JUST DAVID(公正的大卫)

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JUST DAVID

BY ELEANOR H.{HODGMAN} PORTER

JUST DAVID

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

JUST DAVID

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

JUST DAVID

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

JUST DAVID

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.

JUST DAVID

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?"

JUST DAVID

"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.

JUST DAVID

"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.

JUST DAVID

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

JUST DAVID

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

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JUSTDAVID1JUSTDAVIDBYELEANORH.{HODGMAN}PORTERJUSTDAVID2CHAPTERITHEMOUNTAINHOMEFaruponthemountain-sidestoodaloneintheclearing.Itwasroughlyyetwarmlybuilt.Behinditjaggedcliffsbrokethenorthwind,andtoweredgray-whiteinthesunshine.Beforeitatinyexpanseofgreenslopedgentlyawaytoapointwherethemountaindroppedin...

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