It was in the early twilight that Mr. Jack told the story. He, Jill, and David were on the veranda, as usual watching the towers of Sunnycrest turn from gold to silver as the sun dropped behind the hills. It was Jill who had asked for the story.
About fairies and princesses, you know, she had ordered.
But how will David like that? Mr. Jack had demurred. "Maybe he doesn't care for fairies and princesses."
I read one once about a prince—'t was 'The Prince and the Pauper,' and I liked that, averred David stoutly.
Mr. Jack smiled; then his brows drew together in a frown. His eyes were moodily fixed on the towers.
Hm-m; well, he said, "I might, I suppose, tell you a story about a PRINCESS and—a Pauper. I—know one well enough."
Good!—then tell it, cried both Jill and David. And Mr. Jack began his story.
She was not always a Princess, and he was not always a Pauper,—and that's where the story came in, I suppose, sighed the man. "She was just a girl, once, and he was a boy; and they played together and—liked each other. He lived in a little house on a hill."
Like this? demanded Jill.
Eh? Oh—er—yes, SOMETHING like this, returned Mr. Jack, with an odd half-smile. "And she lived in another bit of a house in a town far away from the boy."
Then how could they play together? questioned David.
They couldn't, ALWAYS. It was only summers when she came to visit in the boy's town. She was very near him then, for the old aunt whom she visited lived in a big stone house with towers, on another hill, in plain sight from the boy's home.
Towers like those—where the Lady of the Roses lives? asked David.
Eh? What? Oh—er—yes, murmured Mr. Jack. "We'll say the towers were something like those over there." He paused, then went on musingly: "The girl used to signal, sometimes, from one of the tower windows. One wave of the handkerchief meant, 'I'm coming, over'; two waves, with a little pause between, meant, 'You are to come over here.' So the boy used to wait always, after that first wave to see if another followed; so that he might know whether he were to be host or guest that day. The waves always came at eight o'clock in the morning, and very eagerly the boy used to watch for them all through the summer when the girl was there."
Did they always come, every morning? Asked Jill.
No; sometimes the girl had other things to do. Her aunt would want her to go somewhere with her, or other cousins were expected whom the girl must entertain; and she knew the boy did not like other guests to be there when he was, so she never asked him to come over at such times. On such occasions she did sometimes run up to the tower at eight o'clock and wave three times, and that meant, 'Dead Day.' So the boy, after all, never drew a real breath of relief until he made sure that no dreaded third wave was to follow the one or the two.
Seems to me, observed David, "that all this was sort of one-sided. Didn't the boy say anything?"
Oh, yes, smiled Mr. Jack. "But the boy did not have any tower to wave from, you must remember. He had only the little piazza on his tiny bit of a house. But he rigged up a pole, and he asked his mother to make him two little flags, a red and a blue one. The red meant 'All right'; and the blue meant 'Got to work'; and these he used to run up on his pole in answer to her waving 'I'm coming over,' or 'You are to come over here.' So, you see, occasionally it was the boy who had to bring the 'Dead Day,' as there were times when he had to work. And, by the way, perhaps you would be interested to know that after a while he thought up a third flag to answer her three waves. He found an old black silk handkerchief of his father's, and he made that into a flag. He told the girl it meant 'I'm heartbroken,' and he said it was a sign of the deepest mourning. The girl laughed and tipped her head saucily to one side, and said, 'Pooh! as if you really cared!' But the boy stoutly maintained his position, and it was that, perhaps, which made her play the little joke one day.
"
The boy was fourteen that summer, and the girl thirteen. They had begun their signals years before, but they had not had the black one so long. On this day that I tell you of, the girl waved three waves, which meant, 'Dead Day,' you remember, and watched until the boy had hoisted his black flag which said, 'I'm heart-broken,' in response. Then, as fast as her mischievous little feet could carry her, she raced down one hill and across to the other. Very stealthily she advanced till she found the boy bent over a puzzle on the back stoop, and—and he was whistling merrily. How she teased him then! How she taunted him with 'Heart-broken, indeed—and whistling like that!' In vain he blushed and stammered, and protested that his whistling was only to keep up his spirits. The girl only laughed and tossed her yellow curls; then she hunted till she found some little jingling bells, and these she tied to the black badge of mourning and pulled it high up on the flagpole. The next instant she was off with a run and a skip, and a saucy wave of her hand; and the boy was left all alone with an hour's work ahead of him to untie the knots from his desecrated badge of mourning.
"
And yet they were wonderfully good friends—this boy and girl. From the very first, when they were seven and eight, they had said that they would marry each other when they grew up, and always they spoke of it as the expected thing, and laid many happy plans for the time when it should come. To be sure, as they grew older, it was not mentioned quite so often, perhaps; but the boy at least thought—if he thought of it all—that that was only because it was already so well understood.
What did the girl think? It was Jill who asked the question.
Eh? The girl? Oh, answered Mr. Jack, a little bitterly, "I'm afraid I don't know exactly what the girl did think, but—it was n't that, anyhow—that is, judging from what followed."
What did follow?
"
Well, to begin with, the old aunt died. The girl was sixteen then. It was in the winter that this happened, and the girl was far away at school. She came to the funeral, however, but the boy did not see her, save in the distance; and then he hardly knew her, so strange did she look in her black dress and hat. She was there only two days, and though he gazed wistfully up at the gray tower, he knew well enough that of course she could not wave to him at such a time as that. Yet he had hoped—almost believed that she would wave two waves that last day, and let him go over to see her. But she didn't wave, and he didn't go over. She went away. And then the town learned a wonderful thing. The old lady, her aunt, who had been considered just fairly rich, turned out to be the possessor of almost fabulous wealth, owing to her great holdings of stock in a Western gold mine which had suddenly struck it rich. And to the girl she willed it all. It was then, of course, that the girl became the Princess, but the boy did not realize that—just then. To him she was still 'the girl.'
""
For three years he did not see her. She was at school, or traveling abroad, he heard. He, too, had been away to school, and was, indeed, just ready to enter college. Then, that summer, he heard that she was coming to the old home, and his heart sang within him. Remember, to him she was still the girl. He knew, of course, that she was not the LITTLE girl who had promised to marry him. But he was sure she was the merry comrade, the true-hearted young girl who used to smile frankly into his eyes, and whom he was now to win for his wife. You see he had forgotten—quite forgotten about the Princess and the money. Such a foolish, foolish boy as he was! So he got out his flags gleefully, and one day, when his mother wasn't in the kitchen, he ironed out the wrinkles and smoothed them all ready to be raised on the pole. He would be ready when the girl waved—for of course she would wave; he would show her that he had not forgotten. He could see just how the sparkle would come to her eyes, and just how the little fine lines of mischief would crinkle around her nose when she was ready to give that first wave. He could imagine that she would like to find him napping; that she would like to take him by surprise, and make him scurry around for his flags to answer her.
""
But he would show her! As if she, a girl, were to beat him at their old game! He wondered which it would be: 'I'm coming over,' or, 'You are to come over here.' Whichever it was, he would answer, of course, with the red 'All right.' Still, it WOULD be a joke to run up the blue 'Got to work,' and then slip across to see her, just as she, so long ago, had played the joke on him! On the whole, however, he thought the red flag would be better. And it was that one which he laid uppermost ready to his hand, when he arranged them. At last she came. He heard of it at once. It was already past four o'clock, but he could not forbear, even then, to look toward the tower. It would be like her, after all, to wave then, that very night, just so as to catch him napping, he thought. She did not wave, however. The boy was sure of that, for he watched the tower till dark.
""
In the morning, long before eight o'clock, the boy was ready. He debated for some time whether to stand out of doors on the piazza, or to hide behind the screened window, where he could still watch the tower. He decided at last that it would be better not to let her see him when she looked toward the house; then his triumph would be all the more complete when he dashed out to run up his answer. Eight o'clock came and passed. The boy waited until nine, but there was no sign of life from the tower. The boy was angry then, at himself. He called himself, indeed, a fool, to hide as he did. Of course she wouldn't wave when he was nowhere in sight—when he had apparently forgotten! And here was a whole precious day wasted!
"
The next morning, long before eight, the boy stood in plain sight on the piazza. As before he waited until nine; and as before there was no sign of life at the tower window. The next morning he was there again, and the next, and the next. It took just five days, indeed, to convince the boy—as he was convinced at last—that the girl did not intend to wave at all.
But how unkind of her! exclaimed David.
She couldn't have been nice one bit! decided Jill.
You forget, said Mr. Jack. "She was the Princess."
Huh! grunted Jill and David in unison.
The boy remembered it then, went on Mr. Jack, after a pause,—"about the money, and that she was a Princess. And of course he knew—when he thought of it—that he could not expect that a Princess would wave like a girl—just a girl. Besides, very likely she did not care particularly about seeing him. Princesses did forget, he fancied,—they had so much, so very much to fill their lives. It was this thought that kept him from going to see her—this, and the recollection that, after all, if she really HAD wanted to see him, she could have waved.
"
There came a day, however, when another youth, who did not dare to go alone, persuaded him, and together they paid her a call. The boy understood, then, many things. He found the Princess; there was no sign of the girl. The Princess was tall and dignified, with a cold little hand and a smooth, sweet voice. There was no frank smile in her eyes, neither were there any mischievous crinkles about her nose and lips. There was no mention of towers or flags; no reference to wavings or to childhood's days. There was only a stiffly polite little conversation about colleges and travels, with a word or two about books and plays. Then the callers went home. On the way the boy smiled scornfully to himself. He was trying to picture the beauteous vision he had seen, this unapproachable Princess in her filmy lace gown,—standing in the tower window and waving—waving to a bit of a house on the opposite hill. As if that could happen! The boy, during those last three years, had known only books. He knew little of girls—only one girl—and he knew still less of Princesses. So when, three days after the call, there came a chance to join a summer camp with a man who loved books even better than did the boy himself, he went gladly. Once he had refused to go on this very trip; but then there had been the girl. Now there was only the Princess—and the Princess didn't count.""
"
Like the hours that aren't sunshiny, interpreted David.
Yes, corroborated Mr. Jack. "Like the hours when the sun does n't shine."
And then? prompted Jill.
Well, then,—there wasn't much worth telling, rejoined Mr. Jack gloomily. "Two more years passed, and the Princess grew to be twenty-one. She came into full control of her property then, and after a while she came back to the old stone house with the towers and turned it into a fairyland of beauty. She spent money like water. All manner of artists, from the man who painted her ceilings to the man who planted her seeds, came and bowed to her will. From the four corners of the earth she brought her treasures and lavished them through the house and grounds. Then, every summer, she came herself, and lived among them, a very Princess indeed."
And the boy?—what became of the boy? demanded David. "Didn't he see her—ever?"
Mr. Jack shook his head.
Not often, David; and when he did, it did not make him any—happier. You see, the boy had become the Pauper; you must n't forget that.
But he wasn't a Pauper when you left him last.
Wasn't he? Well, then, I'll tell you about that. You see, the boy, even though he did go away, soon found out that in his heart the Princess was still the girl, just the same. He loved her, and he wanted her to be his wife; so for a little—for a very little—he was wild enough to think that he might work and study and do great things in the world until he was even a Prince himself, and then he could marry the Princess.
Well, couldn't he?
No. To begin with, he lost his health. Then, away back in the little house on the hill something happened—a something that left a very precious charge for him to keep; and he had to go back and keep it, and to try to see if he couldn't find that lost health, as well. And that is all.
All! You don't mean that that is the end! exclaimed Jill.
That's the end.
But that isn't a mite of a nice end, complained David. "They always get married and live happy ever after—in stories."
Do they? Mr. Jack smiled a little sadly. "Perhaps they do, David,—in stories."
Well, can't they in this one?
I don't see how.
Why can't he go to her and ask her to marry him?
Mr. Jack drew himself up proudly.
The Pauper and the Princess? Never! Paupers don't go to Princesses, David, and say, 'I love you.'
David frowned.
Why not? I don't see why—if they want to do it. Seems as if somehow it might be fixed.
It can't be, returned Mr. Jack, his gaze on the towers that crowned the opposite hill; "not so long as always before the Pauper's eyes there are those gray walls behind which he pictures the Princess in the midst of her golden luxury."
To neither David nor Jill did the change to the present tense seem strange. The story was much too real to them for that.
Well, anyhow, I think it ought to be fixed, declared David, as he rose to his feet.
So do I—but we can't fix it, laughed Jill. "And I'm hungry. Let's see what there is to eat!"
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《Miss Billy》
《Pollyanna》
It was a beautiful moonlight night, but for once David was not thinking of the moon. All the way to the Holly farmhouse he was thinking of Mr. Jack's story, "The Princess and the Pauper." It held him strangely. He felt that he never could forget it. For some reason that he could not have explained, it made him sad, too, and his step was very quiet as he went up the walk toward the kitchen door.
It was after eight o'clock. David had taken supper with Mr. Jack and Jill, and not for some hours had he been at the farmhouse. In the doorway now he stopped short; then instinctively he stepped back into the shadow. In the kitchen a kerosene light was burning. It showed Mrs. Holly crying at the table, and Mr. Holly, white-faced and stern-lipped, staring at nothing. Then Mrs. Holly raised her face, drawn and tear-stained, and asked a trembling question.
Simeon, have you thought? We might go—to John—for—help.
David was frightened then, so angry was the look that came into Simeon Holly's face.
Ellen, we'll have no more of this, said the man harshly. "Understand, I'd rather lose the whole thing and—and starve, than go to—John."
David fled then. Up the back stairs he crept to his room and left his violin. A moment later he stole down again and sought Perry Larson whom he had seen smoking in the barn doorway.
Perry, what is it? he asked in a trembling voice. "What has happened—in there?" He pointed toward the house.
The man puffed for a moment in silence before he took his pipe from his mouth.
Well, sonny, I s'pose I may as well tell ye. You'll have ter know it sometime, seein' as 't won't be no secret long. They've had a stroke o' bad luck—Mr. an' Mis' Holly has.
What is it?
The man hitched in his seat.
By sugar, boy, I s'pose if I tell ye, there ain't no sartinty that you'll sense it at all. I reckon it ain't in your class.
But what is it?
Well, it's money—and one might as well talk moonshine to you as money, I s'pose; but here goes it. It's a thousand dollars, boy, that they owed. Here, like this, he explained, rummaging his pockets until he had found a silver dollar to lay on his open palm. "Now, jest imagine a thousand of them; that's heaps an' heaps—more 'n I ever see in my life."
Like the stars? guessed David.
The man nodded.
Ex-ACTLY! Well, they owed this—Mr. an' Mis' Holly did—and they had agreed ter pay it next Sat'day. And they was all right, too. They had it plum saved in the bank, an' was goin' ter draw it Thursday, ter make sure. An' they was feelin' mighty pert over it, too, when ter-day along comes the news that somethin's broke kersmash in that bank, an' they've shet it up. An' nary a cent can the Hollys git now—an' maybe never. Anyhow, not 'fore it's too late for this job.
But won't he wait?—that man they owe it to? I should think he'd have to, if they didn't have it to pay.
Not much he will, when it's old Streeter that's got the mortgage on a good fat farm like this!
David drew his brows together perplexedly.
What is a—a mortgage? he asked. "Is it anything like a porte-cochere? I KNOW what that is, 'cause my Lady of the Roses has one; but we haven't got that—down here."
Perry Larson sighed in exasperation.
Gosh, if that ain't 'bout what I expected of ye! No, it ain't even second cousin to a—a-that thing you're a-talkin' of. In plain wordin', it's jest this: Mr. Holly, he says ter Streeter: 'You give me a thousand dollars and I'll pay ye back on a sartin day; if I don't pay, you can sell my farm fur what it'll bring, an' TAKE yer pay. Well, now here 't is. Mr. Holly can't pay, an' so Streeter will put up the farm fur sale.
What, with Mr. and Mrs. Holly LIVING here?
Sure! Only they'll have ter git out, ye know.
Where'll they go?
The Lord knows; I don't.
And is THAT what they're crying for—in there?—because they've got to go?
Sure!
But isn't there anything, anywhere, that can be done to—stop it?
I don't see how, kid,—not unless some one ponies up with the money 'fore next Sat'day,—an' a thousand o' them things don't grow on ev'ry bush, he finished, gently patting the coin in his hand.
At the words a swift change came to David's face. His cheeks paled and his eyes dilated in terror. It was as if ahead of him he saw a yawning abyss, eager to engulf him.
And you say—MONEY would—fix it? he asked thickly.
Ex-ACT-ly!—a thousand o' them, though, 't would take.
A dawning relief came into David's eyes—it was as if he saw a bridge across the abyss.
You mean—that there wouldn't ANYTHING do, only silver pieces—like those? he questioned hopefully.
Sugar, kid, 'course there would! Gosh, but you BE a checkerboard o' sense an' nonsense, an' no mistake! Any money would do the job—any money! Don't ye see? Anything that's money.
Would g-gold do it? David's voice was very faint now.
Sure!—gold, or silver, or greenbacks, or—or a check, if it had the dough behind it.
David did not appear to hear the last. With an oddly strained look he had hung upon the man's first words; but at the end of the sentence he only murmured, "Oh, thank you," and turned away. He was walking slowly now toward the house. His head was bowed. His step lagged.
Now, ain't that jest like that chap, muttered the man, "ter slink off like that as if he was a whipped cur. I'll bet two cents an' a doughnut, too, that in five minutes he'll be what he calls 'playin' it' on that 'ere fiddle o' his. An' I'll be derned, too, if I ain't curious ter see what he WILL make of it. It strikes me this ought ter fetch somethin' first cousin to a dirge!"
On the porch steps David paused a breathless instant. From the kitchen came the sound of Mrs. Holly's sobs and of a stern voice praying. With a shudder and a little choking cry the boy turned then and crept softly upstairs to his room.
He played, too, as Perry Larson had wagered. But it was not the tragedy of the closed bank, nor the honor of the threatened farm-selling that fell from his violin. It was, instead, the swan song of a little pile of gold—gold which lay now in a chimney cupboard, but which was soon to be placed at the feet of the mourning man and woman downstairs. And in the song was the sob of a boy who sees his house of dreams burn to ashes; who sees his wonderful life and work out in the wide world turn to endless days of weed-pulling and dirt-digging in a narrow valley. There was in the song, too, something of the struggle, the fierce yea and nay of the conflict. But, at the end, there was the wild burst of exaltation of renunciation, so that the man in the barn door below fairly sprang to his feet with an angry:—
Gosh! if he hain't turned the thing into a jig—durn him! Don't he know more'n that at such a time as this?
Later, a very little later, the shadowy figure of the boy stood before him.
I've been thinking, stammered David, "that maybe I—could help, about that money, you know."
Now, look a-here, boy, exploded Perry, in open exasperation, "as I said in the first place, this ain't in your class. 'T ain't no pink cloud sailin' in the sky, nor a bluebird singin' in a blackb'rry bush. An' you might 'play it'—as you call it—till doomsday, an' 't wouldn't do no good—though I'm free ter confess that your playin' of them 'ere other things sounds real pert an' chirky at times; but 't won't do no good here."
David stepped forward, bringing his small, anxious face full into the moonlight.
But 't was the money, Perry; I meant about, the money, he explained. "They were good to me and wanted me when there wasn't any one else that did; and now I'd like to do something for them. There aren't so MANY pieces, and they aren't silver. There's only one hundred and six of them; I counted. But maybe they 'd help some. It—it would be a—start." His voice broke over the once beloved word, then went on with renewed strength. "There, see! Would these do?" And with both hands he held up to view his cap sagging under its weight of gold.
Perry Larson's jaw fell open. His eyes bulged. Dazedly he reached out and touched with trembling fingers the heap of shining disks that seemed in the mellow light like little earth-born children of the moon itself. The next instant he recoiled sharply.
Great snakes, boy, where'd you git that money? he demanded.
Of father. He went to the far country, you know.
Perry Larson snorted angrily.
See here, boy, for once, if ye can, talk horse-sense! Surely, even YOU don't expect me ter believe that he's sent you that money from—from where he's gone to!
Oh, no. He left it.
Left it! Why, boy, you know better! There wa'n't a cent—hardly—found on him.
He gave it to me before—by the roadside.
Gave it to you! Where in the name of goodness has it been since?
In the little cupboard in my room, behind the books.
Great snakes! muttered Perry Larson, reaching out his hand and gingerly picking up one of the gold-pieces.
David eyed him anxiously.
Won't they—do? he faltered. "There aren't a thousand; there's only a hundred and six; but—"
Do! cut in the man, excitedly. He had been examining the gold-piece at close range. "Do! Well, I reckon they'll do. By Jiminy!—and ter think you've had this up yer sleeve all this time! Well, I'll believe anythin' of yer now—anythin'! You can't stump me with nuthin'! Come on." And he hurriedly led the way toward the house.
But they weren't up my sleeve, corrected David, as he tried to keep up with the long strides of the man. "I SAID they were in the cupboard in my room."
There was no answer. Larson had reached the porch steps, and had paused there hesitatingly. From the kitchen still came the sound of sobs. Aside from that there was silence. The boy, however, did not hesitate. He went straight up the steps and through the open kitchen door. At the table sat the man and the woman, their eyes covered with their hands.
With a swift overturning of his cap, David dumped his burden onto the table, and stepped back respectfully.
If you please, sir, would this—help any? he asked.
At the jingle of the coins Simeon Holly and his wife lifted their heads abruptly. A half-uttered sob died on the woman's lips. A quick cry came from the man's. He reached forth an eager hand and had almost clutched the gold when a sudden change came to his face. With a stern ejaculation he drew back.
Boy, where did that money come from? he challenged.
David sighed in a discouraged way. It seemed that, always, the showing of this gold mean't questioning—eternal questioning.
Surely, continued Simeon Holly, "you did not—" With the boy's frank gaze upturned to his, the man could not finish his sentence.
Before David could answer came the voice of Perry Larson from the kitchen doorway.
No, sir, he didn't, Mr. Holly; an' it's all straight, I'm thinkin'—though I'm free ter confess it does sound nutty. His dad give it to him.
His—father! But where—where has it been ever since?
In the chimney cupboard in his room, he says, sir.
Simeon Holly turned in frowning amazement.
David, what does this mean? Why have you kept this gold in a place like that?
Why, there wasn't anything else to do with it, answered the boy perplexedly. "I hadn't any use for it, you know, and father said to keep it till I needed it."
'Hadn't any use for it'! blustered Larson from the doorway. "Jiminy! Now, ain't that jest like that boy?"
But David hurried on with his explanation.
We never used to use them—father and I—except to buy things to eat and wear; and down here YOU give me those, you know.
Gorry! interjected Perry Larson. "Do you reckon, boy, that Mr. Holly himself was give them things he gives ter you?"
The boy turned sharply, a startled question in his eyes.
What do you mean? Do you mean that— His face changed suddenly. His cheeks turned a shamed red. "Why, he did—he did have to buy them, of course, just as father did. And I never even thought of it before! Then, it's yours, anyway—it belongs to you," he argued, turning to Farmer Holly, and shoving the gold nearer to his hands. "There isn't enough, maybe—but 't will help!"
They're ten-dollar gold pieces, sir, spoke up Larson importantly; "an' there's a hundred an' six of them. That's jest one thousand an' sixty dollars, as I make it."
Simeon Holly, self-controlled man that he was, almost leaped from his chair.
One thousand and sixty dollars! he gasped. Then, to David: "Boy, in Heaven's name, who are you?"
I don't know—only David. The boy spoke wearily, with a grieved sob in his voice. He was very tired, a good deal perplexed, and a little angry. He wished, if no one wanted this gold, that he could take it upstairs again to the chimney cupboard; or, if they objected to that, that they would at least give it to him, and let him go away now to that beautiful music he was to hear, and to those kind people who were always to understand what he said when he played.
Of course, ventured Perry Larson diffidently, "I ain't professin' ter know any great shakes about the hand of the Lord, Mr. Holly, but it do strike me that this 'ere gold comes mighty near bein' proverdential—fur you."
Simeon Holly fell back in his seat. His eyes clung to the gold, but his lips set into rigid lines.
That money is the boy's, Larson. It isn't mine, he said.
He's give it to ye.
Simeon Holly shook his head.
David is nothing but a child, Perry. He doesn't realize at all what he is doing, nor how valuable his gift is.
I know, sir, but you DID take him in, when there wouldn't nobody else do it, argued Larson. "An', anyhow, couldn't you make a kind of an I O U of it, even if he is a kid? Then, some day you could pay him back. Meanwhile you'd be a-keepin' him, an' a-schoolin' him; an' that's somethin'."
I know, I know, nodded Simeon Holly thoughtfully, his eyes going from the gold to David's face. Then, aloud, yet as if to himself, he breathed: "Boy, boy, who was your father? How came he by all that gold—and he—a tramp!"
David drew himself suddenly erect. His eyes flashed.
I don't know, sir. But I do know this: he didn't STEAL it!
Across the table Mrs. Holly drew a quick breath, but she did not speak—save with her pleading eyes. Mrs. Holly seldom spoke—save with her eyes—when her husband was solving a knotty problem. She was dumfounded now that he should listen so patiently to the man, Larson,—though she was not more surprised than was Larson himself. For both of them, however, there came at this moment a still greater surprise. Simeon Holly leaned forward suddenly, the stern lines quite gone from his lips, and his face working with emotion as he drew David toward him.
You're a good son, boy,—a good loyal son; and—and I wish you were mine! I believe you. He didn't steal it, and I won't steal it, either. But I will use it, since you are so good as to offer it. But it shall be a loan, David, and some day, God helping me, you shall have it back. Meanwhile, you're my boy, David,—my boy!
Oh, thank you, sir, rejoiced David. "And, really, you know, being wanted like that is better than the start would be, isn't it?"
Better than—what?
David shifted his position. He had not meant to say just that.
N—nothing, he stammered, looking about for a means of quick escape. "I—I was just talking," he finished. And he was immeasurably relieved to find that Mr. Holly did not press the matter further.
In spite of the exaltation of renunciation, and in spite of the joy of being newly and especially "wanted," those early September days were sometimes hard for David. Not until he had relinquished all hope of his "start" did he fully realize what that hope had meant to him.
There were times, to be sure, when there was nothing but rejoicing within him that he was able thus to aid the Hollys. There were other times when there was nothing but the sore heartache because of the great work out in the beautiful world that could now never be done; and because of the unlovely work at hand that must be done. To tell the truth, indeed, David's entire conception of life had become suddenly a chaos of puzzling contradictions.
To Mr. Jack, one day, David went with his perplexities. Not that he told him of the gold-pieces and of the unexpected use to which they had been put—indeed, no. David had made up his mind never, if he could help himself, to mention those gold-pieces to any one who did not already know of them. They meant questions, and the questions, explanations. And he had had enough of both on that particular subject. But to Mr. Jack he said one day, when they were alone together:—
Mr. Jack, how many folks have you got inside of your head?
Eh—what, David?
David repeated his question and attached an explanation.
I mean, the folks that—that make you do things.
Mr. Jack laughed.
Well, he said, "I believe some people make claims to quite a number, and perhaps almost every one owns to a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde."
Who are they?
Never mind, David. I don't think you know the gentlemen, anyhow. They're only something like the little girl with a curl. One is very, very good, indeed, and the other is horrid.
Oh, yes, I know them; they're the ones that come to me, returned David, with a sigh. "I've had them a lot, lately."
Mr. Jack stared.
Oh, have you?
Yes; and that's what's the trouble. How can you drive them off—the one that is bad, I mean?
Well, really, confessed Mr. Jack, "I'm not sure I can tell. You see—the gentlemen visit me sometimes."
Oh, do they?
Yes.
I'm so glad—that is, I mean, amended David, in answer to Mr. Jack's uplifted eyebrows, "I'm glad that you understand what I'm talking about. You see, I tried Perry Larson last night on it, to get him to tell me what to do. But he only stared and laughed. He didn't know the names of 'em, anyhow, as you do, and at last he got really almost angry and said I made him feel so 'buggy' and 'creepy' that he wouldn't dare look at himself in the glass if I kept on, for fear some one he'd never known was there should jump out at him."
Mr. Jack chuckled.
Well, I suspect, David, that Perry knew one of your gentlemen by the name of 'conscience,' perhaps; and I also suspect that maybe conscience does pretty nearly fill the bill, and that you've been having a bout with that. Eh? Now, what is the trouble? Tell me about it.
David stirred uneasily. Instead of answering, he asked another question.
Mr. Jack, it is a beautiful world, isn't it?
For a moment there was no, answer; then a low voice replied:—
Your father said it was, David.
Again David moved restlessly.
Yes; but father was on the mountain. And down here—well, down here there are lots of things that I don't believe he knew about.
What, for instance?
Why, lots of things—too many to tell. Of course there are things like catching fish, and killing birds and squirrels and other things to eat, and plaguing cats and dogs. Father never would have called those beautiful. Then there are others like little Jimmy Clark who can't walk, and the man at the Marstons' who's sick, and Joe Glaspell who is blind. Then there are still different ones like Mr. Holly's little boy. Perry says he ran away years and years ago, and made his people very unhappy. Father wouldn't call that a beautiful world, would he? And how can people like that always play in tune? And there are the Princess and the Pauper that you told about.
Oh, the story?
Yes; and people like them can't be happy and think the world is beautiful, of course.
Why not?
Because they didn't end right. They didn't get married and live happy ever after, you know.
Well, I don't think I'd worry about that, David,—at least, not about the Princess. I fancy the world was very beautiful to her, all right. The Pauper—well, perhaps he wasn't very happy. But, after all, David, you know happiness is something inside of yourself. Perhaps half of these people are happy, in their way.
There! and that's another thing, sighed David. "You see, I found that out—that it was inside of yourself—quite a while ago, and I told the Lady of the Roses. But now I—can't make it work myself."
What's the matter?
Well, you see then something was going to happen—something that I liked; and I found that just thinking of it made it so that I didn't mind raking or hoeing, or anything like that; and I told the Lady of the Roses. And I told her that even if it wasn't going to happen she could THINK it was going to, and that that would be just the same, because 't was the thinking that made my hours sunny ones. It wasn't the DOING at all. I said I knew because I hadn't DONE it yet. See?
I—think so, David.
Well, I've found out that it isn't the same at all; for now that I KNOW that this beautiful thing isn't ever going to happen to me, I can think and think all day, and it doesn't do a mite of good. The sun is just as hot, and my back aches just as hard, and the field is just as big and endless as it used to be when I had to call it that those hours didn't count. Now, what is the matter?
Mr. Jack laughed, but he shook his head a little sadly.
You're getting into too deep waters for me, David. I suspect you're floundering in a sea that has upset the boats of sages since the world began. But what is it that was so nice, and that isn't going to happen? Perhaps I MIGHT help on that.
No, you couldn't, frowned David; "and there couldn't anybody, either, you see, because I wouldn't go back now and LET it happen, anyhow, as long as I know what I do. Why, if I did, there wouldn't be ANY hours that were sunny then—not even the ones after four o'clock; I—I'd feel so mean! But what I don't see is just how I can fix it up with the Lady of the Roses."
What has she to do with it?
Why, at the very first, when she said she didn't have ANY sunshiny hours, I told her—
When she said what? interposed Mr. Jack, coming suddenly erect in his chair.
That she didn't have any hours to count, you know.
To—COUNT?
Yes; it was the sundial. Didn't I tell you? Yes, I know I did—about the words on it—not counting any hours that weren't sunny, you know. And she said she wouldn't have ANY hours to count; that the sun never shone for her.
Why, David, demurred Mr. Jack in a voice that shook a little, "are you sure? Did she say just that? You—you must be mistaken—when she has—has everything to make her happy."
I wasn't, because I said that same thing to her myself—afterwards. And then I told her—when I found out myself, you know—about its being what was inside of you, after all, that counted; and then is when I asked her if she couldn't think of something nice that was going to happen to her sometime.
Well, what did she say?
She shook her head, and said 'No.' Then she looked away, and her eyes got soft and dark like little pools in the brook where the water stops to rest. And she said she had hoped once that this something would happen; but that it hadn't, and that it would take something more than thinking to bring it. And I know now what she meant, because thinking isn't all that counts, is it?
Mr. Jack did not answer. He had risen to his feet, and was pacing restlessly up and down the veranda. Once or twice he turned his eyes toward the towers of Sunnycrest, and David noticed that there was a new look on his face.
Very soon, however, the old tiredness came back to his eyes, and he dropped into his seat again, muttering "Fool! of course it couldn't be—that!"
Be what? asked David.
Mr. Jack started.
Er—nothing; nothing that you would understand, David. Go on—with what you were saying.
There isn't any more. It's all done. It's only that I'm wondering how I'm going to learn here that it's a beautiful world, so that I can—tell father.
Mr. Jack roused himself. He had the air of a man who determinedly throws to one side a heavy burden.
Well, David, he smiled, "as I said before, you are still out on that sea where there are so many little upturned boats. There might be a good many ways of answering that question."
Mr. Holly says, mused the boy, aloud, a little gloomily, "that it doesn't make any difference whether we find things beautiful or not; that we're here to do something serious in the world."
That is about what I should have expected of Mr. Holly retorted Mr. Jack grimly. "He acts it—and looks it. But—I don't believe you are going to tell your father just that."
No, sir, I don't believe I am, accorded David soberly.
I have an idea that you're going to find that answer just where your father said you would—in your violin. See if you don't. Things that aren't beautiful you'll make beautiful—because we find what we are looking for, and you're looking for beautiful things. After all, boy, if we march straight ahead, chin up, and sing our own little song with all our might and main, we shan't come so far amiss from the goal, I'm thinking. There! that's preaching, and I didn't mean to preach; but—well, to tell the truth, that was meant for myself, for—I'm hunting for the beautiful world, too.
Yes, sir, I know, returned David fervently. And again Mr. Jack, looking into the sympathetic, glowing dark eyes, wondered if, after all, David really could—know.
Even yet Mr. Jack was not used to David; there were "so many of him," he told himself. There were the boy, the artist, and a third personality so evanescent that it defied being named. The boy was jolly, impetuous, confidential, and delightful—plainly reveling in all manner of fun and frolic. The artist was nothing but a bunch of nervous alertness, ready to find melody and rhythm in every passing thought or flying cloud. The third—that baffling third that defied the naming—was a dreamy, visionary, untouchable creature who floated so far above one's head that one's hand could never pull him down to get a good square chance to see what he did look like. All this thought Mr. Jack as he gazed into David's luminous eyes.
In September David entered the village school. School and David did not assimilate at once. Very confidently the teacher set to work to grade her new pupil; but she was not so confident when she found that while in Latin he was perilously near herself (and in French—which she was not required to teach—disastrously beyond her!), in United States history he knew only the barest outlines of certain portions, and could not name a single battle in any of its wars. In most studies he was far beyond boys of his own age, yet at every turn she encountered these puzzling spots of discrepancy, which rendered grading in the ordinary way out of the question.
David's methods of recitation, too, were peculiar, and somewhat disconcerting. He also did not hesitate to speak aloud when he chose, nor to rise from his seat and move to any part of the room as the whim seized him. In time, of course, all this was changed; but it was several days before the boy learned so to conduct himself that he did not shatter to atoms the peace and propriety of the schoolroom.
Outside of school David had little work to do now, though there were still left a few light tasks about the house. Home life at the Holly farmhouse was the same for David, yet with a difference—the difference that comes from being really wanted instead of being merely dutifully kept. There were other differences, too, subtle differences that did not show, perhaps, but that still were there.
Mr. and Mrs. Holly, more than ever now, were learning to look at the world through David's eyes. One day—one wonderful day—they even went to walk in the woods with the boy; and whenever before had Simeon Holly left his work for so frivolous a thing as a walk in the woods!
It was not accomplished, however, without a struggle, as David could have told. The day was a Saturday, clear, crisp, and beautiful, with a promise of October in the air; and David fairly tingled to be free and away. Mrs. Holly was baking—and the birds sang unheard outside her pantry window. Mr. Holly was digging potatoes—and the clouds sailed unnoticed above his head.
All the morning David urged and begged. If for once, just this once, they would leave everything and come, they would not regret it, he was sure. But they shook their heads and said, "No, no, impossible!" In the afternoon the pies were done and the potatoes dug, and David urged and pleaded again. If once, only this once, they would go to walk with him in the woods, he would be so happy, so very happy! And to please the boy—they went.
It was a curious walk. Ellen Holly trod softly, with timid feet. She threw hurried, frightened glances from side to side. It was plain that Ellen Holly did not know how to play. Simeon Holly stalked at her elbow, stern, silent, and preoccupied. It was plain that Simeon Holly not only did not know how to play, but did not even care to find out.
The boy tripped ahead and talked. He had the air of a monarch displaying his kingdom. On one side was a bit of moss worthy of the closest attention; on another, a vine that carried allurement in every tendril. Here was a flower that was like a story for interest, and there was a bush that bore a secret worth the telling. Even Simeon Holly glowed into a semblance of life when David had unerringly picked out and called by name the spruce, and fir, and pine, and larch, and then, in answer to Mrs. Holly's murmured: "But, David, where's the difference? They look so much alike!" he had said:—
Oh, but they aren't, you know. Just see how much more pointed at the top that fir is than that spruce back there; and the branches grow straight out, too, like arms, and they're all smooth and tapering at the ends like a pussy-cat's tail. But the spruce back there—ITS branches turned down and out—didn't you notice?—and they're all bushy at the ends like a squirrel's tail. Oh, they're lots different! That's a larch 'way ahead—that one with the branches all scraggly and close down to the ground. I could start to climb that easy; but I couldn't that pine over there. See, it's 'way up, up, before there's a place for your foot! But I love pines. Up there on the mountains where I lived, the pines were so tall that it seemed as if God used them sometimes to hold up the sky.
And Simeon Holly heard, and said nothing; and that he did say nothing—especially nothing in answer to David's confident assertions concerning celestial and terrestrial architecture—only goes to show how well, indeed, the man was learning to look at the world through David's eyes.
Nor were these all of David's friends to whom Mr. and Mrs. Holly were introduced on that memorable walk. There were the birds, and the squirrels, and, in fact, everything that had life. And each one he greeted joyously by name, as he would greet a friend whose home and habits he knew. Here was a wonderful woodpecker, there was a beautiful bluejay. Ahead, that brilliant bit of color that flashed across their path was a tanager. Once, far up in the sky, as they crossed an open space, David spied a long black streak moving southward.
Oh, see! he exclaimed. "The crows! See them?—'way up there? Wouldn't it be fun if we could do that, and fly hundreds and hundreds of miles, maybe a thousand?"
Oh, David, remonstrated Mrs. Holly, unbelievingly.
But they do! These look as if they'd started on their winter journey South, too; but if they have, they're early. Most of them don't go till October. They come back in March, you know. Though I've had them, on the mountain, that stayed all the year with me.
My! but I love to watch them go, murmured David, his eyes following the rapidly disappearing blackline. "Lots of birds you can't see, you know, when they start for the South. They fly at night—the woodpeckers and orioles and cuckoos, and lots of others. They're afraid, I guess, don't you? But I've seen them. I've watched them. They tell each other when they're going to start."
Oh, David, remonstrated Mrs. Holly, again, her eyes reproving, but plainly enthralled.
But they do tell each other, claimed the boy, with sparkling eyes. "They must! For, all of a sudden, some night, you'll hear the signal, and then they'll begin to gather from all directions. I've seen them. Then, suddenly, they're all up and off to the South—not in one big flock, but broken up into little flocks, following one after another, with such a beautiful whir of wings. Oof—OOF—OOF!—and they're gone! And I don't see them again till next year. But you've seen the swallows, haven't you? They go in the daytime, and they're the easiest to tell of any of them. They fly so swift and straight. Haven't you seen the swallows go?"
Why, I—I don't know, David, murmured Mrs. Holly, with a helpless glance at her husband stalking on ahead. "I—I didn't know there were such things to—to know."
There was more, much more, that David said before the walk came to an end. And though, when it did end, neither Simeon Holly nor his wife said a word of its having been a pleasure or a profit, there was yet on their faces something of the peace and rest and quietness that belonged to the woods they had left.
It was a beautiful month—that September, and David made the most of it. Out of school meant out of doors for him. He saw Mr. Jack and Jill often. He spent much time, too, with the Lady of the Roses. She was still the Lady of the ROSES to David, though in the garden now were the purple and scarlet and yellow of the asters, salvia, and golden glow, instead of the blush and perfume of the roses.
David was very much at home at Sunnycrest. He was welcome, he knew, to go where he pleased. Even the servants were kind to him, as well as was the elderly cousin whom he seldom saw, but who, he knew, lived there as company for his Lady of the Roses.
Perhaps best, next to the garden, David loved the tower room; possibly because Miss Holbrook herself so often suggested that they go there. And it was there that they were when he said, dreamily, one day:—
I like this place—up here so high, only sometimes it does make me think of that Princess, because it was in a tower like this that she was, you know.
Fairy stories, David? asked Miss Holbrook lightly.
No, not exactly, though there was a Princess in it. Mr. Jack told it. David's eyes were still out of the window.
Oh, Mr. Jack! And does Mr. Jack often tell you stories?
No. He never told only this one—and maybe that's why I remember it so.
Well, and what did the Princess do? Miss Holbrook's voice was still light, still carelessly preoccupied. Her attention, plainly, was given to the sewing in her hand.
She didn't do and that's what was the trouble, sighed I David. "She didn't wave, you know."
The needle in Miss Holbrook's fingers stopped short in mid-air, the thread half-drawn.
Didn't—wave! she stammered. "What do you—mean?"
Nothing, laughed the boy, turning away from the window. "I forgot that you didn't know the story."
But maybe I do—that is—what was the story? asked Miss Holbrook, wetting her lips as if they had grown suddenly very dry.
Oh, do you? I wonder now! It wasn't 'The PRINCE and the Pauper,' but the PRINCESS and the Pauper, cited David; "and they used to wave signals, and answer with flags. Do you know the story?"
There was no answer. Miss Holbrook was putting away her work, hurriedly, and with hands that shook. David noticed that she even pricked herself in her anxiety to get the needle tucked away. Then she drew him to a low stool at her side.
David, I want you to tell me that story, please, she said, "just as Mr. Jack told it to you. Now, be careful and put it all in, because I—I want to hear it," she finished, with an odd little laugh that seemed to bring two bright red spots to her cheeks.
Oh, do you want to hear it? Then I will tell it, cried David joyfully. To David, almost as delightful as to hear a story was to tell one himself. "You see, first—" And he plunged headlong into the introduction.
David knew it well—that story: and there was, perhaps, little that he forgot. It might not have been always told in Mr. Jack's language; but his meaning was there, and very intently Miss Holbrook listened while David told of the boy and the girl, the wavings, and the flags that were blue, black, and red. She laughed once,—that was at the little joke with the bells that the girl played,—but she did not speak until sometime later when David was telling of the first home-coming of the Princess, and of the time when the boy on his tiny piazza watched and watched in vain for a waving white signal from the tower.
Do you mean to say, interposed Miss Holbrook then, almost starting to her feet, "that that boy expected—" She stopped suddenly, and fell back in her chair. The two red spots on her cheeks had become a rosy glow now, all over her face.
Expected what? asked David.
N—nothing. Go on. I was so—so interested, explained Miss Holbrook faintly. "Go on."
And David did go on; nor did the story lose by his telling. It gained, indeed, something, for now it had woven through it the very strong sympathy of a boy who loved the Pauper for his sorrow and hated the Princess for causing that sorrow.
And so, he concluded mournfully, "you see it isn't a very nice story, after all, for it didn't end well a bit. They ought to have got married and lived happy ever after. But they didn't."
Miss Holbrook drew in her breath a little uncertainly, and put her hand to her throat. Her face now, instead of being red, was very white.
But, David, she faltered, after a moment, "perhaps he—the—Pauper—did not—not love the Princess any longer."
Mr. Jack said that he did.
The white face went suddenly pink again.
Then, why didn't he go to her and—and—tell her?
David lifted his chin. With all his dignity he answered, and his words and accent were Mr. Jack's.
Paupers don't go to Princesses, and say 'I love you.'
But perhaps if they did—that is—if— Miss Holbrook bit her lips and did not finish her sentence. She did not, indeed, say anything more for a long time. But she had not forgotten the story. David knew that, because later she began to question him carefully about many little points—points that he was very sure he had already made quite plain. She talked about it, indeed, until he wondered if perhaps she were going to tell it to some one else sometime. He asked her if she were; but she only shook her head. And after that she did not question him any more. And a little later David went home.
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For a week David had not been near the House that Jack Built, and that, too, when Jill had been confined within doors for several days with a cold. Jill, indeed, was inclined to be grieved at this apparent lack of interest on the part of her favorite playfellow; but upon her return from her first day of school, after her recovery, she met her brother with startled eyes.
Jack, it hasn't been David's fault at all, she cried remorsefully. "He's sick."
Sick!
Yes; awfully sick. They've had to send away for doctors and everything.
Why, Jill, are you sure? Where did you hear this?
At school to-day. Every one was talking about it.
But what is the matter?
Fever—some sort. Some say it's typhoid, and some scarlet, and some say another kind that I can't remember; but everybody says he's awfully sick. He got it down to Glaspell's, some say,—and some say he didn't. But, anyhow, Betty Glaspell has been sick with something, and they haven't let folks in there this week, finished Jill, her eyes big with terror.
The Glaspells? But what was David doing down there?
Why, you know,—he told us once,—teaching Joe to play. He's been there lots. Joe is blind, you know, and can't see, but he just loves music, and was crazy over David's violin; so David took down his other one—the one that was his father's, you know—and showed him how to pick out little tunes, just to take up his time so he wouldn't mind so much that he couldn't see. Now, Jack, wasn't that just like David? Jack, I can't have anything happen to David!
No, dear, no; of course not! I'm afraid we can't any of us, for that matter, sighed Jack, his forehead drawn into anxious lines. "I'll go down to the Hollys', Jill, the first thing tomorrow morning, and see how he is and if there's anything we can do. Meanwhile, don't take it too much to heart, dear. It may not be half so bad as you think. School-children always get things like that exaggerated, you must remember," he finished, speaking with a lightness that he did not feel.
To himself the man owned that he was troubled, seriously troubled. He had to admit that Jill's story bore the earmarks of truth; and overwhelmingly he realized now just how big a place this somewhat puzzling small boy had come to fill in his own heart. He did not need Jill's anxious "Now, hurry, Jack," the next morning to start him off in all haste for the Holly farmhouse. A dozen rods from the driveway he met Perry Larson and stopped him abruptly.
Good morning, Larson; I hope this isn't true—what I hear—that David is very ill.
Larson pulled off his hat and with his free hand sought the one particular spot on his head to which he always appealed when he was very much troubled.
Well, yes, sir, I'm afraid 't is, Mr. Jack—er—Mr. Gurnsey, I mean. He is turrible sick, poor little chap, an' it's too bad—that's what it is—too bad!
Oh, I'm sorry! I hoped the report was exaggerated. I came down to see if—if there wasn't something I could do.
"
Well, 'course you can ask—there ain't no law ag'in' that; an' ye needn't be afraid, neither. The report has got 'round that it's ketchin'—what he's got, and that he got it down to the Glaspells'; but 't ain't so. The doctor says he didn't ketch nothin', an' he can't give nothin'. It's his head an' brain that ain't right, an' he's got a mighty bad fever. He's been kind of flighty an' nervous, anyhow, lately. As I was sayin', 'course you can ask, but I'm thinkin' there won't be nothin' you can do ter help. Ev'rythin' that can be done is bein' done. In fact, there ain't much of anythin' else that is bein' done down there jest now but, tendin' ter him. They've got one o' them 'ere edyercated nurses from the Junction—what wears caps, ye know, an' makes yer feel as if they knew it all, an' you didn't know nothin'. An' then there's Mr. an' Mis' Holly besides. If they had THEIR way, there wouldn't neither of, em let him out o' their sight fur a minute, they're that cut up about it.""
"
I fancy they think a good deal of the boy—as we all do, murmured the younger man, a little unsteadily.
Larson winkled his forehead in deep thought.
Yes; an' that's what beats me, he answered slowly; "'bout HIM,—Mr. Holly, I mean. 'Course we'd 'a' expected it of HER—losin' her own boy as she did, an' bein' jest naturally so sweet an' lovin'-hearted. But HIM—that's diff'rent. Now, you know jest as well as I do what Mr. Holly is—every one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin' sland'rous. He's a good man—a powerful good man; an' there ain't a squarer man goin' ter work fur. But the fact is, he was made up wrong side out, an' the seams has always showed bad—turrible bad, with ravelin's all stickin' out every which way ter ketch an' pull. But, gosh! I'm blamed if that, ere boy ain't got him so smoothed down, you wouldn't know, scursely, that he had a seam on him, sometimes; though how he's done it beats me. Now, there's Mis' Holly—she's tried ter smooth 'em, I'll warrant, lots of times. But I'm free ter say she hain't never so much as clipped a ravelin' in all them forty years they've lived tergether. Fact is, it's worked the other way with her. All that HER rubbin' up ag'in' them seams has amounted to is ter git herself so smoothed down that she don't never dare ter say her soul's her own, most generally,—anyhow, not if he happens ter intermate it belongs ter anybody else!"
Jack Gurnsey suddenly choked over a cough.
I wish I could—do something, he murmured uncertainly.
'T ain't likely ye can—not so long as Mr. an' Mis' Holly is on their two feet. Why, there ain't nothin' they won't do, an' you'll believe it, maybe, when I tell you that yesterday Mr. Holly, he tramped all through Sawyer's woods in the rain, jest ter find a little bit of moss that the boy was callin' for. Think o' that, will ye? Simeon Holly huntin' moss! An' he got it, too, an' brung it home, an' they say it cut him up somethin' turrible when the boy jest turned away, and didn't take no notice. You understand, 'course, sir, the little chap ain't right in his head, an' so half the time he don't know what he says.
Oh, I'm sorry, sorry! exclaimed Gurnsey, as he turned away, and hurried toward the farmhouse.
Mrs. Holly herself answered his low knock. She looked worn and pale.
Thank you, sir, she said gratefully, in reply to his offer of assistance, "but there isn't anything you can do, Mr. Gurnsey. We're having everything done that can be, and every one is very kind. We have a very good nurse, and Dr. Kennedy has had consultation with Dr. Benson from the Junction. They are doing all in their power, of course, but they say that—that it's going to be the nursing that will count now."
Then I don't fear for him, surely declared the man, with fervor.
I know, but—well, he shall have the very best possible—of that.
I know he will; but isn't there anything—anything that I can do?
She shook her head.
No. Of course, if he gets better— She hesitated; then lifted her chin a little higher; "WHEN he gets better," she corrected with courageous emphasis, "he will want to see you."
And he shall see me, asserted Gurnsey. "And he will be better, Mrs. Holly,—I'm sure he will."
Yes, yes, of course, only—oh, Mr. Jack, he's so sick—so very sick! The doctor says he's a peculiarly sensitive nature, and that he thinks something's been troubling him lately. Her voice broke.
Poor little chap! Mr. Jack's voice, too, was husky.
She looked up with swift gratefulness for his sympathy.
And you loved him, too, I know she choked. "He talks of you often—very often."
Indeed I love him! Who could help it?
There couldn't anybody, Mr. Jack,—and that's just it. Now, since he's been sick, we've wondered more than ever who he is. You see, I can't help thinking that somewhere he's got friends who ought to know about him—now.
Yes, I see, nodded the man.
He isn't an ordinary boy, Mr. Jack. He's been trained in lots of ways—about his manners, and at the table, and all that. And lots of things his father has told him are beautiful, just beautiful! He isn't a tramp. He never was one. And there's his playing. YOU know how he can play.
Indeed I do! You must miss his playing, too.
I do; he talks of that, also, she hurried on, working her fingers nervously together; "but oftenest he—he speaks of singing, and I can't quite understand that, for he didn't ever sing, you know."
Singing? What does he say? The man asked the question because he saw that it was affording the overwrought little woman real relief to free her mind; but at the first words of her reply he became suddenly alert.
It's 'his song,' as he calls it, that he talks about, always. It isn't much—what he says—but I noticed it because he always says the same thing, like this: I'll just hold up my chin and march straight on and on, and I'll sing it with all my might and main.' And when I ask him what he's going to sing, he always says, 'My song—my song,' just like that. Do you think, Mr. Jack, he did have—a song?
For a moment the man did not answer. Something in his throat tightened, and held the words. Then, in a low voice he managed to stammer:—
I think he did, Mrs. Holly, and—I think he sang it, too. The next moment, with a quick lifting of his hat and a murmured "I'll call again soon," he turned and walked swiftly down the driveway.
So very swiftly, indeed, was Mr. Jack walking, and so self-absorbed was he, that he did not see the carriage until it was almost upon him; then he stepped aside to let it pass. What he saw as he gravely raised his hat was a handsome span of black horses, a liveried coachman, and a pair of startled eyes looking straight into his. What he did not see was the quick gesture with which Miss Holbrook almost ordered her carriage stopped the minute it had passed him by.
该作者的其它作品
《Miss Billy》
《Pollyanna》
One by one the days passed, and there came from the anxious watchers at David's bedside only the words, "There's very little change." Often Jack Gurnsey went to the farmhouse to inquire for the boy. Often, too, he saw Perry Larson; and Perry was never loath to talk of David. It was from Perry, indeed, that Gurnsey began to learn some things of David that he had never known before.
It does beat all, Perry Larson said to him one day, "how many folks asks me how that boy is—folks that you'd never think knew him, anyhow, ter say nothin' of carin' whether he lived or died. Now, there's old Mis' Somers, fur instance. YOU know what she is—sour as a lemon an' puckery as a chokecherry. Well, if she didn't give me yesterday a great bo-kay o' posies she'd growed herself, an' said they was fur him—that they berlonged ter him, anyhow.
"
'Course, I didn't exactly sense what she meant by that, so I asked her straight out; an' it seems that somehow, when the boy first come, he struck her place one day an' spied a great big red rose on one of her bushes. It seems he had his fiddle, an' he, played it,—that rose a-growin' (you know his way!), an' she heard an' spoke up pretty sharp an' asked him what in time he was doin'. Well, most kids would 'a' run,—knowin' her temper as they does,—but not much David. He stands up as pert as ye please, an' tells her how happy that red rose must be ter make all that dreary garden look so pretty; an' then he goes on, merry as a lark, a-playin' down the hill. Well, Mis' Somers owned up ter me that she was pretty mad at the time, 'cause her garden did look like tunket, an' she knew it. She said she hadn't cared ter do a thing with it since her Bessie died that thought so much of it. But after what David had said, even mad as she was, the thing kind o' got on her nerves, an' she couldn't see a thing, day or night, but that red rose a-growin' there so pert an' courageous-like, until at last, jest ter quiet herself, she fairly had ter set to an' slick that garden up! She said she raked an' weeded, an' fixed up all the plants there was, in good shape, an' then she sent down to the Junction fur some all growed in pots, 'cause 't was too late ter plant seeds. An, now it's doin' beautiful, so she jest could n't help sendin' them posies ter David. When I told Mis' Holly, she said she was glad it happened, 'cause what Mis' Somers needed was somethin' ter git her out of herself—an' I'm free ter say she did look better-natured, an' no mistake,—kind o' like a chokecherry in blossom, ye might say.""
"
An' then there's the Widder Glaspell, continued Perry, after a pause. "'Course, any one would expect she'd feel bad, seein' as how good David was ter her boy—teachin' him ter play, ye know. But Mis' Glaspell says Joe jest does take on somethin' turrible, an' he won't tech the fiddle, though he was plum carried away with it when David was well an' teachin' of him. An' there's the Clark kid. He's lame, ye know, an' he thought the world an' all of David's playin'.
"
'Course, there's you an' Miss Holbrook, always askin' an' sendin' things—but that ain't so strange, 'cause you was 'specially his friends. But it's them others what beats me. Why, some days it's 'most ev'ry soul I meet, jest askin' how he is, an' sayin' they hopes he'll git well. Sometimes it's kids that he's played to, an' I'll be triggered if one of 'em one day didn't have no excuse to offer except that David had fit him—'bout a cat, or somethin'—an' that ever since then he'd thought a heap of him—though he guessed David didn't know it. Listen ter that, will ye! An' once a woman held me up, an' took on turrible, but all I could git from her was that he'd sat on her doorstep an' played ter her baby once or twice;—as if that was anythin'! But one of the derndest funny ones was the woman who said she could wash her dishes a sight easier after she'd a-seen him go by playin'. There was Bill Dowd, too. You know he really HAS got a screw loose in his head somewheres, an' there ain't any one but what says he's the town fool, all right. Well, what do ye think HE said?""
"
Mr. Jack shook his head.
Well, he said he did hope as how nothin' would happen ter that boy cause he did so like ter see him smile, an' that he always did smile every time he met him! There, what do ye think o' that?
Well, I think, Perry, returned Mr. Jack soberly, "that Bill Dowd wasn't playing the fool, when he said that, quite so much as he sometimes is, perhaps."
Hm-m, maybe not, murmured Perry Larson perplexedly. "Still, I'm free ter say I do think 't was kind o' queer." He paused, then slapped his knee suddenly. "Say, did I tell ye about Streeter—Old Bill Streeter an' the pear tree?"
Again Mr. Jack shook his head.
Well, then, I'm goin' to, declared the other, with gleeful emphasis. "An', say, I don't believe even YOU can explain this—I don't! Well, you know Streeter—ev'ry one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin' sland'rous. He was cut on a bias, an' that bias runs ter money every time. You know as well as I do that he won't lift his finger unless there's a dollar stickin' to it, an' that he hain't no use fur anythin' nor anybody unless there's money in it for him. I'm blamed if I don't think that if he ever gits ter heaven, he'll pluck his own wings an' sell the feathers fur what they'll bring."
Oh, Perry! remonstrated Mr. Jack, in a half-stifled voice.
Perry Larson only grinned and went on imperturbably.
"
Well, seein' as we both understand what he is, I'll tell ye what he DONE. He called me up ter his fence one day, big as life, an' says he, 'How's the boy?' An' you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather. Streeter—a-askin' how a boy was that was sick! An' he seemed ter care, too. I hain't seen him look so longfaced since—since he was paid up on a sartin note I knows of, jest as he was smackin' his lips over a nice fat farm that was comin' to him! Well, I was that plum puzzled that I meant ter find out why Streeter was takin' sech notice, if I hung fur it. So I set to on a little detective work of my own, knowin', of course, that 't wa'n't no use askin' of him himself. Well, an' what do you s'pose I found out? If that little scamp of a boy hadn't even got round him—Streeter, the skinflint! He had—an' he went there often, the neighbors said; an' Streeter doted on him. They declared that actually he give him a cent once—though THAT part I ain't swallerin' yet.
""
They said—the neighbors did—that it all started from the pear tree—that big one ter the left of his house. Maybe you remember it. Well, anyhow, it seems that it's old, an' through bearin' any fruit, though it still blossoms fit ter kill, every year, only a little late 'most always, an' the blossoms stay on longer'n common, as if they knew there wa'n't nothin' doin' later. Well, old Streeter said it had got ter come down. I reckon he suspected it of swipin' some of the sunshine, or maybe a little rain that belonged ter the tree t'other side of the road what did bear fruit an' was worth somethin'! Anyhow, he got his man an' his axe, an' was plum ready ter start in when he sees David an' David sees him. 'T was when the boy first come. He'd gone ter walk an' had struck this pear tree, all in bloom,—an' 'course, YOU know how the boy would act—a pear tree, bloomin', is a likely sight, I'll own. He danced and laughed and clapped his hands,—he didn't have his fiddle with him,—an' carried on like all possessed. Then he sees the man with the axe, an' Streeter an' Streeter sees him.
""
They said it was rich then—Bill Warner heard it all from t'other side of the fence. He said that David, when he found out what was goin' ter happen, went clean crazy, an' rampaged on at such a rate that old Streeter couldn't do nothin' but stand an' stare, until he finally managed ter growl out: 'But I tell ye, boy, the tree ain't no use no more!' Bill says the boy flew all to pieces then. 'No use—no use!' he cries; 'such a perfectly beautiful thing as that no use! Why, it don't have ter be any use when it's so pretty. It's jest ter look at an' love, an' be happy with!' Fancy sayin' that ter old Streeter! I'd like ter seen his face. But Bill says that wa'n't half what the boy said. He declared that 't was God's present, anyhow, that trees was; an' that the things He give us ter look at was jest as much use as the things He give us ter eat; an' that the stars an' the sunsets an' the snowflakes an' the little white cloud-boats, an' I don't know what-all, was jest as important in the Orchestra of Life as turnips an' squashes. An' then, Billy says, he ended by jest flingin' himself on ter Streeter an' beggin' him ter wait till he could go back an' git his fiddle so he could tell him what a beautiful thing that tree was.
"
Well, if you'll believe it, old Streeter was so plum befuzzled he sent the man an' the axe away—an' that tree's a-livin' ter-day—'t is! he finished; then, with a sudden gloom on his face, Larson added, huskily: "An' I only hope I'll be sayin' the same thing of that boy—come next month at this time!"
We'll hope you will, sighed the other fervently.
And so one by one the days passed, while the whole town waited and while in the great airy "parlor bedroom" of the Holly farmhouse one small boy fought his battle for life. Then came the blackest day and night of all when the town could only wait and watch—it had lost its hope; when the doctors shook their heads and refused to meet Mrs. Holly's eyes; when the pulse in the slim wrist outside the coverlet played hide-and-seek with the cool, persistent fingers that sought so earnestly for it; when Perry Larson sat for uncounted sleepless hours by the kitchen stove, and fearfully listened for a step crossing the hallway; when Mr. Jack on his porch, and Miss Holbrook in her tower widow, went with David down into the dark valley, and came so near the rushing river that life, with its petty prides and prejudices, could never seem quite the same to them again.
Then, after that blackest day and night, came the dawn—as the dawns do come after the blackest of days and nights. In the slender wrist outside the coverlet the pulse gained and steadied. On the forehead beneath the nurse's fingers, a moisture came. The doctors nodded their heads now, and looked every one straight in the eye. "He will live," they said. "The crisis is passed." Out by the kitchen stove Perry Larson heard the step cross the hall and sprang upright; but at the first glimpse of Mrs. Holly's tear-wet, yet radiant face, he collapsed limply.
Gosh! he muttered. "Say, do you know, I didn't s'pose I did care so much! I reckon I'll go an' tell Mr. Jack. He'll want ter hear."
David's convalescence was picturesque, in a way. As soon as he was able, like a king he sat upon his throne and received his subjects; and a very gracious king he was, indeed. His room overflowed with flowers and fruit, and his bed quite groaned with the toys and books and games brought for his diversion, each one of which he hailed with delight, from Miss Holbrook's sumptuously bound "Waverley Novels" to little crippled Jimmy Clark's bag of marbles.
Only two things puzzled David: one was why everybody was so good to him; and the other was why he never could have the pleasure of both Mr. Jack's and Miss Holbrook's company at the same time.
David discovered this last curious circumstance concerning Mr. Jack and Miss Holbrook very early in his convalescence. It was on the second afternoon that Mr. Jack had been admitted to the sick-room. David had been hearing all the latest news of Jill and Joe, when suddenly he noticed an odd change come to his visitor's face.
The windows of the Holly "parlor bedroom" commanded a fine view of the road, and it was toward one of these windows that Mr. Jack's eyes were directed. David, sitting up in bed, saw then that down the road was approaching very swiftly a handsome span of black horses and an open carriage which he had come to recognize as belonging to Miss Holbrook. He watched it eagerly now till he saw the horses turn in at the Holly driveway. Then he gave a low cry of delight.
It's my Lady of the Roses! She's coming to see me. Look! Oh, I'm so glad! Now you'll see her, and just KNOW how lovely she is. Why, Mr. Jack, you aren't going NOW! he broke off in manifest disappointment, as Mr. Jack leaped to his feet.
I think I'll have to, if you don't mind, David, returned the man, an oddly nervous haste in his manner. "And YOU won't mind, now that you'll have Miss Holbrook. I want to speak to Larson. I saw him in the field out there a minute ago. And I guess I'll slip right through this window here, too, David. I don't want to lose him; and I can catch him quicker this way than any other," he finished, throwing up the sash.
Oh, but Mr. Jack, please just wait a minute, begged David. "I wanted you to see my Lady of the Roses, and—" But Mr. Jack was already on the ground outside the low window, and the next minute, with a merry nod and smile, he had pulled the sash down after him and was hurrying away.
Almost at once, then, Miss Holbrook appeared at the bedroom door.
Mrs. Holly said I was to walk right in, David, so here I am, she began, in a cheery voice. "Oh, you're looking lots better than when I saw you Monday, young man!"
I am better, caroled David; "and to-day I'm 'specially better, because Mr. Jack has been here."
Oh, has Mr. Jack been to see you to-day? There was an indefinable change in Miss Holbrook's voice.
Yes, right now. Why, he was here when you were driving into the yard.
Miss Holbrook gave a perceptible start and looked about her a little wildly.
Here when—But I didn't meet him anywhere—in the hall.
He didn't go through the hall, laughed David gleefully. "He went right through that window there."
The window! An angry flush mounted to Miss Holbrook's forehead. "Indeed, did he have to resort to that to escape—" She bit her lip and stopped abruptly.
David's eyes widened a little.
Escape? Oh, HE wasn't the one that was escaping. It was Perry. Mr. Jack was afraid he'd lose him. He saw him out the window there, right after he'd seen you, and he said he wanted to speak to him and he was afraid he'd get away. So he jumped right through that window there. See?
Oh, yes, I—see, murmured Miss Holbrook, in a voice David thought was a little queer.
I wanted him to stay, frowned David uncertainly. "I wanted him to see you."
Dear me, David, I hope you didn't tell him so.
Oh, yes, I did. But he couldn't stay, even then. You see, he wanted to catch Perry Larson.
I've no doubt of it, retorted Miss Holbrook, with so much emphasis that David again looked at her with a slightly disturbed frown.
But he'll come again soon, I'm sure, and then maybe you'll be here, too. I do so want him to see you, Lady of the Roses!
Nonsense, David! laughed Miss Holbrook a little nervously. "Mr.—Mr. Gurnsey doesn't want to see me. He's seen me dozens of times."
Oh, yes, he told me he'd seen you long ago, nodded David gravely; "but he didn't act as if he remembered it much."
Didn't he, indeed! laughed Miss Holbrook, again flushing a little. "Well, I'm sure, dear, we wouldn't want to tax the poor gentleman's memory too much, you know. Come, suppose you see what I've brought you," she finished gayly.
Oh, what is it? cried David, as, under Miss Holbrook's swift fingers, the wrappings fell away and disclosed a box which, upon being opened, was found to be filled with quantities of oddly shaped bits of pictured wood—a jumble of confusion.
It's a jig-saw puzzle, David. All these little pieces fitted together make a picture, you see. I tried last night and I could n't do it. I brought it down to see if you could.
Oh, thank you! I'd love to, rejoiced the boy. And in the fascination of the marvel of finding one fantastic bit that fitted another, David apparently forgot all about Mr. Jack—which seemed not unpleasing to his Lady of the Roses.
It was not until nearly a week later that David had his wish of seeing his Mr. Jack and his Lady of the Roses meet at his bedside. It was the day Miss Holbrook brought to him the wonderful set of handsomely bound "Waverley Novels." He was still glorying in his new possession, in fact, when Mr. Jack appeared suddenly in the doorway.
Hullo my boy, I just—Oh, I beg your pardon. I supposed you were—alone, he stammered, looking very red indeed.
He is—that is, he will be, soon—except for you, Mr. Gurnsey, smiled Miss Holbrook, very brightly. She was already on her feet.
No, no, I beg of you, stammered Mr. Jack, growing still more red. "Don't let me drive—that is, I mean, don't go, please. I didn't know. I had no warning—I didn't see—Your carriage was not at the door to-day."
Miss Holbrook's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch.
I sent it home. I am planning to walk back. I have several calls to make on the way; and it's high time I was starting. Good-bye, David.
But, Lady, of the Roses, please, please, don't go, besought David, who had been looking from one to the other in worried dismay. "Why, you've just come!"
But neither coaxing nor argument availed; and before David really knew just what had happened, he found himself alone with Mr. Jack.
Even then disappointment was piled on disappointment, for Mr. Jack's visit was not the unalloyed happiness it usually was. Mr. Jack himself was almost cross at first, and then he was silent and restless, moving jerkily about the room in a way that disturbed David very much.
Mr. Jack had brought with him a book; but even that only made matters worse, for when he saw the beautifully bound volumes that Miss Holbrook had just left, he frowned, and told David that he guessed he did not need his gift at all, with all those other fine books. And David could not seem to make him understand that the one book from him was just exactly as dear as were the whole set of books that his Lady of the Roses brought.
Certainly it was not a satisfactory visit at all, and for the first time David was almost glad to have Mr. Jack go and leave him with his books. The BOOKS, David told himself, he could understand; Mr. Jack he could not—to-day.
Several times after this David's Lady of the Roses and Mr. Jack happened to call at the same hour; but never could David persuade these two friends of his to stay together. Always, if one came and the other was there, the other went away, in spite of David's protestations that two people did not tire him at all and his assertions that he often entertained as many as that at once. Tractable as they were in all other ways, anxious as they seemed to please him, on this one point they were obdurate: never would they stay together.
They were not angry with each other—David was sure of that, for they were always very especially polite, and rose, and stood, and bowed in a most delightful fashion. Still, he sometimes thought that they did not quite like each other, for always, after the one went away, the other, left behind, was silent and almost stern—if it was Mr. Jack; and flushed-faced and nervous—if it was Miss Holbrook. But why this was so David could not understand.
The span of handsome black horses came very frequently to the Holly farmhouse now, and as time passed they often bore away behind them a white-faced but happy-eyed boy on the seat beside Miss Holbrook.
My, but I don't see how every one can be so good to me! exclaimed the boy, one day, to his Lady of the Roses.
Oh, that's easy, David, she smiled. "The only trouble is to find out what you want—you ask for so little."
But I don't need to ask—you do it all beforehand, asserted the boy, "you and Mr. Jack, and everybody."
Really? That's good. For a brief moment Miss Holbrook hesitated; then, as if casually, she asked: "And he tells you stories, too, I suppose,—this Mr. Jack,—just as he used to, doesn't he?"
Well, he never did tell me but one, you know, before; but he's told me more now, since I've been sick.
Oh, yes, I remember, and that one was 'The Princess and the Pauper,' wasn't it? Well, has he told you any more—like—that?
The boy shook his head with decision.
No, he doesn't tell me any more like that, and—and I don't want him to, either.
Miss Holbrook laughed a little oddly.
Why, David, what is the matter with that? she queried.
The ending; it wasn't nice, you know.
Oh, yes, I—I remember.
I've asked him to change it, went on David, in a grieved voice. "I asked him just the other day, but he wouldn't."
Perhaps he—he didn't want to. Miss Holbrook spoke very quickly, but so low that David barely heard the words.
Didn't want to? Oh, yes, he did! He looked awful sober, and as if he really cared, you know. And he said he'd give all he had in the world if he really could change it, but he couldn't.
Did he say—just that? Miss Holbrook was leaning forward a little breathlessly now.
Yes—just that; and that's the part I couldn't understand, commented David. "For I don't see why a story—just a story made up out of somebody's head—can't be changed any way you want it. And I told him so."
Well, and what did he say to that?
He didn't say anything for a minute, and I had to ask him again. Then he sat up suddenly, just as if he'd been asleep, you know, and said, 'Eh, what, David?' And then I told him again what I'd said. This time he shook his head, and smiled that kind of a smile that isn't really a smile, you know, and said something about a real, true-to-life story's never having but one ending, and that was a logical ending. Lady of the Roses, what is a logical ending?
The Lady of the Roses laughed unexpectedly. The two little red spots, that David always loved to see, flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes showed a sudden sparkle. When she answered, her words came disconnectedly, with little laughing breaths between.
Well, David, I—I'm not sure I can—tell you. But perhaps I—can find out. This much, however, I am sure of: Mr. Jack's logical ending wouldn't be—mine!
What she meant David did not know; nor would she tell him when he asked; but a few days later she sent for him, and very gladly David—able now to go where he pleased—obeyed the summons.
It was November, and the garden was bleak and cold; but in the library a bright fire danced on the hearth, and before this Miss Holbrook drew up two low chairs.
She looked particularly pretty, David thought. The rich red of her dress had apparently brought out an answering red in her cheeks. Her eyes were very bright and her lips smiled; yet she seemed oddly nervous and restless. She sewed a little, with a bit of yellow silk on white—but not for long. She knitted with two long ivory needles flashing in and out of a silky mesh of blue—but this, too, she soon ceased doing. On a low stand at David's side she had placed books and pictures, and for a time she talked of those. Then very abruptly she asked:—
David, when will you see—Mr. Jack again—do you suppose?
Tomorrow. I'm going up to the House that Jack Built to tea, and I'm to stay all night. It's Halloween—that is, it isn't really Halloween, because it's too late. I lost that, being sick, you know. So we're going to pretend, and Mr. Jack is going to show me what it is like. That is what Mr. Jack and Jill always do; when something ails the real thing, they just pretend with the make-believe one. He's planned lots of things for Jill and me to do; with nuts and apples and candles, you know. It's to-morrow night, so I'll see him then.
To-morrow? So—so soon? faltered Miss Holbrook. And to David, gazing at her with wondering eyes, it seemed for a moment almost as if she were looking about for a place to which she might run and hide. Then determinedly, as if she were taking hold of something with both hands, she leaned forward, looked David squarely in the eyes, and began to talk hurriedly, yet very distinctly.
David, listen. I've something I want you to say to Mr. Jack, and I want you to be sure and get it just right. It's about the—the story, 'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know. You can remember, I think, for you remembered that so well. Will you say it to him—what I'm going to tell you—just as I say it?
Why, of course I will! David's promise was unhesitating, though his eyes were still puzzled.
It's about the—the ending, stammered Miss Holbrook. "That is, it may—it may have something to do with the ending—perhaps," she finished lamely. And again David noticed that odd shifting of Miss Holbrook's gaze as if she were searching for some means of escape. Then, as before, he saw her chin lift determinedly, as she began to talk faster than ever.
Now, listen, she admonished him, earnestly.
And David listened.
The pretended Halloween was a great success. So very excited, indeed, did David become over the swinging apples and popping nuts that he quite forgot to tell Mr. Jack what the Lady of the Roses had said until Jill had gone up to bed and he himself was about to take from Mr. Jack's hand the little lighted lamp.
Oh, Mr. Jack, I forgot, he cried then. "There was something I was going to tell you."
Never mind to-night, David; it's so late. Suppose we leave it until to-morrow, suggested Mr. Jack, still with the lamp extended in his hand.
But I promised the Lady of the Roses that I'd say it to-night, demurred the boy, in a troubled voice.
The man drew his lamp halfway back suddenly.
The Lady of the Roses! Do you mean—she sent a message—to ME? he demanded.
Yes; about the story, 'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know.
With an abrupt exclamation Mr. Jack set the lamp on the table and turned to a chair. He had apparently lost his haste to go to bed.
See here, David, suppose you come and sit down, and tell me just what you're talking about. And first—just what does the Lady of the Roses know about that—that 'Princess and the Pauper'?
Why, she knows it all, of course, returned the boy in surprise. "I told it to her."
You—told—it—to her! Mr. Jack relaxed in his chair. "David!"
Yes. And she was just as interested as could be.
I don't doubt it! Mr. Jack's lips snapped together a little grimly.
Only she didn't like the ending, either.
Mr. Jack sat up suddenly.
She didn't like—David, are you sure? Did she SAY that?
David frowned in thought.
Well, I don't know as I can tell, exactly, but I'm sure she did n't like it, because just before she told me WHAT to say to you, she said that—that what she was going to say would probably have something to do with the ending, anyway. Still— David paused in yet deeper thought. "Come to think of it, there really isn't anything—not in what she said—that CHANGED that ending, as I can see. They didn't get married and live happy ever after, anyhow."
Yes, but what did she say? asked Mr. Jack in a voice that was not quite steady. "Now, be careful, David, and tell it just as she said it."
Oh, I will, nodded David. "SHE said to do that, too."
Did she? Mr. Jack leaned farther forward in his chair. "But tell me, how did she happen to—to say anything about it? Suppose you begin at the beginning—away back, David. I want to hear it all—all!"
David gave a contented sigh, and settled himself more comfortably.
Well, to begin with, you see, I told her the story long ago, before I was sick, and she was ever so interested then, and asked lots of questions. Then the other day something came up—I've forgotten how—about the ending, and I told her how hard I'd tried to have you change it, but you wouldn't. And she spoke right up quick and said probably you didn't want to change it, anyhow. But of course I settled THAT question without any trouble, went on David confidently, "by just telling her how you said you'd give anything in the world to change it."
And you told her that—just that, David? cried the man.
Why, yes, I had to, answered David, in surprise, "else she wouldn't have known that you DID want to change it. Don't you see?"
Oh, yes! I—see—a good deal that I'm thinking you don't, muttered Mr. Jack, falling back in his chair.
Well, then is when I told her about the logical ending—what you said, you know,—oh, yes! and that was when I found out she did n't like the ending, because she laughed such a funny little laugh and colored up, and said that she wasn't sure she could tell me what a logical ending was, but that she would try to find out, and that, anyhow, YOUR ending wouldn't be hers—she was sure of that.
David, did she say that—really? Mr. Jack was on his feet now.
She did; and then yesterday she asked me to come over, and she said some more things,—about the story, I mean,—but she didn't say another thing about the ending. She didn't ever say anything about that except that little bit I told you of a minute ago.
Yes, yes, but what did she say? demanded Mr. Jack, stopping short in his walk up and down the room.
She said: 'You tell Mr. Jack that I know something about that story of his that perhaps he doesn't. In the first place, I know the Princess a lot better than he does, and she isn't a bit the kind of girl he's pictured her.
Yes! Go on—go on!
'Now, for instance,' she says, 'when the boy made that call, after the girl first came back, and when the boy didn't like it because they talked of colleges and travels, and such things, you tell him that I happen to know that that girl was just hoping and hoping he'd speak of the old days and games; but that she could n't speak, of course, when he hadn't been even once to see her during all those weeks, and when he'd acted in every way just as if he'd forgotten.'
But she hadn't waved—that Princess hadn't waved—once! argued Mr. Jack; "and he looked and looked for it."
Yes, SHE spoke of that, returned David. "But SHE said she shouldn't think the Princess would have waved, when she'd got to be such a great big girl as that—WAVING to a BOY! She said that for her part she should have been ashamed of her if she had!"
Oh, did she! murmured Mr. Jack blankly, dropping suddenly into his chair.
Yes, she did, repeated David, with a little virtuous uplifting of his chin.
It was plain to be seen that David's sympathies had unaccountably met with a change of heart.
But—the Pauper—
Oh, yes, and that's another thing, interrupted David. "The Lady of the Roses said that she didn't like that name one bit; that it wasn't true, anyway, because he wasn't a pauper. And she said, too, that as for his picturing the Princess as being perfectly happy in all that magnificence, he didn't get it right at all. For SHE knew that the Princess wasn't one bit happy, because she was so lonesome for things and people she had known when she was just the girl."
Again Mr. Jack sprang to his feet. For a minute he strode up and down the room in silence; then in a shaking voice he asked:—
David, you—you aren't making all this up, are you? You're saying just what—what Miss Holbrook told you to?
Why, of course, I'm not making it up, protested the boy aggrievedly. "This is the Lady of the Roses' story—SHE made it up—only she talked it as if 't was real, of course, just as you did. She said another thing, too. She said that she happened to know that the Princess had got all that magnificence around her in the first place just to see if it wouldn't make her happy, but that it hadn't, and that now she had one place—a little room—that was left just as it used to be when she was the girl, and that she went there and sat very often. And she said it was right in sight of where the boy lived, too, where he could see it every day; and that if he hadn't been so blind he could have looked right through those gray walls and seen that, and seen lots of other things. And what did she mean by that, Mr. Jack?"
I don't know—I don't know, David, half-groaned Mr. Jack. "Sometimes I think she means—and then I think that can't be—true."
But do you think it's helped it any—the story? persisted the boy. "She's only talked a little about the Princess. She didn't really change things any—not the ending."
But she said it might, David—she said it might! Don't you remember? cried the man eagerly. And to David, his eagerness did not seem at all strange. Mr. Jack had said before—long ago—that he would be very glad indeed to have a happier ending to this tale. "Think now," continued the man. "Perhaps she said something else, too. Did she say anything else, David?"
David shook his head slowly.
No, only—yes, there was a little something, but it doesn't CHANGE things any, for it was only a 'supposing.' She said: 'Just supposing, after long years, that the Princess found out about how the boy felt long ago, and suppose he should look up at the tower some day, at the old time, and see a ONE—TWO wave, which meant, Come over to see me." Just what do you suppose he would do?' But of course, THAT can't do any good," finished David gloomily, as he rose to go to bed, "for that was only a 'supposing.'"
Of course, agreed Mr. Jack steadily; and David did not know that only stern self-control had forced the steadiness into that voice, nor that, for Mr. Jack, the whole world had burst suddenly into song.
Neither did David, the next morning, know that long before eight o'clock Mr. Jack stood at a certain window, his eyes unswervingly fixed on the gray towers of Sunnycrest. What David did know, however, was that just after eight, Mr. Jack strode through the room where he and Jill were playing checkers, flung himself into his hat and coat, and then fairly leaped down the steps toward the path that led to the footbridge at the bottom of the hill.
Why, whatever in the world ails Jack? gasped Jill. Then, after a startled pause, she asked. "David, do folks ever go crazy for joy? Yesterday, you see, Jack got two splendid pieces of news. One was from his doctor. He was examined, and he's fine, the doctor says; all well, so he can go back, now any time, to the city and work. I shall go to school then, you know,—a young ladies' school," she finished, a little importantly.
He's well? How splendid! But what was the other news? You said there were two; only it couldn't have been nicer than that was; to be well—all well!
The other? Well, that was only that his old place in the city was waiting for him. He was with a firm of big lawyers, you know, and of course it is nice to have a place all waiting. But I can't see anything in those things to make him act like this, now. Can you?
Why, yes, maybe, declared David. "He's found his work—don't you see?—out in the world, and he's going to do it. I know how I'd feel if I had found mine that father told me of! Only what I can't understand is, if Mr. Jack knew all this yesterday, why did n't he act like this then, instead of waiting till to-day?"
I wonder, said Jill.
David found many new songs in his violin those early winter days, and they were very beautiful ones. To begin with, there were all the kindly looks and deeds that were showered upon him from every side. There was the first snowstorm, too, with the feathery flakes turning all the world to fairy whiteness. This song David played to Mr. Streeter, one day, and great was his disappointment that the man could not seem to understand what the song said.
But don't you see? pleaded David. "I'm telling you that it's your pear-tree blossoms come back to say how glad they are that you didn't kill them that day."
Pear-tree blossoms—come back! ejaculated the old man. "Well, no, I can't see. Where's yer pear-tree blossoms?"
Why, there—out of the window—everywhere, urged the boy.
THERE! By ginger! boy—ye don't mean—ye CAN'T mean the SNOW!
Of course I do! Now, can't you see it? Why, the whole tree was just a great big cloud of snowflakes. Don't you remember? Well, now it's gone away and got a whole lot more trees, and all the little white petals have come dancing down to celebrate, and to tell you they sure are coming back next year.
Well, by ginger! exclaimed the man again. Then, suddenly, he threw back his head with a hearty laugh. David did not quite like the laugh, neither did he care for the five-cent piece that the man thrust into his fingers a little later; though—had David but known it—both the laugh and the five-cent piece gift were—for the uncomprehending man who gave them—white milestones along an unfamiliar way.
It was soon after this that there came to David the great surprise—his beloved Lady of the Roses and his no less beloved Mr. Jack were to be married at the beginning of the New Year. So very surprised, indeed, was David at this, that even his violin was mute, and had nothing, at first, to say about it. But to Mr. Jack, as man to man, David said one day:—
I thought men, when they married women, went courting. In story-books they do. And you—you hardly ever said a word to my beautiful Lady of the Roses; and you spoke once—long ago—as if you scarcely remembered her at all. Now, what do you mean by that?
And Mr. Jack laughed, but he grew red, too,—and then he told it all,—that it was just the story of "The Princess and the Pauper," and that he, David, had been the one, as it happened, to do part of their courting for them.
And how David had laughed then, and how he had fairly hugged himself for joy! And when next he had picked up his violin, what a beautiful, beautiful song he had found about it in the vibrant strings!
It was this same song, as it chanced, that he was playing in his room that Saturday afternoon when the letter from Simeon Holly's long-lost son John came to the Holly farmhouse.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Simeon Holly stood, with the letter in his hand.
Ellen, we've got a letter from—John, he said. That Simeon Holly spoke of it at all showed how very far along HIS unfamiliar way he had come since the last letter from John had arrived.
From—John? Oh, Simeon! From John?
Yes.
Simeon sat down and tried to hide the shaking of his hand as he ran the point of his knife under the flap of the envelope. "We'll see what—he says." And to hear him, one might have thought that letters from John were everyday occurrences.
DEAR FATHER: Twice before I have written [ran the letter], and received no answer. But I'm going to make one more effort for forgiveness. May I not come to you this Christmas? I have a little boy of my own now, and my heart aches for you. I know how I should feel, should he, in years to come, do as I did.
I'll not deceive you—I have not given up my art. You told me once to choose between you and it—and I chose, I suppose; at least, I ran away. Yet in the face of all that, I ask you again, may I not come to you at Christmas? I want you, father, and I want mother. And I want you to see my boy.
Well? said Simeon Holly, trying to speak with a steady coldness that would not show how deeply moved he was. "Well, Ellen?"
Yes, Simeon, yes! choked his wife, a world of mother-love and longing in her pleading eyes and voice. "Yes—you'll let it be—'Yes'!"
Uncle Simeon, Aunt Ellen, called David, clattering down the stairs from his room, "I've found such a beautiful song in my violin, and I'm going to play it over and over so as to be sure and remember it for father—for it is a beautiful world, Uncle Simeon, isn't it? Now, listen!"
And Simeon Holly listened—but it was not the violin that he heard. It was the voice of a little curly-headed boy out of the past.
When David stopped playing some time later, only the woman sat watching him—the man was over at his desk, pen in hand.
John, John's wife, and John's boy came the day before Christmas, and great was the excitement in the Holly farmhouse. John was found to be big, strong, and bronzed with the outdoor life of many a sketching trip—a son to be proud of, and to be leaned upon in one's old age. Mrs. John, according to Perry Larson, was "the slickest little woman goin'." According to John's mother, she was an almost unbelievable incarnation of a long-dreamed-of, long-despaired-of daughter—sweet, lovable, and charmingly beautiful. Little John—little John was himself; and he could not have been more had he been an angel-cherub straight from heaven—which, in fact, he was, in his doting grandparents' eyes.
John Holly had been at his old home less than four hours when he chanced upon David's violin. He was with his father and mother at the time. There was no one else in the room. With a sidelong glance at his parents, he picked up the instrument—John Holly had not forgotten his own youth. His violin-playing in the old days had not been welcome, he remembered.
A fiddle! Who plays? he asked.
David.
Oh, the boy. You say you—took him in? By the way, what an odd little shaver he is! Never did I see a BOY like HIM. Simeon Holly's head came up almost aggressively.
David is a good boy—a very good boy, indeed, John. We think a great deal of him.
John Holly laughed lightly, yet his brow carried a puzzled frown. Two things John Holly had not been able thus far to understand: an indefinable change in his father, and the position of the boy David, in the household—John Holly was still remembering his own repressed youth.
Hm-m, he murmured, softly picking the strings, then drawing across them a tentative bow. "I've a fiddle at home that I play sometimes. Do you mind if I—tune her up?"
A flicker of something that was very near to humor flashed from his father's eyes.
Oh, no. We are used to that—now. And again John Holly remembered his youth.
Jove! but he's got the dandy instrument here, cried the player, dropping his bow after the first half-dozen superbly vibrant tones, and carrying the violin to the window. A moment later he gave an amazed ejaculation and turned on his father a dumfounded face.
Great Scott, father! Where did that boy get this instrument? I KNOW something of violins, if I can't play them much; and this—! Where DID he get it?
Of his father, I suppose. He had it when he came here, anyway.
'Had it when he came'! But, father, you said he was a tramp, and—oh, come, tell me, what is the secret behind this? Here I come home and find calmly reposing on my father's sitting-room table a violin that's priceless, for all I know. Anyhow, I do know that its value is reckoned in the thousands, not hundreds: and yet you, with equal calmness, tell me it's owned by this boy who, it's safe to say, doesn't know how to play sixteen notes on it correctly, to say nothing of appreciating those he does play; and who, by your own account, is nothing but— A swiftly uplifted hand of warning stayed the words on his lips. He turned to see David himself in the doorway.
Come in, David, said Simeon Holly quietly. "My son wants to hear you play. I don't think he has heard you." And again there flashed from Simeon Holly's eyes a something very much like humor.
With obvious hesitation John Holly relinquished the violin. From the expression on his face it was plain to be seen the sort of torture he deemed was before him. But, as if constrained to ask the question, he did say:—
Where did you get this violin, boy?
I don't know. We've always had it, ever since I could remember—this and the other one.
The OTHER one!
Father's.
Oh! He hesitated; then, a little severely, he observed: "This is a fine instrument, boy,—a very fine instrument."
Yes, nodded David, with a cheerful smile. "Father said it was. I like it, too. This is an Amati, but the other is a Stradivarius. I don't know which I do like best, sometimes, only this is mine."
With a half-smothered ejaculation John Holly fell back limply.
Then you—do—know? he challenged.
Know—what?
The value of that violin in your hands.
There was no answer. The boy's eyes were questioning.
The worth, I mean,—what it's worth.
Why, no—yes—that is, it's worth everything—to me, answered David, in a puzzled voice.
With an impatient gesture John Holly brushed this aside.
But the other one—where is that?
At Joe Glaspell's. I gave it to him to play on, because he had n't any, and he liked to play so well.
You GAVE it to him—a Stradivarius!
I loaned it to him, corrected David, in a troubled voice. "Being father's, I couldn't bear to give it away. But Joe—Joe had to have something to play on."
'Something to play on'! Father, he doesn't mean the River Street Glaspells? cried John Holly.
I think he does. Joe is old Peleg Glaspell's grandson. John Holly threw up both his hands.
A Stradivarius—to old Peleg's grandson! Oh, ye gods! he muttered. "Well, I'll be—" He did not finish his sentence. At another word from Simeon Holly, David had begun to play.
From his seat by the stove Simeon Holly watched his son's face—and smiled. He saw amazement, unbelief, and delight struggle for the mastery; but before the playing had ceased, he was summoned by Perry Larson to the kitchen on a matter of business. So it was into the kitchen that John Holly burst a little later, eyes and cheek aflame.
Father, where in Heaven's name DID you get that boy? he demanded. "Who taught him to play like that? I've been trying to find out from him, but I'd defy Sherlock Holmes himself to make head or tail of the sort of lingo he talks, about mountain homes and the Orchestra of Life! Father, what DOES it mean?"
Obediently Simeon Holly told the story then, more fully than he had told it before. He brought forward the letter, too, with its mysterious signature.
Perhaps you can make it out, son, he laughed. "None of the rest of us can, though I haven't shown it to anybody now for a long time. I got discouraged long ago of anybody's ever making it out."
Make it out—make it out! cried John Holly excitedly; "I should say I could! It's a name known the world over. It's the name of one of the greatest violinists that ever lived."
But how—what—how came he in my barn? demanded Simeon Holly.
Easily guessed, from the letter, and from what the world knows, returned John, his voice still shaking with excitement. "He was always a queer chap, they say, and full of his notions. Six or eight years ago his wife died. They say he worshiped her, and for weeks refused even to touch his violin. Then, very suddenly, he, with his four-year-old son, disappeared—dropped quite out of sight. Some people guessed the reason. I knew a man who was well acquainted with him, and at the time of the disappearance he told me quite a lot about him. He said he was n't a bit surprised at what had happened. That already half a dozen relatives were interfering with the way he wanted to bring the boy up, and that David was in a fair way to be spoiled, even then, with so much attention and flattery. The father had determined to make a wonderful artist of his son, and he was known to have said that he believed—as do so many others—that the first dozen years of a child's life are the making of the man, and that if he could have the boy to himself that long he would risk the rest. So it seems he carried out his notion until he was taken sick, and had to quit—poor chap!"
But why didn't he tell us plainly in that note who he was, then? fumed Simeon Holly, in manifest irritation.
He did, he thought, laughed the other. "He signed his name, and he supposed that was so well known that just to mention it would be enough. That's why he kept it so secret while he was living on the mountain, you see, and that's why even David himself didn't know it. Of course, if anybody found out who he was, that ended his scheme, and he knew it. So he supposed all he had to do at the last was to sign his name to that note, and everybody would know who he was, and David would at once be sent to his own people. (There's an aunt and some cousins, I believe.) You see he didn't reckon on nobody's being able to READ his name! Besides, being so ill, he probably wasn't quite sane, anyway."
I see, I see, nodded Simeon Holly, frowning a little. "And of course if we had made it out, some of us here would have known it, probably. Now that you call it to mind I think I have heard it myself in days gone by—though such names mean little to me. But doubtless somebody would have known. However, that is all past and gone now."
Oh, yes, and no harm done. He fell into good hands, luckily. You'll soon see the last of him now, of course.
Last of him? Oh, no, I shall keep David, said Simeon Holly, with decision.
Keep him! Why, father, you forget who he is! There are friends, relatives, an adoring public, and a mint of money awaiting that boy. You can't keep him. You could never have kept him this long if this little town of yours hadn't been buried in this forgotten valley up among these hills. You'll have the whole world at your doors the minute they find out he is here—hills or no hills! Besides, there are his people; they have some claim.
There was no answer. With a suddenly old, drawn look on his face, the elder man had turned away.
Half an hour later Simeon Holly climbed the stairs to David's room, and as gently and plainly as he could told the boy of this great, good thing that had come to him.
David was amazed, but overjoyed. That he was found to be the son of a famous man affected him not at all, only so far as it seemed to set his father right in other eyes—in David's own, the man had always been supreme. But the going away—the marvelous going away—filled him with excited wonder.
You mean, I shall go away and study—practice—learn more of my violin?
Yes, David.
And hear beautiful music like the organ in church, only more—bigger—better?
I suppose so..
And know people—dear people—who will understand what I say when I play?
Simeon Holly's face paled a little; still, he knew David had not meant to make it so hard.
Yes.
Why, it's my 'start'—just what I was going to have with the gold-pieces, cried David joyously. Then, uttering a sharp cry of consternation, he clapped his fingers to his lips.
Your—what? asked the man.
N—nothing, really, Mr. Holly,—Uncle Simeon,—n—nothing.
Something, either the boy's agitation, or the luckless mention of the gold-pieces sent a sudden dismayed suspicion into Simeon Holly's eyes.
Your 'start'?—the 'gold-pieces'? David, what do you mean?
David shook his head. He did not intend to tell. But gently, persistently, Simeon Holly questioned until the whole piteous little tale lay bare before him: the hopes, the house of dreams, the sacrifice.
David saw then what it means when a strong man is shaken by an emotion that has mastered him; and the sight awed and frightened the boy.
Mr. Holly, is it because I'm—going—that you care—so much? I never thought—or supposed—you'd—CARE, he faltered.
There was no answer. Simeon Holly's eyes were turned quite away.
Uncle Simeon—PLEASE! I—I think I don't want to go, anyway. I—I'm sure I don't want to go—and leave YOU!
Simeon Holly turned then, and spoke.
Go? Of course you'll go, David. Do you think I'd tie you here to me—NOW? he choked. "What don't I owe to you—home, son, happiness! Go?—of course you'll go. I wonder if you really think I'd let you stay! Come, we'll go down to mother and tell her. I suspect she'll want to start in to-night to get your socks all mended up!" And with head erect and a determined step, Simeon Holly faced the mighty sacrifice in his turn, and led the way downstairs.
The friends, the relatives, the adoring public, the mint of money—they are all David's now. But once each year, man grown though he is, he picks up his violin and journeys to a little village far up among the hills. There in a quiet kitchen he plays to an old man and an old woman; and always to himself he says that he is practicing against the time when, his violin at his chin and the bow drawn across the strings, he shall go to meet his father in the far-away land, and tell him of the beautiful world he has left.