Ceremony of the Innocent

by Taylor Caldwell

“Poor thing,” said Ellen in a dim voice.

  “Oh, God,” said Jeremy again. “Now, what do you think of that case, of those children, and that fool of a woman?”

  Ellen considered, hoping to please him. “I think she should not have let them—take—from her. Perhaps they needed the money, though. But she should have consulted someone, such as her friend who brought her to you.”

  “Excellent,” said Jeremy, patting her shoulder. “I think I am finally reaching you.”

  “But a mother loves and trusts—”

  He clenched his fist and put it gently but firmly under her chin.

  “If I ever hear that sickening phrase again, my pet, I’ll beat you. I’ll beat some sense into you.”

  She smiled. “But what has all this to do with Mr. Francis?”

  “Everything. Her swinish children appealed not only to her love and her trust, but to her compassion, and if there was ever a disgusting word it is ‘compassion.’ No one uses it but predators, for their own purposes. They are always declaiming it, while they prepare to loot, subjugate, and control. Remember that, Ellen.”

  “It would be a terrible world, Jeremy, if no one trusted or loved anyone, or had compassion.”

  “But it is a terrible world, in spite of the poisonous pink jelly such as my cousin spreads around to disarm others, and persuade those innocent others that they have only their welfare at heart. They are all heart, the bastards, all steamed up with a desire for social justice and the ‘welfare of the toiling masses,’ and what not. I think I’ve told you before.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Francis is not like that. He really cares about my welfare.”

  “Let him come here once again, about your welfare, and there’ll be one fewer dangerous man in the world,” said Jeremy.

  Cuthbert appeared on the threshold. “If Madam would like to look at the birds—”

  “Yes, of course, Cuthbert. Jeremy, it is time to dress, isn’t it? I will just go into the kitchen for a moment.”

  Jeremy looked after her as she left him, and he was filled with the grimmest forebodings. Who had corrupted Ellen’s mind long ago? he asked himself. Innocence was wonderful, but it should not be folly. The saints had been innocent, but they had not been fools. He hoped, someday, to teach Ellen the difference.

  Part Two

  This, indeed, is at once the hallmark and the justification of an aristocracy—that it is beyond responsibility to the general masses of men, and hence superior to both their degraded longings and their no less degraded aversions.

  —H. L. MENCKEN

  C H A P T E R 14

  ON JULY 4, 1904, Ellen Porter’s first child was born—a son, who was named Christian Watson Porter.

  The day was hot and fetid and blowing with a gritty wind and glaring with unshaded sun, which penetrated even the trees along Fifth Avenue and the house of Jeremy Porter in the East Twenties, and threw brilliant black shadows on scalding pavements.

  Ellen awoke, sweating and restless beside her husband, and she recalled that it was on such a holiday that she had first seen Jeremy and for a happy moment or two she could lie on her damp pillows and smile in memory. It was eight o’clock, and though the shutters were closed and the curtains and draperies drawn across the glass of the windows, the tormenting sun shot through any chink or little opening it found to blaze on rug or wall or arm of a chair or on the high carved mahogany of the headboard of the bed. Ellen blinked against the daggers of the small beams, closed her eyes and saw a redness as of blood. She turned on her side but there was no escape. Jeremy slept, his face tired and somewhat somber and tense, and Ellen looked at his dark profile and a vast sweet melting ran through her in spite of her discomfort. Her hand crept to touch his white silk nightshirt, a touch as light as a moth, and as tenderly soft. She sighed deeply. She was afraid to move for fear of disturbing Jeremy, who needed to rest after his long hot days in the city courts and in his offices. The house on Long Island was already bought, and Ellen thought longingly of the cold gray Atlantic waves collapsing in foam on the stand near the house, and the strong sea breezes and the warm lashings of trees over cool green grass. The house awaited them, and they would go there in less than a month.

  Ellen inched her way over the heated linen of her bed to lay her mouth against Jeremy’s arm. Her child was not due for another two weeks, but she was strangely uneasy. She panted a little and wiped her damp face cautiously and lifted the heavy weight of her hair from her wet neck. She wanted to get up and sit in a chair. The child in her belly moved restlessly and strongly, and seemed to burden her body with its pressure. She struggled against her fear of it; she already loved it, for it was Jeremy’s, but still she was afraid. She had spent an almost sleepless night because of the heat and her pervading apprehension, which had increased these past weeks. Boy or girl—would it become the enemy of her husband? She had never recovered from her fear of children and the monstrous things of which they were capable, the thought of which terrified her. Once Jeremy had thoughtlessly said to her, “It is the oddest thing, but the most cunning and clever crimes are committed by children under the age of ten, and are the hardest to detect.”

  “I know,” Ellen had said, remembering. He had looked at her, amused.

  “And how would you know that?” he had asked.

  “I don’t know. I just know.” She was thinking of the children of Preston who had persecuted her and had despised and ridiculed her. She saw their gleefully beaming faces as they had chased her when she was as young as four, and their vicious catcalling, and their flung stones. She remembered the children in her school who had pointedly refused to sit near her, and had pushed her aside in the aisles and in the dusty corridors; the pushing had sometimes been so violent that she fell. She had finally decided that it had been because her aunt and she had been so poor and her clothing had been so patched.

  Jeremy had remarked, “What is it that Solomon had said about children? ‘Man is wicked from his birth and evil from his youth.’ What’s wrong, Ellen?”

  “There must be some good children,” Ellen had replied. “Children who love and trust and are not vicious.”

  Now, this morning, the fear was sharp upon her. She argued against it. The world, surely, could not endure if all was wickedness and evil. Perhaps all the ills of the world arose because of a lack of love and trust on the part—of a few. She calmed herself, temporarily, and tried to think of the blessed quiet and coolness of the house on Long Island, with its wide white porches and white clapboards and its great gardens and open windows where the lace curtains floated like wings in the freshening winds. The thought momentarily overcame the sounds of the street outside, the rising explosions of firecrackers, and the busy rattling of carriages and the human laughter and the quick footsteps and greetings below. The clock struck half past eight. This morning they would not have breakfast in her bedroom until nine, for it was a holiday and New Yorkers did not rise as early on a holiday as did the people in the small towns of Pennsylvania.

  There would be a parade at twelve down Fifth Avenue. Ellen had never seen an impressive parade, and she had cajoled Jeremy into taking her in their carriage to see it. Even now there was the distant sound of a band and Ellen could almost see the fierce gold circles of light on the trumpets, and she became a little excited.

  It was then that her first pain came to her, sharp in the small of her back, and penetrating. A dull wave of spasmodic pain also washed over her belly, and she was alarmed. The wave subsided and retreated, and she closed her eyes and thought she could see it leaving her. Fresh sweat broke out on her face and breast. Then she saw that Jeremy had raised himself on his elbow and was looking down at her with quick anxiety.

  “It’s nothing. It’s just a little pain, and it’s gone now,” Ellen said, and lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. He lay down again and took her into his arms and kissed her wet forehead and then her mouth and held her gently but tightly against his body and she was at peace.

  Cuthbert knocked
at the door, then entered discreetly, as stately and magnificently aristocratic as usual. He carried a large silver tray which he deposited on the round table nearby and said, “Good morning, sir, madam.” He unfolded white linen and put it on the table. He moved deftly in the hot gloom and added, “It is a very-warm day.” Carefully, as always, he avoided looking directly at the large bed, as he laid out covered silver dishes, a silver coffee pot and a silver platter of fresh cold melon and a rack of savory toast. Then he gave Jeremy his robe and assisted him into it. Ellen waited until he had left to move heavily to the edge of the bed, where Jeremy could help her to rise. She felt heavier than usual and more clumsy, and now the pain struck her in her back again. But she was determined not to alarm Jeremy, for this was a holiday and he enjoyed the rare opportunity to rest and eat a pleasant slow breakfast with her. She went into the gold-and-marble bathroom, then sat abruptly on the short lounge. She began to gasp; the sweat on her face and body became cold and she shivered. It finally took all her power of will to wash her hands and face with the scented soap and to comb her damp and tangled hair. She saw her face in the mirror, very pale, and there were sharp lines about her nose. The pain was subsiding again, and she forced herself to smile and returned to the bedroom, where Jeremy was holding her chair.

  “Is something wrong, Ellen?” he asked as she lowered herself painfully in her chair.

  “Nothing,” she said. “It is the heat. And it is almost time, you know.”

  “Not for two weeks. Should I call Dr. Lampert?”

  “Oh, he isn’t in town. Don’t you remember that he said he would be in Boston for this holiday and the weekend, visiting his daughter? And my two nurses have gone to Newark for the holiday, too. No one expects the baby for at least fourteen days.” Ellen made herself gay and smiling. “Do sit down, dear Jeremy, and have a nice breakfast. Those lamb chops look delicious.” But the sight and smell of the food suddenly sickened her.

  “And the housekeeper, Mrs. Frost, has the day off, and one of the housemaids, and your damned silly Clarisse, for the holiday, and there’s nobody here but us and Cuthbert and one of the maids, and your aunt and Miss Ember.”

  “They have very few holidays, Jeremy,” said Ellen. “I must talk with you about that sometime. They deserve more.” She changed the subject and said with assumed exuberance, “And you’ve promised to take me to the parade today, at twelve.” A deep numb languor was beginning to overtake her. She looked at the plate which Jeremy had filled for her and nausea rose in her throat.

  “I don’t know about the parade,” said Jeremy. “You don’t look well.”

  He waited for her cry of disappointment and was alarmed when she said nothing.

  “Well, it is very hot,” she said finally. “This is my first summer in New York, and it is very much warmer than Wheatfield. But you must go, Jeremy.”

  “I’ve seen many a New York parade,” he replied. He lifted the morning newspaper, and frowned at one of the headlines. President Roosevelt had remarked, in view of the Day of Independence, that “our manifest destiny is to confer upon the world the civilization of our race, our form of government, our Anglo-Saxon spirit, by persuasion if possible, by force of arms if necessary.” Idiot, thought Jeremy. Doesn’t he know who has inspired him to talk such dangerous imbecilities? Or does he? Jeremy thought of the events of the Panama Canal not long ago, and Roosevelt’s part in the matter and his smug remark when congratulated: “Some people say I fomented insurrection in Panama. No, I simply lifted my foot!” Jeremy also thought of the offer Roosevelt had made Colombia for the perpetual use by the United States of the territory for the Canal: ten million dollars in cash and an annual rent of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, for three hundred square miles. When Colombia had appeared doubtful Roosevelt was infuriated and exclaimed, “Bandits! Corruptionists, blackmailers—we’ll have to give a lesson to those jackrabbits.” To Secretary of State John Hay he wrote, “Those contemptible little creatures in Bogota!” He had considered sending American troops to occupy the Isthmus.

  But, oddly enough, this had not been necessary. An ambiguous lobbyist named Banau-Varilla entered the very intricate spiral of negotiations and threats. There was also William Nelson Cromwell, who represented the rights of the French company which had begun the work of the Canal and then had abandoned it. Congress had authorized the creation of the Canal through the hot jungles, and had consented to pay the “French Company” forty million dollars for their rights. Cynics might have questioned—and some did, futilely—that the French Company and the United States totally ignored the very real “rights” of the Colombian government, which governed the land, and that neither France nor the United States had absolute rights there at all, except that France had originally leased the land for two hundred and sixty million dollars.

  Then entered the mysterious Banau-Varilla, who, less than a year ago, on October 14, 1903, had met with a number of Panama “secessionists” in the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York, and there had decided that the area of the Canal must be a separate and independent republic, apart from Colombia itself. So the new Republic of Panama was born. The Colombian garrison in Panama had meekly submitted—after considerable bribery on the part of the United States—and had withdrawn, and the new President of Panama had exclaimed joyfully, “President Roosevelt has made good! Long may he live!”

  On November 6, Secretary Hay formally recognized “the free and independent Republic of Panama.” A week later the two countries signed a treaty which “gave” the United States the Canal Zone, and Panama accepted ten million dollars. The J. P. Morgan Company of New York received the forty million dollars originally offered by the United States to the French Company, but who finally got that money was never fully known. It was known, however, that the representative of the French Company, William Nelson Cromwell, the corporation lawyer, received eight hundred thousand dollars.

  There had never been any doubt in Jeremy Porter’s mind that the Canal was necessary, not only for the United States but for international trade also. But the method of taking the Zone was something which aroused his intense suspicions. He was always being accused of being an exigent man, but he despised expediency, especially when it involved arrogance, force, threats, bribery and corruption, and the veritable seizure of land which did not belong to the United States or France. Roosevelt, he once said, was the real bandit, not Colombia. The fact that good relations between the United States and all South America had rapidly declined into sullen enmity on the part of the southern countries had not disturbed Roosevelt in the least. He had only repeated his epithets contemptuously concerning America’s southern neighbors, including “jackrabbits,” and worse.

  On reading the paper this hot Fourth of July, Jeremy tried to be objective. One must not always be on the alert concerning the Scardo Society and the Committee for Foreign Studies; the matter of the Canal was a small thing—wasn’t it? Or did it imply that the “road to empire,” about which Roosevelt had once remarked approvingly, was already embarked upon by America? If so, who was behind it? It was not the plan of the Scardo Society and the Committee for Foreign Studies that America become a world empire all by herself. This Jeremy had learned. Rather those mysterious and invisible and powerful men wanted a world government, for themselves, with absolute despotic regimentation. Was the Canal part of the “conspiracy?” The Canal benefited all nations—Still, Jeremy thought, and rubbed his chin. He had a low opinion of President Roosevelt. It was most probable that he had no part in the conspiracy, for his intelligence was not remarkable, and at the very least the conspirators were men of extraordinary intellect and would not be inclined to include among them a man of Roosevelt’s limited cerebral capacities. He was also a chauvinist, and his patriotic perorations were obviously sincere even to the suspicious ears of Jeremy himself. Roosevelt loved his country with overwhelming pride and passion. No, he was no man for the Society and the Committee.

  But someone had given him orders or suggestions in a ve
ry subtle manner which could not affront his devotion to his country, and his zeal for her. There was the matter of the “liberation” of Cuba, for instance, and the seizure of the Philippines and Hawaii, only recently. Only one thing could have moved him deeply, the insinuation that America must become an imperialistic and dominant empire, even if she retained the form of a republic. The fact that he was most probably not part of the conspiracy did not make him the less dangerous. Foolish if potent heads of state could be easily manipulated through their egotism and even their virtues, whereas wiser and more astute men would resist, for they were cynical. Roosevelt was conspicuously free of cynicism, which made him more of a menace, as all fervent fools were menaces.

  He was up for re-election this November. His opponent was the gentleman Roosevelt was distinctly not, a modest Democrat named Alton B. Parker, who had been known to shudder at the mention of the incumbent President. The Democrats had some very knowledgeable, clever, and virile men among them. Why had the Democratic Party chosen as its candidate for the Presidency a man who could easily be defeated by the exuberant, shouting, howling, and belligerent Roosevelt?

  The average American appeared to adore Roosevelt. Did the Democratic Party, the conservative party in America, truly believe that it was now time to offer the people a less rambunctious man, a more thoughtful and reflective man? If so, they were making a deadly error, for America was still a frontier country, as vital and noisy and active as Roosevelt himself. Surely the Democratic pols knew that. Was it possible that they had been subtly influenced to offer a colorless gentleman as opponent to Roosevelt so that the latter would win the election?

  It had always been Jeremy’s intention to rid Ellen of what he considered her “damned young sentimentality and vulnerability,” while at the same time not inciting cynicism and hardness in her, and that depraved sophistication which marked Kitty and her kind. He had met a few, a very few, ladies of both elegance and sweetness, and a gentle worldliness, and he hoped that Ellen would become one of these. Yet he had a hard suspicion that it was Ellen’s very innocence which made her so dear to him, an innocence which did not distort, however, a certain astuteness and intuition; on rare occasions, she had revealed a native iron steadfastness of character which was not worldliness at all but rose out of her innocence. For she could not endure cruelty, hypocrisy, or treachery of any kind, or any falseness. (Though she seemed curiously blind to these things in her friend Kitty, which mystified Jeremy.) At last he had come to the conclusion that she could not recognize those traits if they were covert and concealed with smiles and amiability, and this dismayed him, for he never himself went unarmed.