CHAPTER XVIII
That dismal festivity of the meadow marked the time when Maurice beganto live in his own house only from a sense of duty ... and because Edithwas there! A fact which Eleanor's aunt recognized almost as soon asEleanor did; so, with her usual candor, Mrs. Newbolt took occasion topoint things out to her niece. She had bidden Eleanor come to dinner,and Eleanor had said she would--"if Maurice happened to be going out."
"Better come when he's _not_ going out, so he can be at home and amuseEdith!" said Mrs. Newbolt. "Eleanor, my dear father used to say thatwomen were puffect fools, because they never could realize that if theyleft the door _open_, a cat would put on his slippers and sit by thefire and knit; if they locked it, he'd climb up the chimney, but whathe'd feel free to prowl on the roof!"
Eleanor preferred to "lock the door"; and certainly during that nextwinter Edith's gay interest in every topic under heaven was a roof onwhich Maurice prowled whenever he could! Sometimes he stayed at home inthe evening, just to talk to her! When he did, those "brains" whichEleanor resented, made him indifferent to many badly cookeddinners--during which Eleanor sat at the table and saw his enjoyment,and felt that dislike of their "boarder," which had become acute the dayof the picnic, hardening into something like hatred. She wondered how heendured the girl's chatter? Sometimes she hinted as much, but Edithnever knew she was being criticized! She was too generous to recognizethe significance of what she called (to herself) Eleanor's grouch, andMaurice's delight in such unselfconsciousness helped to keep herignorant, for he held his tongue--with prodigious effort!--even whenEleanor hit Edith over his shoulder. If he defended her, he toldhimself, the fat _would_ be in the fire! So, as no one pointed out toEdith what the grouch meant, she had not the faintest idea that Eleanorwas saying to herself, "Oh, if I could _only_ get rid of her!" And as noone pointed out to Eleanor that the way to hold Maurice was not to getrid of Edith, but to "open the door," that corrosive thing the girl hadcalled "Bingoism" kept the anger of the day in the field smoldering inher mind. It was like a banked fire eating into her deepestconsciousness; it burned all that winter; it was still burning even whenthe summer vacation came and Edith went home. Her departure was animmense relief to Eleanor; she told Maurice she didn't want her to comeback, ever!
"Why not?" he said, sharply; "_I_ like having her here. Besides, thinkof telling Uncle Henry we didn't want Edith next winter! If you have thenerve for that, _I_ haven't." Eleanor had not the nerve; so when, at theend of June, Edith rushed home, it was understood that she would be withMaurice and Eleanor during the next term.... That was the summer thatmarked the seventh year of their marriage--and the fourth year of Jacky,over in the little frame house on Maple Street. But it was the firstyear of a knowledge, surprisingly delayed!--which came to Edith; namely,that Johnny Bennett was "queer."
It may have been this "queerness" which made her attach herself toEleanor, who, in August, went to Green Hill for the usual two weeks'visit. Maurice had to go away on office business three or four timesduring that fortnight, but he came up for one Sunday. He had insistedupon Eleanor's going, because, he said, she needed the change. "Can'tyou come?" she pleaded. "Do take some extra time from the office!"
"And be docked? Can't afford it!" he said; "but I'll get one week-end inwith you," he promised her, looking forward with real satisfaction tothe solitude of his own house. So Eleanor, saying she couldn'tunderstand why he was so awfully economical now that he had his ownmoney!--came alone,--full of remorse at deserting him, and worry becauseof his loneliness, and leaving a pining Bingo behind her. But, to hersilent annoyance, as soon as she arrived at Green Hill she encountered anew and tiresome attentiveness from Edith! Edith was inescapably polite.She did not urge upon Eleanor any of those strenuous amusements to whichshe and Johnny were devoted; she merely gave up the amusements, and, asJohnny expressed it, "stuck to Eleanor"! Eleanor couldn't understand it,and when Maurice at last arrived, Johnny's perplexity became audible:
"Perhaps," he told Edith, satirically, "you may be able, now, to tearyourself away from Eleanor, and go fishing with me? You fish prettywell--for a woman. Maurice can lug her round."
"I will, if Maurice will go, too," Edith said.
"What do you drag him in for?"--John paused; understanding dawned uponhim: "She doesn't want to be by herself with me!" His tanned face slowlyreddened, and those brown eyes of his behind the big spectacles grewkeen. He didn't speak for quite a long time; then he said, very low,"I'll be here to-morrow morning at four-thirty. Be ready. I'll digbait."
"All right," said Edith; after which, for the first time in her life,she played a shabby trick on Johnny Bennett; as soon as he had gonehome, she invited Eleanor (who promptly declined), and Maurice (who aspromptly accepted), to go fishing, too! Then, having got what shewanted, she reproached herself: "Johnny'll be mad as fury. But when hegets to saying things to me he makes me feel funny in the back of myneck. Besides, I want Maurice."
The fishermen were to assemble in the grayness of the August dawn; andJohnny was, as usual, prepared to throw a handful of gravel at Edith'swindow to hurry her downstairs. But when he loomed up in the mist, whoshould be on the porch, fooling with a rod, but Maurice!
"What's he butting in for?" Johnny thought, looking so cross thatEdith, coming out with the luncheon basket, was really remorseful."Hullo, Johnny," she said. ("I never played it on him before," she wasthinking.) But at that moment her remorse was lost in alarm, forstanding in the doorway was Eleanor, her hair caught up in a hurriedtwist, a wrapper over her shoulders, her bare feet thrust into pinkbedroom slippers. (Forty-six looks fifty-six at 4.30 A.M.)
"Darling," Eleanor said, "I believe I'd like to go up to the cabinto-day. Do let's do it--just you and I!"
The three young people all spoke at once:
Johnny said: "Good scheme! We'll excuse Maurice."
Edith said, "Oh, Eleanor, Maurice loves fishing!"
And Maurice said: "I sort of think I'd like to catch a sucker or two inthis pool Johnny is always cracking up. I bet he's in for a big joltabout his trout! You come, too?"
"I'd get so awfully tired. And I--I thought we could have a day togetherup on the mountain," she ended, wistfully.
There was a dead silence. Johnny was thinking: "Gosh! I hope she getshim." And Edith was thinking, "I'd like to choke her!" Maurice'sthoughts could not be spoken; he merely said, "All right; if you wantto."
"I don't believe I'll go fishing, either," Edith said.
Eleanor, on the threshold, turned quickly: "Please don't stay at home onmy account!"
But Maurice settled it. "I'll not go," he said, patiently; "but youmust, Edith." He threw down his rod and went into the house; Eleanor, inher flopping pink slippers, hurried after him....
"I did so want to have you to myself," she said; "you don't mind notgoing fishing with those children, do you?"
He said, listlessly: "Oh no. But don't let's attempt the cabin stunt."Then he stood at the window and watched Johnny and Edith, with fishingrods and lunch basket, disappear down the road into the fog. He was toobored to be irritated; he only counted the hours until he could getback to Mercer, and the office, and the table under the silver poplar."I'll get hold of the Mortons, and Hannah can give us some sort of grub,and then we'll go to a show," he thought. "I can stick it out here forthirty-six hours more."
He stuck it out that morning by sitting in Mr. Houghton's studio, oneleg across the arm of his chair, reading and smoking. Once Eleanor camein and asked him if he was all right. He said, briefly, "Yes."
But she was uneasy: "Maurice, I'll play tennis with you?"
This at least made him chuckle. "_You?_ How long since? My dear, youcouldn't play a set to save your life!"
After that she let him alone for a while. Early in the afternoon theneed to make up to him for what she had done grew intolerable: "Darling,let's play solitaire?"
"I'm going to write letters."
She left him to his letters for an hour, then came again: "Let's walk!"
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bsp; "Well, if you want to," Maurice said, and yawned. So they trudged off.Eleanor, walking very close to her husband, was thinking, heavily, howfar they were apart; but she did her best to amuse him by anxiousponderings of household expenses. He, sheering off to the other side ofthe road to escape her intimate and jostling shoulder, was thinking ofthe expenses of another household, and making no effort whatever toamuse her. His silence confessed an irritation which she felt but couldnot understand; so by and by she fell silent, too, though the helplesstears stood in her eyes. Then, apparently, he put his annoyance,whatever it was, behind him.
"Nelly," he said, "let's go down by the West Branch and meet Edith andJohnny? They'll be coming home that way, 'laden with trout,' I suppose,"he ended, sarcastically.
Eleanor began to say, "Oh _no_!" Then something, she didn't know what,made her say, "Well, all right." As they turned into the wood road thatran up toward the mountain, she said another unexpected thing:
"Maurice, I'm tired. I'll go home; you go on by yourself, and--and meetJohnny." She didn't know, herself, why she said it! Perhaps, it was justan effort to make up for what she had done in the morning?
Maurice, astonished, made some half-hearted protest; he would go backwith her? But she said no, and walked home alone. Her throat ached withunshed tears. "He _likes_ to be with her! He doesn't want me,--and Ilove him--I love him!"
* * * * *
The two youngsters had made a long day of it. On their way to the brookthat morning, crashing through underbrush, climbing rotting rail fencesthat were hidden in docks and briers, balancing on the precariousslipperiness of mossy rocks, the triumphant Johnny, his heart warm withgratitude to Eleanor, had led his captive and irritated Edith. When theybroke through low-hanging boughs and found the pool, the troutpossibilities of which Johnny had so earnestly "cracked up," Edith wasdistinctly grumpy. "Eleanor is a selfish thing," she said. "Gimme aworm."
"I think Maurice would have been cussedly selfish not to do what shewanted," Johnny said; "my idea of marriage is that a man must doeverything his wife wants."
"Maurice is never selfish! He's great, simply great!" Edith said.
"Oh, he's decent enough," Johnny admitted, then he paused, frowning, forhe couldn't open his bait box; he banged it on a stone, pried his knifeunder the lid, swore at it--and turned very red. Edith giggled.
"Let me try," she said.
"No use; the rotten thing's stuck."
But she took it, shook it, gave an easy twist, and the maddeninglid--loosened, of course, by Johnny's exertions--came off! Edithshrieked with joy; but Johnny, though mortified, was immenselyrelieved. They sat down on a sloping rock, and talked bait, and thegrave and spectacled Johnny became his old self, scolding Edith fortalking so loudly. "Girls," he said, "are _born_ not fishermen!" Thenthey waded out into the stream, and began to cast. It was broad daylightby this time, and the woods were filling with netted sunbeams; the waterwhispered and chuckled.
"Pretty nice?" Johnny said, in a low voice; and Edith, all hergrumpiness flown, said:
"You bet it is!" Then, as an afterthought, she called back, "But Eleanoris the limit!"
Johnny, forgetting his gratitude to Eleanor, said, savagely: "_Keepquiet!_ You scared him off! Gosh! girls are awful."
So Edith kept quiet, and he wandered up the stream, and she wandereddown the stream, and they fished, and they fished--and they never caughta thing.
"I had _one_ bite," Johnny said when, at about eleven, fiercely hungry,they met on the bank where they had left their lunch basket; "but youburst out about Eleanor, and drove him off. Girls simply _can't_ fish."
Edith was contrite--but doubted the bite. Then they sat down on a mossyrock, and ate stacks of sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, and watched thewater, and talked, talked, talked. At least Edith talked--mostly aboutMaurice. Johnny lit his pipe, puffed once or twice, then let it go outand sat staring into the green wall of the woods on the other side ofthe brook. Then, suddenly, quietly, he began to speak....
"I want to say something."
"The mosquitoes here are awful!" Edith said, nervously; "don't you thinkwe'd better go home?"
"Look here, Edith; you've got to be half decent to me--unless, ofcourse, you've soured on me? If you have, I'll shut up."
"Johnny, don't be an idiot! 'Course I haven't soured on you. You're theoldest friend I've got. Older than Maurice, even."
"Well, I guess I am an older friend than Maurice! But lately you'vetreated me like a dog. You skulk round to keep from being by ourselves.You never give me a chance to open my head to you--"
"Johnny, that's perfectly absurd! I've had to look after Eleanor--"
"Eleanor _nothing_! It's me you want to shake."
"I do _not_ want to shake you! I'm just busy."
"Edith, I care a lot about you. I don't care much for girls, as a rule.But you're not girly. And every time I try to talk to you, you sidestepme."
"Now, Johnny--"
"But I'm going to tell you, all the same." He made a clutch at thesopping-wet hem of her skirt. "I _will_ say it! I care an awful lotabout you. I'm not a boy. I want to marry you."
There was a dead silence; then Edith said, despairingly, "Oh, Johnny,how perfectly horrid you are!" He gasped. "You simply spoil everythingwith this sort of ... of ... of talk."
"You mean you don't like me?" His face twitched.
"Like you? I like you awfully! That's why I'm so mad at you. Why, I'm_awfully_ fond of you--"
"Edith!"
"I mean I never had a friend like you. I've always liked you ten timesbetter than any silly old girl friend I ever had. I've liked you_almost_ as much as Maurice. Of course I shall never like anybody asmuch as Maurice. He comes next to father and mother. But now you goand--and talk ... I just can't bear it," Edith said, and fumbled for herpocket handkerchief; "I _hate_ talk." Her eyes overflowed.
"Edith! Look here; now, _don't_! Honestly, I can stand being turneddown, but I can't stand--that. Edith, _please_! I never saw you dothat--girl stunt. I'll never bother you again, if you'll just stopcrying!"
Edith, unable to find her handkerchief, bent over and wiped her eyes onher dress. "I'm _not_ crying," she said, huskily; "but--"
"I think," John Bennett said, "honestly, Edith, I think I've loved youall my life."
"And I have loved you," she said; "You are a lamb! Oh, Johnny, I'mperfectly crazy about you!"
His swiftly illuminating face made her add, hastily, "and now you go andspoil everything!"
"I won't spoil things, Skeezics," he said, gently; "oh, say, Edith, letup on crying! _That_ breaks me all up."
But Edith, having discovered her handkerchief, was mopping very flushedcheeks and mumbling on about her own woes. "Why can't you be satisfiedjust to go on the way we always have? Why can't you be satisfied to haveme like you almost as much as I like Maurice?"
"Maurice!" the young man said, with a helpless laugh. "Oh, Edith, youare several kinds of a goose! In the first place, Maurice is married;and in the second place, he's old enough to be your father--"
"He isn't old enough to be my father! And I shall _never_ like anybodyas much as Maurice, because there isn't anybody like him in the entireworld. I've always thought he was exactly like Sir Walter Raleigh.Besides, I shall never marry _anybody_! But I mean, I don't see why itisn't enough for you to have me awfully fond of you?"
"Well, it isn't," Johnny said, briefly, "but don't you worry." He waswhite, but his tenderness was like a new sense. Edith had never seen_this_ Johnny. Her entirely selfish impatience turned to shyness."Edith," he said, very gently, "you don't understand, dear. You'reawfully young--younger than your age. I didn't take in how young youwere--talking about Maurice! I suppose it's because you know so fewgirls, that you are so young. Well; I can't hang round with you anymore, as if we were ten years old. You see, I--I love you, Edith. Thatmakes the difference ... dear."
"Oh," said Edith, desperately, "how perfectly _horrid_--" She lookedreally distracted, poor child! (but
that was the moment when herpreposterous youthfulness ceased.) She jumped to her feet so suddenlythat Johnny, who had begun, his fingers trembling, to scrape out thebowl of his pipe, dropped his jackknife, which rolled down the steeplysloping rock into the water. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" Edith said.
John sighed. "Oh, that's nothing," he said, and slid over the moss andferns to the water's edge; there, lying flat on his stomach, his sleeverolled up, he thrust his bare white arm into the dark and troutlessdepths of the pool, and salvaged his knife. Edith, on the bank, beganfuriously to pack up. When Johnny climbed back to her she said shewanted to go home, "_now_!"
"All right," he said again, gently.
So, silently, they started homeward; and never in her life had Edithbeen so glad to see any human creature as she was to see Maurice on theWest Branch Road! But she let him do all the talking. To herself she wassaying, "It's all Eleanor's fault for not letting him come this morning!I just hate her!..."
That night her father said to her mother, rather sadly, "Mary, ourlittle girl has grown up. Johnny Bennett is casting sheep's eyes ather."
"Nonsense!" said Mary Houghton, comfortably; "she's a perfect child, andso is he."
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