‘No. I threw that in the furnace. I started to empty it down the drain, but I was afraid it might kill the fish in the harbor or something.’ Ruth laughed at herself. ‘I was scared even to handle it,’ she confessed.
She asked what they planned for the rest of the summer; and Ellen said she did not know, remarking: ‘It’s the first time in my life when I’ve had really nothing to do. Richard’s busy at his desk all morning, and sometimes half the afternoon too.’ Harland thought lies came easily to her. ‘I may take up collecting again,’ she reflected. ‘Carry on Father’s work where he left off.’ And she said: ‘You see, Ruth, Doctor Patron says I dare never have another baby.’
Ruth’s eyes filled with a quick sympathetic grief. ‘Really, Ellen. Oh — I’m so sorry, for both of you.’ She looked toward Harland, but he was watching Ellen in a sort of fascination, grimly admiring the guile which led her thus to forestall any future questions.
‘So I shall have to find some way to keep busy,’ Ellen explained. ‘And that might be the very thing. I’m sure I can get collector’s licenses from the Federal authorities, and from Massachusetts, and probably Maine. The museums to which Father and I sent specimens all know me. They’d give me references.’
‘Father had a full outfit in his workshop at Bar Harbor,’ Ruth reminded her. Her tone lifted on sudden inspiration. ‘Why don’t you both come up there, as soon as I have the place settled, and you can select the things you want, Ellen, get them packed up. Or perhaps you might want to keep his workshop there.’
Ellen said emphatically that she would never want to work there. ‘But we may come up for a week or so in September,’ she agreed. ‘If I can persuade Richard to leave his work for a while.’ She smiled at him, made a little face at him. ‘He’s such an old stick-to-his-desk; he’s hard to move, sometimes.’ And she asked challengingly: ‘What do you think, dear?’
Harland indifferently agreed that a few days at Bar Harbor might be pleasant, and before they said good night, the visit was arranged.
– III –
Ellen had that night an attack of the digestive disorder to which, since her childhood, she had been subject. Her cry woke Richard, and he went to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said apologetically. ‘It hurts so, as if I were on fire!’ Her head twisted on the pillow in a paroxysm of pain. ‘I ought to be used to it by now, but it just seemed to squeeze that scream out of me.’ She shuddered, gasping and retching; and he tried to help her to her feet, but she was limp in his grasp. Helpless as any man under the circumstances, he called Mrs. Huston; then at Ellen’s painfully whispered direction he telephoned Doctor Saunders.
‘He’s — seen me like this before,’ she told Harland. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
The doctor when he arrived seemed sure of his ground. He sent Harland out of the room. ‘It’s not pleasant to watch,’ he explained. ‘Mrs. Huston can get me what I need.’
Ellen was for hours in acute distress, with pain and nausea and an intense thirst which she could not satisfy, since her stomach refused to retain even a teaspoonful of liquid. When Harland was permitted to see her at last, her features were sunken, her brow wet, and she lay limp and utterly collapsed.
‘But she’s all right now,’ Doctor Saunders assured him. ‘Only she’ll not want to eat anything for two or three days, just a little weak barley water.’
‘I hear she’s had these attacks before?’
‘Yes, ever since she was a child. I’ve seen half a dozen of them.’
‘What’s the answer, doctor? What causes them?’
‘Well, you might call it nervous indigestion, I suppose.’ Doctor Saunders chuckled. ‘Her mother used to say they were the result of an ingrowing disposition; that she always got sick when she couldn’t have her own way. That was sometimes true when she was a baby. I’ve caught her at it before now. She used to pretend to be sick to discipline her parents, just as grown women sometimes pretend to have headaches to discipline their husbands. But this attack was the real thing. Of course, curry’s hardly the best dish to put into a nervous stomach.’ He picked up his hat. ‘And after all, Mr. Harland, she’s been under tension for several months now. This will help her relax, do her good. Give her a week and she’ll be as well as ever.’
‘She looked pretty sick to me.’
‘She was,’ the doctor agreed. ‘Medically, it’s a semi-acute gastritis, something of the sort.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Well — it might be. There’s a good deal of collapse attendant on a severe attack. Yes, it might be; but I’m sure she’s on the high road now. She’s asleep. That’s the best possible sign. However, I’ll drop in this afternoon. And of course, don’t hesitate to call me if you think best. But Ellen’s been through it before.’ Me chuckled reassuringly again. ‘She knows her own condition as well — perhaps better — than I.’
That afternoon he was again unconcerned, and next day he dismissed his patient, saying Ellen could get out of bed as soon as she felt able to do so. But it was a week before Ellen came downstairs. Mrs. Huston cared for her, and Ruth delayed her departure to Bar Harbor and was in the house every day, helping Mrs. Huston, talking with Ellen, reassuring Harland.
‘I’ve seen her this way more than once,’ she told him. ‘She blames my curry, but I don’t, because it wasn’t curry the other times. Ellen is high-strung; and after a long strain she goes to pieces this way, that’s all. This has been a hard year for her, of course.’ She touched his arm in quiet comforting. ‘Just be good to her, Dick,’ she said. ‘That’s the best medicine she can have. As long as she’s happy with you, she’ll be fine.’
Ellen herself said the same thing to him, and in almost the same words, the day after Ruth left for Bar Harbor. ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance, Richard,’ she told him, faint mockery in her tones. ‘But I’ve always had such spells when things didn’t go to suit me, whenever I was unhappy. Someone told me once about conditioned reflexes. Maybe it’s a conditioned reflex with me. Whenever I don’t get my own way, I stage a stomach upset.’ She smiled at him. ‘So if you don’t want a sick wife on your hands, you’ll have to treat me indulgently, my dear!’
He thought a new chain was added to his bonds. Since they were forever fettered together by a common guilt — for she was right; by concealing her crime, he shared it — they must find some formula for amicable association. So he showed her day by day every thoughtful consideration.
Through August, Ellen looked forward to their Bar Harbor visit, her spirits rising as the set day approached. At dinner the evening before they were to start, she was more beautiful than she had ever been; and while Mrs. Huston served them — for Harland knew the old woman was now Ellen’s stout partisan and would approve the compliment — he told her so.
‘Sweet!’ she said gratefully, and Mrs. Huston beamed. ‘I suppose it’s because I’ve had such a lovely afternoon.’
He knew she had been out. ‘Where were you?’
‘At the bank, fondling my bonds like a miser. I love the rich feeling of them, Richard. And I had some business with Mr. Carlson.’ She was prettily mysterious. ‘Don’t you wish you knew what it was? You will know some day, perhaps.’
‘Who’s Mr. Carlson?’
‘He’s the man at the bank. The bank’s our trustee, mine and Ruth’s. He’s a darling, so grumpy and disapproving and dusty-looking. He must be a hundred years old, and he grunts at you, and smokes tremendous cigars — he eats one end as fast as he smokes the other — and lets the ashes fall on his vest, and seems half-asleep all the time. He doesn’t like me, I’m afraid, but I adore him. He’s a sort of lawyer, too. That’s another reason I went to him. You see, I made my will, Richard. Are you excited? You ought to be, because you’re in it.’
‘I ought to do that myself,’ he reflected. Even though he had not published a book since his marriage, the continuing success of Time Without Wings had stimulated popular interest in his earlier novels; and his royalties were substantial. Moving pictu
re sales added large sums, and his living expenses in proportion to his income had always been small. His surplus funds he had from the first put into stocks, and though he chose them at random, the market for several years had been moving upward at an accelerating pace, giving him a treacherous sense of infallibility. He was on the road to becoming a wealthy man. ‘I will,’ he said, ‘as soon as we come home.’
‘It gives you such a settled feeling,’ she assured him. ‘Father told us all to do it, but I never bothered till Mother’s dying reminded me. Then I put it off till now. You must put me in your will, Richard. You’re in mine.’ She was charmingly insistent. ‘You’d better! I’ll claim my dower rights anyway, so you needn’t try to cut me off!’
He said gravely: ‘I’ll never cut you off, Ellen. You’re my wife, and I’m your husband.’
‘Till death us do part?’ she asked, tenderly teasing. ‘But death won’t part us, Richard! If I die, I shall haunt you always. I promise you that! I’ve my plans all made!’ She added smilingly: ‘Remember, long ago, after our first kiss, I told you I would never let you go? I meant it, you know. Don’t ever think I’ve changed my mind, my dear!’ Her tone was light, but her eyes held his, something in them which he could not read.
– IV –
Harland dreaded the drive to Bar Harbor, but Ellen when they set out was as jolly as though between them no dark shadow lay. The day was fine, the countryside was fair, and Harland’s spirits responded to this beauty all about till he could laugh with her and find her charming and half forget the past. They debated where they would stop for lunch till Ellen proposed a picnic and he agreed; so they bought a can of chicken and a loaf of bread, butter and jelly and a bottle of milk, and beyond Wiscasset they followed byways toward the sea and parked the car and tramped down across a field of stubble to an oak-studded point beside one of the long, narrow bays which thereabouts indent the rocky coast. Beneath the oaks the turf was close-cropped, and they laid out the provisions they had brought and made a feast together.
They had forgotten they would need knives. ‘But never mind!’ Ellen cried. ‘The bread’s already sliced.’ She dug off a bit of butter. ‘Mind my fingers?’
‘Not a bit.’ He laughed at the mess she made as she worked the butter into paste to spread the bread. She picked slices of chicken out of the can to make a sandwich and extended it to him, licking her fingers.
‘M-m-m! Good!’ she declared. ‘Open the milk.’
When he tried to do so, the cap betrayed him; and his thumb, plunging down into the bottle, sent up a geyser of milk that splashed them both. But they laughed at this mishap, and with his handkerchief she wiped the white drops off his coat and off her sweater, and made a sandwich for herself and a second for him. For dessert there was bread and jelly. ‘But you’ll have to scoop out your own,’ she confessed. ‘My fingers are all over sand. Mercy! What did people do before they had knives? Here, put some on my bread too.’
So before they were done they were both well besmeared, and they descended to the waterside to wash their hands. Afterward Ellen was reluctant to depart, lying at length on the firm turf beneath the oaks, laughing at him because he urged they should be on their way.
‘You act embarrassed, Richard, as though you were afraid someone would find us here,’ she protested. ‘Look around, my darling! There’s not a sign of a house in sight in any direction. No one’s going to see us. You won’t be compromised!’
The beat of a motorboat’s engine approached from seaward, and he said: ‘Don’t be too sure. Hear that! We’re not as alone as we seem!’
‘Lie down here by me, and they won’t see you,’ she invited. ‘I’m out of sight. We’ll be hidden by the bank.’ The tide was low and they were well above the water. He did not obey till the boat was about to round the point just below them. ‘Quickly!’ she urged. ‘You’ll look awfully foolish, sitting there alone! They’ll know you’ve a girl here somewhere, and suspect the worst!’
He smiled and lay down beside her.
‘This is like the day we watched for the turkeys,’ she reminded him, and she asked: ‘Richard, why didn’t you make love to me that day? I wanted you to.’
The boat drew abeam of them. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘They’ll hear you.’
She pressed nearer, threw her arms around him. ‘Kiss me, Richard,’ she demanded; and when he did not, she whispered in merry warning: ‘If you don’t, I’ll scream, and I can scream a piercing scream! They’ll come to rescue me!’
He yielded hastily, and she held him tight, drawing him close against her, and the boat was well past before she let him go. He lifted his head to peer cautiously after the departing craft, saw a small cruiser with half a dozen summer folk aboard.
‘Probably they can go through from here to Bath somehow,’ he guessed, trying to ignore what had happened, pretending to himself that his heart still held its measured beat, steadying his voice to prove to her — and to himself — that he was unmoved by her nearness, by the warm sweet wind that drew across the meadow above them, by this secret hour, by that long embrace. She did not speak, and he turned and saw that she was lying quietly on her back, watching him. The boat was not yet gone out of sight so he lay down again, and her hand clung to his and she rubbed it against her cheek and kissed it, and then she pressed his hand against her bosom till he freed it, drew it away.
She said in light reproach: ‘After all, we’re married, Richard.’ He was silent, fighting for self-control; and she asked in a low tone: ‘Will you never love me?’
‘We ought to be moving on, Ellen.’
‘Have you no — bright memories?’ she challenged. He sat up, staring at the dark water below them, and she pleaded: ‘Have you nothing left for me at all?’
He spoke, not to bruise nor to wound but to put his own thoughts in order. ‘I remember the night you left off Quinton’s ring,’ he said. ‘I knew — it was in your eyes — that you would marry me if I asked you. I went to my room and thought for hours, and I decided not to marry you, Ellen.’
She laughed teasingly. ‘Decided?’
‘It was my head that made the decision,’ he admitted. ‘But that day in the canyon, that night by the fire, something overruled my head.’ He felt an almost tender pity for her, yet he was bound to lay this matter plain. ‘ You’re very beautiful. No one could be more so. And you’re wholly desirable. That made me forget what my head had decided.’
‘Let it make you forget again, Richard.’
‘Do you want me on those terms?’ he challenged.
‘I want you on any terms. I want all of you that you can give me.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Ellen.’ He added honestly: ‘Oh, I’m human, and — masculine. The day may come when you’ll win part of me again — but if you do, it will be a hollow victory — and perhaps a defeat in the end. We can go on side by side. I can do that — as long as you don’t ask more. But — if you win more than that, you’ll have less than you have now.’
Lying beside him she turned her head away, and her breast rose in a deep inhalation, and his pulses pounded hard and he thought it would be easy to surrender; yes, and blissful, too. Yet he knew the self-scorn which would follow, and held himself in bounds. She did not speak, but her very silence was an assault on his defenses; and he said hastily, blurting out the words: ‘You’ve got to know this. When I let myself think of what you’ve done, I’m sick, nauseated, I feel like trampling you. I want to — vomit! And —the Hell of it is, I can still want you! But I’d despise you and myself too. Only this way can I even respect myself. For God’s sake, Ellen, let’s keep what we can!’
For a moment more she lay motionless; but then she sat up quickly, and stood up, and gave him her hand to rise, and she was smiling, accepting his decision.
‘Thank you, Richard,’ she said calmly. ‘I know your whole mind now. We’ll go on to — Bar Harbor.’
So they took the road again, and a sense of guilt rode with him, and he spoke gently to her, and laughed with her w
hen she invited him to do so. But he drove more swiftly, as though in haste his only safety lay.
– V –
Ruth greeted them happily, and she showed them to a room that looked toward the sea. Harland in that room with twin beds felt Ellen’s amused eye upon him, felt her waiting for him to speak; and his jaw set stubbornly. Mrs. Huston, on the fact that they kept separate rooms, had been easily reassured. Mrs. Harland, he had told her, slept ill unless she was alone; and the old woman nodded understandingly, agreeing that Ellen needed all the rest she could get, poor thing. But — he could make no such suggestion to Ruth, and Ellen offered no word.
‘Come down when you’re ready,’ Ruth said. ‘I expected you hours ago, and Mrs. Freeman’s fuming for fear her dinner’s spoiled, but we’ll take time for cocktails anyway.’
‘Give us five minutes,’ Ellen promised. Ruth left them alone, and Ellen came dose to him and asked in mock solicitude: ‘Can you stand it, Richard? Or shall I tell Ruth to put me somewhere else?’
‘It’s all right, of course.’
‘I hate having you distressed.’
‘It’s all right,’ he insisted curtly.
She turned swiftly away, pressing her knuckles to her lips, and he suspected guiltily that her eyes had filled with tears. She went to brush her hair, but when he met her glance in the mirror she smiled and threw him a kiss and he decided he had been a fool.
They had coffee on the terrace, watching the afterglow bright and beautiful across Frenchman’s Bay; but at full dark, Ellen rose to go to bed. ‘I’m tired,’ she confessed. ‘The long drive, all day in the open air. But don’t you hurry, Richard. Sit with Ruth a while.’
He was grateful to her for this consideration, but while he talked with Ruth in the starlit darkness with the fragrance of phlox coming from the garden below them, he imagined Ellen preparing for sleep, following the routine he knew so well, pulling her dress off over her head — once he had liked to wait to catch her close and kiss her the moment her face appeared, pinioning her arms still entangled in her gown — slipping out of her undergarments and into sleek silk or satin, sitting long at the dressing table to brush smooth her hair, waiting till the last moment to peel off her stockings and toss them across the foot of the bed where they would catch and reflect the first rosy light of dawn. His nostrils remembered the scent she wore, the fragrance of her hair. She always seemed so astonishingly small, and so soft and warm in her delicate night garments.
Leave Her to Heaven Page 26
