He thought of Ellen’s children as he often thought these days. He was diffident with them, but they treated him with effusive affection, which he appreciated. The notion that they secretly laughed at him never entered his mind. He believed that they had not cared overly for their father. They had almost forgotten him, in the urgent exigencies of children. In the last few months they had not even mentioned their mother or inquired about her health. They had visited her but three times, on Charles Godfrey’s command. “Children should not be exposed to these—things,” Francis had told Charles, who was their guardian. Charles silently agreed with him, but not for the reason Francis gave. Charles had no illusions concerning Christian and Gabrielle. He thought them detestable. He had a child of his own now, a little girl of three, a sweet and intelligent child who had almost convinced her father that it was possible that some children were not entirely wicked. Maude had not been too happy when she had discovered she was pregnant. She was a stern if loving mother, and Charles had begun to hope and to forget his earlier forebodings. He had seen too many adult children who had exploited widowed parents for their money, too many children who were ruthless and greedy, and who waited impatiently for the death of a mother or father. Years of law had convinced Charles that humanity was not an admirable species even at its best.
Jeremy’s children had long ago understood Francis, for they were very intelligent as well as “detestable.” Christian, in particular, had confidently come to the conclusion that he would be able to “handle” Cousin Francis easily, and with this his sister, the only creature Christian loved since the death of his father, concurred. Their mother had never been a force in their lives, and they did not expect that she would ever be. If they thought of her at all it was with amused disdain. They had not been at all enthusiastic when they heard she would be coming home permanently before Christmas this year. “She’ll spoil things,” said Gabrielle. “She’s so awful silly.”
“I hear she’s still dippy,” her brother commented. “She won’t get in our way, not that she ever did.”
“I think she’s just like that stupid mermaid she used to read to us about,” said Gabrielle, and brother and sister laughed together. “Dancing on feet that felt like daggers.”
“And getting herself a human soul,” said Christian, and they laughed again as at something risible.
“I bet Cousin Francis will marry Mama,” said Gabrielle. This annoyed Christian. He was already thinking of money in large quantities. For an instant he thought of his father with a lurch of his heart.
There was no governess in the house now, with Christian at Groton and Gabrielle attending a fashionable girls’ school during the day in New York. Annie Burton had married Mr. Darby a year ago and had moved to a small upstate town where Mr. Darby happily taught at a well-disciplined private school for boys. His wife knew that she was no longer needed at the house in New York, and “that Congressman” had told her that it was doubtful that “Mrs. Porter would ever regain her senses.” With this Annie did not agree. She had visited the unseeing Ellen several times, and had always returned in tears. But she was a nurse. She had seen recognition in Ellen’s eyes on occasion, and once Ellen had even smiled at her. However, she knew that it would be a long time until Ellen was normal; that she would return to health Annie did not doubt.
The car wound its tedious way through drays and wagons and automobiles and streetcars and pedestrian crowds blown before the winter wind. Shopwindows began to glow in yellow lights and the lamps on the street woke to a white illumination. For the first time Ellen seemed to rouse feebly and she looked at the familiar avenue and blinked drily. Her pale lips quivered but she said nothing. “We’re almost home,” said Francis.
“Home,” repeated Ellen, very faintly, and she frowned slightly as at an alien word she did not know.
“A nice warm fire and a good dinner and your own bed,” said Miss Evans with encouragement. “And your children, Mrs. Porter.”
“The children,” said Ellen. Her once resonant voice was dull and uncertain. Then her throat worked and she gasped and strained her face upwards, as though seeking breath. Miss Evans tightened her hold on Ellen’s hand, which was trembling, and the nurse nodded her head in satisfaction. The poor lady was beginning to feel “something” at last. Miss Evans was annoyed at Francis’ open consternation. “Does Mrs. Porter need air?” asked the Congressman.
“No, no, not at all,” said Miss Evans. “She is coming to herself, a little. She is beginning to ‘feel.’”
But Francis opened his window a little and Ellen immediately quaked when she felt the icy wind on her face. “There, that’s better,” said Francis. “Very airless, in a shut vehicle, isn’t it?”
“I don’t advise it,” said the nurse with some sharpness. “She hasn’t been out before, all this long time. Please, sir, close the window.”
Francis was outraged at this request from a “menial.” He glared through his glasses at Miss Evans, but she was not intimidated. She said, “It would be too bad if Mrs. Porter got lung fever.”
“You mean pneumonia,” said Francis with aloof contempt He looked down at Ellen, who was shuddering. “Are you cold, Ellen?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I am very cold, very, very cold.” He closed the window, somewhat affronted. He had thought the brisk wind “refreshing, bracing.” Ellen repeated, “Very, very cold,” but only Miss Evans knew that she was not referring to any bodily discomfort. The nurse gripped the flaccid hand more strongly, and Ellen leaned against her shoulder.
The car turned into the street where Ellen lived. The brownstone fronts of the houses were streaked and dappled with snow; chimneys poured out clouds of acrid black smoke; lamplight fell on crusted and dirty ice. The darkening sky had a reddish tint in which floated a pallid ghost of a moon. “Here we are,” Francis said, and patted Ellen’s shoulder. He did not feel her shrinking. The car door opened and Francis alighted and reached in for Ellen. But she sat and stared at her house, and her face was one white anguish, and she gasped again.
“Now, now, Ellen,” said Francis pompously. “We must not be foolish, must we?” He took her arm and pulled her towards the open door.
“No, no,” said Ellen, and Francis nodded. Miss Evans said, “Let her wait a minute until she has strength to get out, Mr. Porter. I know what she means.”
“Do you, really?” said Francis. He tugged at Ellen again and she uttered an inhuman cry and struggled with him. Miss Evans said as loudly as possible, “Let me, if you please. Mrs. Porter is my patient.” She said to Ellen very gently, “You must face things, Mrs. Porter, no matter how hard. I know it is terribly hard, but it must be faced, and you are a brave lady. I know that myself.”
Francis was about to rebuke her and “reduce her to her station,” but to his discomfiture he saw that Ellen was nodding piteously and was making an effort to rise. Very stiffly Francis moved aside a little and let Miss Evans assist Ellen from the car. Once on the gritty sidewalk Ellen swayed, but Miss Evans’ grasp was strong and reassuring. It was Miss Evans who guided her charge up the brown and slippery steps, while Francis, angry again, followed closely. The door opened and there was the aging Cuthbert, whose faded eyes blurred with tears when he saw Ellen. “Welcome home, madam,” he said. “Welcome home.”
Ellen looked at him and could not speak but he saw that she had recognized him. He helped Miss Evans bring her into the vestibule, and then into the hall, which was warm and lighted with a subdued electric chandelier. There were voices from a distance. Then, as Miss Evans helped remove Ellen’s coat and hat and gloves, the voices came nearer and people entered the hall: Kitty Wilder, Maude and Charles Godfrey, and Christian and Gabrielle. Ellen looked at them, and seemed to dwindle, and she shivered. She looked down at the spot where she had fallen soundlessly when she had received the news of Jeremy’s death. She looked at it as if fascinated, her head bent, as one looks at a new grave.
Kitty, withered and parched in her mid-forties, and even
thinner than ever, thought with intense bitterness: Oh, you fool, you mindless fool, who was not capable of loving him! What do you know of grief and sorrow? Did you love him as I loved him, you blank-faced imbecile? No, you ran off in your mind to escape facing his death, to be pampered and cosseted in a pretty sanitarium, while I was here, I was here, suffering and almost dying. He loved me, not you.
Her large white teeth flashed in her sallow face, and she came to Ellen and embraced her, murmuring, “Darling, darling, how wonderful you are home at last. And how well you look!” Her emaciated arms, in black silk, closed about Ellen.
Maude and Charles came forward. Maude took Ellen’s deathly cold hand in hers, without a word, and Charles stood at her side. He thought: The poor girl. I wish that damned prig hadn’t insisted that he go alone in his car for her.
Then Christian came forward gravely, elegant in his black knickerbockers and black jacket and tie, his red hair like flames about his healthy face. Gabrielle came, too, in her crimson wool frock, her dark curls surmounted by a huge crimson ribbon, her mischievous olive-tinted face, with its pointed chin and black eyebrows, appropriately sober.
“Welcome home, Mama,” said Christian, and Gabrielle echoed him. Their behavior was exemplary and dignified, with a proper shading of concern. Ellen looked at them, and looked for a long time. They came to her, waiting for an embrace, and Kitty stood aside, as did Maude.
Then Ellen’s eyes, alive and filled with horror and despair and torment, flew to the stairway, and she cried out, “Jeremy, oh, Jeremy, Jeremy!” Before anyone could stop her she had raced to the stairway and was climbing it, crying over and over, “Jeremy, Jeremy! Where are you, Jeremy?”
She stumbled on her skirts, she staggered, but Miss Evans was now with her, and Maude, and they drew the agonized woman the rest of the way up, while that awful wailing continued and was not muffled until it was shut behind a distant door.
“Well,” said Francis to the silent Charles Godfrey and Kitty. “I didn’t expect that, I am sure. I thought she was—cured. How very distressing.”
“Yes,” said Charles.
“She didn’t say a word to her children, who were waiting impatiently for her,” said Francis in a cold voice. “That was hardly maternal.”
Charles eyed him curiously. But he only said, “It will take a long time. Jeremy was Ellen’s whole life, her whole reason for existing.”
Kitty sighed. She looked at Ellen’s children, whose faces were very calm. “Poor little ones,” she said. “Such a disappointment.”
Gabrielle burst into tears and came into Kitty’s arms, and Christian was very serious. “Perhaps Mama should go back to that place,” he said to Kitty.
“I don’t think she should have ever left,” said Kitty, putting an arm over the boy’s shoulder. “But we must be brave, mustn’t we?”
Charles looked at the touching group under the chandelier and his face was very cynical, but it was obvious that Francis was moved. “Very sad,” said Francis. “And very unnerving to the young. Ellen should have controlled herself. After all, it’s been over two years.”
“I’ve heard that grief has no fixed schedule,” said Charles, and he left them and walked into the library and stood before the fire.
Kitty was comforting Ellen’s children. “Now, dears,” she said, “one must understand. Mama is not a very—strong—character, you know. She didn’t have the advantages and disciplines you have had, nor the training in—correct—behavior. You must make allowances.”
Francis did not like Kitty, with her little agate eyes and feline expression. He thought her extremely ugly, and was somewhat afraid of her acidulous tongue. But now he regarded her with approval.
“Mrs. Wilder is quite right, Christian, Gabrielle. Your mother lacks your background, your breeding, and self-control, all of which you have been taught. As Mrs. Wilder has said, you must make allowances.”
Ellen’s physician had been called and he had given her a strong sedative. He saw Miss Evans’ competence at once, and was relieved. “I will arrange for a relief for you,” he said to the nurse, but she shook her head.
“I’ve taken care of Mrs. Porter almost completely the last few months. She knows me and trusts me. A stranger would be hard for her to get used to.”
Ellen lay on her bed where for many years she had slept with Jeremy, and she was in a drugged stupor. Maude sat near her. Maude and Miss Evans had undressed her and put on one of her silk-and-lace nightgowns. Maude had been shocked at the frailty of Ellen’s body, its bony thinness, its transparent lifeless skin. She wanted to weep in compassion, and she stroked the bright long hair which streamed over the pillows, while Miss Evans unpacked Ellen’s bag.
“She’ll be all right, Mrs. Godfrey,” said the nurse. “She’s broken through, at last. Look. She isn’t crying in her sleep now. She’s accepted things.”
“I’m glad she has you, Miss Evans,” said Maude. The nurse was pleased. What a pretty lady this was, and so understanding.
“It’ll take some time, Mrs. Godfrey,” said Miss Evans. “We mustn’t be discouraged. I was waiting for just that—her screaming and crying. Sooner than I expected.” She hesitated, and met Maude’s fine dark eyes. “Her children. They didn’t seem very happy, did they, that their Mama was home?”
Maude, in her turn, paused. She had been about to make some cool and conventional remark, and noncommittal, about Ellen’s children and their most apparent lack of distress. She said, and very quietly, “No, they didn’t seem very happy. They are that sort—They prefer Mrs. Wilder. Miss Evans, Mrs. Porter has few friends. She really had no one but her husband.”
Again the eyes of the two women met, with sadness and comprehension. Miss Evans said, “She has you, Mrs. Godfrey.”
Maude averted her head. “But she never knew that, I am afraid. We must help her all we can.”
They both looked down at the sleeping young woman, whose face was slack and expressionless, and Miss Evans was relieved that it no longer was twisted with anguish and tense with despair.
It was Christmas Eve. After dinner Maude and Charles and the children decorated the Christmas tree, which, for all its splendor, seemed forlorn to Maude’s eyes. It stood in the living room, twinkling with candles and tinsel and colorful balls and delicate glass trinkets, with a star upon its highest point. Yet, it was forlorn.
Maude thought of the frightful war exploding all over Europe, and the men in trenches and dying in the scarlet lightning of guns. God have mercy, she thought, dear God, if You exist, have mercy.
Gay carols were ringing through the cold black night from the churches, and church doors were opening and streaming with the candlelight within and people were already beginning to drive up in automobiles for the midnight services, and the street was noisy with honkings and distant laughter.
God have mercy, thought Maude. That is all we can ask of You now. Mercy. We do not deserve it—but have mercy.
A group of carolers had gathered in the street, speckled with snow.
“Tis the season to be jolly,
Tra la la—”
C H A P T E R 29
ON A PARTICULARLY WILD DAY of blizzards and gales Francis Porter visited Charles Godfrey in the latter’s offices. There was a natural antipathy between the two men, an alienation of personalities. Charles greeted his visitor with cool courtesy and shook hands briefly with him, while his probing gray eyes expressed their curiosity at what Charles could only call “a visitation.” It seemed incredible to Charles that this man was the cousin of Jeremy Porter, who had had tremendous vitality and convictions and profound realism.
It was a January afternoon of storm; snow was plastered everywhere on the sides of buildings and on doors, and windows trembled under the assault of the wind. “A very nasty day,” remarked Charles, as the two men sat down before the fire in the office. “Brandy? Or a scotch, Francis?”
“I do not drink,” said Francis with an offensive formality which implied that Charles was a drunk
ard. Amused, Charles went to a cabinet and helped himself to a whiskey and soda. He sat down again, slowly, and wondered again why Francis had come to see him. Francis sat straight and stiff in his chair, his thin white hands clenched on the arms, his manner unbending and severe. His spectacles glittered in the mingled firelight and lamplight, and his mouth was a pale and ascetic slash in his lean face. His expression, as usual, was severe and condemning. I wonder if he ever had a mistress, Charles thought. I doubt it. No woman could lie easily in a bed with this man. He has no blood, no real life, for all he is an hysteric.
“I will not take up much of your time, Charles,” said Francis in his toneless voice, which, however, always threatened an impending violence. Charles inclined his head politely, and waited. “I know what it is to be a busy lawyer.”
He paused. He looked about the large warm office, his face expressing his disapproval of the luxury of it, paneled walls and Aubusson rug, walnut and mahogany and framed pictures, and rich draperies. Then he said, “You are the guardian of my late cousin’s children. You and your office are the executors of his estate.”
“True,” said Charles with a quickening of interest. ‘Tour late father was also an executor, and would be now if he had lived.”
“Jeremy should have named me also,” said Francis, glancing at Charles as if the latter were to blame. Charles said nothing; he waited.
“I am not here to question your administration of Jeremy’s estate,” said Francis. “I am here to consult you about it, however. With the exception of their grandfather, Edgar Porter, I am their sole remaining male relative. Naturally, their welfare is of importance to me. Their mother, of course, is incompetent to judge what is best for them, their future, and their inheritance on her death. You have, no doubt, discovered that for yourself.”