AT THE DOOR
But Shirley was a fact. By morning--no sleep came to him that
night--he had decided what he must do about that fact. It was then not
a very complex problem.
He took a lightly packed bag with him to the office and at the first
opportunity presented himself to Jonathan.
"May I take to-morrow off? There is a matter I must attend to at once.
I can be back by day after to-morrow."
"Certainly," said Jonathan, without looking up.
"Thank you." David hesitated. "Mr. Radbourne, do you know anything
definite of the situation at St. Mark's?"
"Nothing definite."
"Do you think there's any chance for me at all?"
"The committee will decide this week. There's a man named Holden--"
"I know him."
"He seems to have influence--and not much else. But Mr. Blaisdell is
trying to see that you get fair play."
"Is it necessary for Mr. Blaisdell to use his influence very actively
in my favor?"
"I'm afraid it is."
"I'm sorry. I knew, of course, that you and he would do all you
could--if it was needed. But I thought perhaps my plans would justify
the committee--"
"They do. And they justify any work that has been done for you. There
is no obligation that need weigh heavily on you."
"It isn't that. I appreciate my--my friends' willingness to help. But
I'd hoped to be able to win solely on my merits in this thing."
"Do you wish us--Mr. Blaisdell to refrain?"
"No. I need to get back into my profession. It means so much to
me--in a new way--that I'll be glad to have it on any terms. That
doesn't mean that I'm not grateful for the kindness I've had here.--
But I'm interrupting." And David went back to his drawing.
All that day he avoided Esther, sticking close to his table. Not until
she was leaving at the end of the afternoon did he seek her.
"Miss Summers, I forgot to tell your aunt that I shan't be back until
day after to-morrow. Will you please tell her for me?"
"You are going away?"
"Yes." He made no explanation.
"I will tell her."
"Thank you." And because he was holding himself sternly rigid, lest
eyes or tone cry out what must not be said, he spoke almost curtly.
She moved quietly away from him and did not once look back, though she
knew he was watching her. But when a door was between them she stopped
for a moment, quivering lips pressed hard, both hands tightly clenched.
Then she, too, sought Jonathan.
"Mr. Radbourne, the church people telephoned to-day that I can have the
position."
"I am very glad. When shall you be leaving the office?"
"At the end of the week, if you can get some one for my place."
"So soon! I--"
"I will stay as long as I'm needed, of course."
"Oh, no! You're quite right to go at once. I can get some one to do
your work. But not to take your place. I shall--" Jonathan seemed
deeply interested in the crystal paperweight on his desk. "We shall
miss you very much."
"I haven't thanked you--"
"Please don't thank me for anything. I have done nothing any one could
not have done. It is," he said huskily, "it is to my happiness, my
great happiness, if I have been able to help you a very little."
Then he looked up and saw her face.
"Miss Summers! You look overtired--and I have kept you standing. You
must sit down, and let me get you--"
"It is nothing at all." She forced a smile to her lips. "It is only
the reaction from yesterday. The ride home in the car is all I need.
Good night, Mr. Radbourne."
"You are quite sure--"
"Oh, yes. Quite all right, Mr. Radbourne."
"Good night, Miss Summers."
And when she was gone, he sat down and took a small mirror from a
drawer and looked long and sadly at what it recorded. Suddenly he
dropped the mirror and bowed his head on the desk.
"Esther!" It was almost a sob. "If only I could help you now!" . . .
David walked the next morning from the station to Aunt Clara's house.
He walked slowly, because Aunt Clara lived on a hill and because he
dreaded facing Shirley. But he did not have to face her at once. As
he neared the house he saw an automobile, filled almost to overflowing,
roll down the driveway and turn up the street; and Shirley was one of
the party. She did not notice her unexpected visitor.
But as he turned into the grounds he met a little sailor-suited cherub
in tow of a nurse who did not know David. He dropped his bag and
squatted before the child.
"Hello, old man! Aren't you going to shake hands?"
Davy Junior clung tightly to the nurse's skirt, put one chubby finger
into his rosebud mouth and stared, round-eyed, at the big man.
"He's always that way with strangers," the nurse explained.
"Oh!" David winced and stood up. "He's forgotten me, then. When he
has had his walk please bring him to the house. I'd like to get
acquainted with him again. I'm his father, you know." He picked up
his bag and went on to the house.
A few minutes later he was shown into Aunt Clara's sitting-room. She
greeted him in astonishment and offered her cheek for a kiss.
"This is a surprise. Shirley's out, too. They're gone for a picnic
and won't be back until dark."
"Yes. I saw them start out. How is she?"
"Shirley's quite well. And seemingly enjoying herself."
"I suppose so," he said.
"And the boy, too."
"Yes. I just saw him. He--" David cleared his throat. "He didn't
know me."
"That's to be expected. Children forget easily. You're not looking
well yourself."
"I've been working pretty hard of late."
"Are you on your vacation?" Aunt Clara was studying him curiously.
"No. I have just to-day. I came to get Shirley to come back."
"Are you out of debt then?"
"Not quite."
"You've had a raise? Or has something better turned up?"
"I've had one little raise. Nothing else has happened--that I can
count on. But we can get along nicely now, thanks to your help."
"For which you're not thankful at all," she smiled grimly.
"It was a mistake."
"Humph!" she sniffed. "Have you lived with Shirley four years without
learning that she can't stand--"
"Suppose," he interrupted quietly, "suppose we don't criticize Shirley.
I shan't criticize you, either. I blame myself for letting her come
here. Now we're going to correct that mistake."
Aunt Clara sniffed again. "What has got into you? You used to have no
more spirit than a mouse. Now you remind me of your late Uncle John in
some of his moods. Suppose Shirley thinks it better--_sniff_--to stay
here a while longer? If you're not out of debt you'll still have to
pinch pennies and--"
He interrupted again, still quietly. "You must help to convince her it
is best. She must come--before it is too late."
"What do you mean by that--'before it is too late'?"
"I mean--while I still want her to come."
"Eh?" Aunt Clara stared sharply at him. She put on her spectacles,
that she might stare more effectively.
Then a light broke in on her, a light too incredible, too dazing even
for Aunt Clara's confident mind. "Eh? David Quentin! Do you mean to
tell me--do you mean--there is another woman? Who is she?"
He made no answer, but though his tired face went even whiter, steadily
withstood her gaze.
"Such a thing never happened in our family before," Aunt Clara gasped
weakly, "that I ever heard of. I don't know what to do about it."
"There is only one thing," he said steadily. "Shirley must come back
at once."
Aunt Clara took off her spectacles, rubbed them mechanically and donned
them again. Her hands fell nerveless to her lap.
"I don't know what to do," she repeated. "For the first time in all my
existence. I--I have no precedents. You must leave me for a while
until I can think this out."
He rose. "You can't think it out. I have tried."
"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 God 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.
"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--I _must_?"
"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 what _has_
happened. 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--_loving_ me?"
"You think it incredible?"
"But he's my _husband_."
"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."