Just David [23]
laughter, and who, also, had played the violin--though not like this; and the same thought had come to each: "What if, after all, it were John playing all alone in the moonlight!"
It had not been the violin, in the end, that had driven John Holly from home. It had been the possibilities in a piece of crayon. All through childhood the boy had drawn his beloved "pictures" on every inviting space that offered,--whether it were the "best-room" wall-paper, or the fly leaf of the big plush album,--and at eighteen he had announced his determination to be an artist. For a year after that Simeon Holly fought with all the strength of a stubborn will, banished chalk and crayon from the house, and set the boy to homely tasks that left no time for anything but food and sleep--then John ran away.
That was fifteen years ago, and they had not seen him since; though two unanswered letters in Simeon Holly's desk testified that perhaps this, at least, was not the boy's fault.
It was not of the grown-up John, the willful boy and runaway son, however, that Simeon Holly and his wife were thinking, as they stood just inside the barn door; it was of Baby John, the little curly-headed fellow that had played at their knees, frolicked in this very barn, and nestled in their arms when the day was done.
Mrs. Holly spoke first--and it was not as she had spoken on the porch.
"Simeon," she began tremulously, "that dear child must go to bed!" And she hurried across the floor and up the stairs, followed by her husband. "Come, David," she said, as she reached the top; "it's time little boys were asleep! Come!"
Her voice was low, and not quite steady. To David her voice sounded as her eyes looked when there was in them the far-away something that hurt. Very slowly he came forward into the moonlight, his gaze searching the woman's face long and earnestly.
"And do you--want me?" he faltered.
The woman drew in her breath with a little sob. Before her stood the slender figure in the yellow-white gown--John's gown. Into her eyes looked those other eyes, dark and wistful,--like John's eyes. And her arms ached with emptiness.
"Yes, yes, for my very own--and for always!" she cried with sudden passion, clasping the little form close. "For always!"
And David sighed his content.
Simeon Holly's lips parted, but they closed again with no words said. The man turned then, with a curiously baffled look, and stalked down the stairs.
On the porch long minutes later, when once more David had gone to bed, Simeon Holly said coldly to his wife:--
"I suppose you realize, Ellen, just what you've pledged yourself to, by that absurd outburst of yours in the barn to-night--and all because that ungodly music and the moonshine had gone to your head!"
"But I want the boy, Simeon. He--he makes me think of--John."
Harsh lines came to the man's mouth, but there was a perceptible shake in his voice as he answered:--
"We're not talking of John, Ellen. We're talking of this irresponsible, hardly sane boy upstairs. He can work, I suppose, if he's taught, and in that way he won't perhaps be a dead loss. Still, he's another mouth to feed, and that counts now. There's the note, you know,--it's due in August."
"But you say there's money--almost enough for it--in the bank." Mrs. Holly's voice was anxiously apologetic.
"Yes, I know" vouchsafed the man. "But almost enough is not quite enough."
"But there's time--more than two months. It isn't due till the last of August, Simeon."
"I know, I know. Meanwhile, there's the boy. What are you going to do with him?"
"Why, can't you use him--on the farm--a little?"
"Perhaps. I doubt it, though," gloomed the man. "One can't hoe corn nor pull weeds with a fiddle-bow--and that's all he seems to know how to handle."
"But he can learn--and he does play beautifully," murmured the woman; whenever before had Ellen Holly ventured to use words of argument with her husband, and in extenuation, too, of an act of her own!
There was no reply except a muttered "Humph!" under the breath. Then Simeon Holly
It had not been the violin, in the end, that had driven John Holly from home. It had been the possibilities in a piece of crayon. All through childhood the boy had drawn his beloved "pictures" on every inviting space that offered,--whether it were the "best-room" wall-paper, or the fly leaf of the big plush album,--and at eighteen he had announced his determination to be an artist. For a year after that Simeon Holly fought with all the strength of a stubborn will, banished chalk and crayon from the house, and set the boy to homely tasks that left no time for anything but food and sleep--then John ran away.
That was fifteen years ago, and they had not seen him since; though two unanswered letters in Simeon Holly's desk testified that perhaps this, at least, was not the boy's fault.
It was not of the grown-up John, the willful boy and runaway son, however, that Simeon Holly and his wife were thinking, as they stood just inside the barn door; it was of Baby John, the little curly-headed fellow that had played at their knees, frolicked in this very barn, and nestled in their arms when the day was done.
Mrs. Holly spoke first--and it was not as she had spoken on the porch.
"Simeon," she began tremulously, "that dear child must go to bed!" And she hurried across the floor and up the stairs, followed by her husband. "Come, David," she said, as she reached the top; "it's time little boys were asleep! Come!"
Her voice was low, and not quite steady. To David her voice sounded as her eyes looked when there was in them the far-away something that hurt. Very slowly he came forward into the moonlight, his gaze searching the woman's face long and earnestly.
"And do you--want me?" he faltered.
The woman drew in her breath with a little sob. Before her stood the slender figure in the yellow-white gown--John's gown. Into her eyes looked those other eyes, dark and wistful,--like John's eyes. And her arms ached with emptiness.
"Yes, yes, for my very own--and for always!" she cried with sudden passion, clasping the little form close. "For always!"
And David sighed his content.
Simeon Holly's lips parted, but they closed again with no words said. The man turned then, with a curiously baffled look, and stalked down the stairs.
On the porch long minutes later, when once more David had gone to bed, Simeon Holly said coldly to his wife:--
"I suppose you realize, Ellen, just what you've pledged yourself to, by that absurd outburst of yours in the barn to-night--and all because that ungodly music and the moonshine had gone to your head!"
"But I want the boy, Simeon. He--he makes me think of--John."
Harsh lines came to the man's mouth, but there was a perceptible shake in his voice as he answered:--
"We're not talking of John, Ellen. We're talking of this irresponsible, hardly sane boy upstairs. He can work, I suppose, if he's taught, and in that way he won't perhaps be a dead loss. Still, he's another mouth to feed, and that counts now. There's the note, you know,--it's due in August."
"But you say there's money--almost enough for it--in the bank." Mrs. Holly's voice was anxiously apologetic.
"Yes, I know" vouchsafed the man. "But almost enough is not quite enough."
"But there's time--more than two months. It isn't due till the last of August, Simeon."
"I know, I know. Meanwhile, there's the boy. What are you going to do with him?"
"Why, can't you use him--on the farm--a little?"
"Perhaps. I doubt it, though," gloomed the man. "One can't hoe corn nor pull weeds with a fiddle-bow--and that's all he seems to know how to handle."
"But he can learn--and he does play beautifully," murmured the woman; whenever before had Ellen Holly ventured to use words of argument with her husband, and in extenuation, too, of an act of her own!
There was no reply except a muttered "Humph!" under the breath. Then Simeon Holly