“Belshazzar, you lucky dog, you are privileged to sit there and lay your head on the lady’s lap,” said the Harvester, and the dog quivered with joy.
Then the man picked up the lines, gave a backward glance to the bed of the wagon, high piled with large bundles, and turned Betsy toward Medicine Woods. Through the crowded streets and toward the country they drove, when a big red car passed, a man called to them, then reversed and slowly began backing beside the wagon. The Harvester stopped.
“That is my best friend, Doctor Carey, of the hospital, Ruth,” he said hastily. “May I tell him, and will you shake hands with him?”
“Certainly!” said the Girl.
“Is it really you, David?” the doctor peered with gleaming eyes from under the car top.
“Really!” cried the Harvester, as man greets man with a full heart when he is sure of sympathy. “Come, give us your best send-off, Doc! We were married an hour ago. We are headed for Medicine Woods. Doctor Carey, this is Mrs. Langston.”
“Mighty glad to know you!” cried the doctor, reaching a happy hand.
The Girl met it cordially, while she smiled on him.
“How did this happen?” demanded the doctor. “Why didn’t you let us know? This is hardly fair of you, David. You might have let me and the Missus share with you.”
“That is to be explained,” said the Harvester. “It was decided on very suddenly, and rather sadly, on account of the death of Mrs. Jameson. I forced Ruth to marry me and come with me. I grow rather frightened when I think of it, but it was the only way I knew. She absolutely refused my other plans. You see before you a wild man carrying away a woman to his cave.”
“Don’t believe him, Doctor!” laughed the Girl. “If you know him, you will understand that to offer all he had was like him, when he saw my necessity. You will come to see us soon?”
“I’ll come right now,” said the doctor. “I’ll bring my wife and arrive by the time you do.”
“Oh no you won’t!” said the Harvester. “Do you observe the bed of this wagon? This happened all ‘unbeknownst’ to us. We have to set up housekeeping after we reach home. We will notify you when we are ready for visitors. Just you subside and wait until you are sent for.”
“Why David!” cried the astonished Girl.
“That’s the law!” said the Harvester tersely. “Good-bye, Doc; we’ll be ready for you in a day or two.”
He leaned down and held out his hand. The grip that caught it said all any words could convey; and then Betsy started up the hill.
Chapter 13
When the Dream Came True
At first the road lay between fertile farms dotted with shocked wheat, covered with undulant seas of ripening oats, and forests of growing corn. The larks were trailing melody above the shorn and growing fields, the quail were ingathering beside the fences, and from the forests on graceful wings slipped the nighthawks and sailed and soared, dropping so low that the half moons formed by white spots on their spread wings showed plainly.
“Why is this country so different from the other side of the city?” asked the Girl.
“It is older,” replied the Harvester, “and it lies higher. This was settled and well cultivated when that was a swamp. But as a farming proposition, the money is in the lowland like your uncle’s. The crops raised there are enormous compared with the yield of these fields.”
“I see,” said she. “But this is much better to look at and the air is different. It lacks a soggy, depressing quality.”
“I don’t allow any air to surpass that of Medicine Woods,” said the Harvester, “by especial arrangement with the powers that be.”
Then they dipped into a little depression and arose to cross the railroad and then followed a longer valley that was ragged and unkempt compared with the road between cultivated fields. The Harvester was busy trying to plan what to do first, and how to do it most effectively, and working his brain to think if he had everything the Girl would require for her comfort; so he drove silently through the deepening shadows. She shuddered and awoke him suddenly. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Her thoughts had gone on a journey, also, and the way had been rough, for her face wore a strained appearance. The hands lying bare in her lap were tightly gripped, so that the nails and knuckles appeared blue. The Harvester hastily cast around seeking for the cause of the transformation. A few minutes ago she had seemed at ease and comfortable, now she was close to open panic. Nothing had been said that would disturb her. With brain alert he searched for the reason. Then it began to come to him. The unaccustomed silence and depression of the country might have been the beginning. Coming from the city and crowds of people to the gloomy valley with a man almost a stranger, going she knew not where, to conditions she knew not what, with the experiences of the day vivid before her. The black valley road was not prepossessing, with its border of green pools, through which grew swamp bushes and straggling vines. The Harvester looked carefully at the road, and ceased to marvel at the Girl. But he disliked to let her know he understood, so he gave one last glance at those gripped hands and casually held out the lines.
“Will you take these just a second?” he asked. “Don’t let them touch your dress. We must not lose of our load, because it’s mostly things that will make you more comfortable.”
He arose, and turning, pretended to see that everything was all right. Then he resumed his seat and drove on.
“I am a little ashamed of this stretch through here,” he said apologetically. “I could have managed to have it cleared and in better shape long ago, but in a way it yields a snug profit, and so far I’ve preferred the money. The land is not mine, but I could grub out this growth entirely, instead of taking only what I need.”
“Is there stuff here you use?” the Girl aroused herself to ask, and the Harvester saw the look of relief that crossed her face at the sound of his voice.
“Well I should say yes,” he laughed. “Those bushes, numerous everywhere, with the hanging yellow-green balls, those, in bark and root, go into fever medicines. They are not so much used now, but sometimes I have a call, and when I do, I pass the beds on my—on our land, and come down here and get what is needed. That bush,” he indicated with the whip, “blooms exquisitely in the spring. It is a relative of flowering dogwood, and the one of its many names I like best is silky cornel. Isn’t that pretty?”
“Yes,” she said, “it is beautiful.”
“I’ve planted some for you in a hedge along the driveway so next spring you can gather all you want. I think you’ll like the odour. The bark brings more than true dogwood. If I get a call from some house that uses it, I save mine and come down here. Around the edge are hop trees, and I realize something from them, and also the false and true bitter-sweet that run riot here. Both of them have pretty leaves, while the berries of the true hang all winter and the colour is gorgeous. I’ve set your hedge closely with them. When it has grown a few months it’s going to furnish flowers in the spring, a million different, wonderful leaves and berries in the summer, many fruits the birds love in the fall, and bright berries, queer seed pods, and nuts all winter.”
“You planted it for me?”
“Yes. I think it will be beautiful in a season or two; it isn’t so bad now. I hope it will call myriads of birds to keep you company. When you cross this stretch of road hereafter, don’t see fetid water and straggling bushes and vines; just say to yourself, this helps to fill orders!”
“I am perfectly tolerant of it now,” she said. “You make everything different. I will come with you and help collect the roots and barks you want. Which bush did you say relieved the poor souls scorching with fever?”
The Harvester drew on the lines, Betsy swerved to the edge of the road, and he leaned and broke a branch.
“This one,” he answered. “Buttonbush, because those balls resemble round buttons. Aren’t they peculiar? See how waxy and gracefully cut and set the leaves are. Go on, Betsy, get us home before night. We
appear our best early in the morning, when the sun tops Medicine Woods and begins to light us up, and in the evening, just when she drops behind Onabasha back there, and strikes us with a few level rays. Will you take the lines until I open this gate?”
She laid the twig in her lap on the white gloves and took the lines. As the gate swung wide, Betsy walked through and stopped at the usual place.
“Now my girl,” said the Harvester, “cross yourself, lean back, and take your ease. This side that gate you are at home. From here on belongs to us.”
“To you, you mean,” said the Girl.
“To us, I mean,” declared the Harvester. “Don’t you know that the ‘worldly goods bestowal’ clause in a marriage ceremony is a partial reality. It doesn’t give you ‘all my worldly goods,’ but it gives you one third. Which will you take, the hill, lake, marsh, or a part of all of them?”
“Oh, is there water?”
“Did I forget to mention that I was formerly sole owner and proprietor of the lake of Lost Loons, also a brook of Singing Water, and many cold springs. The lake covers about one third of our land, and my neighbours would allow me ditch outlet to the river, but they say I’m too lazy to take it.”
“Lazy! Do they mean drain your lake into the river?”
“They do,” said the Harvester, “and make the bed into a cornfield.”
“But you wouldn’t?”
She turned to him with confidence.
“I haven’t so far, but of course, when you see it, if you would prefer it in a corn—Let’s play a game! Turn your head in this direction,” he indicated with the whip, “close your eyes, and open them when I say ready.”
“All right!”
“Now!” said the Harvester.
“Oh,” cried the Girl. “Stop! Please stop!”
They were at the foot of a small levee that ran to the bridge crossing Singing Water. On the left lay the valley through which the stream swept from its hurried rush down the hill, a marshy thicket of vines, shrubs, and bushes, the banks impassable with water growth. Everywhere flamed foxfire and cardinal flower, thousands of wild tiger lilies lifted gorgeous orange-red trumpets, beside pearl-white turtle head and moon daisies, while all the creek bank was a coral line with the first opening bloom of big pink mallows. Rank jewel flower poured gold from dainty cornucopias and lavender beard-tongue offered honey to a million bumbling bees; water smart-weed spread a glowing pink background, and twining amber dodder topped the marsh in lacy mist with its delicate white bloom. Straight before them a white-sanded road climbed to the bridge and up a gentle hill between the young hedge of small trees and bushes, where again flowers and bright colours rioted and led to the cabin yet invisible. On the right, the hill, crowned with gigantic forest trees, sloped to the lake; midway the building stood, and from it, among scattering trees all the way to the water’s edge, were immense beds of vivid colour. Like a scarf of gold flung across the face of earth waved the misty saffron, and beside the road running down the hill, in a sunny, open space arose tree-like specimens of thrifty magenta pokeberry. Down the hill crept the masses of colour, changing from dry soil to water growth.
High around the blue-green surface of the lake waved lacy heads of wild rice, lower cat-tails, bulrushes, and marsh grasses; arrowhead lilies lifted spines of pearly bloom, while yellow water lilies and blue water hyacinths intermingled; here and there grew a pink stretch of water smartweed and the dangling gold of jewel flower. Over the water, bordering the edge, starry faces of white pond lilies floated. Blue flags waved graceful leaves, willows grew in clumps, and vines clambered everywhere.
Among the growth of the lake shore, duck, coot, and grebe voices commingled in the last chattering hastened splash of securing supper before bedtime; crying killdeers crossed the water, and overhead the nighthawks massed in circling companies. Betsy climbed the hill and at every step the Girl cried, “Slower! please go slower!” With wide eyes she stared around her.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME IT WOULD BE LIKE THIS?” she demanded in awed tones.
“Have I had opportunity to describe much of anything?” asked the Harvester. “Besides, I was born and reared here, and while it has been a garden of bloom for the past six years only, it always has been a picture; but one forgets to say much about a sight seen every day and that requires the work this does.”
“That white mist down there, what is it?” she marvelled.
“Pearls grown by the Almighty,” answered the Harvester. “Flowers that I hope you will love. They are like you. Tall and slender, graceful, pearl white and pearl pure—those are the arrowhead Lilies.”
“And the wonderful purplish-red there on the bank? Oh, I could kneel and pray before colour like that!’
“Pokeberry!” said the Harvester. “Roots bring five cents a pound. Good blood purifier.”
“Man!” cried the Girl. “How can you? I’m not going to ask what another colour is. I’ll just worship what I like in silence.”
“Will you forgive me if I tell you what a woman whose judgment I respect says about that colour?”
“Perhaps!”
“She says, ‘God proves that He loves it best of all the tints in His workshop by using it first and most sparingly.’ Now are you going to punish me by keeping silent?”
“I couldn’t if I tried.” Just then they came upon the bridge crossing Singing Water, and there was a long view of its border, rippling bed, and marshy banks; while on the other hand the lake resembled a richly incrusted sapphire.
“Is the house close?”
“Just a few rods, at the turn of the drive.”
“Please help me down. I want to remain here a while. I don’t care what else there is to see. Nothing can equal this. I wish I could bring down a bed and sleep here. I’d like to have a table, and draw and paint. I understand now what you mean about the designs you mentioned. Why, there must be thousands! I can’t go on. I never saw anything so appealing in all my life.”
Now the Harvester’s mother had designed that bridge and he had built it with much care. From bark-covered railings to solid oak floor and comfortable benches running along the sides it was intended to be a part of the landscape.
“I’ll send Belshazzar to the cabin with the wagon,” he said, “so you can see better.”
“But you must not!” she cried. “I can’t walk. I wouldn’t soil these beautiful shoes for anything.”
“Why don’t you change them?” inquired the Harvester.
“I am afraid I forgot everything I had,” said the Girl.
“There are shoes somewhere in this load. I thought of them in getting other things for you, but I had no idea as to size, and so I told that clerk to-day when she got your measure to put in every kind you’d need.”
“You are horribly extravagant,” she said. “But if you have them here, perhaps I could use one pair.”
The Harvester mounted the wagon and hunted until he found a large box, and opening it on the bench he disclosed almost every variety of shoe, walking shoe and slipper, a girl ever owned, as well as sandals and high overshoes.
“For pity sake!” cried the Girl. “Cover that box! You frighten me. You’ll never get them paid for. You must take them straight back.”
“Never take anything back,” said the Harvester. “‘Be sure you are right, then go ahead,’ is my motto. Now I know these are your correct size and that for differing occasions you will want just such shoes as other girls have, and here they are. Simple as life! I think these will serve because they are for street wear, yet they are white inside.”
He produced a pair of canvas walking shoes and kneeling before her held out his hand.
When he had finished, he loaded the box on the wagon, gave the hitching strap to Belshazzar, and told him to lead Betsy to the cabin and hold her until he came. Then he turned to the Girl.
“Now,” he said, “look as long as you choose. But remember that the law gives you part of this and your lover, which same am I, gives you the remainder,
so you are privileged to come here at any hour as often as you please. If you miss anything this evening, you have all time to come in which to re-examine it.”
“I’d like to live right here on this bridge,” she said. “I wish it had a roof.”
“Roof it to-morrow,” offered the Harvester. “Simple matter of a few pillars already cut, joists joined, and some slab shingles left from the cabin. Anything else your ladyship can suggest?”
“That you be sensible.”
“I was born that way,” explained the Harvester, “and I’ve cultivated the faculty until I’ve developed real genius. Talking of sense, there never was a proper marriage in which the man didn’t give the woman a present. You seem likely to be more appreciative of this bridge than anything else I have, so right here and now would be the appropriate place to offer you my wedding gift. I didn’t have much time, but I couldn’t have found anything more suitable if I’d taken a year.”
He held out a small, white velvet case.
“Doesn’t that look as if it were made for a bride?” he asked.
“It does,” answered the Girl. “But I can’t take it. You are not doing right. Marrying as we did, you never can believe that I love you; maybe it won’t ever happen that I do. I have no right to accept gifts and expensive clothing from you. In the first place, if the love you ask never comes, there is no possible way in which I can repay you. In the second, these things you are offering are not suitable for life and work in the woods. In the third, I think you are being extravagant, and I couldn’t forgive myself if I allowed that.”
“You divide your statements like a preacher, don’t you?” asked the Harvester ingenuously. “Now sit thee here and gaze on the placid lake and quiet your troubled spirit, while I demolish your ‘perfectly good’ arguments. In the first place, you are now my wife, and you have a right to take anything I offer, if you care for it or can use it in any manner. In the second, you must recognize a difference in our positions. What seems nothing to you means all the world to me, and you are less than human if you deprive me of the joy of expressing feelings I am in honour bound to keep in my heart, by these little material offerings. In the third place, I inherited over six hundred acres of land and water, please observe the water—it is now in evidence on your left. All my life I have been taught to be frugal, economical, and to work. All I’ve earned either has gone back into land, into the bank, or into books, very plain food, and such clothing as you now see me wearing. Just the value of this place as it stands, with its big trees, its drug crops yielding all the year round, would be difficult to estimate; and I don’t mind telling you that on the top of that hill there is a gold mine, and it’s mine—ours since four o’clock.”
The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter Page 79