CHAPTER II
It was three days after the young husband, lying in the grass, his cheekon his wife's hand, had made his careless prophecy about "whistling,"that Henry Houghton, jogging along in the sunshine toward Grafton forthe morning mail, slapped a rein down on Lion's fat back, and whistled,placidly enough.... (But that was before he reached the post office.)His wife, whose sweet and rosy bulk took up most of the space on theseat, listened, smiling with content. When he was placid, she wasplacid; when he wasn't, which happened now and then, she was an alertlyreasonable woman, defending him from himself, and wrenching from hishand, with ironic gayety, or rallying seriousness, the dagger of hisdiscontent with what he called his "failure" in life--which was whatmost people called his success--a business career, chosen because thesupport of several inescapable blood relations was not compatible withhis own profession of painting. All his training and hope had beencentered upon art. The fact that, after renouncing it, an admirablymanaged cotton mill provided bread and butter for sickly sisters andwasteful brothers, to say nothing of his own modest prosperity, nevermade up to him for the career of a struggling and probably unsuccessfulartist--which he might have had. He ran his cotton mill, and supportedall the family undesirables until, gradually, death and marriage tookthe various millstones from around his neck; then he retired, as thesaying is--although it was really setting sail again for life--to hisstudio (with a farmhouse attached) in the mountains. There had been ayear of passionate work and expectation--but his pictures were dead. "Isold my birthright for a bale of cotton," he said, briefly.
But he still stayed on the farm, and dreamed in his studio and triedto teach his little, inartistic Edith to draw, and mourned. As forbusiness, he said, "Go to the devil!"--except as he looked after MauriceCurtis's affairs; this because the boy's father had been his friend. Butit was the consciousness of the bartered birthright and the deadpictures in his studio which kept him from "whistling" very often.However, on this June morning, plodding along between blossoming fields,climbing wooded hills, and clattering through dusky covered bridges, hewas not thinking of his pictures; so, naturally enough, he whistled; avery different whistling from that which Maurice, lying in the grassbeside his wife of fifty-four minutes, had foreseen for him--when themail should be distributed! Once, just from sheer content, he stoppedhis:
"Did you ever ever ever In your life life lifeSee the devil devil devil Or his wife wife wife--"
and turned and looked at his Mary.
"Nice day, Kit?" he said; and she said, "Lovely!" Then she brushed herelderly rosy cheek against his shabby coat and kissed it. They had beenmarried for thirty years, and she had held up his hands as he placedupon the altar of a repugnant duty, the offering of a greatrenunciation. She had hoped that the birth of their last, and onlyliving, child, Edith, would reconcile him to the material results of therenunciation; but he was as indifferent to money for his girl as he hadbeen for himself.... So there they were, now, living rather carefully,in an old stone farmhouse on one of the green foothills of the AlleghenyMountains. The thing that came nearest to soothing the bruises on hismind was the possibilities he saw in Maurice.
"The inconsequence of the scamp amounts to genius!" he used to tell hisMary with admiring displeasure at one or another of Maurice's scrapes."Heaven knows what he'll do before he gets to the top of Fool Hill, andbegins to run on the State Road! Look at this mid-year performance. Heought to be kicked for flunking. He simply dropped everything except hismusic! Apparently he _can't_ study. Even spelling is a matter of privatejudgment with Maurice! Oh, of course, I know I ought to have scalpedhim; his father would have scalped him. But somehow the scoundrel getsround me! I suppose its because, though he is provoking, he is neverirritating. And he's as much of a fool as I was at his age! That keepsme fair to him. Well, he has _stuff_ in him, that boy. He's as truthfulas Edith; an appalling tribute, I know--but you like it in a cub. Andthere's no flapdoodle about him; and he never cried baby in his life.And he has imagination and music and poetry! Edith is a nice little clodcompared to him."
The affection of these two people for Maurice could hardly have beengreater if he had been their son. "Mother loves Maurice better 'an sheloves me," Edith used to reflect; "I guess it's because he never getsmuddy the way I do, and tracks dirt into the house. He wipes his feet."
"What do you suppose," Mrs. Houghton said, remembering this summing upof things, "Edith told me this morning that the reason I loved Mauricemore than I loved her--"
"What!"
"Yes; isn't she funny?--was because he 'wiped his feet when he came intothe house.'"
Edith's father stopped whistling, and smiled: "That child is aspractical as a shuttle; but she hasn't a mean streak in her!" he said,with satisfaction, and began to whistle again. "Nice girl," he said,after a while; "but the most rationalizing youngster! I hope she'll getfoolish before she falls in love. Mary, one of these days, when shegrows up, perhaps she and Maurice--?"
"Matchmaker!" she said, horrified; then objected: "Can't sherationalize and fall in love too? I'm rather given to reason myself,Henry."
"Yes, honey; you are _now_; but you were as sweet a fool as anybody whenyou fell in love, thank God." She laughed, and he said, resignedly, "Isuppose you'll have an hour's shopping to do? You have only one of thevices of your sex, Mary, you have the 'shopping mind.' However, with allthy faults I love thee still.... We'll go to the post office first; thenI can read my letters while you are colloguing with the storekeepers."
Mrs. Houghton, looking at her list, agreed, and when he got out for themail she was still checking off people and purchases; it was only whenshe had added one or two more errands that she suddenly awoke to thefact that he was very slow in coming back with the letters. "Stupid!"she thought, "opening your mail in the post office, instead of keepingit to read while I'm shopping!"--but even as she reproached him, he cameout and climbed into the buggy, in very evident perturbation.
"Where do you want to go?" he said; she, asking no questions (marvelouswoman!) told him. He said "G'tap!" angrily; Lion backed, and the wheelscreeched against the curb. "Oh, _g'on_!" he said. Lion switched histail, caught a rein under it, and trotted off. Mr. Houghton leaned overthe dashboard, swore softly, and gave the horse a slap with the rescuedrein. But the outburst loosened the dumb distress that had settled uponhim in the post office; he gave a despairing grunt:
"Well! Maurice has come the final cropper."
"Smith's next, dear," she said; "What is it, Henry?"
"He's gone on the rocks (druggist Smith, or fish Smith?)"
"Druggist. Has Maurice been drinking?" She could not keep the anxietyout of her voice.
"Drinking? He could be as drunk as a lord and I wouldn't--Whoa,Lion!... Get me some shaving soap, Kit!" he called after her, as shewent into the shop.
When she came back with her packages and got into the buggy, she said,quietly, "Tell me, Henry."
"He has simply done what I put him in the way of doing when I gave him aletter of introduction to that Mrs. Newbolt, in Mercer."
"Newbolt? I don't remember--"
"Yes, you do. Pop eyes. Fat. Talked every minute, and everything shesaid a _nonsequitur_. I used to wonder why her husband didn't choke her.He was on our board. Died the year we came up here. Talked to death,probably."
"Oh yes. I remember her. Well?"
"I thought she might make things pleasant for Maurice while he wascramming. He doesn't know a soul in Mercer, and Bradley's game legwouldn't help out with sociability. So I gave him letters to two orthree people. Mrs. Newbolt was one of them. I hated her, because shedropped her g's; but she had good food, and I thought she'd ask himto dinner once in a while."
"Well?"
"_She did._ And he's married her niece."
"What! Without your consent! I'm shocked that Mrs. Newbolt permitted--"
"Probably her permission wasn't asked, any more than mine."
"You mean an elopement? How outrageous in Maurice!" Mrs. Houghton said.
; Her husband agreed. "Abominable! Mary, do you mind if I smoke?"
"Very much; but you'll do it all the same. I suppose the girl's a merechild?" Then she quailed. "Henry!--she's respectable, isn't she? Icouldn't bear it, if--if she was some--dreadful person."
He sheltered a sputtering match in his curving hand and lighted a cigar;then he said, "Oh, I suppose she's respectable enough; but she'scertainly 'dreadful.' He says she's a music teacher. Probably caught himthat way. Music would lead Maurice by the nose. Confound that boy! Andhis father trusted me." His face twitched with distress. "As for being a'mere child,'--there; read his letter."
She took it, fumbling about for her spectacles; halfway through, shegave an exclamation of dismay. "'A few years older'?--she must be_twenty_ years older!"
"Good heavens, Mary!"
"Well, perhaps not quite twenty, but--"
Henry Houghton groaned. "I'll tell Bradley my opinion of him as acoach."
"My dear, Mr. Bradley couldn't have prevented it.... Yes; I remember herperfectly. She came to tea with Mrs. Newbolt several times. Rather atemperamental person, I thought."
"'Temperamental'? May the Lord have mercy on him!" he said. "Yes, itcomes back to me. Dark eyes? Looked like one of Rossetti's women?"
"Yes. Handsome, but a little stupid. She's proved _that_ by marryingMaurice! Oh, what a fool!" Then she tried to console him: "But one ofthe happiest marriages I ever knew, was between a man of thirty and amuch older woman."
"But not between a boy of nineteen and a much older woman! The troubleis not her age but his youth. Why didn't she adopt him?... I bet theaunt's cussing, too."
"Probably. Well, we've got to think what to do," Mary Houghton said.
"Do? What do you mean? Get a divorce for him?"
"He's just married; he doesn't want a divorce yet," she said, simply;and her husband laughed, in spite of his consternation.
"Oh, lord, I wish I was asleep! I've always been afraid he'd gohigh-diddle-diddling off with some shady girl;--but I swear, that wouldhave been better than marrying his grandmother! Mary, what I can'tunderstand, is the woman. He's a child, almost; and vanity at having awoman of forty fall in love with him explains him. And, besides, Mauriceis no Eurydice; music would lead him into hell, not out of it. It's theother fool that puzzles me."
His wife sighed; "If her mind keeps young, it won't matter so much abouther body."
"My dear," he said, dryly, "human critters are human critters. In tenyears it will be an impossible situation."
But again she contradicted him: "No! Unhappiness is possible; but _not_inevitable!"
"Dear Goose, may a simple man ask how it is to be avoided?"
"By unselfishness," she said; "no marriage ever went on the rocks whereboth 'human critters' were unselfish! But I hope this poor, foolishwoman's mind will keep young. If it doesn't, well, Maurice will justhave to be tactful. If he is, it may not be so _very_ bad," she said,with determined optimism.
"Kit, when a man has to be 'tactful' with his wife, God help him!--ora woman with her husband," he added in a sudden tender afterthought."We've never been 'tactful' with each other, Mary?" She smiled, and puther cheek against his shoulder. "'Tactfulness' between a husband andwife," said Henry Houghton, "is confession that their marriage is afailure. You may tell 'em so, from me."
"You may tell them yourself!" she retorted. "What are they going to liveon?" she pondered "Can his allowance be increased?"
"It can't. You know his father's will. He won't get his money until he'stwenty-five."
"He'll have to go to work," she said; "which means not going back tocollege, I suppose?"
"Yes," he said, grimly; "who would support his lady-love while he was incollege? And it means giving up his music," he added.
"If he makes as much out of his renunciation as you have out of yours,"she said, calmly, "we may bless this poor woman yet."
"Oh, you old humbug," he told her--but he smiled.
Then she repeated to him an old, old formula for peace; "'Consider thestars,' Henry, and young foolishness will seem very small. Maurice'selopement won't upset the universe."
They were both silent for a while; then Mary Houghton said, "I'll writethe invitation to them; but you must second it when you answer hisletter."
"Invitation? What invitation?"
"Why, to come and stay at Green Hill until you can find something forhim to do."
"I'll be hanged if I invite her! I'll have nothing to do with her!Maurice can come, of course; but he can't bring--"
His wife laughed, and he, too, gave a reluctant chuckle. "I suppose I'vegot to?" he groaned.
"_Of course_, you've got to!" she said.
The rest of the ride back to the old stone house among its great trees,halfway up the mountain, was silent. Mrs. Houghton was thinking whatroom she would give the bride and groom--for the little room Maurice hadhad in all his vacations since he became her husband's ward was notsuitable. "Edith will have to let them have her room," she thought. Sheknew she could count on Edith not to make a fuss. "It's such a comfortthat Edith has sense," she ruminated aloud.
But her husband was silent; there was no more whistling for HenryHoughton that day.
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