The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter

  On his return he filled the pantry shelves with packages, stored the ice chest, and set a basket of delicious fruit on the dining table. Two boxes remained. He opened the larger one and took from it an arm load of white lilies that he carried up the hill and divided between the mounds under the oak. Then he uncovered his head, and standing at the foot of them he looked among the boughs of the big tree and listened intently. After a time a soft, warm wind, catkin-scented, crept from the lake, and began a murmur among the clusters of brown leaves clinging to the branches.

  “Mother,” said the Harvester, “were you with me? Did I do it right? Did I tell them what you would have had me say for the boys? Are you glad now you held me to the narrow way? Do you want me to go before men if I am asked, as Doc says I will be, and tell them that the only way to abolish pain is for them to begin at the foundation by living clean lives? I don’t know if I did any good, but they listened to me. Anyway, I did the best I knew. But that isn’t strange; you ground it into me to do that every day, until it is almost an instinct. Mother, dear, can you tell me about the bluebird? Is that softest little rustle of all your voice? And does it say ‘hope’? I think so, and I thank you for the word.”

  The man’s eyes dropped to earth.

  “And you other mother,” he said, “have you any message for me? Up where you are can you sweep the world with understanding eyes and tell me why my bluebird does not come? Does it know that this year your child and not chance must settle my fate? Can you look across space and see if she is even thinking of me? But I know that! She had to be thinking of me when she wrote that line. Rather can you tell me—will she come? Do you think I am man enough to be trusted with her future, if she does? One thing I promise you: if such joy ever comes to me, I will know how to meet it gently, thankfully, tenderly, please God. Good night, little women. I hope you are sleeping well—”

  He turned and went down the hill, entered the cabin and took from the other box a mass of Parma violets. He put these in the pink bowl and placed it on the table beside the Girl’s bed. He stood for a time, and then began pulling single flowers from the bowl and dropping them over the pillow and snowy spread.

  “God, how I love her!” he whispered softly.

  At last he went out and closed the door. He was tired and soon fell asleep with the night breeze stirring his hair, and the glamour of moonlight flooding the lake touched his face. Clearly it etched the strong, manly features, the fine brow and chin, and painted in unusual tenderness the soft lines around the mouth. The little owl wavered its love story, a few frogs were piping, and the Harvester lay breathing the perfumed spring air deeply and evenly. Near midnight Belshazzar awakened him by arising from the bedside and walking to the door.

  “What is it, Bel?” inquired the Harvester.

  The dog whined softly. The man turned his head toward the lake. A ray of red light touched the opposite embankment and came wavering across the surface. The Harvester sat up. Two big, flaming eyes were creeping up the levee.

  “That,” said the Harvester, “might be Doc coming for me to help him try out my bottled sunshine, or it might be my bluebird.”

  He tossed back the cover, swung his feet to the floor, setting each in a slipper beside the bed, and arose, dressing as he started for the door. As he opened the screen and stepped on the veranda a passenger car from the city stopped, and the Harvester went down the walk to meet it. His heart turned over when he saw a woman’s hand on the door.

  “Permit me,” he said, taking the handle and bringing it back with a sweep. A tall form arose, bent forward, and descended to the step. The full flare of moonlight fell on the glowing face of the Girl.

  “Harvester, is it you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” gasped the man.

  Two hands came fluttering out, and he just had presence of mind to step in range so that they rested on his shoulders.

  “Has the bluebird come?”

  “Not yet!”

  “Then I am not too late?”

  “Never too late to come to me, Ruth.”

  “I am welcome?”

  “I have no words to tell you how welcome.”

  She swayed forward and the Harvester tried to reach her lips, but they brushed his cheek and touched his ear.

  “I have brought one more kiss I want to try,” she whispered.

  The Harvester crushed her in his arms until he frightened himself for fear he had hurt her, and murmured an ecstasy of indistinct love words to her. Presently her feet touched the ground and she drew away from him.

  “Harvester,” she whispered, “I couldn’t wait any longer; indeed I could not: and I couldn’t leave grandfather and grandmother, and I didn’t know what in the world to do, so I just brought them along. Are they welcome?”

  “Aside from you, I would rather have them than any people on earth,” said the Harvester.

  There were two sounds in the car; one was an approving murmur, and the other an undeniable snort. The Harvester felt the reassuring pressure of the Girl’s hand.

  “Please, Ruth,” he said, “go turn on the light so that I can see to help grandmother.”

  A foot stamped before the front seat. “Madam Herron, if you please!” cried an acrid voice.

  “‘Madam Herron,’” said the Harvester gently, as he set a foot on the step, reached in and bodily picked up a little old lady and started up the walk with her in his arms.

  “Careful there, sir!” roared a voice after him.

  The Harvester could feel the quake of the laughing woman and he smiled broadly as he entered the cabin, and placed her in a large chair before the fire. Then he wheeled and ran back to the car, reaching it as the man was making an effort to descend. It could be seen that he had been tall, before time and sorrow had bent him, and keen eyes gleamed below shaggy white brows from under his hat brim. He had a white moustache, and his hair was snowy.

  “Allow me,” said the Harvester reaching a hand.

  “If you touch me I will cane you,” said Mr. Alexander Herron.

  There was nothing to do but step back. The cane, wheel, and a long coat skirt interfering, the old man fell headlong, and only quick hands saved him a severe jolt and bruises. He stood glaring in the moonlight while his hat was restored.

  “If you run your car to the curve you can back toward the south and turn easily,” said the Harvester to the driver. As the automobile passed them he offered his arm. “May I show you to the fire? These spring nights are chilly.”

  “‘Chilly!’ Demnition cold is what they are! I’m frozen to the bone! This will be the end of us both! Dragging people of our age around at this hour of night. Of all the accursed stubbornness!”

  “There are three low steps,” said the Harvester, “now a straight stretch of walk, now two steps; there you are on the level. Here is an easy chair. It would be better to leave on your coat, until I light the fire.”

  He knelt and scratched a match, and almost instantly a flame sprang from the heap of dry kindling, and began to wrap around the big logs.

  “How pretty!” exclaimed a soft voice.

  “Kind of a hunting lodge in the wilds, is it?” growled a rough one. “Marcella, you will take your death here!”

  “I’m sure I feel no exposure. Really, Alexander, if I had passed away every time you have prophesied that I would in the past twenty years you’d have the largest private cemetery in existence. If you would not be so pessimistic I could quite enjoy the trip. It’s so long since I’ve ridden in the cars.”

  “Of all the abandoned places! And for you to be here, after your years in bed!”

  “But I’m not nearly so tired as I am at home, Alexander, truly.”

  “Let me help you, grandfather,” offered the Girl.

  She went to him and took his hat and stick.

  “Leave me my cane,” he cried. “Any instant that beast may attack some of us.”

  The Girl laughed merrily.

  “Why grandfather!” she chided, “Bel is the finest dog y
ou ever knew, he is my best friend here. By the hour he has protected me, and he is gentle as a kitten. He’s crazy over my coming home.”

  She knelt on the floor, put her arms around the dog’s neck, and the delighted brute quivered with the joy of her caress and the sound of her loved voice.

  “Ruthie!” cautioned the gentle lady.

  “Put that cur out of doors, where animals belong,” roared the old man, lifting his stick.

  “Careful!” warned the grave voice of the Harvester.

  “I thought you said he was gentle as a kitten!”

  “Grandfather, I said that,” cried the Girl.

  “Well wasn’t it the truth?”

  “You can see how he loves me. Didn’t I ever tell you that Bel made the first friendly overture I ever received in this part of the country? He’s watched me by the day, even while I slept.”

  “Then what’s all this infernal fuss about?”

  “Try striking him if you want to find out,” explained the Harvester gently. “You see, Belshazzar and I are accustomed to living here alone and very quietly. He is excited over the Girl’s return, because she is his friend, and he has not forgotten her. Then this is the first time in his life he ever heard an irritable voice from a visitor or saw a cane, and it angers him. He is perfectly safe to guard a baby, if he is gently treated, but he is a sure throat hold to a stranger who bespeaks him roughly or attempts to strike. He would be of no use as a guard to valuable property while I sleep if he were otherwise. Bel, come here! Lie still.”

  The dog sank to the floor beside the Harvester, but his sharp eyes followed the Girl, and the hair arose on his neck at every rasping note of the old man’s voice.

  “I wouldn’t give such a creature house room for a minute,” insisted the guest.

  “Wait until you see him work and become acquainted with him, and you will change that verdict,” prophesied the Harvester.

  “I never was known to change an opinion. Never, sir! Never!” cried the testy voice.

  “How unfortunate!” remarked the Harvester suavely.

  “Explain yourself! Explain yourself, sir!”

  “There never has been, there never will be, a man on this earth,” said the Harvester, “wholly free from mistakes. Are you warm now?” He turned to the little lady, cutting off a reply with his question.

  “Nice and warm and quite sleepy,” she said.

  “What may I bring you for a light lunch before you go to bed?”

  “Oh, could I have a bite of something?”

  “If only I am fortunate enough to have anything you will care for. What about a bowl of hot milk and a slice of toast?”

  “Why I think that would be just the thing!”

  “Excuse me,” said the Harvester rising.

  He went to the kitchen and they could hear him moving around.

  “I wish the big brute would take his beast along,” growled Mr. Alexander Herron.

  “Come, Bel,” ordered the Girl. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

  The dog instantly arose and followed her.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked as they reached the door.

  “Remain where you won’t dazzle my eyes,” said the Harvester, “until I help the gentle lady and the gentle man to bed.”

  Presently he came with a white cloth, two spoons, and a plate of bread. He spread the cloth on the table, laid the spoons on it, and opening the little cupboard, took out a long toasting fork, and sticking it into a slice of bread, he held it over the coals. When it grew golden brown he lifted the table beside the chair, and brought a bowl of scalded milk.

  “Marcella, that stuff will be too smoky for you! Your stomach will rebel at it.”

  “Grandfather, there will not be a suspicion of odour,” said the Girl. “I have had it that way often.”

  “Then no wonder you came from this place looking like a picked crane, if that is a sample of what you were fed on!”

  The face of the Harvester grew redder than the heat of the fire necessitated, but at the ringing laugh of the Girl he set his teeth and went on toasting bread. Grandmother crumbled some in the milk and picking up the spoon tested the combination. She was very hungry, and it was good. She began eating with relish.

  “Alexander, you will be the loser if you don’t have some of this,” she said. “It’s just delicious!”

  “Maybe smoked spoon victuals are proper for invalid women,” he retorted, “but they are mighty thin diet for a hardy man.”

  “What about a couple of eggs and some beef extract?” suggested the cook.

  “Sounds more sensible by a long shot.”

  “Ruth, you make this toast,” said the Harvester and disappeared.

  Presently he placed before his guest a couple of eggs poached in milk, a steaming bowl of beef juice, and a plate of toast. For one instant the Harvester thought this was going into the fire, the next a slice was picked up and smelled testily. The Girl sat on her grandfather’s chair arm, and breaking a morsel of toast dipped it into the broth and tasted it.

  “Oh but that is good!” she cried. “Why haven’t I some also? Am I supposed to have no ‘tummy’?”

  “Your turn next,” said the Harvester, as he again gave her the fork and went to the kitchen.

  When he returned and served the Girl he found her grandfather eating heartily.

  “Why I think this is fun,” said the gentle lady. “I haven’t had such a fine time in ages. I love the heat of the flame on my body and things taste so good. I could go to sleep without any narcotic, right now.”

  Close her knee the Harvester knelt on the hearth with his toasting fork. She leaned forward and ran her fingers through his hair.

  “You’re a braw laddie,” she said. “Now I see why Ruthie would come.”

  The Harvester took the frail hand and kissed it. “Thank you!” he returned.

  “Mush!” exploded the grizzled man in the rear.

  When no one wanted more food the Harvester stacked and carried away the dishes, swept the hearth, and replaced the toaster.

  “Ruth and I often lunched this way last fall,” he said. “We liked it for a change.”

  “Alexander, have you noticed?” asked the little woman as she lifted wet eyes to a beautiful portrait of her daughter beside the chimney.

  “D’ye think I’m blind? Saw it as I entered the door. Poor taste! Very! Brown may match the rug and wood-work, but it’s a wretched colour for a young girl in her gay time. Should be pink and white with a gold frame.”

  “That would be beautiful,” agreed the Harvester. “We must have one that way. This is not an expensive picture. It is only an enlargement from an old photograph.”

  “We have a number of very handsome likenesses. Which one can you spare Ruth, Marcella?”

  “The one she likes best,” said the lady promptly.

  “And the other is your mother, no doubt. What a girlish, beautiful face!”

  “Wonderfully fine!” growled a gruff old voice tinctured with tears, and the Harvester began to see light.

  The old man arose. “Ruthie, help your grandmother to bed,” he said. “And you, sir, have the goodness to walk a few steps with me.”

  The Harvester sprang up and brought Mr. Herron his coat and hat and held the door. The Girl brushed past him.

  “To the oak,” she whispered.

  They went into the night, and without a word the Harvester took his guest’s arm and guided him up the hill. When they reached the two mounds the moon shining between the branches touched the lily faces with holy whiteness.

  “She sleeps there,” said the Harvester, indicating the place.

  Then he turned and went down the path a little distance and waited until he feared the night air would chill the broken old man.

  “You can see better to-morrow,” he said as he touched the shaking figure and assisted it to arise.

  “Your work?” Mr. Alexander Herron touched the lilies with his walking stick.

  The Harvester assent
ed.

  “Do you mind if I carry one to Marcella?”

  The Harvester trembled as he stooped to select the largest and whitest, and with sudden illumination, he fully understood. He helped the tottering old man to the cabin, where he sat silently before the fireplace softly touching the lily face with his lips.

  “I have put grandmother in my bed, tucked her in warmly, and she says it is soft and fine,” laughed the Girl, coming to them. “Now you go before she falls asleep, and I hope you will rest well.”

  She bent and kissed him.

  The Harvester held the door.

  “Can I be of any service?” he inquired.

  “No, I’m no helpless child.”

  “Then to my best wishes for sound sleep the remainder of the night, I will add this,” said the Harvester—“You may rest in peace concerning your dear girl. I sympathize with your anxiety. Good night!”

  Alexander Herron threw out his hands in protest.

  “I wouldn’t mind admitting that you are a gentleman in a month or two,” he said, “but it’s a demnation humiliation to have it literally wrung from me to-night!”

  He banged the door in the face of the amazed Harvester, who turned to the Girl as she leaned against the mantel. He stood absorbing the glowing picture of beauty and health that she made. She had removed her travelling dress and shoes, and was draped in a fleecy white wool kimono and wearing night slippers. Her hair hung in two big braids as it had during her illness. She was his sick girl again in costume, but radiant health glowed on her lovely face. The Harvester touched a match to a few candles and turned out the acetylene lights. Then he stood before her.

  “Now, bluebird,” he said gently. “Ruth, you always know where to find me, if you will look at your feet. I thought I loved you all in my power when you went, but absence has taught its lessons. One is that I can grow to love you more every day I live, and the other that I probably trifled with the highest gift you had to offer, when I sent you away. I may have been right; Granny and Doc think I was wrong. You know the answer. You said there was another kiss for me. Ruth, is it the same or a different one?”