CHAPTER XXIX
From the day of the circus, Jacky became, to Eleanor, not a symbol ofMaurice's unfaithfulness, but a hope for the future. The thought of hismother was only the scar of a wound, which Maurice, in some singleslashing moment, had made in her heart. She was crippled by it, ofcourse. But the wound had healed so she could forget the scar--becauseMaurice had never loved Lily, never found her "interesting," neverwanted to wander about with _her_, in a dark garden, and talk
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax--And cabbages--and kings ...
To be sure the scar ached dully once in a while; but Eleanor knew thatif she could get possession of Jacky she would be protected againstother wounds--wounds which would never heal! She said to herself thatMaurice would never think of Edith Houghton if he had Jacky! But howshould she get Jacky?
For months she revolved countless schemes to persuade Lily to resignhim; schemes so futile that Maurice, listening to them every night whenhe got home from the office, was touched, of course; but by and by hewas also a little uneasy. He had told her where Lily lived, thenregretted it, for once she walked up and down before the house on MapleStreet for an hour, hoping to see "the woman," but failing, because Lilyand Jacky happened to be in town that afternoon.
"I have a great mind to steal him for you!" she said, telling Maurice ofher fruitless effort.
He protested, too disturbed at her mere presence on Lily's street tonotice her attempt at a joke. "If Lily should imagine that we wereinterested in Jacky, she'd run!" he explained; "it's dangerous, Nelly,really. You mustn't go near her!"
She promised she wouldn't; but every day of that Mercer winter oflow-hanging smoke and damp chilliness, she longed to get possession ofthe child--first to make Maurice happy; then with the craving, driving,elemental desire for maternity; and then for self-protection,--Jackywould vanquish Edith!
So she brooded: _a child_!
"If I could only get him, it wouldn't be 'just us'!" ... "A boy'sclothes are not as pretty as a girl's, but a little rough suit would beawfully attractive.... I'd give him music lessons.... We could go out toour field in June. And he would take off his shoes and stockings andwade!" How foolish Edith's grown-up childishness of wading looked,compared to the scene which she visualized--a little, handsome boy,standing in the shallow rippling water, bareheaded, probably; thesunshine sifting down through the locust blossoms and touching thatthatch of yellow hair, and glinting into those blue eyes. "He would callme 'Mamma'!" Then she hummed to herself, "'O Spring!' Oh, I _must_ havehim!" Her hope became such an obsession that its irrationality did notstrike her. It was so in her mind that she even spoke of it once to Mrs.Houghton. "I know you _know_?" she said; "Maurice told me he told you."
Mary Houghton said, hesitatingly, "I think I know what you mean."
This was in March. Mrs. Houghton and Edith were in town for a few days'shopping, and of course they meant to see Eleanor. "I'll go to thedressmaker's," Edith had told her mother, "and then I'll corral Maurice,and we'll drop in on Mrs. Newbolt, and _then_ I'll meet you atEleanor's. I don't hanker for a long call on Eleanor." Edith's gaylycandid face hardened.
So it was that Mrs. Houghton had arrived ahead of her girl, and the twoolder women were alone before a little smoldering fire in the library.Eleanor had left her tea tray to go across the room and give littlehelpless Bingo a lump of sugar. "He only eats what I give him," shesaid; "dear old Bingo! I think he actually suffers, he's so jealous."Then, pouring Mrs. Houghton's tea, she suddenly spoke: "I knowyou--know?" When Mary Houghton said, gravely, yes, she "_knew_," Eleanorsaid, "Oh, Mrs. Houghton, Maurice and I are nearer to each other than weever were before!"
"That's as it should be. And as I knew it would be, too. You've done anoble thing, Eleanor."
"No! No! Don't say that! It was nothing. Because I--love him so. And henever cared for that woman. She has no brains, he says. But what I wantis to get the boy for him. Oh, he must have the boy!" Then she told Mrs.Houghton how Maurice went to see the child. "He goes once a week, thoughhe says she's jealous if he makes too many suggestions; so he has to bevery careful or she would get angry. But he has managed it so I haveseen him; last summer he took him to the circus, and I sat near them.And twice he's had him in the park and I spoke to him. And on Christmashe took him to the movies; I sat beside him. And I buttoned his coatwhen he went out!" Her eyes were rapt.
Mary Houghton, listening, said to herself, "_Now_ what will HenryHoughton say about the 'explosion'? I shall rub it into him when I gethome!" ... "Eleanor, you are magnificent!" she said.
"But how could I do anything else--if I loved Maurice?" Eleanor said."Oh, I do want him to have Jacky! We must make a man of him. It would bewicked to let Lily ruin him! And I want to give him music lessons. Hehas Maurice's blue eyes."
It was infinitely pathetic, this woman with gray hair, telling of heryoung husband's joy in his little son--who was not hers. And Eleanor'ssense of the paramount importance of the child gave Mrs. Houghton a newand real respect for her. Aloud, she agreed heartily with the statementthat Jacky must be saved from Lily.
"She isn't bad," Eleanor explained; "but she's just like an animal,Maurice says. Devoted to Jacky, but no more idea of right and wrongthan--than Bingo!" She was so happy that she laughed, and looked almostyoung--but at that moment the street door opened, closed, and in thehall some one else laughed. Instantly Eleanor looked old. "It's Edith,"she said, coldly.
It was--with Maurice in tow. "I haled him forth from his office," Edithsaid; "and we went to see your aunt, Eleanor. She's a lamb!"
"Tea?" Eleanor said, briefly.
"Yes, indeed!" Edith said. She looked very pretty--cheeks glowing andbrown hair flying about the rounded brim of a brown fur toque.
Maurice, keeping an eye on her, was gently kind to his wife. "Headbetter, Nelly?" Then, having secured his tea, he drew Edith over to thewindow and they went on with some discussion which had paused as theyentered the house.
Eleanor, watching them, and making another cup of tea for Mrs. Houghton,spilled the boiling water on the tray and on her own hand.
"My dear!" said Mrs. Houghton, "you have scalded yourself!"
And, indeed, Eleanor whitened with the pain of her smarting, puffingfingers. But she said, her eyes fixed on Edith, "What _are_ they talkingabout?" Mrs. Houghton's look of surprise made her add: "Edith seems sointerested. I just wondered...." She had caught a phrase or two:
"I can take the spring course,--it's three months. I think ourUniversity Domestic Science Department is just every bit as good as anyof the Eastern ones."
"Where did you two meet each other?" Eleanor called, sharply.
"Why, I told you," Edith said, coming over to the tea table; "I draggedhim from his desk!"
"Come, Edith, we must go," Mrs. Houghton said, rising.
"Why don't you stay to dinner?" Maurice urged--but Eleanor was silent."If you are in town next week, Skeezics, you've got to put up here.Understand? Tell her so, Eleanor!"
Eleanor said nothing. Mrs. Houghton said she was afraid it wouldn't beconvenient.
Eleanor said nothing.
"Of course you will come here!" Maurice said; he was sharply angry athis wife.
In the momentary and embarrassing pause, the color flew into Edith'sface, but she was elaborately indifferent. "Good-by, Eleanor; good-by,Maurice!"
"I'm going to escort you to the hotel," Maurice said; and, over hisshoulder to Eleanor: "I've got to rush off to St. Louis to-night,Eleanor. That Greenleaf business. Has Mrs. O'Brien brought my thingshome?"'
"I'll see," she said, mechanically....
Nobody had much to say on that walk to the hotel; but when Maurice hadleft them, and the two ladies were in their room, Edith faced hermother:
"What _is_ the matter?"
"You mean with Eleanor? She has a headache, I suppose."
"Mother, don't squirm! You know just as well as I do that she doesn'twant me to stay with them. Why not?" She did not wait for an answer,which, indeed, her mother could not
immediately find. "Well, Heavenknows I'm not pining to be with her! I shall run in to-morrow morning,and tell her that Mrs. Newbolt asked me to stay with her.... Mother, how_could_ Maurice have fallen in love with Eleanor?" Her voice trembled;she went over to the window and stood looking down into the street; herhands were clenched behind her, and her soft young chin was rigid. "Hewas just a boy," she said; her eyes were blurring so that the street wasa gray fog; "how _could_ Eleanor?" It seemed as if her own ardent,innocent body felt the recoil of Maurice's youth from Eleanor's age!She thought of that dark place in his past, which she had acceptedwith pain, but always with defending excuses; she excused him again,now, in her thoughts: "Eleanor was _impossible_! That's why somebodyelse ... caught him. And it was long ago. And Eleanor's old enough to behis mother. He never could have loved her!" Suddenly she had a fleeting,but real, pity for Eleanor: "Poor thing!" Aloud she said, huskily, overher shoulder, "If she had really loved him, she wouldn't have done sucha terrible thing as marry him."
Mrs. Houghton, reading the evening paper, said, briefly, "She loves him_now_, my dear."
"Oh!" Edith said, passionately, "sometimes I am sorry for Eleanor--andthen the next minute I perfectly hate her!"
"She was only forty when she married him," Mary Houghton said; "thatisn't old at all! And I have always been sorry for her." She looked upover her spectacles at the tense young figure by the window, outlinedagainst the yellow sunset; saw those clenched hands, heard the impetuousvoice break on a word,--and forgot Eleanor in a more intimate anxiety:"Of course," she said, "such a difference in age as there is betweenMaurice and Eleanor is a pity. But Maurice is devoted to her, and withreason. She has been generous when he has been unkind. I happen to knowthat."
"Maurice couldn't be unkind!"
Her mother ignored this. "And remember another thing, Edith: It isn'tyears that decide whether a marriage is a failure. One of the happiestmarriages I ever knew was between a woman of fifty and a man of thirty.You see--" she paused, and took off her spectacles, and tapped the armof her chair, thoughtfully: "You see, Edith, you don't understand. Youare so appallingly young! You think Love speaks only through the senses.My dear, Love's highest speech is in the Spirit; the language of thesenses is only it's pretty, stammering, divine baby-talk!" Edith wassilent. Her mother went on: "Yes, it isn't age that decides things. It'sselfishness or unselfishness. At present Eleanor is extraordinarilyunselfish, so I believe they may yet be very happy."
"Oh, I hope so, of course," Edith said--and put up a furtive finger towipe first one cheek, and then the other.... "Poor Maurice!" she said.
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