Ceremony of the Innocent

by Taylor Caldwell

  He put down his knife and fork. She was very young; what did she know of sorrow? He had been about to say that, then stopped himself. She knows well, he thought, and if she hasn’t actually experienced sorrow in her few years she is aware of it, and all of its tragedy.

  “What has made you sorrowful, Ellen?” he asked, and his voice was full of compassion.

  She was on the point of crying out, “Because you will leave me and I will never see you again, and I can’t bear it!” But horror and full realization came to her of what this cry would mean to him. He would think her not only bold but impudent and he would laugh at her as a presumptuous minx. She struggled for inane words which would not betray her, and then to her greater horror and humiliation she burst into tears. She dropped her face helplessly in her hands and bent her head and grief swelled in her, a grief she could not fully understand except that it was enormous and she had never known such before in its intensity and despair.

  Jeremy regarded her in silence. He did not know what to do. He did not know why she was weeping and with such adult abandon. But he sensed the barrenness of her young life, her hopeless estate, the loveless desert in which she lived, the misery of her future and her eventual insignificant death. He believed that she had suddenly realized that herself, and his compassion—the first true compassion he had ever known—made him almost physically ill and wretched.

  He stood up, and stood near her as she cried. The light in the kitchen was dimming; there was a mournful bleakness in it now, for all the redness of the lids of the stove, for all the smell of good coffee and the lavish food on the table. He looked down at the bent head and the heaving mass of faintly glistening hair and at the rough and childish hands through the fingers of which tears were spurting. Her sobs were profound and heavy.

  “Ellen,” he said, and then he reached out and touched her for the first time, her shoulder and part of her soft white neck. It was as if he had touched fire. A huge tingling ran through him and he became rigid. Then desire struck him even while his pity and tenderness increased, and it was a desire greater than any other he had experienced before. He forgot that she was still almost a child; to him she had become the beloved and mourning woman whom he must comfort, and then take, not only with lust, but in consolation and love and protectiveness.

  Ellen had become still at his touch. She had stopped weeping. Slowly, she dropped her hands and lifted her wet face to him, mutely, unashamed, piteously confident of understanding, helplessly waiting for solace. When he reached out and raised her from her chair she came into his arms at once. She was silent, but her tears still ran over her cheeks. He looked down at her. He felt his arms were filled with the whole world, rich and satisfying and infinitely inciting and adorable.

  Instinctively, and with the passion of love, she pressed her face into his shoulder and her young arms rose and wrapped themselves about his neck, and all the suffering—nameless though it was—was swept away in an almost unbearable bliss. She felt the strength of his arms about her; it was as if she had reached an impregnable shelter, a home, which nothing could threaten, and that she was safe at last from the agony she had endured all her short life. When he gently kissed her lips she answered that kiss with fervent innocence and trust.

  Jeremy held her gently, then with increasing passion, smoothing her long hair with his hand, pressing her closer to him, and she pressed in return. Then, though he longed to take her, he wanted nothing more than to lie down beside her in a soft dark place and hold her and speak soothingly and lovingly to one who had never heard these things before, and to take her somewhere where she would be secure and never menaced again, never hungry, never driven to labor and torment.

  Neither of them in their perfect communion heard the door open and neither of them heard two simultaneous gasps.

  Then a man exclaimed, “Oh, in the name of God! What is this?”

  A woman cried shrilly, “Well, I never! I never, never!”

  The gaslight flared up and Jeremy and Ellen blinked confusedly in the glare, and drew apart, and Jeremy said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  C H A P T E R 6

  FRANCIS HAD ENDURED HIS UNCLE’S long and incoherent though vigorous speech, which everyone but himself had applauded. He had endured the brass band through all its marches and was then too sluggish to enjoy the other music. Besides, he did not care for German airs; they conjured up suffering and death, both of which made him uneasy, restless and afraid. He was no man to face realities. He had a horror of grim actuality and confrontation with life as it is. It was his absurd belief that if it were not for “them” existence could be pure and simple and “good” and just and rich, but who were those who opposed this Utopia he was not quite certain. He was only certain they existed—somewhere, brooding over their heaps of gold. The fact that his father was a very rich man did not annoy him. Those riches provided for his ease, which he considered only his due. Had he asked to be born? The fact that the world had not asked him to be born, either, never occurred to him. Or, rather, if it did occur he hastily obliterated it. He preferred to consider himself a “victim.”

  Yet he was not a hypocrite in his convictions. He was entirely sincere, a fact which vexed his cousin Jeremy Porter, for Jeremy would often say that a hypocrite who knows he is a hypocrite is less dangerous than a man who does not know it, and acts accordingly. The fact was that Francis was also a gentle and kindly young man, who frequently had generous impulses, though these were conditioned by inner winces. He was penurious by nature, and in this he resembled his fellow “humanitarians.” Jeremy considered him a disaster to the world, for Francis was more or less convinced, though secretly, that he was of the elite. He thought the manner in which the world was established was cruel and barbarous, heartless and unjust. Therefore, he was born to rescue mankind and deliver it from his version of injustice. He was not—though he insisted he was—truly egalitarian. Deep in his subconscious mind was the view—which he shared with his fraternity—that “one day” society would be rearranged in a new hierarchy—with himself and his brothers in absolute control.

  It never occurred to Francis to help the “exploited” to a new dimension of existence, where they would have valid opportunities to improve themselves, and new horizons and new potentials for exerting their innate gifts. On the other hand, Jeremy was all for giving every man an opportunity’ to use his talents, unrestricted by poverty, despair, and evil circumstance, and to alleviate his hopelessness. Francis wished to help “the oppressed” through better wages, more food, adequate shelter, and more leisure. That these were not complete fulfillment, and left the immortal human soul still bare and unsatisfied, did not occur to him. He believed that the “exploited” wanted only to be physically comfortable. Jeremy was, therefore, closer to the hoped-for liberation of mankind from dire existence than was Francis.

  In short, Jeremy was concerned with the whole of mankind, body and soul. Francis was concerned only with its animal appetites, thus relegating man to the level of well-fed domestic animals. (He excluded himself from this bestiality, of course, for was he not of superior birth and education?) Jeremy believed that the world had not yet taken full advantage of the endowments of men; Francis believed that the “proletariat” desired only mean gratifications and pleasures, with firm punishment, certainly, if they dared threaten his own high position and sanctity.

  Jeremy despised fools, whiners, the greedy, the lazy, and the incompetent. Francis thought the misfits “pathetic” and resented the industrious and the independent, who, he thought in his vague if passionate way, were the “exploiters.”

  These were impassable differences between the cousins, and so they were always to be divided, and felt for each a strong hatred, and extended this hatred into situations which had no bearing on their philosophies at all. The fact that Jeremy had a profound respect for all that was truly human, and that Francis wished only to direct its destiny into dialectical materialism—with himself guiding that destiny—made them
irreconcilable enemies, and affected their relations with others, in a very immaterial fashion. Their terms could never meet; their semantics were based on inherent character.

  Their grim conflict rose to violent heights when Francis and Mrs. Jardin confronted Jeremy and Ellen in the kitchen of the Porter house. Francis had become so bored with the Independence Day proceedings that he had developed a “fever.” Mrs. Jardin, who was also bored, had wished to return to her beloved kitchen. So Francis had brought her home. (Francis had been bored because he did not believe in the Constitution of the United States and resented it. He considered it a “document for the oppression of mankind.”)

  Francis cried, “How dare you! What are you doing to that innocent girl?”

  “Innocent?” shrilled Mrs. Jardin. “That thing, that strumpet that trollop? Look at her! All rumpled and red in the face, but not with shame, you can be sure! There’s no shame in her. Bad, bad, bad from the day she was born and I warned Mrs. Porter, but she—”

  “Shut up,” said Jeremy. He turned to Francis and his dark face became darker with contempt and repugnance. “What am I doing? I am trying to comfort an unfortunate girl who has been abused all her life. Sit down, Ellen,” and he took her by her trembling arm and led her to a chair, then stood beside her with his protecting hand on her shoulder. She crouched on the chair, forlorn and silently weeping. She began to remove the tears with the back of her hand.

  Francis took a step towards her, but Jeremy clenched his fist and made a threatening gesture with it. It was evident, by his expression, that he hoped his cousin would advance on him. Francis discreetly stood back, but his light-blue eyes glittered with hatred.

  “Comfort her? Seduce her, you mean, don’t you? A child!”

  “Idiot,” said Jeremy. “She gave me some inkling of her life, and I tried to console her, while thinking what I could do for her. You’ve been here for days, you mewling brotherly-lover, but have you given any thought as to how you could help her? I bet not!”

  But Francis looked at Ellen, whose long hair fell like curtains nearly all over her tear-wet face. “Ellen,” he said with gentleness, “did this—this man—hurt you?”

  She shook her head. She was filled now with a sense of enormous guilt, inspired by Mrs. Jardin’s attack, and disgrace, though she did not know why. She was only dimly aware of the exchange between the two men, and its implications. Nevertheless, she experienced degradation.

  “Don’t be afraid, Ellen,” said Francis, trying to ignore the menacing Jeremy. “Tell the truth. Did he try to—Did he ask you to go up to his bedroom with him?”

  Ellen slowly lifted her head and regarded him with bewilderment. Then she slowly shook her head and gave a great heaving sob. “We talked about Thoreau,” she almost whispered. “And then, I was so sad, and I began to cry, and he put his arms around me and it was like—like—” But she had no words for the delirious happiness and content she had known, the surcease of misery, the rise of hope.

  “Like what?” said Francis. But she could only shake her head dumbly. “Thoreau!” said Francis. “Oh, I am sure of that!” He looked at his cousin. “There is a law for men like you.”

  “I wish there was a law for men like you, too,” said Jeremy. “God knows the country is going to need it. Now, if you’ll get out of the way I’ll take Ellen home and tell her a plan I have for her, which will rescue her from your kind.”

  Darkness stood at the windows and there was a distant cannonade as the first fireworks rose in stars and streamers of many colors into the sky. But no one in that kitchen heeded it.

  “You mean, in one of your brothels?” asked Francis of his cousin.

  “You talk like that once more and you’ll need the tender attentions of your dentist,” said Jeremy. He grinned at Francis with ferocious derision.

  Frustrated, and trembling himself, Francis said, “Do you deny that you were attempting to seduce this girl?”

  “I don’t have to affirm or deny anything to you,” replied Jeremy. “What are you, anyway?” He began to stroke Ellen’s shoulder soothingly.

  “I am a decent man, which you are not. I know all about you; I’ve heard the stories around Harvard Yard. And your women!”

  “Don’t be so envious, Frank,” said Jeremy. “I have the wherewithal, which, I hear, you do not. Except, perhaps, for the ancient Greek caper?”

  Francis was aghast, and now he felt the first pure rage of his life, and he wanted to kill. “You contemptible brute,” he said in the hushed voice of outrage and anger. “If I had not come just now you’d be torturing this girl—”

  “How do you know? Have you ever deflowered a virgin? Or are you still a virgin yourself? I shouldn’t wonder. Ellen, dear, stop crying and don’t listen to this indecent babble. I will take you home—”

  “I will!” said Francis. “Not you! I wouldn’t trust you a foot with her.”

  Ellen spoke clearly for the first time, and with fright. “But I can’t go home! I can’t go until it is after the late supper for the folks. I’ve got to stay here.”

  Francis was in a dilemma. He was also aware that he was hungry. “Of course, Ellen,” he said. “After supper, I’ll take you home. Now if you,” he said to his cousin, “will leave the room Ellen will get at her duties.”

  “For your convenience,” said Jeremy. “Isn’t that always the way with your kind? You can love and love and love, and be a villain, to paraphrase Shakespeare. But not if it inconveniences you, dear me, no. Come on, Ellen.”

  The girl cried in desperation and fear, “No, I can’t, Mr. Porter! I can’t. I have work to do. I need the dollar a week I get here, I do, I do. If I leave now Mrs. Porter will discharge me.”

  “A dollar a week, and scraps,” said Jeremy, with reflection. “That is truly a full life, isn’t it? Well, Frank? Where is your famous rhetoric about the ‘exploited worker’? Or don’t you recognize an exploited worker when you see one?”

  “She’s only a young girl, and is being trained,” said Francis, his fair face filled with congested color. “An apprentice.” He returned to the attack on his laughing cousin. “I’ve heard all about you; I’ve heard about you and that unfortunate little girl, Alice, who worked in this house.”

  “What about Alice?”

  “Surely you know.”

  Jeremy stared at him, then threw back his head again and laughed. “Why, you imbecile, listening to kitchen gossip! I never laid a hand on that wretched child, nor did I want to.”

  “Alice?” said Ellen, still weeping. “Alice got sick and she had to be sent away.”

  “And where did she go, Frank?” asked Jeremy. “Or didn’t you ask, or care? But she wasn’t one of your ‘masses,’ was she? She didn’t stare into the future, with a heroic face, tramping to freedom and victory over the ‘oppressor,’ did she? She was just a homeless starving child, defenseless and alone, so she wasn’t worthy of your damned brotherly love. Ellen, do you know where Alice is?”

  This conversation had both frightened and puzzled Ellen and she stopped crying. “No, Mr. Porter. I heard she went to Scranton. She had no folks here, or anywhere, I heard.”

  Jeremy turned on his cousin. “Why, you crawling thing! You knew about it and never offered any help! No doubt you just shook your head sadly, and sighed, and changed the subject. If ever I wanted to smash a man I want to smash you. Now.”

  “Why didn’t you help her? She was yours!”

  If Ellen, intent now on her work, had not suddenly moved between the two young men, Jeremy would have seized his cousin and punched him vigorously. In fact, she and Jeremy collided for an instant and she uttered a small disconsolate cry and would have fallen had not Jeremy caught her. He looked over her head at Francis and said in an almost genial voice, “One of these days I will break your neck. I only wish it could be a collective neck.”

  Dazed by words and attitudes she did not understand, Ellen started to clear the kitchen table hurriedly. After a moment, Jeremy began to assist her. She was scandalize
d. “Oh, no, Mr. Porter! That isn’t right.”

  “Why isn’t it?” asked Jeremy. “I ate off these plates, didn’t I? But then, I’m no aristocrat. Me, I’m just a brawny workingman, full of beans after a good supper.” He glanced at his cousin. “What? Are you still here? Why don’t you go into the library and read a little Karl Marx, your favorite author?”

  “I wouldn’t leave this child alone with you for an instant.”

  “Tut, tut,” said Jeremy, shaking his head. “I’m not that much of an ascetic. I prefer a softer place than a kitchen floor, though perhaps you don’t.”

  No one had noticed the flurry of Mrs. Jardin’s departure. She had returned, running and panting, to the park and had found May Watson, sitting dolefully alone, as usual, her nearest companions sending disdainful glances at her, and tittering. Mrs. Jardin had gasped in her ear, “It’s Ellen. No, I won’t tell you now. We’ve got to find Mrs. Porter. Hurry along there. No, I won’t tell you. No, she isn’t hurt—or sick. But she may be worse, soon.”

  She dragged May along with her, and May’s weary face was white under the glare and brilliance of the fireworks, and her ears were stunned both by the news she had just heard and by the explosions. They found Mrs. Porter, and while May stood by, incredulous and shaking and horrified, Mrs. Jardin informed her employer that “that girl, Ellen, she was—she was making up to Mr. Jeremy—yes, he’s home, sooner, and if me and Mr. Francis hadn’t come in, it would have gone on and on—Oh, it’s shameful, that’s what it is! Don’t ask me, ma’am, what I saw. I haven’t the words for it; I’d never let them pass my lips, anyhow! I’m a good Christian woman, I’m a decent woman—”

  “Liar!” cried the distraught May, wringing her hands.

  “I am, eh?” said Mrs. Jardin, and she actually made a fist and brought it so close to May’s face that May had to throw back her head. “I never told a lie in my life! That’s left for your kind, and your dirty daughter, and everybody knows she’s your daughter and don’t you dare to deny it any longer!”