War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 32
XXXII
ON DAVE'S BED
WHEN Jon came in we held a consultation of war and decided that we wouldn't disturb Dave. For the first time in his life Jon seemed glad not to have Dave about. And he had a wild look about the eyes that I had never seen on Jon.
He went out and told Evelyn not to wait for Dave, that he had gone to bed.
"Yi—you didn't tell him?" I heard her shriek, "You didn't?—He didn't guess it?"
"He had gone some time before I went in," Jon said. "Come! We will meet in the morning! Come."
Jon dragged her in and she flew off to bed like a troubled spirit.
"Come, Jonthy," says I, "let's sleep—if we can. Seems to me that we're all crazy in one way or another, to-night."
"Well, daddy," says Jon, with his patient smile, putting his arm over my shoulders and leading me off, "we are all suffering from tomorrow!"
And then the wildness all went out of his eyes.
"Daddy," says Jon, "could you hear us out there?" He motions toward the trees. "Sometimes we both forgot and talked pretty loud."
"I heard a great deal, Jonthy," I says, "but I can't figure out what it was—yet."
And I didn't—as I have said, much of what I have told you here—until long, long afterward. I suppose I have told you more or less as it should run. But that is bad—and you must fix it for yourself a bit. It took years of thinking and happening for some of the things to become plain. And the places where things fit in now and make all clear, were vacant then, and nothing was clear.
Jon seemed relieved by what I said, and he asks, also:
"Did Dave hear anything?"
"Not much more than I did; his ears are no better than mine, I expect," I answers. "Though he behaved funny, and, as you see, went off to bed without saying good night to you and Evelyn. But he's so sorry about us going to war. He was at the open window."
Jon is scared a bit about that and asks:
"Are you sure—sure he went to bed?"
"Sure," says I.
"What did he say?" asks Jon, still more scared—and more and more as he went on.
I told him.
"Why, don't you see—don't you see what that means?" yells Jonathan. "He heard—heard all."
"No, I don't," says I—and I didn't—then.
"Come!" he says, rushing up the stairs, "I want to see whether he's in bed. I must!"
It was strange that Jon, when we reached Dave's door, stopped first to listen whether he was sleeping—just like when he was a baby—and didn't listen at Evelyn's like he use' to. Do you suppose that he didn't like her any more?
But he wasn't satisfied with what he heard—or didn't hear—at Dave's door. He beckoned me to listen, too. I had done that often; but I heard nothing now.
"He's not there!" says Jon, kind of crazy. "He's gone South."
"Dave, are you asleep?" I whispers. "Are you asleep?"
"Sure! Tight!" laughs Dave. "Go to bed, you loafers!"
But Jon burst the door open like mad and stood breathless in the room, looking all about for something he didn't see, as if he were facing something awful.
"I thought—at first—you weren't here—" he gasps.
But Dave only laughs and pulls us both down on his bed.
I suppose you have seen the bedroom of some such shustle as our Dave. Everything on the floor—so's you had to step careful not to damage collars and cuffs and so on.
Well, Jon looks all about among these things, like he was hunting for some sign, though he had seen Dave's things there many a time. Anyhow, he didn't find what he was looking for, and he seemed glad of it.
"Dave," he says, "why did you go off to bed without saying good night to Evelyn?"
"Jealous," laughs Dave. "You're rather nice, Jonthy."
"Honest?" asks Jon, kind of glad.
"Well, wouldn't you go off to bed in a huff if I'd had your girl out under the trees for a couple of hours?" says Dave.
"Yes—yes, I expect I would," says Jon soft and nice. "But it was necessary—some things about the farm had to be arranged before our going away."
"I forgive you," laughs Dave. "But don't do it no more. You re mighty nice, Jonthy."
"I won't," says Jon, solemn. "And will you make it up with Evelyn the first thing in the morning?"
"Depends on who's up first," says Dave. "Maybe she'll make it up with me."
"Yes—yes, of course," says Jon, absentminded. "Dave, you'll marry her—soon?"
"Jon, it's the lady fixes the day," says Dave. "I have tried to do it—"
"But, you'll stay right here—she'll fix the day—no matter—married or not—and see that Evelyn and the old farm are taken care of. I don't think daddy and I will be away over a couple of weeks. The war is about ended."
"Look here," says Dave, "if you don't want any sleep, I do. It would please me very much to give you both an affectionate good night! To-morrow's going to be an awful day."
"Yes," says Jon—but he didn't move. Just sat there fascinated like a snake, never taking his eyes off of Dave. Dave did all the talking—or rather laughing—making game of the war and soldier business.
At last he says:
"Now, good-by, and off to bed with you. The war's over. I'll see you both back here in a week. Unless you get a telegram to-morrow to stay at home."
But, when we want to say good-by Dave refuses and says:
"In the morning—in the morning! Don't forget! In the morning. It's night now. Remember the morning! And, daddy, you tell Jonthy about the sunbeam!—In the morning."
So, laughing, he pushes us out of the door. Just as it closed on us I thought I heard that agony of Dave's as I had heard it down-stairs.
And Jon must have heard it, too—or thought so. For he turns and grabs the knob to go in again. But just then the key turns and we hears Dave laugh.
"Now, go along, will you?"
And we did—Jon saying:
"It's hard on Dave—for us to go. Harder than on us."