"An old lady," said Jacky—and blew a shattering screech on Eleanor's horn.
CHAPTER XXIX
From the day of the circus, Jacky became, to Eleanor, not a symbol of Maurice's unfaithfulness, but a hope for the future. The thought of his mother was only the scar of a wound, which Maurice, in some single slashing moment, had made in her heart. She was crippled by it, of course. But the wound had healed so she could forget the scar—because Maurice had never loved Lily, never found her "interesting," never wanted to wander about with her, in a dark garden, and talk
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax— And cabbages—and kings ...
To be sure the scar ached dully once in a while; but Eleanor knew that if she could get possession of Jacky she would be protected against other wounds—wounds which would never heal! She said to herself that Maurice would never think of Edith Houghton if he had Jacky! But how should she get Jacky?
For months she revolved countless schemes to persuade Lily to resign him; schemes so futile that Maurice, listening to them every night when he got home from the office, was touched, of course; but by and by he was also a little uneasy. He had told her where Lily lived, then regretted it, for once she walked up and down before the house on Maple Street for an hour, hoping to see "the woman," but failing, because Lily and Jacky happened to be in town that afternoon.
"I have a great mind to steal him for you!" she said, telling Maurice of her fruitless effort.
He protested, too disturbed at her mere presence on Lily's street to notice her attempt at a joke. "If Lily should imagine that we were interested in Jacky, she'd run!" he explained; "it's dangerous, Nelly, really. You mustn't go near her!"
She promised she wouldn't; but every day of that Mercer winter of low-hanging smoke and damp chilliness, she longed to get possession of the child—first to make Maurice happy; then with the craving, driving, elemental desire for maternity; and then for self-protection,—Jacky would vanquish Edith!