Ceremony of the Innocent (60 page)

“The sweet smell of money,” Jeremy Porter had once said, “has driven millions of good men to the most appalling heights of treachery, madness, betrayal, and greed. It has turned potential saints into devils, and has more crucifixions in its name than have ever been recorded.”

“I wish,” said Christian Porter to his sister in October 1918, “that this war would go on for years and years. Such fun. I wish I were old enough to enlist.”

Gabrielle laughed derisively. “Oh, yes, for the gay uniform and the leather leggings and the cane and the salutes from the ranks, and the new wristwatches for men—for men!—and all the bands and the dancing and the heroism. You’re not of the stuff of heroes, Christian. You just like the stage.”

“You’re a brat,” said Christian, laughing himself. “A thirteen-year-old brat. I could, though, run away and enlist and say I was eighteen instead of fifteen.”

Ellen had opened her house on Long Island for wounded soldiers. Though Francis primly approved he did not honestly like it. One knew what these raw men would do to a fine house, when it was used as a convalescent home, and that lowered property values. Ellen so brought herself out of her apathy that she spent almost all summer in her house, rolling bandages, wearing a gray-and-white uniform, and singing and playing a piano for the suffering young men. Francis had assured her that this was exemplary. Her children, however, no matter her gentle reproaches, would not join her at the house, whose present inhabitants they forthrightly loathed. They preferred the city and their friends and the excitement of the war days.

“They’re old enough to be by themselves,” Francis would say. “You have a good housekeeper there, and even that old Cuthbert, who is becoming very useless, I must say. An ancient pensioner; you should really discharge him, Ellen. Didn’t Jeremy leave him fifteen thousand dollars? Yes, and he has always been paid large wages. No doubt he is financially independent by now.”

“Jeremy would want him to stay with the family the rest of his life, Francis.” Ellen spoke with her usual timidity, but there was that disagreeable echo of iron under her words, an iron which Francis both mistrusted and resented. Who was Ellen, by birth or breeding, to dare assert herself against his better judgment? It was insolence. He had, however prevailed on her a year ago to discharge Miss Evans, who had promptly enlisted as a nurse in the Army and had gone overseas with the troops. She wrote quite regularly to Ellen, and was pleased to hear that her patient had roused herself from her listlessness and had joined “in the war effort,” a new phrase called from English phraseology. (America had become excessively loving towards England by this time. No longer were Fourth of July celebrations filled with tauntings and fervid denunciations.)

Francis had entered the primaries in his campaign to become a United States Senator, and had been defeated. However, he had been re-elected Congressman by a significantly lower majority than in his last campaign, and this had enraged him. Moreover, the mood of the country was changing, and this was also infuriating. There had been a vast decrease in elan and elation as the war had progressed, and especially since the Draft Act had been amended on August 31, 1918, to lower the draft age to eighteen. The war fever considerably cooled when the wounded returned, and the death lists grew longer and longer. There was a new sullen feeling in the national air, and a new anxiety since Russia had fallen to the Bolsheviks and had withdrawn from the war. People, and the newspapers, spoke apprehensively about the Communists. Sometimes there were even blacker and larger headlines in the papers pertaining to Russia than news of the Front. Confused indignation was expressed in behalf of the Czar and his family. Articles began to be printed in national magazines concerning the annihilation of tens of thousands of Russians who opposed the new regime, of peasants hideously slaughtered on their farms and in the little villages, of the mad murder of the middle class and the confiscation of their property.

“If it were not for the Spanish flu decimating this country, and taking up some of the public’s attention, we’d be in difficulties,” said Francis’ friends. “We must pursue our work with deeper attention and dedication. We have come a long way. It is now time to end this war and pursue our objective ruthlessly.”

Consequently, the war did end, and with suddenness, on November 11, 1918, to the innocent jubilation of America.

It was on that day of excitement and delirious relief that Francis proposed marriage to Ellen. He had, quite inadvertently, been forced into this (despite his suspicion that Ellen would refuse him) by Kitty Wilder herself.

A month before, Kitty had received her divorce from her husband, Jochan, naming his kind mistress as corespondent. (Jochan promptly married his lady the next day, in spite of some unkind remarks from the judge who had granted the divorce to Kitty.) Kitty had received a large divorce settlement, which, combined with her own fortune and her canny investments in munitions, was very comforting to her. The time had come for her to assault the “virginal” battlements of Francis’ bachelorhood. She was convinced not only that he had much affection for her as an ally and a clever woman who could advance him, but that he was weak and vulnerable. Moreover, she had long ago guessed that he loved money, and she had a quantity of it, and she, very artfully, had mentioned this on numerous occasions to him, and he had shown a sincere and gratifying interest. He had advised her on investments and she had expressed her gratitude effusively and with admiration for his astuteness. They saw each other regularly when he came to New York. At his earnest request she had supervised the household in the city when Ellen was away on Long Island, and she had followed all his instructions, with overt docility, which pleased him.

She was more sprightly than in earlier years, in spite of her age, though the effort frequently exhausted her. No gray appeared in her hair; it was expertly dyed. She was increasingly chic and fashionable, if quite gaunt by now. Her big teeth flashed constantly. She had spoken eloquently at bond rallies, in the company of Congressman Porter. She knew that Francis was admiring her more and more, especially since she informed him that his political prospects “were only just revealing themselves. There is nothing you cannot accomplish, dear Francis.” That he regarded her only as an audience, and a useful person, and not as a woman, she did not believe for an instant. (She had been very active in the work for Votes for Women, to Francis’ approval. She did not suspect that under that approval lay a subconscious aversion to women, and a cold dislike for them. Nor could she guess that there were certain episodes in his life with his male masters which would have horrified her, and that the only woman he had ever desired was Ellen Porter.)

Two days before the Armistice Francis had occasion to return to New York and Kitty invited him to dinner in the brownstone house which was now hers alone. She had discovered that Francis did not care for gourmet food, nor did he particularly like meat any longer. In fact, he was almost a vegetarian except for an occasional breakfast of bacon and eggs. “Plain food,” he would say severely, “wholesome food, is the best. There is no room in America any longer for Diamond Jim Bradys and their ilk, nor for Lillian Russells. Profligacy!” Kitty would laugh in herself while she eagerly agreed with him, and forced her outraged cook to prepare dinners of stewed or boiled vegetables laced sparingly with butter and cream, and rice puddings, and meatless soups. Francis would deign to partake—as he called it—of “a little sip of light wine, the sweet variety.” He constantly accused Americans of “eating entirely too much. The money could be used for the Poor.” Kitty had no illusions about the man she was determined to marry.

The dinner was, as usual, horrendous, but Kitty pretended to enjoy it while she listened attentively to Francis’ pejorative remarks against “America’s threatened intervention in Russia, at a time when the Russian people have finally, after centuries of oppression, freed themselves from tyranny.” He also denounced the “bourgeois mentality in the United States.” Kitty sipped at the detestable wine and nodded gravely. Then came a pause in the conversation. She leaned towards Francis and said, with a serious face, “I never asked you before, dear Francis, but why did such a personable, handsome, and suitable man like yourself never marry?”

He preened, then studied his pudding, which was filled with raisins. “Frankly, Kitty, I have always been so busy, working for my country—”

“I know, I know,” she murmured with sympathy. “But you must think of yourself, too. Self-sacrifice is commendable—but a man must live also.”

Francis suddenly thought of Ellen and his long lean face colored and Kitty saw this with delight. He avoided her eyes. “Kitty, I have been considering marriage for some time. For several years, in fact.”

She regarded him with elation and cocked her head coquettishly. “And who, may I inquire, is the fortunate lady?” Her eyes gleamed on him. He suddenly looked at her, and saw her drily dark and ravaged little face, the deep lines about her smiling mouth, her coy expression, her tilted head, her wet exposed teeth, and he understood at once and was immediately horrified and filled with revulsion. His cheeks became stained with scarlet. He pushed aside his pudding. He wanted to flee. Good God, he thought. What made her think for a moment that I would consider her, or any other woman, except Ellen? I never gave her any encouragement. I never noticed before how really ugly she is; a black twig, in spite of her stylish clothes and her jewels. If she were to touch me now I would scream!

He said in a tight, half-choked voice, “I don’t know how fortunate the lady would be—that is, if I have even considered any particular woman, which I have—” He paused, abruptly. This woman had been his ally, had obeyed his every suggestion regarding Ellen and her children. She had much influence over Ellen, he had observed, and over Christian and Gabrielle She would make a formidable enemy; he was quite aware of her vindictive and cruel nature. So, he considered, his thoughts flying confusedly but warily. He coughed, as she waited and leaned towards him, her huge teeth glittering under the electric chandelier. He tried to smile, shyly.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, “how fortunate the lady would be.”

“No particular lady?” she asked with archness.

He began to sweat lightly. He knew he could no longer delay in approaching Ellen, no matter his dread that she would refuse him. So he smiled again. “You will be the first to know, Kitty, the very first. I promise you that—in the eventuality—”

What a stick, she thought. But a rich stick, and a powerful one. “You are too modest,” she said. “Any woman would be honored by your proposal.”

Though he was a politician he had never learned the art of dissembling. He was not capable of deception, except as concerned himself, nor had he ever been consciously a hypocrite. He believed his own words; he would have perished for his convictions of his superiority, and what was best for the People. He was too much of a fanatic, too convinced of his own truth, to lie or deliberately deceive. In that lay his terribleness and his danger to his country.

“You are too kind, Kitty,” he muttered, and the scarlet stain on his cheeks deepened. Her elation grew; she saw how he tried to avoid looking directly at her. He was sweating quite visibly now. “Kith,” he said again, “I give you my word: You will be the very first to know.”

She studied him, the two sharp lines between her eyes drawing together. “I should be very hurt, dear Francis, if you did not tell meat once. You know how fond I am of you; you have no better friend.”

She burst into a volley of gay forced laughter, high and shrill. “A June wedding, perhaps?”

“Oh, no,” he said with sudden vehemence, “much sooner, I hope—if the lady is willing. But she may not be willing.”

Ah, Kitty thought, relieved. He just needs a little encouragement, a little nudge. “Ask her!” she cried.

“I will, I will,” he answered. He was more frightened than he had ever been before in his life. He began to tremble, and Kitty almost hugged herself.

“When will you ask her, you naughty boy?”

“In a day or two—when I have the courage.”

“There is no time like the present.”

In this he fervently agreed with her. He compelled himself to meet her eyes as she said, “Do I know the lady?”

“Oh, very well, very well indeed! None knows her better than you, Kitty, none better.”

There’s no one else, she said to herself. He never has courted a woman in his life, neither here nor in Washington. I’d know immediately. He drew out his watch and his hand shook slightly. “You must excuse me, Kitty. I—I have some telegrams to send tonight, some speech I must finish.”

She saw his intense nervousness and lightly bounded to her feet. She led him to the hall and assisted him with his coat. He repressed a shudder when she touched him, flirtingly, on the arm and peered up into his face. He felt profaned by her proximity. He found himself breathing with difficulty. A sooty November rain was falling and the wind was keen and nimble. He plunged into the night without another word. Kitty watched him go, exultant. I have him, she thought. But not in my bed, if I can help it. I doubt, though, that I’d encounter that contretemps.

Driven by his fear of Kitty Wilder, Francis visited Ellen unexpectedly on Armistice night, while New York frolicked and danced deliriously in the streets and sang, “It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go—,” and “Over there, over there—!” and, with open tears, “Smile the while you bid me sad adieu, when the clouds roll by I’ll come to you—” and various other popular war songs. Impromptu brass bands appeared out of nowhere. Confetti blew in blizzards. Strangers embraced, kissed each other, laughed in each other’s eyes. Every street and alley echoed with songs, shouts, bursts of hysterical mirth, and hurrying feet. Soldiers were hugged, swirled into dancing. Streetcars clanged in happy chorus, automobiles roared, shopwindows lighted up, children yelled. Newspapers were snatched from clamoring newsboys who caught a rain of coins thrown exuberantly into the air. Saloons glared with electric light and their doors swung and the bars were crowded to the doors. Throngs filled the sidewalks, overflowed before traffic. Restaurants almost burst with endless lines of celebrants. Police, on horseback, could not restrain the people and they did not try overmuch, though they blew their whistles valiantly.