The Vehement Flame

by Margaret Wade Campbell Deland

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  When Eleanor got her breath, after that crazy outbreak, she rushed up toher own room, bolted the door, fell on her knees at her bedside, andtold herself in frantic gasps, that she would _fight_ Edith Houghton!Grapple with her! Beat her away from Maurice! "I must _do_ something--dosomething--"

  But what? There was only one weapon with which she could vanquishEdith--Maurice's love for his son. _Jacky!_ She must have Jacky ...

  But how could she get him?

  She knew she couldn't get him with Lily's consent. Frantic with jealousyas she was, she recognized that! Yet, over and over, during the weekthat followed that hour in the garden with Edith, she said to herself,"If Maurice had Jacky, Edith would be nothing to him." ... It was atthis point that one day something made her add, "_Suppose he had Lily,too?_" Then he could have Jacky.

  "If I were dead, he could marry Lily."

  At first this was just one of those vague thoughts that blew through hermind, as straws and dead leaves blow down a dreary street. But thisstraw caught, so to speak, and more straws gathered and heaped about it.The idea lodged, and another idea lodged with it: If, to get his child,he married Jacky's mother, Edith would never reach him! And if, bydying, Eleanor gave Maurice his child, he would always love her for hergift; she would always be "wonderful." And Edith? Why, he couldn't, he_couldn't_--if his wife died to give him Jacky--think of Edith again!Jacky, Eleanor thought, viciously, "would slam the door in Edith'sface!"

  Perhaps, if Maurice had been at home, instead of being obliged toprolong that western business trip, the sanity of his presence wouldhave swept the straws and dead leaves away and left Eleanor's mindbleak, of course, with disappointment about Jacky and dread ofEdith--but sound. As it was, alone in her melancholy, uncomfortablehouse, tiny innumerable "reasons" for considering the one way by whichMaurice could get Jacky, heaped and heaped above common sense: ten yearsago Mrs. Newbolt said that if Eleanor had not "caught" Maurice when hewas young, he would have taken Edith; that was a straw. Two years ago awoman in the street car offered her a seat, because she looked as old as_her_ mother. Another straw! Lily supposed she was Maurice's mother! Astraw.... Edith admitted--had impudently flung into Eleanor's face!--theconfession that she was "in love with him!"--and Edith was to be in townfor three months. Oh, what a sheaf of straws! Edith would see himconstantly. She would "look at him"! Could Maurice stand that? Wouldn'twhat little love he felt for his old wife go down under the wickedassault of those "looks"?--unless he had Jacky! Jacky would "slam thedoor."

  Eleanor said things like this many times a day. Straws! Straws! And theyshowed the way the wind was blowing. Sometimes, in the suffocating dustof fear that the wind raised she even forgot her purpose of makingMaurice happy, in a violent urge to make it impossible for EdithHoughton to triumph over her. But the other thought--the crazy, noblerthought!--was, on the whole, dominant: "Maurice would be happy if he hada child. I couldn't give him a child of my own, but I can give himJacky." Yet once in a while she balanced the advantages anddisadvantages of the one way in which Jacky could be given: _Lily_?Could Maurice endure Lily? She thought of that parlor, of Lily'svulgarity, of the raucous note in her voice when those flashes of angerpierced like claws through the furry softness of her good nature; shethought of the reek of scent on the handkerchief. Could he endure Lily?Yet she was efficient; she would make him comfortable. "I never madehim comfortable," she thought. "And he doesn't love her; so I wouldn'tso terribly mind her being here--any more than I'd mind a housekeeper.But I wouldn't want her to call him 'Maurice.' I think I'll put thatinto my letter to him. I'll say that I will ask, as a last favor, thathe will not let her call him 'Maurice.'"

  For by this time she had added another straw to the pile of rubbish inher mind: _she would write him a letter_. In it she would tell him thatshe was going to ... die, so that he could marry Lily and have Jacky!Then came the mental postscript, which would not, of course, be written;she would make it possible for him to marry Lily--_and impossible forhim to marry Edith_! And by and by she got so close to her mean andnoble purpose--a gift in one dead hand and a sword in the other!--thatshe began to think of ways and means. How could she die? She couldn'tbuy morphine without a prescription, and she couldn't possibly get aprescription. But there were other things that people did,--dreadfulthings! She knew she couldn't do anything "dreadful." Maurice had arevolver in his bureau drawer, upstairs--but she didn't know how tomake it "go off"; and if she had known, she couldn't do it; it wouldbe "dreadful." Well; a rope? No! Horrible! She had once seen apicture ... she shuddered at the memory of that picture. _That_ wasimpossible! Sometimes any way--every way!--seemed impossible. Once,wandering aimlessly about the thawing back yard, she stood for a longtime at the iron gate, staring at the glimmer, a block away, of theriver--"our river," Maurice used to call it. But in town, "their"river--flowing!--flowing! was filmed with oil, and washed against slimypiles, and carried a hideous flotsam of human rubbish; once down belowthe bridge she had seen a drowned cat slopping back and forth amongorange skins and straw bottle covers. The river, in town, was as"dreadful" as those other impossible things! Back in the meadows it wasdifferent--brown and clear where it rippled over shallows and lispedaround that strip of clean sand, and darkly smooth out in the deepcurrent;--the deep current? Why! _that_ was possible! Of course therewere "things" in the water that she might step on--slimy, creepingthings!--which she was so afraid of. She remembered how afraid she hadbeen that night on the mountain, of snakes. But the water was clean.

  She must have stood there a long time; the maids, in the basementlaundry, said afterward that they saw her, her white hands clutching therusty bars of the gate, looking down toward the river, for nearly anhour. Then Bingo whined, and she went into the house to comfort him; andas she stroked him gently, she said, "Yes, ... our river would bepossible." But she would get so wet! "My skirts would be wet ..."

  So three days went by in profound preoccupation. Her mind was abattlefield, over which, back and forth, reeling and trampling, Love andJealousy--old enemies but now allies!--flung themselves against Reason,which had no support but Fear. Each day Maurice's friendly lettersarrived; one of them--as Jealousy began to rout Reason and Love to castout Fear--she actually forgot to open! Mrs. Newbolt called her up on thetelephone once, and said, "Come 'round to dinner; my new cook is prettypoor, but she's better than yours."

  Eleanor said she had a little cold. "Cold?" said Mrs. Newbolt. "Mygracious! don't come near _me_! I used to tell your dear uncle I wasmore afraid of a cold than I was of Satan! He said a cold _was_ Satan;and I said--" Eleanor hung up the receiver.

  So she was alone--and the wind blew, and the straws and leaves dancedover that battlefield of her empty mind, and she said:

  "I'll give him Jacky," and then she said, "Our river." And then shesaid, "But I must hurry!" He had written that he might reach home by theend of the week. "He might come to-night! I must do it--before he comeshome." She said that while the March dawn was gray against the windowsof her bedroom, and the house was still. She lay in bed until, at six,she heard the creak of the attic stairs and Mary's step as she creptdown to the kitchen, the silver basket clattering faintly on her arm.Then she rose and dressed; once she paused to look at herself in theglass: those gray hairs! ... Edith had called his attention to them somany years ago! It was a long time since it had been worth while to pullthem out. ... All that morning she moved about the house like one in adream. She was thinking what she would say in her letter to him, andwondering, now and then, vaguely, what it would be like, _afterward_?She ate no luncheon, though she sat down at the table. She just crumbledup a piece of bread; then rose, and went into the library to Maurice'sdesk... She sat there for a long time, making idle scratches on theblotting paper; her elbow on the desk, her forehead in her hand, she satand scrawled his initials--and hers--and his. And then, after about anhour, she wrote:

  ... I want you to have Jacky. When I am dead you can get him, becauseyou can marry Lily. Of course I oughtn't to h
ave married you, but--

  Here she paused for a long time.

  I loved you. I'd rather she didn't call you Maurice. But I want you tohave Jacky; so marry her, and you will have him. I am not jealous, yousee. You won't call me jealous any more, will you? And, besides, I lovelittle Jacky, too. See that he has music lessons.

  Another pause... Many thoughts... Many straws and dead leaves... "Edithwill never enter the house, if Lily is here--with Jacky.... Oh--I hateher."

  You will believe I love you, won't you, darling? I wish I hadn't marriedyou; I didn't mean to do you any harm. I just loved you, and I thought Icould make you happy. I know now that I didn't. Forgive me, darling, formarrying you...

  Again a long pause....

  I don't mind dying at all, if I can give you what you want. And I don'tmind your marrying Lily. I am sure she can make good cake--tell her totry that chocolate cake you liked so much. I tried it twice, but it washeavy. I forgot the baking powder. Make her call you "Mr. Curtis." Oh,Maurice--you will believe I love you?--even if I am--

  She put her pen down and buried her face in her arms folded on his desk;she couldn't seem to write that word of three letters which she hadsupposed summed up the tragedy, begun on that June day in the field andending, she told herself, on this March day, in the same place. So, byand by, instead of writing "old," she wrote

  "a poor housekeeper."

  Then she pondered on how she should sign the letter, and after a whileshe wrote:

  "STAR."

  She looked at the radiant word, and then kissed it. By and by she gotup--with difficulty, for she had sat there so long that she was stiff inevery joint--and going to her own desk, she hunted about in it for thatlittle envelope, which, for nearly twelve of the fifty golden yearswhich were to find them in "their field," had held the circle of braidedgrass. When she opened it, and slid the ring out into the palm of herhand it crumbled into dust. She debated putting it back into theenvelope and inclosing it in her letter? But a rush of tenderness forMaurice made her say: "No! It might hurt him." So she dropped it downbehind the logs in the fireplace. "When the fire is lighted it will burnup." Lily's scented handkerchief had turned to ashes there, too. Thenshe folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, addressedit, and put it in her desk. "He'll find it," she thought, "_afterward_."Find it,--and know how much she loved him!--the words were like wine toher. Then she looked at the clock and was startled to see that it wasfive. She must hurry! He might come home and stop her!...

  She was perfectly calm; she put on her coat and hat and opened the frontdoor; then saw the gleam of lights on the wet pavement and felt theMarch drizzle in her face; she reflected that it would be very wet inthe meadow, and went back for her rubbers.

  When the car came banging cheerfully along, she boarded it and sat sothat she would be able to see Lily's house. "She's getting his supper,"Eleanor thought; "dear little Jacky! Well, he will be having his supperwith Maurice pretty soon! I wonder how she'll get along with Mary? Marywill call her 'Mrs. Curtis,' Mary would leave in a minute if she knewwhat kind of a person 'Mrs. Curtis' was!" She smiled at that; it pleasedher. "But she mustn't call him 'Maurice,'" she thought; "I won't permit_that_!"

  The car stopped, and all the other passengers got out. Eleanor vaguelywatched the conductor pull the trolley pole round for the return trip;then she rose hurriedly. As she started along the road toward the meadowshe thought. "I can walk into the water; I never could jump in! But itwill be easy to wade in." That made her think of the picnic, and thewading, and how Maurice had tied Edith's shoestrings; and with that camea surge of triumph. "When he reads my letter, and knows how much I lovehim, he'll forget her. And when she hears he has married Lily, she'llstop making love to him by getting him to tie her shoestrings!"

  It was quite dark by this time, and chilly; she had meant to sit downfor a while, with her back against the locust tree, and think how, _atlast_, he was going to realize her love! But when she reached the bankof the river she stooped and felt the winter-bleached grass, and foundit so wet with the small, fine rain which had begun to fall, that shewas afraid to sit down. "I'd add to my cold," she thought. So she stoodthere a long time, looking at the river, leaden now in the twilight."How it glittered that day!" she thought. Suddenly, on a soft wind ofmemory, she seemed to smell the warm fragrance of the clover, and hearagain her own voice, singing in the sunshine--

  "Through the clear windows of the morning!"

  "I'll leave my coat on the bank," she said; "but I'll wear my hat; itwill keep my hair from getting messy. ... Oh, Maurice mustn't let hercall him 'Maurice'! I wish I'd made that clearer in my letter. Whydidn't I tell him to give her that five cents? ... I wonder how many'minutes' we have had now? We had had fifty-four, that Day. I wish I hadcalculated, and put the number in the letter. No, that might have madehim feel badly. I don't want to hurt him; I only want him to know that Ilove him enough to die to make him happy. Oh--will it be cold?"

  It was then that she took, slowly, one step--and stood still. Andanother--and paused. Her heart began to pound suffocatingly in herthroat, and suddenly she knew that she was afraid! She had not known it;fear had not entered into her plans; just love--and Maurice; justhate--and Edith! Nor had "Right" or "Wrong" occurred to her. Now, oldinstincts rose up. People called this "wicked"? So, if she was going todo it, she must do it quickly! She mustn't get to thinking or she mightbe afraid to do it, because it would be "wicked." She unfastened hercoat, then fumbled with her hat, pinning it on firmly; she was saying,aloud: "Oh--oh--oh--it's wicked. But I must. Oh--my skirts will getwet ... 'Kiss thy perfumed garments' ... No; I'll hold them up. Oh--oh--"And as she spoke her crazy purpose drove her forward; she held backagainst it--but, like the pressure of a hand upon her shoulder, itpushed her on down the bank--slowly--slowly--her heels digging into thecrumbling clay, her hands clutching now at a tuft of grass, now at adrooping branch; she was drawing quick breaths of terror, and talking,in little gasps, aloud: "He'll forget Edith. He'll have Jacky. He'llknow how much I love him...." So, over the pebbles, out on to the spitof sand; on--on--until she reached the river's edge. She stood there fora minute, listening to the lisping chatter of the current. Very slowly,she stepped in, and was ankle deep in shallow water,--then stoppedshort--the water soaked through her shoes, and suddenly she felt it,like circling ice, around her ankles! Aloud, she said, "Maurice,--I giveyou Jacky. But don't let Lily call you--" She stepped on, into thestream; one step--two--three. It was still shallow. "Why doesn't it get_deep_?" she said, angrily; another step and the water was halfway toher knees; she felt the force of the current and swayed a little; stillanother step--above her knees now! and the _rip_, tugging and pulling ather floating skirts. It was at the next step that she slipped,staggered, fell full length--felt the water gushing into the neck of herdress, running down her back, flowing between her breasts; felt hersleeves drenched against her arms; she sprang up, fell again, her headunder water, her face scraping the pebbly sharpness of the riverbed,--again got on to her feet and ran choking and coughing, stumblingand slipping, back to the sand-spit, and the shore. There she stood,soaking wet, gasping. Her hat was gone, her hair dripping about herface. "_I can't_," she said.

  She climbed up the bank, catching at the grass and twigs, and feelingher tears running hot over the icy wetness of her cheeks. When shereached the top she picked up her coat with numb, shaking hands and,shivering violently, put it on with a passionate desire for warmth.

  "I tried; I _tried_," she said; "but--I can't!"