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
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
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