ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER
"Jack and Jill," it appeared, were a brother and sister who lived in a
tiny house on a hill directly across the creek from Sunnycrest. Beyond
this David learned little until after bumps and bruises and dirt had
been carefully attended to. He had then, too, some questions to answer
concerning himself.
"And now, if you please," began the man smilingly, as he surveyed the
boy with an eye that could see no further service to be rendered, "do
you mind telling me who you are, and how you came to be the center of
attraction for the blows and cuffs of six boys?"
"I'm David, and I wanted the cat," returned the boy simply.
"Well, that's direct and to the point, to say the least," laughed the
man. "Evidently, however, you're in the habit of being that. But,
David, there were six of them,--those boys,--and some of them were
larger than you."
"Yes, sir."
"And they were so bad and cruel," chimed in the little girl.
The man hesitated, then questioned slowly.
"And may I ask you where you--er--learned to--fight like that?"
"I used to box with father. He said I must first be well and strong. He
taught me jiujitsu, too, a little; but I couldn't make it work very
well--with so many."
"I should say not," adjudged the man grimly. "But you gave them a
surprise or two, I'll warrant," he added, his eyes on the cause of the
trouble, now curled in a little gray bunch of content on the window
sill. "But I don't know yet who you are. Who is your father? Where does
he live?"
David shook his head. As was always the case when his father was
mentioned, his face grew wistful and his eyes dreamy.
"He doesn't live here anywhere," murmured the boy. "In the far country
he is waiting for me to come to him and tell him of the beautiful world
I have found, you know."
"Eh? What?" stammered the man, not knowing whether to believe his eyes,
or his ears. This boy who fought like a demon and talked like a saint,
and who, though battered and bruised, prattled of the "beautiful world"
he had found, was most disconcerting.
"Why, Jack, don't you know?" whispered the little girl agitatedly.
"He's the boy at Mr. Holly's that they took." Then, still more softly:
"He's the little tramp boy. His father died in the barn."
"Oh," said the man, his face clearing, and his eyes showing a quick
sympathy. "You're the boy at the Holly farmhouse, are you?"
"Yes, sir."
"And he plays the fiddle everywhere," volunteered the little girl, with
ardent admiration. "If you hadn't been shut up sick just now, you'd
have heard him yourself. He plays everywhere--everywhere he goes."
"Is that so?" murmured Jack politely, shuddering a little at what he
fancied would come from a violin played by a boy like the one before
him. (Jack could play the violin himself a little--enough to know it
some, and love it more.) "Hm-m; well, and what else do you do?"
"Nothing, except to go for walks and read."
"Nothing!--a big boy like you--and on Simeon Holly's farm?" Voice and
manner showed that Jack was not unacquainted with Simeon Holly and his
methods and opinions.
David laughed gleefully.
"Oh, of course, REALLY I do lots of things, only I don't count those
any more. 'Horas non numero nisi serenas,' you know," he quoted
pleasantly, smiling into the man's astonished eyes.
"Jack, what was that--what he said?" whispered the little girl. "It
sounded foreign. IS he foreign?"
"You've got me, Jill," retorted the man, with a laughing grimace.
"Heaven only knows what he is--I don't. What he SAID was Latin; I do
happen to know that. Still"--he turned to the boy ironically--"of
course you know the translation of that," he said.
"Oh, yes. 'I count no hours but unclouded ones'--and I liked that. 'T
was on a sundial, you know; and I'M going to be a sundial, and not
count, the hours I don't like--while I'm pulling up weeds, and hoeing
potatoes, and picking up stones, and all that. Don't you see?"
For a moment the man stared dumbly. Then he threw back his head and
laughed.
"Well, by George!" he muttered. "By George!" And he laughed again.
Then: "And did your father teach you that, too?" he asked.
"Oh, no,--well, he taught me Latin, and so of course I could read it
when I found it. But those 'special words I got off the sundial where
my Lady of the Roses lives."
"Your--Lady of the Roses! And who is she?"
"Why, don't you know? You live right in sight of her house," cried
David, pointing to the towers of Sunnycrest that showed above the
trees. "It's over there she lives. I know those towers now, and I look
for them wherever I go. I love them. It makes me see all over again the
roses--and her."
"You mean--Miss Holbrook?"
The voice was so different from the genial tones that he had heard
before that David looked up in surprise.
"Yes; she said that was her name," he answered, wondering at the
indefinable change that had come to the man's face.
There was a moment's pause, then the man rose to his feet.
"How's your head? Does it ache?" he asked briskly.
"Not much--some. I--I think I'll be going," replied David, a little
awkwardly, reaching for his violin, and unconsciously showing by his
manner the sudden chill in the atmosphere.
The little girl spoke then. She overwhelmed him again with thanks, and
pointed to the contented kitten on the window sill. True, she did not
tell him this time that she would love, love, love him always; but she
beamed upon him gratefully and she urged him to come soon again, and
often.
David bowed himself off, with many a backward wave of the hand, and
many a promise to come again. Not until he had quite reached the bottom
of the hill did he remember that the man, "Jack," had said almost
nothing at the last. As David recollected him, indeed, he had last been
seen standing beside one of the veranda posts, with gloomy eyes fixed
on the towers of Sunnycrest that showed red-gold above the tree-tops in
the last rays of the setting sun.
It was a bad half-hour that David spent at the Holly farmhouse in
explanation of his torn blouse and bruised face. Farmer Holly did not
approve of fights, and he said so, very sternly indeed. Even Mrs.
Holly, who was usually so kind to him, let David understand that he was
in deep disgrace, though she was very tender to his wounds.
David did venture to ask her, however, before he went upstairs to bed:--
"Mrs. Holly, who are those people--Jack and Jill--that were so good to
me this afternoon?"
"They are John Gurnsey and his sister, Julia; but the whole town knows
them by the names they long ago gave themselves, 'Jack' and 'Jill.'"
"And do they live all alone in the little house?"
"Yes, except for the Widow Glaspell, who comes in several times a week,
I believe, to cook and wash and sweep. They aren't very happy, I'm
afraid, David, and I'm glad you could rescue the little girl's kitten
for her--but you mustn't fight. No good can come of fighting!"
"I got the cat--by fighting."
"Yes, yes, I know; but--" She did not finish her sentence, and David
was only waiting for a pause to ask another question.
"Why aren't they happy, Mrs. Holly?"
"Tut, tut, David, it's a long story, and you wouldn't understand it if
I told it. It's only that they're all alone in the world, and Jack
Gurnsey isn't well. He must be thirty years old now. He had bright
hopes not so long ago studying law, or something of the sort, in the
city. Then his father died, and his mother, and he lost his health.
Something ails his lungs, and the doctors sent him here to be out of
doors. He even sleeps out of doors, they say. Anyway, he's here, and
he's making a home for his sister; but, of course, with his hopes and
ambitions--But there, David, you don't understand, of course!"
"Oh, yes, I do," breathed David, his eyes pensively turned toward a
shadowy corner. "He found his work out in the world, and then he had to
stop and couldn't do it. Poor Mr. Jack!"