… She is good looking, Mary?" She nodded, and he said again, "A pre-Raphaelite woman; those full red lips, and that lovely black hair growing so low on her forehead. And a really good voice. And a charming figure. But I tell you one thing: she's got to stop twitting on facts. Did you hear her say, 'Maurice is so ridiculously young, he doesn't remember'—? I don't know what it was he didn't remember. Something unimportant. But she must not put ideas about his youth into his head. He'll know it soon enough! You tell her that."
"Thank you so much!" said Mary Houghton. "Henry, you mustn't say things before Edith! Suppose Eleanor had known her Little Dorrit?"
"She doesn't know anything; and she has nothing to say."
"Well, it might be worse," she encouraged him. "Suppose she were talkative?"
He nodded: "Yes; a dull woman is bad, and a talkative woman is bad; but a dull talkative woman is hell."
"My dear! I'm glad Edith's in bed. Well, I think I like her."
CHAPTER VI
But the time arrived when Mrs. Houghton was certain that she "liked" Maurice's wife. It would have come sooner if Eleanor's real sweetness had not been hidden by her tiresome timidity … a thunderstorm sent her, blanched and panting, to sit huddled on her bed, shutters closed, shades drawn; she schemed not to go upstairs by herself in the dark; she was preoccupied when old Lion took them off on a slow, jogging drive, for fear of a runaway.
Everybody was aware of her nervousness. Until it bored him, Henry Houghton was touched by it;—probably there is no man who is so intelligent that the Clinging Vine makes no appeal to him. Mrs. Houghton was impatient with it. Edith, who could not understand fear in any form, tried, in her friendly little way, to reason Eleanor out of one panic or another. The servants joked among themselves at the foolishness of "Mrs. Maurice"; and the monosyllabic Johnny Bennett, when told of some of Eleanor's scares, was bored. "Let's play Indian," said Johnny.
It was only Maurice who found all the scares—just as he found the silences and small jealousies—adorable! The silences meant unspeakable depths of thought; the jealousies were a sign of love. The terrors called for his protecting strength! One of the unfair irrationalities of love is that it may, at first, be attracted by the defects of the beloved, and later repelled by them. Maurice loved Eleanor for her defects. Once, when he and Edith were helping Mrs. Houghton weed her garden, he stopped grubbing, and sat down in the gold and bronze glitter of coreopsis, to expatiate upon the exquisiteness of the defects. Her wonderful mind: "She doesn't talk, because she is always thinking; her ideas are way over my head!" Her funny timidity: "She wants me to take care of her!" Her love: "She's—it sounds absurd!—but she's jealous, because she's so—well, fond of me, don't you know, that she sort of objects to having people round. Did you ever hear of anything so absurd?"
"I certainly never did," his old friend said, dryly.
"Well, but"—Maurice defended his wife—"it's because she cares about me, don't you know? She—well, this is in confidence—she said once that she'd like to live on a desert island, just with me!"
"So would I," said Edith. Her mother laughed:
"Tell her desert islands have to have a 'man Friday'—to say nothing of a few 'women Thursdays'!"
Eleanor was, Maurice said, like music heard far off, through mists and moonlight in a dark garden, "full of—of—what are those sweet-smelling things, that bloom only at night?" (Mary Houghton looked fatigued.) "Well, anyway, what I mean is that she isn't like ordinary people, like me—"
"Or Johnny," Edith broke in, earnestly.
"Johnny? Gosh! Why, Mrs. Houghton, things that don't touch most human beings, affect her terribly. The dark, or thunderstorms, or—or anything, makes her nervous. You understand?"
Mrs. Houghton said yes, she understood, but she would leave the rest of the weeding to her assistants … In the studio, dropping her dusty garden gloves on a fresh canvas lying on the table, she almost wept:
"Henry, it is too tragic! She is such a goose, and he is so silly about her! What shall we do?"
"I'll tell you what not to do—spoil my new canvas! If you really want my advice:—tell Eleanor that the greatest compliment any husband can pay his wife is contained in four words: 'You never bore me'; and that if she isn't careful Maurice will never compliment her."
Down in the garden, no one was aware of any tragedy. "When I go to Fern Hill," Edith said, "I'm going to tell all the girls I know Eleanor! I'm 'ordinary,' too, beside her. And so is mother."
Maurice agreed. "We are all crude, compared to her."
Edith sighed with joy; if she had had any inclination to be contemptuous of Eleanor's timidity, it vanished when it was pointed out to her that it was really a sign of the Bride's infinite superiority. … So the three Houghtons accepted—one with amused pity, and the other with concern, and the third with admiration of such super-refinement—the fact that Eleanor was a coward. Yet if she had not been a coward, something she did would not have been particularly brave, nor would it have wrung from Mary Houghton the admission: "I like her!"
The conquering incident happened in August. The hut up in the woods meant to Maurice and Edith and Johnny that eager grasping at hardship with which Age has no sympathy, but which is the very essence of Youth. Within a week of her arrival at Green Hill, Eleanor (who did not like hardship;) had been carried off for a day of eating smoky food, cooked on a camp fire, and watching cloud shadows drift across the valley and up and over the hills; she had wondered, silently, why Maurice liked this very tiring sort of thing?—and especially why he liked to have Edith go along! "A child of her age is such a nuisance," Eleanor thought. But he did like it, all of it!—the fatigue, and the smoke, and the grubby food—and Edith!—he liked it so much that, just before the time set for their departure for Mercer—and the position in a real-estate office, which had been secured for Maurice—he said:
"Nelly, let's camp out up in the cabin for our last week, all by ourselves!"
Edith's face fell, and so, for that matter, did the Bride's. Edith said, "By yourselves? Not Johnny and me, too?" And Eleanor said, "At night? Oh, Maurice!"
"It will be beautiful," he said; "there'll be a moon next week, and we'll sit up there and look down into the valley, and see the treetops lift up out of the mist—like islands from the foam of 'faerylands forlorn'! You'll love it."
"I'm crazy about camping," said Edith, eagerly;—and waited for an invitation, which was not forthcoming. Instead, Maurice, talking his plans over with her, made it quite clear that her room was better than her company. It was Edith's first experience in being left out, and it sobered her a little; but she swallowed the affront with her usual good sense:
"I guess he likes Eleanor more 'an me, so, 'course, it's nice to be by himself with her."
The prospect of being "by themselves" for a week was deeply moving to Maurice. And even Eleanor, though she quaked at the idea of spiders or thunderstorms, thought of the passion of it with a thrill. "We'll be all alone!" she said to herself.
The morning that they started gypsying, everything was very impatient and delightful. The packing, the rolling up of blankets, the stowing
