Good people, people of fortunes nicely won and carefully transmitted,
well-known people, in short the members of society who make life an
important affair to be honorably transacted in due reverence for their
own reputation and the opinion of their neighbors, had nothing more to
do with the family. They were blotted out of the blue book of Boston
and never ventured beyond the shady walks of the Common on the Beacon
Street side. In the other world, about the exchange, in the bar-rooms
and restaurants of the downtown hotels, John Ellwell still led a
comfortable life. The Board liked him. His transactions never again
assumed large proportions, but in the way of little things he did a
brisk business and went his old, corrupt, uncertain path.
The old house at Middleton was pulled to pieces and made fit for a
gentleman's family, with a comfortable dining-room and broad-bayed
windows, fine mahogany from the Beacon Street house, and an opulent
cellar. Wide verandas were run about the house again, giving
delightful vine-covered nooks for talk and sewing in the hazy, heated
summer days. The lawn was nicely shaved and watered; the drive that
led through the orchard to the cross-roads which gave the name to the
place was weeded and gravelled. A new stable was put up behind, and
furnished with three horses, some smart little carts, besides a close
carriage for rainy days. The exile was made tolerable--for the sake of
the children.
Mrs. John Ellwell counted for little. She had married in romance the
handsome, swell young man; reality had blasted her. She had sunk into
a will-less invalid, and made admiration of her husband into pride and
a religion. She had accepted; she never protested. The eldest son by
the dint of much pushing had been put into Camberton just before the
final smash and the exile. In the hall of the college there hung a
portrait of his great grandfather in his black preacher's robes; of
this, Roper Ellwell, second, was a weak travesty. The thin features
had been blurred in the process of transmitting; an inclination to
flabby stoutness of person made the young man portly, where the old
minister had been nervously fragile. But Roper Ellwell, second, rarely
compared notes, for he dined, not in hall under this picture, but at a
private club with his own set.
These young fellows drove over now and then to the Four Corners, a
pleasant place for a man to spend an evening or a Sunday when the
weather was fair and the fields green. The dinners were long and
rich; the wines good; and if old Ellwell was a somewhat scandalous
host, pleasing only to the coarser lads, there were other members of
the family--the two daughters, Leonora and Ruby.
The appearance of these two girls in this earthy family was anomalous.
Leonora, the older sister, was like a water-lily in a pool of ooze and
slime, delicately floating on the stagnant waters without a visible
stain at a single point of contact. She had the Ellwell features,
regular, angular, prominent; with her father's high forehead and
finely tapering hands, and also her father's thin unwholesome skin.
But instead of the livid tan complexion of the man who had beaten
about the years of his life, the woman's pinkish transparency likened
her again to the water-lily of the Middleton ponds. Her sister Ruby
was more striking, much in the florid style of her brother. While she
was young, she would be delicate enough to carry this kind of beauty;
ten years might bring about an unpleasant fulness of bloom. Both had
been petty invalids over many small ills, until now the monotony of
the Four Corners was bringing about a gentle activity and health.
If the mother was will-less in the general concerns of life, she had
shown one power in forming her daughters upon her own ideal of
refinement. It was the way of life for men to be brutes, in a curious
coarse fashion in speech, in appetites, in tastes; all that was an
unaccountable arrangement of providence. So likewise it was befitting
women to be chaste and refined, and to endure. Leonora comprehended
her mother's sad position, yet she never held her father responsible.
Men were made so, with a necessity for wickedness; some day she would
be called upon to marry such a man, and suffer patiently, without
scandal, a similar experience with vice. The woman's task was to keep
fresh and unspotted herself, her home, her rooms, like some cool
temple hidden away from summer heats and noisy commonness.
This girl of eighteen knew the family story as thoroughly as her
mother; knew the disgraceful episodes, the unstable condition of
fortune which they must expect. Tranquilly, daintily she trod her way,
avoiding "scenes," covering up brutality, ignoring beastly talk or
unpleasant dinner companions; occupying herself with her fresh
dresses, or household matters; now decorating a room in the old Four
Corners, or watering the ivies that were replacing the gnarled
woodbines. Mrs. Ellwell had never kept improper books from her
daughters--it seemed so hopeless--and she read what her father read,
accepting the lurid picture of life presented in the novels
plentifully scattered about the house as probably correct, yet with
an indifference and weariness. Some cool twilight at the Four Corners,
when the little tasks of the day had been done, before the carriage
arrived from the station with the unaccountable male element of life,
she might sit for a reflective half hour wondering why it had all been
made so; why passion was recklessly rampant in life; why the world
creaked in its action, groaning over the follies so thickly spread in
its course. In the daring of dreams, provoked by the long shadows and
the deep quiet, other forms, strange possibilities, might flicker in
her mind; but she was a woman! And soon it was time to dress for the
long dinner.
There were evenings when the carriage returned empty, merely a
telegram at the most, to account for the broker's absence; and these
nights, sad for the neglected wife, were a relief to the daughter. The
sweet monotonous day could go on (the country day she secretly loved
when there were only women about the house) even down to night with
rest, the shrieking world banished. There were other evenings when
Ellwell drove up alone, morose, biting his iron-gray mustache in
sullen disgust and ennui at some failure, perhaps in self-discontent
and fear. Leonora met him at the veranda with a kiss, and a bubbling,
clever greeting that dragged out a smile. Dinner was then a pleasant
place for talk, the elder daughter taking the lead and holding it
until she had roused the others. And there were other evenings when
the broker brought with him friends, anyone he happened upon, when he
was excited and loud, and the daughter had fears of the end. If the
talk grew too boisterous, the women would hurry the courses and then
withdraw to a side of the veranda, to sit sadly by themselves. If a
quieter man, or some young fellow from Camberton, slipped away from
the dining-room and joined them, they would talk gayly, simulating
ease and naturalness.
For all this tolerance Mrs. Ellwell had the reputation with the broker
and his companions, of being "a good woman" and a "good wife." And
Ellwell considered that he had redeemed his note to propriety in
marrying and having children, who become hampering things when a man
is in a tight place. The servants gossiped, were insolent at times,
but in such a household there were many pickings. The Middleton
people, driving by at night within sound of the noise when the Four
Corners was garishly lit, would repeat the family story and recall old
Roper Ellwell, who lay in a green mound near his first church. But the
broker, the "village magnate," as his daughters called him, was
generous and free-handed in the parish. A "high liver" but "a good
fellow" was his reputation; so it was considered a good thing for
Middleton that the Ellwells had returned to the Four Corners.
From the serene frugal household of Roper Ellwell where the wife had
fitted boys "in the classical tongues" for Camberton, the family had
come to this uncertain state, feverish, like the fickle fluctuations
of the stock market; now prodigal and easy, again in a panicky
distress with dire fear of unknown depths of poverty and humiliation.
Whatever happened--reckless, with a philosophy that did not embrace
the morrow.