Ceremony of the Innocent (40 page)

The young man stopped abruptly, then also flushed. He lifted his hat, then stood squarely before them, the hat in his gloved hands, the wind lifting his fine fair hair. “Ellen,” he said, and a slight tremor ran over his face.

Annie regarded him inquisitively. So this was the “Mr. Francis” of whom Ellen had spoken a few times, and with hesitant affection and gratitude. Well, he was a stick of a man if ever she saw one, though a gentleman. Good-looking, too, in a bloodless way, if you liked the kind. Annie did not.

Ellen had not seen him for nearly four years. She smiled at him timidly and extended her hand, and he took it. Then she tried to withdraw her fingers but he held them so hard that they immediately began to ache and a ring cut into her flesh. Neither Jeremy nor Walter Porter mentioned him in her presence, but she often read about him in the newspapers. “The lawyer of the workingman.” Some papers lauded him; others were derisive, and their cartoons were “quite unkind,” Ellen would comment to herself. His nose was not that sharp and thin, like a stiletto, nor his expression that grim and venomous. Otherwise the likeness was only too true, if a little cruel, and exaggerated, like all political cartoons. Francis was also designated in hostile papers as a “muckraker.”

As she looked at him now she could not help thinking that time had not gentled him or softened the outlines of his face. His air of pomposity had increased, but as he looked at Ellen there was a bitter if yearning warmth in his eyes and he even smiled a little, with unusual uncertainty. She brought his attention to her children, and his expression changed and it was even tighter than before, and colder, though he shook hands with Christian and affected to examine the baby with interest. Why, thought the astute and curious Annie, looks as if he hates the kids, and I wonder why. But he sure likes Mama, if what I saw in his eyes was really there.

Ellen was embarrassed at this meeting, remembering their last one and Jeremy’s somewhat violent attitude towards his cousin. What had Jeremy said? “Kill, kill you.” The flush deepened on her face, and her manner became both nervous and conciliatory as she asked about his health. “You do not look too well,” he commented, and his tone was significant.

“Oh, I am getting better every day,” responded Ellen. She thought of Francis’ father, who would be dining at her house that night. She wondered if Walter ever mentioned her to Francis.

“You’ve been ill?” His tone was genuinely concerned.

“Well,” Ellen said, and was helpless. The sturdy Annie said, “Mrs. Porter had a hard time with this last baby, Mr. Porter.”

“Annie!” Ellen exclaimed, and did not know where to look. But Francis forgot that they were standing in the middle of a busy street, with pedestrians pushing impatiently around them, and he saw only Ellen and thought of Jeremy with fresh cold fury. So the brute had reduced her to this haggard and unbecoming slenderness, his beautiful Ellen. He had never forgotten her, not for single day; seeing her in person moved him as he was rarely moved and if he had been a woman he would have cried, and would have taken her in his arms. He wanted to do both.

He said, to lighten her embarrassed confusion, “How is your aunt, Ellen?” He looked at her very keenly now, for his aunt, Mrs. Eccles, avidly kept him informed, and he knew of May’s abject letters.

“You know she has arthritis,” said Ellen, and the sound of her voice moved him again, stronger than before, for he heard pain in it. “Otherwise, she is as well as can be expected.” She was in acute discomfort, and a slight hot sweat broke out on her forehead, and she wanted to go away as fast as possible.

“She should never have come to New York,” he said, and it was as if he were again blaming Ellen.

“But where should she have gone?” said Ellen. “I am—I was—the only one left in the world to her. She wouldn’t have stayed behind.”

“No?” said Francis, and at his tone her discomfort quickened, and he tilted his head and looked at her censoriously, as at a servant who had questioned his judgment, and once again Ellen felt inferior and gauche.

Still she said, with a little firmness, “No. She had no one else.”

“She had my aunt,” said Francis. Ellen regarded him in silence. A few drops of dark rain began to fall, for which the girl was thankful.

Christian had been staring at his father’s cousin with the open and unabashed blankness of children, and as he was still primitive he felt the tension between this man and his mother. Annie briskly turned the perambulator about and said, “It’s raining. We’d better hum-home before it pours.”

“Yes,” said Ellen fervently. Again she held out her hand to Francis and he took it and held it. He said, and his voice dropped, “I think of you often, Ellen,” and his self-control wavered.

“I—I think of you, too,” said Ellen. “Good afternoon, Mr. Francis. Remember me to Mrs. Eccles.” She caught little Christian’s hand and tugged at him urgently. Annie moved on, and Ellen quickly followed, and Francis stood there and watched them go, and the old passion was on him again, the old despair. He was jostled, and he did not feel it. He followed Ellen with his eyes until she had turned the corner and his face was no longer rigorous. It was tremulous with longing and desolation, and a deep and shaking pain.

That night, after the guests had gone, Cuthbert accosted Jeremy and said, “May I have a word with you in the library, sir?” Jeremy raised his black eyebrows and nodded, and Cuthbert followed him into the golden warmth of the room, where a fire blew and snapped in the windy chimney. Cuthbert said, “Mrs. Porter has not told you about a certain—episode—which occurred today in her aunt’s quarters, sir?”

“No.” Jeremy looked more intently at his houseman. “She seemed very tired tonight, and asked to be excused half an hour ago. Is something wrong?”

So Cuthbert told him with quiet precision and a tone that held no judgment. Jeremy listened, and his expression was harsh with dark anger. “You must pardon me, sir,” Cuthbert concluded, “and not think me impertinent, but I thought you ought to know, for Madam’s sake. She looked like death after the—episode—and looked even more distressed at dinner, if possible.”

“Thank you, Cuthbert.” Jeremy turned quickly about and went upstairs to May’s quarters. Her door was open as usual, and Jeremy-saw that Edith, one of the housemaids, was with her. May’s gray face became furtive when she saw Jeremy, and she turned her head and stared at the fire, but not before he saw her red and swollen eyes. He motioned to Edith and the girl rose and left the room, closing the door behind her, a forced act she regretted, for the news was all over the house.

Jeremy sat down and regarded the sick woman without mercy. There were times when he felt pity for her, though he rarely visited her. He then looked about the musty and cluttered room, and his anger grew. He said, with no casual opening words at all, “Mrs. Watson. I have just heard that you would like to return to the house of Mrs. Eccles, in Wheatfield, though she has asked an exorbitant sum for your board and room. Seventy-five dollars a week! She must really be suffering from the Panic. I will offer her thirty, and knowing Mrs. Eccles, she will take it without quibbling. I will also arrange for a nurse to attend you there. In fact, I will engage one tomorrow who will conduct you to Wheatfield and remain with you.”

May turned her head impetuously to him and he saw that she was desperately dismayed. She said, “Ellen! What lies did she tell you?”

“I haven’t spoken to Ellen. She did not tell me anything.” He was trying to control his temper. “Cuthbert informed me, just now.”

“Oh, that man! He would tell you anything! Did he tell you how cruel Ellen was to poor Miss Ember and how she drove her out of this house, leaving me alone, and not caring a thing about me, me who took care of her since she was a baby and her mother died? I was more than a mother to her—how has she repaid me?” May began to cry, sobbing fitfully, but Jeremy only sat in silence and watched her.

Then he said, “Mrs. Watson. I know you are ill, and so I don’t want to trouble you much longer. I know your illness has changed you these past years. Once you loved Ellen; once you cared about her. She loves you and always protects you and is concerned about you, even in her present condition. I am not going to ask you why you are now so estranged from her, even though she is not estranged herself. I think I know. Never mind. But I want you to know that Ellen is heartbroken, and I will not—I repeat—will not, have her made to suffer any longer. It is too much for her. So”—and he stood up—“I will send you ‘home,’ as you’ve called it many times, and I will telegraph Mrs. Eccles tonight that you have accepted her offer, and will soon arrive.”

“No!” May cried. “I don’t want to go! Not without Ellen. Tell Ellen I want to see her at once.” She wrung her twisted hands in agony and with vehemence.

“I will not,” said Jeremy. “I am taking her to Washington with me tomorrow. You will be gone before she returns. So I will say goodbye for her, here and now.” Then he said, “Just for my own curiosity. Why did you write Mrs. Eccles that you wanted to share her house with her?”

May chewed her wet lips. She put her hand to her forehead and slowly shook her head from side to side. “I—don’t really know,” she whispered. “I’m a sick woman—you don’t realize.”

“I think I do, only too well,” said Jeremy, and the deep anger was back in his voice. “You wanted to hurt Ellen. You wanted to make her miserable and guilty. When you told her, you really had no intention of leaving my house. It was a vicious fantasy of yours—to crush Ellen.”

“No, no. How can you say such things? I thought—I truly thought—that it would be the best thing. I even asked Miss Ember; she can tell you herself. I think I really wanted it. I’ve thought about it all the time I’ve been here, an unwanted guest, a burden. Ellen always made me feel I was imposing, that I had no right here. An unwanted guest. She never thinks of anybody but herself and her own comfort. We should never have left Wheatfield!” and she looked at Jeremy with recrimination. “You did the wrong thing, and you know it. God will—”

“Suppose we keep God out of this,” said Jeremy.

But May was now wild with fear, and excited. “I keep telling her that she’ll regret it one of these days, and then she’ll have no place to go but to me! She’ll come to her senses, I can tell you that, and the sooner the better! She wasn’t made for this kind of life, and she’s sick because she’s started to realize. In her heart, she wants to go home, too, and be what she always was, and your fine clothes and jewelry will never change her, make her happy—”

Good God, thought Jeremy. His anger was mingled with pity for this stupid woman, for this obdurate woman whose love for her niece had changed to resentment, and perhaps even to hatred. He made himself think of her crippled condition, and her real suffering, and so he said, “You’re not yourself, Mrs. Watson. Illness affects the mind, I know. When you feel better, later, write to Ellen as affectionately as you can. She deserves it, and you know that, in spite of everything.”

May beat her emaciated knees with her fists, and she glared at him through her tears. “She’ll be glad when I’m dead! That’s what she wants, me to be dead. As for you, sir, you’ll learn what Ellen is, in time, and I pity you.”

He turned and left the room and all down the stairs he could hear her wretched wailing, and now he had no compassion. He went into Ellen’s bedroom and found her lying, prostrated, on the bed, her hair floating on the pillows. She was not asleep. She sat up when she saw him and her eyes were dripping tears, and she held out her arms to him, mutely. He sat on the bed beside her and took her in his arms, and his anger deepened. He said, “As you know, love, we leave for Washington tomorrow at seven o’clock in the morning.” He did not ask her why she was crying. He wiped her eyes and smiled down into them.

“Oh, I forgot! I can’t, Jeremy! I can’t leave Aunt May. There’s something I must tell you.”

“I know all about it. Cuthbert told me. He thought it best, to save you from having to tell me. Now then, don’t look like that, my sweet. Your aunt will be perfectly all right. Edith is giving her her sleeping draught. She will sleep late. So don’t disturb her. She needs all the rest she can get, doesn’t she? There’ll be a new and better nurse with her tomorrow.”

“She wants to go ‘home’ to that awful house in Wheatfield. Imagine,” and Ellen smiled even as her eyes ran, and her nose.

“Yes. Imagine,” said Jeremy. “Now, lie down, my love. Would you mind if I lay down with you, too?”

She became almost gay and her beautiful face colored with delight. It had been a long, long wait, all those months of her recovery. She put her soft white arms about Jeremy’s neck and drew him down to her. She did not quite know why, but Jeremy’s very presence sheltered her, surrounded her like a wall. They made love for the first time in months, and it was like the first night.

C H A P T E R   18

KITTY WILDER’S HUSBAND, JOCHAN, an associate of Jeremy’s in his law office, had lost the major part of his fortune in the year or two before the Panic of 1907, and he was now comparatively poor. He had been optimistically invested in the market to a dangerous extent.

Kitty, the shrewd and astute, had been more conservative. However, she too was suffering, and this both frightened and outraged her.

Jochan was still a shy man, somewhat lissome, to Kitty’s increasing disgust, and she no longer thought his fair and candid face, a face which expressed a gentle naïveté, handsome, nor did his light and fluttering eyes intrigue her. He had retained his thick golden hair, waved and overly long; but Kitty did not like fair men. The transparency of Jochan’s delicate features, his elaborate and sincere courtesy even to servants, his engaging smile, all seemed to her to be covertly feminine. Moreover, he had long fled her bed and he kept his bedroom door locked, to Kitty’s acrid amusement. She was more like a little black cat than ever; she did not know that Jochan now found her horrendous and that, to him, she had a feral odor. She did not know that he had a complaisant and tender mistress, who loved and admired him. Had she learned about the woman, Kitty would have been incredulous and would have made a lewd remark reflecting on his manhood. Once she had said to a confidante, “Jochan is really a masculine Ellen Porter,” and had laughed gaily. “But perhaps I am exaggerating when I use the word ‘masculine’ in referring to Jochan.”