I sometimes wonder why it is that troubles pile up. Why they are not scattered along through our lives, instead of being accumulated, and then dumped upon our heads all at once. It doesn't seem like a fair game to me. It seems as if something was taking advantage of our helplessness. You see a fellow can rally under one or two back licks of Fate, if they are not too hard, and if there's any sort of fighting stuff in him. But when they come often, and come big and strong, his knees get wobbly and his spirit sickens. Is he to blame?
I find myself in some such strait to-night, for the open door of heaven which I went to sleep thinking about is not open, at all. It might be—I believe it would be if I could see Celeste, but she is gone. I marvel at the steady hand with which I trace these words. It is not because I do not feel. There are invisible fingers at my throat, and a spiked hand about my heart. Each spasmodic throb seems to thrust the cardiac walls against nettles. If my journal had not progressed so far I think I would end it right here. It appears as if this is to be the logical end anyway. Perhaps when I rise from my work to-night I shall gather up the written sheets and toss them, so much scrap paper, into the black jaws of the old fireplace. I don't know. I have come to look forward to my night's writing. It is not a diary, you see. It is—well, it must be a story, in a way, but how could we call such simple and homely things as I have jotted down a story? I'm sure it is not like the other story I wrote; the book which was published, and which no one would read. I made that up out of the whole cloth. I wonder if people knew—and I wonder if they will believe my word that this is the truth. But if I stop writing to-night I won't have a story. Things have gone on and on, and here I am mortally in love with Celeste Somebody, and elsewhere are the others I have met who have touched my life in various ways. All in suspense, as it were, awaiting developments. I can't end my journal to-night. That is, I can't end it and expect any sane people to put it between book covers. Wouldn't it be an innovation! The thought amuses me in the midst of my heartsickness. But Celeste is gone, and with her gone there is nothing more to say. I could offer little else than Mark Twain's memorable diary on shipboard: "Got up, washed, and went to bed." She must come back, that is all. I don't know where she is, nor how long she will be away. These things I will find out. Here I have wandered on much like a maundering old man, without first setting down the adventure of the day, and then commenting, if so inclined. I beg pardon. To-night I really am not fit, and should not attempt to write. But I have begun; inaction would be galling, so I will continue.
Was I astir early this morning? The first gray arrow, barbed with silver and feathered with gloom, had not found my small window ere I was up with a snatch of song welling from my throat, and hurrying for the big washtub back of the kitchen which does the duty of a bathtub in civilization. I had never been so completely happy since I was a boy on my grandad's farm. I even wanted to whistle while I was shaving, I was so full of song and laughter. Cooking breakfast was a jolly lark; eating it a delicious pastime. Then I was gone like a deer breaking cover, the door to the Lodge open to its fullest extent. She knew the truth, and I might even meet her coming to me.
As I ran easily through the forest on the now familiar way, I noticed that my exuberant spirits began to decline. A foreboding of some disaster crept stealthily and steadily upon me, until I actually had a chilly sensation down my spine, and a woeful sinking in my breast. This phenomenon, in common with many others attendant upon our daily life, cannot be explained. I really suffered until I came in sight of the roof which sheltered my beloved; then, as I mounted to the tree-bridge with feet suddenly grown leaden, a numb calm gripped me. I stood and leaned against the section of the root-wadded disk which projected above the butt of the oak, little spiders of feeling scurrying out all over my chest from a center above my heart. No signs of morning activity greeted my despairing gaze. The house was silent and lifeless as the trunk beneath my feet. No blue wood smoke curled up from the kitchen chimney. Not even the dog was visible. Only from the comb of the chicken house a lonesome guinea fowl squawked harshly. I dragged myself forward. When I reached the house I went in a mechanical way to each door and window in turn. They were fastened, but I discovered the dining room window was without a shade or curtain, and to a pane of glass here I pressed my face, shielding my eyes from the light with my hands. Slowly the interior took shape. A table covered with oilcloth; a few low-backed, shuck-bottomed chairs; a smaller table against the wall holding what appeared to be a jar of honey; a safe with tin paneled doors stuck full of holes in some kind of design; a fly-brush in the corner made of newspaper slit into strips and fastened to the end of a piece of bamboo fishing-pole. A bare floor, well scrubbed. I saw no one; I heard nothing, though I listened for several minutes with parted lips. They were gone. Everybody was gone. Where? Maybe just to spend the day with a neighbor. I knew this was a rural custom. Hope flared up with a quick rush to welcome this idea. Where were those neighbors? Ah, yes! The Tollers! Celeste had told me of them the first time I had talked with her. She had said they lived over the hill. So over the hill I fared in a bee-line, ignoring the road below which in all probability would conduct me to my destination. It was a hard climb, for the spur rose up rugged and forbidding, but I was growing inured to such things and scarcely noticed the exertion. When I reached the valley upon the other side I came upon the road. Following this for a short distance I discovered a log cabin, set dangerously near the bank of a creek. To one side a huge black kettle was a-boil over a faggot fire, and by it stood a woman stirring with a long stick the clothes she was getting ready for the wash. Children were everywhere, like squirrels in a hickory tree in nutting time. There must have been fourteen, and the oldest was far from grown. At sight of me one gave a shrill little yelp, then there began a mighty scuttling for hiding places. The majority made for the door of the cabin, several found refuge behind convenient trees, while one of the boys shinned up an ash as though in mortal fright. Two or three more dropped over the shelving bank of the stream, and holding to the sod with tenacious, grimy paws, thrust their heads up and watched me with brilliant, dancing eyes. The smallest sought the protection of their mother's bedraggled skirts, which they pulled over their faces, thus stifling in a measure the piercing wails which had marked their progress to her side. The woman turned impatiently at the hubbub, brushed the smoke from her eyes, and peered at me with puckered face.
I came boldly toward her. Already I knew she whom I sought was not here, but I had to make my errand known.
"I'm looking for—a person," I began, conscious that I was stating my mission very lamely.
A look of mingled craft and truculence spread over the seamed, sallow face of the woman. What a pitiful appearance she made! I was assured she was not over thirty, but she seemed nearer fifty. Hipless, flat-breasted, stringy-necked; her hands and wrists red and rough. Her scanty hair was pale straw in color, showed dirt, and was slicked back and screwed into a knot about the size of a walnut on the crown of her head. Her dress was—simply a protection against nakedness.
"I 'low yo' 'd better git!" presently exclaimed this mother of many, with painful directness.
"Yes," I assented; "I'll git in a minute. Have you seen Lessie this morning? It is she I want!"
"Oh!"