“'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingethAnd tolls its perfume on the passing air,Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringethA call to prayer.”
“Beautiful!” said the Girl.
“It's mighty convenient,” explained the Harvester. “By my method, you see, you don't have to wait for your day and hour of worship. Anywhere the blue bell rings its call it is Sunday in the woods and in your heart. After I recite that, I pray my prayer.”
“Go on!” said the Girl. “This is no place to stop.”
“It is always one and the same prayer, and there are only two lines of it,” said the Harvester. “It runs this way—— Let me take your pencil and I will write it for you.”
He bent over her shoulder, and traced these lines on a scrap of the wrapping paper:
“Almighty Evolver of the Universe:Help me to keep my soul and body clean,And at all times to do unto others as I would be done by.Amen.”
The Girl took the slip and sat studying it; then she raised her eyes to his face curiously, but with a tinge of awe in them.
“I can see you standing over a blue, bell-shaped flower reciting those exquisite lines and praying this wonderful prayer,” she said. “Yesterday you allowed the moth you were willing to pay five dollars for a drawing of, to go, because you wouldn't risk breaking its wings. Why you are more like a woman!”
A red stream crimsoned the Harvester's face.
“Well heretofore I have been considered strictly masculine,” he said. “To appreciate beauty or to try to be just commonly decent is not exclusively feminine. You must remember there are painters, poets, musicians, workers in art along almost any line you could mention, and no one calls them feminine, but there is one good thing if I am. You need no longer fear me. If you should see me, muck covered, grubbing in the earth or on a raft washing roots in the lake, you would not consider me like a woman.”
“Would it be any discredit if I did? I think not. I merely meant that most men would not see or hear the blue bell at all——and as for the poem and prayer! If the woods make a man with such fibre in his soul, I must learn them if they half kill me.”
“You harp on death. Try to forget the word.”
“I have faced it for months, and seen it do its grinding worst very recently to the only thing on earth I loved or that loved me. I have no desire to forget! Tell me more about the plants.”
“Forgive me,” said the Harvester gently. “Just now I am collecting catnip for the infant and nervous people, hoarhound for colds and dyspepsia, boneset heads and flowers for the same purpose. There is a heavy head of white bloom with wonderful lacy leaves, called yarrow. I take the entire plant for a tonic and blessed thistle leaves and flowers for the same purpose.”
“That must be what I need,” interrupted the Girl. “Half the time I believe I have a little fever, but I couldn't have dyspepsia, because I never want anything to eat; perhaps the tonic would make me hungry.”
“Promise me you will tell that to the doctor who comes to see your aunt, and take what he gives you.”
“No doctor comes to see my aunt. She is merely playing lazy to get out of work. There is nothing the matter with her.”
“Then why——”
“My uncle says that. Really, she could not stand and walk across a room alone. She is simply worn out.”
“I shall report the case,” said the Harvester instantly.
“You better not!” said the Girl. “There must be a mistake about you knowing my uncle. Tell me more of the flowers.”
The Harvester drew a deep breath and continued:
“These I just have named I take at bloom time; next month come purple thorn apple, jimson weed, and hemlock.”
“Isn't that poison?”
“Half the stuff I handle is.”
“Aren't you afraid?”
“Terribly,” said the Harvester in laughing voice. “But I want the money, the sick folk need the medicine, and I drink water.”
The Girl laughed also.
“Look here!” said the Harvester. “Why not tell me just as closely as you can about your aunt, and let me fix something for her; or if you are afraid to trust me, let me have my friend of whom I spoke yesterday.”
“Perhaps I am not so much afraid as I was,” said the Girl. “I wish I could! How could I explain where I got it and I wonder if she would take it.”
“Give it to her without any explanation,” said the Harvester. “Tell her it will make her stronger and she must use it. Tell me exactly how she is, and I will fix up some harmless remedies that may help, and can do no harm.”
“She simply has been neglected, overworked, and abused until she has lain down, turned her face to the wall, and given up hope. I think it is too late. I think the end will come soon. But I wish you would try. I'll gladly pay——”
“Don't!” said the Harvester. “Not for things that grow in the woods and that I prepare. Don't think of money every minute.”
“I must,” she said with forced restraint. “It is the price of life. Without it one suffers——horribly——as I know. What other plants do you gather?”
“Saffron,” answered the Harvester. “A beautiful thing! You must see it. Tall, round stems, lacy, delicate leaves, big heads of bright yellow bloom, touched with colour so dark it appears black—one of the loveliest plants that grows. You should see my big bed of it in a week or two more. It makes a picture.”
The words recalled him to the Girl. He turned to study her. He forgot his commission and chafed at conventions that prevented his doing what he saw was required so urgently. Fearing she would notice, he gazed away through the forest and tried to think, to plan.
“You are not making noise enough,” she said.
So absorbed was the Harvester he scarcely heard her. In an attempt to obey he began to whistle softly. A tiny goldfinch in a nest of thistle down and plant fibre in the branching of a bush ten feet above him stuck her head over the brim and inquired, “P'tseet?” “Pt'see!” answer the Harvester. That began the duet. Before the question had been asked and answered a half dozen times a catbird intruded its voice and hearing a reply came through the bushes to investigate. A wren followed and became very saucy. From——one could not see where, came a vireo, and almost at the same time a chewink had something to say.
Instantly the Harvester answered. Then a blue jay came chattering to ascertain what all the fuss was about, and the Harvester carried on a conversation that called up the remainder of the feathered tribe. A brilliant cardinal came tearing through the thicket, his beady black eyes snapping, and demanded to know if any one were harming his mate, brooding under a wild grape leaf in a scrub elm on the river embankment. A brown thrush silently slipped like a snake between shrubs and trees, and catching the universal excitement, began to flirt his tail and utter a weird, whistling cry.
With one eye on the bird, and the other on the Girl sitting in amazed silence, the Harvester began working for effect. He lay quietly, but in turn he answered a dozen birds so accurately they thought their mates were calling, and closer and closer they came. An oriole in orange and black heard his challenge, and flew up the river bank, answering at steady intervals for quite a time before it was visible, and in resorting to the last notes he could think of a quail whistled “Bob White” and a shitepoke, skulking along the river bank, stopped and cried, “Cowk, cowk!”
At his limit of calls the Harvester changed his notes and whistled and cried bits of bird talk in tone with every mellow accent and inflection he could manage. Gradually the excitement subsided, the birds flew and tilted closer, turned their sleek heads, peered with bright eyes, and ventured on and on until the very bravest, the wren and the jay, were almost in touch. Then, tired of hunting, Belshazzar came racing and the little feathered people scattered in precipitate flight.
“How do you like that kind of a noise?” inquired the Harvester.
The Girl drew a deep breath.
“Of course you know that was the most exquisite sight I ever saw,” she said. “I never shall forget it. I did not think there were that many different birds in the whole world. Of all the gaudy colours! And they came so close you could have reached out and touched them.”
“Yes,” said the Harvester calmly. “Birds are never afraid of me. At Medicine Woods, when I call them like that, many, most of them, in fact, eat from my hand. If you ever have looked at me enough to notice bulgy pockets, they are full of wheat. These birds are strangers, but I'll wager you that in a week I can make them take food from me. Of course, my own birds know me, because they are around every day. It is much easier to tame them in winter, when the snow has fallen and food is scarce, but it only takes a little while to win a bird's confidence at any season.”
“Birds don't know what there is to be afraid of,” she said.
“Your pardon,” said the Harvester, “but I am familiar with them, and that is not correct. They have more to fear than human beings. No one is going to kill you merely to see if he can shoot straight enough to hit. Your life is not in danger because you have magnificent hair that some woman would like for an ornament. You will not be stricken out in a flash because there are a few bits of meat on your frame some one wants to eat. No one will set a seductive trap for you, and, if you are tempted to enter it, shut you from freedom and natural diet, in a cage so small you can't turn around without touching bars. You are in a secure and free position compared with the birds. I also have observed that they know guns, many forms of traps, and all of them decide by the mere manner of a man's passing through the woods whether he is a friend or an enemy. Birds know more than many people realize. They do not always correctly estimate gun range, they are foolishly venturesome at times when they want food, but they know many more things than most people give them credit for understanding. The greatest trouble with the birds is they are too willing to trust us and be friendly, so they are often deceived.”
“That sounds as if you were right,” said the Girl.
“I am of the woods, so I know I am,” answered the Harvester.
“Will you look at this now?”
He examined the drawing closely.
“Where did you learn?” he inquired.
“My mother. She was educated to her finger tips. She drew, painted, played beautifully, sang well, and she had read almost all the best books. Besides what I learned at high school she taught me all I know. Her embroidery always brought higher prices than mine, try as I might. I never saw any one else make such a dainty, accurate little stitch as she could.”
“If this is not perfect, I don't know how to criticise it. I can and will use it in my work. But I have one luna cocoon remaining and I would give ten dollars for such a drawing of the moth before it flies. It may open to-night or not for several days. If your aunt should be worse and you cannot come to-morrow and the moth emerges, is there any way in which I could send it to you?”
“What could I do with it?”
“I thought perhaps you could take a piece of paper and the pencils with you, and secure an outline in your room. It need not be worked up with all the detail in this. Merely a skeleton sketch would do. Could I leave it at the house or send it with some one?”
“No! Oh no!” she cried. “Leave it here. Put it in a box in the bushes where I hid the books. What are you going to do with these things?”
“Hide them in the thicket and scatter leaves over them.”
“What if it rains?”
“I have thought of that. I brought a few yards of oilcloth to-day and they will be safe and dry if it pours.”
“Good!” she said. “Then if the moth comes out you bring it, and if I am not here, put it under the cloth and I will run up some time in the afternoon. But if I were you, I would not spread the rug until you know if I can remain. I have to steal every minute I am away, and any day uncle takes a notion to stay at home I dare not come.”
“Try to come to-morrow. I am going to bring some medicine for your aunt.”
“Put it under the cloth if I am not here; but I will come if I can. I must go now; I have been away far too long.”
The Harvester picked up one of the drug pamphlets, laid the drawing inside it, and placed it with his other books. Then he drew out his pocket book and laid a five-dollar bill on the table and began folding up the chair and putting away the things. The Girl looked at the money with eager eyes.
“Is that honestly what you would pay at the arts and crafts place?”
“It is the customary price for my patterns.”
“And are you sure this is as good?”
“I can bring you some I have paid that for, and let you see for yourself that it is better.”
“I wish you would!” she cried eagerly. “I need that money, and I would like to have it dearly, if I really have earned it, but I can't touch it if I have not.”
“Won't you accept my word?”
“No. I will see the other drawings first, and if I think mine are as good, I will be glad to take the money to-morrow.”
“What if you can't come?”
“Put them under the oilcloth. I watch all the time and I think Uncle Henry has trained even the boys so they don't play in the river on his land. I never see a soul here; the woods, house, and everything is desolate until he comes home and then it is like——” she paused.
“I'll say it for you,” said the Harvester promptly. “Then it is like hell.”
“At its worst,” supplemented the Girl. Taking pencils and a sheet of paper she went swiftly through the woods. Before she left the shelter of the trees, the Harvester saw her busy her hands with the front of her dress, and he knew that she was concealing the drawing material. The colour box was left, and he said things as he put it with the chair and table, covered them with the rug and oilcloth, and heaped on a layer of leaves.
Then he drove to the city and Betsy turned at the hospital corner with no interference. He could face his friend that day. Despite all discouragements he felt reassured. He was progressing. Means of communication had been established. If she did not come, he could leave a note and tell her if the moth had not emerged and how sorry he was to have missed seeing her.
“Hello, lover!” cried Doctor Carey as the Harvester entered the office. “Are you married yet?”
“No. But I'm going to be,” said the Harvester with confidence.
“Have you asked her?”
“No. We are getting acquainted. She is too close to trouble, too ill, and too worried over a sick relative for me to intrude myself; it would be brutal, but it's a temptation. Doc, is there any way to compel a man to provide medical care for his wife?”
“Can he afford it?”
“Amply. Anything! Worth thousands in land and nobody knows what in money. It's Henry Jameson.”
“The meanest man I ever knew. If he has a wife it's a marvel she has survived this long. Won't he provide for her?”
“I suppose he thinks he has when she has a bed to lie on and a roof to cover her. He won't supply food she can eat and medicine. He says she is lazy.”
“What do you think?”
“I quote Miss Jameson. She says her aunt is slowly dying from overwork and neglect.”
“David, doesn't it seem pretty good, when you say 'Miss Jameson'?”
“Loveliest sound on earth, except the remainder of it.”
“What's that?”
“Ruth!”
“Jove! That is a beautiful name. Ruth Langston. It will go well, won't it?”
“Music that the birds, insects, Singing Water, the trees, and the breeze can't ever equal. I'm holding on with all my might, but it's tough, Doc. She's in such a dreadful place and position, and she needs so much. She is sick. Can't you give me a prescription for each of them?”
“You just bet I can,” said the doctor, “if you can engineer their taking them.”
“I suppose you'd hold their noses and pour stuff down them.”
“I would if necessary.”
“Well, it is.”
“All right——I'll fix something, and you see that they use it.”
“I can try,” said the Harvester.
“Try! Pah! You aren't half a man!”
“That's a half more than being a woman, anyway.”
“She called you feminine, did she?” cried the doctor, dancing and laughing. “She ought to see you harvesting skunk cabbage and blue flag or when you are angry enough.”
The doctor left the room and it was a half hour before he returned.
“Try that on them according to directions,” he said, handing over a couple of bottles.
“Thank you!” said the Harvester, “I will!”
“That sounds manly enough.”
“Oh pother! It's not that I'm not a man, or a laggard in love; but I'd like to know what you'd do to a girl dumb with grief over the recent loss of her mother, who was her only relative worth counting, sick from God knows what exposure and privation, and now a dying relative on her hands. What could you do?”
“I'd marry her and pick her out of it!”
“I wouldn't have her, if she'd leave a sick woman for me!”
“I wouldn't either. She's got to stick it out until her aunt grows better, and then I'll go out there and show you how to court a girl.”
“I guess not! You keep the girl you did court, courted, and you'll have your hands full. How does that appear to you?”
The Harvester opened the pamphlet he carried and held up the drawing of the moth.
The doctor turned to the light.
“Good work!” he cried. “Did she do that?”
“She did. In a little over an hour.”
“Fine! She should have a chance.”
“She is going to. She is going to have all the opportunity that is coming to her.”
“Good for you, David! Any time I can help!”
The Harvester replaced the sketch and went to the wagon; but he left Belshazzar in charge, and visited the largest dry goods store in Onabasha, where he held a conference with the floor walker. When he came out he carried a heaping load of boxes of every size and shape, with a label on each. He drove to Medicine Woods singing and whistling.
“She didn't want me to go, Belshazzar!” he chuckled to the dog. “She was more afraid of a cow than she was of me. I made some headway to-day, old boy. She doesn't seem to have a ray of an idea what I am there for, but she is going to trust me soon now; that is written in the books. Oh I hope she will be there to-morrow, and the luna will be out. Got half a notion to take the case and lay it in the warmest place I can find. But if it comes out and she isn't there, I'll be sorry. Better trust to luck.”
The Harvester stabled Betsy, fed the stock, and visited with the birds. After supper he took his purchases and entered her room. He opened the drawers of the chest he had made, and selecting the labelled boxes he laid them in. But not a package did he open. Then he arose and radiated conceit of himself.
“I'll wager she will like those,” he commented proudly, “because Kane promised me fairly that he would have the right things put up for a girl the size of the clerk I selected for him, and exactly what Ruth should have. That girl was slenderer and not quite so tall, but he said everything was made long on purpose. Now what else should I get?”
He turned to the dressing table and taking a notebook from his pocket made this list:
Rugs for bed and bath room.Mattresses, pillows and bedding,Dresses for all occasions.All kinds of shoes and overshoes.
“There are gloves, too!” exclaimed the Harvester. “She has to have some, but how am I going to know what is right? Oh, but she needs shoes! High, low, slippers, everything! I wonder what that clerk wears. I don't believe shoes would be comfortable without being fitted, or at least the proper size. I wonder what kind of dresses she likes. I hope she's fond of white. A woman always appears loveliest in that. Maybe I'd better buy what I'm sure of and let her select the dresses. But I'd love to have this room crammed with girl-fixings when she comes. Doesn't seem as if she ever has had any little luxuries. I can't miss it on anything a woman uses. Let me think!”
Slowly he wrote again:
Parasols.Fans.Veils.Hats.
“I never can get them! I think that will keep me busy for a few days,” said the Harvester as he closed the door softly, and went to look at the pupae cases. Then he carved on the vine of the candlestick for her dressing table; with one arm around Belshazzar, re-read the story of John Muir's dog, went into the lake, and to bed. Just as he was becoming unconscious the beast lifted an inquiring head and gazed at the man.
“More 'fraid of cow,” the Harvester was muttering in a sleepy chuckle.
When the Harvester saw the Girl coming toward the woods, he spread the rug, opened and placed the table and chair, laid out the colour box, and another containing the last luna.
“Did the green one come out?” she asked, touching the box lightly.
“It did!” said the Harvester proudly, as if he were responsible for the performance. “It is an omen! It means that I am to have my long-coveted pattern for my best candlestick. It also clearly indicates that the gods of luck are with me for the day, and I get my way about everything. There won't be the least use in your asking 'why' or interposing objections. This is my clean sweep. I shall be fearfully dictatorial and you must submit, because the fates have pointed out that they favour me to-day, and if you go contrary to their decrees you will have a bad time.”
The Girl's smile was a little wan. She sank on a chair and picked up a pencil.
“Lay that down!” cried the Harvester. “You haven't had permission from the Dictator to begin drawing. You are to sit and rest a long time.”
“Please may I speak?” asked the Girl.
The Harvester grew foolishly happy. Was she really going to play the game? Of course he had hoped, but it was a hope without any foundation.
“You may,” he said soberly.
“I am afraid that if you don't allow me to draw the moth at once, I'll never get it done. I dislike to mention it on your good day, but Aunt Molly is very restless. I got a neighbour's little girl to watch her and call me if I'm wanted. It's quite certain that I must go soon, so if you would like the moth——”
“When luck is coming your way, never hurry it! You always upset the bowl if you grow greedy and crowd. If it is a gamble whether I get this moth, I'll take the chance; but I won't change my foreordained programme for this afternoon. First, you are to sit still ten minutes, shut your eyes, and rest. I can't sing, but I can whistle, and I'm going to entertain you so you won't feel alone. Ready now!”
The Girl leaned her elbows on the table, closed her eyes, and pressed her slender white hands over them.
“Please don't call the birds,” she said. “I can't rest if you do. It was so exciting trying to see all of them and guess what they were saying.”
“No,” said the Harvester gently. “This ten minutes is for relaxation, you know. You ease every muscle, sink limply on your chair, lean on the table, let go all over, and don't think. Just listen to me. I assure you it's going to be perfectly lovely.”
Watching intently he saw the strained muscles relaxing at his suggestion and caught the smile over the last words as he slid into a soft whistle. It was an easy, slow, old-fashioned tune, carrying along gently, with neither heights nor depths, just monotonous, sleepy, soothing notes, that went on and on with a little ripple of change at times, only to return to the theme, until at last the Girl lifted her head.
“It's away past ten minutes,” she said, “but that was a real rest. Truly, I am better prepared for work.”
“Broke the rule, too!” said the Harvester. “It was, for me to say when time was up. Can't you allow me to have my way for ten minutes?”
“I am so anxious to see and draw this moth,” she answered. “And first of all you promised to bring the drawings you have been using.”
“Now where does my programme come in?” inquired the Harvester. “You are spoiling everything, and I refuse to have my lucky day interfered with; therefore we will ignore the suggestion until we arrive at the place where it is proper. Next thing is refreshments.”
He arose and coming over cleared the table. Then he spread on it a paper tray cloth with a gay border, and going into the thicket brought out a box and a big bucket containing a jug packed in ice. The Girl's eyes widened. She reached down, caught up a piece, and holding it to drip a second started to put it in her mouth.
“Drop that!” commanded the Harvester. “That's a very unhealthful proceeding. Wait a minute.”
From one end of the box he produced a tin of wafers and from the other a plate. Then he dug into the ice and lifted several different varieties of chilled fruit. From the jug he poured a combination that he made of the juices of oranges, pineapples, and lemons. He set the glass, rapidly frosting in the heat, and the fruit before the Girl.
“Now!” he said.
For one instant she stared at the table. Then she looked at him and in the depths of her dark eyes was an appeal he never forgot.
“I made that drink myself, so it's all right,” he assured her. “There's a pretty stiff touch of pineapple in it, and it cuts the cobwebs on a hot day. Please try it!”
“I can't!” cried the Girl with a half-sob. “Think of Aunt Molly!”
“Are you fond of her?”
“No. I never saw her until a few weeks ago. Since then I've seen nothing save her poor, tired back. She lies in a heap facing the wall. But if she could have things like these, she needn't suffer. And if my mother could have had them she would be living to-day. Oh Man, I can't touch this.”
“I see,” said the Harvester.
He reached over, picked up the glass, and poured its contents into the jug. He repacked the fruit and closed the wafer box. Then he made a trip to the thicket and came out putting something into his pocket.
“Come on!” he said. “We are going to the house.”
She stared at him.
“I simply don't dare.”
“Then I will go alone,” said the Harvester, picking up the bucket and starting.
The Girl followed him.
“Uncle Henry may come any minute,” she urged.
“Well if he comes and acts unpleasantly, he will get what he richly deserves.”
“And he will make me pay for it afterward.”
“Oh no he won't!” said the Harvester, “because I'll look out for that. This is my lucky day. He isn't going to come.”
When he reached the back door he opened it and stepped inside. Of all the barren places of crude, disheartening ugliness the Harvester ever had seen, that was the worst.
“I want a glass and a spoon,” he said.
The Girl brought them.
“Where is she?”
“In the next room.”
At the sound of their voices a small girl came to the kitchen door.
“How do you do?” inquired the Harvester. “Is Mrs. Jameson asleep?”
“I don't know,” answered the child. “She just lies there.”
The Harvester gave her the glass. “Please fill that with water,” he said. Then he picked up the bucket and went into the front room. When the child came with the water he took a bottle from his pocket, filled the spoon, and handed it to her.
“Hold that steadily,” he said.
Then he slid his strong hands under the light frame and turned the face of the faded little creature toward him.
“I am a Medicine Man, Mrs. Jameson,” he said casually. “I heard you were sick and I came to see if a little of this stuff wouldn't brace you up. Open your lips.”
He held out the spoon and the amazed woman swallowed the contents before she realized what she was doing. Then the Harvester ran a hand under her shoulders and lifting her gently he tossed her pillow with the other hand.
“You are a light little body, just like my mother,” he commented. “Now I have something else sick people sometimes enjoy.”
He held the fruit juice to her lips as he slightly raised her on the pillow. Her trembling fingers lifted and closed around the sparkling glass.
“Oh it's cool!” she gasped.
“It is,” said the Harvester, “and sour! I think you can taste it. Try!”
She drank so greedily he drew away the glass and urged caution, but the shaking fingers clung to him and the wavering voice begged for more.
“In a minute,” said the Harvester gently. But the fevered woman would not wait. She drank the cooling liquid until she could take no more. Then she watched him fill a small pitcher and pack it in a part of the ice and lay some fruit around it.
“Who, Ruth?” she panted.
“A Medicine Man who heard about you.”
“What will Henry say?”
“He won't know,” explained the Girl, smoothing the hot forehead. “I'll put it in the cupboard, and slip it to you while he is out of the room. It will make you strong and well.”
“I don't want to be strong and well and suffer it all over again. I want to rest. Give me more of the cool drink. Give me all I want, then I'll go to sleep.”
“It's wonderful,” said the Girl. “That's more than I've heard her talk since I came. She is much stronger. Please let her have it.”
The Harvester assented. He gave the child some of the fruit, and told her to sit beside the bed and hold the drink when it was asked for. She agreed to be very careful and watchful. Then he picked up the bucket, and followed by the Girl, returned to the woods.
“Now we have to begin all over again,” he said, as she seated herself at the table. “Because of the walk in the heat, this time the programme is a little different.”
He replaced the wafer box and opened it, filled the glass, and heaped the cold fruit.
“Your aunt is going to have a refreshing sleep now,” he said, “and your mind can be free about her for an hour or two. I am very sure your mother would not want you deprived of anything because she missed it, so you are to enjoy this, if you care for it. At least try a sample.”
The Girl lifted the glass to her lips with a trembling hand.
“I'm like Aunt Molly,” she said; “I wish I could drink all I could swallow, and then lie down and go to sleep forever. I suppose this is what they have in Heaven.”
“No, it's what they drink all over earth at present, but I have a conceit of my own brand. Some of it is too strong of one fruit or of the other, and all too sweet for health. This is compounded scientifically and it's just right. If you are not accustomed to cold drinks, go slowly.”
“You can't scare me,” said the Girl; “I'm going to drink all I want.”
There was a note of excitement in the Harvester's laugh.
“You must have some, too!”
“After a while,” he said. “I was thirsty when I made it, so I don't care for any more now. Try the fruit and those wafers. Of course they are not home made—they are the best I could do at a bakery. Take time enough to eat slowly. I'm going to tell you a tale while you lunch, and it's about a Medicine Man named David Langston. It's a very peculiar story, but it's quite true. This man lives in the woods east of Onabasha, accompanied by his dog, horse, cow, and chickens, and a forest full of birds, flowers, and matchless trees. He has lived there in this manner for six long years, and every spring he and his dog have a seance and agree whether he shall go on gathering medicinal herbs and trying his hand at making medicine or go to the city and live as other men. Always the dog chooses to remain in the woods.
“Then every spring, on the day the first bluebird comes, the dog also decides whether the man shall go on alone or find a mate and bring her home for company. Each year the dog regularly has decided that they live as always. This spring, for some unforeseen reason, he changed his mind, and compelled the man, according to his vow in the beginning, to go courting. The man was so very angry at the idea of having a woman in his home, interfering with his work, disturbing his arrangements, and perhaps wanting to spend more money than he could afford, that he struck the dog for making that decision; struck him for the very first time in his life——I believe you'd like those apricots. Please try one.”
“Go on with the story,” said the Girl, sipping delicately but constantly at the frosty glass.
The Harvester arose and refilled it. Then he dropped pieces of ice over the fruit.
“Where was I?” he inquired casually.
“Where you struck Belshazzar, and it's no wonder,” answered the Girl.
Without taking time to ponder that, the Harvester continued:
“But that night the man had a wonderful, golden dream. A beautiful girl came to him, and she was so gracious and lovely that he was sufficiently punished for striking his dog, because he fell unalterably in love with her.”
“Meaning you?” interrupted the Girl.
“Yes,” said the Harvester, “meaning me. I——if you like——fell in love with the girl. She came so alluringly, and I was so close to her that I saw her better than I ever did any other girl, and I knew her for all time. When she went, my heart was gone.”
“And you have lived without that important organ ever since?”
“Without even the ghost of it! She took it with her. Well, that dream was so real, that the next day I began building over my house, making furniture, and planting flowers for her; and every day, wherever I went, I watched for her.”
“What nonsense!”
“I can't see it.”
“You won't find a girl you dreamed about in a thousand years.”
“Wrong!” cried the Harvester triumphantly. “Saw her in little less than three months, but she vanished and it took some time and difficult work before I located her again; but I've got her all solid now, and she doesn't escape.”
“Is she a 'lovely and gracious lady'?”
“She is!” said the Harvester, with all his heart.
“Young and beautiful, of course!”
“Indeed yes!”
“Please fill this glass. I told you what I was going to do.”
The Harvester refilled the glass and the Girl drained it.
“Now won't you set aside these things and allow me to go to work?” she asked. “My call may come any minute, and I'll never forgive myself if I waste time, and don't draw your moth pattern for you.”
“It's against my principles to hurry, and besides, my story isn't finished.”
“It is,” said the Girl. “She is young and lovely, gentle and a lady, you have her 'all solid,' and she can't 'escape'; that's the end, of course. But if I were you, I wouldn't have her until I gave her a chance to get away, and saw whether she would if she could.”
“Oh I am not a jailer,” said the Harvester. “She shall be free if I cannot make her love me; but I can, and I will; I swear it.”
“You are not truly in earnest?”
“I am in deadly earnest.”
“Honestly, you dreamed about a girl, and found the very one?”
“Most certainly, I did.”
“It sounds like the wildest romancing.”
“It is the veriest reality.”
“Well I hope you win her, and that she will be everything you desire.”
“Thank you,” said the Harvester. “It's written in the book of fate that I succeed. The very elements are with me. The South Wind carried a message to her for me. I am going to marry her, but you could make it much easier for me if you would.”
“I! What could I do?” cried the Girl.
“You could cease being afraid of me. You could learn to trust me. You could try to like me, if you see anything likeable about me. That would encourage me so that I could tell you of my Dream Girl, and then you could show me how to win her. A woman always knows about those things better than a man. You could be the greatest help in all the world to me, if only you would.”
“I couldn't possibly! I can't leave here. I have no proper clothing to appear before another girl. She would be shocked at my white face. That I could help you is the most improbable dream you have had.”
“You must pardon me if I differ from you, and persist in thinking that you can be of invaluable assistance to me, if you will. But you can't influence my Dream Girl, if you fear and distrust me yourself. Promise me that you will help me that much, anyway.”
“I'll do all I can. I only want to make you see that I am in no position to grant any favours, no matter how much I owe you or how I'd like to. Is the candlestick you are carving for her?”
“It is,” said the Harvester. “I am making a pair of maple to stand on a dressing table I built for her. It is unusually beautiful wood, I think, and I hope she will be pleased with it.”
“Please take these things away and let me begin. This is the only thing I can see that I can do for you, and the moth will want to fly before I have finished.”
The Harvester cleared the table and placed the box, while the Girl spread the paper and began work eagerly.
“I wonder if I knew there were such exquisite things in all the world,” she said. “I scarcely think I did. I am beginning to understand why you couldn't kill one. You could make a chair or a table, and so you feel free to destroy them; but it takes ages and Almighty wisdom to evolve a creature like this, so you don't dare. I think no one else would if they really knew. Please talk while I work.”
“Is there a particular subject you want discussed?”
“Anything but her. If I think too strongly of her, I can't work so well.”
“Your ginseng is almost dry,” said the Harvester. “I think I can bring you the money in a few days.”
“So soon!” she cried.
“It dries day and night in an even temperature, and faster than you would believe. There's going to be between seven and eight pounds of it, when I make up what it has shrunk. It will go under the head of the finest wild roots. I can get eight for it sure.”
“Oh what good news!” cried the Girl. “This is my lucky day, too. And the little girl isn't coming, so Aunt Molly must be asleep. Everything goes right! If only Uncle Henry wouldn't come home!”
“Let me fill your glass,” proffered the Harvester.
“Just half way, and set it where I can see it,” said the Girl. She worked with swift strokes and there was a hint of colour in her face, as she looked at him. “I hope you won't think I'm greedy,” she said, “but truly, that's the first thing I've had that I could taste in——I can't remember when.”
“I'll bring a barrel to-morrow,” offered the Harvester, “and a big piece of ice wrapped in coffee sacking.”
“You mustn't think of such a thing! Ice is expensive and so are fruits.”
“Ice costs me the time required to saw and pack it at my home. I almost live on the fruit I raise. I confess to a fondness for this drink. I have no other personal expenses, unless you count in books, and a very few clothes, such as I'm wearing; so I surely can afford all the fruit juice I want.”
“For yourself, yes.”
“Also for a couple of women or I am a mighty poor attempt at a man,” said the Harvester. “This is my day, so you are not to talk, because it won't do any good. Things go my way.”
“Please see what you think of this,” she said.
The Harvester arose and bent over her.
“That will do finely,” he answered. “You can stop. I don't require all those little details for carving, I just want a good outline. It is finished. See here!”
He drew some folded papers from his pocket and laid them before her.
“Those are what I have been working from,” he said.
The Girl took them and studied each carefully.
“If those are worth five dollars to you,” she said gently, “why then I needn't hesitate to take as much for mine. They are superior.”
“I should say so,” laughed the Harvester as he took up the drawing and laid down the money.
“If you would make it half that much I'd feel better about it,” she said.
“How could I?” asked the Harvester. “Your fingers are well trained and extremely skilful. Because some one has not been paying you enough for your work is no reason why I should keep it up. From now on you must have what others get. As soon as you can arrange for work, I want to tell you about some designs I have studied out from different things, show you the plants and insects, and have you make some samples. I'll send them to proper places, and see what experts say about the ideas and drawing. Work in the woods is healthful, with proper precautions; it's easy compared with the exactions of being bound to sewing or embroidering in the confinement of a room; it's vividly interesting in the search for new subjects, changes of material, and differing harmonious combinations; it's truly artistic; and it brings the prices high grade stuff always does.”
“Almost you give me hope,” said the Girl. “Almost, Man——almost! Since mother died, I haven't thought or planned beyond paying for the medicine she took and the shelter she lies in. Oh I didn't mean to say that——!”
She buried her face in her hands. The Harvester suffered until he scarcely knew how to bear it.
“Please finish,” he begged. “You hadn't planned beyond the debt, you were saying——”
The Girl lifted her tired, strained face.
“Give me a little more of that delicious drink,” she said. “I am ravenous for it. It puts new life in me. This and what you say bring a far away, misty vision of a clean, bright, peaceful room somewhere, and work one could love and live on in comfort; enough to give a desire to finish life to its natural end. Oh Man, you make me hope in spite of myself!”
“'Praise God from whom all blessings flow;'” quoted the Harvester reverently. “Now try one of these peaches. It's juicy and cold. Get that room right in focus in your brain, and nurture the idea. Its walls shall be bright as sunshine, its floor creamy white, and it shall open into a little garden, where only yellow flowers grow, and the birds shall sing. The first ray of sun that peeps over the hills of morning shall fall through its windows across your bed, and you shall work only as you please, after you've had months of play and rest; and it's coming true the instant you can leave here. Dream of it, make up your mind to it, because it's coming. I have a little streak of second sight, and I see it on the way.”
“You are talking wildly,” said the Girl, “else you are a good genie trying to conjure a room for me.”
“This room I am talking of is ready whenever you want to take possession,” said the Harvester. “Accept it as a reality, because I tell you I know where it is, that it is waiting, and you can earn your way into it with no obligation to any one.”
The Girl stretched out her right hand and slowly turned and opened and closed it. Then she glanced at the Harvester with a weary smile.
“From somewhere I feel a glimmering of the spirit, but Oh, dear Lord, the flesh is weak!” she said.
“That's where nourishing foods, appetizing drinks, plenty of pure, fresh air, and good water come in. Now we have talked enough for one day, and worked too much. The fruit and drink go with you. I will carry it to the house, and you can hide it in your room. I am going to put a bottle of tonic on top that the best surgeon in the state gave me for you. Try to eat something strengthening and then take a spoonful of this, and use all the fruit you want. I'll bring more to-morrow and put it here, with plenty of ice. Now suppose you let the moth go free,” he suggested to avoid objections. “You must take my word for it, that it is perfectly harmless, lacking either sting or bite, and hold your hand before it, so that it will climb on your fingers. Then stand where a ray of sunshine falls and in a few minutes it will go out to live its life.”
The Girl hesitated a second as she studied the clean-cut, interested face of the man; then she held out her hand, and he urged the moth to climb on her fingers. She stepped where a ray of strong light fell on the forest floor and held the moth in it. The brightness also touched her transparent hand and white face and the gleaming black hair. The Harvester choked down a rising surge of desire for her, and took a new grip on himself.
“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.