The summer was drawing to a close. The season, so far as the social part
of it was concerned, had been what John had grown accustomed to in
previous years, and there were few changes in or among the people whom
he had come to know very well, save those which a few years make in
young people: some increase of importance in demeanor on the part of the
young men whose razors were coming into requisition; and the changes
from short to long skirts, from braids, pig-tails, and flowing-manes to
more elaborate coiffures on the part of the young women. The most
notable event had been the reopening of the Verjoos house, which had
been closed for two summers, and the return of the family, followed by
the appearance of a young man whom Miss Clara had met abroad, and who
represented himself as the acknowledged _fiancé_ of that young woman. It
need hardly be said that discussions of the event, and upon the
appearance, manners, prospects, etc., of that fortunate gentleman had
formed a very considerable part of the talk of the season among the
summer people; and, indeed, interest in the affair had permeated all
grades and classes of society.
* * * * *
It was some six weeks after the settlement of the transaction in "pork"
that David and John were driving together in the afternoon as they had
so often done in the last five years. They had got to that point of
understanding where neither felt constrained to talk for the purpose of
keeping up conversation, and often in their long drives there was little
said by either of them. The young man was never what is called "a great
talker," and Mr. Harum did not always "git goin'." On this occasion they
had gone along for some time, smoking in silence, each man absorbed in
his thoughts. Finally David turned to his companion.
"Do you know that Dutchman Claricy Verjoos is goin' to marry?" he asked.
"Yes," replied John, laughing; "I have met him a number of times. But he
isn't a Dutchman. What gave you that idea?"
"I heard it was over in Germany she run across him," said David.
"I believe that is so, but he isn't a German. He is from Philadelphia,
and is a friend of the Bradways."
"What kind of a feller is he? Good enough for her?"
"Well," said John, smiling, "in the sense in which that question is
usually taken, I should say yes. He has good looks, good manners, a good
deal of money, I am told, and it is said that Miss Clara--which is the
main point, after all--is very much in love with him."
"H'm," said David after a moment. "How do you git along with the Verjoos
girls? Was Claricy's ears pointed all right when you seen her fust after
she come home?"
"Oh, yes!" replied John, smiling, "she and her sister were perfectly
pleasant and cordial, and Miss Verjoos and I are on very friendly
terms."
"I was thinkin'," said David, "that you an' Claricy might be got to
likin' each other, an' mebbe--"
"I don't think there could ever have been the smallest chance of it,"
declared John hastily.
"Take the lines a minute," said David, handing them to his companion
after stopping the horses. "The nigh one's picked up a stone, I guess,"
and he got out to investigate. "The river road," he remarked as he
climbed back into the buggy after removing the stone from the horse's
foot, "is about the puttiest road 'round here, but I don't drive it
oftener jest on account of them dum'd loose stuns." He sucked the air
through his pursed-up lips, producing a little squeaking sound, and the
horses started forward. Presently he turned to John:
"Did you ever think of gettin' married?" he asked.
"Well," said our friend with a little hesitation, "I don't remember that
I ever did, very definitely."
"Somebody 't you knew 'fore you come up here?" said David, jumping at a
conclusion.
"Yes," said John, smiling a little at the question.
"Wouldn't she have ye?" queried David, who stuck at no trifles when in
pursuit of information.
John laughed. "I never asked her," he replied, in truth a little
surprised at his own willingness to be questioned.
"Did ye cal'late to when the time come right?" pursued Mr. Harum.
Of this part of his history John had, of course, never spoken to David.
There had been a time when, if not resenting the attempt upon his
confidence, he would have made it plain that he did not wish to discuss
the matter, and the old wound still gave him twinges. But he had not
only come to know his questioner very well, but to be much attached to
him. He knew, too, that the elder man would ask him nothing save in the
way of kindness, for he had had a hundred proofs of that; and now, so
far from feeling reluctant to take his companion into his confidence, he
rather welcomed the idea. He was, withal, a bit curious to ascertain the
drift of the inquiry, knowing that David, though sometimes working in
devious ways, rarely started without an intention. And so he answered
the question and what followed as he might have told his story to a
woman.
"An' didn't you never git no note, nor message, nor word of any kind?"
asked David.
"No."
"Nor hain't ever heard a word about her f'm that day to this?"
"No."
"Nor hain't ever tried to?"
"No," said John. "What would have been the use?"
"Prov'dence seemed to 've made a putty clean sweep in your matters that
spring, didn't it?"
"It seemed so to me," said John.
Nothing more was said for a minute or two. Mr. Harum appeared to have
abandoned the pursuit of the subject of his questions. At last he said:
"You ben here most five years."
"Very nearly," John replied.
"Ben putty contented, on the hull?"
"I have grown to be," said John. "Indeed, it's hard to realize at times
that I haven't always lived in Homeville. I remember my former life as
if it were something I have read in a book. There was a John Lenox in
it, but he seems to me sometimes more like a character in a story than
myself."
"An' yet," said David, turning toward him, "if you was to go back to it,
this last five years 'd git to be that way to ye a good deal quicker.
Don't ye think so?"
"Perhaps so," replied John. "Yes," he added thoughtfully, "it is
possible."
"I guess on the hull, though," remarked Mr. Harum, "you done better up
here in the country 'n you might some 'ers else--"
"Oh, yes," said John sincerely, "thanks to you, I have indeed, and--"
"--an'--ne' mind about me--you got quite a little bunch o' money
together now. I was thinkin' 't mebbe you might feel 't you needn't to
stay here no longer if you didn't want to."
The young man turned to the speaker inquiringly, but Mr. Harum's face
was straight to the front, and betrayed nothing.
"It wouldn't be no more 'n natural," he went on, "an' mebbe it would be
best for ye. You're too good a man to spend all your days workin' fer
Dave Harum, an' I've had it in my mind fer some time--somethin' like
that pork deal--to make you a little independent in case anythin' should
happen, an'--gen'ally. I couldn't give ye no money 'cause you wouldn't
'a' took it even if I'd wanted to, but now you got it, why----"
"I feel very much as if you had given it to me," protested the young
man.
David put up his hand. "No, no," he said, "all 't I did was to propose
the thing to ye, an' to put up a little money fer two three days. I
didn't take no chances, an' it's all right, an' it's your'n, an' it
makes ye to a certain extent independent of Homeville."
"I don't quite see it so," said John.
"Wa'al," said David, turning to him, "if you'd had as much five years
ago you wouldn't 'a' come here, would ye?"
John was silent.
"What I was leadin' up to," resumed Mr. Harum after a moment, "is this:
I ben thinkin' about it fer some time, but I haven't wanted to speak to
ye about it before. In fact, I might 'a' put it off some longer if
things wa'n't as they are, but the fact o' the matter is that I'm goin'
to take down my sign."
John looked at him in undisguised amazement, not unmixed with
consternation.
"Yes," said David, obviously avoiding the other's eye, "'David Harum,
Banker,' is goin' to come down. I'm gettin' to be an' old man," he went
on, "an' what with some investments I've got, an' a hoss-trade once in a
while, I guess I c'n manage to keep the fire goin' in the kitchin stove
fer Polly an' me, an' the' ain't no reason why I sh'd keep my sign up
much of any longer. Of course," he said, "if I was to go on as I be now
I'd want ye to stay jest as you are; but, as I was sayin', you're to a
consid'able extent independent. You hain't no speciul ties to keep ye,
an' you ought anyway, as I said before, to be doin' better for yourself
than jest drawin' pay in a country bank."
One of the most impressive morals drawn from the fairy tales of our
childhood, and indeed from the literature and experience of our later
periods of life, is that the fulfilment of wishes is often attended by
the most unwelcome results. There had been a great many times when to
our friend the possibility of being able to bid farewell to Homeville
had seemed the most desirable of things, but confronted with the idea as
a reality--for what other construction could he put upon David's words
except that they amounted practically to a dismissal, though a most kind
one?--he found himself simply in dismay.
"I suppose," he said after a few moments, "that by 'taking down your
sign' you mean going out of business--"
"Figger o' speech," explained David.
"--and your determination is not only a great surprise to me, but
grieves me very much. I am very sorry to hear it--more sorry than I can
tell you. As you remind me, if I leave Homeville I shall not go almost
penniless as I came, but I shall leave with great regret, and,
indeed--Ah, well--" he broke off with a wave of his hands.
"What was you goin' to say?" asked David, after a moment, his eyes on
the horizon.
"I can't say very much more," replied the young man, "than that I am
very sorry. There have been times," he added, "as you may understand,
when I have been restless and discouraged for a while, particularly at
first; but I can see now that, on the whole, I have been far from
unhappy here. Your house has grown to be more a real home than any I
have ever known, and you and your sister are like my own people. What
you say, that I ought not to look forward to spending my life behind
the counter of a village bank on a salary, may be true; but I am not, at
present at least, a very ambitious person, nor, I am afraid, a very
clever one in the way of getting on in the world; and the idea of
breaking out for myself, even if that were all to be considered, is not
a cheerful one. I am afraid all this sounds rather selfish to you, when,
as I can see, you have deferred your plans for my sake, and after all
else that you have done for me."
"I guess I sha'n't lay it up agin ye," said David quietly.
They drove along in silence for a while.
"May I ask," said John, at length, "when you intend to 'take down your
sign,' as you put it?"
"Whenever you say the word," declared David, with a chuckle and a side
glance at his companion. John turned in bewilderment.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Wa'al," said David with another short laugh, "fur 's the sign 's
concerned, I s'pose we _could_ stick a new one over it, but I guess it
might 's well come down; but we'll settle that matter later on."
John still looked at the speaker in utter perplexity, until the latter
broke out into a laugh.
"Got any idee what's goin' onto the new sign?" he asked.
"You don't mean----"
"Yes, I do," declared Mr. Harum, "an' my notion 's this, an' don't you
say aye, yes, nor no till I git through," and he laid his left hand
restrainingly on John's knee.
"The new sign 'll read 'Harum & Comp'ny,' or 'Harum & Lenox,' jest as
you elect. You c'n put in what money you got an' I'll put in as much
more, which 'll make cap'tal enough in gen'ral, an' any extry money
that's needed--wa'al, up to a certain point, I guess I c'n manage. Now
putty much all the new bus'nis has come in through you, an' practically
you got the hull thing in your hands. You'll do the work about 's you're
doin' now, an' you'll draw the same sal'ry; an' after that's paid we'll
go snucks on anythin' that's left--that _is_," added David with a
chuckle, "if you feel that you c'n _stan'_ it in Homeville."
* * * * *
"I wish you was married to one of our Homeville girls, though," declared
Mr. Harum later on as they drove homeward.