The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter

by Gene Stratton-Porter

  “Oh!” she cried breathlessly, as the clinging feet suddenly loosened and the luna slowly flew away among the trees. She turned on the Harvester. “You teach me wonders!” she cried. “You give life different meanings. You are not as other men.”

  “If that be true, it is because I am of the woods. The Almighty does not evolve all his wonders in animal, bird, and flower form; He keeps some to work out in the heart, if humanity only will go to His school, and allow Him to have dominion. Come now, you must go. I will come back and put away all the things and tomorrow I will bring your ginseng money. Any time you cannot come, if you want to tell me why, or if there is anything I can do for you, put a line under the oilcloth. I will carry the bucket.”

  “I am so afraid,” she said.

  “I will only go to the edge of the woods. You can see if there is any one at the house first. If not, you can send the child away, and then I will carry the bucket to the door for you, and it will furnish comfort for one night, at least.”

  They went to the cleared land and the Girl passed on alone. Soon she reappeared and the Harvester saw the child going down the road. He took up the bucket and set it inside the door.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Nothing but go, before you make trouble.”

  “Will you hide that stuff and walk back as far as the woods with me? There is something more I want to say to you.”

  The Girl staggered under the heavy load, and the man turned his head and tried to pretend he did not see. Presently she came out to him, and they returned to the line of the woods. Just as they entered the shade there was a flash before them, and on a twig a few rods away a little gray bird alighted, while in precipitate pursuit came a flaming wonder of red, and in a burst of excited trills, broken whistles, and imploring gestures, perched beside her.

  The Harvester hastily drew the Girl behind some bushes.

  “Watch!” he whispered. “You are going to see a sight so lovely and so rare it is vouchsafed to few mortals ever to behold.”

  “What are they fighting about?” she whispered.

  “You are witnessing a cardinal bird declare his love,” breathed the Harvester.

  “Do cardinals love different birds?”

  “No. The female is gray, because if she is coloured the same as the trees and branches and her nest, she will have more chance to bring off her young in safety. He is blood red, because he is the bravest, gayest, most ardent lover of the whole woods,” explained the Harvester.

  The Girl leaned forward breathlessly watching and a slow surge of colour crept into her cheeks. The red bird twisted, whistled, rocked, tilted, and trilled, and the gray sat demurely watching him, as if only half convinced he really meant it. The gay lover began at the beginning and said it all over again with more impassioned gestures than before, and then he edged in touch and softly stroked her wing with his beak. She appeared startled, but did not fly. So again the fountain of half-whistled, half-trilled notes bubbled with the acme of pleading intonation and that time he leaned and softly kissed her as she reached her bill for the caress. Then she fled in headlong flight, while the streak of flame darted after her. The Girl caught her breath in a swift spasm of surprise and wonder. She turned to the Harvester.

  “What was it you wanted to say to me?” she asked hurriedly.

  The Harvester was not the man to miss the goods the gods provided. Truly this was his lucky day. Unhesitatingly he took the plunge.

  “Precisely what he said to her. And if you observed closely, you noticed that she didn’t ask him ‘why.’”

  Before she could open her lips, he was gone, his swift strides carrying him through the woods.

  Chapter 12

  “The Way of a Man with a Maid ”

  The next day the Harvester lifted the oilcloth, and picking up a folded note he read—

  “Aunt Molly found rest in the night. She was more comfortable than she had been since I have known her. Close the end she whispered to me to thank you if I ever saw you again. She will be buried to-morrow. Past that, I dare not think.”

  The Harvester sat on the log and studied the lines. She would not come that day or the next. After a long time he put the note in his pocket, wrote an answer telling her he had been there, and would come on the following day on the chance of her wanting anything he could do, and the next he would bring the ginseng money, so she must be sure to meet him.

  Then he went back to the wagon, turned Betsy, and drove around the Jameson land watching closely. There were several vehicles in the barn lot, and a couple of men sitting under the trees of the door yard. Faded bedding hung on the line and women moved through the rooms, but he could not see the Girl. Slowly he drove on until he came to the first house, and there he stopped and went in. He saw the child of the previous day, and as she came forward her mother appeared in the doorway.

  The Harvester explained who he was and that he was examining the woods in search of some almost extinct herbs he needed in his business. Then he told of having been at the adjoining farm the day before and mentioned the sick woman. He added that later she had died. He casually mentioned that a young woman there seemed pale and ill and wondered if the neighbours would see her through. He suggested that the place appeared as if the owner did not take much interest, and when the woman finished with Henry Jameson, he said how very important it seemed to him that some good, kind-hearted soul should go and mother the poor girl, and the woman thought she was the very person. Without knowing exactly how he did it, the Harvester left with her promise to remain with the Girl the coming two nights. The woman had her hands full of strange and delicious fruit without understanding why it had been given her, or why she had made those promises. She thought the Harvester a remarkably fine young man to take such interest in strangers and she told him he was welcome to anything he could find on her place that would help with his medicines.

  The Harvester just happened to be coming from the woods as the woman freshly dressed left the house, so he took her in the wagon and drove back to the Jameson place, because he was going that way. Then he returned to Medicine Woods and worked with all his might.

  First he polished floors, cleaned windows, and arranged the rooms as best he could inside the cabin; then he gave a finishing touch to everything outside. He could not have told why he did it, but he thought it was because there was hope that now the Girl would come to Onabasha. If he found opportunity to bring her to the city, he hoped that possibly he might drive home with her and show Medicine Woods, so everything must be in order. Then he worked with flying fingers in the dry-house, putting up her ginseng for market, and never was weight so liberal.

  The next morning he drove early to Onabasha and came home with a loaded wagon, the contents of which he scattered through the cabin where it seemed most suitable, but the greater part of it was for her. He glanced at the bare floors and walls of the other rooms, and thought of trying to improve them, but he was afraid of not getting the right things.

  “I don’t know much about what is needed here,” he said, “but I am perfectly safe in buying anything a girl ever used.”

  Then he returned to the city, explained the situation to the doctor, and selected the room he wanted in case the Girl could be persuaded to come to the hospital. After that he went to see the doctor’s wife, and made arrangements for her to be ready for a guest, because there was a possibility he might want to call for help. He had another jug of fruit juice and all the delicacies he could think of, also a big cake of ice, when he reached the woods. There were only a few words for him.

  “I will come to-morrow at two, if at all possible; if not, keep the money until I can.”

  There was nothing to do except to place his offering under the oilcloth and wait, but he simply was compelled to add a line to say he would be there, and to express the hope that she was comfortable as possible and thinking of the sunshine room. Then he returned to Medicine Woods to wait, and found that possible only by working to exhaust
ion. There were many things he could do, and one after another he finished them, until completely worn out; and then he slept the deep sleep of weariness.

  At noon the next day he bathed, shaved, and dressed in fresh, clean clothing. He stopped in Onabasha for more fruit, and drove to the Jameson woods. He was waiting and watching the usual path the Girl followed, when her step sounded on the other side. The Harvester arose and turned. Her pallor was alarming. She stepped on the rug he had spread, and sank almost breathless to the chair.

  “Why do you come a new way that fills you with fear?” asked the Harvester.

  “It seems as if Uncle Henry is watching me every minute, and I didn’t dare come where he could see. I must not remain a second. You must take these things away and go at once. He is dreadful.”

  “So am I,” said the Harvester, “when affairs go too everlastingly wrong. I am not afraid of any man living. What are you planning to do?”

  “I want to ask you, are you sure about the prices of my drawing and the ginseng?”

  “Absolutely,” said the Harvester. “As for the ginseng it went in fresh and early, best wild roots, and it brought eight a pound. There were eight pounds when I made up weight and here is your money.”

  He handed her a long envelope addressed to her.

  “What is the amount?” she asked.

  “Sixty-four dollars.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “You have it in your fingers.”

  “You know that I would like to thank you properly, if I had words to express myself.”

  “Never mind that,” said the Harvester. “Tell me what you are planning. Say that you will come to the hospital for the long, perfect rest now.”

  “It is absolutely impossible. Don’t weary me by mentioning it. I cannot.”

  “Will you tell me what you intend doing?”

  “I must,” she said, “for it depends entirely on your word. I am going to get Uncle Henry’s supper, and then go and remain the night with the neighbour who has been helping me. In the morning, when he leaves, she is coming with her wagon for my trunk, and she is going to drive with me to Onabasha and find me a cheap room and loan me a few things, until I can buy what I need. I am going to use fourteen dollars of this and my drawing money for what I am forced to buy, and pay fifty on my debt. Then I will send you my address and be ready for work.”

  She clutched the envelope and for the first time looked at him.

  “Very well,” said the Harvester. “I could take you to the wife of my best friend, the chief surgeon of the city hospital, and everything would be ease and rest until you are strong; she would love to have you.”

  The Girl dropped her hands wearily.

  “Don’t tire me with it!” she cried. “I am almost falling despite the stimulus of food and drink I can touch. I never can thank you properly for that. I won’t be able to work hard enough to show you how much I appreciate what you have done for me. But you don’t understand. A woman, even a poverty-poor woman, if she be delicately born and reared, cannot go to another woman on a man’s whim, and when she lacks even the barest necessities. I don’t refuse to meet your friends. I shall love to, when I can be so dressed that I will not shame you. Until that times comes, if you are the gentleman you appear to be, you will wait without urging me further.”

  “I must be a man, in order to be a gentleman,” said the Harvester. “And it is because the man in me is in hot rebellion against more loneliness, pain, and suffering for you, that the conventions become chains I do not care how soon or how roughly I break. If only you could be induced to say the word, I tell you I could bring one of God’s gentlest women to you.”

  “And probably she would come in a dainty gown, in her carriage or motor, and be disgusted, astonished, and secretly sorry for you. As for me, I do not require her pity. I will be glad to know the beautiful, refined, and gentle woman you are so certain of, but not until I am better dressed and more attractive in appearance than now. If you will give me your address, I will write you when I am ready for work.”

  Silently the Harvester wrote it. “Will you give me permission to take these things to your neighbour for you?” he asked. “They would serve until you can do better, and I have no earthly use for them.”

  She hesitated. Then she laughed shortly.

  “What a travesty my efforts at pride are with you!” she cried. “I begin by trying to preserve some proper dignity, and end by confessing abject poverty. I yet have the ten you paid me the other day, but twenty-four dollars are not much to set up housekeeping on, and I would be more glad than I can say for these very things.”

  “Thank you,” said the Harvester. “I will take them when I go. Is there anything else?”

  “I think not.”

  “Will you have a drink?”

  “Yes, if you have more with you. I believe it is really cooling my blood.”

  “Are you taking the medicine?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and I am stronger. Truly I am. I know I appear ghastly to you, but it’s loss of sleep, and trying to lay away poor Aunt Molly decently, and—”

  “And fear of Uncle Henry,” added the Harvester.

  “Yes,” said the Girl. “That most of all! He thinks I am going to stay here and take her place. I can’t tell him I am not, and how I am to hide from him when I am gone, I don’t know. I am afraid of him.”

  “Has he any claim on you?”

  “Shelter for the past three months.”

  “Are you of age?”

  “I am almost twenty-four,” she said.

  “Then suppose you leave Uncle Henry to me,” suggested the Harvester.

  “Why?”

  “Careful now! The red bird told you why!” said the man. “I will not urge it upon you now, but keep it steadily in the back of your head that there is a sunshine room all ready and waiting for you, and I am going to take you to it very soon. As things are, I think you might allow me to tell you—”

  She was on her feet in instant panic. “I must go,” she said. “Uncle Henry is dogging me to promise to remain, and I will not, and he is watching me. I must go—”

  “Can you give me your word of honour that you will go to the neighbour woman to-night; that you feel perfectly safe?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, I—I think so. Yes, if he doesn’t find out and grow angry. Yes, I will be safe.”

  “How soon will you write me?”

  “Just as soon as I am settled and rest a little.”

  “Do you mean several days?”

  “Yes, several days.”

  “An eternity!” cried the Harvester with white lips. “I cannot let you go. Suppose you fall ill and fail to write me, and I do not know where you are, and there is no one to care for you.”

  “But can’t you see that I don’t know where I will be? If it will satisfy you, I will write you a line to-morrow night and tell you where I am, and you can come later.”

  “Is that a promise?” asked the Harvester.

  “It is,” said the Girl.

  “Then I will take these things to your neighbour and wait until to-morrow night. You won’t fail me?”

  “I never in all my life saw a man so wild over designs,” said the Girl, as she started toward the house.

  “Don’t forget that the design I’m craziest about is the same as the red bird’s,” the Harvester flung after her, but she hurried on and made no reply.

  He folded the table and chair, rolled the rug, and shouldering them picked up the bucket and started down the river bank.

  “David!”

  Such a faint little call he never would have been sure he heard anything if Belshazzar had not stopped suddenly. The hair on the back of his neck arose and he turned with a growl in his throat. The Harvester dropped his load with a crash and ran in leaping bounds, but the dog was before him. Half way to the house, Ruth Jameson swayed in the grip of her uncle. One hand clutched his coat front in a spasmodic grasp, and with the other she covered her face.
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  The roar the Harvester sent up stayed the big, lifted fist, and the dog leaped for a throat hold, and compelled the man to defend himself. The Harvester never knew how he covered the space until he stood between them, and saw the Girl draw back and snatch together the front of her dress.

  “He took it from me!” she panted. “Make him, oh make him give back my money!”

  Then for a few seconds things happened too rapidly to record. Once the Harvester tossed a torn envelope exposing money to the Girl, and again a revolver, and then both men panting and dishevelled were on their feet.

  “Count your money, Ruth?” said the Harvester in a voice of deadly quiet.

  “It is all here,” said she.

  “Her money?” cried Henry Jameson. “My money! She has been stealing the price of my cattle from my pockets. I thought I was short several times lately.”

  “You are lying,” said the Harvester deliberately. “It is her money. I just paid it to her. You were trying to take it from her, not the other way.”

  “Oh, she is in your pay?” leered the man.

  “If you say an insulting word I think very probably I will finish you,” said the Harvester. “I can, with my naked hands, and all your neighbours will say it is a a good job. You have felt my grip! I warn you!”

  “How does my niece come to be taking money from you!”

  “You have forfeited all right to know. Ruth, you cannot remain here. You must come with me. I will take you to Onabasha and find you a room.”

  A horrible laugh broke from the man.

  “So that is the end of my saintly niece!” he said.

  “Remember!” cried the Harvester advancing a step. “Ruth, will you go to the rest I suggested for you?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Will you go to Doctor Carey’s wife?”

  “Impossible!”

  “Will you marry me and go to the shelter of my home with me?”