Ceremony of the Innocent (28 page)

She was sitting, huddled, by the fire in her small sitting room, clad in a very expensive dark-blue woolen robe, when Ellen entered tonight. She had never explored the Bible before, but now Ellen’s old Bible lay on her emaciated knees, open. She constantly searched for hortatory passages to read to Ellen, especially about “the daughters of Jerusalem,” happy damsels (though condemned by the severe prophets) who arrayed themselves in silks and bangles and earrings and cosmetics, and “walked haughtily” with bells on their dainty ankles. On hearing these passages Ellen puzzled why the grim prophets were so stern in denouncing joy and beauty. Did one have to live in sackcloth and ashes and wear a somber face to gain the approval of God? Ellen had begun to doubt that, for was not God the Creator of all loveliness and had He not demanded of Moses the utmost embellishments for His Temple, including music? Had not David said, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord”? Had not Christ remarked on the splendor of the lilies of the field? Ellen, though she said nothing to her aunt, had begun to doubt the Puritan imperative of dullness and lack of grace and charm. This doubt was immediately followed by a surge of guilt, and a conviction of wickedness. Ugliness and lightlessness, it would seem, were marks of holiness.

Once she timidly mentioned her guilt to Jeremy, who had laughed and kissed her and had told her to “consider” the gorgeousness of the peacock and the elegance of the swan and the bursting redbud trees and dogwood in the spring, and the happy laughter of winter-released brooks and rivers. “All things laugh and rejoice in their beauty,” he had told her. “And so should you, my sweet conscience-stricken imbecile.” He reminded her of the ascending cathedrals of Europe, the temples of God, and the fire of gems, and the glory of the mountains and the color of seas and skies. “Does your aunt consider them, ‘works of the Devil’?” Ellen sometimes thought it was possible. But still, when reproached by May for “ostentation” and “fine arrayal,” she became dejected again.

She wondered, this evening, what adjuration May had prepared for her from the Bible. May looked up sourly when Ellen entered her sitting room, and said, “Ellen, that apricot color isn’t nice on a married woman all of eighteen. You should wear more ‘sober garb.’” She looked dissatisfied and ominous. “And you’re looking washed out lately, too. Is there something the matter?” she asked, almost in a tone of hope.

Ellen had not told her aunt of her pregnancy. She was not certain why. Would it be indelicate? She had a vague intuition that May would disapprove, as she did herself, for Ellen never forgot the evil and vindictive natures of children, and their instinctive viciousness and cruelty. She had not blamed it on their parents, when she had lived in Preston, for even the most slatternly had shouted at their offspring in anger when they had persecuted Ellen too much on her way home from school or church or employment. Besides, did not the Bible admonish that man was evil from his birth and wicked from his youth? So Ellen, remembering, was often filled with disquiet concerning her own child now stirring in her womb. Would it become the enemy of Jeremy? Would it attempt to destroy and exploit him, as so many children did to their parents? Would it bring him unhappiness? When the doctor, to whom Jeremy had taken her, told her kindly that she was pregnant she had burst into tears. In her innocence she had not quite understood how marriage often led to children. Both Jeremy and the doctor had been astonished at her response to the news, but she could only stammer, “I hope—I hope—it won’t hurt my husband.” “You should be happy,” the two men had informed her. But Ellen, remembering her childhood, was not happy. Once she even fiercely thought, “If it injures Jeremy—I will kill it!”

“I’m feeling quite well,” said Ellen, tonight, to her aunt. “Quite well. How are you today, Auntie?”

The nurse, a Miss Ember of more than lavish proportions, and a woman of about forty, said with heartiness, “We are doing very well, Mrs. Porter! We ate a good supper, and enjoyed every morsel.”

“You mean, you did,” said May, and then was frightened, for Miss Ember was “superior to” her in station, so she said with apology, “I didn’t mean that, ma’am. I did like my supper, though I have no appetite.” Miss Ember continued to beam but she felt inner scorn. May had confided too much to her, in her search for consolation for leaving Mrs. Eccles’ house. So Miss Ember also felt some condescension for Ellen, too, and was less polite than customary. May had repeatedly mentioned to Miss Ember—in that pathetic search for understanding—that Ellen was “only a servant, really, and out of her station, and someday she will regret it.” Consequently, Miss Ember was often impatient and overweening when Ellen questioned her about May’s condition. “I am sure, madam,” she would say with hauteur, “that me and the doctor know what her condition is, and we need no other advice.”

To Jeremy she was obsequious. But she snickered about “the mistress,” in Cuthbert’s absence, to the other servants. Had Cuthbert not been a disciplinarian and in charge of the house and had he not had a strict knowledge of “dependents,” the household would have degenerated into chaos, with the servants in arrogant authority, and their mistress in terror. Cuthbert, fortunately, knew very much about human nature and its tendency to exigency and malice, and so did Jeremy.

May set up her usual complaints of pain and sleeplessness before Ellen, as her niece sat near her, somewhat fixedly smiling. “I suppose you’ll have a lot of noise downstairs tonight, when I am trying to sleep,” said May.

“You must keep your bedroom door shut, Auntie,” said Ellen. “We’ll try to be very quiet. After all, it is four floors below.”

“And you’ll be crashing on the piano again,” said May. “Such horrible noise! You shouldn’t try to attract unbecoming attention, Ellen, from your superiors. That’s vulgar.” Miss Ember smiled nastily, and preened, as if in agreement.

May said, “Hasn’t Mrs. Porter accepted you yet, Ellen?”

Ellen said, with her gentle humor, “Jeremy hasn’t accepted his mother, Aunt May.”

“How sinful! His mother! ‘Honor thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God hath given thee.’”

“I think parents should honor their children, too,” said Ellen. “That is, if the children are worthy of being honored.” She added, somewhat forlornly, “But most children aren’t worth honoring, are they?” She had spoken softly, as if to herself, fearing again for Jeremy and fearing the enmity of his child. She continued, “Jeremy says his mother must now make the second move, as he has made one before.”

“But Mrs. Porter is quality, Ellen! And you’re not. You should humble yourself, and beg her pardon.”

“For Jeremy loving me?” Ellen’s usually controlled voice rose a little.

“You know exactly what I mean, Ellen,” said May with severity. “For you marrying him, against his parents’ wishes.”

“Jeremy asks no one’s permission,” Ellen replied. She was suddenly very tired. The snug room almost suffocated her; the fire was too hot and close. She wanted to leave but her conscience would not let her. She was nauseated again and she felt heavy and weak. Miss Ember was watching her with smiling animosity. Such a gaudy thing! She’s used less from the paintbox today, it seemed.

“I hope you are wearing something in keeping, and respectable tonight,” said May, with that ever-present reproof in her thin voice.

“My black spangled velvet, and my diamonds. Jeremy wishes it.”

“You look like a cheap actress in it, Ellen! Why not your nice brown wool, draped quietly, your day dress, and a little brooch?”

“Jeremy would disapprove,” said Ellen.

“At your age, and married state, Ellen, you should dress more seemingly.”

Ellen pushed herself wearily to her feet. “I try to please Jeremy,” she said. May looked at her a little slyly. “I had a nice letter from Mrs. Eccles today, Ellen.”

“Good,” said the girl, drawing her apricot velvet gown about her.

“She’s delighted that Mr. Francis is now established in New-York.”

Ellen was silent. May sighed, “If only we had stayed in Wheatfield, where we belong! Contented, peaceful, doing our duty. And Mr. Francis watching over us.”

Again Ellen felt suffocated. She had not told Jeremy of Francis’ visit to her yesterday, and she had asked Cuthbert not to mention it, either. She knew that Jeremy would not have liked it in the least, and her chronic guilt made her nervous. Why Jeremy would have been annoyed she was not quite certain. But in some way she intuitively guessed that Francis had relied on her keeping silent concerning his visit. She had sensed it in his lowered voice and the significant way he had of glancing over his shoulder, as if afraid of eavesdroppers or of Jeremy himself suddenly appearing.

As she went down to the third floor to her rooms to dress—in the warm and dusky twilight enhanced by softly lighted lamps here and there—she thought of that visit. Her maid had laid out her gown for the evening and her jewelry, and the snow hissed against the windows and the wind savaged the glass. A fire danced on the black marble hearth. The rooms were large and well proportioned and beguiling with delicate furniture in the French style and with mirrors, and with thick oriental rugs underfoot. Usually Ellen rejoiced in such luxury, in gratitude and delight. Tonight she did not see it.

She had been practicing on the black and gleaming grand piano which Jeremy had bought for her when Cuthbert came in with Francis’ card, and a scribbled message on the back: “Please see me for a few moments, Ellen.” Ellen’s first emotion was pleasure that he had remembered her out of his kindness. Her next was uneasiness, as she thought of Jeremy, who detested his cousin. But surely he would not resent Francis’ remembrance of his protegee? So Ellen asked Cuthbert to show Mr. Porter into the library, where they would have sherry and biscuits. She remembered that Francis abhorred whiskey and preferred only wine.

She went into the library in her afternoon tea robe of pale-blue velvet and lace, holding out her hands in shy welcome to Francis. The dun winter light, glowering through the windows, made him appear very austere and rigid as he took her hands and bowed a little over them, stiffly. But his eyes, smaller now behind his pince-nez, studied her with sharpness and she became uncomfortable and bewildered.

“How kind of you to come, Mr. Francis,” she had murmured, indicating a chair for him. “I am happy to see you.”

“I am happy to see you, too, Ellen,” he said in a tone that indicated mysterious reproach. She was suddenly a presumptuous servant again in the Porter house. She stood in the middle of the beautiful rug, not knowing what to say next—while Cuthbert discreetly poured sherry, arranged small napkins, and put down the silver salver of biscuits. Then Cuthbert, who saw so much and understood so much, drew out a chair for her near the fire. She sat down, feeling helpless and out of place, and looked at Francis earnestly.

“I have heard you are now living and practicing in New York, Mr. Francis,” she said. “I am glad—if you are glad.”

I am here because you are here, he thought, and because I must protect you. His expression became more severely pompous as he sipped his sherry. He said, “I, too, have ambitions, Ellen.”

“No doubt,” she murmured. “All gentlemen are ambitious, aren’t they?”

“Not always in the right direction,” he said in a sententious tone, and she knew at once, to her dismay, that he meant Jeremy, and then she was vexed. She had never understood the hostility between the cousins, nor did she know that she was the cause of the old hostility becoming malign and full of absolute hatred. Jeremy had, some months ago, guessed that Francis was in love with Ellen and he had laughed to himself with angry ridicule, and even umbrage that “such an anchovy, such a hypocritical fraud,” had even dared to look at Ellen. To Jeremy, this had been an insult, not a compliment, to his wife.

For some reason the gentle-spirited girl felt a sudden irritation with Francis, and had to remind herself vigorously of his solicitude to obliterate her exasperation which had arisen because of his new pomposity and intimations of baffling criticism of herself. Why, too, did he look at her so strangely, with a mingling of affection and rebuke? More and more she was beginning to feel like an intruder in her own house, an insolent intruder whose very presence was obtrusive and unacceptable.

Acutely perceptive of others’ emotions towards himself, Francis saw that the girl was gazing at him with those lustrous blue eyes of hers in a most peculiar fashion. He smiled placatingly. “I came because I wanted to see that all was well with you, Ellen. My aunt, I am sorry to say, is very concerned. She had a letter from your aunt which was slightly odd—”

“In what way?” Ellen said, astonished.

“Well, I am really breaking a confidence—I saw the letter myself.

Your aunt thinks you are homesick for Wheatfield, and not too happy in New York. She also wrote that she, too, is homesick, and longs for my aunt’s house.”

“Good heavens,” said Ellen, and colored with annoyance. “That is really too bad of Aunt May. She has the most wonderful care here, with a private nurse, and has her own suite of rooms and everything she could desire.”

“Perhaps she prefers something else,” said Francis. When Ellen only stared at him, her beautiful lips tightening somewhat, he added, “After all, New York must seem very alien to her. Does it seem alien to you, Ellen?”

She never really detected condescension in his voice and manner towards her; she only knew discomfort. “No, Mr. Francis. I love New York. I am exceedingly happy here, and my days are busy with tutors and music teachers and I am learning to dance, and I have a teacher of voice, also.”

He raised his pale eyebrows and smiled with slight superciliousness, as if he were highly if politely amused. “And you like all that, Ellen?”

“I love it.” She disliked sherry but now she sipped it to escape that intimated amusement. Why should I feel so gauche? she asked herself.

“You look a little pale, even wan. Too much confinement perhaps?”

“Indeed not, Mr. Francis! I go for long drives almost every day, often to the art galleries, the museums, the opera, concerts—with a new woman friend, the wife of one of Jeremy’s attorneys. And Jeremy and I go out frequently to dinner, and entertain.”