The House of Toys Part 35

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. There _was_ something 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.