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 conscienc
e-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.
“There is a matter of bills,” said Hortense, speaking for the first time. “I have detailed them for Ellen.”
“How much?” said Jeremy over Ellen’s shoulder.
Hortense licked the corner of her mouth. “I think two thousand dollars will cover everything.”
“How kind of you,” said Jeremy. “I will write you a check for the whole thing before we leave.”
“I don’t think Ellen is in a state—” Francis began. There was a red stain on each of his thin cheekbones, like a splash of blood.
“Shut up,” said Jeremy again.
“How can you be so offensive to the only friends Ellen has?” cried Hortense. “The only friends in the world! I thought highly of you, Jeremy, until just lately. Now I know you for a brutal and ruthless man, with no regard for anyone.”
“Good,” said Jeremy. “I hope your nephew remembers that.”
But Ellen was now feverishly pushing herself away from her husband. She stood before him, trembling, her white face lifted and condemning, her swollen eyes actually blazing.
“It was all your fault, Jeremy, that she died here alone, without me! You sent her away, when I was with you in Washington! When I came back you told me she had wanted it this way, to spare me the parting, but I know now it was not true! She wanted to stay with me, in New York.”
“Who told you that damned lie?” Jeremy said, with no softness in his voice.
“Mrs. Eccles. She told me that poor Aunt May often cried and said you had driven her away, to get rid of her from your house.” Ellen’s voice was hoarse.
“Don’t be an idiot, Ellen. You know very well she wanted to leave, as she told you, that day. She insisted on it. Surely you remember. Ellen, for God’s sake, face reality for once. Your aunt wanted to come back to Wheatfield; she cried about it a thousand times, as you told me yourself.”
“That is true,” said Ellen, and her voice was weaker than before. “But she wanted me to come back here, with her, to this house, and I wouldn’t.”
“Good God,” said Jeremy. “You really are an idiot, Ellen.” He wanted to say something more merciless, but restrained himself. Ellen was too distraught. He reached for her, but she sprang away, the tears flooding her face. “It was wrong, from the beginning,” she stammered. “It was always all wrong.”
“Good God,” said Jeremy again. Francis and Hortense exchanged significant glances, nodding to each other.
“I was never anything but a servant!” Ellen wailed. “If I had remembered that, Aunt May would still be alive.”
“You are out of your mind,” said Jeremy. “Sometimes I think you always were, you infernal innocent. Now, collect yourself I see Miss Cummings is at the door, with your luggage, and your hat and coat. We are going to the hotel at once.”
“No!” exclaimed Ellen, out of her confused and suffering anguish.
“Yes,” Jeremy said, and took her arm roughly. “I’ve been too patient with you, Ellen, for too long. I have a car waiting Wipe your nose and your face, for God’s sake.”
It was as if she were seeing him clearly for the first time, and she flung herself into his arms, crying, “Take me home, Jeremy, take me home!”
“Yes, dear,” he said. He pulled her to the door, where Miss Cummings was waiting. For some reason the younger woman suddenly epitomized, for Ellen, all her grief and anger and pain.
“I don’t want her with me any longer! Miss Cummings. She has turned my children against me. I know it, I know it, I can feel it! She has been very rude to me, and Mrs. Eccles, since yesterday. She is arrogant and overbearing. I refuse to have her in our house any longer. Jeremy, send her away!”
Jeremy smiled, very darkly. “You needn’t worry about that, sweetheart. She has somewhere more interesting to go, haven’t you, Maude?” Charles Godfrey had already told Jeremy of his intention of marrying Maude in September.
Maude only smiled in answer. They went out into the hot twilight and got into the waiting car. Hortense and her nephew looked at each other a long time in the parlor.
“I think,” said Francis, “that Ellen has come to her senses at last, and realizes, finally, what she really is.” He was elated.
“Just a servant,” Hortense agreed. “What’s born in the bone comes out in the flesh.”
C H A P T E R 26
ELLEN REMAINED IN A STUPEFIED condition for a considerable length of time, listless, almost unspeaking. So Jeremy had recourse to Kitty, Mrs. Bedford, and sundry other women, for relief Kitty was most sympathetic, and delicately so. “Let her recover slowly,” she said. “One must remember her background, my dear. It intrudes. The alienists from Vienna say that one’s childhood is the most emphatic influence in one’s life. I sadly don’t believe that Ellen yet realizes her position as your wife. But you must give her time. That is the kindest thing to do.”
Mrs. Bedford, who was very fond of Jeremy though not in love with h
im, was less mendacious. “Poor Ellen. She is always accusing herself of crimes she never committed. I had a sister like that, with a very tender conscience. It has nothing to do with Ellen’s earlier life. She was born that way; I understand. One of these days, perhaps, she will come to herself, and laugh, and all will be well. It happened to my sister, who now lives in Chicago, a very healthy and vital woman who loves life, finally.”
Ellen recovered sufficiently to be matron of honor at the wedding of Charles Godfrey and Maude Cummings, though she once said to Jeremy, “How Charles can do this, marrying Miss Cummings, is beyond me. She is so unsympathetic.”
“She has common sense,” said Jeremy. But Ellen never could come to a liking for Maude and distrusted her.
Charles had taken his bride to a brownstone house he owned not far from the brownstone where Jeremy and Ellen lived. Maude knew that Charles had for her an entirely different love than he had had for Ellen, a comfortable and confiding and companionate love, full of trust and mutual amusement and understanding. Ellen, for Charles, had been a rosy and romantic dream, teeming with almost adolescent fantasies. Men were instinctive poets, she would reflect. But a warm fire and a warm serene love were what they eventually desired, a love that did not unduly conflict with their romanticism, and was always stable and steadfast. Poetry is beautiful, she would think, and often contains profound wisdom and nuances. However, at the last, a good dinner, intelligent conversation, and tender sympathy were the foundations of men’s lives. Poetry was moonlight, but one had to deal with the day. Maude knew all about the masculine character, and she would listen to Charles’ excursions into poetry, though somewhat banal, with a gentle and loving smile, hot contradicting or obtrusively inserting common sense into the discussion. Men were very suspicious of female earthiness, and resented it. So Maude rarely suggested anything that might shake the fanciful castles of her husband’s soul. She only insinuated, when necessary for Charles’ benefit, and then he would believe it had been his own idea from the beginning.