Ceremony of the Innocent (11 page)

She tried to hide her trembling hands under the white apron over her dress, and her eyes, enlarged now and pleading, moistened with tears of shame and apprehension. What must he think of her, sleeping like this in his garden? He must think her lazy and worthless.

“You have a right to be tired,” he said. “You have a right to see a garden—Ellen.”

She was even more startled and did not know what to say. With a mumbled word of distress she bent her head and sidled very fast around him, then ran to the house like one pursued. He watched her go, frowning. He had seen her fear and he thought, Well, that’s another example of my parents’ solicitude for “the people.” But what a beauty, what a voice, what a face! Wonder it doesn’t all stir Papa up mightily. Jeremy knew all about his father’s “official” visits to Philadelphia, where he allegedly consulted his fellow politicians of the party.

He followed the girl into the house and found her distractedly busy in the kitchen. He pulled out a chair and sat down in it. Ellen glanced at him in astonishment. None of the family ever visited the kitchen except Mrs. Porter, and she never sat down while giving her orders to Mrs. Jardin. But Jeremy sat there at ease, one elbow on the kitchen table, and he was looking at her with an intensity she had never encountered before.

“Where do you come from, Ellen?” he asked. “And there’s not all this hurry, you know. You don’t have to rush around.”

“I—I live here, in Preston, sir,” she said. She felt quite breathless. “I was born in Erie. Aunt May and I have lived here since I was two years old.”

“And how old are you now, Ellen?”

He saw her hesitation. “I’m fourteen, sir.”

He lifted his thick black brows. He had thought her closer to sixteen, or even seventeen. Ellen moved swiftly and deftly about the kitchen, then ran into the dining room. He heard her there and said, “Ellen, never mind about that damned funeral parlor. I’ll have my supper out here, in the kitchen. It’s pleasanter.”

She came to the door, more and more astonished. “The kitchen, sir? Nobody eats out here except me and Mrs. Jardin! And the gardener and handyman.”

“Well, here is where I am going to eat,” he said. “I like company, too. Have you had your supper?”

Ellen could not believe it. She stared for a moment before answering. “No, sir. I will have my supper after the family has theirs, about nine o’clock.” She suddenly paused and lifted her head and a beatific smile raised her lips. The distant band was playing a German lied and the music was infinitely tender yet dolorous. Jeremy watched her as she listened, her hands clasped tightly together. She seemed far away, as if she were listening not only to this music but other music also, which blended together in one incomparable harmony. Jeremy smoked thoughtfully and did not move, for he was enchanted and curiously disturbed and aroused. He could not look away from the girl. She still seemed incredible to him.

She diffidently brought in the plates she had laid in the dining room and placed them on the kitchen table, which she first covered with a lace cloth. Jeremy began to watch her with rising amusement as she carefully arranged the silver. Her face was studious and grave and yet uncertain, as if she both deplored and could not understand his penchant for the kitchen, where the gentry never dined. “Where are your plates, Ellen?” he asked.

She turned to him, utterly shocked. “Mine, sir?”

“Well, yes. You are going to have supper with me, aren’t you?”

She clutched her apron, then lifted her head with pride, and not servility. “That would be most familiar, sir.”

“On whose part?” he asked, smiling. “Mine or yours?”

“Mine,” she answered with firmness.

She stood there and he smoked thoughtfully, surveying her.

“You think I am condescending to you, Ellen?”

This was a new word which Ellen had recently added to her expanding vocabulary and she was pleased to be able to use it now. “Yes,” she answered. “Sir.”

“Well, I am not,” and he was as pleased as she. “I happen to like company when I eat. I’m a gregarious feller. I especially like pretty company.”

Ellen’s face changed. She regarded him doubtfully. Was he mocking her? She rubbed her hands absently on her hips, looking at him with that gravity he found so delightful. “But,” she said at last, “I’m not pretty. Everybody says I’m very homely, even Aunt May who loves me.”

He thought, for an instant, that she was being coquettish, and then saw that she was not and his dark eyes with their polished whites fixed themselves upon her with new incredulity. “You? Homely?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned back in his chair, still gazing at her. “Ellen, have you ever looked in a mirror?”

She sighed. “Often, sir. I don’t look like anybody else, and I don’t look like pretty girls.”

He sat up and said with a gravity of his own, “Ellen, thank God even day for that. You don’t know how lucky you are.” He paused. He was still incredulous. “In most cases, people look almost exactly like other people and behave as other people behave and have the same sterilized thoughts and approved opinions. You can hardly pick one from another. To coin an aphorism, they are as like as peas in a pod, and their souls are cut out from the same pattern with the same scissors. Is that what you want to be like?”

She had grasped most of what he had said and thought it over, then suddenly a dimple flashed in her cheek and she said, “No, that’s not what I want, sir. But if I was like other people, people wouldn’t hate me so.”

“Ah, so that’s it,” he said, and frowned. He narrowed his eves against the smoke of his cigarette. “Do you know why people hate you? You are different, and again you should thank God for that. People are like other animals; the unique is always suspect, always feared and hated, and, if possible, put to death. You have illustrious company, Ellen.”

She pondered this and her red-gold brows drew together in reflection. Then she said, “Mr. Porter, it’s very lonely, not having people like you because you’re not like them, in looks, and other ways.”

“You should congratulate yourself that they don’t like you. Ellen, never try to conform. You’d only be assuming a masquerade, and lower animals are very cunning in their low natures, and will guess it is pathetic mimicry after all, and they will ridicule you. Be yourself, child, be yourself, and let the identical beasts praise each other for never having an original thought and never a controversial opinion. Do you understand me?”

“A little, sir.” She sighed again.

She looked at him swiftly and now her adolescent instincts quickened and her breath was short and she felt a warmth all through her body and a strange kind of comfort and protection. For the first time in her life she was experiencing the pleasure and ease of communication, of being understood, of being capable of conducting a conversation which would not be misinterpreted and would not bring forth sober-faced homilies, and startled reproof. She had been grateful to Francis for his kindness, and had felt a childish affection and devotion to him for that. But this was a new experience for her, and when she again looked at Jeremy the warm flush in her body heightened and she felt close to tears of joy. She wanted to touch Jeremy, to put her hand in his, confidingly and with complete trust, and laugh with him.

“I guess, though,” she murmured, “that we got to have charity for people because they don’t—know.”

“That’s silly, Ellen. Why should we suffer fools gladly? Now, don’t tell me that that’s in the Bible. I know it myself. I was brought up on the Bible. I think it really means we shouldn’t oppress fools or dismiss them with total contempt, for they wear human garb as we wear it. So, in a way, it’s really pity for them, because they are colorblind and deaf.” He had chosen simple words carefully, so that his meaning would be clear to this young girl and not bewilder her. He said, “I’m not that charitable myself. Fools, being in the majority, have their place but it certainly isn’t among the company of the intelligent, or in government. I can be as charitable as all hell if fools don’t intrude upon me and insist on me noticing them.”

He was surprised and pleased at Ellen’s next words. “But, sir, Mr. Francis—I heard him talking to his father one night—he says all men are equal and if some people seem fools it is because they were deprived of an education. There’s really no difference in people, he says. Just advantages.”

“What do you think of that, Ellen?”

She looked dubious and uneasy. “I—I don’t know, sir. I know he is very kind. I think he wants to believe what he says.”

“Ellen, an appearance of kindness is a masquerade, too, unless it is accompanied by acts of kindness and not just words. I know a number of truly kind people, very few though, and they would seem to fools to be irascible—I mean, bad-tempered—and uncouth and brutally spoken. But I know hundreds of ostensibly—I mean, they appear that way—kind people. They use words instead of hard cash and real assistance. Are you following me?”

She gathered the import of what he had said though he had used phrases foreign to her, and she knew, for the first time, that import could be clearer than language. Unconsciously, she drew so close to him that he could have put his hand on her virginal body, and he knew that this was no lure, no invitation. It was as if she had come near to a friend.

“But, sir, Mr. Francis is real kind.”

He smiled satirically. “No doubt he seems that way, and no doubt he thinks he means it. It gives him such a comfortable feeling of high-mindedness. That’s very precious to the brotherly-lovers. Hypocrites are often deceived by their own hypocrisy. Now, don’t scowl. I see you know what I mean by hypocrites. I’m not saying that your Mr. Francis is a liar; he has sterling qualities, which he would admit himself, and I think, sometimes, that he is an innocent. Like you, Ellen.” Jeremy smiled. “Well, never mind. That ham looks delicious and I believe I am hungry. But I won’t eat anything unless you do, too, and at this table with me.”

“Aunt May, and Mrs. Porter and Mrs. Jardin, would say I am presuming, sir.” She smiled at him uncertainly.

“Well, presume, my dear. I invite your presumption.”

It came to her that she loved his voice, strong and even loud and touched with satire. The conversation had exhilarated her, though she could not have explained it. It was as if she had been starving all her life and had been given sustenance. He watched her as she neatly sliced the ham and arranged the salad on the table. He had never seen more exquisite hands or more graceful gestures. He had not been mistaken; the girl had intellect. When something moved in his loins he said to himself, “Now, now. She is only a child.” He knew very well that men who approached children were not regarded with tolerance by the law, and he laughed at himself. Yet, she was far more intelligent and perceptive than the young lady from Scranton, who had deceived him that she had some brains. He was confirmed in his opinion that intellect was not the result of education or “advantages.” It was native. All the education and “advantages” in the world could not transform folly into wisdom. The old aphorisms, which he usually scorned, were right in this instance: “You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

He recalled what Aristotle had said: “Not everything that walks in the guise of a man is human.” Ellen sliced bread and put butter on the table, and cups. The stove crackled and the coffee was bubbling. Jeremy watched the girl with an acuteness he had not known before, and then he was shaken by a new sensation. For the first time he felt a profound tenderness for a female, a gentleness, a cherishing, a longing to protect. This upset him. He confused his sensations with the stirring in his loins.

Ellen was trembling inwardly and yet she felt at peace, surrounded by understanding, by true kindness and comradeship. Joy seized her. Again she wanted to touch Jeremy and put her head on his shoulder, and she found nothing “improper” in this, as Aunt May would have said. There was a desire to surrender in her, to give herself wholly, to embrace, to be quiet and at rest. When she looked shyly at Jeremy again her smile was so brilliant that he was taken aback, and he could only watch her then in silence. He had never encountered absolute trustfulness before. The atmosphere in the kitchen became charged, even to Ellen. She wanted to cry out, to sing, even to dance.

Jeremy thought, There is breeding there, and good blood, and that can’t be eradicated. I wonder what her background is. She certainly isn’t common or ordinary. A face like that never came from the gutter; a mind like that isn’t plebeian. He vaguely recalled what he had been taught when he was a helpless child confronted with the Bible every Sunday. What had Christ said? That beggars frequently rode on horseback while princes walked in the dust. Christ had been no egalitarian, and that was the reason, probably, why the new brotherly-lovers hated Him and sought to either distort His meanings or contemptuously refute them, or even, at the worst, denigrate them, and with hatred. However, to Jeremy, Christ was only as much a paradigm as He was to Francis, and was useful in the conduct of philosophical conversation.

Jeremy’s wandering eye—he tried not to focus too intently on Ellen—saw a tattered book near the sink and he reached over and took it idly. Then he exclaimed, “Thoreau! Whose book is this?”

“It’s mine, sir,” said Ellen, and she was anxious, feeling that new twinge of guilt. But Jeremy was grinning at her, his mouth half open, as if he were seeing something impossible and humorous. “Good God,” he said. “You and Thoreau. Now, don’t look so miserable. Tell me, dear, do you understand what he writes?”

“Some, sir.” Ellen wrung her hands in her apron. She said quickly, “An old lady, Mrs. Schwartz, gave it to me. Aunt May and other people say she is a witch, but she isn’t.” She paused. “I like to read, though I don’t have much time.”

Jeremy was still disbelieving. “I thought
Elsie Dinsmore
would be more to the liking of one your age,” he said.

“I don’t think I ever read any of her books,” Ellen replied. She poured coffee for Jeremy. She could not understand the laughing brightness of his eyes, his wide smile.

“It’s a book,
Elsie Dinsmore
, Ellen. All the nice little girls read it. Never mind. So a witch gave it to you, did she? I can believe that!”