The Vehement Flame Part 45

He wondered swiftly how she knew, but he did not stop to ask; his words rushed out; it was as if the jab of a lancet had opened a hidden wound: "I never cared a copper for her. Never! But--it happened. I was angry about something, and,--Oh, I'm not excusing myself. There isn't any excuse! But I met her, and somehow--Oh, Eleanor!"

"Maurice, ... what does she call you?"

"Call me? What do you mean?"

"What name?"

"Why, 'Mr. Curtis,' of course."

"Not 'Maurice'? Oh--I'm so glad! Go on."

"Well, I never saw her again until she wrote to me about ... this child.

Eleanor! I tried to tell you. Do you remember? One night in the boarding house--the night of the eclipse? I thought you'd never forgive me, but I tried to tell you ... Oh, Star, you are wonderful!"

It was an amazing moment; he said to himself: "Mrs. Houghton was right.

Edith was right. How I have misjudged her!" He went on, Eleanor still kneeling beside him, sometimes holding his hand to her lips, sometimes pressing her wet cheek against his; once her graying hair fell softly across his eyes ... "Then," he said, "then ... the baby was born."

"Oh, _we_ had no children!"

His arms comforted her. "I didn't care. I have never cared. I hated the idea of children, because of ... this child."

"Is his name Jacky?"

"That's what she called him. I never really noticed him, until winter before last; then I kind of--" He paused, then rushed on; it was to be Truth henceforward between them! "I sort of--got fond of him." He waited, holding his breath; but there was no "explosion"! She just pressed his hand against her breast.

"Yes, Maurice?"

"He was sick and she sent for me--"

"I know. That's how I knew. The telegram came, and I--Oh," she interrupted herself, "I wasn't prying!" She was like a dog, shrinking before an expected blow.

The fright in her face went to his heart; what a brute he must have been to have made her so afraid of him!

"It was all right to open it! I'm glad you opened it. Well, he was pretty sick, and I had to get him into the hospital; and after that I began to get sort of--interested in him. But now I'm worried to death, because--" Then he told why he was worried; he told her almost with pa.s.sion!... "For he's an awfully fine little chap! But she's ruining him." It was amazing how he was able to pour himself out to her! His anxiety about Jacky, his irritation at Lily--yet his appreciation of Lily; he wouldn't go back on Lily! "She wasn't bad--ever. Just unmoral."

"I understand."

"Oh, Eleanor, to be able to talk to you, and tell you!" So he went on telling her: he told her of his faint, shy pride in his little son; told her a funny speech, and she laughed. Told her Jacky had seen a rainbow in the gutter and said it was "handsome." "He really notices Beauty!"

Told her of Lily's indignation at the Sunday-school teacher, and his own effort to make Jacky tell the truth, "I have a tremendous influence over him. He'll do anything for me; only, I see him so seldom that I can't counteract poor old Lily's influence. She hasn't any idea of our way of looking at things."

"You must counteract her! You must see him all the time."

"Eleanor," he said, "I have never known you!"

He tried to lift her and hold her in his arms, but she was terrified about his knee.

"No! Don't move! You'll hurt your knee. Maurice, can't I see him?"

"What! Do you really want to?" he said, amazed "Eleanor, you are wonderful!"

That whole evening was entire bliss--as much to Maurice as to Eleanor; to him, it was escape from the bog of secrecy in which, soiled with self-disgust, he had walked for nearly nine years; and with the clean sense of touching the bedrock of Truth was an upspringing hope for his little boy, who "noticed Beauty"! He would be able to see Jacky, and train him, and gain his affection, and make a man of him. He had a sudden vision of companionship. "He'll be in business with me." But that made him smile at himself. "Well, we'll go to ball games, anyway!"

To Eleanor, the evening was a mountain peak; from the sun-smitten heights of a forgiveness that knew itself to be Love, and forgot that it forgave, she looked out, and saw--not that grave where Truth and Pride were buried, but a new heaven and a new earth; Maurice's complete devotion. And his child,--whom she could love.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Those next weeks were full of plans and hopes on Eleanor's part, and grat.i.tude on Maurice's part. But she would not let him say that he was grateful, or that she was generous; he had told her, of course, how Mrs.

Houghton had guessed long ago what had happened, and how she had urged him to trust his wife's n.o.bility--but Eleanor would not let him call her "n.o.ble"; "Don't say it! And don't be 'grateful,' I just love you," she said; "and if you only knew what it means to me to be able to do anything for you! It's so long since you've needed me, Maurice."

The pathos of her sense of uselessness made his eyes sting. "I couldn't get along without you," he told her.

Once, on a rainy April Sunday morning, when they were talking about Jacky (Maurice had gone to see him the day before, and was gnashing his teeth over some cheerful obliquity on the part of Lily)--Maurice said, emphatically: "Gosh! Nelly, I don't know what I'd do without you!"

She, sitting on a stool at his side (and looking, poor woman! old enough to be his mother), was radiant.

"And you don't enjoy talking to Lily?" she said--just for the happiness of hearing, again, his horrified protest, "I should say _not_! There's nothing she can talk about."

"She doesn't know about books and things? She hasn't--brains?"

"Brains? She probably never read anything in her life! She has lots of sense, but no intellect. She hasn't an idea beyond food and flowers--and Jacky."

"I wish I had her idea about food," Eleanor said, simply.

It was her fairness toward Lily that amazed him; it made him reproach himself for his stupidity in not having confessed to her long ago! "Why was I such a fool, Eleanor, as not to know that you were a big woman?

Mrs. Houghton knew it. Why, even Edith knew it! She told me you'd forgive anything."

"_What_!" She rose abruptly and stood looking at him with suddenly angry eyes. "Does Edith know?" she said.

"No! Of course she doesn't know--_this_! But one day she and I were taking a walk, and I was thinking what a devilish mess I was in.... And I suppose Edith saw I was down by the head, and she got to talking about you--"

"You let her talk about me!"

"She was saying how perfectly fine you had been about the mountain--"

"I don't need Edith Houghton's approval of my conduct, Maurice." She was trembling, and her face was quite pale. He rushed in deeper than ever:

"I was only saying I felt so--badly, because I had failed to make you happy. Of course I didn't say how! And she said, 'Don't have any secrets from Eleanor!'"

"So it was Edith who made you--"

For a moment Maurice was too dismayed to speak; besides, he didn't know what to say. What he did say was that she misunderstood him. "Good heavens! Eleanor, you didn't think I'd tell Edith a thing like _that_?

Or that I'd tell any woman, when I didn't tell you? But Edith knew you better than I did; she said no matter what I'd done (I just happened to say I was a skunk), you loved me enough to forgive me. And you have forgiven me."

"Yes," she said, in a whisper; "I've forgiven you."