Yet he went on, though not just as he had planned.
"So you do think it bad luck? Don't you ever want to go back, Shirley?"
"That's foolish. Of course I do. But—but the debts aren't paid yet."
"Pretty nearly. If we're careful we can clean them up quickly now."
"But it seems so foolish—and so unnecessary. We could wait a little longer. The salary is so small at best. How—how should we live?"
"Very simply, I fear. But," he added, in the same even, repressed tone, "always within our means, I'm sure. We'll go to a boarding-house first and then look around for an apartment we can afford. We'll be starting over again, Shirley."
"But—" She was still stammering. "But it's been so good for Davy here. And the weather's still warm—"
"That's only an excuse, I think. And it's a risk he'll have to take.It's better than—than some other risks."
"What other risks? Since we've waited so long, what difference would a few weeks more make?"
She did not guess what a temptation she was putting before him. It would be so easy to make this a fork in the road from which he and she should take different ways forever, in the end leaving him free, and at little cost to her! But he fought that thought sternly.
"Shirley, can't you see what has happened to us? We've been drifting apart. We're very far apart now. You don't really want to come back at all. And I—I could easily say, 'Then don't come.' I'm capable of that just now. And you wouldn't really care."
"How can you say such a thing? Of course, I would care. I don't understand—"
"You wouldn't care or you would have come of your own accord. Shirley, I came here to coax you. I can't, now I see how little it all means to you. But— You've mentioned Davy. We've got to think of him." He looked down at the child playing between them. "I want the boy, Shirley—and I want you with him."
There was an edge to his voice that she had never heard.
"But I wouldn't think of leaving him. I—I was going back— When?"
"As soon as I can find temporary quarters for us."
"You say—Imust?"
"I don't say that. I say only, if you are coming at all, come while I want you."
They faced each other in silence, the pretty, pleasure-loving young woman to whom life had been only a house of toys, and the rather seedy young man who had been one of the toys. The bond that held them was a slight one; a little more strain and it would have snapped. But the toy man had grown—somehow—into a real man whom she did not want to let go, and she knew that, as he had said, he had got far away from her. She could not understand; still she had not the key. And she was afraid.
"David! What is it I feel about you? You don't think—oh, you can't think—I don't love you?"
"I suppose you think you do. But it's not much of a love." A clock struck. He had forgotten his train. "Let me know if you want to come. I've got to go now."
He caught up the boy and held him close, then kissed her hastily. And before she quite realized it, he was gone.
Aunt Clara found her standing where he had left her, staring blankly at the door, unmindful of the little David tugging at her dress.
"Aunt Clara! What is it? What has happened? David has been talking about—about my never going back—"
Aunt Clara made a good guess as to what had been said. And she had been doing some more thinking of her own.
"Between us we've nearly lost you a husband. That's whathashappened. And you're going to pack up and pack off to win him back, for his sake if not your own. That's what is going to happen."
"Win him back!" Shirley's world was fast sinking from under her feet. "Is—is that what Mrs. Jim has been hinting in her letters? Do you mean—you think David has stopped—lovingme?"
"You think it incredible?"
"But he's myhusband."
"What's that got to do with it? Oh," cried Aunt Clara, "can't you get it into your silly, selfish little head that you can't keep a love without earning it? You've been a fool. And I've been another. I never was so foolish in my life. I wonder your late Uncle John doesn't turn over in his grave. Come, Davy, it's most nine o'clock. To bed with you and leave your mother to think for once in her life."
David was at his desk early the next day, working closely in the effort to shut out his own problems; it was not a very successful effort. All morning he avoided Esther strictly; that was much easier. She was avoiding him, too, but he did not guess that.
During the noon hour he had a caller; Dick Holden, if you please, aDick who was plainly perturbed.
"Davy," quoth he, "have I done you some favors?"
"You have," said David.
"One good turn deserves another. It has to do with St. Mark's. Something queer's stirring there. My wires won't work. You're pretty thick with Jim Blaisdell. Get him to put in a word, a good strong word, for me, will you?"
"I'm afraid I can't, Dick," said David, "very consistently."
"Why not?"
"The fact is, I think Jim is putting in his best words for me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I have plans in there myself."
"The devil!" Dick stared. "I thought you were out of the game."
"I'm back in to this extent."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't suppose you would be interested."
"Are your plans any good?"
"I think so," said David.
"Then I bet you're the one that's blocking me there." Dick shook his head reproachfully. "Davy, I'm disappointed in you. I call it playing it low down on me. You might at least have told me, so I could know what to meet. It isn't fair. It isn't friendly. And after all I've done for you! I didn't think you could do it." Dick sighed sorrowfully, his faith in human nature evidently shattered.
"I'm sorry, Dick," said David. "I supposed you put all your faith in your wires."
Dick thought a few minutes.
"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do," he offered at last. "When friends find themselves competing, they should meet half-way. We'll pool on your plans—I'll take a chance on them, sight unseen. I'll throw my pull over to you. Then we'll split the spoils, two and one. The two to me, of course."
"Why the two to you—of course?"
"The prestige of my name," said Dick with dignity, "is worth something, I think. We'll have to get busy at once, because the committee meets this afternoon."
"I'm afraid, Dick, I'll have to say no. You had a chance at my plans before I thought of putting them in. You could have had them for almost nothing, but you didn't think them worth looking over. I think I'll stand or fall with them."
"That's final? After all I've—"
"Yes, Dick, final. But it doesn't mean I'm not grateful—"
With a gesture Dick waived that. "Very well," he said sadly, rising. "I thought there was such a thing as friendship in business. I see I was mistaken."
David wondered if Dick were losing his punch.
That afternoon came a wire.
"Am packing up now. Love. Shirley."
He tore the yellow paper slowly to bits. "Poor Shirley!" he muttered.
Poor Shirley, with her house of toys! Frightened now, no doubt, into thinking that she wanted what she did not really want, as he had been driven, by resentment at her blindness, into saying what he did not really mean. She at least would never miss what he could no longer give. She would be content with the hollow pretense their life together would be, missing only her good times. But he must have her beside him, to remind him that he was not free and never should be free to go browsing in the green fields of love.
She would never know. Still, poor Shirley—none the less!
He set wearily to work once more.
The afternoon came to an end somehow. The clamor of machinery from the shop was stilled. The other offices became silent. He supposed the others had gone. A janitor made the rounds, closing the windows. Doggedly David stuck to his table until he had completed the design he was working on. Then he put the table in order for the night, donned his hat and coat and started to leave.
But the corridor door of the adjoining office was open. He looked in—and saw Esther, hatted, but still on her high stool by the desk, looking out into the street. She heard him, started and turned, then said:
"Oh, I thought every one was gone."
"Yes, I thought so, too."
They fell silent, awkwardly silent. The easy comradeship was no more.
Then she smiled; no one but David could have told that the smile was forced.
"I was just thinking—isn't it funny?—that I'll be sorry to say good-by to that dingy, rackety street. I'll hate to leave this office. I've been here two years and—"
"You are leaving, then? I didn't know."
"Yes. At the end of the week."
He commanded his feet to go on. And they went—toward her. He rested his folded arms heavily on the tall desk.
"I'll miss you," he said. "I'll miss you very much. It won't seem the same here without you."
"But maybe you'll be leaving, too. If your plans are taken, you know."
"I'd forgotten them. I don't seem to care so much about them as I ought—now they're out of my hands. And I can't count on them. I suppose we'll not see each other very often after you leave here. I'll be leaving your aunt's in a few days. My—my people are coming home."
"Oh! You'll be glad of that."
"Yes." And again, "Yes."
He let his eyes dwell hungrily on her, as though this were indeed their farewell, drinking in every detail of her—the dark curling wisps straying from under her hat, the slate-gray eyes, a little sad just then, the slender girlish figure that seemed so frail. For that moment there were no Shirley, no law, no honor.
"I'll miss you," he said again and fumbled at his collar. "One way and another I owe you a great deal. I shan't forget that. I shan't forget you. I'll remember that I came here—to prison, I thought—and found some good friends. One very good friend who—"
"Don't!" The little hand lying on the desk clenched tightly. "Don't talk about it. I—" She got slowly down from the stool. "I must be going now."
But her eyes did not leave his. They went suddenly dark. And in them he read the same hurt that was in his own heart. He saw with a fierce blinding joy—then with horror—and then with joy again.
"Esther! You, too! Oh, I never wanted that. I hoped you— Oh,Esther!"
She gave him no answer but stood looking at him piteously. No one, seeing them, could have failed to understand. The man who had come to the door saw and understood.
It was Jonathan.
They saw him. No word passed then; there was nothing to say. She moved slowly out of the room by another door, the men, both as if in a daze, following her with their eyes. When her footsteps had died away, they looked at each other helplessly.
"David!" Jonathan's voice broke like a boy's. "David! What have you done?"
After a little that cry reached David's understanding. "I never knew—" He turned away from the stricken accusing face.
He heard Jonathan start away at last, then turn and come toward him. A letter was laid on the desk.
"I was bringing this to you," said Jonathan's choking voice. And again, "David! David!"
That time Jonathan did not return.
Mechanically David took up and opened the letter. He had to read it twice before he grasped its import.
"The committee of St. Mark's has selected your plans. . . . We shall want you to supervise the work . . . usual terms . . . congratulations."
The letter fluttered from his hands to the floor, St. Mark's from his mind.
So he was not to have even the consolation of knowing that no one but himself had been hurt. It would be on his soul that he had hurt her, too—cruelly, hopelessly hurt her. And he could not help her, only run away and leave her to face it alone. And Jonathan, his kind friend—the meaning of the grief on that homely face was plain.
The cup of David's misery ran over. He fell forward on the desk, her desk, pillowing his head on his arms.
"Esther!"
As if summoned by the cry, another little imp took stand by David's ear. And his tongue was specious and honeyed, and he had the trick of making black seem white and gray a golden splendor.
Why run away and leave her to face it alone? . . .
He was there a long time. It grew dark. The street, deserted by its daylight toilers, grew quiet except for the tramping of an occasional heavy-footed watchman or policeman. David did not stir. He was slowly draining his bitter cup—and listening to the eloquent imp. Once to nearly every man comes an hour when he stands on a high mount and is shown the kingdom of his desire, to be his if he will—at a price. There David stood that evening. And he fell. He listened and looked too long. He did not haggle with his tempter over the price but agreed to pay, if only he might have his beautiful kingdom.
He did not hear stealthy footsteps along the corridor, nor the rustling of cautiously drawn shades in Jonathan's office.
The visitor, too, supposed that he had the building to himself. But he worked by the light of a dark-lantern and tiptoed instinctively. Very carefully, as his former cell-mate had taught him, he made his preparations, substituting a sixty- for a six-ampere fuse—which would give him, the old cracksman had said, "juice" enough to cut through the ribs of a war-ship—and clamping one strand of his extension wire to the safe door. This done, he unscrewed all the light bulbs from their sockets lest, when he turned the switch, a sudden glow through the shades arouse some prowling watchman's curiosity. Then he took up the other strand of his wire, to which was attached a carbon electrode, knelt on the floor and—gingerly, for so much juice suggested many possibilities to a novice—touched the carbon to the safe door.
He drew back hastily, almost unnerved. The old cracksman had not warned him of that blinding flash or that sputtering, loud enough, so it seemed, to be heard a block away. But he remembered that Jonathan often kept money overnight in the safe. He forced himself to make the contact again.
David heard a shuffling sound from a near-by office. He straightened stiffly, wondering dully who the newcomer was. The watchman probably, on a round of inspection. Or perhaps Jonathan, who came to his office sometimes of nights to work off odds and ends that his lack of system allowed to pile up on him. Jonathan, his friend, who had been hurt, whose stricken, accusing, contemptuous face danced before him. David's heart gave a sharp twinge at that. He hoped it was not Jonathan. He did not want to face Jonathan just then.
He started at a sudden crackling report that resounded through the lonely building, followed by a strange continued sputtering. He went slowly into the corridor and to Jonathan's office. At the door he stopped, staring in stupid surprise at the intent kneeling figure dimly outlined in the glow of hot metal and the bluish crackling flame. Then, with a vague notion that it was the wrong thing to do but his overwrought brain not quite grasping the situation, he took two steps into the room.
"Get out of here—whoever you are."
With a muttered ejaculation the intruder turned his head to look, then sprang back from the safe, breaking the contact. Instantly the room became black. David stared, still stupidly, at the dull red spot on the safe until it faded into blackness. Then he realized. He stood very still, muscles tense, senses sharply alert. He heard a faint rustling but he could not make out from what part of the room it came.
Smith crouched, rigid and breathless, waiting for a shot. It did not come. Slowly, as silently as possible, he reached for the sheath knife he carried and drew it. He had a gun, but a knife, the old cracksman had said, was much better for a fight in the dark and it had the superlative virtue of noiselessness. He became motionless again, his eyes vainly straining to pierce the darkness, waiting for the other to make a move. The silence and inaction became unbearable. He gathered his nerve and muscles for a rush to where the door ought to be and leaped forward. At the third step a fist struck out and caught him on the neck. He recoiled a little, then lashed out blindly with the knife. He heard a sharp gasp and a body crumpling to the floor. But Smith waited no longer. Groping his way to the door, he sped along the corridor and through the shop to the rear window where he had entered.
A quarter of an hour later a watchman espied the open window. He whistled a policeman to his aid and together, after a period of timorous deliberation, they entered and with many discreet pauses tiptoed over the building. They found David in the corridor, where he had given up crawling, weakly trying to stanch the flowing blood.
The policeman was young and new to his job. He mopped his brow nervously at sight of so much blood.
"Are yez much hurted, d'yez think?" he inquired anxiously.
"More scared than hurt, probably." David smiled wanly. "But, just the same, I think you'd better call up a doctor."
The doctor did not share David's opinion. He shook his head gravely, looked important and said, "It's lucky I got here so soon." Then he brightened a little. "But it's a lovely clean cut and we'll do what we can."
So, he stopped the flow of blood, washed out the wound with an antiseptic solution and took several stitches; which hurt much worse than Smith's knife had. Then he ordered David to the hospital. But by that time some one had got Jonathan by telephone and he said, "No, bring him here." And David protesting in vain, an ambulance took him to Jonathan's house and gentle hands laid him on the bed of the special guest-room. A nurse was installed and in time David fell asleep.
Through the night Jonathan watched, stealing every few minutes to David's bedside. It was not at all necessary; the nurse slept, no fears disturbing her slumbers. But Jonathan wanted to watch. He kept thinking that David might have died. He shuddered and went pale at the thought. For Jonathan had loved David; he loved him even now.
The bitterness of that day was gone; so much could a little letting of blood accomplish. But the thought of one tragedy, so narrowly escaped, did not help Jonathan to forget another impending—if it was to be tragedy. His heart ached for his friends; it was only of them he thought now. They faced each other across a chasm too wide to be leaped or bridged; only by a descent into chill dark depths could their outstretched hands meet. He did not blame them for having strayed to that brink; not in the impulses of the heart do we sin, only in the yielding.
But such chasms need not be tragic. There grow the sweetest flowers for those having the will to see and gather. All his life Jonathan had been schooled in that lesson, and he had learned to pluck happiness as he turned his back on desire. He had even been happy in an unrequited love, he had not sought to cast it out of his heart, he had loved his love—at least until it had seemed helpless to save her from a hurt. He could be happy in it still, if instead of tragedy they could find strength and courage and the greater triumph growing on the brink of their chasm.
It seemed very simple and easy, what he wanted them to learn. He did not understand that only the Greathearts find it simple and easy. He never suspected that he was a Greatheart. An odd fish, this Jonathan!
But it was a knowledge that he could not give them. They must win it, if at all, for themselves.
In the morning the doctor came again, inspected the wound, discovered no evidence of infection and was mightily pleased with himself.
"Don't look so sad," he adjured David. "You got off lucky. If that knife—"
"I suppose so," David said querulously. "If you've finished, would you mind going? I'd like to sleep some more."
The doctor nodded comprehendingly. "Pretty weak yet," he confided to the nurse in a whisper. "Lost quite a bit of blood before I could get to him. Must humor him."
David closed his eyes. Not, however, to sleep. Rather to listen to his tempter, who had returned to stand guard, to keep the victory it had won. But the imp's words were less plausible this morning, a certain sly malice had crept into his voice. David remembered shrinkingly the resolve he had taken.
"It's because I am weak." He tried to stiffen himself. "I have a right to be happy. Why should two be made to suffer for one who wouldn't care?" He repeated that over and over to himself and almost achieved belief.
The nurse came to his bedside. "I'm going out for my walk now. Ring this bell if you want anything, and one of the maids will come."
He nodded and she left. A minute later he heard other steps coming into the room.
"David—David!" said a voice over him. A compassionate voice that was near to breaking.
He opened his eyes and, not easily, met Jonathan's. "I'm making a good deal of trouble. You should have let them take me to the hospital."
"Hush, David! I wanted you to come here. Is the wound very painful?"
"I've had toothaches that were worse."
"It's like you to make light of it."
"It isn't like me to make light of it. You've seen me and ought to know that. It's more like me to whine."
"But it's serious." Jonathan shook his head gravely. "The doctor says, if the knife had gone an eighth of an inch deeper—"
"They always say that, don't they? It didn't go an eighth of an inch deeper."
"But it might have," Jonathan insisted. "David, why did you do it? Did you think a little money was worth such a risk?"
David frowned petulantly. "I'm no hero. I didn't mean to take any risks. I just blundered in and was too stupid to get out. So I got hurt. It's a habit of mine."
"Ah!" Jonathan understood the allusion. "David, can you forgive me? Yesterday I was thinking you—what you are not. I was bitter, not quite myself. I was blaming you for what you couldn't help and thinking you were going—"
"Don't! Don't talk about that! I—" David turned his face to the wall."I wish to God Smith's knife had gone deeper!"
Jonathan started. "Smith! You say it was Smith? Then this happened because of me. I let myself get at odds with all the world and in that temper sent him from the shop. You have much to forgive me for, David."
"That's pretty far-fetched, isn't it? If it's any consolation, I couldn't swear it was Smith. I only had a glimpse of him."
"It is a consolation. Because now, if any one questions you about what happened, you needn't identify Smith. I hate to think of any man having to go to jail. Sin is its own punishment—and heavy enough. God knows! We must find Smith, David, and try to help him. You could help him most. When he knows that you, whom he hurt, are ready—"
"Do whatever you want with him. I have no wish to send him to jail."
David stirred restlessly; his wound began to throb. Why couldn't the manikin go away and take his silly exaggerated—and disturbing—sentimentalities with him? Didn't he know that his very presence there was a reminder of something David wanted to forget—that the kingdom of desire was not to be entered without payment?
But Jonathan did not leave, though he saw what the patient wished. He went without further détours to the thing that lay between them.
"David, what are you going to do?"
David made no answer but stared unwinkingly at the wall.
"What are you going to do, David?"
David had not guessed how hard it would be to give tongue to his desire.
"I don't know that you have any right to ask. But if it will do you any good to know, I'm going to get free and—"
He turned and looked defiantly into Jonathan's eyes. He saw the suffering there. But Jonathan's voice was still gentle.
"You would do that?"
"I would do that."
"You mean," Jonathan persisted, "you will get a divorce? And then go to her?"
How ugly, how sordid, that seemed, spoken aloud in the clear light of morning!
But David said, "I mean that."
"Have you thought of—your wife?"
"She wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't really care."
"And you have a boy. A beautiful boy, I am told."
"That—that is part of the—price."
"Ah! the price! You have thought of the price then. And you are ready to pay it. Other people have paid it, I know. I have wondered if they didn't pay too much. David—" Jonathan looked away. "Have you thought of—her?"
"Can't you understand I am thinking of her? I can't let her be hurt.And I want her—you can't know—"
He flung an arm over his face. And he was glad of the sharp pain that shot through his side.
"I know," said Jonathan. "I know."
They were silent for a while. The silence became almost unbearable to one of them. He let his arm fall slowly to his side.
"Well, say it! If you have anything against it, say it."
"No." Jonathan turned to him once more, sadly. "I have nothing to say against it. I know it would do no good, if I had. I say only, do it, if you think she will not be hurt—if you think you can. . . . I must go now."
He left. Soon the nurse returned. She looked closely at her patient and took a thermometer from the table.
"No!" he said sharply. "I'm all right. Just go away and leave me alone."
Being a wise nurse, she obeyed. . . .
When Jonathan reached his office a trembling white-faced girl was awaiting him.
"How is he?"
He told her. "It needn't be serious. But he had a narrow escape."
"Why didn't you let me know last night?"
"It would have done no good." He looked at her searchingly. But neither shrinking nor shame was in her eyes. "Will you go to him now?"
"Go to him? I— Why do you ask that?"
"He needs you," he said. "There is no one else who can help him now.Will you go?"
"Yes." She understood the help that was needed.
"Then come."
Together they went out to the street. He hailed a taxicab and they entered and drove away. Neither spoke during that ride. When they reached the house he led her to the parlor.
"If you will wait here," he said, "I will get the nurse away."
In a few minutes he returned.
"You may go up now."
He watched her ascend, heard her quick light tread along the hall above and the closing of a door.
"Esther!" he whispered. "My poor Esther! Who will help you?"
She halted just within the closed door. At first he could not believe it was she. For a little he went blind, a black streaming mist hiding her from him. But when it cleared away she was still there. Their eyes met and clung across the room.
"Esther! You came! I didn't believe—"
"He asked me to come."
"He asked you! I don't understand—"
"Would you rather I had stayed away?"
For answer he held out hungry arms toward her. He would have sat upright; pain and weakness were forgotten. But she was at his side in a breath.
"You must not."
She put her hands on his shoulders to restrain him. He caught them and held them close to him. She let him for a moment, then gently freed them from his clasp.
"It is no worse than he says—your hurt?"
"It isn't bad at all."
"You're sure? You see, I didn't know until I got to the office. Andthey made it out very bad there. They even said you mightn't live.And I had to wait until he came with definite word. It was terrible.When I thought—oh, David!"
The steadiness she had had to keep up before others gave way. Suddenly she sat on the bed, pressing both hands tightly against her face.
"Don't, Esther!" Her weakness hurt him. "Don't! There's nothing to cry for."
"Let me. I'll be all right—in a minute."
He let her then. And he wished that the hot iron in his own heart could be cooled a little in tears. But his eyes were dry and aching and the iron burned deeper. Therewassomething to cry for.
"Now!" It was the tempter whispering. "Now is the time to tell her."
But a strange paralysis was on his tongue and will.
She waited until she could achieve the smile she wanted him to see. Then she let her hands fall to her lap. And in the brightness of that smile the tears on her lashes were dewdrops that had caught the morning sunlight.
"Speak up! Now!" It was the imp again.
"Why do you falter?" Now was the time to tell her of that beautiful kingdom and how he proposed to win it for them, to ask her to wait until he could lead her through its gates. And still he could not. . . . And suddenly he knew that he never could. . . .
"There!" The smile was perfect. "That is over. I didn't mean to be so foolish. It's only because I had been thinking it was so much worse. Now I can take time to be glad. About this, I mean."
From the pocket of her jacket she drew forth a folded sheet of paper and held it out to him. It was the letter from St. Mark's.
"It seems almost too good to be true, doesn't it?—though we ought never to say that. I found it on the floor by my desk this morning. I thought it was some of the office correspondence and opened it and—do you mind?—when I saw what it was I read it through. I hardly knew what I was doing. It didn't seem important then. But now— Oh, I am glad—glad!" She nodded brightly. "The finest thing in the world has happened."
He looked dully at the letter which ought to have meant so much to him.
"I had forgotten that."
"It means you can go back to your own profession, doesn't it?"
"I suppose so. Yes, it means that."
"It has been like a story, hasn't it? This summer, I mean. A beautiful story! In the beginning you came to the office—to prison, you said. And I was plodding along, trying to make myself believe that I liked bookkeeping. A pair of lame ducks we were, with broken wings. I'm a little sorry for us yet—aren't you? But now we— Do you think it would hurt you if I raised the shades? It's such a glorious morning and I love sunshine."
"It wouldn't hurt, of course."
She went to the windows and raised the shades and the morning radiance, the light in which all hues are seen as they are, flooded the room. Then she went back to her seat beside him.
"That is much better, isn't it? . . . A beautiful story! Now our wings are strong again. . . ."
And so she went on, painting in the brightest colors she knew how to mix what she supposed the future held for them. She tried to make it splendid. St. Mark's was to be but a beginning. He was to go very far, building many beautiful churches, striving to make each a little finer than the one before, until he was famous throughout the land—"Which is worth something, of course, but not half so much as knowing that you have done good work. You remember, I said once that would be your great reward." She was to live outdoors, careful not to overdo her voice practise at first. After a while, when she had grown stronger, she would study hard to make up for the years she had lost, perhaps go abroad to work under the great voice builders and coaches there. And "some day," perhaps, rumor would tell him of a new contralto whom people loved to hear sing. . . . It was a little childish, no doubt, and rather overdone.
But he did not think of that. He was not listening. He was seeing, not the picture she painted but that which she made, there in the sunshine. She was whiter than ever. Deep shadows were under her eyes. But the eyes themselves were very steady, her voice never quavered, nor did the smile flicker. Where did she get her spirit, this slender fragile girl who seemed so in need of another's strength for support?
And upon the bright brave soul of her he had wanted to put a stain. He could not do that! He no longer wanted to do that.
For the questions Jonathan had left burning in David's heart had answered themselves. As he watched her, he saw what on the high mount he had refused to see. He had hurt her enough. Not through another hurt could he find healing for her. And it would hurt her, what he had planned. It would take from her all that he loved; and it would add shame, the shame of cowardice, if not of cruelty to others. He could not do that; even if she were willing he could not. Yielding was not the simple thing it had seemed. Something he lacked—or something he had—which forever shut the gates of that kingdom upon him. It had been but an evil impossible dream. But a beautiful dream! There was yet no joy in renunciation.
David went down from the mount into the valley where shadows were deep and unbroken.
"And so the story ends happily, as it should. Everything has come out right."
"No! Everything has not come out right!"
"You mustn't say that. You mustn't think—"
"Esther!" It was hard to meet her eyes then. "I've got to say it—to let you see the sort of man I am. Last night I was thinking of—of what has happened to us and what we would do. There seemed only one way out that I could bear. I made up my mind. I was going to you to tell you that I would get free—I would have managed that somehow—and then come to you. I could have done it—last night."
The smile faded. She waited for him to continue.
"But Smith stopped me. I am glad he stopped me. For now—" He could not go on.
"Now you can't. Is that it?"
"I can't."
"I am glad you can't."
She said it very quietly. Her eyes left his and turned to the sunny window. But the light that shone on the thin tired face came not from without.
The ugly tempter lifted its wings and flew swiftly away.
"Are you," he began again at last, "revising your opinion of me? I hope you are."
A hand fell lightly on his lips. "I don't want to revise my opinion of you. I couldn't. And I understand—what you wanted and why it is impossible for us. Because—last night— I could have let you do it."
"Oh, Esther, I never meant to hurt you. Can you believe that?"
"I know. But you haven't hurt me—even though for a while I was shameless as I never thought I could be. I said the story has ended happily. And it has—with the happiest ending possible, the only happy ending it could have. Because there is nothing to regret."
"Nothing to regret!" Unbelief was in his gaze.
"Ah! We mustn't talk about it—but can't you see—can't you understand?"
She leaned over him, giving him her eyes, letting him look to the very depths he had once wanted to explore. He saw love there, and joy in love, but as well the will to renounce gladly—and no lurking shadow to say that she had bravely lied.
"Do you believe—that I am not unhappy and will not be?"
"I can't understand. But I have to believe. I am glad to believe."
He closed his eyes and relaxed his tired body, to learn that the wound was throbbing sharply. But that was a little thing.
She sat beside him, her face turned again to the sunlight. Once she reached out and touched his hand caressingly; he caught hers and clung to it as though he could not let it go. It was not a long silence.
But it was long enough. In those few minutes he went up out of the valley again and stood with her on another mount. And to him, too, came the free will to renounce; and understanding. Sorrow abode with him still, an exquisite pang that was to leave a lasting scar. But in his heart glowed a strange fire—as if for some splendid victory—lighted only for that hour, it may be, but revealing to him what he had found; a love that had not failed, that asked nothing, able to triumph over all things, even itself. It was so he had dreamed love might be. He was glad he had found it. He was glad of the cup it had put to his lips. He was the richer for her. He would be the richer for seeing her go. He hoped that the sorrow would never quite pass out of his heart, that the love would never shrink to a mere memory.
He lifted shining eyes to hers.
"Now I understand! Some things aren't worth all they cost. What I wanted last night is one of them. But this—I would not be without it, even though—"
"Nor would I."
Tears were gemming her eyes once more. But they were not sorrowful tears and they did not fall.
It was time for her to go. The hands that had not ceased to cling fell apart. She went slowly across the room.
At the door she lingered a moment, looking back. Through the streaming mist he saw her face, bright in the white glory of renunciation. She smiled . . . and was gone. . . .
The same brightness was upon him. But he did not know that. He stood on the mount to which she had led him, still seeing her. And still there were no regrets. To him was coming the strength he was to need, a faith in himself that was to tide him over many gray morrows. It was a very high place, the peak of his life. Ever afterward he was to look up to that hour.
* * * * * *
That evening came Shirley, summoned by Mrs. Jim. But the nurse turned her back at David's door. He had fever and the dreaded infection had set in. There must be no excitement. So Shirley must wait. Two days more she had to wait, anxious days during which she learned fast. On the third the nurse raised the embargo for a few minutes, and Shirley, breathless and afraid, went to the door through which the other had gone.
He was ready for her coming. His only dread was that she might see what he must never let her know. He had a deep pitying tenderness for her, to whom love had appeared only as a pretty toy.
She halted uncertainly at the door. He saw that she doubted her welcome.
"David, do you still want me to come?"
"Come, Shirley."
She went quickly to him and knelt by his side, and kissed him.
"Dear, I wanted to come. I couldn't stay away. And it wasn't because you gave me a choice. Won't you believe that, David?"
"I believe that, Shirley."
"You only said, 'Come.' Don't you really want me? Do you think that after a while, when I've learned all I have to learn—and proved what I have to prove—you will be glad that I came?"
"I am glad now."
He touched the pretty gleaming hair caressingly.
"I believe you are! And they said—oh, David!"
She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
Then he saw that she had come to the threshold of her house of toys and stood looking out, trembling and frightened before the bigness of the real world. He was staggered by that. She had come to the door too late; for if she fared forth, she must go alone and untaught through a country whose loneliness he had known. He must save her from that. He could not give her the one thing which could companion her through those arid wastes. The tender protective impulse surged stronger to his aid.
Gently he sought to lead her back into her playhouse.
"Shirley, I have a confession to make. While you were gone St. Mark's decided to build. I submitted some plans and—they were accepted. Do you like my surprise?"
"Then you can go back to your profession. I am glad of that."
"It's a big commission, Shirley. Almost as big as St. Christopher's would have been. We'll be rolling in wealth—for us."
"You won't have to worry any more. I am glad of that, too."
She was resisting, looking back toward the still open door and the prospect beyond. It had frightened her, but it had thrilled her, too. Anxiously he pointed inward.
"It means more than that. If I've done pretty well—and I'm sure I have—it will bring a lot more work. We can have all the things our mouths used to water for. We'll move into a very nice apartment at once, and have a maid, maybe a nurse for Davy Junior. We'll take on the club again—think of hearing the crack of a good drive once more! There'll be theaters and concerts, with a taxi on rainy evenings. And when we're settled in that new apartment we're going to give a beautiful dinner to celebrate our return to the surface. My stars! can't you see our guests' eyes popping? And when the first check comes in from the St. Mark's people I'm going to buy you—let's see, whatshallI buy you?— Pinch me, please. When I think of it I can't quite realize that it's true. Isn't it bully, Shirley—dear?"
"Of course," she said slowly. "But somehow those things—they seem so—so little, now I have you back. Do they really mean so much to you, David?"
"You've come back—that's the great thing, of course. And there'll be no worries to make things hard for us, no penny-pinching and discontent, no—misunderstandings. Don't you see? It's the whole thing. And so—" He tried to laugh gaily, but an echo was in his heart. "And so the story ends happily."
For a little a question rested in her eyes. His laugh, trailing off into huskiness, puzzled her, vaguely hurt her. She sighed. Then habit began to prevail. The poor little sentimental regret for this sudden prosperity died. Her eyes rested on the pretty new toys tricking out her house. And as she looked the door closed softly, shutting her in forever. She did not know.
"Do you know, I was almost sorry for a minute? I hardly know why. It is better this way. We'll have to go back to believing in fairies, shan't we?"
Her eyes were dancing. Happiness tinted her velvety cheeks. All that she saw was good.
"Oh, David, I believe we're going to be happier than ever before!"