And she would call Maggie, and all would discuss the strange tidings. Soon the village would be ringing with your exploits.
The household would send messages to you, of course, pleading for one sign of forgiveness; for a visit, a token. But you would return with scorn their missives, and ignore their entreaties.
Or would it not be well to heap coals of fire upon their heads? ’Twas a difficult matter to decide.
At any rate, you would run away. That very afternoon should witness you steadfastly plodding onward, face to the west, fortune and revenge before, ungrateful, cruel home behind. When tea was ready Maggie, and then mother, would summon you in vain.
But you wouldn’t. They would eat supper without you; they would be alarmed; they would inquire among the neighbors; they would search up-stairs and down; nothing would give them a hint—or would it be a more subtle rôle to leave a note, a tear-stained note, with simply “Good-by” writ within? That was another point to be considered.
However, the truth would dawn upon them. At first they would refuse to believe it. They would think:
“Oh, he’ll be back. You see if he isn’t.”
You would _not_ come back. Evening would merge into night—but no Johnny. The night would settle down; there would be weeping, running to and fro, searching and calling, and all the while you would be out in the dark and the dew (and it got cold, too, in the middle of the night) at the mercy of storm and prowling beasts.
When came the morn, it would find the household red-eyed, distraught, and repentant—but still no Johnny.
Possibly the minister, in church, would refer to you during his sermon; not mentioning outright your name, because that would be too direct and hard upon your folks, but nevertheless by an allusion that should be unmistakable. The congregation would know to what he was referring, and all would turn and look at the family pew—the pew of shame.
Your desk at school would be empty. The news of your departure would spread about. Teacher would break down and cry when she reached your name in the roll-call, and as a mark of respect your seat would not be given to another, ever. It would remain untenanted, sacred, an object-lesson to parents. Maybe it would be draped with crape, like the desk of Harry Peters, who died. Say!