The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter

by Gene Stratton-Porter

  “It is different. Quite, quite different!”

  “And when?” The Harvester stretched out longing arms. The Girl stepped back.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I had it when I started, but I lost it on the way.”

  The Harvester staggered under the disappointment.

  “Ruth, this has gone far enough that you wouldn’t play with me, merely for the sake of seeing me suffer, would you?”

  “No!” cried the Girl. “No! I mean it! I knew just what I wanted to say when I started; but we had to take grandmother out of bed. She wouldn’t allow me to leave her, and I wouldn’t stay away from you any longer. She fainted when we put her on the car and grandfather went wild. He almost killed the porters, and he raved at me. He said my mother had ruined their lives, and now I would be their death. I got so frightened I had a nervous chill and I’m so afraid she will grow worse—”

  “You poor child!” shuddered the Harvester. “I see! I understand! What you need is quiet and a good rest.”

  He placed her in a big easy chair and sitting on the hearth rug he leaned against her knee and said, “Now tell me, unless you are so tired that you should go to bed.”

  “I couldn’t possibly sleep until I have told you,” said the Girl.

  “If you’re merciful, cut it short!” implored the Harvester.

  “I think it begins,” she said slowly, “when I went because you sent me and I didn’t want to go. Of course, as soon as I saw grandfather and grandmother, heard them talk, and understood what their lives had been, and what might have been, why there was only one thing to do, as I could see it, and that was to compensate their agony the best I could. I think I have, David. I really think I have made them almost happy. But I told them all any one could tell about you in the start, and from the first grandmother would have been on your side; but you see how grandfather is, and he was absolutely determined that I should live with them, in their home, all their lives. He thought the best way to accomplish that would be to separate me from you and marry me to the son of his partner.

  “There are rooms packed with the lovely things they bought me, David, and everything was as I wrote you. Some of the people who came were wonderful, so gracious and beautiful, I loved almost all of them. They took me places where there were pictures, plays, and lovely parties, and I studied hard to learn some music, to dance, ride and all the things they wanted me to do, and to read good books, and to learn to meet people with graciousness to equal theirs, and all of it. Every day I grew stronger and met more people, and there were different places to go, and always, when anything was to be done, up popped Mr. Herbert Kennedy and said and did exactly the right thing, and he could be extremely nice, David.”

  “I haven’t a doubt!” said the Harvester, laying hold of her kimono.

  “And he popped up so much that at last I saw he was either pretending or else he really was growing very fond of me, so one day when we were alone I told him all about you, to make him see that he must not. He laughed at me, and said exactly what you did, that I didn’t love you at all, that it was gratitude, that it was the affection of a child. He talked for hours about how grandfather and grandmother had suffered, how it was my duty to live with them and give you up, even if I cared greatly for you; but he said what I felt was not love at all. Then he tried to tell me what he thought love was, and I could see very clearly that if it was like that, I didn’t love you, but I came a whole world closer it than loving him, and I told him so. He laughed again and said I was mistaken, and that he was going to teach me what real love was, and then I could not be driven back to you. After that, everybody and everything just pushed me toward him with both hands, except one person. She was a young married woman and I met her at the very first. She was the only real friend I ever had, and at last, the latter part of February, when things were the very worst, I told her. I told her every single thing. She was on your side. She said you were twice the man Herbert Kennedy was, and as soon as I found I could talk to her about you, I began going there and staying as long as I could, just to talk and to play with her baby.

  “Her husband was a splendid young fellow, and I grew very fond of him. I knew she had told him, because he suddenly began talking to me in the kindest way, and everything he said seemed to be what I most wanted to hear. I got along fairly well until hints of spring began to come, and then I would wonder about my hedge, and my gold garden, and if the ice was off the lake, and about my boat and horse, and I wanted my room, and oh, David, most of all I wanted you! Just you! Not because you could give me anything to compare in richness with what they could, not because this home was the best I’d ever known except theirs, not for any reason at all only just that I wanted to see your face, hear your voice, and have you pick me up and take me in your arms when I was tired. That was when I almost quit writing. I couldn’t say what I wanted to, and I wouldn’t write trivial things, so I went on day after day just groping.”

  “And you killed me alive,” said the Harvester.

  “I was afraid of that, but I couldn’t write. I just couldn’t! It was ten days ago that I thought of the bluebird’s coming this year and what it would mean to you, and that killed me, Man! It just hurt my heart until it ached, to know that you were out here alone; and that night I couldn’t sleep, because I was thinking of you, and it came to me that if I had your lips then I could give you a much, much better kiss than the last, and when it was light I wrote that line.

  “Nearly a week later I got your answer early in the morning, and it almost drove me wild. I took it and went for the day with May, and I told her. She took me upstairs, and we talked it over, and before I left she made me promise that I would write you and explain how I felt, and ask you what you thought. She wanted you to come there and see if you couldn’t make them at least respect you. I know I was crying, and she was bathing the baby. She went to bring something she had forgotten, and she gave him to me to hold, just his little naked body. He stood on my lap and mauled my face, and pulled my hair, and hugged me with his stout little arms and kissed me big, soft, wet kisses, and something sprang to life in my heart that never before had been there. I just cried all over him and held him fast, and I couldn’t give him up when she came back. I saw why I’d wanted a big doll all my life, right then; and oh, dear! the doll you sent was beautiful, but, David, did you ever hold a little, living child in your arms like that?”

  “I never did,” said the Harvester huskily.

  He looked at her face and saw the tears rolling, but he could say no more, so he leaned his head against her knee, and finding one of her hands he drew it to his lips.

  “It is wonderful,” said the Girl softly. “It awakens something in your heart that makes it all soft and tender, and you feel an awful responsibility, too. Grandmother had them telephone at last, and May helped me bathe my face and fix my hat. When we went to the carriage Mr. Kennedy was there to take me home. We went past grandmother’s florist to get her some violets—David, she is sleeping under yours, with just a few touching her lips. Oh it was lovely of you to get them; your fairies must have told you! She has them every day, and one of the objections she made to coming here was that she couldn’t do without them in winter, and she found some on her pillow the very first thing. David, you are wonderful! And grandfather with his lily! I know where he found that! I knew instantly. Ah, there are fairies who tell you, because you deserve to know.”

  The Girl bent and slipping her arm around his neck hugged him tight an instant, and then she continued unsteadily: “While he was in the shop—Harvester, this is like your wildest dream, but it’s truest truth—a boy came down the walk crying papers, and as I live, he called your name. I knew it had to be you because he said, ‘First drug farm in America! Wonderful medicine contributed to the cause of science! David Langston honoured by National Medical Association!’ I just stood in the carriage and screamed, ‘Boy! Boy!’ until the coachman thought I had lost my senses. He whistled and got me the paper. I was shaking so I a
sked him how to find anything you wanted quickly, and he pointed the column where events are listed; and when I found the third page there was your face so splendidly reproduced, and you seemed so fine and noble to me I forgot about the dress suit and the badge in your buttonhole, or to wonder when or how or why it could have happened. I just sat there shouting in my soul, ‘David! David! Medicine Man! Harvester Man!’ again and again.”

  “I don’t know what I said to Mr. Kennedy or how I got to my room. I scanned it by the column, at last I got to paragraphs, and finally I read all the sentences. David, I kissed that newspaper face a hundred times, and if you could have had those, Man, I think you would have said they were right. David, there is nothing to cry over!”

  “I’m not!” said the Harvester, wiping the splashes from her hand. “But, Ruth, forget what I said about being brief. I didn’t realize what was coming. I should have said, if you’ve any mercy at all, go slowly! This is the greatest thing that ever happened or ever will happen to me. See that you don’t leave out one word of it.”

  “I told you I had to tell you first,” said the Girl.

  “I understand now,” said the Harvester, his head against her knee while he pressed her hand to his lips. “I see! Your coming couldn’t be perfect without knowing this first. Go on, dear heart, and slowly! You owe me every word.”

  “When I had it all absorbed, I carried the paper to the library and said, ‘Grandfather, such a wonderful thing has happened. A man has had a new idea, and he has done a unique work that the whole world is going to recognize. He has stood before men and made a speech that few, oh so few, could make honestly, and he has advocated right living, oh so nobly, and he has given a wonderful gift to science without price, because through it he first saved the life he loved best. Isn’t that marvellous, grandfather?’ And he said, ‘Very marvellous, Ruth. Won’t you sit down and read to me about it?’ And I said, ‘I can’t, dear grandfather, because I have been away from grandmother all day, and she is fretting for me, and to-night is a great ball, and she has spent millions on my dress, I think, and there is an especial reason why I must go, and so I have to see her now; but I want to show you the man’s face, and then you can read the story.’

  “You see, I knew if I started to read it he would stop me; but if I left him alone with it he would be so curious he would finish. So I turned your name under and held the paper and said, ‘What do you think of that face, grandfather? Study it carefully,’ and, Man, only guess what he said! He said, ‘I think it is the face of one of nature’s noblemen.’ I just kissed him time and again and then I said, ‘So it is grandfather, so it is; for it is the face of the man who twice saved my life, and lifted my mother from almost a pauper grave and laid her to rest in state, and the man who found you, and sent me to you when I was determined not to come.’ And I just stood and kissed that paper before him and cried, again and again, ‘He is one of nature’s noblemen, and he is my husband, my dear, dear husband and to-morrow I am going home to him.’ Then I laid the paper on his lap and ran away. I went to grandmother and did everything she wanted, then I dressed for the ball. I went to say good-bye to her and show my dress and grandfather was there, and he followed me out and said, ‘Ruth, you didn’t mean it?’ I said, ‘Did you read the paper, grandfather?’ and he said ‘Yes’; and I said, ‘Then I should think you would know I mean it, and glory in my wonderful luck. Think of a man like that, grandfather!’

  “I went to the ball, and I danced and had a lovely time with every one, because I knew it was going to be the very last, and to-morrow I must start to you.

  “On the way home I told Mr. Kennedy what paper to get and to read it. I said good-bye to him, and I really think he cared, but I was too happy to be very sorry. When I reached my room there was a packet for me and, Man, like David of old, you are a wonderful poet! Oh Harvester! why didn’t you send them to me instead of the cold, hard things you wrote?”

  “What do you mean, Ruth?”

  “Those letters! Those wonderful outpourings of love and passion and poetry and song and broken-heartedness. Oh Man, how could you write such things and throw them in the fire? Granny Moreland found them when she came to bring you a pie, and she carried them to Doctor Carey, and he sent them to me, and, David, they finished me. Everything came in a heap. I would have come without them, but never, never with quite the understanding, for as I read them the deeps opened up, and the flood broke, and there did a warm tide go through all my being, like you said it would; and now, David, I know what you mean by love. I called the maids and they packed my trunk and grandmother’s, and I had grandfather’s valet pack his, and go and secure berths and tickets, and learn about trains, and I got everything ready, even to the ambulance and doctor; but I waited until morning to tell them. I knew they would not let me come alone, so I brought them along. David, what in the world are we going to do with them?”

  The Harvester drew a deep breath and looked at the flushed face of the Girl.

  “With no time to mature a plan, I would say that we are going to love them, care for them, gradually teach them our work, and interest them in our plans here; and so soon as they become reconciled we will build them such a house as they want on the hill facing us, just across Singing Water, and there they may have every luxury they can provide for themselves, or we can offer, and the pleasure of your presence, and both of them can grow strong and happy. I’ll have grandmother on her feet in ten days, and the edge off grandfather’s tongue in three. That bluster of his is to drown tears, Ruth; I saw it to-night. And when they pass over we will carry them up and lay them beside her under the oak, and we can take the house we build for them, if you like it better, and use this for a store-room.”

  “Never!” said the Girl. “Never! My sunshine room and gold garden so long as I live. Never again will I leave them. If this cabin grows too small, we will build all over the hillside; but my room and garden and this and the dining-room and your den there must remain as they are now.”

  The Harvester arose and drew the davenport before the fireplace, and heaped pillows. “You are so tired you are trembling, and your voice is quivering,” he said. He lifted the Girl, laid her down and arranged the coverlet.

  “Go to sleep!” he ordered gently. “You have made me so wildly happy that I could run and shout like a madman. Try to rest, and maybe the fairies who aid me will put my kiss back on your lips. I am going to the hill top to tell mother and my God.”

  He knelt and gathered her in his arms a second, then called Belshazzar to guard, and went into the sweet spring night, to jubilate with that wild surge of passion that sweeps the heart of a strong man when he is most nearly primal. He climbed the hill at a rush, and standing beneath the oak on the summit, he faced the lake, and stretching his arms widely, he waved them, merely to satisfy the demand for action. When urgency for expression came upon him, he laughed a deep rumble of exultation.

  The night wind swept the lake and lifted his hair, the odour of spring was intoxicating in his nostrils, small creatures of earth stirred around him, here and there a bird, restless in the delirium of mating fever, lifted its head and piped a few notes on the moon-whitened air. The frogs sang uninterruptedly at the water’s edge. The Harvester stood rejoicing. Beating on his brain came a rush of love words uttered in the Girl’s dear voice. “I wanted you! Just you! He is my husband! My dear, dear husband! To-morrow I am going home! Now, David, I know what you mean by love!” The Harvester laughed again and sounds around him ceased for a second, then swelled in fuller volume than before. He added his voice. “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” he cried. “And may the Author of the Universe, the spirits of the little mothers who loved us, and all the good fairies who guide us, unite to bring unbounded joy to my Dream Girl and to guard her safely.”

  The cocks of Medicine Woods began their second salute to dawn. At this sound and with the mention of her name, the Harvester turned down the hill, and striding forcefully approached the cabin. As he passed the Girl’s room he stepped so
ftly, smiling as he wondered if its unexpected occupants were resting. He followed Singing Water, and stood looking at the hillside, studying the exact location most suitable for a home for the old people he was so delighted to welcome. That they would remain he never doubted. His faith in the call of the wild had been verified in the Girl; it would reach them also. The hill top would bind them. Their love for the Girl would compel them. They would be company for her and a new interest in life.

  “Couldn’t be better, not possibly!” commented the delighted Harvester.

  He followed the path down Singing Water until he reached the bridge where it turned into the marsh. There he paused, looking straight ahead.

  “Wonder if I would frighten her?” he mused. “I believe I’ll risk it.”

  He walked on rapidly, vaulted the fence enclosing his land, crossed the road, and unlatched the gate. As he did so, the door opened, and Granny Moreland stood on the sill, waiting with keen eyes.

  “Well I don’t need neither specs nor noonday sun to see that you’re steppin’ like the blue ribbon colt at the County Fair, and lookin’ like you owned Kingdom Come,” she said. “What’s up, David?”

  “You are right, dear,” said the Harvester. “I have entered my kingdom. The Girl has come and crowned me with her love. She had decided to return, but the letters you sent made her happier about it. I wanted you to know.”

  Granny leaned against the casing, and began to sob unrestrainedly.

  The Harvester supported her tenderly.

  “Why don’t do that, dear. Don’t cry,” he begged. “The Girl is home for always, Granny, and I’m so happy I am out to-night trying to keep from losing my mind with joy. She will come to you to-morrow, I know.”