Just David

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

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 stood alone in the clearing. It was
roughly yet warmly built. Behind it jagged cliffs broke the north
wind, and towered gray-white in the sunshine. Before it a tiny
expanse of green sloped gently away to a point where the mountain
dropped in another sharp descent, wooded with scrubby firs and
pines. At the left a footpath led into the cool depths of the
forest. But at the right the mountain fell away again and
disclosed to view the picture David loved the best of all: the
far-reaching valley; the silver pool of the lake with its ribbon
of a river flung far out; and above it the grays and greens and
purples of the mountains that climbed one upon another's
shoulders until the topmost thrust their heads into the wide dome
of the sky itself.

There was no road, apparently, leading away from the cabin. There
was only the footpath that disappeared into the forest. Neither,
anywhere, was there a house in sight nearer than the white specks
far down in the valley 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 the tiny lean-to in the rear came the smell and the sputter
of bacon sizzling over a blaze. The furnishings of the room were
simple, yet, in a way, out of the common. There were two bunks, a
few rude but comfortable chairs, a table, two music-racks, two
violins with their cases, and everywhere books, and scattered
sheets of music. Nowhere was there cushion, curtain, or
knickknack that told of a woman's taste or touch. On the other
hand, neither was there anywhere gun, pelt, or antlered head that
spoke of a man's strength and skill. For decoration there were a
beautiful copy of the Sistine Madonna, several photographs signed
with names well known out in the great world beyond the
mountains, and a festoon of pine cones such as a child might
gather and hang.

From the little lean-to kitchen the sound of the sputtering
suddenly ceased, 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
the sound the boy at the door leaped softly into the room and
hurried to the bunk in the corner. He was a slender lad with
short, crisp curls at his 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 the coffee, too. Quick, it's all getting cold!"

Slowly, with the aid of the boy's firm hands, the man pulled
himself half to a sitting posture. His cheeks, like the boy's,
were red--but not with health. His eyes were a little wild, but
his voice was low and very 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
to stand upright. The wild look left his eyes, and the flush his
cheeks. His face looked suddenly old and haggard. Yet with fairly
sure steps he crossed the room and entered the little kitchen.

Half of the bacon was black; the other half was transparent and
like tough jelly. The potatoes were soggy, and had the
unmistakable taste that comes from a dish that has boiled dry.
The coffee was lukewarm and muddy. Even the milk was sour.

David laughed a little ruefully.

"Things aren't so nice as yours, father," he apologized. "I'm
afraid I'm nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day!
Somehow, some of the 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't matter, for I just put more cold in. I
forgot and left the milk in the sun, and it tastes bad now; but
I'm sure next time it'll be better--all of 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
behind them lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the
words still unsaid. 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 my appetite 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 the boy 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 house and walked to the little bench facing
the west.

Unless it stormed very hard, David never went to bed without this
last look at his "Silver Lake," as he called the little sheet of
water far down in the valley.

"Daddy, it's gold to-night--all gold with the sun!" he cried
rapturously, as his eyes fell upon his treasure. "Oh, daddy!"

It was a long-drawn cry of ecstasy, and hearing it, the man
winced, as with 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 his chin.

The man watched and listened; and as he watched and listened, his
face became a battle-ground whereon pride and fear, hope and
despair, joy and sorrow, fought for the mastery.

It was no new thing for David to "play" the sunset. Always, when
he was moved, David turned to his violin. Always in its quivering
strings he found the means to say that which his tongue could not
express.

Across the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become
all purples now. Above, the sky in one vast flame of crimson and
gold, was a molten sea on which floated rose-pink cloud-boats.
Below, the valley with its lake and river picked out in rose and
gold against the shadowy greens of field and forest, seemed like
some enchanted fairyland of loveliness.

And all this was in David's violin, and all this, too, was on
David's uplifted, rapturous face.

As the last rose-glow turned to gray and the last strain quivered
into silence, 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
always live here, like this, did you?"

David laughed softly, and turned his eyes once more to the
distant sky-line.

Why not?" he asked dreamily. "What better place could there be? I
like it, daddy."

The man drew a troubled breath, and stirred restlessly. The
teasing pain in his side was very bad to-night, and no change of
position eased it. He was ill, very ill; and he knew it. Yet he
also knew that, to David, sickness, pain, and death meant
nothing--or, at most, words that had always been lightly, almost
unconsciously passed over. For the first time he wondered if,
after all, his training--some of it--had been 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, and studied the books of his father's choosing. For six
years that father had thought, planned, breathed, moved, lived
for his son. There had been no others in the little cabin. There
had been only the occasional trips through the woods to the
little town on the mountain-side for food and clothing, to break
the days of close companionship.

All this the man had planned carefully. He had meant that only
the good and beautiful should have place in David's youth. It was
not that he intended that evil, unhappiness, and death should
lack definition, only definiteness, in the boy's mind. It should
be a case where the good and the beautiful should so fill the
thoughts that there would be no room for anything else. This had
been his plan. And thus far he had succeeded--succeeded so
wonderfully that he began now, in the face of his own illness,
and of what he feared would come of it, to doubt the wisdom of
that planning.

As he looked at the boy's rapt face, he remembered David's
surprised questioning at the first dead squirrel he had found in
the woods. David was 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
his questions; and David had seemed content. But the next day the
boy had gone back to the subject. His eyes were wide then, and a
little frightened.

"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 said it was not asleep. It was--dead."

"It means that the squirrel, the real squirrel under the fur, has
gone away, 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 silent
indeed for some days; then, out in the woods with his father one
morning, he gave a joyous shout. He was standing by the
ice-covered brook, and looking at a little black hole through
which the hurrying water 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
far country, and it isn't coming back. And it leaves its little
cold ice-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's singing as it goes. It WANTS to go!"

"Yes, David." And David's father had sighed with relief that his
son had 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 go to a far country?

"Yes, son in time--to a far country ruled over by a great and
good King they tell us.

David's father had trembled as he said it, and had waited
fearfully for the result. But David had only smiled happily as he
answered:

"But they go singing, father, like the little brook. You know I
heard it!"

And there the matter had ended. David was ten now, and not yet
for him did 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
and children waiting for you. You've a beautiful work to do; and
one can't do 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 little
cloud-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
we must go soon--soon," he added feverishly. "I must get you
back--back among friends, before--"

He rose unsteadily, and tried to walk erect. His limbs shook, and
the blood throbbed at his temples. He was appalled at his
weakness. With a fierceness 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
the cabin door.

Behind him David still sat, inert, staring. The next minute the
boy had sprung to his feet and was hurrying after his father.

CHAPTER II

THE TRAIL

A curious strength seemed to have come to the man. With almost
steady hands he took down the photographs and the Sistine
Madonna, packing them neatly away in a box to be left. From
beneath his bunk he dragged a large, dusty traveling-bag, and in
this he stowed a little food, a few garments, and a great deal of
the music scattered about the room.

David, in the doorway, stared in dazed wonder. Gradually into his
eyes crept a look never seen there before.

"Father, where are we going?" he asked at last in a shaking
voice, as he came slowly into the room.

"Back, son; we're going back."

"To the village, where we get our eggs and bacon?"

"No, no, lad, not there. The other way. We go down into the
valley this time."

"The valley--MY valley, with the Silver Lake?"

"Yes, my son; and beyond--far beyond." The man spoke dreamily. He
was looking at a photograph in his hand. It had slipped in among
the loose sheets of music, and had not been put away with the
others. It was the likeness of a beautiful woman.

For a moment David eyed him uncertainly; then he spoke.

"Daddy, who is that? Who are all these people in the pictures?
You've never told me about any of them except the little round
one that you wear in your pocket. Who are they?"

Instead of answering, the man turned faraway eyes on the boy and
smiled wistfully.

"Ah, David, lad, how they'll love you! How they will love you!
But you mustn't let them spoil you, son. You must
remember--remember all I've told you."

Once again David asked his question, but this time the man only
turned back to the photograph, muttering something the boy could
not understand.

After that David did not question any more. He was too amazed,
too distressed. He had never before seen his father like this.
With nervous haste the man was setting the little room to rights,
crowding things into the bag, and packing other things away in an
old trunk. His cheeks were very red, and his eyes very bright. He
talked, too, almost constantly, though David could understand
scarcely a word of what was said. Later, the man caught up his
violin and played; and never before had David heard his father
play like that. The boy's eyes filled, and his heart ached with a
pain that choked and numbed--though why, David could not have
told. Still later, the man dropped his violin and sank exhausted
into a chair; and then David, worn and frightened with it all,
crept to his bunk and fell asleep.

In the gray dawn of the morning David awoke to a different world.
His father, white-faced and gentle, was calling him to get ready
for breakfast. The little room, dismantled of its decorations,
was bare and cold. The bag, closed and strapped, rested on the
floor by the door, together with the two violins in their cases,
ready to carry.

"We must hurry, son. It's a long tramp before we take the cars."

"The cars--the real cars? Do we go in those?" David was fully
awake now.

"Yes."

"And is that all we're to carry?"

"Yes. Hurry, son."

"But we come back--sometime?"

There was no answer.

"Father, we're coming back--sometime?" David's voice was
insistent now.

The man stooped and tightened a strap that was already quite
tight enough. Then he laughed lightly.

"Why, of course you're coming back sometime, David. Only think of
all these things we're leaving!"

When the last dish was put away, the last garment adjusted, and
the last look given to the little room, the travelers picked up
the bag and the violins, and went out into the sweet freshness of
the morning. As he fastened the door the man sighed profoundly;
but David did not notice this. His face was turned toward the
east--always David looked toward the sun.

"Daddy, let's not go, after all! Let's stay here," he cried
ardently, drinking in the beauty of the morning.

"We must go, David. Come, son." And the man led the way across
the green slope to the west.

It was a scarcely perceptible trail, but the man found it, and
followed it with evident confidence. There was only the pause now
and then to steady his none-too-sure step, or to ease the burden
of the bag. Very soon the forest lay all about them, with the
birds singing over their heads, and with numberless tiny feet
scurrying through the underbrush on all sides. Just out of sight
a brook babbled noisily of its delight in being alive; and away
up in the treetops the morning sun played hide-and-seek among the
dancing leaves.

And David leaped, and laughed, and loved it all, nor was any of
it strange to him. The birds, the trees, the sun, the brook, the
scurrying little creatures of the forest, all were friends of
his. But the man--the man did not leap or laugh, though he, too,
loved it all. The man was afraid.

He knew now that he had undertaken more than he could carry out.
Step by step the bag had grown heavier, and hour by hour the
insistent, teasing pain in his side had increased until now it
was a torture. He had forgotten that the way to the valley was so
long; he had not realized how nearly spent was his strength
before he even started down the trail. Throbbing through his
brain was the question, what if, after all, he could not--but
even to himself he would not say the words.

At noon they paused for luncheon, and at night they camped where
the chattering brook had stopped to rest in a still, black pool.
The next morning the man and the boy picked up the trail again,
but without the bag. Under some leaves in a little hollow, the
man had hidden the bag, and had then said, as if casually:--

"I believe, after all, I won't carry this along. There's nothing
in it that we really need, you know, now that I've taken out the
luncheon box, and by night we'll be down in the valley."

"Of course!" laughed David. "We don't need that." And he laughed
again, for pure joy. Little use had David for bags or baggage!

They were more than halfway down the mountain now, and soon they
reached a grass-grown road, little traveled, but yet a road.
Still later they came to where four ways crossed, and two of them
bore the marks of many wheels. By sundown the little brook at
their side murmured softly of quiet fields and meadows, and David
knew that the valley was reached.

David was not laughing now. He was watching his father with
startled eyes. David had not known what anxiety was. He was
finding out now--though he but vaguely realized that something
was not right. For some time his father had said but little, and
that little had been in a voice that was thick and
unnatural-sounding. He was walking fast, yet David noticed that
every step seemed an effort, and that every breath came in short
gasps. His eyes were very bright, and were fixedly bent on the
road ahead, as if even the haste he was making was not haste
enough. Twice David spoke to him, but he did not answer; and the
boy could only trudge along on his weary little feet and sigh for
the dear home on the mountain-top which they had left behind them
the morning before.

They met few fellow travelers, and those they did meet paid scant
attention to the man and the boy carrying the violins. As it
chanced, there was no one in sight when the man, walking in the
grass at the side of the road, stumbled and fell heavily to the
ground.

David sprang quickly forward.

"Father, what is it? WHAT IS IT?"

There was no answer.

"Daddy, why don't you speak to me? See, it's David!"

With a painful effort the man roused himself and sat up. For a
moment he gazed dully into the boy's face; then a half-forgotten
something seemed to stir him into feverish action. With shaking
fingers he handed David his watch and a small ivory miniature.
Then he searched his pockets until on the ground before him lay a
shining pile of gold-pieces--to David there seemed to be a
hundred of them.

"Take them--hide them--keep them. David, until you--need them,"
panted the man. "Then go--go on. I can't."

"Alone? Without you?" demurred the boy, aghast. "Why, father, I
couldn't! I don't know the way. Besides, I'd rather stay with
you," he added soothingly, as he slipped the watch and the
miniature into his pocket; "then we can both go." And he dropped
himself down at his father's side.

The man shook his head feebly, and pointed again to the
gold-pieces.

"Take them, David,--hide them," he chattered with pale lips.

Almost impatiently the boy began picking up the money and tucking
it into his pockets.

"But, father, I'm not going without you," he declared stoutly, as
the last bit of gold slipped out of sight, and a horse and wagon
rattled around the turn of the road above.

The driver of the horse glanced disapprovingly at the man and the
boy by the roadside; but he did not stop. After he had passed,
the boy turned again to his father. The man was fumbling once
more in his pockets. This time from his coat he produced a pencil
and a small notebook from which he tore a page, and began to
write, laboriously, painfully.

David sighed and looked about him. He was tired and hungry, and
he did not understand things at all. Something very wrong, very
terrible, must be the matter with his father. Here it was almost
dark, yet they had no place to go, no supper to eat, while far,
far up on the mountain-side was their own dear home sad and
lonely without them. Up there, too, the sun still shone,
doubtless,--at least there were the rose-glow and the Silver Lake
to look at, while down here there was nothing, nothing but gray
shadows, a long dreary road, and a straggling house or two in
sight. From above, the valley might look to be a fairyland of
loveliness, but in reality it was nothing but a dismal waste of
gloom, decided David.

David's father had torn a second page from his book and was
beginning another note, when the boy suddenly jumped to his feet.
One of the straggling houses was near the road where they sat,
and its presence had given David an idea. With swift steps he
hurried to the front door and knocked upon it. In answer a tall,
unsmiling woman appeared, and said, "Well?"

David removed his cap as his father had taught him to do when one
of the mountain women spoke to him.

"Good evening, lady; I'm David," he began frankly. "My father is
so tired he fell down back there, and we should like very much to
stay with you all night, if you don't mind."

The woman in the doorway stared. For a moment she was dumb with
amazement. Her eyes swept the plain, rather rough garments of the
boy, then sought the half-recumbent figure of the man by the
roadside. Her chin came up angrily.

"Oh, would you, indeed! Well, upon my word!" she scouted. "Humph!
We don't accommodate tramps, little boy." And she shut the door
hard.

It was David's turn to stare. Just what a tramp might be, he did
not know; but never before had a request of his been so angrily
refused. He knew that. A fierce something rose within him--a
fierce new something that sent the swift red to his neck and
brow. He raised a determined hand to the doorknob--he had
something to say to that woman!--when the door suddenly opened
again from the inside.

"See here, boy," began the woman, looking out at him a little
less unkindly, "if you're hungry I'll give you some milk and
bread. Go around to the back porch and I'll get it for you." And
she shut the door again.

David's hand dropped to his side. The red still stayed on his
face and neck, however, and that fierce new something within him
bade him refuse to take food from this woman.... But there was
his father--his poor father, who was so tired; and there was his
own stomach clamoring to be fed. No, he could not refuse. And
with slow steps and hanging head David went around the corner of
the house to the rear.

As the half-loaf of bread and the pail of milk were placed in his
hands, David remembered suddenly that in the village store on the
mountain, his father paid money for his food. David was glad,
now, that he had those gold-pieces in his pocket, for he could
pay money. Instantly his head came up. Once more erect with
self-respect, he shifted his burdens to one hand and thrust the
other into his pocket. A moment later he presented on his
outstretched palm a shining disk of gold.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13