The year that had passed had seemed a very long one to John, but as the
months came and went he had in a measure adjusted himself to the change
in his fortunes and environment; and so as time went on the poignancy of
his sorrow and regret diminished, as it does with all of us. Yet the
sight of a gray-haired man still brought a pang to his heart, and there
were times of yearning longing to recall every line of the face, every
detail of the dress, the voice, the words, of the girl who had been so
dear to him, and who had gone out of his life as irrevocably, it seemed
to him, as if by death itself. It may be strange, but it is true that
for a very long time it never occurred to him that he might communicate
with her by mailing a letter to her New York address to be forwarded,
and when the thought came to him the impulse to act upon it was very
strong, but he did not do so. Perhaps he would have written had he been
less in love with her, but also there was mingled with that sentiment
something of bitterness which, though he could not quite explain or
justify it, did exist. Then, too, he said to himself, "Of what avail
would it be? Only to keep alive a longing for the impossible." No, he
would forget it all. Men had died and worms had eaten them, but not for
love. Many men lived all their lives without it and got on very well
too, he was aware. Perhaps some day, when he had become thoroughly
affiliated and localized, he would wed a village maiden, and rear a
Freeland County brood. Our friend, as may be seen, had a pretty healthy
mind, and we need not sympathize with him to the disturbance of our own
peace.
Books accumulated in the best bedroom. John's expenses were small, and
there was very little temptation, or indeed opportunity, for spending.
At the time of his taking possession of his quarters in David's house he
had raised the question of his contribution to the household expenses,
but Mr. Harum had declined to discuss the matter at all and referred him
to Mrs. Bixbee, with whom he compromised on a weekly sum which appeared
to him absurdly small, but which she protested she was ashamed to
accept. After a while a small upright piano made its appearance, with
Aunt Polly's approval.
"Why, of course," she said. "You needn't to hev ast me. I'd like to hev
you anyway. I like music ever so much, an' so does David, though I guess
it would floor him to try an' raise a tune. I used to sing quite a
little when I was younger, an' I gen'ally help at church an' prayer
meetin' now. Why, cert'nly. Why not? When would you play if it wa'n't in
the evenin'? David sleeps over the wing. Do you hear him snore?"
"Hardly ever," replied John, smiling. "That is to say, not very
much--just enough sometimes to know that he is asleep."
"Wa'al," she said decidedly, "if he's fur enough off so 't you can't
hear _him_, I guess he won't hear _you_ much, an' he sure won't hear
you after he gits to sleep."
So the piano came, and was a great comfort and resource. Indeed, before
long it became the regular order of things for David and his sister to
spend an hour or so on Sunday evenings listening to his music and their
own as well--that is, the music of their choice--which latter was mostly
to be found in "Carmina Sacra" and "Moody and Sankey"; and Aunt Polly's
heart was glad indeed when she and John together made concord of sweet
sounds in some familiar hymn tune, to the great edification of Mr.
Harum, whose admiration was unbounded.
* * * * *
"Did I tell you," said David to Dick Larrabee, "what happened the last
time me an' John went ridin' together?"
"Not's I remember on," replied Dick.
"Wa'al, we've rode together quite a consid'able," said Mr. Harum, "but I
hadn't never said anythin' to him about takin' a turn at the lines. This
day we'd got a piece out into the country an' I had the brown colts. I
says to him, 'Ever do any drivin'?"
"'More or less,' he says.
"'Like to take the lines fer a spell?' I says.
"'Yes,' he says, lookin' kind o' pleased, 'if you ain't afraid to trust
me with 'em,' he says.
"'Wa'al, I'll be here,' I says, an' handed 'em over. Wa'al, sir, I see
jest by the way he took holt on 'em it wa'n't the fust time, an' we went
along to where the road turns in through a piece of woods, an' the track
is narrer, an' we run slap onto one o' them dum'd road-engines that had
got wee-wawed putty near square across the track. Now I tell ye," said
Mr. Harum, "them hosses didn't like it fer a cent, an' tell the truth I
didn't like it no better. We couldn't go ahead fer we couldn't git by
the cussed thing, an' the hosses was 'par'ntly tryin' to git back under
the buggy, an', scat my ----! if he didn't straighten 'em out an' back
'em 'round in that narrer road, an' hardly scraped a wheel. Yes, sir,"
declared Mr. Harum, "I couldn't 'a' done it slicker myself, an' I don't
know nobody that could."
"Guess you must 'a' felt a little ticklish yourself," said Dick
sympathetically, laughing as usual.
"Wa'al, you better believe," declared the other. "The' was 'bout half a
minute when I'd have sold out mighty cheap, an' took a promise fer the
money. He's welcome to drive any team in _my_ barn," said David,
feeling--in which view Mr. Larrabee shared--that encomium was pretty
well exhausted in that assertion.
"I don't believe," said Mr. Harum after a moment, in which he and his
companion reflected upon the gravity of his last declaration, "that
the's any dum thing that feller can't do. The last thing 's a piany.
He's got a little one that stands up on it's hind legs in his room, an'
he c'n play it with both hands 'thout lookin' on. Yes, sir, we have
reg'lar concerts at my house ev'ry Sunday night, admission free, an'
childern half price, an'," said David, "you'd ought to hear him an'
Polly sing, an'--he, he, he! you'd ought to _see_ her singin'--tickleder
'n a little dog with a nosegay tied to his tail."