Life for Evans Follette after Jane went away became a sort of game in which he played, as he told himself grimly, a Jekyll and Hyde part. Two men warred constantly within him. There was that scarecrow self which nursed mysterious fears, a gaunt gray-haired self, The Man Who Had Come Back From the War. And there was that other, shadowy, elusive, The Boy Who Once Had Been. And it was the Boy who took on gradually shape and substance fighting for place with the dark giant who held desperately to his own. Yet the Boy had weapons, faith and hope. The little diary became in a sense a sacred book. Within its pages was imprisoned something that beat with frantic wings to be free. Evans, shrinking from the program which he compelled himself to follow, was faced with things like this. “Gee, I wish the days were longer. I’d like to dance through forty-eight hours at a stretch. Jane is getting to be some little dancer. I taught her the new steps to-night. She’s as graceful as a willow wand.”
Well, a man with a limp couldn’t dance. Or could he?
[193]A Thomas Jefferson autograph went therefore to pay for twenty dancing lessons. Would the great Democrat turn in his grave? Yet what were ink scratches made by a dead hand as against all the meanings of love and life?
Evans bought a phonograph, and new records. He practised at all hours, to the great edification of old Mary, who washed dishes and scrubbed floors in syncopated ecstasies.
He took Baldy and Edith to tea at the big hotels, and danced with Edith. He apologized, but kept at it. “I’m out of practice.”
Edith was sympathetic and interested. She invited the two boys to her home, where there was a music room with a magical floor. Sometimes the three of them were alone, and sometimes Towne came in and danced too, and Adelaide Laramore and Eloise Harper.
Towne danced extremely well. In spite of his avoirdupois he was light on his feet. He exercised constantly. He felt that if he lost his waist line all would be over. He could not, however, always control his appetite. Hence the sugar in his tea, and other indulgences.
Baldy wrote to Jane of their afternoon frivols.
“You should see us! Eloise Harper dancing with Evans, and old Towne and his Adelaide! And Edith and I! We’re a pretty pair, if I do say it. We miss you, and always wish you were with us. Sometimes it seems almost heartless to do things[194] that you can’t share. But it’s doing a lot for Evans. Queer thing, the poor old chap goes at it as if his life depended upon it.
“We are invited to dine with the Townes on Christmas Eve. Some class, what? By we, I mean myself and the Follettes. Edith and Mrs. Follette see a lot of each other, and Mrs. Follette is tickled pink! You know how she loves that sort of thing—Society with a big S.
“There will be just our crowd and Mrs. Laramore for dinner, and after that a big costume ball.
“I shall go as a page in red. And Evans will be a monk and sing Christmas carols. Edith Towne is crazy about his voice. He sat down at the piano one day in the music room, and she heard him. Jane, his voice is wonderful—it always was, you know, but we haven’t heard it lately. Poor old chap—he seems to be picking up. Edith says it makes her want to cry to see him, but she’s helping all she can.
“Oh, she’s a dear and a darling, Janey. And I don’t know what I am going to do about it. I have nothing to offer her. But at least I can worship ... I shan’t look beyond that....
“And now, little old thing, take care of yourself, and don’t think we’re playing around and forgetting you, for we’re not. Even Merrymaid and the kit-cat look pensive when your name is mentioned. They share the library hearth with Rusty. The old fellow is on his feet now, not much the worse for his accident.
“Love to Judy and Bob, and the kiddies. And a kiss or two for my own Janey.”
Jane, having read the letter, laid it down with a[195] sense of utter forlornness. Evans and Eloise Harper! Towne and his Adelaide! A Christmas costume ball! Evans singing for Edith Towne!
Evans’ own letters told her little. They were dear letters, giving her news of Sherwood, full of kindness and sympathy, full indeed of a certain spiritual strength—that helped her in the heavy days. But he had sketched very lightly his own activities.—He had perhaps hesitated to let her know that he could be happy without her.
But Evans was not happy. He did the things he had mapped out for himself, but he could not do them light-heartedly as the Boy had done. For how could he be light-hearted with Jane away? He had moments of loneliness so intense that they almost submerged him. He came therefore upon one entry in his diary with eagerness.
“Had a day with the Boy Scouts. Hiked up through Montgomery County. Caught some little shiners in the creek and cooked them. Grapes thick in the Glen. The boys were like small Bacchuses, and draped themselves in fruit and leaves. They are fine fellows. I have no patience with people who look upon boys as nothing but small animals. Why their dreams! And shy about them! Now and then they open their hearts to me—and I can see the fineness that’s under the outer crust. They lie under the trees with me, and we talk as we follow the road.”
Boys——! That was it! He’d get in touch with[196] them again. And he did. There were two, Sandy Stoddard and Arthur Lane, who came over and sat by the library fire with Rusty and the two cats, and popped corn, and wanted to hear about the war.
At first when they spoke of it, Evans would not talk—but a moment arrived when he found flaming words to show them how he felt about it.
“I know a lot of fellows,” said Sandy Stoddard, “who say that America wouldn’t have gone into it if she’d known a lot of things. And that most of the men who came back feel that they were just—fooled——”
“If they feel that way, they are fools themselves,” said Evans, shortly.
“Well, they’re all throwing bricks at us now,” said Sandy. “France and Great Britain, and the rest of them. When you read the papers you feel as if America was pretty punk——”
“Sandy,” said Evans, slowly, reaching for the right words because this boy must know the truth—“America is never punk. We’re human, like the rest of the world. We’re selfish like everybody else. But we’re kind. And most of us still believe in God. I’ve gone through a lot,” he was flushed with the sense of the intimacy of his confession; “you boys can’t ever know what I’ve gone through unless you go through it some day yourselves. But every night I thank God on my knees that I was a part of a crusade that believed it was fighting for the right. Those of us who went in with that idea[197] came out of it with that idea. That’s all I can say about it—and I’d do it again.”
As he stood there on the hearth-rug, the boys gazed at him with awe in their eyes. They knew patriotic passion when they saw it, and here in this broken man was a dignity which seemed to make him a tower above them. They felt for the moment as if his head touched the stars.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Evans continued; “war is hell. And most of us found horrors worse than any dreadful dream. But we learned one thing, that death isn’t awful. It is kind and beneficent. And there’s something beyond.”
“Gee,” said Sandy Stoddard, “I’m glad you said that.”
But Arthur Lane did not speak. He saw Evans through a haze of hero-worship. He saw him, too, with a halo of martyrdom. The glass of the photograph on the mantel had been mended. There was the young soldier handsome and brave in his uniform. And here was his ghost—come back to say that it was all—worth while....
Association with these boys cleared up many thing............