CHAPTER XXVI
During the next two days at Green Hill, Eleanor's dislike of Edith hadno chance to break into silent flames, for the girl was so quiet thatnot even Eleanor could see anything in her behavior to Maurice tocriticize. It was Maurice who did the criticizing!
"Edith, come down into the garden; I want to read something to you."
"Can't. Have to write letters."
"Edith, if you'll come into the studio I'll play you something I'vepatched up."
"I'm a heathen about music. Let's sit with Eleanor."
"Skeezics, what's the matter with you? Why won't you come and walk?You're getting lazy in your old age!"
"Busy," Edith said, vaguely.
At this point Maurice insisted, and Edith sneaked out to the back entryand telephoned Johnny Bennett: "Come over, lazybones, and take someexercise!"
John came, with leaps and bounds, so to speak, and Maurice said,grumpily:
"What do you lug Johnny in for?"
So, during the rest of her visit (with John Bennett as Maurice'schaperon!) Eleanor merely ached with dislike of Edith; but, even so, shehad the small relief of not having to say to herself: "Is he seeing Mrs.Dale, now? ... Did he go to her house yesterday?" Of course, as soon asshe went back to Mercer those silent questions began again; and heraudible question nagged Maurice whenever he was in the house: "Did yougo to the theater last night? ... Yes? _Did you go alone?_ ... Will yoube home to-night to dinner? ... No? _Where are you going?_"
Maurice, answering with bored patience, thought, with tender amusement,of Edith's advice, "Tell Eleanor." How little she knew!
He did not see Edith very often that next winter, "which is just aswell," he thought. But his analysis stopped there; he did not askhimself why it was just as well. She made flying visits to Mercer, forshopping or luncheons, so he had glimpses of her, and whenever he sawher he was conscious of a little wistful change in her, for she was shywith him--_Edith_, shy!--and much gentler. When they discussed theEternities or the ball game, she never pounded his arm with an energeticand dissenting fist, nor was there ever the faintest suggestion of thesexless "rough-house" of their old jokes! As for coming to town, sheexplained that she was too busy; she had taken the burden ofhousekeeping from her mother, and she was doing a good deal of hardreading preparatory to a course of technical training in domesticscience, to which she was looking forward when she could find time forit. But whenever she did come to Mercer, she did her duty by rushing into see Eleanor! Eleanor's criticisms of her, when she rushed out again,always made Maurice silently, but deeply, irritated. The criticismslessened in the fall, because Eleanor had the pitiful preoccupation ofwatching poor Don O'Brien fade out of the world; and when he had goneshe had to push her own misery aside while his grandmother's heart brokeinto the meager tears of age upon her "Miss Eleanor's" breast. But,besides that, she did not have the opportunity to criticize Edith, forthe Houghtons went abroad.
So the rest of that year went dully by. To Eleanor, it was a time ofspasmodic effort to regain Maurice's love; spasmodic, because when shehad visions--hideous visions! of Maurice and the "other woman,"--then,her aspirations to regain his love, which had been born in that agony ofrecognized complicity in his faithlessness, would shrivel up in thevehement flame of jealousy. To Maurice, it was a time of endurance; ofvague thoughts of Edith, but of no mental disloyalty to his wife. Itsonly brightness lay in those rare visits to Medfield, when Jacky lookedat him like a worshiping puppy, and asked forty thousand questions whichhe couldn't answer! They were very careful visits, made only whenMaurice was sure Eleanor would not be going to "look for a cook." Healways balanced his brief pleasure of an hour with his little boy by anadded gentleness to his wife--perhaps a bunch of violets, bought at theflorist's on Maple Street where Lily got her flower pots or her bulbs.He was very lonely, and increasingly bothered about Jacky. ... "Lilywill let him go plumb to hell. But I put him on the toboggan! ... I'mresponsible for his existence," he used to think. And sometimes herepeated the words he had spoken that night when he had felt the firststir of fatherhood, "My little Jacky."
He would hardly have said he loved the child; love had come sogradually, that he had not recognized it! Yet it had come. It had beenadded to those other intimations of God, which also he had notrecognized. Personal Joy on his wedding day had been the first; and thenext had come when he looked up at the heights of Law among the stars,and then there had been the terrifying vision of the awfulness of Life,at Jacky's birth. Now, into his soul, arid with long untruth, came thisflooding in of Love--which in itself is Life, and Joy, and thefulfilling of Law! Or, as he had said, once, carelessly, "Call it God."
This pursuing God, this inescapable God! was making him acutelyuncomfortable now, about Jacky. Maurice felt the discomfort, but he didnot recognize it as Salvation, or know Whose mercy sent it! He merelydid what most of us do when we suffer: he gave the credit of his pain tothe devil--not to Infinite Love. "Oh," the poor fellow thought, comingback one day from a call at the little secret house on Maple Street,"the devil's getting his money's worth out of me; well, I won't squealabout _that_! But he's getting his money's worth out of my boy, too.She's ruining him!"
He said this once when he had been rather recklessly daring in seeing"his boy." It was Saturday afternoon, and Jacky was free from hisdetested school. Maurice had given him a new sled, and then had"fallen," as he expressed it, to the little fellow's entreaty: "Mr.Curtis, if you'll come up to the hill, I'll show you how she'll go!" Butbefore they started Maurice had a disagreeable five minutes with Lily.She had told him, tears of laughter running down her rosy cheeks, ofsome performance of Jacky's. He had asked her, she said, about his paw;"and I said his name was Mr. George Dale, and he died ten or elevenyears ago of consumption--had to tell him something, you know! An' hesays,--he's great on arithmetic,--'Poor paw!' he says, 'how many yearswas that before I was born?' I declare, I was all balled up!" Then, asshe wiped her laughing eyes, she had grown suddenly angry: "I'm going totake him away from his new Sunday school; the teacher--it was her didthe Paul Pry act, and asked him about his father;--well, I guess sheain't much of a lady; I never see her name in the Sunday papers;--shecame down on Jacky because he told her a 'lie'; that's what she calledit, 'a lie'! Said he'd go to hell if he told lies. I said, 'I won't haveyou threatening my child!' I declare I felt like saying, 'You go to hellyourself!' but of course I don't say things that ain't refined."
"Well, but Lily, the little beggar must tell the truth--"
"Mr. Curtis, Jacky didn't say anything but what you or me would say adozen times a day. He just told her he hadn't a library book out, whenhe had. Seems he forgot to bring it back, so, 'course, he just said hehadn't any book. Well, this teacher, she put the lie onto him. It's avulgar word, 'lie.' And as for hell, they say society people don'tbelieve there is such a place any more."
When he and his little son walked away (Jacky dragging his magnificentsled), Maurice was nervously anxious to counteract such views.
"Jacobus," he said, "I'm going to tell you something: Big men never sayanything that isn't so! Do you get on to that?" (In his own mind headded, "I'm a sweet person to tell him that!") "Promise me you'll neversay anything that isn't just exactly so," said Maurice.
"Yes, sir," said Jacky. "Say, Mr. Curtis, have you got teeth you cantake out?" When Maurice said, rather absently, that he had not, Jacky'sdismay was pathetic. "Why, maw can do _that_," he said, reproachfully.It was the first flaw in his idol. It took several minutes to recoverfrom the shock of disappointment; then he said: "Lookee here!" He pausedbeside a hydrant, and with his mittened hand broke off a long icicle,held it up and turned it about so that the sun flashed on it. "Handsome,ain't it?" he asked, timidly.
Maurice said yes, it was "handsome";--"but suppose you say _'isn't_ it'instead of _'ain't_ it.' 'Ain't' is not a nice word. And remember what Itold you about telling the truth."
"Yes, sir," said Jacky, and trudged along, pulling his sled with onehand and carrying his icicle in the othe
r.
After this paternal effort, Maurice stood in the snow watching the crowdof children--red-cheeked, shrill-voiced--sliding down Winpole Hill andyelling and snow-balling each other as they pulled their sleds up to thetop of the slope again. It was during one of these panting tugs uphill,that Jacky saw fit to slap a fellow coaster, a little, snub-nosed girlwith a sniffling cold in her head, and all muffled up in dirty scarves.Instantly Maurice, striding in among the children, took his son by thearm, and said, sharply:
"Young man, apologize! _Quick!_ Or I'll take you home!"
Jacky gaped. "Pol'gize?"
"Say you're sorry! Out with it. Tell the little girl you're sorry youhit her."
"But I ain't," Jacky explained, anxiously; "an' you said I mustn't saywhat ain't so."
"Well, tell her you won't do it again," Maurice commanded, evading, asperplexed fathers must, moral contradictions.
Jacky, bewildered, said to his howling playmate, "I don't like you, butI won't hit you again, less I have to; then I'll lick the tar out ofyou!" He paused, rummaged in his pocket, produced a horrid preciouslittle gray lump of something, and handed it to her. "Gum," he said,briefly.
Maurice, taking another step into paternal wisdom, was deaf to thestatute of limitation in the apology; but walking home with the littleboy, he said to himself, "She's ruining him!" and fell into such moodysilence that he didn't even notice Jacky's obedient struggles with"isn't." Once, a week later, as a result of this experience, he tried tomake some ethical suggestions to Lily. She was displaying her latesttriumph--a rosebush, blossoming in _February_! And Maurice, dulyadmiring the glowing flower, against its background of soot-speckledsnowdrift on the window sill, began upon Jacky's morals. Lily'sgood-humored face hardened.
"Mr. Curtis, you don't need to worry about Jacky! He don't steal, and hedon't swear,--much; and he's never been pinched, and he's awfulhandsome; and, my God! what more do you want? I ain't going to make hislife miserable by tellin' him to talk grammar, or do the polite act!"
"Lily, I only mean I want him to turn out well, and he won't unless hetells the truth--"
"He'll turn out good. You needn't worry. Anybody's got to have senseabout telling the truth; you can't just plunk everything out! I--Ibelieve I'll go and live in New York."
Instantly Maurice was silenced. "She _mustn't_ take him away!" hethought, despairingly.
His fear that she would do so was a constant worry.... His work in theWeston real-estate office involved occasional business trips of a fewdays, and his long hours on trains were filled with this increasinganxiety about Jacky. "If she takes him away from Mercer, and I can'tever see him, nothing can save him! But, damn it! what can I do?" hewould say. He tried to reassure himself by counting up Lily's goodpoints; her present uprightness; her honest friendliness to him; heralmost insane devotion to Jacky, and her pathetic aspiration forrespectability, which was summed up in that one word of collectiveemptiness,--"Society." But immediately her bad points clamored in hismind; her ignorance and unmorality and vulgarity. "Truth is just amatter of expediency with her. If he gets to be a liar, I'll boot him!"Maurice would think of these bad points until he got perfectly frantic!His sense of wanting advice was like an ache in his mind--for there wasno one who could advise him. Then, quite unexpectedly, advice came....
In the fall the Houghtons got back from Europe. Maurice saw them onlybetween trains in Mercer, for Henry Houghton was in a great hurry to getup to Green Hill, and Edith, too, was exercised about her trunks and theunpacking of her treasures of reminiscence. But Mrs. Houghton said: "Weshall be coming down to do some shopping before Christmas. No! We'll_not_ inflict ourselves upon Eleanor! We'll go to the hotel; you willboth take dinner with us."
They came, and Maurice and Eleanor dined with them, as Mrs. Houghton hadinsisted that they should; but only Mrs. Houghton accepted Eleanor'srepaying hospitality.
"Mother has virtue enough for the family," Edith said; "I'm going tostay here with father."
"It will be a jewel in your crown," Henry Houghton told his Mary.
"Why not collect jewels for your crown?" she inquired. "Henry, Mauricelooks troubled. What do you suppose is the matter?"
"He does look seedy," he agreed; "poke about and find out what's wrong.You can do it better if your inelegant offspring isn't around, and ifI'm not there, either. He won't open his lips to me! I think it's money.He's carrying a pretty heavy load. But he never peeps.... I wish hewouldn't economize on cigars, though; he offered me one yesterday, andpoliteness compelled me to smoke it!"
"'Peeps'!" said Edith; "how elegant!"
So that was how it happened that Mary Houghton went alone to dine withMaurice and Eleanor. But she couldn't discover, in Maurice's talk orEleanor's silences, any hint of financial anxiety. "So," she said toherself, "it isn't money that worries him." When he walked back with herto the hotel after dinner, he was thinking, "She'd know what to do aboutJacky." But of course he couldn't ask her what to do! He could never askanybody--except, perhaps, Mr. Houghton; and what would he, an old man,know about bringing up a little boy? He was listening, not very closely,to Mrs. Houghton's talk of the Custom House; but when she said, "JohnBennett met us on the dock," he was suddenly attentive.
"Has Edith--?" he began.
She laughed ruefully. "No. Young people are not what they were in myday. Edith is not a bit sentimental."
Maurice was silent. When they reached the hotel, they went upstairs intoa vast, bleak parlor, and steered their way among enormous plusharmchairs to a sofa. A few electric bulbs, glaring among the glassprisms of a remote chandelier, made a dim light--but not too dim forMary Houghton to see that Maurice's face was drawn and worried;involuntarily she said:
"You dear boy, I wish you didn't look so careworn!"
"I'm bothered about something," he said.
"Your uncle Henry told me to 'poke around,' and see if you were troubledabout money?" she said, smiling.
"Oh, not especially. I'm always more or less strapped. But money isn'tworth bothering about, really."
"If you 'consider the stars,' you will find very few things are worthbothering about! Except, of course, wrongdoing."
And, to his own astonishment, he found himself saying, "I'm afraidthat's where I come in!" As he spoke, he remembered that night of theeclipse--oh, those moon-washed depths, those stupendous serenities ofLaw and Beauty which, together, are Truth! How passionately he haddesired Truth. And now Mrs. Houghton was saying "Consider the stars.""If I could only tell her!" he thought.
"If the wrongdoing is behind you," said Mary Houghton, "let it go."
"It won't let me go," he said, with nervous lightness. "Though it'sbehind me, all right!"
Which made her say, gently, "Maurice, perhaps I know what troubles you?"His start made her add, quickly: "Your uncle Henry has never betrayedyour confidence; but ... I guessed, long ago, that something had gonewrong. I don't know how wrong--"
"Oh, Mrs. Houghton," he said, despairingly, "awfully wrong!Awfully--awfully wrong!" He put his elbow on his knee, and rested hischin on his clenched fist; she was silent. Then he said: "You've alwaysbeen an angel to me. I am glad you guessed. Because--I don't know whatto do."
"About the woman?"
"No. The boy."
"Oh!" she said; "a _child_!"
Her dismay was like a blow. "But you said you had 'guessed'?"
"I guessed that there was a woman; but I didn't know--" She put her armover his shoulders and kissed him. "My poor Maurice!" The tears stood inher eyes.
"I told you it was 'awful,'" he said, simply; "yes, it is my little boy;I'm worried to death about him. Lily--that's her name--is perfectly allright; she means well, and adores him, and all that; but--" Then he toldher what Jacky's mother had been and what she was now; and theillustrations he gave of Lily's ignorance of ethical standards made MaryHoughton cringe. "She's ruining the little fellow," he said; "he's notmean nor a coward--I'll say that for him! But he lies whenever he feelslike it, and honesty only means not getting 'pinche
d.' She's awfullyambitious for him; but her idea of success is what she calls 'Society,'Oh, it's such a relief to speak to you, Mrs. Houghton! I haven't a soulI can talk to."
"Maurice, can't you get him?" Her voice was shocked.
He almost laughed. "Wild horses wouldn't drag him from Lily!"
She was silent before the complexity of the situation--the furtivepaternity, with its bewildered sense of responsibility, in conflict withthe passion of the dam!
"I have to be so infernally secret," Maurice said. "If it wasn't forthat, I could train him a little, because he's fond of me," heexplained--and for a moment his face relaxed into one of his oldcharming smiles. "He really is an awfully fine little beggar. I swear Ibelieve he's musical! And he's confoundedly clever. Why, he said--" Mrs.Houghton could have wept with the pitifulness of it! For Maurice wenton, like any proud young father, with a story of how his little boy hadsaid this or done that. "But he's fresh, sometimes, and he's the kindthat, if he got fresh, ought to be licked. She can't make him mind;but"--here the poor, shamed pride shone again in his blue eyes--"heminds _me_!"
Mary Houghton was silent; she tried to consider the stars, but herdismay at a child endangered, came between her and the eternaltranquillities. "The boy must be saved," she thought, "at any cost! Itisn't a question of Maurice's happiness; it's a question of his_obligation_."
"This thing of having a secret hanging round your neck is hell!" Mauricetold her. "Every minute I think--'Suppose Eleanor should find out?'"
Mrs. Houghton put her hand on his knee. "The only way to escape from thefear of being found out, Maurice, _is to be found out_. Get rid of themillstone. Tell Eleanor."
"You don't know Eleanor," he said, dryly.
"Yes, I do. She loves you so much that she would forgive you. And withforgiveness would come helpfulness with the little boy. The child is theimportant one--not you, nor Eleanor, nor the woman. Oh, Maurice, achild is the most precious thing in the world! You _must_ save him!"
"Don't you suppose I want to? But, good God! I'm helpless."
"If you tell Eleanor, you won't be 'helpless.'"
"You don't understand. She's jealous of--of everybody."
"Telling her will prove to her she needn't be jealous of--this person.And the chance to do something for you would mean so much to her. Shewill forgive you--Eleanor can always do a big thing! Remember themountain? Maurice! Let her do another great thing for you. Let her helpyou save your child, by making it possible for you to be open andaboveboard, and see him all you want to--all you _ought_ to. Oh, Mauricedear, it would have been better, of course, if you had told Eleanor atfirst. You wouldn't have had to carry this awful load for all theseyears. But tell her now! Give her the chance to be generous. Let herhelp you to do your duty to the little boy. Maurice, his character, andhis happiness, are your job! Just as much your job as if he had beenEleanor's child, instead of the child of this woman. Perhaps more so,for that reason. Don't you see that? _Tell_ Eleanor, so that you cansave him!"
The appeal was like a bugle note. Maurice--discouraged, thwarted,hopeless--heard it, and his heart quickened. This inverted idea ofrecompense--of making up to Eleanor for having secretly robbed her, bytelling her she had been robbed!--stirred some hope in him. He did notlove his wife; he was profoundly tired of her; but suppose, now, he didthrow himself upon her generosity and give her a chance to prove thatlove which was a daily fatigue to him? Mere _Truth_ would, as Mrs.Houghton said, go far toward saving Jacky. He was silent for a longtime. Then Mary Houghton said:
"I ought to tell you, Maurice, that Henry--who is the very best man inthe world, as well as the wisest!--doesn't agree with me about thismatter of confession. He doesn't understand women! He thinks you oughtnot to tell Eleanor."
"I know. He said so. That first night, when I told him the whole hideousbusiness, he said so. And I thought he was right. I'm afraid I stillthink so."
"He was wrong. Maurice, save the child! Tell Eleanor."
"That is what Edith said."
"_Edith!_" Mary Houghton was stupefied.
"Oh, not about this. I only mean Edith said once, 'Don't have a secretfrom Eleanor.'"
"She was right," Edith's mother said, getting her breath.
Then they were silent again. A distant measure of ragtime floated upfrom the lobby; once, as a heavy team passed down in the street, thechandelier swayed, and little lights flickered among the faintlyclicking prisms. Mrs. Houghton looked at him--and looked away. Mauricewas thirty-one; his face was patient and melancholy; the old crinklinglaughter rarely made gay wrinkles about his eyes, yet wrinkles werethere, and his lips were cynical. Suddenly, he turned and struck hishand on hers:
"I'll do it," he said....
Late that night Henry Houghton, listening to his Mary's story of thistalk, looked almost frightened. "Mary, it's an awful risk--Eleanor willnever stand up to it!"
"I think she will."
"My dear, when it comes to children, you--with your stars!--get down tothe elemental straighter than I do; I know that! And I admit that it isterrible for Maurice's child to be scrapped, as he will be if he isbrought up by this impossible person. But as for Eleanor's helpingMaurice to save him from the scrap heap, you overlook the fact that totell a jealous woman that she has cause for jealousy is about as safe asto take a lighted match into a powder magazine. There'll be anexplosion."
"Well," she said, "suppose there is?"
"Good heavens, Mary! Do you realize what that means? She'll leave him!"
"I don't believe she will," his wife said, "but if she does, he can atleast see all he wants of the boy. He seems to be an unusually brightchild."
Her husband nodded. "Yes; Nature isn't shocked at illegitimacy; and Goddoesn't penalize it."
"But _you_ do," she said, quickly, "when you won't admit that Jacky isthe crux of the whole thing! It isn't poor Maurice who ought to beconsidered, nor that sad, tragic old Eleanor; nor the dreadful person inMedfield. But just that little child--_whom Maurice has brought into theworld_."
"Do you mean," her husband said, aghast, "that if Eleanor saw fit todivorce him, you think he should marry this 'Lily,' so that he could getthe child?"
She did shrink at that. "Well--" she hesitated.
He saw his advantage, and followed it: "He couldn't get completepossession in any other way! Unless he were legally the father, thewoman could, at any minute, carry off this--what did you say his namewas?--Jacky?--to Kamchatka, if she wanted to! Or she might very wellmarry somebody else; that kind do. Then Maurice wouldn't have any fingerin the pie! No; really to get control of the child, he'd have to marryher, which, as you yourself admit, is impossible."
"I don't admit it."
"_Mary!_ You must be reasonable; you know it would be shocking! So whynot keep things as they are? Why run the risk of an explosion, byconfessing to Eleanor?"
Mary Houghton pondered, silently.
"Kit," he said, "this is a 'condition and not a theory'; the womanwas--was common, you know. Maurice doesn't owe her anything; he has paidthe piper ten times over! Any further payment, like ruining his careerby 'making an honest woman' of her,--granting an explosion and thenEleanor's divorcing him,--would be not only wrong, but ridiculous; whichis worse! Maurice is an able fellow; I rather expect to see him go infor politics one of these days. Imagine this 'Lily' at the head of histable! Or even imagine her as a fireside companion!"
"It would be terrible," she admitted--her voice trembled--"but Jacky'slife is more important than Maurice's dinner table. And firesidehappiness is less important than the meeting of an obligation! Henry,Maurice made a bad woman Jacky's mother; he owes _her_ nothing. But doyou mean to say that you don't think he owes the child a decent father?"
"My darling," Henry Houghton said, tenderly, "you are really a littlecrazy. You are like your stars, you so 'steadfastly pursue yourshining,' that you fail to see that, in this dark world of men, therehas to be compromise. If this impossible situation should arise--whichGod forbid!--if the explosion should come, a
nd Eleanor should leave him,of course Maurice wouldn't marry the woman! I should consider him acandidate for an insane asylum if he thought of such a thing. He wouldsimply do what he could for the boy, and that would be the end of it."
"Oh," she said, "don't you see? It would be the _beginning_ of it!--Thebeginning of an evil influence in the world; a bad little boy, growinginto a bad man--and his own father permitting it! But," she ended, witha sudden uplifted look, "the 'situation,' as you call it, won't arise;Eleanor will prevent it! Eleanor will save Jacky."
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