VI Growing Old Is Only an Idea — Until We Know
And then, when the war was quite over, that last pitiful prayer was answered, and John came marching home—from the grand review—with a captain’s straps on his shoulders—a minié ball in his thigh—and a perfectly proper sword—the gift of the United States of America! It is quite certain that John was very proud of the sword—and perhaps even of his limp.
And Betsy was as proud as he—quite. But not of the sword and limp. These, in secret, she hated as much as she could hate. Perhaps I had better say that she was only glad. You may be sure that his glory did not keep her off.
“I don’t care if you were in twenty-one battles. You are only my dear old John.”
“Only your old John,” said the soldier.
“Dear, I said! And—and—you’ve got to make up for all the rest—one multiplied by five, you know—that dear.”
She suddenly sobbed.
“Eh?” said John. Then—“Oh!”
He sobbed, too.
“And, as for that limp—I will cure that, or my name is not Betsy.”
And more sobs.
But for all her trying, he limped the more.
So that long afterward she said:
“John—I haven’t done it, and my name’s still Betsy.”
But there was no more sobbing about it.
“It’s better,” prevaricated John.
“No,” said Betsy, “it ain’t. Something is gone. I can’t do things any more.”
John thought a moment.
“Like when you reach out in the dark for something you know is there and it ain’t and you shiver,” he said then. “I used to do that at night on the ground—reach out for—you!”
“John!” cried Betsy, in her old manner, “I never heard you say so much at one time before—nor so nice. What’s the matter?”
“You don’t say so much,” said John. “I’m evening up now.”
“Yes—yes—yes—dear John!” said Betsy, with a tear, she did not know for what—quite. “I must talk more.”
“We’ve lost something and we’ve gained something—at another place,” John went on. “I don’t know what it is—but it’s something.”
“John, I know, and I’ll tell you.”
She came and knelt at his side and tried to reach his neck with her short arms.
“We’re falling in love again!”
John suddenly held her off and stared.
“By jiminy!”
“Yes. It was so long to wait—and there is nobody but you and me now—and we have got to begin all over again. Don’t you see?” And the tears fell again.
“No! I was always in love with you. No!”
And he was quite stubborn about it.
“Yes!” she cried.
“Yes,” John agreed.
“No!” she laughed.
“No,” laughed John.
After a moment she released herself, and, taking John by the throat in the old fashion, said:
“And, John, we will begin all over again. We’re not old! So there!”
She spread her skirts and whirled around on her toes.
“Not a day older than in ’35,” said John, with glistening eyes.
She flew upon him and took him again by the throat.
“John!” she cried, “that’s a little too much!”
But John was not convinced—though she lifted her yellow hair and showed him where the gray was creeping in.
“But it’s mighty sweet,” she conceded.
They did exactly as they had planned—began all over again. John was as tender with her as he had been after that night of the husking. And Betsy was as devoted to John as she had been in that halcyon time.
“Growing old is just an idea,” said the happy John, one day.
“Oh, of course,” agreed Betsy, busily plaiting withes, “until you know!”
“Why, everything is just as it was thirty years ago—ain’t it, Betsy?”
“John,” laughed Betsy, trying to plunge upon him from her work, “did it ever occur to you that your love-making nowadays consists largely of recalling those other love-makings—in ’35, you know?”
John thought a moment.
“Why, so it is, Betsy—so it is.”
“All imagination.”
“That’s just as good—just as good,” said John, stubbornly. “It’s always new.”
“Just as good,” laughed his wife, “when you don’t know no better—and we don’t, John, do we?”
“No, thank God,” said John, “and I don’t want to.”
“So don’t I,” said his wife, laughing.
“Betsy,” asked John, “do you ever think of that roof any more?”
“Yes,” answered Betsy, trying to be serious, “and we’ll have it some of these days—never fear.”