JUST DAVID
BY
ELEANOR H. (HODGMAN) PORTER
AUTHOR POLLYANNA, MISS BILLY MARRIED, ETC.
TO MY FRIEND Mrs. James Harness
CONTENTS
I. THE MOUNTAIN HOME II. THE TRAIL III. THE VALLEY IV. TWO LETTERS V. DISCORDS VI. NUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE VII. "YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!" VIII. THE PUZZLING "DOS" AND "DON'TS" IX. JOE X. THE LADY OF THE ROSES XI. JACK AND JILL XII. ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER XIII. A SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK XIV. THE TOWER WINDOW XV. SECRETS XVI. DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN XVII. "THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER" XVIII. DAVID TO THE RESCUE XIX. THE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD XX. THE UNFAMILIAR WAY XXI. HEAVY HEARTS XXII. AS PERRY SAW IT XXIII. PUZZLES XXIV. A STORY REMODELED XXV. THE BEAUTIFUL WORLD
CHAPTER I
THE MOUNTAIN HOME
Far up on the mountain-side the little shack stood alone in the clearing.It was roughly yet warmly built. Behind it jagged cliffs broke the northwind, and towered gray-white in the sunshine. Before it a tiny expanse ofgreen sloped gently away to a point where the mountain dropped in anothersharp descent, wooded with scrubby firs and pines. At the left afootpath led into the cool depths of the forest. But at the right themountain fell away again and disclosed to view the picture David lovedthe best of all: the far-reaching valley; the silver pool of the lakewith its ribbon of a river flung far out; and above it the grays andgreens and purples of the mountains that climbed one upon another'sshoulders until the topmost thrust their heads into the wide dome ofthe sky itself.
There was no road, apparently, leading away from the cabin. There wasonly the footpath that disappeared into the forest. Neither, anywhere,was there a house in sight nearer than the white specks far down in thevalley by the river.
Within the shack a wide fireplace dominated one side of the main room.It was June now, and the ashes lay cold on the hearth; but from thetiny lean-to in the rear came the smell and the sputter of baconsizzling over a blaze. The furnishings of the room were simple, yet, ina way, out of the common. There were two bunks, a few rude butcomfortable chairs, a table, two music-racks, two violins with theircases, and everywhere books, and scattered sheets of music. Nowhere wasthere cushion, curtain, or knickknack that told of a woman's taste ortouch. On the other hand, neither was there anywhere gun, pelt, orantlered head that spoke of a man's strength and skill. For decorationthere were a beautiful copy of the Sistine Madonna, several photographssigned with names well known out in the great world beyond themountains, and a festoon of pine cones such as a child might gather andhang.
From the little lean-to kitchen the sound of the sputtering suddenlyceased, and at the door appeared a pair of dark, wistful eyes.
"Daddy!" called the owner of the eyes.
There was no answer.
"Father, are you there?" called the voice, more insistently.
From one of the bunks came a slight stir and a murmured word. At thesound the boy at the door leaped softly into the room and hurried tothe bunk in the corner. He was a slender lad with short, crisp curls athis ears, and the red of perfect health in his cheeks. His hands, slim,long, and with tapering fingers like a girl's, reached forward eagerly.
"Daddy, come! I've done the bacon all myself, and the potatoes and thecoffee, too. Quick, it's all getting cold!"
Slowly, with the aid of the boy's firm hands, the man pulled himselfhalf to a sitting posture. His cheeks, like the boy's, were red--butnot with health. His eyes were a little wild, but his voice was low andvery tender, like a caress.
"David--it's my little son David!"
"Of course it's David! Who else should it be?" laughed the boy. "Come!"And he tugged at the man's hands.
The man rose then, unsteadily, and by sheer will forced himself tostand upright. The wild look left his eyes, and the flush his cheeks.His face looked suddenly old and haggard. Yet with fairly sure steps hecrossed the room and entered the little kitchen.
Half of the bacon was black; the other half was transparent and liketough jelly. The potatoes were soggy, and had the unmistakable tastethat comes from a dish that has boiled dry. The coffee was lukewarm andmuddy. Even the milk was sour.
David laughed a little ruefully.
"Things aren't so nice as yours, father," he apologized. "I'm afraidI'm nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day! Somehow, some ofthe stove was hotter than the rest, and burnt up the bacon in spots;and all the water got out of the potatoes, too,--though THAT didn'tmatter, for I just put more cold in. I forgot and left the milk in thesun, and it tastes bad now; but I'm sure next time it'll be better--allof it."
The man smiled, but he shook his head sadly.
"But there ought not to be any 'next time,' David."
"Why not? What do you mean? Aren't you ever going to let me try again,father?" There was real distress in the boy's voice.
The man hesitated. His lips parted with an indrawn breath, as if behindthem lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the words stillunsaid. Then, very lightly, came these others:--
"Well, son, this isn't a very nice way to treat your supper, is it?Now, if you please, I'll take some of that bacon. I think I feel myappetite coming back."
If the truant appetite "came back," however, it could not have stayed;for the man ate but little. He frowned, too, as he saw how little theboy ate. He sat silent while his son cleared the food and dishes away,and he was still silent when, with the boy, he passed out of the houseand walked to the little bench facing the west.
Unless it stormed very hard, David never went to bed without this lastlook at his "Silver Lake," as he called the little sheet of water fardown in the valley.
"Daddy, it's gold to-night--all gold with the sun!" he criedrapturously, as his eyes fell upon his treasure. "Oh, daddy!"
It was a long-drawn cry of ecstasy, and hearing it, the man winced, aswith sudden pain.
"Daddy, I'm going to play it--I've got to play it!" cried the boy,bounding toward the cabin. In a moment he had returned, violin at hischin.
The man watched and listened; and as he watched and listened, his facebecame a battle-ground whereon pride and fear, hope and despair, joyand sorrow, fought for the mastery.
It was no new thing for David to "play" the sunset. Always, when he wasmoved, David turned to his violin. Always in its quivering strings hefound the means to say that which his tongue could not express.
Across the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become allpurples now. Above, the sky in one vast flame of crimson and gold, wasa molten sea on which floated rose-pink cloud-boats. Below, the valleywith its lake and river picked out in rose and gold against the shadowygreens of field and forest, seemed like some enchanted fairyland ofloveliness.
And all this was in David's violin, and all this, too, was on David'suplifted, rapturous face.
As the last rose-glow turned to gray and the last strain quivered intosilence, the man spoke. His voice was almost harsh with self-control.
"David, the time has come. We'll have to give it up--you and I."
The boy turned wonderingly, his face still softly luminous.
"Give what up?"
"This--all this."
"This! Why, father, what do you mean? This is home!"
The man nodded wearily.
"I know. It has been home; but, David, you didn't think we could alwayslive here, like this, did you?"
David laughed softly, and turned his eyes once more to the distantsky-line.
"Why not?" he asked dreamily. "What better place could there be? I likeit, daddy."
The man drew a troubled breath, and stirred restlessly. The teasingpain in his side was very bad to-night, and no change of position easedit. He was ill, very ill; and he knew
it. Yet he also knew that, toDavid, sickness, pain, and death meant nothing--or, at most, words thathad always been lightly, almost unconsciously passed over. For thefirst time he wondered if, after all, his training--some of it--hadbeen wise.
For six years he had had the boy under his exclusive care and guidance.For six years the boy had eaten the food, worn the clothing, andstudied the books of his father's choosing. For six years that fatherhad thought, planned, breathed, moved, lived for his son. There hadbeen no others in the little cabin. There had been only the occasionaltrips through the woods to the little town on the mountain-side forfood and clothing, to break the days of close companionship.
All this the man had planned carefully. He had meant that only the goodand beautiful should have place in David's youth. It was not that heintended that evil, unhappiness, and death should lack definition, onlydefiniteness, in the boy's mind. It should be a case where the good andthe beautiful should so fill the thoughts that there would be no roomfor anything else. This had been his plan. And thus far he hadsucceeded--succeeded so wonderfully that he began now, in the face ofhis own illness, and of what he feared would come of it, to doubt thewisdom of that planning.
As he looked at the boy's rapt face, he remembered David's surprisedquestioning at the first dead squirrel he had found in the woods. Davidwas six then.
"Why, daddy, he's asleep, and he won't wake up!" he had cried. Then,after a gentle touch: "And he's cold--oh, so cold!"
The father had hurried his son away at the time, and had evaded hisquestions; and David had seemed content. But the next day the boy hadgone back to the subject. His eyes were wide then, and a littlefrightened.
"Father, what is it to be--dead?"
"What do you mean, David?"
"The boy who brings the milk--he had the squirrel this morning. He saidit was not asleep. It was--dead."
"It means that the squirrel, the real squirrel under the fur, has goneaway, David."
"Where?"
"To a far country, perhaps."
"Will he come back?"
"No."
"Did he want to go?"
"We'll hope so."
"But he left his--his fur coat behind him. Didn't he need--that?"
"No, or he'd have taken it with him."
David had fallen silent at this. He had remained strangely silentindeed for some days; then, out in the woods with his father onemorning, he gave a joyous shout. He was standing by the ice-coveredbrook, and looking at a little black hole through which the hurryingwater could be plainly seen.
"Daddy, oh, daddy, I know now how it is, about being--dead."
"Why--David!"
"It's like the water in the brook, you know; THAT'S going to a farcountry, and it isn't coming back. And it leaves its little coldice-coat behind it just as the squirrel did, too. It does n't need it.It can go without it. Don't you see? And it's singing--listen!--it'ssinging as it goes. It WANTS to go!"
"Yes, David." And David's father had sighed with relief that his sonhad found his own explanation of the mystery, and one that satisfied.
Later, in his books, David found death again. It was a man, this time.The boy had looked up with startled eyes.
"Do people, real people, like you and me, be dead, father? Do they goto a far country?
"Yes, son in time--to a far country ruled over by a great and good Kingthey tell us."
David's father had trembled as he said it, and had waited fearfully forthe result. But David had only smiled happily as he answered:
"But they go singing, father, like the little brook. You know I heardit!"
And there the matter had ended. David was ten now, and not yet for himdid death spell terror. Because of this David's father was relieved;and yet--still because of this--he was afraid.
"David," he said gently. "Listen to me."
The boy turned with a long sigh.
"Yes, father."
"We must go away. Out in the great world there are men and women andchildren waiting for you. You've a beautiful work to do; and one can'tdo one's work on a mountain-top."
"Why not? I like it here, and I've always been here."
"Not always, David; six years. You were four when I brought you here.You don't remember, perhaps."
David shook his head. His eyes were again dreamily fixed on the sky.
"I think I'd like it--to go--if I could sail away on that littlecloud-boat up there," he murmured.
The man sighed and shook his head.
"We can't go on cloud-boats. We must walk, David, for a way--and wemust go soon--soon," he added feverishly. "I must get you back--backamong friends, before--"
He rose unsteadily, and tried to walk erect. His limbs shook, and theblood throbbed at his temples. He was appalled at his weakness. With afierceness born of his terror he turned sharply to the boy at his side.
"David, we've got to go! We've got to go--TO-MORROW!"
"Father!"
"Yes, yes, come!" He stumbled blindly, yet in some way he reached thecabin door.
Behind him David still sat, inert, staring. The next minute the boy hadsprung to his feet and was hurrying after his father.