Leave Her to Heaven

by Ben Ames Williams

  When he emerged from the cove by the boathouse he saw the white-painted skiff a mile or so away, near the northern shore; and he assumed that they were fishing. Then, drawing nearer, he saw that there was only one person in the boat, and he felt a sudden concern; but a moment later he made out Danny’s head in the water under the boat’s stern, and understood.

  When he cut his motor and surged to a stop beside them, Danny was within fifty yards of the shore; and Ellen said reassuringly: ‘He’s fresh and strong, Richard, not a bit tired. Aren’t you proud of him?’ And to Danny she called: ‘Don’t pay any attention to us, Danny. Go all the way to shore first.’

  Danny was swimming easily, using a side stroke, his face toward Richard; and he grinned, and Harland said proudly: ‘Wonderful, Danny! Ellen, did he swim clear across?’

  ‘From way in the cove,’ she assured him.

  ‘That’s three-quarters of a mile, easily,’ he declared. ‘That’s swell!’

  ‘I could go on all day,’ Danny boasted; and as they neared the shore Ellen — she wore a scant bathing suit, sleek and close — slipped overside and waded along with him, at first throat-deep and then waist-deep, till the bottom steeply shoaled and he could swim no farther. She helped him into the boat and wrapped him in warm blankets against any possible chill; and Harland, his engine throttled down, towed them back to the landing.

  Leick was there to meet them, and he and Harland carried Danny up to the lodge, and Ellen insisted that he be put at once to bed, and Harland rubbed him hard with a rough towel, and Leick brought him a bowl of warm soup, and they all celebrated together this grand achievement. Danny was full of a strong excitement, and Harland was as proud as he.

  ‘But you ought to have told me you were going to try it,’ he said. ‘You might have got into trouble.’

  ‘Shucks, Dick,’ Danny said confidently. ‘If I’d needed help, Ellen could have taken care of me. Besides, we wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘Just the same,’ Harland began, his quick imagination picturing the dark things which might have happened, ‘You ought to...’

  But Ellen interrupted. ‘Now Richard, don’t spoil our triumph,’ she protested. Her eyes warned Harland to silence, and then Danny’s eyelids began to droop, and Ellen covered him snugly, and they left him to sleep a while.

  He slept all that afternoon, and Ellen and Harland went out of doors so their voices would not disturb him. They climbed to the lookout above the cabin, from which they could see almost the whole crescent of the pond swinging around at their feet in a semicircle. The view was wide and bold, with a glimpse of Katahdin far away, and of lesser, nearer peaks; and in a weatherproof box nailed against a tall spruce, Harland kept a battered pair of binoculars with which he liked to watch the eagle’s nest on a dead stub across the pond, the pair of loons that made the lake their home, the deer that often came out to the waterside to escape swarming summer flies. He spoke of Danny’s swim that morning, admitting again his concern, and Ellen protested:

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Richard! He wasn’t tired, really. This — his sleeping now — is just the reaction from the excitement. That swim was an emancipation for him. Don’t you see?’

  ‘I keep thinking what might have happened,’ he confessed, and he said insistently: ‘Don’t ever try it again without taking me along.’

  She hushed him, her fingers pressing his lips. ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ The ledge below the lookout was well carpeted with mosses, soft and springy, and she led him that way and they lay down side by side as they had lain when they watched for turkeys, long ago. ‘Besides, my dear,’ she reminded him, ‘having him sleep all afternoon gives us this time together. We don’t have many hours when we’re all alone.’ She laughed teasingly. ‘Even at night, if you turn over in bed, Danny can hear the springs creak.’

  ‘We’ll work out something, another year, that will give us a little more privacy.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind it if you don’t,’ she declared.

  He grinned, turning on his back, shielding his eyes against the sun. ‘You don’t fool me for a minute!’ he assured her comfortably.

  ‘Well, of course,’ she admitted, and pressed her lips against his palm. ‘I never did believe in chaperones!’

  ‘It’s a lot of fun outwitting them!’

  She laughed richly, whispered: ‘Oh Richard, Richard, I do love you so!’

  Leick was too tactful to come seeking them, and Danny slept long, so they had the fine afternoon together; and when they rose at last to go down to the lodge again, Ellen stood with arms out-thrown, her bosom rising, her eyes drinking the beauty spread below them. ‘Oh, I love it, Richard!’ she whispered. ‘I love it as much as you do.’ She drew close to him. ‘Promise me something, darling? When I die, scatter my ashes here. Come up here some day when a high wind blows and throw them to the winds. Promise me?’

  He held her hard. ‘I’ll never live on without you.’

  ‘Oh yes, you will! I shan’t live long. I’ve always known that. I don’t want to live too long. I don’t want to ...’ She kissed him. ‘To outlive my welcome, darling. I don’t want to grow old. But you’ll live to be an old, old man. Promise me, Richard?’

  He tried to laugh her to silence; but she insisted so seriously that she had at last his solemn pledge and nodded in content. ‘Now I’ll never be unhappy about anything any more forever,’ she promised. ‘Come! We’ll go to Danny together, my dear.’

  Summer droned away, and nothing except a change of weather modified the easy routine of their days. Leick twice or thrice a week went to town for mail and for supplies. Harland was not an easy correspondent. He wrote few letters and received few. Ellen wrote once a week to her mother; heard from her — or rather from Ruth — almost every time Leick went to town. Once she told Harland: ‘Ruth would like it here. We must ask her to come some time.’

  ‘Sure, if you like,’ he agreed.

  ‘Of course we’ve no guest room.

  ‘I’ll give her my bed, go down with Leick. There’s an extra bunk there. I’d like to see her. She’s a grand girl.’

  She eyed him soberly, but then she smiled. ‘On the whole, 1 think she’d better stay away,’ she decided. ‘I don’t want to share you with the whole family!’ And they laughed together.

  Fine days saw them much out of doors, but if it rained or were cold they stayed in the cabin with a bright fire going. Harland’s work went forward steadily and well. Danny grew stronger every day. Ellen was beautiful and bountiful, and Harland felt like a giant, with unmeasured powers. The sunny days when white clouds sailed in splendid argosies across the sea of the sky and when from their lofty vantage they could look away beyond miles of forest to the heights of Mount Desert and catch far glimpses of the ocean; the days of warm and soaking rain when a pearl-gray screen of falling drops blurred every prospect; the nights when rain pelted on the roof and they lay snug and secure; the days when the wind was crisp with a hint of fall, or raw and cold so that their blood ran quicker; the many days when the air was wine, neither too hot nor too cool; the warm dawns when skeins of mist rose from the still lake; the starlit silent nights; the sound of high winds in the treetops; the bird songs at dusk from the deeper woods; the moonlight mockery of the loons that nested on the lake; the hushed hooting of great owls in the valley; the deer that came to feed on well-salted potato parings which Leick put out for them; the porcupines which gnawed the doorstep; the coon that whistled by the brookside; the whining bark of foxes in the night — all these things, delighting the senses, blended together in a rich draught of which Harland drank deep every hour, fulfilled and at peace, asking for nothing which he did not have. There was a good store of books in the cabin: a scattering of detective tales and a substantial stock of the old favorites which Harland in the past had read over and over again, as well as a supply of modern publications still in their dust covers which his own and other publishers sent him from time to time; but Ellen cared little for reading, and Harland, except during his w
orking hours, was always with her or with her and Danny, so books were seldom opened. The days passed in a sweet serenity, and every moment was to Harland completely satisfying. He had, except that there were moments when Danny’s steady cheerfulness wrung his heart and when he felt a fierce resentment at the youngster’s disability, no fault to find with his world at all.

  Certainly he found no fault nor flaw in Ellen.

  – VII –

  One sultry afternoon in mid-August, Harland thought a thundershower was brewing; and Danny said: ‘Remember how the trout take at the spring hole sometimes, just before a shower, Dick? Let’s go try them.’

  Harland was ready enough, but Ellen protested. ‘I don’t like thunderstorms,’ she reminded them. ‘This is a good day to stay sensibly indoors.’

  ‘You stay here and Danny and I’ll go give them a try.’

  ‘I don’t trust you two out of my sight,’ she told him smilingly. ‘You’d do some outrageous thing, get into some trouble or other.’

  Harland hesitated and looked at Danny, and saw a mischievous invitation in the youngster’s eyes; and he laughed and said: ‘You’re afraid we’d talk about you behind your back! Danny and I kept out of trouble other years!’ It occurred to him that not once in all these months had he and Danny been alone for any length of time. Ellen was always with them. He and the boy had used to enjoy the long afternoons together, talking as soberly as two men, discussing the problems which bulked large in Danny’s mind. Perhaps the youngster missed those hours with him. ‘We’ll go without you, Ellen,’ he told her in a sudden decision. ‘You stay here and keep the home fires burning. We’ll be back as soon as the storm breaks.’

  ‘Please don’t go, Richard,’ she begged.

  ‘Why not?’ He felt a stubborn resistance rise in him, a determination to beat down her protestations.

  ‘Danny’ll get soaked!’

  ‘He’s been soaked before.’ He laughed. ‘We won’t melt, you know, darling. We’re not made of sugar.’

  Danny, as though he sensed the tension between them, said: ‘I’ll go get the rods into the canoe, Dick.’ The fishing tackle was kept in the boathouse. He took his crutches and stumped away down the path; and Ellen came to Harland, touched his arm.

  ‘Don’t, Richard,’ she urged.

  ‘Aren’t you a little unreasonable?’

  ‘Am I? Perhaps. Women are, sometimes, you know.’

  He said: ‘Let Danny and me have this hour or two together, Ellen. We have a lot to talk about, and a boy his age is shy with even two people. You have him to yourself every day. You must let me have him too, sometimes.’

  ‘I know I’m unreasonable,’ she admitted. ‘But — I’m blue this afternoon. Let Leick take him. Stay with me. We have so little time alone together.’

  ‘We’ll be back soon,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t make such a point of it, Ellen. Why shouldn’t Danny and I go adventuring sometimes?’

  Without answering, she turned away into their room and closed the door. Harland felt astonishingly and absurdly guilty, and therefore angry too. His jaw set in firm lines, and he left her with no further word.

  He and Danny had fine sport for a while, keeping enough trout for breakfast, releasing the others as quickly as they were landed; and Danny shouted with delight at the hard smash and tug of every rise. Harland looked often toward the landing, hoping Ellen would relent and join them, but she did not. Yet when they came home drenched and dripping, she met them with a smile, had dry clothes ready, helped Danny change. Except that she was quiet, she was as tender and attentive as she had always been; and there was no reproach in her at all. The evening was a merry one, and Harland forgot the discordant note which the afternoon had struck. That night when they were alone she clung to him in a passionate repentance, and had his bountiful forgiveness; and next day was for them all as serene, at least on the surface, as the days that had gone before.

  The rain brought no lasting break in the heat. Still, sullen days continued, and the pond lay brazen in the sun; and when they swam, the water was as warm as the air. The second evening, Danny discovered a hummingbird which had apparently been hurt or had sickened, perched on top of the low wall outside the cabin, and he called them to see it. They approached within arm’s length, and when it did not fly, Ellen gently picked it up. It had no visible hurt, but though alive it lay passive in her hands. She carried it indoors and warmed it and gave it a drop of sugared brandy water, and they admired the beauty of its coloring, and made a nest for it of cotton batting, and hoped it would recover.

  But in the morning it was dead, its wings extended, its tail spread like a lovely small fan, and it was so beautiful that their eyes dimmed. ‘It’s just as if it had flown away,’ Danny murmured. ‘Had gone soaring and sweeping away and left its body here.’

  Leick was to go to town that day, and Ellen as though on sudden impulse said: ‘I’m going to ask Leick to bring back father’s field kit, and I’ll mount it for you, Danny, in flight, just the way it is.’

  Harland turned to protest, remembering his distaste for the arsenic the kit presumably contained; but Danny’s quick delight forestalled him, so he did not interfere. Leick, having prepared their early breakfast, departed with this mission on his list for the day.

  Harland, at his desk in the pleasant room above the boathouse, worked for a while almost indolently, till as his imagination warmed to its task his pen ran fast and faster and he became completely absorbed. Toward mid-morning he heard Ellen and Danny depart in the skiff. They rowed away, moving quietly, not speaking, careful to avoid disturbing him; but presently from a distance Harland heard Danny’s voice, singing one of his favorite songs:

  ‘Oh a capital ship for an ocean trip

  Was the Walloping Window Blind.

  No wind that blew dismayed her crew

  Or troubled the Captain’s mind . . .’

  The song, as the receding skiff rounded a distant point, faded and was gone, and Harland smiled and returned to his work again. This was one of those mornings when what he wished to say was completely clear to him, and for a while he forgot his surroundings as the words flowed from his racing pen. But after a time his thoughts drifted, following Ellen and Danny who had gone away up the lake together. She was never so completely perfect as when she played companion to Danny; and he thought how charming she would be when their own babies came to them, how tender and how sufficing. The instinct for paternity was stronger in him all the time, but there was a reluctance in Ellen which he had not till now sought to overcome. He must wait till she was as eager as he, and he thought how natural it was for her to be a little afraid of this great enterprise.

  He turned back to his work again, and after a moment the steady fury of composition filled him once more. He wrote rapidly, speaking now and then a phrase aloud to test the sound of it, changing here and there a word. Sometimes he sat for long minutes staring at the pad before him, and sometimes he wrote and scratched out a line a dozen times before he was content. He lighted a fresh cigarette, unconscious of the fact that others, from each of which he had taken no more than a single puff, lay ranged along the edge of the broad desk of smoothed boards which was his worktable. The forgotten cigarettes smouldered beside him, wisps of smoke rising blue in the still air.

  He came to a pause at last, and thrust the pages together, and his eyes were shining, for he knew the work was good; yet after a moment his shoulders sagged wearily. He had written till his vision blurred, and he had smoked so much that his senses were reeling, and his hand ached from its grip upon the pen. He left his desk and stumbled up the path to the cabin, still so absorbed that he forgot that Ellen and Danny had not yet come down the lake again.

  At the open door he called Ellen’s name and had no answer. He wondered what time it was, but they were often careless of time at Back of the Moon. The sun was the only dock that mattered. But if Ellen and Danny were on the pond, he would be able to see them from the lookout above the cabin, so he turned that way.
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br />   When he reached the spot, he saw at once the white skiff, off near the end of the point that extended from directly below where he stood halfway across the pond. He looked at the little boat for a moment with puzzled eyes, and then abruptly he snatched the binoculars from the box where they were kept. Someone had changed the adjustment of the lenses; Ellen perhaps, since she was a little shortsighted. In his haste he was clumsy, and it was a moment before he brought into focus the skiff, and Ellen, and the water beyond.

  When he could see clearly, his heart stopped. He watched for a breathless instant, and then with a low choking cry he flung the glass aside and plunged headlong down the path past the cabin to the boathouse, terror strangling him.

  6

  ELLEN, until she and Harland were married, had not looked beyond that consummation. The first morning at Taos, when she remembered Danny, faint doubts disturbed her; but they were forgotten in the rapturous days that followed, when she and Harland were always together, when the sound of his voice, or the accidental contact of their hands, could wake in her faint quickenings that came and went like heat lightning across a distant horizon. Swift glorious storms of tenderness overwhelmed them both as warm spring rains pelting on frozen ground thaw it to a fertile softness.

  But just as such showers, passing by, leave the earth washed and clean and the air limpid and clear, so Ellen saw her world with a lucid and crystalline awareness; and she was piqued by the fact that the tumultuous delights of their ardent hours together reawoke in Harland the creative instinct which had made him the novelist he was. It perplexed her to discover that the impulse which she roused in him she herself could never wholly satisfy.