But she did not sleep till the house was quiet; till the guests were gone.
They were married while the sun was still low in the eastern sky, under the pergola by the pool as Ellen had wished. Robie lent them one of his cars for the first stage of their departure. ‘Leave it anywhere you like,’ he said generously. ‘Just send me a wire where to find it. I’ll have someone pick it up.’ Rice pelted them as they drove away, and Ellen looked back, waving as long as there was anyone to see.
Then she sighed with a great relief, and slipped her hand through Harland’s arm. ‘There!’ she exclaimed. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
He touched her hand affectionately, but after a moment he said in a regretful tone: ‘I’m sorry there was no word from Quinton.’
‘I suppose,’ she suggested, ‘he was off fishing or something, didn’t get my wire.’
– VII –
Their room in the hotel at Taos faced the west, and Ellen waked at first dawn and lay for a while, blissfully happy, serene and fulfilled. As the light crept into the room she looked at Harland, still asleep, sprawling like a child; and she was content for a while to watch him, studying the shape of his head, the contour of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled over his upturned palm, loving all of him. But at length she sat up to look through the windows across the desert to distant mountains far away. The world lay in the cool shadow of dawn, still undefined and featureless; but as she watched, a rosy light began to fill the sky beyond those remote mountains, bringing them to life as a dark silhouette against that brightness. Then sunlight touched their peaks, tipping them with crimson. The sun was rising behind Taos and behind Ellen as she watched, its rays, diffused through earth mists, lancing across the sky above the village to lift those ranges yonder into the day.
The sunlight flowed down the flanks of the distant mountains till they were all in brightness, and their rocky slopes and shadowed gorges formed a pattern of changing color which seemed to Ellen wondrously enchanting. Then the coming day began to race toward her, as though this sunrise came from the west instead of from the east. The illumination revealed in turn each successive fold of the rolling desert, and each fold was gray-brown in the dusk of dawn till at the sun’s touch it showed pink and crimson with shadow patterns for relief, and then the bright hues became shimmering bronze. While the miracle continued, the desert was barred by bands of color changing constantly. Ellen had seen northern lights play across the autumnal skies, and except for their greater brilliance these colors changed and altered in the same way, manipulated by some Godlike hand, as though God himself experimented, laying His pigments across a palette, considering which to use to adorn the world for this newborn day.
There was in the spectacle something sublime and breath-taking, and Ellen’s eyes filled; but then she smiled, and asked herself happily whether yesterday she would have been as deeply moved by this beauty as she was today. Since she first knew Harland she had been intensely aware of all the living world, her senses sharpened and responsive to every stimulus; but there had been in that awareness a restless questioning, an eager hunger. Now she was at once more awake than she had ever been in her life before and at the same time more at peace.
Watching the spectacle that progressed outside her window, she thought those far mountains which had first reached up to snare the sun and pull it down to warm the earth, as a sleeper’s hand reaches for a coverlet when night takes on a sudden chill, must be scores of miles away; for the sunlight which raced toward her was not yet near at hand. She had no impulse to wake Harland, content to have this moment to herself; but when at last the desert was all bright, she lay down again, stretching luxuriously, her arms extended over her head, her legs at full reach, her toes pointed, deliciously conscious of every muscle and sinew and of every drop of blood in her body, feeling herself complete, perfected, attuned to life and to the world.
She turned on her side to look across at her husband, watching him with a proud triumphant smile; and she thought in a blissful peace: ‘Mine, mine, mine! There’s nothing in my world but you, Richard; and there’s nothing in your world but me!’
Yet after a moment she remembered that this was not wholly true. She remembered Danny; Danny who was ill, crippled, his legs shrunken and distorted; Danny who was a maimed and ugly thing. The thought of him thus deformed made her shudder as one shudders when a snake with a broken back writhes in the dust. Her eyes narrowed, and her brows drew together in a thin frown. She had cast out of her life her mother, and Ruth, and Quinton, so that all her life now was Richard’s.
But would he ever cast out his love for Danny, so that he could be altogether hers?
She lay for a long time, fixed in thought, till she was cold as ice; and she shivered faintly, and with a sudden movement then she sat up and took her pillow in both hands and flung it at Harland’s head. He roused with a startled grunt, and she leaped out of bed and pounced upon him, catching his ears in her hands, thumping his head on the pillow, laughing at him, crying over and over:
‘Wake up! Wake up, sleepy head! Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me!’
4
FOR AS LONG as he could remember, Danny Harland had been sure that his big brother was one of the lesser gods. Even while he himself was still almost a baby, Dick had treated him as an equal, sharing his enthusiasms and interesting himself in the things which interested Danny. Dick was so wonderful that Danny was a little shy with him. When they met after any separation he wished to throw himself into the other’s arms and hug him rapturously; but for fear Dick might not like that, he assumed a mature dignity, and they met with a firm handclasp, greeting each other as man to man. He had always felt nearer to Dick than to his mother; and after her death the two brothers drew closer still, and sometimes when they were together, if Dick were reading or otherwise absorbed, Danny might just watch him with wide eyes, thinking happily how wonderful he was, humbly praying that he himself might some day be as fine.
Before Danny’s illness, they had been comrades, and Dick never seemed to remember that he was so many years the older; but afterward there was a deep, almost maternal tenderness in Dick, and whenever he came to where Danny lay he bent down to kiss him — although they had seldom kissed before — and these caresses and this loving kindness made Danny so blissfully content that he sometimes thought it was worth being sick, to find out Dick loved him so. At the same time, because he knew how Dick grieved and worried over him, he took pains to be jolly and cheerful whenever they were together, making light of any discomfort he suffered, meeting this catastrophe which had struck him down with a high valor that was so complete it never seemed to be what it was. Once — his hearing was keener now than it had been — he heard his nurse say to Dick in the hall outside his door: ‘He’s so brave sometimes it’s just heartbreaking, Mr. Harland.’ And he heard Dick’s reply: ‘He’s so brave he never lets you see he’s being brave!’ Danny was mighty proud when he heard that. It had not occurred to him that he was brave. He was simply making things as easy as possible for Dick. If thereafter his courage ever failed or weakened, he had only to remember that overheard conversation to be strong again.
When the acute stage of his illness had passed, and Dick told him that they would go south to a place called Warm Springs where he might be helped toward complete recovery, Danny dreaded leaving home; but Dick saw his fears and banished them. ‘I’ll be with you there just as much as I am here, Danny,’ he promised, and grinned reassuringly. ‘You and I are always going to stick together.’
‘Is it a hospital?’ Danny asked dubiously; but Dick said:
‘No. The people there aren’t sick. You’re not sick yourself, now, you know. They’re like you, all over being sick, busy getting well.’
So Danny was reconciled. The long trip by train tired him; but at the Foundation, set high enough in the hills to be cool even in summer, with loftier mountains visible in the distance, he was soon happily content. It was, he told Dick, almost like New England. He
would be for a long time unable to move about without assistance, and he must endure a wearying routine of medication, minor corrective surgery and weeks of immobilization in plaster casts and splints before the underwater physical therapy which would follow; but Dick was with him, living in one of the small housekeeping cottages near-by, bringing him many bright surprises day by day.
He looked forward to Dick’s appearances, and when they were together he watched the other so closely, attentive not only to Dick’s words but to every shade of expression in his tones and every shadow in his eyes, that he saw how concern and sorrow wore upon his brother; and when, not long after their arrival at the Foundation, the question of Dick’s going to New Mexico arose, Danny was completely and wholeheartedly delighted, refusing to think how lonely he himself would be while the other was gone. But after Dick’s departure he was at first sick with longing for him, sobbing heartbrokenly through silent night hours when he could not sleep, lying with dry, blank eyes through the long empty days. Then little by little his spirits rose again, and he remembered that Dick would soon return, and that he himself must have progress to report; and this necessity of getting better as fast as he could for Dick’s sake made him presently forget his loneliness.
He read Dick’s New Mexico letters over and over, devouring every word. In the second letter he was puzzled by something he sensed but could not define; for it did not sound like Dick. The first, written on the train, full of squiggles and little comic sketches, had made him laugh till he cried, and that sounded like Dick all right; but the second was different, with no jokes in it, or at least none that were particularly funny; and Danny had, when he read it, a curious feeling that Dick was holding something back; that there was something on the tip of Dick’s tongue — or the tip of his pen — which he was always about to write and never did. There was a quality Dick put into his books, of which Danny was perhaps the most ardent reader. Without ever actually saying so, Dick in his novels always made you feel that something tremendously important and interesting was just about to happen. Danny got the same feeling from Dick’s letters now, and he found them a little frightening.
But as the time for Dick’s return approached, Danny lost himself in excited anticipation, counting the days. He woke one morning full of happiness, and for a moment could not remember why he was so happy; and then as he came wide awake he recalled that today Dick would leave the ranch and start the return journey back to him. Day after day after tomorrow, three days from now, he would be here!
Danny was so merry all that day that the nurses teased him about his love for Dick, declared he was as excited as a girl waiting for her sweetheart; but Danny laughed at their teasing, enjoying it, thinking from hour to hour: ‘Now he’s left the ranch! Now he’s on the train to the junction! Now he’s on the train for Chicago!’ He lay awake that night, unable to sleep, counting to himself every turn of the wheels which brought Dick nearer and nearer; and he hummed to himself that song which the wheels sang in Kipling’s story, and which so exactly fitted the sound of a racing train. It was like a lullaby. He hummed himself to sleep.
Next morning there was a letter from Dick, which had come by air mail, and when the nurse put the envelope in his hands Danny’s heart quickened with an instant alarm; for the envelope was a thick one, and Dick would not have written a long letter on the eve of his departure from the ranch. The boy tore off the end of the envelope and found half a dozen closely scribbled sheets in Dick’s small, regular hand; and he began eagerly to read.
Dear Danny —
This is going to be in some ways a hard letter to write, and I wish it didn’t have to be written, wish I could be there to tell you my fine news, instead of writing it.
Danny’s breath caught at that. It had an alarming sound; but the next sentence began to reassure him.
For it is the best of news I have to tell you, Danny. I’m going to be married tomorrow morning, to — as the fellow said — ‘the most wonderful girl in the world.’ Only in this case it happens to be true. We’ll be married in the morning and leave here at once, and have a few days together before we come back to you. It won’t be long, not more than a week, I’m sure. I know you’ll be disappointed just at first, because you’ll be expecting me about the time you get this; but I know you’ll forgive us. You know how honeymoons are. We haven’t decided yet just where we’ll go; but it will only be for a few days, that’s sure.
Danny muttered weakly: ‘Gosh!’ The letter slipped from his hand and he stared at nothing, and for a moment he had again that terrible sense of aloneness which had oppressed him when Dick went away. If Dick were married, probably things would be mighty different between them from now on. But of course he wanted Dick to be in love and married and happy. He picked up the letter again.
Well, now you want to know all about her. Her name’s Ellen Berent, and she’s lived all her life on Mount Vernon Street and at Bar Harbor in the summer. It seems impossible that she and I never met before; but there it is. I’ve already spoken of her in my letters, though I may not have told you her name. She was the girl on the train. Remember? And she went with me the day I shot the wild turkey. She’s done a lot of hunting and fishing with her father, and she’s about the loveliest thing you can imagine. She and Lin are fine friends, and I know you and she will be.
Danny looked up from the letter again, staring at the wall of his pleasant, sunny room, wondering how it would seem to have Dick loving someone else, wondering whether he himself would like her as Dick expected. Even if he didn’t, of course, he would have to pretend to like her very much, because it would make Dick unhappy if he didn’t. He licked his lips and swallowed hard and for a moment he was just a frightened, sick little boy; because of course he would never again have Dick all to himself. But then he set his jaw and grinned and nodded to assure himself that this was fine and that he was glad, mighty glad, because Dick now would be so happy.
He read on. There was more and more about Ellen. At the last, Dick described the trip down the canyon, and the hardships and the dangers he and Ellen endured together. ‘For of course it really was dangerous,’ he explained. ‘Things might have gone badly wrong.’
And he concluded:
Something happened to me on the way down the canyon. I had liked Ellen before that, and yet I had felt a certain antagonism toward her too, for no reason, except that I was a confirmed old bachelor, and bachelors always shy off from any sort of matrimonial pitfall.
But before we came to the end of our journey it seemed to me that she and I were, in all the ways that mattered, already married, and that she was the bravest and finest and altogether the most desirable woman in the world.
And I saw in her eyes that she felt the same way about me. Maybe it’s a conceited thing to say, Danny, but I think she’s quite as much in love with me as I am with her. For instance, my idea would have been to wait till you could be at our wedding; but she doesn’t want to wait. To wait would mean her going back to Boston and my going back to you, and our not seeing each other for weeks or months; but she’s anxious to come with me, and to know you, and I’m anxious for you to know her. And neither of us wanted to wait.
We’ll be married here tomorrow morning, and Glen Robie is lending us a car, and we’ll drive away somewhere for a day or two and then start to come to you. Be ready with a big welcome for us, Danny. I want you to be as happy as I am. It will be three of us instead of only two, from now on, and that will be just twice as fine. We both send love, and we’ll see you soon.
Dick
Danny read that letter slowly, devouring every word; and he grinned at Dick’s happiness, and he thought Dick sounded different already, younger, gay and merry and more like a boy than a man. There were two or three passages which, to his sharpened and sensitive mind, seemed a little as though Dick were trying to reassure himself; but Danny decided that was just his imagination. Certainly Dick would not have married anyone unless he wanted to very much indeed; so Ellen was bound to be all right.<
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He told the nurses and the doctors, joyfully, the news. ‘Listen! Isn’t this wonderful? Dick’s married! To a girl out there! They’re coming right on here!’ He even read them parts of Dick’s letter, telling who she was and what she was like, telling the story of the adventure in the canyon. But he saw their exchange of glances, significant and troubled; and he knew what they were thinking, because of course they knew how much Dick meant to him. So to make them see that he did not feel badly, he put on an excessive enthusiasm, insisting over and over on his delight.
But when he was left alone, his eyes shadowed with doubts. Would Dick love him as much as ever, come to see him as often, stay as long? Would she like him — or would she resent Dick’s devotion to him? After all, you couldn’t blame her for not wanting Dick tied down, forced to stay near a sick, crippled, bedridden boy who couldn’t do anything; who could never do anything again except perhaps lurch around on crutches, and sit in a wheel chair, and, of course, swim. It was only his legs that were useless, and when he was a little stronger he would be able to swim with his arms, and they said he could even use his legs in swimming, too. But all the same, he would never be good for much; and Dick said she was pretty, and probably she liked good times, parties and dances and fishing trips and travelling. And naturally she wouldn’t ever love him as Dick did.
Leave Her to Heaven Page 12