CERTAIN PLOTS
Three good fairies had their heads together. One was an astute banker
with a mouth delinquent borrowers hated to see, one was a woman who was
known to be wise and one was a dinky little man with red whiskers.
"The question before the house," said Jim Blaisdell, "is, are we
justified in playing politics to bolster up a young man we're afraid
can't stand on his merits? _I_ don't fancy pulling wires--in church
matters, that is."
"The question," said Mrs. Jim, "is no such a thing. It is, whether
we're to let that insufferable Dick Holden give us another St.
Christopher's?"
"Or to help make a strong fruitful life?" amended Jonathan.
"I can't quite see Davy as strong," said Jim, "though he is paying his
debts. But Dick certainly is getting to be a conceited duffer. The
ayes," he sighed, "seem to have it. The next question is ways and
means. Old Bixby's method in St. X looks good to me. A conditional
contribution--what do you say?"
"How much?" inquired the practical Mrs. Jim.
Jim took out an envelope, did sums in subtraction and division and held
out the result to his wife. She took it from him, did a sum
herself--in multiplication--and exhibited that result to him.
"Woman," he cried, "would you rob me? I'm no Standard Oil."
"It's the least I can possibly consider," she answered him firmly.
"You can't expect to play good fairy without paying for the privilege.
Now, Mr. Radbourne, what will you do?"
Jonathan, too, took out an envelope, wrote slowly a row of figures,
scratched it out, wrote another and handed it doubtfully to Mrs. Jim.
"Will that do," he inquired, "for a starter?"
Mrs. Jim gave him a special smile. "_That_ is something like." She
waved Jonathan's figures under her husband's nose. "There, Mr.
Pinchapenny! Are you blushing for shame?"
"Phew!" whistled Jim. "If that's how he squanders his money, he
needn't ever come asking credit of me." He grinned at Jonathan. "Davy
must be a mighty poor workman, when you'll pay so high to get rid of
him."
"Oh, no," Jonathan protested. "It will be very hard to fill his
place--in one way entirely impossible. But, you see, Davy and I have
become good friends, and--"
"And of course," Mrs. Jim put in sweetly, "in friendship one forgets
one is a shaver of notes."
"Oh, my hands are up," Jim groaned. "I'll match your figures,
Radbourne. But, for heaven's sake, don't raise me again!"
"What I'd like to know," said Jim, when Jonathan was gone, "is, why we
are going to the poorhouse for Davy Quentin?"
"First," said his wife, "because we know Davy will do work that is
worth while and because he is Davy. Second, because it is good for us
to give a little out of our much."
"No one helped me when I was poor," growled Jim.
"That," she explained, "was because you were known to have a talent for
helping yourself--and because you married me, who am help enough for
any man."
"There may be something in that," Jim was forced to concede. "Shirley
still at her aunt's?"
"Yes."
"Hmmmm! Mighty long visit. What's she doing there?"
"Having a very good time."
"While Davy--hmmmm! Any trouble there, do you suppose?"
"No-o-o! But Shirley keeps writing about 'poor David, who doesn't seem
to have the money-making knack'--with an air that says, 'Poor Shirley!'
And when a woman begins to speak sadly of her husband's flaws, it is
time they were together again with all flaws repaired. Shirley being
Shirley, it had better be in prosperity."
"Who's going to repair Shirley's flaws?"
"That's part of the scheme. We must get her back somehow before she
knows Davy's plans are accepted. Then she will seem--"
"I see." said Jim dryly. "That may allow her time for a very long
visit--a lifetime, in fact. But isn't there a theory that hard
scratching is good for the soul?"
Mrs. Jim eyed her lord with contempt. "My dear Jim, you are old enough
to know that no family ever came happily through money troubles unless
the wife was patient and wise indeed. Besides, I'm not trying to prove
a theory, but to correct a mistake before it's too late."
(But of all this David never was told.) The old witch must have
gnashed her teeth in rage as, peeping through his windows, she saw her
spell broken. There is a good fairy called Hard Work, and another
hight, Hope, and both of these were standing guard. David must have
been happy, because he never thought of happiness, its causes or
effects. There was a new set to his jaw that meant far more--if you
were looking for signs of the future--than the youthful enthusiasm once
reflected on his face. So the witch, shrieking grisly maledictions,
rode away to vent her spite on colicky babies and gouty old men.
There was one thing the fairies could not guard against, perhaps
because they had not been warned. Sometimes the witch perceived that
David was not alone. Those occasions were not many: a few minutes now
and then when household errands were prolonged a trifle, or lemonade
and cookies, sweetened by the aunt's good wishes, were carried to him.
And sometimes he went down-stairs to listen to a song and to tell the
singer that her high _b_-flat was unmistakably easier. There was no
great harm in that, to be sure. But the witch, baleful creature that
she was, took a hint and hatched a wicked plot.
They had a bond, you see. They faced the same adventure. It did them
good to compare notes of progress; and an audience was needed if they
were to make a jest of setbacks, such as a throat that seemed all burrs
or an idea that had for the moment lost its charm. Also he needed some
one to remind him that he took too little sleep and never exercised.
He would have been wiser if he had listened. Instead, he laughed at
her and said, "Work never kills, and in summer I always get thin." But
evidence of her concern always left him pleasantly glowing.
In August she took her vacation. But she did not go away. Part of
each day she spent in his room, putting it to rights and keeping it
sweet and clean. She liked to do that, because he never failed to note
the result of her labors or to thank her. When she had finished her
sweeping and dusting, she would sit for an hour or more studying the
sketches and plans he had left on easel or table. She thought it a
marvel that a young man could think out a church so proportioned that
its harmonies set one to dreaming and thinking, so devised that it
would not fall down though the storms of centuries charged against it.
And it was a relief to think of him and his work; it took her mind from
an ugly little fear lurking in her heart. Her throat did not always
behave as a well-meaning throat should.
Sometimes she studied also a new photograph on his mantel--of a pretty
laughing-eyed young woman playing with a sailor-suited cherub. The
young woman, she knew must be the wife of whom he never spoke.
"You are very pretty," she would whisper. "Why do you stay away from
him? Don't you know he is lonely, with no one to cheer him up but a
funny little man--and me? You're the reason he gave up his own work."
She tried not to be prejudiced against Mrs. David Quentin. But she had
a burning curiosity, which is a weakness of all women--and men.
She mentioned the picture one evening, very casually.
"This is your family, is it not?"
"Yes," he said in a queer curt tone she had never heard him use.
"She is very pretty, isn't she?"
"Yes. They are--spending the summer at an aunt's."
"What a darling little boy!" she said.
Soon after she left, thinking, "I wonder _why_ she is away from him?
It isn't a happy reason, I'm sure. . . . _I_ wouldn't stay away from
him."
David was thinking much the same thing. The next day the picture was
nowhere in evidence.
When he went down-stairs one evening to tell her the plans were
complete, she dissembled her excitement and said, "Now you'll be able
to get enough sleep." But when, after a few minutes of gay nonsense,
he had left her to take her advice, and she thought what success would
mean to him, she became very grave and had her first taste of a
suspense that grew heavier with each waiting day. . . .
The blind woman was first to see.
There was another dinner at Jonathan's house, by way of celebration of
the plans' completion, with music, most of which came from his violin.
Esther sung only twice, because that was one of the days when the
throat behaved ill. "I've been working it a little too hard," she
explained.
Between times they were very gay. It seemed to Jonathan that his
guests were unusually witty and happy.
Mrs. Radbourne was _not_ asleep, though the lids drooped over the poor
sightless eyes. She was listening. But not to the music or jests.
And she was seeing, through a sense that only blind people have.
When Jonathan came back from his walk with his guests to the trolley,
she was waiting for him.
He began to pace back and forth across the room. She listened closely
to the quick staccato tread.
"You seem very happy over something, Jonathan."
"I am." She did not need eyes to know that he was beaming. "Did you
notice that they both seemed in better spirits than usual?"
"I noticed."
"They are coming into their own. I can't help feeling that our
ventures are coming out well. It will be something to have helped them
a little. There are compensations, you see--" He caught himself
abruptly.
"Compensations for what?"
"Oh, for all the things," Jonathan said vaguely, "that one would like
to do and can not."
"Even for giving your life to the care of a helpless, uninteresting old
woman?"
"Hush, mother!" He reached her in a twinkling and patted the fine
silver of her hair. "You know better than that."
"I know what you have given up for me. It is only lately that I have
begun to understand. Oh, Jonathan--"
"But think what I've gained by staying with you! There have never been
any regrets."
"You have been a good son." But her smile was very faint. "Do you
like David Quentin as well as ever?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"There are no 'whys' in friendship, mother."
"Does he return your friendship in equal degree, do you think?"
His answer was without hesitation. "No."
She was silent.
"That is not to be expected, of course," he said simply. "I think he
would if he could. But such matters are not to be forced."
She lifted her face and the poor lifeless eyes seemed to be straining
to see him. "I am just beginning to know my son. Ah! if I could see
you--only once! I would ask nothing more."
Her hands reached toward his face. But he caught them and held them
gently.
"Why do you never let me touch your face?"
He mustered a laugh. "I'm afraid you would be disappointed. You know,
your hands have seen David, and--"
"Ah!" she breathed. "Always your David! Jonathan--" She paused
sharply.
"Yes?"
"Jonathan, there is a Mrs. David Quentin, is there not?"
"Yes."
"Where is she now?"
"Visiting relatives, I believe."
"It is a strangely long visit, don't you think? In my time husbands
and wives lived together."
"It is an arrangement for the sake of economy, Mrs. Blaisdell tells me.
It seems David had got into debt."
"I should think," she said slowly, "Mrs. Quentin would find it
economical to return."
"Mother!" Jonathan started. "Just what do you mean?"
"Her husband and you find Miss Summers quite agreeable, do you not?"
"Mother," he reproved her gently, "you should not even hint such a
thing. David is a man of honor."
"Say he is a man--and stop there. A presentable young man whom people
seem to like and whose wife has been long away. And Miss Summers is an
attractive young woman who has been thrown much with him. . . . I have
seen what I have seen."
"Mother!" Jonathan stood stiffly, as though he had been turned to
stone. "Oh, that is impossible. You are unjust. It isn't like you to
be so suspicious. There is nothing between them but a friendly
attachment."
"A friendly attachment! In words, perhaps. But--oh, my poor blind
son! Jonathan, sit here beside me."
He went to her and sat down by her side. She took both his hands. And
her voice was very gentle.
"You are in love with her, are you not?"
"Yes," he said.
"Then press your suit quickly, my son."
"But I can't--you must see that. I am her employer. She is dependent
on me. It would put her in a distressing position."
"I approve of your delicacy. Not many men display it in these greedy
days, I am told. But delicacy can be carried to excess. Women love to
be wooed strongly, masterfully. I remember how your father--"
"My father was equipped for masterfulness. I," he smiled sadly, "am
not."
"You are small, I know, like me. I had hoped my son would be tall."
She sighed. "But many small men have been great and strong."
"You don't understand. Mother, you have been blessed--you have never
had to look on your son. That is why I never let you touch my face. I
am more than merely small. I am ugly. I am ridiculous. I am almost
grotesque. People smile in amusement when they see me and never take
me seriously."
"Does _she_ smile in amusement when she sees you?"
"No. She is too big-hearted for that. She is gentle and kind and
friendly, because she is a little sorry for me and because she thinks
mistakenly that she has reason to be grateful. As a friend, a helper,
I am tolerable. As a lover I should only be absurd. See, mother, for
yourself--this once!" He lifted her sensitive hands and guided them
over his face. "My nose--my ears--my little pig's eyes--this grinning
mouth--these silly whiskers that hide a little of my absurdity--"
She drew her hands quickly away.
"You are a gentleman, a fine, great-hearted gentleman--"
"With a face like a comic valentine. Even my mother can't say no to
that. What woman wants a comic valentine for her lover? Don't you
understand now? I can have her friendship now and be with her a
little. And I can do little things to help her. I can't risk losing
that to seek something she never could give."
"But she could have given it once. I know it. I knew it then, but I
wouldn't tell you because I wanted to keep you for myself. He--your
friend David--had not come then. You must take the risk for her sake.
And before it is too late."
"But I can't inflict myself on her. It would be no kindness to her or
to me." He left her and began to pace back and forth agitatedly, in
the pompous, hopping little strut. "You are wrong--you must be wrong.
It is impossible. It would be terrible, tragic even though they are
both good. And it would be my fault. I brought them together,
thinking she would help make things cheerful for him. . . . Mother, I
wish you hadn't put this in my mind! I can't believe it. I won't
believe it. He is honorable--"
The blind woman smiled sadly. "It is a thing with which honor or duty
or law has nothing to do. And I fear--I fear it is already too
late--because I kept silent when I should have opened your eyes."
But Jonathan was not listening. He was seeing the faces of his friends
as they had been that evening. The scales were falling from his eyes,
an evil black fear entering into his heart.
"Oh, Jonathan, my son--my dear son--"
She held out her hands to him and he went to her and knelt at her side.
And she mothered him, that dinky, absurd little man, and he bowed his
head on her knee.