Ceremony of the Innocent (50 page)

Hie hearse went before, slowly, and other automobiles followed, and people on the walks looked curiously at the procession. Ellen felt nothing; she was like one drugged. When she sagged against Francis’ shoulder and lay there, it was as if that shoulder were wood. Francis caught a breath; he could hardly breathe. It was the sweetest moment of his life, and he wanted to hold Ellen in his arms. But he saw the glimmer at the corner of Maude’s eye, and hated her. Still, it was ecstasy to feel Ellen’s weight against him, to see her cheek pressed into his shoulder, and to experience the irregular breathing against his chin. He did not want the ride to end; he wanted it to go on forever, even with others present. The poor man, thought Maude, who had heard much in Jeremy’s house of the Congressman, from Cuthbert. As if she were reading his mind Maude knew that Francis was thinking of his fondling of Ellen last night; he was recalling the white velvet of her breast, her neck and throat. She had not resisted, he was thinking. She knew he was there. She had been aware of his hands on her body, and she had not shrunk away. Ellen, Ellen, he thought. What shall we do, you and I? It did not seem odd to him, and out of character, that he had lost control of himself last night. He remembered with rising joy and heat. He contemplated himself as Ellen’s lover, when she had recovered from her grief. No. Better still, his wife, for all she was only a servant. He would cherish her, always, gently condescending to her and keeping her in her place, humble and docile, grateful for his patronage, thankful to have been delivered from that brutish cousin of his, who was not even present to comfort his wife.

At the cemetery Ellen heard, as at a great distance, the prayers of the priest. She was swaying. Now Francis could put his arm about her with even greater joy, to steady her. She had a dying sensation. When the priest threw a handful of soil on the casket she uttered one single faint cry. Someone was saying like a far echo, “I am the Resurrection and the Life—” Then someone was lifting her in his arms and earning her away.

“Really,” Hortense whispered to her friends, “one would think she had cared for poor May. Quite the contrary, I assure you. But how good it is of Francis to carry her to the limousine. He always had such Heart, such sympathy for the Masses, even the most insignificant. Look at my darling. One would think she was his wife, instead of a servant girl who had waited on him hand and foot in my house. He was the soul of consideration for her, and he and I were her only friends, and still are.”

Hortense Eccles had used the occasion of her “servant’s” death to honor her Congressman nephew with a tea after the funeral, calling it, “you know, the cold meats for the dead.” So, in a hushed voice, she informed Miss Cummings of this and suggested that she help Ellen “tidy up” for the occasion honoring her aunt. Miss Cummings said with composed coldness, “Mrs. Porter is very ill and is suffering from shock. I feel she should stay in her room and rest, and so be excused.”

Mrs. Eccles said, and her voice was less hushed, “You are presumptuous, Maude! Inform Ellen at once that she must appear, in respect for her aunt, and for Congressman Porter, who condescended to come for this occasion—a great honor for Ellen. It would be most reprehensible if she did not come to my tea; an unpardonable impudence.”

Maude hesitated. She looked at Francis, who was standing in the background, and at the two friends who had accompanied Hortense to the funeral, and the priest. Francis gazed at her with a most censorious expression and hauteur, and Maude remembered that Ellen always spoke of him with gratitude. She went upstairs to Ellen’s room. Ellen was lying in a half-stupor on her bed, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, her clothing wrinkled, her hair bedraggled, her face still and white. Maude said very gently, “Mrs. Eccles wishes you to go down to her tea, in remembrance of your aunt. I would advise—”

Ellen sat up stiffly and suddenly. “Of course. I was thinking only of myself, something which Aunt May was always scolding me about. How kind of Mrs. Eccles.” She swung her long silken legs over the edge of the bed and despairingly began to fumble with her hair. Her reddened eyes were more swollen than before, though she was not crying.

“I would advise,” said Maude, “that you rest in preparation for our return to New York tomorrow night.”

Ellen gave her an unusually angry glance and her lips quivered. “It is the least I can do, now. I do wish you would stop interfering with my private affairs, Miss Cummings. Besides, I have to discuss certain financial arrangements with Mrs. Eccles.” She stood up abruptly and swayed, and Maude caught her arm. Ellen, with a new gesture of despair, shook her off.

The guests were already arriving, speaking in low voices, while Maude combed and coiled Ellen’s hair and brushed out as many creases as possible in the black suit. She was full of pity for Ellen, and an extraordinary impatience. When would the poor young woman be able to distinguish between friend and enemy, and understand, in the slightest, the crude and cynical behavior of people, and so protect herself? While several years younger than Ellen, Maude felt infinitely older, and very tired. The room was reflected in three mirrors, and in all of them Ellen looked exhausted and haggard and ill. The windows blazed with the last sunlight and it was very hot. When Maude tried to hold Ellen’s arm as they descended the stairway, Ellen again shook her off, clung to the balustrade, and feebly moved downstairs. There was a smell of steeping tea in the hall below and strawberry jam and ham and freshly baked bread and cakes. Ellen paused on the stairs, dropped her head, and gulped. But Maude did not touch her again, though she paused also.

Downstairs Hortense was solemnly playing “Lead, Kindly Light,” and singing in accompaniment, and the guests joined her in religious tones. What execrable taste, thought Maude, and she saw a wincing on Ellen’s white and averted face. They were met below by Francis, who tucked Ellen’s arm in his and led her into the large room, now filled with at least a dozen people, men and women. Maude stood on the threshold. She knew she was not welcome, and knew she had not been invited, but she lingered like a servant, full of solicitude for Ellen, who was being seated by the Congressman. He bent over her like a tall black bird and was now murmuring to her. She tried to answer, but her lips only moved mutely.

Mrs. Eccles saw Maude and came to her briskly from the piano, and said in a peremptory tone, “Go into the kitchen at once and help the housemaid serve my guests. Be careful of my china; it is very old and very expensive and a family heirloom. And the spoons will be carefully counted afterwards. By me.” She looked forbiddingly at Maude, who wanted to laugh. Mrs. Eccles continued: “I think it is disgraceful that you didn’t pack Mrs. Porter’s bag with an extra black dress. But servants these days—!”

Maude somewhat lost her customary composure and said, “Madam, I am not a servant. But I do not expect you to discern that.” She went serenely down the hall to the kitchen, where she knew she would be more politely treated, and with kindness. Hortense stared after her, furious and panting. Really, she must tell Ellen to discharge this impertinent creature, and at once.

Francis brought Ellen a cup of tea himself, a most gracious gesture, thought Hortense, whose plump face was red and swollen with anger at Maude. Francis, it was, who insisted that Ellen drink the tea, which she did, humbly. But she turned her head aside at the sight of the food, which was being heartily devoured by the guests, whose voices, after sherry, were a little less subdued. The late evening light poured through the tall thin windows, which were ajar, letting in the fragrance of pine and flowers and grass. In the meantime, Maude came in with fresh tea and edibles, grateful for this opportunity to observe Ellen unobtrusively. Hortense pettishly criticized her and ordered her about, her tone sharp and peremptory. But some of her guests thought the English maid had “style” and was deft, and wondered if they could lure her away from her mistress with a promise of a higher wage. One of them, a lady, very portly, whispered to her, “Are you a good cook, my girl?” To which Maude demurely replied, “Excellent, madam,” and moved gracefully away with the teapot in her hand.

Everyone came to Ellen to express condolences in a stilted and patronizing fashion, for several remembered her as a servant in this house. The girl only nodded her head dumbly. Her hair caught one of the last rays of the sun and set it afire, and made her face, in consequence, appear dwindled and ghostly. The guests now began to leave, kissing Hortense’s cheek, and nodding, and informing her, with admiration, how excessively kind she was to have honored a servant and the servant’s niece so lavishly. Hortense stood up taller, in self-congratulation.

When the last guest had departed and the room stood in pale light, Hortense sat down near Ellen and her nephew and said in a no-nonsense voice: “Now we must be sensible, Ellen, and discuss certain matters. Are you listening? Dear me, how dull you look. Do listen, please. You are leaving tomorrow night and, hard though it may be for you now, things must be settled.”

“Yes,” Ellen said, and fumbled with a fold of her black dress.

“The cost of the funeral—I have the bill—is eight hundred dollars. It was in the best of taste, and the casket is bronze. There are certain gratuities, too. And the flowers your maid ordered, against my wishes. And the gift to that priest—not of your aunt’s religion, but your maid insisted. A most unsatisfactory servant, in my opinion, and one you must discharge for her insolence to all of us. All in all, I think one thousand four hundred dollars will cover all expenses. Do you have that amount with you?”

“No,” said Ellen, and Mrs. Eccles glanced at her nephew with exasperation and pursed lips. “I—I didn’t think. We left so suddenly. I have only about one hundred dollars with me.”

“Well,” said Hortense, “you can write a check, surely.”

“Yes,” said Ellen. The fold in her skirt had become a sharp line under her fingers.

“I hope you are grateful to me for everything,” said Hortense. “I have gone to a great deal of trouble for you, Ellen, and considerable personal expense. I am asking you nothing for that. But I do think I should be paid for the balance of this month.”

“Yes,” said Ellen. Francis nodded in approval, austerely.

“As for your aunt’s personal belongings—my church will be grateful for them. The blankets, sheets, pillows, towels, shawls, and clothing. I will be glad to relieve you of the responsibility of sorting them out.”

“Yes,” said Ellen.

“There is also the small table clock you sent her two years ago, and a mirror over her chest, and some minor jewelry and knick-knacks. May I dispose of them, too?”

“Yes,” said Ellen.

“Good heavens,” thought Maude from the doorway, where she was standing in a deliberate parody of menial meekness.

“And there is the matter of May’s last medical bills and medicines. I will tell the doctor to send you the bill.”

Ellen sighed. Now her eyes filled with bright blue water. Seeing this, Hortense said with severity, “I know you feel conscience-stricken, Ellen, though it is far too late for that now. You neglected your aunt shamefully. Perhaps, in extenuation, you’d like to give a donation to my church. Say, about one hundred dollars.”

Ellen began to sob, dropping her head. Francis put his hand on her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her flesh through the black silk, and he was again deeply stirred. Maude smiled sardonically. She happened to glance through the tall windows on each side of the oak front doors and saw, to her glad relief, that the man coming up the walk was Jeremy Porter. She ran to the door so that he should not ring, and quietly opened it, while the pillorying voice of Mrs. Eccles continued to thrust behind her.

Maude soundlessly swung aside the doors, and drew Jeremy aside. “I must speak to you, Mr. Porter, and quickly. Mrs. Porter is in quite a state and her—friends—are doing nothing to alleviate it. The Congressman, Mr. Porter, is here.”

Jeremy’s face was tight and grim. He listened while Maude continued to whisper. His expression became formidable, and his hands clenched. He was tired and travel-stained from his long journey, but the forcefulness of his character came with welcome to Maude. “I would suggest,” she said, “that you remove Mrs. Porter from this house to a hotel for tonight.”

“Of course,” he said. He looked at the girl with hard gratitude, understanding everything. Then he followed her to the parlor, and saw his wife crouched in her chair like a stricken thing, with Francis’ arm about her, and Mrs. Eccles leaning forward severely to Ellen, and still talking.

“Nothing can relieve your guilt, Ellen,” said Hortense. “You must live with the memory of it, and pray for forgiveness. I did all I could, like a sister, for your aunt. I ask no recompense. I leave that to Almighty God. I can only say that you had no right to desert your aunt. You should have remained with her, in consideration of your station, in my house. But you were never grateful for the care I gave you, a mother’s care. You insisted on running away, like a bad girl, heedless of others’ feelings and the duty you should have felt for them.”

Jeremy entered the room, and came at once to his wife, and Francis and Hortense glared up at him in stupefaction, and Francis hastily removed his arm from Ellen’s waist. But Jeremy looked only at his wife. She saw him at last and stood up, shaking, and threw herself into his arms and burst into wild sobs.

“I came as fast as I could, my darling,” he said. “Now, I am taking you out of this damned house, to a hotel. Miss Cummings is packing your bags.”

Francis stood up, his pale thin face flushing. “You insult my aunt, Jeremy. She has relieved Ellen of a great burden, by arranging everything. You were not here, naturally. You were delivering one of your inflammatory and subversive speeches in Chicago! But my aunt, in her maternal way, did all things for Ellen on this sad occasion, sparing her grievous details—”

“Shut up,” said Jeremy. “One of these days I am going to deal with you, once and for all, Frank.” His dark eyes flashed in the deepening dimness of the room, then he made a dismissing gesture with his hand. He held Ellen to him strongly, for she was shaking and wilting against him.