The House of Toys Part 13

David turned red, but he answered, still quietly, "It is good of you to make the offer, but of course it is out of the question. I think Shirley would prefer--"

"Young man," Aunt Clara reminded him, "in my family nothing I suggest is ever out of the question. As for Shirley, let her answer for herself."

"_I_ think it would be very sensible," Shirley answered for herself, eagerly.

"She means," corrected Aunt Clara, who was n.o.body's fool, "she means it would be pleasanter living in my house than scrimping here to pay for dead horses. So it would. But it would be sensible, too. You've got into hot water. I blame Shirley--I know her. But I blame you most. A husband ought always to keep a tight rein on household affairs. Your late Uncle John--well, never mind him. Because you've been weak, you've run into debt, the worst disturber of household peace. I give you a chance to be rid of it quickly. Have you a quicker way?"

"I have a better way. Since we got into the hole through our own carelessness, let us work our own way out."

"Humph! More sentiment. You'd make your family pay for your weakness.

However," Aunt Clara rose with the air of having done her whole duty, "I've made my offer. It is for you to decide. I will now go into the other room while you and Shirley talk it over. I make it a rule never to intrude into discussions between husband and wife."

She moved toward the living-room. David ushered her to the door and closed it behind her. Then he turned to Shirley. . . . .

He had made many mistakes, no doubt, been as weak and foolish as Aunt Clara said. But they had been loving faults, born of a deep desire to make Shirley happy. And he had atoned for them. He had declared himself to his world a failure; he had swallowed and forgiven the word that ought never to be on a wife's tongue. Because it seemed best for her, he had given up a work that was very dear to him, even in failure; how dear, he had not known until he had resigned it, as he thought, forever. He had taken unto himself a master and a task that to his cast of mind could never be aught but drudgery. It was no easy thing he had done. But he had not whimpered, he had made an effort, none the less brave because so boyishly obvious, to keep up a smiling front. He had sought to offer his gift from the heart, ungrudgingly, because he had loved her, still loved her, he thought.

That which they had now to decide seemed big and vital to him. His pride was touched. A need was involved. Good sense might counsel acceptance of Aunt Clara's offer, but he thought it cowardly. Since they had failed in the issue of making a living, the brave course was to retrieve that failure by themselves. More--it did not seem to him the act of a loving woman to leave him, even for a few months, when his need of her and her love was greatest.

He did not ask her to count the cost of his gift; he knew she could not. He did want her to _justify_ the gift, to prove that the love for which he had paid so big a price was real love dwelling in a fine brave woman's heart. . .

Shirley was sitting at the table. He went to a chair across from her.

She looked up eagerly.

"Shirley, shall you mind very much if I say, no?"

"I think the only sensible thing is to take her at her word."

"Perhaps. But I'd rather not be under obligations to--to anybody."

"Oh, that's just sentiment, as Aunt Clara says. And it's quite time for us to begin being practical. Think of being rid of all those horrid debts! You don't seem to understand what a weight they've been on me."

"I think I do understand, dear. But it will be different now, because we know that if we're careful for a while we can clean them all up.

Radbourne seems a good man to work for and maybe this job will develop into something better. And I'll be doing work on the side for d.i.c.k for a while. It won't be so long before the debts will melt away. Then we'll have the satisfaction of knowing we did it by ourselves, without any one's help. We'll have proved ourselves, don't you see?"

"That's more sentiment. I can't see anything so awful in going to Aunt Clara's. It would be just a visit, such as any one would make. It wouldn't be for so very long, and it would do us all good. I would have a fine rest, and the change would be good for you, too. You could read and work in the evenings with no one to bother you. And you'd have a fine chance to see all your old men friends."

"It isn't the men I want to see just now. Shirley, dear--" He was pleading now. "Shirley, dear, I-- You see, it's cost me a little, a good deal maybe--letting my profession go and taking up work that isn't--isn't so very interesting and is for another man. It'll be a little hard--just for a while of course, until I get used to the idea.

And I'd like to have you here with me. Don't you see, dear--I need you."

But the plea failed. With a sharp sinking of his heart he saw her pretty brow wrinkle in an impatient frown.

"I don't see at all. I should think, if the position is such a good one, you'd be glad you've taken it. And you ought to be glad to think of Davy Junior and me out at Aunt Clara's instead of moping around a cheap dingy flat or boarding-house."

"You mean," he tried to keep his voice steady, "you _want_ to go?

You'd really rather--aside from saving money?"

"Want to! I'm wild to go. Of course, I'll be homesick for you, but all husbands and wives expect to be apart sometimes on vacations and trips and--oh, David, can't you see? It's been so long since I've had any really good times and I'm hungry for them--starving. And out there at Aunt Clara's, where you don't have to think of money all the time-- Why, you couldn't--it isn't like you to be so selfish as to refuse me that."

He said no more. He sat fumbling with a napkin, his eyes cast down.

He dared not lift them to Shirley's, lest he see there a truth he had not the courage to face just then. After a little he rose, went to the door and opened it.

"Will you come in now?" he nodded to Aunt Clara. "The family council is over."

Aunt Clara marched into the room.

"Well, what have you decided?"

"Shirley has convinced me," he smiled queerly, "that you are right.

But your hospitality is all we ought to accept. For her other expenses I will send something from my salary every month."

"But that isn't what I--"

"I'm afraid," he interrupted quietly, "you will have to concede so much to me--and sentiment." . . .

In the morning Aunt Clara left.

"This is what comes," was her benediction, "of marrying before you're ready and living beyond your means. I hope it will be a lesson to you never to do it again."

David was too tired to smile.

The rest of that week was too full for much thinking. The office was to be cleaned out. Trunks were to be packed, china and silver and bric-a-brac to be wrapped and boxed for storage, a thousand little preparations for moving when a new tenant for the apartment should have been found. David was grateful for that. He did not want time to think. Especially he did not want time to feel.

On Sunday morning he took Shirley and Davy Junior to the train. Not once did he let the baby out of his arms. At the very last a doubt seemed to disturb Shirley.

"David--" They were sitting in the station waiting-room then. "David, it's dear of you to let me go like this."

"It's better than moping around here."

"You don't think I'm selfish in wanting to go, do you?"

He shook his head and kept his eyes on the child's face.

"It doesn't mean I don't love you--oh, with all my heart! I'll be so lonesome for you. I'll be thinking of you all the time and write you every day. And when I come back--! Do you know, dear, I have the feeling that now, with the new position and the debts cleaned up soon, things are going to be different with us, so much brighter."

"Why, I think so, Shirley."

"I'm sure of it." She squeezed his hand. "When people love as we do, things just have to come out right."

"Yes, Shirley."

The gates were thrown open and they went out on the platform. The train thundered in. David took Shirley and Davy Junior into their car.

He kissed her hastily and lingered longer over his good-by to the baby.

Then he ran out of the car and stood again on the platform, while Shirley made the youngster wave his hand. David managed an answering smile.

He walked homeward by a long roundabout way. The rest of that day he spent in working feverishly at unfinished odds and ends of packing.

Then he got out all his sketches and plans and slowly tore them into bits, until the floor around him was littered with the fragments. Last of all he came to the St. Christopher's plans. But his hands refused his command to destroy. He sat looking at this evidence of his failure, until darkness fell and hid them from his sight. He rose then and, wrapping them up carefully, put them with the boxes for storage.

There was nothing more that he could do. He had not eaten since morning but he was not hungry. He leaned back in a chair and let all the thoughts and feelings he had held at bay during the busy days rush at him in the darkness. An incredible loneliness was upon him, a sense of loss bitterer even than loneliness. It seemed that something for which he had paid dearly had been stolen from him.