The House of Toys Part 30

"You'd better lie down and get some sleep. You're looking quite badly."

"No. I'll go out and find David Junior."

"Perhaps that would be better."

He went. For an hour Aunt Clara sat alone, trying to work out the hardest problem of life, how to raise a love from the dead. And all she achieved was a bitter self-reproach. For the first time in all her existence.

A ripple of childish laughter came to her through an opened window.

She rose and looked out. She saw the Davids, little and big, sitting chummily on the lawn. Then Aunt Clara thanked G.o.d that David and Shirley had been given a son.

"We have that much to start with--though it seems little enough just now."

She sniffed, as a matter of necessity, and hastily reached for her handkerchief.

When it was time for Davy Junior's dinner and nap she summoned David to her sitting-room again.

"David," she began, very meekly for Aunt Clara, "I've been thinking it over. I ought to blame you. But I can't. I've had all I could do blaming myself. Are you thinking I am a selfish, meddlesome old fool?"

David shook his head wearily.

"But I am. I was lonesome alone here in this big old house and I really thought-- But never mind that now. Does she--that other woman know?"

"I think not."

"Is she--is she in love with you?"

"Oh, no! That is impossible. Oh, no!" he repeated. "That couldn't be. It would be too terrible."

"It's terrible enough as it is. Are you going to tell Shirley?"

"That wouldn't help matters, would it?"

"I suppose not," she sighed. "David, you must be very gentle with her.

It isn't her fault she wanted to run away from hard times. All her life we have spoiled her, her father and mother and Maizie and I. I did it worst of all, as I never spoiled my own child. David, come over here."

He went to the chair beside her and she reached for his hand very awkwardly.

"Oh, David, it's going to be very hard for you--all because an old fool--" Aunt Clara was crying now, noisily and unbeautifully because she had had little practise. "And I'm afraid that when you see Shirley you'll find it even harder than you thought." . . .

Shirley came only a little before it was time for him to start for his train. He was playing on the library floor with Davy Junior when an automobile came to a panting stop before the house. A minute later came Shirley's voice from the hall, "_Da_-vy!" The little fellow scrambled to his feet and ran to meet her at the door. She caught him and swung him strongly in her arms, hugging and kissing him. And David saw that the months had been kind to Shirley. The marks of worry and discontent had been erased, her eyes danced and her cheeks glowed with health and pleasure. Oh, a very fair picture was Shirley, in the full flower of her loveliness.

But his heart went not one beat faster for her.

Then she saw him and set the child down. "David!" And she ran to him and kissed him--very prettily, as a loving wife should.

"And now," said Aunt Clara, "I will say good-by to David and leave you alone to the last minute. The car will be waiting for you when you're ready." She held up her cheek to David and left them.

Shirley gasped. "You're not going to-night?"

"In a few minutes. I must."

"But--but this is ridiculous. Surely you can stay overnight at least."

"No. I promised to be back to-morrow morning. My time isn't my own."

Which was not quite fair to Jonathan in its implication.

"Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

"I didn't think of it until this morning when I got here and saw you going out. I supposed I should find you."

"Surely you're not piqued because I-- David, what is it?" A look of dread came into the dancing eyes. "You're looking wretchedly. You're not going to tell me we've had some more bad luck?"

"I hope," he said quietly, "you won't call it that I came to ask you to go back--home."

"Why, I--"

It was no glad eager light that took the place of dread. It was consternation, a manifest, involuntary shrinking from what he asked. . . . Then she was in like case with him. He had not counted on that.

He felt his heart turning hard and cold; and that was not the way of the gentleness he had planned. He, too, had shrunk from what he asked; yet he had not hesitated to ask it, thinking to save her from some hurt. She, without the key, thought only of the loss of her good times. He could tell her the whole truth and she would not care--if it led to good times. Couldn't she see, couldn't she _feel_, the tragedy in this end of their once pretty romance? Since she could not, why try to save her from a hurt she would never really know?

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.