CHAPTER XIX
Curiously enough, though Edith's mother did not recognize what was goingon between "the children," Eleanor did. When she came back to Mercer, aweek later, she overflowed about it to Maurice. "Calf love!" she summedit up.
"She didn't look down on that kind of love seven years ago," he thought,cynically. But he didn't say so; no matter what his thoughts were, hewas always kind to Eleanor. Lily, over in Medfield; Lily, in the small,secret house; Lily, with the good-looking little boy--blue-eyed,rosy-cheeked, blond-haired!--the squalid memory of Lily, said to him,over and over: "You are a confounded liar; so the least you can do is tobe decent to Eleanor."
So he was kind.
"_I_ couldn't bear myself," he used to think, "if I wasn't--but, _O_Lord!"
That "_O_ Lord!" was his summing up of a growing and demoralizing senseof the worthlessness and unreality of life. Like Solomon (and all therest of us, who see the universe as a mirror for ourselves!) heappraised humanity at his valuation of himself. He didn't use Solomon'ssix words, but the eight of his generation were just as exact--"_Thewhole blooming outfit is a rotten lie!_ If," he reflected, "deceit isn'ton my 'Lily' line, it is on a thousand other lines." From the smallcowardices of appreciations and admirations which one did not reallyfeel, up through the bread-and-butter necessities of business, on intothe ridiculousness of what is called "Democracy" or "Liberty"--on, even,into those emotional evasions of logic and reason labeled"Religion"--all lies--all lies! he told himself. "And I," he used tothink, looking back on seven years of marriage, "I am the mostaccomplished liar of the whole shootin' match!... If they get off that G.Washington gag on me any more at the office, somebody'll get their headpunched."
All the same, even if he did say, "_O_ Lord!" he was carefully kind tohis boring wife.
But when Edith (suddenly grown up, it seemed to Maurice) came back forthe fall term, he said "_O_ Lord!" less frequently. The world began toseem to him a less rotten place. "Nice to have you round again,Skeezics!" he told her; and Eleanor, listening, went up to her room, andsat with her fingers pressed hard on her eyes. "It's dreadful to haveher around! How _can_ I get rid of her?" she thought. Very often now theflame of jealousy flared up; it scorched her whenever she recognizedEdith's "brains," whenever she noticed some gay fearlessness, or easycapability; whenever she watched the girl's high-handed treatment ofMaurice: criticizing him! Telling him he was mean because he was alwayssaying he "couldn't afford things"! Declaring that she wished he wouldstop his everlasting practicing--and apparently not caring a copper forhim! If Edith said, "Oh, Maurice, you are a perfect _idiot_!" Eleanorwould see him grin with pleasure; but when Eleanor put her arms aroundhim and kissed him, he sighed. To Maurice's wife these things were alllike oil on fire; but it never occurred to her to try to develop inherself any of the qualities he seemed to find attractive in Edith.Instead, she thought of that June day in the meadow by the river when hesaid he loved her inefficiency--he loved her timidity, and, oh, how hehad loved her love! He had made her promise to be jealous! Eleanor wasnot a reasoning person--probably no jealous woman is; but she didrecognize the fact that what made him love her then, made him impatientwith her now. This seemed to her irrational; and so, of course, itwas!--just as the tide is irrational, or the turning of the earth on itsaxis is irrational. Nature has nothing to do with reason. So, in itsdeep and beautiful and animal beginnings, Love, too, is irrational. Ithas to ascend to Reason! But Eleanor did not know these things. All sheknew was that Maurice _hurt_ her, a dozen times a day.
She was brooding over this one Sunday afternoon in late September, when,at the open window of her bedroom, with Bingo snoozing in her lap, shelistened to Edith, down in the garden: "How about a jug of dahlias onthe table?"
And Maurice: "Bully! Say, Edith, why couldn't we have a yellow schemefor the grub? Orange cup, and that sort of fussy business you make outof cheese and the yolks of eggs? And yellow cakes?"
"Splendid! I'll mix up some perfectly stunning little sponge cakes,'Lemon Queens.' Yellow as anything!"
This was all to get ready for a tea under the silver poplar, which wasdropping yellow leaves down on the green table, and the mossy brickpath, and the chairs for the company. The Mortons were coming, and therewould be, Eleanor told herself, wearily, the usual shrieking over flatjokes,--Edith's jokes, mostly. Her dislike of Edith was a burning achebelow her breastbone. "Maurice has her, so he doesn't want me," shethought; then suddenly she got up and hurried downstairs. "I'll fix thetable!" she said, peremptorily.
"It's all done," Edith said; "doesn't it look pretty? Oh, Eleanor, letme put a dahlia behind your ear! You'll look like a Spanish lady!" Sheput the gorgeous flower into the soft disorder of Eleanor's dark hair,avoiding Bingo's angry objections, and said, with open admiration,"Eleanor, you _are_ handsome! I adore dahlias!" she announced; "thosequilly ones, red on the outside and yellow inside! There are somestunning ones on Maple Street, where I saw that Dale woman. Wonder ifshe'd sell some roots?"
The color flew into Maurice's face. "Did you get your bicycle mended?"he said.
Instantly Edith forgot the dahlias, and plunged into bicycletechnicalities, ending with the query, "Why don't you squeeze out somemoney, and buy one of those cheap little automobiles, Maurice, you meanold thing!"
"Can't afford it," Maurice said.
But Eleanor was puzzled. There had been a hurried note in Maurice'svoice when he asked Edith about her bicycle--an imperative changing ofthe subject! She looked at him wonderingly. Why should he change thesubject? Was he annoyed at Edith's bad taste in referring to thecreature? But Edith's taste was always bad, and Maurice was notgenerally so sensitive to it; not as sensitive as he ought to be! Or ashe had been in those old days when he had said that Eleanor was toolovely to know the wickedness of the world, and he "didn't want her to"!She was really perplexed; and when Edith rushed off to make the cakes,and Maurice went indoors, she sat there in the garden, looking absentlyout through the rusty bars of the iron gate at the distant glimmer ofthe river, and wondered: "Why?"
She was still wondering even when the Mortons arrived, bringing withthem--of all people!--Doctor Nelson. (_"Gosh!"_ said Maurice.) "We'recelebrating his appointment at the hospital; he's the newsuperintendent!" Mrs. Morton explained.
Eleanor said, mechanically, "So glad to see you, Doctor Nelson!" But shewas saying to herself, "_Why_ was Maurice provoked when Edith spoke ofMrs. Dale?" When some more noisy and very young people arrived, she wastoo abstracted to talk to them. She was so silent that most of themforgot her; until Mrs. Morton, suddenly remembering her existence, triedto be conversational:
"I suppose Mr. Curtis told you of our wild adventure on the river inAugust, when we got beached and spent the afternoon on a mud flat?"
"No," Eleanor said, vaguely. But afterward, when the guests had gone,she said to Maurice, "Why didn't you tell me about your adventure withthe Mortons?"
"He told me," Edith said, complacently.
"I forgot, I suppose," Maurice said, carelessly, and lounged off intothe house to sit down at the piano--where lie immediately "forgot" notonly the adventure on the river--but even his dismay at seeing DoctorNelson!--who by this time was, of course, quite certain that it was a"rum world."
That winter--although he was not conscious of it--Maurice's"forgetfulness" in regard to his wife became more and more marked, so itwas a year of darkening loneliness for Eleanor. She was at last on that"desert island"--which had once seemed so desirable to her;--she hadnothing to interest her except her music (and the quality of her voicewas changing, pathetically); furthermore, Maurice rarely asked her tosing, so the passion had gone out of what voice she had! She didn't carefor books; she didn't know how to sew; and, except for Mrs. Newbolt,there was no one she wanted to see. Often, in her empty evenings, whileEdith was in her own room studying, she sat by the fire and cried, andbroke her heart upon her desire for a child--"_then_ he would be happy,and stay at home!"
It was a dull house; so dull that Edith made up her mind to
get out ofit for her next winter at Fern Hill. When she went home for the Eastervacation, she expressed decided opinions: "Father, once, ages ago"--shewas sitting on her father's knee, and tormenting him by trying to takehis cigar away from him--"you got off something about the dinner ofherbs and Eleanor's stalled ox--"
"Good heavens, Buster! You haven't said that before Eleanor?"
"Ha! I got a rise out of you!" Edith said, joyfully; "I haven'tmentioned it, _yet_; but I shall make a point of doing so unless youorder two pounds of candy for me, _at once_. Well, I suppose what youmeant was that Eleanor is stupid?"
"Mary," said Henry Houghton, "your blackmailing daughter is displaying aglimmer of intelligence."
"I'm only reminding you of your own remark," Edith said, "to explainwhy I want to be in one of the dormitories next winter. Eleanor _is_stupid--though she's never fed me on stalled ox! And I think she sort ofdoesn't like it because I'm not _awfully_ fond of music."
"You are an absolute heathen about music," her father said.
"Well, it bores me," Edith explained, cheerfully; "though I adoreMaurice's playing. Maurice is a lamb, and I adore just being in thehouse with him! But she's nasty to him sometimes. And when she is, I'dlike to choke her!"
"Edith--Edith--" her mother remonstrated. And her father reminded herthat she must _not_ lose her temper.
"Let your other parent be a warning to you as to the horrors of anuncontrolled temper," said Henry Houghton; "I have known your mother, inone of her outbursts of fury, so far forget herself as to say, _'Oh,my!'_"
Edith grinned, but insisted, "Eleanor is dull as all get out!"
"Consider the stars," Mrs. Houghton encouraged her.
But Mr. Houghton said, "Mary, you've got to do something about thisgirl's English! ... You miss John Bennett?" he asked Edith (Johnny wastaking a special course in an Eastern institute of technology).
"He did well enough to fill in the chinks," Edith said, carelessly; "butit's Maurice's being away that takes the starch out of me. He'severlastingly tearing off on business. And when he's at home--" Edithwas suddenly grave--"of course Maurice is always 'the boy stands on theburning deck'; but you can't help seeing that he's fed up on poor oldEleanor! Sometimes I wonder he ever does come home! If I were in hisplace, when she gets to nagging _I'd_ go right up in the air! I'd say,well,--something. But he keeps his tongue between his teeth."
That evening, when Henry Houghton was alone with his wife, he said whathe thought about Maurice: "He _is_ standing on the burning deck of thispathetic marriage of his, magnificently. He never bats an eyelash!(Your daughter's slang is vulgar.)"
"Eleanor is the pathetic one," Mary Houghton said, sadly; "Mauricehas grown cynical--which is a sort of protection to him, I suppose.Yes; I'm afraid Edith is right; she'd better be out at the school nextwinter. It isn't well for a girl to see differences between a husbandand wife.... Henry, you shan't have another cigar! That's the third sincesupper! Dear, what _is_ the trouble about Maurice?"
"Mary, things have come to a pretty pass, when you snoop around andcount up my cigars! I _will_ smoke!" But he withdrew an empty hand fromhis cigar box, and said, sighing, "I wish I could tell you aboutMaurice; Kit; but I can't betray his confidence."
"If I guessed, you wouldn't betray anything?"
"Well, no. But--"
"I guessed it a good while ago. Some foolishness about a woman, ofcourse. Or--or badness?" she ended, sadly.
He nodded. "I wish I was asleep whenever I think of it! Mary, thereare some pretty steep grades on Fool Hill, and he's had hardclimbing.... It's ancient history now; but I can't go into it."
"Of course not. Oh, my poor Maurice! Does Eleanor know?"
"Heavens, no! It wouldn't do."
"Honey, the unforgivable thing, to a woman, is not the sin, but thedeceit. And, besides, Eleanor loves him enough to forgive him. She woulddie for him, I really believe!"
"Yet the green-eyed monster looks out of her eyes if he plays checkerswith Edith! My darling," said Henry Houghton, "as I have beforeremarked, your ignorance on this one subject is colossal. _Women can'tstand truth._"
"It's a provision of nature, then, that all men are liars?" sheinquired, sweetly; "Henry, the loss of Edith's board won't troubleMaurice much, will it?"
"Not _as_ much, of course, now that he has all his money; but he has toscratch gravel to make four ends meet," Henry Houghton said.
"_Four_ ends!" she said; "oh, is it as bad as that? He has tosupport--somebody?"
He said, "Yes; so long as you have guessed. Mary, I really must have asmoke."
"Why _am_ I so weak-minded as to give in to you!" she sighed; thenhanded him the cigar box, and scratched a match for him; he held herwrist--the sputtering match in her fingers--lighted the cigar, blew outthe match, and kissed her hand.
"You are a snooper and a porcupine about tobacco; but otherwise quite anice woman," he said.
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