CHAPTER XXXVI
When Maurice saw his wife the next morning, it was with Mrs. Houghton'swarning--emphasized by the presence of a nurse--that he must not exciteher. So he sat at her bedside and told her about his trip, and how hehad got ahead of the Greenleaf heirs, and how he rushed back to Mercerthe minute those dispatches came saying that she was ill--and he neverasked her why she was ill, or what took her out to the river in the colddusk of that March afternoon. She didn't try to tell him. She was verywarm and drowsy--and she held in her hand, under the bedclothes, thatletter which proved how much she loved him, and which, some time, whenshe got well, she would show him. All that day the household outside herclosed door was very much upset; but Eleanor, in the big bed, wasperfectly placid. She lay mere watching the tarnished gilt pendulumswing between the black pillars of the clock on the mantelpiece,thinking--thinking. "You'll be all right to-morrow!" Maurice would say;and she would smile silently and go on thinking. "When I get well," shethought, "I will do--so and so." By and by, still with the letterclutched in her hot hand, she began to say to herself, "_If_ I getwell." She had ceased worrying over how she was going to explain the"accident" to Maurice; that _"if"_ left a door open into eternalreticence. So, instead of worrying, she made plans for Jacky: "He mustsee a dentist," she told Maurice. On the third day she stopped saying,"_If_ I get well," and thought, "When I die." She said it verytranquilly, "When I die Maurice must get him a bicycle." She thought ofthis happily, for dying meant that she had not failed. She would not beridiculous to Maurice--she would be his wife, giving him a child--ason! So she lay with her eyes closed, thinking of the bicycle and manylittle, pleasant things; and with the old, slipping inexactness of mindshe told herself that she had not "done anything wrong"; she had _not_drowned herself! She had just caught a bad cold. But she would die, andMaurice would love her for giving him Jacky. Toward evening, however, anuneasy thought came to her: if Maurice knew that, to give him Jacky, shehad even tried to get drowned, it might distress him? She wished shehadn't written the letter! It would hurt him to see it.... Well, but he_needn't_ see it! She held out the crumpled envelope. "Miss Ryan," shesaid to the nurse, huskily, "please burn this."
"Yes, indeed!" said Miss Ryan....
There was a burst of flame in the fireplace, and the little, pitifulletter, with its selfishness and pain and sacrifice, vanished--as Lily'shandkerchief had vanished, and the braided ring of blossoming grass--allgone, as the sparks that fly upward. Nobody could ever know the scentedhumiliation of the handkerchief, or the agony of the faded ring, or therenouncing love which had written the poor foolish letter. Mauricewouldn't be pained. As for her gift to him of Jacky, she would just tellhim she wanted him to marry Lily, so he could have his child.... AndEdith? Oh, he would never think of Edith!
So she was very peaceful until, the next day, she heard Edith's voicein the hall, then she frowned. "She's here! In the house with him!Don't let her come in," she told Maurice; "she takes my breath." But,somehow, she couldn't help thinking of Edith.... "That morning in thegarden she cried," Eleanor thought. It was strange to think of tears inthose clear, careless eyes. "I never supposed she _could_ cry. I'vecried a good deal. Men don't like tears." And there had been tears inEdith's eyes when she came in and sat on the bed and said she was"unhappy...." "She believed," Eleanor meditated, her own eyes closed,"that it was because of _her_ that I went out to the river." She wasfaintly sorry that Edith should reproach herself. "I didn't do it becauseshe made me angry; I did it to make Maurice happy. I almost wish she knewthat." Perhaps it was this vague regret that made her remember Edith'sassertion that she would do "anything on earth" to keep Maurice frommarrying Lily. "But that's the only way he can be sure of gettingJacky," Eleanor argued to herself, her mind clearing into helplessperplexity--"and it's the only way to keep him from Edith. But I wishLily wasn't so vulgar. Maurice won't like living with her." Suddenly shesaid, "Maurice, do send the nurse out of the room. I want to tell yousomething, darling." She was very hoarse.
"Better not talk, dear," he said, anxiously.
She smiled and shook her head. "I just want to tell you: I don't mindnot getting well, because then you'll marry Lily."
"Eleanor! Don't--don't--"
"And you can give little Jacky the kind of home he ought to have."
She drowsed. Maurice sat beside her with his face buried in his hands.When she awoke, at dusk, she lay peacefully watching the firelightflickering on the ceiling, and, thinking--thinking. Then, into herpeace, broke again the memory of Edith's distress. "Perhaps I ought totell her that I went to the river for Maurice's sake? _Not_ because Iwas angry at her." She thought of Edith's tears, and said, "PoorEdith--" And when she said that a strange thing happened: pity, like asoft breath, blew out the vehement flame. It is always so; pity andjealousy are never together....
The next morning she remembered her words about Jacky--"the kind of homehe ought to have"--and again uneasiness as to the kind of "home" itwould be for Maurice rose in her mind. Her head whirled with worry. "Itwon't be pleasant for him to live with her, even if she can cook. Heloves that chocolate cake; but he couldn't bear her grammar. Edith saidI was 'unkind' to him. Am I? I suppose she thought he'd be happier withher? Would he? _She_ can make that cake, too. Yes; he would be happierwith her than with Lily;--and Jacky would call her 'Mother,"' Then sheforgot Edith.
After a while she said: "Maurice, can't I see Jacky? Go get him! Andgive Lily the car fare."
Maurice went downstairs and called Mrs. Houghton out of the parlor; inthe hall he said: "I think Eleanor's sort of mixed up. She is talkingabout 'Lily's car fare'! What do you suppose she means? Isshe--delirious? And then she says she 'wants to see Jacky.' What must Ido?"
"Go and get him," she said.
For a bewildered minute he hesitated. If Mrs. Newbolt should see Jacky,she ... would _know_! And Edith ... would she suspect? Still hewent--like a man in a dream. As he got off the car, a block from Lily'sdoor, a glimpse of the far-off end of the route where "Eleanor's meadow"lay, made his purpose still more dreamlike. But he was abruptly directwith Lily: he had come, he said, to tell her that his wife wanted--
"My soul and body!" she broke in; "if she's sent you--" They were in thedining room, Maurice so pale that Lily, in real alarm, had put her handon his arm and made him sit down. But she was angry. "Has she got on tothat again?"
His questioning bewilderment brought her explanation.
"She didn't tell you she'd been here? Well, I promised her I wouldn'tgive her away to you, and I _wouldn't_,--but so long as she's sent you,now, there's no harm, I guess, telling you?" So she told him. "Whatpossessed you to let on to her?" she ended. She was puzzled at hisfolly, but she was sympathetic, too. "I suppose she ragged it out ofyou?"
Maurice had listened, silently, his elbow on his knee, his fist hardagainst his mouth; he did not try to tell her why he had "let on"; hecould not say that he wanted to defend his son from such a mother; stillless could he make clear to her that Eleanor had not "ragged it out ofhim," but that, to his famished passion for truth, confession had beenthe Bread of Life. He looked at her once or twice as she talked; pretty,yet; kindly, coarse, honest--and Eleanor had supposed that he wouldmarry her! Then, sharply, his mind pictured that scene: his wife, hispoor, frightened old Eleanor, pleading for the gift of Jacky! AndLily--young, arrogant, kind.... The pain of it made his passion of pityso like love that the tears stood in his eyes. "Oh, she _mustn't_ die,"he thought; "I won't let her die!"
When Lily had finished her story he told her his, very briefly: hiswife's forgiveness of his unfaithfulness; her desire to do all she couldfor Jacky: "Help me--I mean help you--to make a man of him, because sheloves me. Heaven knows I'm not worthy of it."
Lily gulped. "She ain't young; but, my God, she's some woman!" She threwher apron over her face and cried hard; then stopped and wiped her eyes."She wants to see him, does she? Well, you bet she shall see him! I'llget him; he's playing in at Mr. Dennett's--he's all on being anundertaker now. Mr. Dennett
's a Funeral Pomps Director. But he's got toput on his new suit." She ran out on to the porch, and Maurice couldhear the colloquy across the fence: "You come in the house, quick!"
"Won't. We're going to in-in-inter a hen."
"Yes, you will! You're going to put on your new suit and go and see alady--"
"Lady? Not on your life."
"It's Mr. Curtis wants you--" Then Jacky's yell, "_Mr. Curtis?_" and adash up the back steps and into the dining room--then, silent, grimyadoration!
Maurice gave his orders. "Change your clothes, young man. I'll bring himback, Lily, as soon as she's seen him."
While he waited for the new suit Maurice walked up and down the littleroom, round and round the table, where on a turkey-red cloth a hideoushammered brass bowl held some lovely maidenhair ferns. The vision ofEleanor abasing herself to Lily was unendurable. To drive it from hismind, he went to the window and stood looking out through the fragrantgreenness of rose geraniums, into the squalid street where the offspringof the Funeral Pomps Director were fighting over the dead hen; from thebathroom came the sound of a sputtering gush from the hot-water faucet;then splashes and whining protests, and maternal adjurations: "You gotto look decent! I _will_ wash behind your ears. You're the worst boy onthe street!"
"Eleanor tried to save him," he thought; "she came here, and begged forhim!"
Above the bathroom noises came Lily's voice, sharp with efficiency, butshaking with pity and a quick-hearted purpose of helping: "Say, Mr.Curtis! Could she eat some fresh doughnuts? (Jacky, if you don't standstill I'll give you a regular spanking! I _didn't_ put soap in youreyes!) If she can, I'll fry some for her to-morrow."
Maurice, tramping back and forth, made no answer; he was saying tohimself, "If she'll just live, I will make her happy! Oh, she _must_live!" It was then that, suddenly, agonizingly, in the midst ofsplashings, and Jacky's whines, and Lily's anxiety about soap anddoughnuts, Maurice Curtis prayed ...
He did not know it was prayer; it was just a cry: "Do something--oh,_do_ something! _Do you hear me?_ She tried so hard to save Jacky. Makeher get well!" So it was that, in his selfless cry for happiness forEleanor, Maurice found all those differing realizations--Joy, and Law,and Life, and Love--and lo! they were one--a personality! God. In hisfrantic words he established a relationship with _Him_--not It, anylonger! "Please, please make her get well," he begged, humbly.
At that moment, at the door of the dining room, appeared an immaculateJacky in his new suit, his face shining with bliss and soap. He came andstood beside Maurice, waiting his monarch's orders, and listening,without comprehension, to the conversation:
"Nothing will be said to him that will ... give anything away. She justwants to see him. His presence in the room--"
Jacky gave a little leap. "Did you say _presents_!"
"--his merely being there will please her. She loves him, Lily. You see,she's always wanted children, and--we've never had any."
Jacky's mother said, in a muffled voice, "My land!" Then she caughtJacky in her arms and kissed him all over his face.
"Aw, stop," said Jacky, greatly embarrassed; to have Mr. Curtis see himbeing kissed, "like a kid!" was a cruel mortification. "Aw, let up,"said Jacky.
When he and Mr. Curtis started in to town his eyes seemed to grow bluer,and his face more beaming, and his voice, asking endless questions, morejoyous every minute. In the car he shoved up very close to Maurice, andtried to think of something wonderful to tell him. By and by, breathingloudly, he achieved: "Say, Mr. Curtis, our ash sifter got broke." Thenhe shoved a little closer. Just before they reached Mrs. Newbolt's housethe haggard, unhappy father gave his son orders:
"There is a lady who wants to see you, Jacky. She's my wife. Mrs.Curtis. You are to be very polite to her, and kiss her--"
"Kiss a lady!"
"Yes. You'll do what I tell you! Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Jacky said, sniffling.
"You are to tell her you love her; but you are not to speak unless youare spoken to. Do you get on to that?"
"Yes, sir. No, sir," poor Jacky said, dejectedly.
It was Edith who, watching for Maurice from the parlor window, openedthe front door to him. She looked up into his eyes, then down intoJacky's, who, at that moment, took the opportunity, sighing, to obeyorders; be reached up and gave a little peck at Edith's cheek.
"I love you," he said, gloomily. "I done it," he told Maurice. "_He_said I got to," he explained to Edith, resignedly, as she, startled butpleased, took his little rough hand in hers.
Just as she did so Mrs. Newbolt, coming downstairs, saw him and stoppedshort in the middle of a sentence--the relationship between the man andthe child was unmistakable. When she got her breath she said, coldly:"There's a change, Maurice. Better go right upstairs."
He went, hurriedly, leading his little boy by the hand.
"Well, upon my word!" said Mrs. Newbolt, looking after the small,climbing figure in the new suit. "I wouldn't have believed such a thingof Maurice Curtis--oh, my poor Eleanor!" she said, and burst out crying."I suppose she knows? Did she want to see the child? I always said shewas a puffect angel! But I don't wonder she--she got wet ..."
Eleanor was very close to the River now, yet she smiled when Jacky'sshrinking lips touched her cheek.
"Take her hand," Maurice told him, softly, and the little boy, silentand frightened, obeyed; but he kept his eyes on his father.
Eleanor, with long pauses, said: "Dear ... Jacky. Maurice, did you giveher ... five cents? He must have ... music lessons."
"Yes, Star," he said, brokenly. "Jacky," he said, in a whisper, "say 'Ilove you.'"
But Jacky whispered back, anxiously, "But I said it to the other one?"
"_Say it!_" his father said.
"I love you," said Jacky, trembling.
Eleanor smiled, slept for a moment, then opened her eyes. "He doesn'tlook ... like _her_?"
"Not in the least," Maurice said.
Jacky, quailing, tried to draw his hand away from those cool fingers;but a look from his father stopped him.
"No," Eleanor murmured; "I see ... it won't do for"--Maurice bent closeto her lips, but he could not catch the next words--"for you to marryher."
After that she was silent for so long that Maurice led the little boyout of the room. As he brought him into the parlor, Henry Houghton, whohad just come in, looked at the father and son, and felt astonishmenttingle in his veins like an electric shock. He gripped Maurice's hand,silently, and gave Jacky's ear a friendly pull.
"Edith," Maurice Said, "I would take him home, but I mustn't leaveEleanor. Will you get one of the maids to put him on a Medfield car--"
"I'll take him," Edith said.
Maurice began to say, sharply, "_No!_" then he stopped; after all, whynot? "She must know the whole business by this time. Jacky's face givesit all away." She might as well, he thought, know Jacky's mother, as sheknew his father.
Jacky, in a little growling voice, said, "Don't want _nobody_ to put meon no car. I can--"
"Be quiet, my boy," Maurice said, gently. He gave Edith Lily's addressand went back upstairs.
Henry Houghton, watching and listening, felt his face twitch; then heblew his nose loudly. "I'll look after him," he told Edith. "I--I'lltake him to--the person he lives with. It isn't suitable for a girl--"
In spite of the gravity of the moment his girl laughed. "Father, you_are_ a lamb! No; I'll take him." Then she gave Jacky a cooky, which heate thoughtfully.
"We have 'em nicer at our house," he said. On the corner, waiting forthe Medfield car, Edith offered a friendly hand, which he refused tonotice. The humiliation of being taken home, "by a woman!" was scorchinghis little pride. He made up his mind that if them scab Dennett boysseen him getting out of the car with a woman, he'd lick the tar out ofthem! All the way to Maple Street he sat with his face glued to thewindow, never speaking a word to the "woman." When the car stopped hepushed out ahead of her and tore down the street. Happily no Dennettboys saw him!--but he dashed past his mo
ther, who was standing at thegate, and disappeared in the house.
Lily, bareheaded in the pale April sunshine, had been watching for himrather anxiously. In deference to the occasion she had changed herdress; a string of green-glass beads, encircling her plump white neck,glimmered through the starched freshness of an incredibly frank blouse,and her white duck skirt was spotless. Her whole little fat body was asfresh and sweet as one of her own hyacinths, and her kind face had theunchanging, unhuman youthfulness of flesh and blood which has never beenharried by the indwelling soul. But she was frowning. She had begun tobe nervous; Jacky had been away nearly two hours! "Are they playing agum game on me?" Lily thought; "Are they going to try and kidnap him?"It was then that she caught sight of Jacky, tearing toward home, hisfierce blue eyes raking the street for any of them there Dennett boys,who must have the tar licked out of 'em! Edith was following him, inhurrying anxiety. Instantly Lily was reassured. "One of Mrs. Curtis'slady friends, I suppose," she thought. "Well, it's up to me to keep herguessing on Jacky!" She was very polite and simpering when, at the gate,Edith said that Mr. Curtis asked her to bring Jacky home.
"Won't you come in and be seated?" Lily urged, hospitably.
Edith said no; she was sorry; but she must go right back; "Mrs. Curtisis very ill, I am sorry to say."
At this moment Jacky came out to the gate; he had two cookies in hishand. He said, shyly: "Maw's is better 'an yours. You can have"--thiswith a real effort--"the _big_ one."
Edith took the "big one," pleasantly, and said, "Yes, they are nicerthan ours, Jacky."
But Lily was mortified. "The lady'll think you have no manners. Go onback into the house!"
"Won't," said Jacky, eating his cooky.
His mother tried to cover his obstinacy with conversation: "He's crazyabout Mr. Curtis. Well, no wonder. Mr. Curtis was a great friend of myhusband's. Mr. Dale--his name was Augustus; I named Jacky after him;Ernest Augustus. He died three years ago; no, I guess it was two--"
"Huh?" said Jacky, interested, "You said my paw died--"
Lily, with that desire to smack her son which every mother knows, cuthis puzzled arithmetic short. "Yes. Mr. Dale was a great clubman. InPhiladelphia. I believe that's where he and Mr. Curtis got to be chums.But I never met _her_."
Edith said, rigidly, "Really?"
"Jacky's the image of Mr. Dale. He died of--of typhus fever. Mr. Curtiswas one of the pallbearers; that's how I got acquainted with him. Jackywas six then," Lily ended, breathlessly. ("I guess _that's_ fixed her,"she thought.)
Edith only said again, "Really?" Then added, "Good afternoon," andhurried away. So _this_ was the woman Eleanor would make Maurice marry!"Never!" Edith said. "Never! if _I_ can prevent it!"
Upstairs in Mrs. Newbolt's spare room, as the twilight thickened, therewas silence, except for the terrible breathing, and the clock tickingaway the seconds; one by one they fell--like beads slipping from astring. Maurice sat holding Eleanor's hand. The others, speaking,sometimes, without sound, or moving, noiselessly, stood before the meekmajesty of dying. Waiting. Waiting. It was not until midnight that sheopened her eyes again and looked at Maurice, very peacefully.
"Tell Edith it wasn't what she said, made me try ... our river ... Jackywill call her ... Tell Edith ... to be kind to Jacky."
She did not speak again.
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