The House of Toys Part 25

"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 friends.h.i.+p, mother."

"Does he return your friends.h.i.+p 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 amus.e.m.e.nt when they see me and never take me seriously."

"Does _she_ smile in amus.e.m.e.nt 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.