Ceremony of the Innocent

by Taylor Caldwell

  “You know very well she wasn’t—pleased—by our marriage, Aunt May. But she answered, not me, but Jeremy. He never showed me the letter, but he did say that she hoped for a grandson.”

  “He never showed you the letter! I wonder what she really said!”

  “It doesn’t matter in the least to me, Auntie. Jeremy and I have each other. And there will be—our family.”

  Now she went to the door, but before she could open it May exclaimed, “Have you thought of the pain, the agony, every woman has? And women often die when they have children!”

  “I don’t intend to die, Auntie.” Ellen was moved, believing her aunt was concerned for her. “The doctor says I am very healthy and should have no trouble at all. Pain? I’ve heard of it, but nothing is too painful if it pleases Jeremy. Now, I must really go. We are having a few guests. Do try to rest, dear Aunt May. I know this must be a shock to you, and you’ve always been afraid for me.”

  She opened the door. Miss Ember had already retreated to a discreet place in the hall. Ellen said to her, “I think my aunt, Mrs. Watson, needs you, Miss Ember. Maybe an extra one of those pills which quiet her sometimes. And a very light supper, if you please.”

  Without waiting for the woman to reply—she had spoken very firmly, which was also new for her—she went down the stairs in the bright spring evening. Her knees felt somewhat weak. She had been more disturbed by her aunt’s inexplicable remarks than she had known. Cuthbert was entering the lower hall from the library. “Mr. Porter, Mr. Francis Porter, is calling, madam.”

  Ellen felt a new vehemence and impatience. She had wanted to consult Cuthbert about the dinner—one of the few she would be giving until after her confinement—and she was suddenly very tired and wished to lie down. She hesitated on the stairs. She would have run up again if she had not known that Francis must have heard Cuthbert.

  “Very well,” she said with an unaccustomed weariness in her young and lovely voice. “Please bring us sherry and biscuits, Cuthbert.”

  Francis had not visited her for a month and she had hoped that he would not again, and when she had known that hope she had been ashamed and again guilty. She remembered, too, that Jeremy had defeated Francis in three more cases. She went into the library smiling, but the smile was less radiant than usual.

  He was standing near the library fire, and he turned when she entered, and she held out her hand and greeted him as shyly as always.

  “I have been away, dear Ellen,” he said, certain she had missed him. “That is why I haven’t called in so long.” He still spoke to her with that kind condescension of his, but this time she heard it and resented it.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Francis,” she said. “It is getting chilly after the nice warm day, isn’t it?”

  He heard the unusual note in her voice, and frowned slightly as he sat down. It was unlike Ellen to be “presumptuous,” and suddenly unaware of her lowly class. He waited until she had seated herself, then sat down near her.

  “Did you miss me at all, Ellen?” he asked.

  Ellen said, “Miss you?” and she spoke with a kind of wonder But immediately she thought herself discourteous and once more was guilty. “I—I did think—I have been very busy, Mr. Francis So many things. Time passes so fast, doesn’t it?”

  “Especially when you’re happy?” His voice was pouncing.

  “Yes,” said Ellen. Something was wrong but she did not know what. She only knew that she wished he would leave so that she could lie down. She had still not told Jeremy of these visits, and had hoped that she need never tell him, if Francis remained away.

  She watched Cuthbert pour the sherry from its gold-and-crystal decanter, and was conscious that her head had begun to ache. “I am very happy. And you, Mr. Francis? How have you been?”

  He had always thought Ellen considerably stupid. Was it possible that she was unaware of his three defeats at the hands of that brute of a husband of hers? But naturally, his cousin knew that she understood very little of the world in her blandness and ignorance. She is a woman, he thought, but she has never matured. Is that part of her charm? Why did he sicken for her when he was away from her—this beautiful young servant?

  “I have been very well, Ellen,” he said with formality. “My aunt, Mrs. Eccles, sends her regards.”

  “That is very kind of her,” said Ellen. “Please give her mine also.”

  Francis was taken aback. Ellen was being impertinent again, and he was deeply annoyed.

  “I also saw your mother-in-law, and Mr. Porter, when I had occasion to visit Preston two weeks ago.”

  Ellen was silent. She sipped her sherry and looked over the rim of her glass at him. He thought she was pretending to be inscrutable. What airs she had learned! Then Ellen was studying him and she was thinking: Did Jeremy’s parents tell him of our child?

  She said, “How are Jeremy’s parents?”

  “Well enough,” he said in a tone of kind severity. “They are still hurt by Jeremy’s—disaffection.” He added, “Disaffection? You know what that means, Ellen?”

  Ellen could not help smiling. “My tutors are very good, Mr. Francis. And I have always read very much from the time I was a young child. Yes, I know what disaffection means. It’s not Jeremy’s fault. He has—approached—them several times. If they choose to keep their distance that is their own affair, isn’t it?”

  She waited for his next remark. Then she saw that he had not been told, and she was mortified and distressed. Or was it that gentlemen did not refer to these things to ladies?

  “He is their only son, their only child, and naturally—”

  It was Ellen’s headache which made her answer with a little sharpness, “Naturally what, Mr. Francis?”

  “You must know that they hoped that he would marry the young lady in Scranton, Ellen.”

  “One can’t help disappointing people sometimes, can one, Mr. Francis?” The full blue tea gown she wore enhanced the intense brilliance of her blue eyes, and they were sparkling though she was not smiling.

  His pomposity, always evident, had become more so over these months. His self-control, usually very strong, suddenly was swept away and he leaned towards Ellen and said, almost blurting, “Your welfare has always been of the utmost concern to me, Ellen. You must know that.”

  She weakened, remembering again how kind he had always been to her, and she wondered why she had been so acerbic to him, and the guilt was upon her. She said, “Yes, Mr. Francis. I’ve always known. I’m really very grateful.”

  He saw that he had “reduced” her again to her proper position, and was pleased. She leaned forward to him to offer him the salver of biscuits and her gown drew tightly about her and he knew what he had not known before. He thought, for an instant, that he would be violently ill, there and then in that warm firelit library.

  “Is there something wrong, Mr. Francis?”

  He could only mutter in a thickened voice, “No. No, not at all, Ellen. It is just that I’ve been very busy myself, and this was an unusually warm day.” Sweat had come out on his forehead; he could feel its trickling and stinging.

  Ellen stood up and opened the window near him a little wider and looked down at him with solicitude. She was so close to him that he could smell the scent of her young body, and her eau de cologne, which was of a light sweet odor. He could feel the warmth of that body, its innocent sensuousness, of which she was not aware. He wanted to seize her, to hold her, to weep on her breast, which he saw was much fuller now. He wanted to tell her of his sense of her degradation, of his longing, of his love, and desolation. He trembled with that desire.

  “That feels much better, thank you, Ellen,” he said.

  She drew her chair a little closer to him and said, “You gentlemen often work too hard. I sometimes tell Jeremy that. It makes me very anxious. Perhaps you need a rest. Jeremy and I—after—I mean, this summer, we are buying a house on Long Island, for the summertime, and I hope he will rest then for a while.” Her eyes were a blue shine
in the rising dusk.

  The desolation was an anguish in him; he experienced a loss almost too terrible to endure. He knew now that he had always secretly hoped that his cousin would tire of Ellen very soon—that womanizer!—and that she would come to him for comfort and shelter.

  “That will be nice,” he muttered incoherently. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Ellen was filled with that old weakening contrition. She had hurt his feelings in some manner, and he had been good to her and her aunt. She said, “Mr. Francis, you do not look well at all! Would you prefer some brandy?”

  “No. No, dear Ellen. It has been so warm—”

  But she stood up and went to him and put her gentle hand on his forehead. It was hot and wet. She bent over him, scrutinizing his face. Her eyes were full on him and he saw the pupils dilating anxiously. It was too much for him. He put his arms about her waist and drew her down closer to him and kissed her mouth over and over, passionately, while she stood, dazed, in his embrace, her lips parted in astonishment and some fear. She tried to release herself but his grip was too strong.

  “That is a very tender scene,” said Jeremy Porter from the threshold. “How long has this been going on, if I, a mere husband, am crude enough to inquire?”

  Ellen and Francis both started. Ellen pulled away from Francis, and Francis stood up, white and trembling. They both looked at Jeremy in the doorway, stupefied. His face was tense with anger and his eyes were gleaming in the dusk. When Ellen could recover herself she went to Jeremy, but he put her aside with some roughness and looked only at his cousin, who still could not speak. Ellen took his arm.

  “Jeremy!” she said. “Mr. Francis was taken a little ill, and I was trying to help him, to see if he had a fever.” She could not understand her husband’s very apparent rage; she thought it was because he had found Francis here. “I am so sorry—I should have told you before. Mr. Francis sometimes comes to see me—he knew me before you did, Jeremy. He has always had my welfare at heart—”

  “I haven’t the slightest doubt,” said Jeremy, still not looking at her.

  Francis finally could speak. “It is not what you think it is, Jeremy.”

  “And what am I to think, a strange man clutching my wife?” His voice was one Ellen had never heard before and she was frightened more by the tone than the words, which she could not comprehend at all.

  “I should have told you,” she repeated. “But I knew—I thought—that you did not really like each other, and Mr. Francis suggested—”

  Now he looked at her. She could not endure his stare, and shivered. “What did Mr. Francis suggest, my dear?”

  She put her hand helplessly to her aching head. “I don’t think I quite remember.” She turned pleadingly to Francis, who appeared to be on the edge of collapse. “Didn’t you say, Mr. Francis, that perhaps it would not be well to tell Jeremy you came to see me, because you don’t like each other? Yes, I think that is it.” She was now more alarmed at Francis’ appearance than she was by Jeremy’s. “I should have told Jeremy from the beginning, Mr. Francis. It is all my fault.”

  Jeremy said, with some savagery, “It is always your ‘fault,’ isn’t it, Ellen, when people take advantage of you, deceive you and exploit you? I am beginning to think you are right, in a way. Well, Frank, can’t you speak?”

  “Ellen has told you the truth—”

  “‘The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God’?”

  Francis was silent again. “Yes,” said Ellen, “it is the truth, Jeremy. Yes, I should have told you. I’ve felt so guilty, but I thought it was for the best.”

  Francis said, “You have an evil mind, Jeremy, just as you are an evil man. Now, I think I will go. Ellen, I won’t trouble you with my visits any more. I only wanted to be sure you were happy—and safe.”

  “Of course,” said poor Ellen, thinking all was settled agreeably now. But Jeremy was still standing stiffly with his fists clenched at his sides. He said, “If you ever bother my wife again I will kill you. Do you understand? Kill you. I’ve known you’ve been slavering for her a long time.”

  “Jeremy!” Ellen cried, terrified now. “What are you talking about?” She looked from one man to the other, and swallowed against the sickness in her throat.

  “Kill you,” said Jeremy again.

  At this moment Cuthbert discreetly appeared, earning Francis’ coat and hat and cane. Jeremy looked at the cane, but Cuthbert deftly gave it to Francis and helped him on with his coat. Ellen took a step aside and sank into a chair, shivering heavily. Jeremy still stood in the doorway. It was Cuthbert who expertly pushed him aside so Francis could pass him, which he did very quickly. Cuthbert led him to the door, then disappeared again.

  Ellen, very pale, looked up at her husband and her eyes were severe as they had never been before. “Jeremy, you were most rude to poor Mr. Francis. He has known me since I was a child; he did all he could for Aunt May and me, when your mother threatened us with the police, and everything. He only wanted to know if I was well. I’m so sorry. I should have told you from the very beginning, but he thought it best not to. And you’ve repaid his kindness to me with cruel words and abuse. I am very vexed with you.”

  He looked down at her, and relaxed. It always came to him with fresh wonder, at every new experience, how little Ellen knew of people, and how vulnerable she was. But he was still enraged. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her upright, almost against him, and looked down at her. He did not know what to say to her; he did not want to destroy her innocence, but he was infuriated also. He began to shake her, though not roughly, and she timidly tried to smile, for often he shook her this way.

  “Ellen, listen to me,” he said. “I’ve told you about many of my cases, and my court appearances. I thought you were listening, that finally you were beginning to understand that this is a most terrible world, and that you must be on your guard against it. But you never understood, or believed me, did you?”

  “It’s also a very good and beautiful world, Jeremy. There is more goodness in it than wickedness.”

  “Is that so?” he said. “Well, I’ve also told you something of world affairs, too, haven’t I? It was all for your protection, Ellen, for it is possible that I will die before you.”

  “Oh, no, I could not live then!” she cried, and the child in her womb leapt in answering terror. She put her hand over it, as if to quiet its fears.

  Jeremy said, with new gentleness, “You must face life, Ellen. You won’t die if I die. You will have children. Never mind. Listen carefully to me, my love. I want to tell you something about people like my dear cousin. He is of the kind which will approach anyone insidiously, for one reason: conquest and control. With you, he has used your gratitude, your pity. That is one of their big weapons, and they have others. I thought, when I have been telling you many things, that you did understand a little, and that it might be possible, in the future, that you will be on guard not only against Frank’s kind, but a thousand other predators. Yes, predators. He is one of the very worst sort, the most ruthless and merciless, as well as contemptible. You don’t understand, do you?”

  “Not quite,” she said. He was now holding her lovingly, and that was enough for her. “Mr. Francis is not in the least ruthless and merciless. He is a very kind man. I know that myself.”

  “I really give up,” said Jeremy, releasing her. “Ellen, you’re not stupid. You are really a very intelligent girl. You can understand music and literature and poetry and philosophy, sometimes better than I can, for you are intuitive. But your intuition doesn’t work with people, does it? Only in abstract matters, in things which can’t protect you. I’m not sure that I want you to be another Kitty Wilder. God forbid. But surely she has been telling you of this world, hasn’t she?”

  “She’s very witty,” said Ellen, and felt a pang of jealousy for the first time in her existence. “But I know she is really just being funny when she talks of people; she isn’t malicious.”

  “Good God,�
� said Jeremy. “Yes, I really give up. Ellen, listen to me. When I talk to you, really listen. When Kitty talks, really listen. I don’t want you to become hard and cynical. I just want you to be aware of what this world really is: a den of wolves, red in tooth and claw. Even the saints knew that, but it didn’t embitter them or turn them against humanity. It only saddened them, I’ve heard. So listen, Ellen. Be sad if you must, and you will. Awareness doesn’t necessarily destroy innocence; it only arms it, when necessary. What in hell am I going to do with you?”

  “You can kiss me,” said Ellen. But he shook his head, sighing. “Let me tell you of a case which came to me today. A lady of great wealth. She has four adult children. She adored them all their lives, and believed they loved her, too. She is a woman something like you, though considerably older. Her husband died six months ago and left all his fortune to her. Do you know what her loving children have done to her? They have robbed her of every penny, in those short six months, her two daughters, their husbands, and her two sons, their wives. Now they are evicting her from her house. She loved and trusted. Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” said Ellen. She thought of her unborn child and what that child might do to Jeremy, and her lips went white.

  “She was brought today to me, by a friend who loves her, a man. She was all tears, all misery. And all bewilderment, too. She couldn’t understand why and how her devoted children could do this to her; she still couldn’t believe it, the poor woman. She desperately tried to make excuses for them, with the facts right there on my desk, before her. Her children meant no harm, she said. She was sure of that. I was so exasperated when I failed to reach her that I wanted no part of that case. I could see her blubbering in court and persuading the judge that it was ‘all a mistake,’ as she said in my office. Then I had to show her not only the eviction notice but a petition they had signed—those loving children!—to have her declared incompetent and confined in some private mental hospital—a cheap one, too. She fainted.”