The Vehement Flame | Page 2

his voice was suddenly startled; "what a darned little thing can throw the switches for a man! Because I didn't get by in Math. D and Ec 2, and had to crawl out to Mercer to cram with old Bradley--I met you! Eleanor! Isn't it wonderful? A little thing like that--just falling down in mathematics--changed my whole life?" The wild gayety in his eyes sobered. "I happened to come to Mercer--and, you are my wife." His fingers, holding the little grassy ring, trembled; but the next instant he threw himself back on the grass, and kicked up his heels in a preposterous gesture of ecstasy. Then caught her hand, slipped the braided ring over that plain circle of gold which had been on her finger for fifty-four minutes, kissed it--and the palm of her hand--and said, "You never can escape me! Eleanor, your voice played the deuce with me. I rushed home and read every poem in my volume of Blake. Go on; give us the rest."
She smiled;
".... And let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath!..."
"Oh--stop! I can't bear it," he said, huskily; and, turning on his face, he kissed the grass, earth's "perfumed garment," snow-sprinkled with locust blossoms....
But the moment of passion left him serious. "When I think of Mrs. Newbolt," he said, "I could commit murder." In his own mind he was saying, "I've rescued her!"
"Auntie doesn't mean to be unkind," Eleanor explained, simply; "only, she never understood me--Maurice! Be careful! There's a little ant--don't step on it."
She made him pause in his diatribe against Mrs. Newbolt and move his heel while she pushed the ant aside with a clover blossom. Her anxious gentleness made him laugh, but it seemed to him perfectly beautiful. Then he went on about Mrs. Newbolt:
"Of course she couldn't understand you! You might as well expect a high-tempered cow to understand a violin solo."
"How mad she'd be to be called a cow! Oh, Maurice, do you suppose she's got my letter by this time? I left it on her bureau. She'll rage!"
"Let her rage. Nothing can separate us now."
Thus they dismissed Mrs. Newbolt, and the shock she was probably experiencing at that very moment, while reading Eleanor's letter announcing that, at thirty-nine, she was going to marry this very young man.
"No; nothing can part us," Eleanor said; "forever and ever." And again they were silent--islanded in rippling tides of wind-blown grass, with the warm fragrance of dropping locust blossoms infolding them, and in their ears the endless murmur of the river. Then Eleanor said, suddenly: "Maurice!--Mr. Houghton? What will he do when he hears? He'll think an 'elopement' is dreadful."
He chuckled. "Uncle Henry?--He isn't really my uncle, but I call him that;--he won't rage. He'll just whistle. People of his age have to whistle, to show they're alive. I have reason to believe," the cub said, "that he 'whistled' when I flunked in my mid-years. Well, I felt sorry, myself--on his account," Maurice said, with the serious and amiable condescension of youth. "I hated to jar him. But--gosh! I'd have flunked A B C's, for this. Nelly, I tell you heaven hasn't got anything on this! As for Uncle Henry, I'll write him to-morrow that I had to get married sort of in a hurry, because Mrs. Newbolt wanted to haul you off to Europe. He'll understand. He's white. And he won't really mind--after the first biff;--that will take him below the belt, I suppose, poor old Uncle Henry! But after that, he'll adore you. He adores beauty."
Her delight in his praise made her almost beautiful; but she protested that he was a goose. Then she took the little grass ring from her finger and slipped it into her pocketbook. "I'm going to keep it always," she said. "How about Mrs. Houghton?"
"She'll love you! She's a peach. And little Skeezics--"
"Who is Skeezics?"
"Edith. Their kid. Eleven years old. She paid me the compliment of announcing, when she was seven, that she was going to marry me when she grew up! But I believe, now, she has a crush on Sir Walter Raleigh. She'll adore you, too."
"I'm afraid of them all," she confessed; "they won't like--an elopement."
"They'll fall over themselves with joy to think I'm settled for life! I'm afraid I've been a cussed nuisance to Uncle Henry," he said, ruefully; "always doing fool things, you know,--I mean when I was a boy. And he's been great, always. But I know he's been afraid I'd take a wild flight in actresses."
"'_Wild_' flight? What will he call--" She caught her breath.
"He'll call it a 'wild flight in angels'!" he said.
The word made her put a laughing and protesting hand (which he kissed) over his lips. Then she said that she remembered Mr. Houghton: "I met him a long