War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 11
XI
OF THE CHANGE WHICH DAVE BROUGHT
DAVE'S coming was the beginning of a great change all around. He and Evelyn never noticed it. I had heard tell, before, that love was the most selfish thing on earth, and didn't believe it. But I could see it now, right before my eyes. Evelyn took to the riding and fishing and swimming, just as hard as Dave said she would. At last she could do them all as well as Dave himself—at least, so he said. And it did for Evelyn all that Dave had said it would. She got strong and graceful as a deer, and it was a sight, I can tell you, to see them tearing up the Red Rock Road, early in the morning, while the way was still too damp for dust, she on Dave's black, and he on another black he'd traded in to match her. I never saw such riding anywhere. I use' to sneak up to the Chestnut Woods, where the road ran through a cut, just to see 'em fly past—laughing and yelling, and playing monkey shines, and making believe to outrun each other but never getting far apart. They wasn't only two, they was four. And the horses knew it as well as any one. Yes, Dave brought the roses to her cheeks—like he said—and something, I expect, they hadn't counted on so much: a happy hungry look that wasn't satisfied without Dave was right there to satisfy it.
And another thing they hadn't bargained for was nice old Jon. When any one was looking he smiled and kept busy. But when he thought he was alone, the look of one deserted came over him. Of course, Dave didn't know anything. But Evelyn did, and I often wondered if she never thought of that night under the plum trees. I don't think she ever did. Yes, love is selfish.
One day Dave and Evelyn came running in to dinner, just off the horses, with extra red cheeks, and I saw the old yearning come strong into Jon's eyes. Sometimes he couldn't keep it out. I expect Dave saw it, too.
"No, no, Jonthy," he says, "you can't have 'em. They're mine. I made em."
"What?" asks I. I suppose I am a little dull at the head—like the soldiers said.
"These!" says Dave, and up and kissed both her cheeks.
Evelyn clapped both hands on 'em, like she was ashamed—but happy. Dave just took her hands away and did it again.
"Yes, Jonthy, dear, they re mine. In fact, Jonthy, the whole girl's mine—from here to here. Ain't you glad? Ain't you, daddy?"
He motioned from her head to her feet.
"Yes," says Jon, dragging it out by the roots, "I am glad, Dave, old boy!"
He slaps Dave on the back and laughs, but he couldn't go any further.
"I forgot to feed the cows!" he says, and rushes out!
Jon couldn't stand any more of that. He managed for a while to be about with them as often as usual, and smiled as much, but never for more than a minute at a time—too little for anything to happen in. In fact, after a while, he arranged to be busy when we ate, pleading that in case the war brought us trouble we ought to have everything ready to abandon—which was true—because it was at the table that things like the rose business, mostly, happened. And, after a while, he always ate alone—and no one missed him but me. And I saw that this, hard as it was for old Jon, was best—even for him. Yes, love is selfish. They didn't notice.
Finally, Jon was in the fields or the barn all the time and we saw almost nothing of him. I would take most of his meals out to him. And according to Jon, so that he might not disturb the rest of us, he would often stop at the barn and sleep with the hireland. At last he slept in the barn all the time—just, I think, so that Dave could be in his bed, and near Evelyn. At first I could hardly believe that Dave would let it go at that. But he went and slept in Jon's bed without so much as a "Thank-you-sir," and let Jon sleep in the barn with Wasser and the hireland. In fact, he never noticed it.
So it went on till I thought Jonathan the loneliest boy in the whole world, and Dave the happiest—and most thoughtless. And the more Dave forgot Jon, the more Jon remembered Dave. He just brooded over him, like a hen with one little chicken. Dave didn't see anything but Evelyn. But I saw the thousands of little things Jon put in the way of Dave's happiness, and the other thousands he took out of it. I reckon no boy's road to heaven was ever made so smooth.
Like this: Dave took a little cold, or something, and got hot in the night. Once in a while Jon'd sneak in the house, when Dave was asleep, and go up to his room and look at him—just stand and look. When I caught him at it, he said that he'd come to get some of his things in the room. But I knew better. He came to look at Dave—nothing less. Else why were there tears in his eyes? Do you suppose he cried about getting his Sunday coat out of the closet? Well, he happened to come that night Dave was hot. He sees his flushed face, feels his pulse, runs out and jumps on the new black and rides to town for the doctor. Coming back the black jumped the bars and run in the open stable door with the bit in his teeth and broke Jon's head. It was a trick Dave taught the horse that Jon didn't know of. Dave used to lay down on the side of her neck.
When the doctor came it was Jon he had to fix up. He was out of his head a good while. Dave and Evelyn stayed with him and nursed him faithful, and I thought now they would take notice and things would be better. But as soon as Jon got better he'd make 'em go out for a walk—or something—and soon it was the same old thing—and they let Jon get well himself. Jon was Dave's guardian angel, and Dave didn't even know that he had one!
And what was I to do? Do you think I slept all night and every night in the midst of this? I thought of a thousand ways to end it. But I always came up against the same stone walls. Helping one would hurt the other.
Yet, now, when Jon got about again, and I must see his sunken blue eyes, and his broken and unsteady ways, it seemed like I must do something.
"Jonthy," I says—we were out under the plums again—"it is time we had some talk."
"Yes, daddy," smiles Jon, taking hold of my hand, "go on."
"I see the whole thing, Jonthy, and I hate to meddle, but I must."
"What whole thing?" smiles Jon.
"That Dave has forgotten your existence," says I, "and that you remember his ten times as much as ever. That he's taken Evelyn—"
"Ah, hush, daddy," says Jon, still smiling, "would you say a word, do a thing, to diminish that wonderful happiness?"
"Wouldn't you?" I asks.
"Not a word, not a thing," smiles Jon. "On the contrary, dear old daddy, I spend half the time I ought to sleep thinking of ways to make the happiness more and more wonderful. I thought I loved her, daddy. I told her it was the greatest love ever man had for woman. But, daddy, the wonder of Dave's love makes me ashamed of mine. And hers! It is as great as his. Why, what is it that he forgets us? We are small things in his world. And how can it be otherwise? There is nothing but her for him, nothing but him for her. Daddy, I was an apprentice. I had to learn love. But Dave is it. Didn't you notice how he put it on like a garment the moment he saw her? Well, it was a garment that was waiting for him from the beginning of the world. It didn't have to be fitted—like mine. And she! When they met it was, at last, as if her restless militant spirit had found its nest. She put her head upon his heart and slept."
"No, she didn't do that," I said. "I was there!"
"Daddy, dear, I mean," laughs nice old Jon, "that, there, like Christian, in Pilgrim's Progress, which I am sure you know, she laid down all her burdens and was at rest. Do you understand now?"
"Yes," I says to my son, "I understand what you mean—though it didn't happen; and thank you, Jonthy, for having such beautiful thoughts about Dave and Evelyn, true or false, after the way they treat you."
"Ah, the way they treat me! If they didn't do that, it would not be the wonderful thing it is. The way they treat me! Why, daddy, that is the thing which makes me most glad! That is the proof that it is wonderful. Have you never experienced the heavenly sensation of giving up for another—yes, for another you love more than yourself?"
"Jonthy," says I, "here you go out of my sight and hearing again. Return. If you mean the happy-with-another business, no. I had the chance when I was courting your mother."
"And you did it?"
"I broke his head."
"Ah, but he wasn't your brother. Yes, I think, if any one but Dave had taken her, I would break his head."