Leave Her to Heaven (20 page)

Harland lifted Danny's body up to Leick who held it as he might have held a baby while they climbed out on the wharf. Harland secured the skiff, and Ellen said in a low voice: ‘Bring him up to the cabin. I'll go make ready.' It was important that she should act in what would seem to Leick, and to the world — and even to Harland — a normal fashion. She was perfectly sure that Harland knew the truth, knew she had let Danny drown. His headlong race up the lake was proof enough of this; his lie to Leick confirmed that proof. But she was equally sure that as long as he thought she was carrying his child — and perhaps forever — he would hide his knowledge of her guilt from her and from the world. He and she would play a grim farce, he pretending he did not know what she had done, she pretending she did not know he knew. Yet her part must be well played; since if it were not, if once he realized she knew he had seen her, then the ugly truth would come to the surface, and
dark words would be spoken, and the tragic farce would end.

So now her part must be that of the affectionate and sympathetic wife, grieving for Danny but more concerned to comfort Harland in his deeper grief, bravely forgetting her own sorrow in her effort to assuage his. She hurried ahead to the cabin and held the door for them; she moved on to turn back the covers on Danny's bed so Harland could lay him there; and when he had done so, Leick standing silently, she put her arms around Harland's neck, drew his face down, kissed him, said like a pledge:

‘I'll take care of him, Richard. I'll do everything.' She told Leick: ‘Take Mr. Harland outside. Be good to him.'

Harland submitted, and Ellen closed the door behind them; and now at last alone she fought for self-control, her hands pressing her cheeks, shivering as though she were cold. Then, dreading what Leick might say to Harland, she hastily opened the door again; but she saw Harland on the veranda, heard Leick busy in the kitchen. She went to the sink to dip water into a basin; and she was tensely armed to meet Leick's accusing word. But he did not speak and she took basin and cloth and returned to bathe Danny. Sand and spruce spills had adhered to the vaseline on his body during those hours while Harland tried to bring him back to life; and she cleansed him, forcing herself to the shuddering task. She put fresh sheets on his bed, and ordered his stiffening limbs and his countenance, and so at last covered him over and left him.

Harland was still on the veranda. Leick said supper was ready; but she begged time, since she still wore her bathing suit, to change. In their room she saw her father's field kit, which Leick had brought from Bar Harbor that day, set on her bed; and she remembered the arsenic in it. If Richard had denounced her to Leick she would have been glad now to have the poison at her command; but he had not, so she could live.

When she joined Richard at the table, he was already seated; and she went behind his chair, taking his cheeks between her hands, turning his face up to meet her kiss.

‘I know your grief, Richard,' she whispered. ‘But we'll make it up to you, baby and I.'

His arm after a moment encircled her waist, and she read his thoughts. He must be gentle with her, gentle and tender, always remembering the burden of another life which she bore. To make his rôle clear to him she said in his ear: ‘I blame myself so terribly, Richard. I shouldn't have let him try it, but he was so happy, wanting to surprise you. I'll never forgive myself. Please be good to me!'

‘It's all right,' he told her heavily. ‘Just one of those things.'

‘You're so sweet to me.'

They ate little, and almost in silence. When they were done, Leick spoke to them. ‘I thought I'd go out to Joe Severin's tonight,' he explained. ‘Telephone to Cherryfield, have someone come in, first thing in the morning.'

Harland did not reply. Ellen hesitated, half dreading to be alone with Richard; but then she said, eager to separate these two:

‘Yes, Leick. Go tonight. We'll expect you early in the morning.' And since Harland did not raise his head, she caught Leick's eye and led him outside. ‘He's dreadfully broken, just now,' she said sorrowfully. ‘You and I must attend to whatever is to be done. I think we'll plan to take Danny to Boston. Find out about trains, Leick. Make all the arrangements.'

Leick spoke without expression. ‘Yes, ma'am,' he agreed, not meeting her eyes. ‘I'll start soon as I've cleaned up the supper things.'

‘I'll do that,' she assured him. ‘You go along while there's still light enough to see the trail.'

So Leick departed, and Ellen and Harland were left alone. He went out to sit on the rock wall beside the path, and she busied herself in the kitchen; but she saw the glow of his cigarettes, lighted one after another in swift succession, gleaming in the increasing darkness. Before she finished, he came in again and set the lamp going and went to the small room where Danny lay; and she did not disturb him there. Instead she turned to
their own room, and at once she prepared for the night, brushing her hair long and carefully to steady her hand, to quiet her throbbing pulses. When she was ready, she lay down; but since Richard did not come to her she went at last to him.

She found him sitting by Danny's bed, and she stood behind him and drew his head against her breast. ‘I know! I know, my darling,' she murmured. ‘I know, my dear.' He was passive in her arms, and she asked: ‘Darling, are you blaming me? I can't stand it if you are!'

He did not look up at her, his eyes on Danny, his word a hard challenge. ‘Why should I?'

‘You told me not to let him try it unless you were along. But he wanted to surprise you, Richard! He was so happy, planning to surprise you. Yet I shouldn't have let him do it! I'll always blame myself!'

His lungs filled with a long breath of resignation, and he shook his head. ‘No, no,' he said, and she felt his surrender. ‘It's all right, Ellen. You couldn't do anything.'

‘It was terrible,' she cried wretchedly. ‘Without any warning at all, he was just gone. He'd been all right a second before, and I was watching the eagle flying over, and when I looked back, Danny was gone, Richard!' Her teeth began to chatter. ‘He never came up even once, no cry, no struggle. I took a quick pull at the oars, and one of them slipped out of the oarlock, and I dropped it and almost fell backward in the boat, and I couldn't reach the oar, so I had to paddle, and I must have gone to the wrong place, because when I dove down he wasn't there! Oh Richard! Richard! I'll never forgive myself.'

‘It wasn't your fault.'

‘I could have made him wait,' she insisted, ‘But he was so sweet, wanting to surprise you.' She shivered at a sudden memory. ‘When I found him, on the bottom, he put his arms around me. He seemed to be trying to tell me how glad he was I had come, and that he loved me, and forgave me. Do you forgive me, Richard? Do you love me?'

He nodded, still not looking at her. ‘Of course I do.'

She tugged at his arm. ‘Come to bed, my darling. You must sleep. Come, let me give you sleep and rest and peace.'

‘I guess I'll stay with him,' he said heavily.

‘You mustn't! You needn't stay here. He'll always be with us, now.' And she said: ‘We need you, too, you know. Baby and I.' And when he rose, holding him close, pressing close to him, she whispered: ‘We need each other now, Richard. We've nobody but each other now.' While he stood passive in her arms she urged: ‘Life never ends, darling. Danny's gone, but our own baby's coming. There's always a new life, to fill the empty place. They go together, death and birth, my dear.'

He let her lead him away, and while he undressed, she went back to turn down the lamp in Danny's room so that it would burn all night. Returning, she found Richard in bed, and she extinguished their lamp and came to his side.

‘Make a place for me, darling,' she whispered, and he obeyed. She lay down beside him in the sultry night, her body along his, and she began to shake with silent sobs. Tears filled her eyes and overflowed, till he said at last, helplessly:

‘It was! It was! It was! I can feel you blaming me!' She entwined her arms around him hungrily. ‘But oh, Richard, I need you so! I need you so! Don't ever let me go.'

‘I never will.'

Her lips, wet with tears, found his beseechingly. ‘Hold me tight, Richard! I'm afraid, afraid!' Even while she played her part she thought exultantly that she need not guard her tones. Danny, though he lay so near, could never hear her now.

Ellen — Harland thought wonderingly that she was this morning more beautiful than he had ever seen her, as bright and fair as the dewy dawn itself, with radiant cheeks and eyes washed clear — prepared their breakfast. Before they rose from the table, Leick and Joe Severin arrived, with a hush-voiced man whom Leick had summoned from Bar Harbor and who would do for Danny all that was needed now.

‘And I telephoned your house, ma'am,' Leick soberly reported. ‘I thought probably you'd want they should know. I talked to your sister.'

Ellen thanked him and turned to Harland. ‘There's nothing we can do here, Richard,' she said. ‘Why don't we start before it gets too warm, leave them to follow us to Bar Harbor?'

‘I'd like to stay.'

‘I wish we needn't, darling.' Her eyes touched Leick. ‘It's hard for me.'

So he yielded, thinking he must always yield to her now. They set out at once, leaving the others here, following the trail through the silent forest; and the brook that was the outlet of the pond chuckled over its small cascades beside them. Where the path was narrow, Ellen went ahead, striding easily, grace and beauty in her every movement; and Harland watched her, his eyes searching her from crown to heel, remembering that whatever she had done, she bore within her slim body their child who would one day assume form and flesh and features, with the gift of laughter and of love. Just as she had taken life — for she had killed Danny as truly as though she had beaten him under with an oar — so was she giving life as well; and he knew wonderingly that even now he loved her for her partnership with him in this task of reproduction.

They came to the beginning of the wood road and saw Joe Severin's cart there, the horses contentedly switching flies; and they went on, now side by side, and they spoke sometimes of the things they saw by the road — an occasional wild flower, the track of a coon in a wet spot in the ruts, the porcupine that watched them from a hemlock as they passed, the moss carpet on a sloping ledge. So they arrived at Joe Severin's farm — Harland was grateful to find the house deserted — and took the car and drove on.

When they reached Bar Harbor, Ruth met them at the door; and though she said nothing, Harland felt her fine unspoken sympathy. Ellen asked where her mother was, and Ruth said: ‘I've kept her abed today. She's not so well, this summer, and I make her rest as much as she will.'

They went to see her. The old woman gripped both Harland's hands in hers, looking up at him, saying crisply: ‘Don't try to say anything, and neither will I. I don't know what happened and I don't want to know.'

Ellen bent to kiss her dry cheek, and Harland saw Mrs. Berent's eyes blaze with anger under that caress; and he felt the breath of danger and spoke in quick precaution.

‘It was tough on Ellen,' he said loyally. ‘It was she who found him.' Despite the old woman's prohibition he explained, wishing to be sure Ellen would remember this story to which they must hold: ‘He was cutting circles with the outboard in the middle of the lake and it threw him out. He went down before we could get to him.' And he added: ‘We kept diving — it wasn't very deep — till Ellen found him, but we were too late.'

Mrs. Berent had not released his hand, and her clasp tightened now as though she knew the truth, knew Ellen's guilt and was grateful to him for protecting her daughter. Then Ruth led them away, suggesting that they rest. Ellen went with her, but Harland walked down to the shore; and he was for a while alone, with the slow beat of the sea on the rocks below him, and the deep rhythm of the surges entered into him in ponderous, clumsy comforting. When Ruth came down the lawn to summon him
to lunch, they stayed a moment in quiet talk together, and he felt understanding in her, and solicitude, and affection, and was heartened and made strong.

Mrs. Berent was not well enough to go with them to Boston, and Ruth must stay with her; so it was only Harland and Ellen and Leick, who had loved Danny almost as well as Harland himself, who made that sombre journey. Afterward Ellen wished to stay on in Boston; but Harland decided to go once more to Back of the Moon with Leick to pack their belongings. She protested with a surprising urgency that Leick needed no help, could do whatever needed doing; and when Harland held stubbornly to his purpose, she said she would accompany them. But at Bar Harbor she tried again to dissuade him. ‘You'll only torture yourself, going back there,' she pleaded, and at the last she clung to him, crying: ‘Please, Richard! Please! I won't go with you!'

‘Then stay here,' he assented. ‘I think you're wise. I'll be back tomorrow.' So he set out with Leick alone.

They made a silent journey, saying little; and they arrived at the cabin too late to do anything that night. On the way, and at the supper table, and while they washed the dishes afterward, Harland felt in Leick something like an unspoken accusation, as though the other knew the truth and waited for Harland to justify his forbearance. These two were so close that it was hard for either to be secret from the other; and when they sat for a while on the veranda, Leick with his pipe, Harland smoking many cigarettes, though for a long time they spoke only an occasional word, their thoughts ran together.

So it was like answering an insistent unuttered question when Harland said at last: ‘Leick, Ellen and I are going to have a baby.' He said only this in words; but behind the words there was an appeal for understanding. It was as if he cried: ‘Oh, I know you know that Ellen killed Danny, and I know you're wondering
why I don't accuse her. But I can't, Leick! My hands are tied!'

Leick spoke in instant understanding. ‘Is she so? Why — that will make a lot of difference to you.'

‘It makes a lot of difference in — my feeling for her.'

‘Course it does!' There was a frank relief in Leick's voice. ‘Well now!' He puffed deeply on his pipe, and after a time he repeated: ‘Well!' The word was little, but Harland found it contenting. Leick almost at once rapped out his pipe and rose, saying easily: ‘Well, I guess we'll sleep tonight.' But though this was all he said, he seemed to say: It's all right. You'll do what you have to, and I'll stand by.

In the morning, Harland rose early, and he climbed the hill to the lookout to search for the binoculars which he had there thrown heedlessly aside. He found them in the bed of moss below the ledge; and he remembered with a sick sense of loss the afternoon when he and Ellen had lain on that soft couch while the white clouds sailed smiling overhead.

When he returned to the cabin, Leick called cheerfully from the kitchen; and over breakfast they planned what was to be done that day. Harland said they would need to patch the motorboat before towing it down the lake; and Leick said: ‘Oh, I brought it down before Joe and me left here. It can be fixed up as good as new.' Harland, even though Leick knew the truth, was glad he had been ahead of the other at the point to obliterate the footprints there.

They worked all morning, packing up everything Harland wished to take away. There was not much. In their room Harland noticed Professor Berent's field kit, which Leick had brought so that Ellen could mount the dead hummingbird for Danny. Danny too was dead now; and Harland remembered the beauty of the dead bird, its shimmering throat, the jewelled colors on its outspread wings and wide-fanned tail; and he thought, turning for comfort to a simple, childlike faith, that Danny too was complete and perfect now, his deformities all healed. So, suddenly, his eyes were drenched with tears; and he lay across the bed in quiet weeping, and found refreshment and strength in this surrender.

At lunch he said to Leick: ‘I'll never come here again. I'll make you a present of the place, if it's any use to you.'

‘I ain't likely to use it unless you do,' Leick replied, and Harland was grateful for this oblique assurance of the other's affection.

‘I'll make it over to you anyway,' he insisted. ‘You can get a fair price for it, some day. Or let it go for taxes if you like.' For a moment his tone was hard with bitter grief. ‘When I walk out of here this time, I never want to think of it again.'

He left that afternoon. Leick would stay behind; and Harland promised to bid Joe Severin come next morning with the cart to transport the things they had packed. That last walk through the forest alone seemed to him long and haunted, and sometimes he broke into a jog trot, in haste to leave the shadowed woods behind.

When he reached Bar Harbor, the dinner hour was past and dusk was near. Ruth came down the stairs to greet him, and he asked: ‘Where's Ellen?'

‘She's in bed,' Ruth told him. ‘She's had one of her upsets. Indigestion. Acute gastritis, the doctor always calls it; but she'll be all right again in a day or two.'

‘I've never known her to be ill,' he said in sharp alarm, remembering that Ellen's health was all-important now.

‘She's had these spells ever since she was a child.'

‘How is she?'

‘She's not very comfortable,' Ruth admitted. ‘We've got a nurse for her, and they've given her a sedative.'

‘What made her sick?' he insisted.

Ruth hesitated, trying to smile. ‘Why, I suppose she'll blame my cooking,' she said lightly. ‘Yesterday was Mrs. Freeman's day out, and I got dinner.' Then she added honestly: ‘But Mr. Quinton was here yesterday afternoon. He'd been talking to Doctor Hamper.' Harland knew the name but not the man. Leick had arranged all the routine details of the procedure necessary after Danny's death, and Doctor Hamper had signed the death certificate. ‘He made Ellen tell him all about Danny,'
Ruth explained. ‘That was terribly hard for her. I suppose it upset her.'

Harland quickly lighted a cigarette, intent upon this task so that he need not meet Ruth's eyes. He had forgotten Quinton; but Quinton was State Attorney now, and he had the reputation of being one to hold a grudge, and certainly Ellen had treated him shabbily. Harland remembered a conversation between them all last June, when Mrs. Berent had warned Ellen not to give Quinton a chance to even the score, and Ellen had said drily: ‘I'm not planning to murder anyone, if that's what you mean.' But now — she had murdered Danny, and if Quinton began prying into the circumstances of Danny's death, he might find evidence of the truth.

‘Did he come just to see her?' he asked guardedly.

‘No, he was driving through to Augusta, stopped on his way.'

‘I suppose Ellen's asleep.' He wondered whether this weight of guilty knowledge would forever ride his shoulders.

‘She was, a while ago,' Ruth told him. ‘But she may wake again.'

He said he would go sit with her, in case she woke and wanted him, and Ruth led him to her room and the nurse came at Ruth's light touch on the door and spoke with them in the hall and agreed that Harland might take her place for a while, bidding him call her if any need arose.

So Harland sat for hours by Ellen's bed. She lay all composed, her dark hair framing her face, and he thought he had never seen anyone so lovely in her every aspect; and thinking of Quinton, who threatened her now, he became fiercely her defender. Sleeping here, she was so completely childlike that it was impossible to imagine any guilt in her, impossible to believe her anything but good. One of her hands lay on the coverlet; and he leaned down and touched it lightly with his lips. She was his wife, and between man and wife there was a bond which never could be broken. He might condemn her utterly — and love and defend her still.

She slept for hours unmoving, but then her lips began to twist
and writhe distressfully, and to utter low tormented sounds, and he called the nurse.

‘She'll wake and be sick, Mr. Harland,' the woman predicted. ‘But I'll take care of her. You'd better go to bed now. I've had my rest. It's almost two o'clock, you know.'

He said in helpless solicitude: ‘She's been through a lot, these last few days.'

‘She'll be fine,' she assured him, and — as Ellen began to wake — turned him toward the door.

Ellen was ill for three days, weak and shaken, able only to smile and cling to his hand as though she would never let him go. When she was well enough, with a sense of escape, Harland took her away to Boston. It was a relief to leave Quinton so far behind.