Just David [67]
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.
CHAPTER XXII
AS PERRY SAW IT
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
"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.
CHAPTER XXII
AS PERRY SAW IT
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