It was Saturday night,and the end of David's third day at the farmhouse.Upstairs,in the hot little room over the kitchen,the boy knelt at the window and tried to find a breath of cool air from the hills.Downstairs on the porch Simeon Holly and his wife discussed the events of the past few days,and talked of what should be done with David.
"But what shall we do with him?"moaned Mrs.Holly at last,breaking a long silence that had fallen between them."What can we do with him?Doesn't anybody want him?""No,of course,nobody wants him,"retorted her husband relentlessly.
And at the words a small figure in a yellow-white nightshirt stopped short.David,violin in hand,had fled from the little hot room,and stood now just inside the kitchen door.
"Who can want a child that has been brought up in that heathenish fashion?"continued Simeon Holly."According to his own story,even his father did nothing but play the fiddle and tramp through the woods day in and day out,with an occasional trip to the mountain village to get food and clothing when they had absolutely nothing to eat and wear.Of course nobody wants him!"David,at the kitchen door,caught his breath chokingly.Then he sped across the floor to the back hall,and on through the long sheds to the hayloft in the barn--the place where his father seemed always nearest.
David was frightened and heartsick.NOBODY WANTED HIM.He had heard it with his own ears,so there was no mistake.What now about all those long days and nights ahead before he might go,violin in hand,to meet his father in that far-away country?How was he to live those days and nights if nobody wanted him?How was his violin to speak in a voice that was true and pure and full,and tell of the beautiful world,as his father had said that it must do?David quite cried aloud at the thought.Then he thought of something else that his father had said:"Remember this,my boy,--in your violin lie all the things you long for.
You have only to play,and the broad skies of your mountain home will be over you,and the dear friends and comrades of your mountain forests will be all about you."With a quick cry David raised his violin and drew the bow across the strings.
Back on the porch at that moment Mrs.Holly was saying:--"Of course there's the orphan asylum,or maybe the poorhouse--if they'd take him;but--Simeon,"she broke off sharply,"where's that child playing now?"Simeon listened with intent ears.
"In the barn,I should say."
"But he'd gone to bed!"
"And he'll go to bed again,"asserted Simeon Holly grimly,as he rose to his feet and stalked across the moonlit yard to the barn.
As before,Mrs.Holly followed him,and as before,both involuntarily paused just inside the barn door to listen.No runs and trills and rollicking bits of melody floated down the stairway to-night.The notes were long-drawn,and plaintively sweet;and they rose and swelled and died almost into silence while the man and the woman by the door stood listening.
They were back in the long ago--Simeon Holly and his wife--back with a boy of their own who had made those same rafters ring with shouts of 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.
