"Well,I've found out that it isn't the same at all;for now that I KNOW that this beautiful thing isn't ever going to happen to me,I can think and think all day,and it doesn't do a mite of good.The sun is just as hot,and my back aches just as hard,and the field is just as big and endless as it used to be when Ihad to call it that those hours didn't count.Now,what is the matter?"Mr.Jack laughed,but he shook his head a little sadly.
"You're getting into too deep waters for me,David.I suspect you're floundering in a sea that has upset the boats of sages since the world began.But what is it that was so nice,and that isn't going to happen?Perhaps I MIGHT help on that.""No,you couldn't,"frowned David;"and there couldn't anybody,either,you see,because I wouldn't go back now and LET it happen,anyhow,as long as I know what I do.Why,if I did,there wouldn't be ANY hours that were sunny then--not even the ones after four o'clock;I--I'd feel so mean!But what I don't see is just how I can fix it up with the Lady of the Roses.""What has she to do with it?"
"Why,at the very first,when she said she didn't have ANYsunshiny hours,I told her--"
"When she said what?"interposed Mr.Jack,coming suddenly erect in his chair.
"That she didn't have any hours to count,you know.""To--COUNT?"
"Yes;it was the sundial.Didn't I tell you?Yes,I know Idid--about the words on it--not counting any hours that weren't sunny,you know.And she said she wouldn't have ANY hours to count;that the sun never shone for her.""Why,David,"demurred Mr.Jack in a voice that shook a little,"are you sure?Did she say just that?You--you must be mistaken--when she has--has everything to make her happy.""I wasn't,because I said that same thing to her myself--afterwards.And then I told her--when I found out myself,you know--about its being what was inside of you,after all,that counted;and then is when I asked her if she couldn't think of something nice that was going to happen to her sometime.""Well,what did she say?"
"She shook her head,and said 'No.'Then she looked away,and her eyes got soft and dark like little pools in the brook where the water stops to rest.And she said she had hoped once that this something would happen;but that it hadn't,and that it would take something more than thinking to bring it.And I know now what she meant,because thinking isn't all that counts,is it?"Mr.Jack did not answer.He had risen to his feet,and was pacing restlessly up and down the veranda.Once or twice he turned his eyes toward the towers of Sunnycrest,and David noticed that there was a new look on his face.
Very soon,however,the old tiredness came back to his eyes,and he dropped into his seat again,muttering "Fool!of course it couldn't be--that!""Be what?"asked David.
Mr.Jack started.
"Er--nothing;nothing that you would understand,David.Go on--with what you were saying.""There isn't any more.It's all done.It's only that I'm wondering how I'm going to learn here that it's a beautiful world,so that I can--tell father."Mr.Jack roused himself.He had the air of a man who determinedly throws to one side a heavy burden.
"Well,David,"he smiled,"as I said before,you are still out on that sea where there are so many little upturned boats.There might be a good many ways of answering that question.""Mr.Holly says,"mused the boy,aloud,a little gloomily,"that it doesn't make any difference whether we find things beautiful or not;that we're here to do something serious in the world.""That is about what I should have expected of Mr.Holly"retorted Mr.Jack grimly."He acts it--and looks it.But--I don't believe you are going to tell your father just that.""No,sir,I don't believe I am,"accorded David soberly.
"I have an idea that you're going to find that answer just where your father said you would--in your violin.See if you don't.
Things that aren't beautiful you'll make beautiful--because we find what we are looking for,and you're looking for beautiful things.After all,boy,if we march straight ahead,chin up,and sing our own little song with all our might and main,we shan't come so far amiss from the goal,I'm thinking.There!that's preaching,and I didn't mean to preach;but--well,to tell the truth,that was meant for myself,for--I'm hunting for the beautiful world,too.""Yes,sir,I know,"returned David fervently.And again Mr.Jack,looking into the sympathetic,glowing dark eyes,wondered if,after all,David really could--know.
Even yet Mr.Jack was not used to David;there were "so many of him,"he told himself.There were the boy,the artist,and a third personality so evanescent that it defied being named.The boy was jolly,impetuous,confidential,and delightful--plainly reveling in all manner of fun and frolic.The artist was nothing but a bunch of nervous alertness,ready to find melody and rhythm in every passing thought or flying cloud.The third--that baffling third that defied the naming--was a dreamy,visionary,untouchable creature who floated so far above one's head that one's hand could never pull him down to get a good square chance to see what he did look like.All this thought Mr.Jack as he gazed into David's luminous eyes.
