The Vehement Flame

by Margaret Wade Campbell Deland

  CHAPTER IV

  In spite of his declaration of indifference to the feelings of hisguardian, the married boy was rapidly acquiring that capacity for"worry" which Mr. Houghton desired to develop in him. _What would themail bring him from Green Hill?_ It brought nothing for a week--a weekin which he experienced certain bad moments which encouraged "worry" toa degree that made his face distinctly older than on that morning underthe locust tree, when he had been married for fifty-four minutes. Thefirst of these educating moments came on Monday, when he went to see histutor, to say that he was--well, he was going to stop grinding.

  "What?" said Mr. Bradley, puzzled.

  "I'm going to chuck college, sir," Maurice said, and smiled broadly,with the rollicking certainty of sympathy that a puppy shows whenapproaching an elderly mastiff.

  "Chuck college! What's the matter?" the mastiff said, puttinga protecting hand over his helpless leg, for Maurice'srestlessness--tramping about, his hands in his pockets--was a menaceto the plastered member.

  "I'm going into business," the youngster said; "I--Well; I've gotmarried, and--"

  "_What!_"

  "--so, of course, I've got to go to work."

  "See here, what are you talking about?"

  The uneasy color sprang into Maurice's face, he stood still, and thegrin disappeared. When he said explicitly what he was "talking about,"Mr. Bradley's angry consternation was like the unexpected snap of theold dog; it made Eleanor's husband feel like the puppy. "I ought to haverounded him up," Mr. Bradley was saying to himself; "Houghton will holdme responsible!" And even while making unpleasant remarks to thebridegroom, he was composing, in his mind, a letter to Mr. Houghtonabout the helplessness incidental to a broken leg, which accounted forhis failure in "rounding up." "_I_ couldn't get on to his trail!" he wasexonerating himself.

  When Maurice retreated, looking like a schoolboy, it took hima perceptible time to regain his sense of age and pride andresponsibility. He rushed back to the hotel--where he had plunged intothe extravagance of the "bridal suite,"--to pour out his hurt feelingsto Eleanor, and while she looked at him in one of her lovely silences herailed at Bradley, and said the trouble with him was that he was soreabout money! "He needn't worry! I'll pay him," Maurice said, largely.And then forgot Bradley in the rapture of kissing Eleanor's hand. "Asif we cared for his opinion!" he said.

  "We don't care!" she said, joyously. Her misgivings had vanished likedew in the hot sun. Old Mrs. O'Brien had done her part in dissipatingthem. While Maurice was bearding his tutor, Eleanor had gone acrosstown to her laundress's, to ask if Mrs. O'Brien would take Bingo as aboarder--. "I can't have him at the hotel," she explained, and thentold the great news:--"I'm going to live there, because I--I'mmarried,"--upon which she was kissed, and blessed, and wept over! "Thegentleman is a little younger than I am," she confessed, smiling; andMrs. O'Brien said:

  "An' what difference does that make? He'll only be lovin' ye hotter thanan old fellow with the life all gone out o' him!"

  Eleanor said, laughing, "Yes, that's true!" and cuddled the babygrandson's head against her breast.

  "You'll be happy as a queen!" said Mrs. O'Brien; and "in a year fromnow you'll have something better to take care of than Bingo--_he'll_ bejealous!"

  But she hardly heeded Mrs. O'Brien and her joyful prophecy of Bingo'sapproaching jealousy; having taken the dive, she had risen into thelight and air, and now she forgot the questioning depths! She was on thecrest of contented achievement. She even laughed to think that she hadever hesitated about marrying Maurice. Absurd! As if the few yearsbetween them were of the slightest consequence! Mrs. O'Brien wasright.... So she smoothed over Maurice's first bad moment with anindifference as to Mr. Bradley's opinion which was most reassuring tohim. (Yet once in a while she thought of Mr. Houghton, and bit her lip.)

  The next bad moment neither she nor Maurice could dismiss so easily; itcame in the interview with her astounded aunt, whose chief concern (whenshe read the letter which Eleanor had left on her pincushion) was lestthe Houghtons would think she had inveigled the boy into marrying herniece. To prove that she had not, Mrs. Newbolt told the bride and groomthat she would have nothing more to do with Eleanor! It was when thefifty-four minutes had lengthened into three days that they had gone,after supper, to see her. Eleanor, supremely satisfied, with no doubts,now about the wisdom of what she had done, was nervous only as to theeffect of her aunt's temper upon Maurice; and he, full of a bravado ofindifference which confessed the nervousness it denied, was anxious onlyas to the effect of the inevitable reproaches upon Eleanor. Their fivehorrid minutes of waiting in the parlor for Mrs. Newbolt's ponderousstep on the stairs, was broken by Bingo's dashing, with ear-piercingbarks, into the room: Eleanor took him on her knee, and Maurice, givingthe little black nose a kindly squeeze, looked around in pantomimichorror of the obese upholstery, and Rogers groups on the tops ofbookcases full of expensively bound and unread classics.

  "How have you stood it?" he said to his wife; adding, under his breath,"If she's nasty to you, I'll wring her neck!"

  She was very nasty. "I'm not a party to it," Mrs. Newbolt said; she sat,panting, on a deeply cushioned sofa, and her wheezy voice came throughquivering double chins; her protruding pale eyes snapped with anger. "Ishall tell you exactly what I think of you, Eleanor, for, as my dearmother used to say, if I have a virtue it is candor; I think you are apuffect fool. As for Mr. Curtis, I no more thought of protectin' himthan I would think of protectin' a baby in a perambulator from itsnursemaid! Bingo was sick at his stomach this mornin'. You've ruinedthe boy's life." Eleanor cringed, but Maurice was quite steady:

  "We will not discuss it, if you please. I will merely say that I draggedEleanor into it; I _made_ her marry me. She refused me repeatedly. Come,Eleanor."

  He rose, but Mrs. Newbolt, getting heavily on to her small feet, andtalking all the time, walked over to the doorway and blocked theirretreat. "You needn't think I'll do anything for you!" she said to herniece; "I shall write to Mr. Houghton and tell him so. I shall tell himhe isn't any more disgusted with this business than I am. And you cantake Bingo with you!"

  "I came to get him," Eleanor said, faintly.

  "Come, Eleanor," Maurice said; and Mrs. Newbolt, puffing and talking,had to make way for them. As they went out of the door she called,angrily:

  "Here! Stop! I want to give Bingo a chocolate drop!"

  They didn't stop. In the street on the way to Bingo's new home, Eleanor,holding her little dog in her arms, was blind with tears, but Mauriceeffervesced into extravagant ridicule. His opinion of Mrs. Newbolt, herparlor, her ponderosity, and her missing g's, exhausted his vocabularyof opprobrious adjectives; but Eleanor was silent, just putting up afurtive handkerchief to wipe her eyes. It was dark, and he drew her handthrough his arm and patted it.

  "Don't worry, Star. Uncle Henry is white! She can write to him all shewants to! I'm betting that we'll get an invitation to come right up toGreen Hill."

  She said nothing, but he knew she was trembling. As they entered Mrs.O'Brien's alley, they paused where it was dark enough, halfway betweengaslights, for a man to put his arm around his wife's waist and kissher. (Bingo growled.)

  "Eleanor! I've a great mind to go back to that hell-cat, and tell herwhat I think of her!"

  "No. Very likely she's right. I--I have injured you. Oh, Maurice, if I_have_--"

  "You'd have injured me a damn sight more if you hadn't married me!" hesaid.

  But for the moment her certainty that her marriage was a glorious andperfect thing, collapsed; her voice was a broken whisper:

  "If I've spoiled your life--she says I have;--I'll ... kill myself,Maurice." She spoke with a sort of heavy calmness, that made a small,cold thrill run down his back; he burst into passionate protest:

  "All I am, or ever can be, will be because you love me! Darling, whenyou say things like--like what you said, I feel as if you didn't loveme--"

  Of course the reproach tautened her courage; "I do! I do! But--"

  "The
n never say such a wicked, cruel thing again!"

  It was when Bingo had been left with Mrs. O'Brien that, on their wayback to the hotel, Maurice, in a burst of enthusiasm, invited his thirdbad moment: "I am going to have a rattling old dinner party to celebrateyour escape from the hag! How about Saturday night?"

  She protested that he was awfully extravagant; but she cheered up. Afterall, what difference did it make what a person like Auntie thought! "Butwho will you ask?" she said. "I suppose you don't know any men here? AndI don't, either."

  He admitted that he had only two or three acquaintances in Mercer--"butI have a lot in Philadelphia. You shan't live on a desert island,Nelly!"

  "Ah, but I'd like to--_with you_! I don't want anyone but you, in theworld," she said, softly.

  He thrilled at the wonder of that: she would be contented, _withhim_,--on a desert island! Oh, if he could only always be enough forher! He vowed to himself, in sudden boyish solemnity, that he _would_always be enough for her. Aloud, he said he thought he could scratch uptwo or three fellows.

  Then Eleanor's apprehension spoke: "What _will_ Mr. Houghton say?"

  "Oh, he's all right," Maurice said, resolutely hiding his ownapprehension. He could hide it, but he could not forget it. Even whilearranging for his dinner party, and plunging into the expense of aprivate dining room, he was thinking, of his guardian; "Will he kick?"Aloud he said, "I've asked three fellows, and you ask three girls."

  "I don't know many girls," she said, anxiously.

  "How about that girl you spoke to on the street yesterday? (If UncleHenry could only see her, he'd be crazy about her!)"

  "Rose Ellis? Well, yes; but she's rather young."

  "Oh, that's all right," Maurice assured her. "(I wish I hadn't told himshe is older than I am. Trouble with me is, I always plunk out thetruth!) The fellows like 'em young," he said. Then he told her who thefellows were: "I don't know 'em very well; they're just boys; not incollege. Younger than I am, except Tom Morton. Mort's twenty, and thebrainiest man I know. And Hastings has a bag of jokes--well, not justfor ladies," said Maurice, grinning, "and you'll like Dave Brown. Yourake in three girls. We'll have a stunning spread, and then go to thetheater." He caught her in his arms and romped around the room with her,then dropped her into a chair, and watched her wiping away tears ofhelpless laughter.

  "Yes--I'll rake in the girls!" she gasped.

  She wasn't very successful in her invitations. "I asked Rose, but Ihad to ask her mother, too," she said; "and one of the teachers at theMedfield school."

  Maurice looked doubtful. Rose was all right; but the other two? "Aren'tthey somewhat faded flowers?"

  "They're about my age," Eleanor teased him. As for Maurice, he thoughtthat it didn't really matter about the ladies, faded or not; they wereEleanor's end of the shindy. "Spring chickens are Mort's meat," hesaid...

  The three rather recent acquaintances who were Maurice's end of theshindy, had all gaped, and then howled, when told that the dinner wasto celebrate his marriage. "I got spliced kind of in a hurry," heexplained; "so I couldn't have any bachelor blow-out; but my--my--mywife, Mrs. Curtis, I mean--and I, thought we'd have a spree, to showI am an old married man."

  The fellows, after the first amazement, fell on him with all kinds ofragging: Who was she? Was she out of baby clothes? Would she come in aperambulator?

  "Shut up!" said the bridegroom, hilariously. He went home to Eleanortingling with pride. "I want you to be perfectly stunning, Star! Ofcourse you always are; but rig up in your best duds! I'm going to makethose fellows cross-eyed with envy. I wonder if you could sing, justonce, after dinner? I want them to hear you! (Mr. Houghton will love hervoice!)"

  Eleanor--who had stopped counting the minutes of married life now, for,this being the sixth day of bliss, the arithmetic was too much forher--was as excited about the dinner as he was. Yet, like him, under theexcitement, was a little tremor: "They will be angry because--because weeloped!" Any other reason for anger she would not formulate. Sometimesher anxiety was audible: "Do you suppose Auntie has written to Mr.Houghton?" And again: "What _will_ he say?" Maurice always replied, withexuberant indifference, that he didn't know, and he didn't care!

  "_I_ care, if he is horrid to you!" Eleanor said "He'll probably say itwas wicked to elope?"

  Mr. Houghton continued to say nothing; and the "care" Maurice denied,dogged all his busy interest in his dinner--for which he had made theplans, as Eleanor, until the term ended, was obliged to go out toMedfield to give her music lessons; besides, "planning" was not herforte! But in the thrill of excitement about the dinner and in themounting adventure of being happy, she was able to forget her fear thatMr. Houghton might be "horrid" to Maurice. If the Houghtons didn't likean elopement, it would mean that they had no romance in them! She wasabsorbed in her ardent innocent purpose of "impressing" Maurice'sfriends, not from vanity, but because she wanted to please him. As shedressed that evening, all her self-distrust vanished, and she smiled atherself in the mirror for sheer delight, for his sake, in her dark,shining eyes, and the red loveliness of her full lip. In this wholly newexperience of feeling, not only happy, but important,--she forgot Mrs.Newbolt, sailing angrily for Europe that very day, and was not evenanxious about the Houghtons! After all, what difference did it make whatsuch people thought of elopements? "Fuddy-duddies!" she said to herself,using Maurice's slang with an eager sense of being just as young as hewas.

  When the guests arrived and they all filed into the private and veryexpensive dining room, Eleanor looked indeed quite "stunning"; hershyness did not seem shyness, but only a sort of proud beauty ofsilence, which might cover Heaven knows what deeps of passion and ofknowledge! Little Rose was glowing and simpering, and the two olderladies were giving each other significant glances. Maurice's "fellows,"shepherded by their host, shambled speechlessly along in the background.The instant that they saw the bride they had fallen into dumbness. Brownsaid, under his breath to Hastings, "Gosh!" And Hastings gave Morton athrust in the ribs, which Morton's dignity refused to notice; later,when he was at Eleanor's right, the flattery of her eagerly attentivesilence instantly won him. Maurice had so expatiated to her uponMorton's brains, that she was really in awe of him--of which, of course,Morton was quite aware! It was so exhilarating to his twenty years thathe gave his host a look of admiring congratulation--and Maurice's priderose high!--then fell; for, somehow, his dinner wouldn't "go"! Hewatched the younger men turn frankly rude shoulders to the older ladies,who did their best to be agreeable. He caught stray words: Eleanor'sefforts to talk as Rose talked--Rose's dog was "perfectly sweet," but"simply awful"; then a dog story; "wasn't that _killing_?" And Eleanor:she once had a cat--"perfectly frightfully cunning!" said Eleanor,stumbling among the adverbs of adolescence.

  At Rose's story the young men roared, but Eleanor's cat awoke nointerest. Then one of the "faded flowers" spoke to Brown, who said,vaguely, "What, ma'am?"

  The other lady was murmuring in Maurice's ear:

  "What is your college?"

  Maurice trying to get Rose's eye, so that he might talk to her and givethe boys a chance to do their duty, said, distractedly, "Princeton. Say,Hastings! Tell Mrs. Ellis about the miner who lost his shirt--"

  Mrs. Ellis looked patient, and Hastings, dropping into agonized shyness,said, "Oh, I can't tell stories!"

  After that, except for Morton's philosophical outpourings to thelistening Eleanor, most of the dreary occasion of eating poor food,served by a waiter who put his thumb into things, was given up to thestifled laughter of the girl and boys, and to conversation between theother two guests, who were properly arch because of the occasion, butdisappointed in their dinner, and anxious to shake their heads and liftshocked hands as soon as they could get out of their hostess's sight.

  For Maurice, the whole endless hour was a seesaw between the past andthe present, between his new dignity and his old irresponsibility. Hetried--at first with boisterous familiarity, then with ponderouscondescension--to draw his friends out. What would Elea
nor think ofthem--the idiots! And what would she think of him, for having suchasinine friends? He hoped Mort was showing his brains to her! Hementally cursed Hastings because he did not produce his jokes; as forBrown, he was a kid. "I oughtn't to have asked him! What _will_ Eleanorthink of him!" He was thankful when dessert came and the boys stoppedtheir fatuous murmurings to little Rose, to gorge themselves with icecream. He talked loudly to cover up their silence, and glancedconstantly at his watch, in the hope that it was time to pack 'em alloff to the theater! Yet, even with his acute discomfort, he had momentsof pride--for there was Eleanor sitting at the head of the table, silentand handsome, and making old Mort crazy about her! In spite of thoseasses of boys, he was very proud. He had simply made a mistake ininviting Hastings and Brown; "Tom Morton's all right," he told himself;"but, great Scott! how young those other two are!"

  When the evening was over (the theater part of it was a success, for theplay was good, and Maurice had nearly bankrupted himself on a box), andhe and Eleanor were alone, he drew her down on the little sofa of theirsitting room, and worshiped. "Oh, Star, how wonderful you are!"

  "Did I do everything right?" She was breathless with happiness. "I triedso hard! But I _can't_ talk. I never know what to say."

  "You were perfect! And they were all such idiots--except Mort. Mort toldme you were very temperamental, and had a wonderful mind. I said, 'Youbet she has!' The old ladies were pills."

  "Oh, Maurice, you goose!... Maurice, what will Mr. Houghton say?"

  "Hell say, 'Bless you, my children!' Nelly, what _was_ the matter withthe dinner?"

  "Matter? Why, it was perfect! It was"--she made a dash for some of hisown words--"simply corking! Though perhaps Rose was a little too youngfor it. Didn't you enjoy it?" she demanded, astonished.

  He said that if she enjoyed it, that was all he cared about! He didn'ttell her--perhaps he didn't know it himself--that his own lack ofenjoyment was due to his inarticulate consciousness that he had notbelonged anywhere at that dinner table. He was too old--and he was tooyoung. The ladies talked down to him, and Brown and Hastings were politeto him. "Damn 'em, _polite_! Well," he thought, "'course, they know thata man in my position isn't in their class. But--" After a while he foundhimself thinking: "Those hags Eleanor raked in had no manners. Talked tome about my 'exams'! I'm glad I snubbed the old one, I don't thinkRose was too young," he said, aloud. "Oh, Star, you are wonderful!"

  And she, letting her hair fall cloudlike over her shoulders, silentlyheld out her arms to him. Instantly his third bad moment vanished.

  But a fourth was on its way; even as he kissed that white shoulder, hewas thinking of the letter which must certainly come from Mr. Houghtonin a day or two. "What will _he_ get off?" he asked himself; "probablyold Brad and Mrs. Newbolt have fed oats to him, so he'll kick--but whatdo I care? Not a hoot!" Thus encouraging himself, he encouraged Eleanor:

  "Don't worry! Uncle Henry'll write and _beg_ me to bring you up to GreenHill."

  The fifty-four minutes of married life had stretched into eight days,and Maurice had chewed the educating nails of worry pretty thoroughlybefore that "begging" letter from Henry Houghton arrived. There was aninclosure in it from Mrs. Houghton, and the young man, down in the darklobby of the hotel, with his heart in his mouth, read what both oldfriends had to say--then rushed upstairs, two steps at a time, to makehis triumphant announcement to his wife:

  "What did I tell you? Uncle Henry's _white_!" He gave her a hug; then,plugging his pipe full of tobacco, handed her the letters, and sat downto watch the effect of them upon her; there was no more "worry" forMaurice! But Eleanor, standing by the window silhouetted against theyellow twilight, caught her full lower lip between her teeth as sheread:

  "Of course," Mr. Houghton wrote--(it had taken him the week he hadthreatened to "concoct" his letter, which he asked his wife if he mightnot sign "Mr. F.'s aunt." "I bet she doesn't know her Dickens; it won'tconvey anything to her," he begged; "I'll cut out two cigars a day ifyou'll let me do it?" She would not let him, so the letter was perfectlydecorous.)--"Of course it was not the proper way to treat an old friend,and marriage is too serious a business to be entered into in this way.Also I am sorry that there is any difference in age between you andyour wife. But that is all in the past, and Mrs. Houghton and I wishyou every happiness. We are looking forward to seeing you nextmonth." ... ("Exactly," he explained to his Mary, "as I look forwardto going to the dentist's. _You_ tell 'em so.")

  As Mrs. Houghton declined to "tell 'em," Eleanor, reading the friendlywords, was able to say, "I don't think he's angry?"

  "'Course not!" said Maurice.

  Then she opened the other letter.

  My dear boy,--I wish you hadn't got married in such a hurry; Edith isdreadfully disappointed not to have had the chance "to be yourbridesmaid"! You must give us an opportunity soon to know your wife. Ofcourse you must both come to Green Hill as usual, for your vacation.

  "_She_ is furious," said Eleanor. "She thinks it's dreadful to haveeloped." She had turned away from him, and was looking out across theslow current of the river at the furnaces on the opposite bank--it wasthe same river, that, ten days ago, had run sparkling and lisping overbrown depths and sunny shallows past their meadow. Her face lightenedand darkened as the sheeting violet and orange flames from the greatsmokestacks roared out against the sky, and fell, and rose again. Thebeauty of them caught Maurice's eye, and he really did not notice whatshe was saying, until he caught the words: "Mrs. Houghton's likeAuntie--she thinks I've injured you--" Before he could get on his feetto go and take her in his arms, and deny that preposterous word, sheturned abruptly and came and sat on his knee; then, with a sort of sob,let herself sink against his breast. "But oh, I did so want to behappy!--and you made me do it."

  He gave her a quick squeeze, and chuckled: "You bet I made you!" hesaid; he pushed her gently to her feet, and got up and walked about theroom, his hands in his pockets. "As for Mrs. Houghton, you'll love her.She never fusses; she just says, 'Consider the stars.' I do hope you'lllike them, Eleanor," he ended, anxiously. He was still in that state ofmind where the lover hopes that his beloved will approve of his friends.Later on, when he and she love each other more, and so are more nearlyone, he hopes that his friends will approve of his beloved, even as heused to be anxious that they should approve of him. "I do awfully wantyou to like 'em at Green Hill! We'll go the minute your school closes."

  "_Must_ we?" she said, nervously.

  "I'm afraid we've got to," he said; "you see, I must find out about waysand means. And Edith would be furious if we didn't come," he ended,chuckling.

  "Is she nice?"

  "Why, yes," he said; "she's just a child, of course. Only eleven. Butshe and I have great times. We have a hut on the mountain; we go up fora day, and Edith cooks things. She's a bully cook. Her beloved JohnnyBennett tags on behind."

  "But do you like to be with a _child_?" she said, surprised.

  "Oh, she's got a lot of sense. Say, Nelly, I have an idea. While we areat Green Hill, let's camp out up there?"

  "You don't mean stay all night?" she said, flinching. "Oh, wouldn't itbe very uncomfortable? I--I hate the dark."

  The sweet foolishness of it enchanted him (baby love feeds on pap!)"Pitch dark," he teased, "and lions and tigers roaring around, andsnakes--"

  "Of course I'll go, if you want me to," she said, simply, but with areal sinking of the heart.

  "Edith adores it," he said. "Speaking of Edith, I must tell yousomething so funny. Last summer I was at Green Hill, and one night Mr.and Mrs. Houghton were away, and there was a storm. Gee, I never sawsuch a storm in my life! Edith has no more nerves than a tree, but evenshe was scared. Well, I was scared myself."

  He had stretched himself out on the sofa, and she was kneeling besidehim, her eyes worshiping him. "_I_ would have been scared to death," sheconfessed.

  "Well, _I_ was!" he said. "The tornado--it was just about that!--burston to us, and nearly blew the house off the hill--and such an infernalbello
wing, and hellish green lightning, you never saw! Well, I was justthinking about Buster--her father calls her Buster; and wonderingwhether she was scared, when in she rushed, in her night-gown. She madea running jump for my bed, dived into it, grabbed me, and hugged me so Iwas 'most suffocated, and screamed into my ear, 'There's a storm!'--asif I hadn't noticed it. I said--I could hardly make myself heard in theracket--I yelled, 'Don't you think you'd better go back to your ownroom? I'll come and sit there with you.' And she yelled, 'I'm going tostay here.' So she stayed."

  "I think she was a little old for that sort of thing," Eleanor said,coldly.

  He gave a shout of laughter. "Eleanor! Do you mean to tell me you don'tsee how awfully funny it was? The little thing hugged me with all hermight until the storm blew over. Then she said, calmly: 'It's cold. I'llstay here. You can go and get in my bed if you want to.'"

  Eleanor gave a little shrug, then rose and went over to the window. "Ohyes, it was funny; but I think she must be a rather pert little thing. Idon't want to go to Green Hill."

  Maurice looked worried. "I hate to urge anything you don't like, Nelly;but I really do feel we ought to accept their invitation? And you'lllike them! Of course they're not in your class. Nobody is! I meanthey're old, and sort of commonplace. But we can go and live in thewoods most of the time, and get away from them,--except little Skeezics.We'll take her along. You'll love having her; she's lots of fun. Yousee, I've _got_ to go to Green Hill, because I must get in touch withUncle Henry; I've got to find out about our income!" he explained, witha broad grin.

  "I should think Edith would bore you," she said. Her voice was sosharply irritated that Maurice looked at her, open-mouthed; he was toobewildered to speak.

  "Why, Eleanor," he faltered; "why are you--on your ear? Was it what Itold you about Edith? You didn't think that she wasn't _proper_?"

  "No! Of course not! It wasn't _that_." She came quickly and knelt besidehim. "Of course it wasn't _that_! It was--" She could not say what itwas; perhaps she did not quite know that her annoyance at Maurice'sdelight in Edith was the inarticulate pain of recognizing that he mighthave more in common with a child, eight years his junior, than he couldhave with a woman twenty years his senior. Her eyes were suddenly brightwith frightened tears. In a whisper, that fear which, in these days ofcomplete belief in her own happiness, she had forgotten even to deny,came back: "What really upset me was the letters. The Houghtons areangry because I am--" she flinched, and would not utter the final wordwhich was the hidden reason of her annoyance at Edith; so, instead ofuttering it, she said, "because we eloped."

  As for Maurice, he rallied her, and pretended to scold her, and tastedher tears salt upon his lips. He felt very old and protecting.

  "Nonsense!" he said. "Mrs. Houghton and Uncle Henry are old, and ofcourse they can't understand love. But the romance of it will touchthem!"

  And again Love cast out Fear; Eleanor, her face hidden on his shoulder,told herself that it really didn't matter what the Houghtons thoughtof ... an elopement.