CHAPTER XXI
HEAVY HEARTS
For a week David had not been near the House that Jack Built, and that,too, when Jill had been confined within doors for several days with acold. Jill, indeed, was inclined to be grieved at this apparent lack ofinterest on the part of her favorite playfellow; but upon her returnfrom her first day of school, after her recovery, she met her brotherwith startled eyes.
"Jack, it hasn't been David's fault at all," she cried remorsefully."He's sick."
"Sick!"
"Yes; awfully sick. They've had to send away for doctors andeverything."
"Why, Jill, are you sure? Where did you hear this?"
"At school to-day. Every one was talking about it."
"But what is the matter?"
"Fever--some sort. Some say it's typhoid, and some scarlet, and somesay another kind that I can't remember; but everybody says he's awfullysick. He got it down to Glaspell's, some say,--and some say he didn't.But, anyhow, Betty Glaspell has been sick with something, and theyhaven't let folks in there this week," finished Jill, her eyes big withterror.
"The Glaspells? But what was David doing down there?"
"Why, you know,--he told us once,--teaching Joe to play. He's beenthere lots. Joe is blind, you know, and can't see, but he just lovesmusic, and was crazy over David's violin; so David took down his otherone--the one that was his father's, you know--and showed him how topick out little tunes, just to take up his time so he wouldn't mind somuch that he couldn't see. Now, Jack, wasn't that just like David?Jack, I can't have anything happen to David!"
"No, dear, no; of course not! I'm afraid we can't any of us, for thatmatter," sighed Jack, his forehead drawn into anxious lines. "I'll godown to the Hollys', Jill, the first thing tomorrow morning, and seehow he is and if there's anything we can do. Meanwhile, don't take ittoo much to heart, dear. It may not be half so bad as you think.School-children always get things like that exaggerated, you mustremember," he finished, speaking with a lightness that he did not feel.
To himself the man owned that he was troubled, seriously troubled. Hehad to admit that Jill's story bore the earmarks of truth; andoverwhelmingly he realized now just how big a place this somewhatpuzzling small boy had come to fill in his own heart. He did not needJill's anxious "Now, hurry, Jack," the next morning to start him off inall haste for the Holly farmhouse. A dozen rods from the driveway hemet Perry Larson and stopped him abruptly.
"Good morning, Larson; I hope this isn't true--what I hear--that Davidis very ill."
Larson pulled off his hat and with his free hand sought the oneparticular spot on his head to which he always appealed when he wasvery much troubled.
"Well, yes, sir, I'm afraid 't is, Mr. Jack--er--Mr. Gurnsey, I mean.He is turrible sick, poor little chap, an' it's too bad--that's what itis--too bad!"
"Oh, I'm sorry! I hoped the report was exaggerated. I came down to seeif--if there wasn't something I could do."
"Well, 'course you can ask--there ain't no law ag'in' that; an' yeneedn't be afraid, neither. The report has got 'round that it'sketchin'--what he's got, and that he got it down to the Glaspells'; but't ain't so. The doctor says he didn't ketch nothin', an' he can't givenothin'. It's his head an' brain that ain't right, an' he's got amighty bad fever. He's been kind of flighty an' nervous, anyhow, lately.
"As I was sayin', 'course you can ask, but I'm thinkin' there won't benothin' you can do ter help. Ev'rythin' that can be done is bein' done.In fact, there ain't much of anythin' else that is bein' done downthere jest now but, tendin' ter him. They've got one o' them 'ereedyercated nurses from the Junction--what wears caps, ye know, an'makes yer feel as if they knew it all, an' you didn't know nothin'. An'then there's Mr. an' Mis' Holly besides. If they had THEIR way, therewouldn't neither of, em let him out o' their sight fur a minute,they're that cut up about it."
"I fancy they think a good deal of the boy--as we all do," murmured theyounger man, a little unsteadily.
Larson winkled his forehead in deep thought.
"Yes; an' that's what beats me," he answered slowly; "'bout HIM,--Mr.Holly, I mean. 'Course we'd 'a' expected it of HER--losin' her own boyas she did, an' bein' jest naturally so sweet an' lovin'-hearted. ButHIM--that's diff'rent. Now, you know jest as well as I do what Mr.Holly is--every one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin' sland'rous. He's agood man--a powerful good man; an' there ain't a squarer man goin' terwork fur. But the fact is, he was made up wrong side out, an' the seamshas always showed bad--turrible bad, with ravelin's all stickin' outevery which way ter ketch an' pull. But, gosh! I'm blamed if that, ereboy ain't got him so smoothed down, you wouldn't know, scursely, thathe had a seam on him, sometimes; though how he's done it beats me. Now,there's Mis' Holly--she's tried ter smooth 'em, I'll warrant, lots oftimes. But I'm free ter say she hain't never so much as clipped aravelin' in all them forty years they've lived tergether. Fact is, it'sworked the other way with her. All that HER rubbin' up ag'in' themseams has amounted to is ter git herself so smoothed down that shedon't never dare ter say her soul's her own, most generally,--anyhow,not if he happens ter intermate it belongs ter anybody else!"
Jack Gurnsey suddenly choked over a cough.
"I wish I could--do something," he murmured uncertainly.
"'T ain't likely ye can--not so long as Mr. an' Mis' Holly is on theirtwo feet. Why, there ain't nothin' they won't do, an' you'll believeit, maybe, when I tell you that yesterday Mr. Holly, he tramped allthrough Sawyer's woods in the rain, jest ter find a little bit of mossthat the boy was callin' for. Think o' that, will ye? Simeon Hollyhuntin' moss! An' he got it, too, an' brung it home, an' they say itcut him up somethin' turrible when the boy jest turned away, and didn'ttake no notice. You understand, 'course, sir, the little chap ain'tright in his head, an' so half the time he don't know what he says."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sorry!" exclaimed Gurnsey, as he turned away, andhurried toward the farmhouse.
Mrs. Holly herself answered his low knock. She looked worn and pale.
"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, in reply to his offer ofassistance, "but there isn't anything you can do, Mr. Gurnsey. We'rehaving everything done that can be, and every one is very kind. We havea very good nurse, and Dr. Kennedy has had consultation with Dr. Bensonfrom the Junction. They are doing all in their power, of course, butthey 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 herchin a little higher; "WHEN he gets better," she corrected withcourageous 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 thinkssomething'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 youoften--very often."
"Indeed I love him! Who could help it?"
"There couldn't anybody, Mr. Jack,--and that's just it. Now, since he'sbeen sick, we've wondered more than ever who he is. You see, I can'thelp thinking that somewhere he's got friends who ought to know abouthim--now."
"Yes, I see," nodded the man.
"He isn't an ordinary boy, Mr. Jack. He's been trained in lots ofways--about his manners, and at the table, and all that. And lots ofthings his father has told him are beautiful, just beautiful! He isn'ta tramp. He never was one. And there's his playing. YOU know how he canplay."
"Indeed I do! You must miss his playing, too."
"I do; he talks of
that, also," she hurried on, working her fingersnervously together; "but oftenest he--he speaks of singing, and I can'tquite understand that, for he didn't ever sing, you know."
"Singing? What does he say?" The man asked the question because he sawthat it was affording the overwrought little woman real relief to freeher 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'tmuch--what he says--but I noticed it because he always says the samething, like this: I'll just hold up my chin and march straight on andon, and I'll sing it with all my might and main.' And when I ask himwhat he's going to sing, he always says, 'My song--my song,' just likethat. 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 nextmoment, with a quick lifting of his hat and a murmured "I'll call againsoon," he turned and walked swiftly down the driveway.
So very swiftly, indeed, was Mr. Jack walking, and so self-absorbed washe, that he did not see the carriage until it was almost upon him; thenhe stepped aside to let it pass. What he saw as he gravely raised hishat was a handsome span of black horses, a liveried coachman, and apair of startled eyes looking straight into his. What he did not seewas the quick gesture with which Miss Holbrook almost ordered hercarriage stopped the minute it had passed him by.
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