Ceremony of the Innocent (10 page)

“I don’t remember him,” said Ellen, licking her fork. “But Aunt May once said he was very handsome, and dark.”

“How come you got the same name’s your aunt—Watson?”

Ellen was surprised. “Didn’t Aunt May tell you? She was married to Daddy’s cousin, a very poor cousin. He and Daddy got typhoid fever the same time, in Erie, and they both died. It was very sad.”

As this was the same version May Watson had given herself, Mrs. Jardin was disappointed. She was convinced that Ellen was not only ugly but stupid, and she had anticipated drawing some heinous information from her which would refute May’s silly “lies,” and expose the scandalous background of the young girl to the amusement of Mrs. Jardin. It would also give her a spicy tidbit to tell her friends. “Better clean up them dishes,” she said, sourly. “You’re never ready to get down to work.”

There was an air of holiday in this house and in spite of her dejection Ellen felt it. Mr. Francis had been exceptionally kind to her this morning; he had even touched her hand gently when she offered him fresh sausages and had looked up, smiling sweetly, into her eyes. She had felt such an urgent affection for him that she blushed and almost dropped the sausages and had been scolded by Mrs. Jardin for her carelessness. “Really, you are not progressing well in the girl’s training,” Mrs. Porter had rebuked her cook. “She is still very clumsy.” Mrs. Jardin had wanted to hit Ellen right there and then but she saw Francis regarding her coldly and with full knowledge. Still, she let Ellen eat the scraps, and felt very generous and forgiving, and, above all, Christian.

It was a very hot blue and gold day and flags were waving from the courthouse staffs and smaller flags were planted before all the houses on Bedford Street, and even in some of the poor sections. Fireworks were cracking everywhere, accompanied by the shouts of children and their screams of excitement. Even the horses apparently felt the mood of holiday and their hoofs rang smartly on the cobblestones and those in the carriages exchanged hearty and laughing greetings with friends whom they passed. Somewhere someone was exuberantly playing “Hail, Columbia!” on a piano. Trees, luminous with light, sang merrily in the dusty wind. There was a scent of acrid punk and gunpowder in the sparkling air, and warm roses and freshly cut grass. The sky was a shining violet and seemed to pulse with heat. Ellen’s dejection lessened. She thought of the books in the library, and quiet, and no Mrs. Jardin for long hours.

But Francis was gloomy. He could not offend his aunt and his uncle by pleading to be left behind. This was the Mayor’s Day. He would be the speaker on the steps of the courthouse after the picnic. It was his occasion of open glory. He had written and rewritten his speech many times, sweating over it laboriously. He had ambitions, which he had not as yet told anyone, not even his wife. He hoped to be a State Senator, and he knew that several politicians from Philadelphia—potent men—would be here today, for Preston’s sawmills were prosperous and were owned by Preston’s few rich inhabitants. Preston might boast only a few thousand resident souls, but they were proudly of the Mayor’s party and admired and liked him, for he had a genial way with him and an easy fashion of speaking—“democratic”—which inspired fondness in the voters. The gentlemen from Philadelphia were scrupulously not visiting in any of the rich houses in Preston, not even the Mayor’s. They were temporarily residing in Preston’s one hotel, the Pennsylvanian, which was not very lavish. In this manner they implied they were not partisan and did not prefer the wealthy over the poor. After all, there were more poor voters than privileged ones.

Edgar Porter quite understood their reasoning, which was also his. But his wife complained. “I call it sheer unfriendliness, and after you delivered the votes for Congressman Meade yourself here in Preston.” But Edgar had smilingly shook his head. “There are nuances, Agnes,” he had replied. “It is all politics.”

Somewhere lawn mowers rattled gaily; somewhere someone blew a trumpet. Dogs barked, alarmed at the firecrackers. Preston was noisier than usual today, in the elation of holiday. Ellen’s spirits rose. She remembered how she and her aunt had been sedulously isolated in the park on these occasions, and how they had been miserable at such treatment, and how often Ellen had heard snickerings when she walked to the fountain to get more water for May. She tossed her head. Even holidays were not pure enjoyment for such as Aunt May and herself. They had frequently felt downhearted afterwards, and could not bring themselves to offer cheer to each other. So she dusted and swept bedrooms, humming. I’m not sorry I’m not going, she told herself, trying not to think of the music and the escape from work. It’ll be nice to be alone for once. Well, I hope everybody has a good time, though. Her young heart warmed. Love and trust. It was good to think of the enjoyment of strangers, even if one was barred from it. In a mood of joyous piety the girl hummed on as she worked, while Mrs. Jardin prepared the luscious picnic baskets in the kitchen. The cook began to sing in her immature voice:

“There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight!”

Ellen particularly detested that ballad. She quietly closed the door of the bedroom she was cleaning. She began to sing softly, without words, one of the most beautiful songs she had heard the brass band play one Sunday, the week before, in the park, and did not know it was from an opera and that it was called “The Vows We Plighted.” She only knew that it was celestial, that it was at once mournful and haunting yet pervaded with tenderness, like a memory. Her voice filled the musty hot room with ardent melody, pure and yearning. Her eyes trembled with happy tears and again the promise came to her, of mysterious content, of the end of longing, of the completion of hope, of the fulfillment of love. Her new and imperative instincts rose in her and she could not understand them. She could only feel an anticipatory delight, but what that delight was, she did not know. Suddenly she lifted a small chair in her arms and hugged it tightly to her breast and felt comforted and assuaged.

Eventually the house was deserted by all but Ellen, and she ate her cold dinner in the kitchen, relishing every bite, though the gravy had congealed on the meat and the bread was flaccid. Feeling gleefully defiant, she went to the huge icebox and lifted a large jug of icy milk from its depths and poured a glassful for herself. She then attacked all the dishes with zeal. Her young body was soothed with food, and she began to sing again. She heard the slapping of screen doors as people hurried out of the houses for the park. Bells from the church began to ring with a rollicking sound. Footsteps ran on the pavement outside. Then it was very quiet.

Ellen went through the front door and stood on the veranda, listening. There was no one about; smoke from the last firecrackers drifted in the air. She strained for the band music. It came to her, faint but sure, and Ellen smiled richly to herself at the rousing marches. A trumpet note soared like a golden bubble and again she hugged herself with delight. Drums throbbed, and her heart quickened. The sky had never been so lighted; the trees hardly moved in the silence except at the tops, where they were illuminated and touched with fluttering gilt. The still facades of the houses across the wide street dreamed in the sun, spangled with the shadows of leaves. The sleeping lawns twinkled, for they had been recently hosed. The scent of water from the river came to Ellen, fresh and exciting. The sawmills were silent. All was peace. There was no grinding of phonographs, no beating of mechanical pianos. Ellen knew the precious surcease from all that was ugly and discordant. She did not as yet know the meaning of harmony, but she felt it.

She went back into the gardens, where she had never been permitted to go before, and marveled and rejoiced at the multitude of tumescent flowers. She saw their color, their succulent stems, their glistening leaves. There were white and pink low borders enclosing summer lilies the color of oranges, and rose beds, and the last iris in tints of copper and purple, and long pink and white sheaves of gladioli, and coral bells and a low tree covered with huge red flowers. There were birches and spruces and maples and vaulted elms. She sat down in shade and leaned her body against a trunk and it seemed to her that she could feel a mystic life flowing into her own from the contact. Fido, from the door of his kennel, panted and looked at her with disfavor, and barked once. Sighing with a surfeit of pleasure and content, she dozed, the sweetness of breezes cooling her face. Her hair moved and was touched with fire. Her sore hands lay simply and in childish relaxation in her lap. She did not know that she was the most beautiful thing in that garden and that she looked like a sleeping nymph. Drowsy birds in the tree peered down at her and questioned. Bees blew about her and one lighted on her hair for a moment. A white butterfly came to rest on her knee, raising and dropping its wings.

It was there that Jeremy Porter found her. When he had discovered the house empty he remembered that his family went to the park on the Fourth of July and after refreshing himself with his father’s whiskey—the Mayor was a strenuous teetotaler in public—he wandered out into the garden. He had expected it to be deserted also. He was interested to see the distant flutter of a light dress near a tree and he went to investigate. He came upon the sleeping Ellen and stood and gazed and could not believe it.

The sun was sloping to the west and still Ellen slept, dreaming of another garden she had never seen, and a waiting, a waiting compounded of happiness and deep yearning, a scented misty garden with no borders, and groves of trees pearly-clouded with evening. She heard a bird singing poignantly and knew it for a nightingale, though she had never heard one before. She lifted her dreaming eves to the opalescent sky and sighed deeply and with felicity. Her apricot-flushed lips curved and smiled, the smile of a woman and not of a child.

Good God, thought Jeremy, where did this beauty come from? Who is she? He approached her nearer, and saw the whiteness of her throat and her arms, the perfect contour of her face, the flood of red hair which seemed to possess a life of its own, for it appeared to breathe, fluttering a little, moving. Jeremy studied that dreaming face, and he saw the intelligence in it, the profound innocence and peace. Not more than sixteen, he thought, and the loveliest thing I have ever seen. He studied her more acutely, and saw the blistered and calloused hands, the long slender hands with their broken nails, and then he knew that this must be the new housemaid who had replaced Alice.

Cautiously, he lit a cigarette and stood smoking and delighting his eyes. The soft and nubile breast rose and fell slowly; the lax legs were beautifully formed and were outlined under the dress which was too small and was almost ragged. Ellen had removed her shoes to rest her aching feet and Jeremy saw that not even the black cotton stockings could conceal their form, as slender and supple as the hands.

Jeremy reverenced beauty as much as he respected intelligence. To find the combination here in a little housemaid, stricken by poverty and work, was incredible to him. He also admired poetry. He was reminded of a verse from “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”:

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Damn, I’m getting maudlin, he thought to himself. A girl like this is surely not “blushing unseen,” even in this desert of a town. He scrutinized her face more closely for any sign of wantonness, and was disbelieving on finding none. Why had he never seen her before, in this village in which he had been born and had spent the major part of his life? It was possible she was a newcomer. Ellen slept and smiled. Jeremy came closer and his shadow fell over the girl, and her gilt eyelashes fluttered; she murmured; she moved restively and slowly opened her eyes and raised them, bemused and startled.

C H A P T E R   5

ELLEN’S FIRST FRIGHTENED THOUGHT was that this stranger was a “robber.” She saw the tall young man before her, dark and muscular, a stranger with amused eyes and a reassuring smile which showed his strong white teeth, and she knew fear. She jumped quickly to her feet, paling, throwing back her hair; she looked about her for an open place for flight.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said in a very gentle voice which would have amazed those who knew him. “I’m Jeremy Porter. I’ve come home early.”

“Oh,” said Ellen. Her fear left her, and shyness deepened her color. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice, he heard, was musical and even resonant, and his delight increased. “I—I didn’t know—Mr. Porter.”

She was confused. “They’re all in the park, sir. You can find them there.” She forced herself to meet his eyes, and tried to smile apologetically.

“I don’t want to find them,” he said. Her eyes widened in more confusion. “What is your name?”

“Ellen Watson, sir.”

The name was familiar to him, for he had seen May many times before in this house. “Watson? Any relation to May?”

“My aunt.” Why did he stare at her like that? May had mentioned that he was a “terrible” young man, very rude, and disrespectful to his parents, and that he looked like a “workingman, no fashion, no elegance. Rough and ready.” So Ellen had conjured up a man without manners, a crude brute of a man, a man reputed to be cruel and uncouth, “with never a pleasant word to say.”

The imagery disappeared and Ellen thought him very handsome, and not in the least like the other men in Preston. His clothing was not “sporty,” but was dark and well tailored, and he stood with ease before the girl and smiled down at her with more reassurance. Why, he’s really a gentleman, she thought, and a dim warmth came to her in spite of her shyness. Then, all at once, she wanted to run and the urge was delicious and exciting.

“I’ll get you some supper,” she stammered, and now all her face was pink. “Sir.”

“Come to think of it, I am a little hungry and thirsty,” Jeremy said. “And thank you.”

Only Francis had ever thanked her before. Then she started and her face became alarmed. “Sir, please don’t tell the Mayor and Mrs. Porter—and Mrs. Jardin—that you found me out here sleeping! That’s awful. I should have been in the house, working. I just—I just came out to the garden, to see it. I hadn’t seen it before. I was a little tired, and I fell asleep. Aunt May would never forgive me.”