Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/669

Rh he made for me when he was only ten. He cut the letters out of an old label that came on some sort of fancy goods. See! 'Mother—Pure sole.' He couldn't spell it right, poor dear. The letters didn't run to it."

The two women looked at each other and smiled with that whimsical mirth which is not merriment, but love. The mother in them was alive. At that moment they both felt in the room the presence of the shadowy third—the little boy grown up so long ago. Then they sat down together by the table. Madam Burton began abruptly:

"It isn't that I don't sympathize with what you intend to do. It's only that I don't want you to be disappointed if it doesn't come out the way you expect."

"You think people may not read his papers if I get them together?"

"They may not. At least, not with your eyes. You see, my dear, we have to learn that there are two parties to what we say—the one that speaks, the one that hears. Well, Blaise may never have found any one to hear."

"I don't believe you care whether they listen or not!" said Constance, with an illuminating comprehension.

Madam Burton laid one delicate hand on hers. "Not much, dear," she answered, lightly. "Not very much."

"You think he did his work!"

"I know he did. We both know it."

"And that is enough!"

Madam Burton rose and put out the candles with a charming motion full of her gentlewoman's grace. "It seems a pity to have a light, these summer nights," she said. " Come to the window. We can talk better there."

They stepped up into the recess made by the curving glass, and stood a moment before sitting down on the cushioned seat. For Constance there was suddenly a sense of richness and of peace. She was here in his home, hung with countless memories of him like a wall curtained with pictures. The child was here, the little boy who had grown into the man she loved. In the almost tangible presence of his memory, bounded achievement fell away from him and left him mother-naked, a creature of exquisite mortality, on his way from world to world, lightly scorning to give the victor's hail to fame. He had become a citizen of the universe, not of one exacting spot where names are writ in water or in brass, but still in an imperfect script that may or may not fit the universal tongue. It was not so much that he was reft from earth as released from it, and dowered with swifter wings for love and worship. She was warm at the heart with the nearness of him. Recalled by the passing of an emotion too poignant to be long continued, she glanced at his mother, who stood there, hands clasped in front of her and head thrown back, her eyes upon a star.

"I wonder," said the older woman, thrillingly—"I wonder what he is doing now!"

