, seats, and posts were solid wood, worth hundreds of dollars for veneer.
To-night he folded his arms and stood on the sill hesitating. While she was a dream, he had loved to linger in her room. Now that she was reality, he paused. In one golden May day the place had become sacred. Since he had seen the Girl that room was so hers that he was hesitating about entering because of this fact. It was as if the tall, slender form stood before the chest of drawers or sat at the dressing table and he did not dare enter unless he were welcome. Softly he closed the door and went away. He wandered to the dry-house and turned the bark and roots on the trays, but the air stifled him and he hurried out. He tried to work in the packing room,
but walls smothered him and again he sought the open.
He espied a bundle of osier-bound, moss-covered ferns that he had found in the woods, and brought the shovel to transplant them; but the work worried him, and he hurried through with it. Then he looked for something else to do and saw an ax. He caught it up and with lusty strokes began swinging it. When he had chopped wood until he was very tired he went to bed. Sleep came to the strong, young frame and he awoke in the morning refreshed and hopeful.
He wondered why he had bothered Doctor Carey. The Harvester felt able that morning to find his Dream Girl without assistance before the day was over. It was merely a matter of going to the city and locating a woman. Yesterday, it had been a question of whether she really existed. To-day, he knew. Yesterday, it had meant a search possibly as wide as earth to find her. To-day, it was narrowed to only one location so small, compared with Chicago, that the Harvester felt he could sift its population with his fingers, and pick her from others at his first attempt. If she were visiting there probably she would rest during the night, and be on the streets to-day.
When he remembered her face he doubted it. He decided to spend part of the time on the business streets and the remainder in the residence portions of the city. Because it was uncertain when he would return, everything was fed a double portion, and Betsy was left at a livery stable with instructions to care for her until he came. He did not know where the search would lead him. For several hours he slowly walked the business district and then ranged farther, but not a sight of her. He never had known that Onabasha was so large. On its crowded streets he did not feel that he could sift the population through his fingers, nor could he open doors and search houses without an excuse.
Some small boys passed him eating bananas, and the Harvester looked at his watch and was amazed to find that the day had advanced until two o’clock in the afternoon. He was tired and hungry. He went into a restaurant and ordered lunch; as he waited a girl serving tables smiled at him. Any other time the Harvester would have returned at least a pleasant look, and gone his way. To-day he scowled at her, and ate in hurried discomfort. On the streets again, he had no idea where to go and so he went to the hospital.
“I expected you early this morning,” was the greeting of Doctor Carey. “Where have you been and what have you done?”
“Nothing,” said the Harvester. “I was so sure she would be on the streets I just watched, but I didn’t see her.”
“We will go to the depot,” said the doctor. “The first thing is to keep her from leaving town.”
They arranged with the ticket agents, expressmen, telegraphers, and, as they left, the Harvester stopped and tipped the train caller, offering further reward worth while if he would find the Girl.
“Now we will go to the police station,” said the doctor.
“I’ll see the chief and have him issue a general order to his men to watch for her, but if I were you I’d select a half dozen in the down town district, and give them a little tip with a big promise!”
“Good Lord! How I hate this,” groaned the Harvester.
“Want to find her by yourself?” questioned his friend.
“Yes,” said the Harvester, “I do! And I would, if it hadn’t been for her ghastly face. That drives me to resort to any measures. The probabilities are that she is lying sick somewhere, and if her comfort depends on the purse that dressed her, she will suffer. Doc, do you know how awful this is?”
“I know that you’ve got a great imagination. If the woods make all men as sensitive as you are, those who have business to transact should stay out of them. Take a common-sense view. Look at this as I do. If she was strong enough to travel in a day coach from Chicago; she can’t be so very ill to-day. Leaving life by the inch isn’t that easy. She will be alive this time next year, whether you find her or not. The chances are that her stress was mental anyway, and trouble almost never overcomes any one.”
“You, a doctor and say that!”
“Oh, I mean instantaneously—in a day! Of course if it grinds away for years! But youth doesn’t allow it to do that. It throws it off, and grows hopeful and happy again. She won’t die; put that out of your mind. If I were you I would go home now and go straight on with my work, trusting to the machinery you have set in motion. I know most of the men with whom we have talked. They will locate her in a week or less. It’s their business. It isn’t yours. It’s your job to be ready for her, and have enough ahead to support her when they find her. Try to realize that there are now a dozen men on hunt for her, and trust them. Go back to your work, and I will come full speed in the motor when the first man sights her. That ought to satisfy you. I’ve told all of them to call me at the hospital, and I will tell my assistant what to do in case a call comes while I am away. Straighten your face! Go back to Medicine Woods and harvest your crops, and before you know it she will be located. Then you can put on your Sunday clothes and show yourself, and see if you can make her take notice.”
“Idiot!” exclaimed the Harvester, but he started home. When he arrived he attended to his work and then sat down to think.
“Doc is right,” was his ultimate conclusion. “She can’t leave the city, she can’t move around in it, she can’t go anywhere, without being seen. There’s one more point: I must tell Carey to post all the doctors to report if they have such a call. That’s all I can think of. I’ll go to-night, and then I’ll look over the ginseng for parasites, and to-morrow I’ll dive into the late spring growth and work until I haven’t time to think. I’ve let cranesbill get a week past me now, and it can’t be dispensed with.”
So the following morning, when the Harvester had completed his work at the cabin and barn and breakfasted, he took a mattock and a big hempen bag, and followed the path to the top of the hill. As it ran along the lake bank he descended on the other side to several acres of cleared land, where he raised corn for his stock, potatoes, and coarser garden truck, for which there was not space in the smaller enclosure close the cabin. Around the edges of these fields, and where one of them sloped toward the lake, he began grubbing a variety of grass having tall stems already over a foot in height at half growth. From each stem waved four or five leaves of six or eight inches length and the top showed forming clusters of tiny spikelets.
“I am none too early for you,” he muttered to himself as he ran the mattock through the rich earth, lifting the long, tough, jointed root stalks of pale yellow, from every section of which broke sprays of fine rootlets. “None too early for you, and as you are worth only seven cents a pound, you couldn’t be considered a ‘get-rich-quick’ expedient, so I’ll only stop long enough with you to gather what I think my customers will order, and amass a fortune a little later picking mullein flowers at seventy-five cents a pound. What a crop I’ve got coming!”
The Harvester glanced ahead, where in the cleared soil of the bank grew large plants with leaves like yellow-green felt and tall bloom stems rising. Close them flourished other species requiring dry sandy soil, that gradually changed as it approached the water until it became covered with rank abundance of short, wiry grass, half the blades of which appeared red. Numerous everywhere he could see the grayish-white leaves of Parnassus grass. As the season advanced it would lift heart-shaped velvet higher, and before fall the stretch of emerald would be starred with white-faced, green-striped flowers.
“Not a prettier sight on earth,” commented the Harvester, “than just swale wire grass in September making a fine, thick background to set off those delicate starry flowers on their slender stems. I must remember to bring her to see that.”
His eyes followed the growth to the water. As the grass drew closer moisture it changed to the rank, sweet, swamp variety, then came bulrushes, cat-tails, water smartweed, docks, and in the water blue flag lifted folded buds; at its feet arose yellow lily leaves and farther out spread the white. As the light struck the surface the Harvester imagined he could see the little green buds several inches below. Above all arose wild rice he had plan
ted for the birds. The red wings swayed on the willows and tilted on every stem that would bear their weight, singing their melodious half-chanted notes, “O-ka-lee!”
Beneath them the ducks gobbled, splashed, and chattered; grebe and coot voices could be distinguished; king rails at times flashed into sight and out again; marsh wrens scolded and chattered; occasionally a kingfisher darted around the lake shore, rolling his rattling cry and flashing his azure coat and gleaming white collar. On a hollow tree in the woods a yellow hammer proved why he was named, because he carpentered industriously to enlarge the entrance to the home he was excavating in a dead tree; and sailing over the lake and above the woods in grace scarcely surpassed by any, a lonesome turkey buzzard awaited his mate’s decision as to which hollow log was most suitable for their home.
The Harvester stuffed the grass roots in the bag until it would hold no more and stood erect to wipe his face, for the sun was growing warm. As he drew his handkerchief across his brow, the south wind struck him with enough intensity to attract attention. Instantly the Harvester removed his hat, rolled it up, and put it into his pocket. He stood an instant delighting in the wind and then spoke.
“Allow me to express my most fervent thanks for your kindness,” he said. “I thought probably you would take that message, since it couldn’t mean much to you, and it meant all the world to me. I thought you would carry it, but, I confess, I scarcely expected the answer so soon. The only thing that could make me more grateful to you would be to know exactly where she is: but you must understand that it’s like a peep into Heaven to have her existence narrowed to one place. I’m bound to be able to say inside a few days, she lives at number—I don’t know yet, on street—I’ll find out soon, in the closest city, Onabasha. And I know why you brought her, South Wind. If ever a girl’s cheeks need fanning with your breezes, and painting with sun kisses, I wouldn’t mind, since this is strictly private, adding a few of mine; if ever any one needed flowers, birds, fresh air, water, and rest! Good Lord, South Wind, did you ever reach her before you carried that message? I think not! But Onabasha isn’t so large. You and the sun should get your innings there. I do hope she is not trying to work! I can attend to that; and so there will be more time when she is found, I’d better hustle now.”
The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter Page 67
