Ceremony of the Innocent (74 page)

“She did. Until Jeremy was murdered.”

“So? I wonder if there is any way of restoring it. It would be of magnificent help.”

Charles mentioned Maude’s suggestion, and the doctor nodded brightly. “Let the good Reverend try, at any rate. It won’t do any harm. It may do some infinite good. If he is tactful.”

“He is an old priest, and tactful, and old priests are very wise, George.” Charles asked, “What of poor Francis?”

“Now, there is another sad case. I have advised him, as delicately as possible, not to try to see her for a long time, until she is discharged from the hospital.”

“But I’m afraid her marriage to him precipitated her condition.”

“Yes. We’ll come to that, in time. She’s not in the least psychotic, though she’s neurotic, which is no wonder, considering her history. I had thought to ask him to leave his wife, but then remembered her children. So I told him that though it might be best, for a long period, for her not to be overtly aware of his presence, in her house, he must guard her. From her children. I had to do some subtle reasoning with him there. He believes her children to be devoted to their mother. He was considerably shocked, and incredulous. So I told him that they might, with the best of intentions, of course, bring other physicians to her in her house, or take her to their offices, and that would cause her to have a perhaps fatal relapse. He is really a very simple soul, in spite of his ideological madness. He is, himself, quite psychotic. Didn’t you know that?”

“I suspected it. All his kind are, as Jeremy used to say.”

“Yes. There is an old saying: ‘Who will guard the city when madmen are the guards?’ Well. There is a very thin line between sanity and insanity, as you know. They often overlap. We are all occasionally mad. But men like Francis Porter never are quite sane. We have one hold on him, fortunately. He loves his wife, and love is the best of guardians.”

Charles was moved, thinking of his wife. Then he said, “Jochan Wilder, whom you know, has persuaded his former wife, Kitty, to leave the United States for a long, long world cruise, or something. She won’t be bothering Ellen any longer, either.”

Dr. Cosgrove was not certain of that. “At any rate, we’ll come to some decision much later. By that time I hope to have Ellen restored, physically, and good health is, in itself, an excellent protection against knaves.”

He sighed. “The more I see of my fellow men, the gloomier I become. We are all the sons of Cain. Murder is our familiar.”

C H A P T E R   40

CHARLES CALLED IN GABRIELLE and Christian Porter, “for a consultation.”

He looked at the two with stern and bitter hatred, and condemnation.

“I don’t need to beat about the bush. You have been warned by your own former attorney, Mr. Wainwright, that if you attempt, again, to injure your mother you will hear from him, and privileged communications’ be damned. Above legal ethics there is the preservation, literally, of the innocent life of another, whose life is in danger from mortal enemies. You two are the mortal enemies of your mother. One more attempt out of either of you—and I will tell your mother everything. I will advise her, even force her, if necessary, to write a new will and leave you nothing. Nothing. That is the only thing you understand, isn’t it? Money.”

Christian did not pretend to be astounded or appalled. He smiled viciously at Charles. “A new will can be overthrown. She is insane.”

“You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you? But she is not in the least insane. True, she has been driven to the edge of insanity—by her children. Her dear and beloved children. Damn you both! Push me too hard, drive me too hard again, and I’ll bring legal action against you. Don’t smile. To save themselves, Lubish and Enright will testify that your mother was never psychotic, and that you both, and others, lied to them about her and misled them. You’ve made affidavits, filled with perjuries. Do you know what the penalty for perjury is, in New York State? Fines, and imprisonment for five years.”

He leaned back and grimly surveyed them. Their smiles were fixed and mechanical, and then they faded.

“I honestly wish you’d try something. I really do. Then I can see that you get what you deserve. By the way, Christian—and what a name was given you!—you are employed by the Rogers Foundation. I know all about them. They don’t want any scandal about their employees. Very discreet, if sinister men. They don’t want any nasty attention drawn to them; you do that, and you will no longer be corresponding secretary, as you call it. And I will follow you all the rest of my life. Believe me, I will.”

He turned to the pert Gabrielle, who was gazing at him with raw hate. “You won’t look so
soignée
, Gaby, after five years’ imprisonment, for perjury. Believe me, I am not just threatening you. In fact, if it weren’t for your poor mother I’d see both of you the hell in prison. For her sake, I am temporarily—refraining from doing what I’d love to do. And, by the way, there is always a grapevine among the medical fraternity. You’ll get no more bought psychiatrists to ‘treat’ your mother and try to institutionalize her. That’s another crime. I think the law thinks that more heinous than perjury itself. It doesn’t look kindly at matricide—and that’s what you attempted—matricide.”

He stood up. “Now get your damned bodies out of my office, before I have you both kicked out. Just remember my warning.”

They left without another word. He felt sick. He had to take a strong drink. He had won. But how long would the victory last? Murderers like Ellen’s children could always find another way. The drink gagged him. “God damn them!” he said aloud.

Dr. Cosgrove entered Ellen’s small hospital suite on this late warm and golden September day, and he was full of cheer. She was sitting in her sitting room, and was dressed in a becoming blue silk robe. She had lost most of her former puffiness of body and face, and her features were tranquil if sad. The blue shine of her eyes was slowly returning, and her hair, brushed and tended, was recovering its former brilliance. There was even some color in her lips, and her hands were once more smooth and white. Years had dropped from her appearance. When she saw Dr. Cosgrove she smiled timidly but trustfully.

“Well, we are beautiful today,” he said. They were now such friends that she looked grateful when he kissed her cheek. He pressed her hand. “Look what I’ve brought you,” he added. “A bottle of Dom Pérignon—champagne. It’s my birthday, and I thought you might like to celebrate with me.” He turned to the smiling nurse who sat nearby, knitting contentedly. “Would you please get us a bucket of ice?” He sat down in a nearby chair and regarded Ellen with pride. She said, “When can my children visit me, George?”

“Oh, in a short time, if you go on improving this way How’s your appetite?”

“Miss Hendricks, my nurse, says it is quite good ” The sadness deepened on her face, and Dr. Cosgrove watched her keenly.

“What’s the matter, Ellen?”

She turned away her face. “I don’t know why I am living; I don’t really want to live. No one needs me, not even my children, for they are adults now. I’m useless. What is there for me to live for any longer?”

“You’ve always lived for someone else, haven’t you? Don’t you know, yet, that our first duty is to ourselves? You, Ellen Porter, are unique and individual; God made you that way. He had a reason for giving you life, and that was not just to serve others. You say no one needs you. God needs you. You can’t live just through others, Ellen dear. You can’t take their reality as yours. You have your own reality. Ellen, this is a beautiful world in spite of the people in it. It is yours to know and enjoy.”

She moved restlessly.

Dr. Cosgrove slapped his knee. “I have a friend just outside the door, waiting. A very good friend. I’d like you to meet him, Ellen.”

She was immediately alarmed, and shrank. “A stranger? Oh, no! Please.”

“You disappoint me, dear. I thought you had got over your silly fears. He’s here to help me, with you, celebrate my birthday. Will you let him come in, for my sake?”

She was silent for a moment or two; her new color faded. Then she said, “Yes, for you, George.” But her lips trembled and she looked at the closed door with trepidation. The doctor went to the door, closed it briefly behind him, then opened it again. Ellen looked at the stranger, and was surprised. He was an old tall man, almost bald, with a kind seamed face, and she recognized him as a priest at once. She visibly relaxed. A clergyman would not threaten her.

“Father Reynolds, this is Mrs. Porter, my patient. She is going to help us celebrate my birthday. In fact, it’s his, too,” he added, much to the priest’s amusement. He raised his white eyebrows and the doctor winked at him. The priest shook Ellen’s hand and he was immediately compassionate, for her fingers were tremulous in his. But she smiled weakly at him, in silence. It had been decided that as Ellen mistrusted Charles Godfrey it would be best if Ellen were introduced to the priest by the doctor, who had her confidence.

The priest sat down and regarded Ellen with earnest if smiling attention. “It is very kind of you, Mrs. Porter, to let George and me—celebrate our—mutual—birthday, with you. There are not many occasions in life when we can truly celebrate. We should enjoy them fully when they occur, shouldn’t we?”

“I—I don’t know—Father. I don’t seem to have much capacity to celebrate anything, any longer.” Her voice, its old nuances almost restored, shook. She added, “No one to celebrate with.”

He looked at her as if astonished. “Why, you have God, my dear! You also have the sun and the moon, the stars and the gardens, the trees and the clouds—all innocent things.”

She smiled faintly. “I never thought of them being innocent. But they are, aren’t they? Yet, they are insensate.”

“And who told you that? They are part of God, just as we are. And as that part, and living, they are aware, with a different awareness than ours. No one need be alone, even if isolated from the human world; the world teems with friends of quite another world, and a beautiful one, unlike the human creation.”

She looked at him with an interest which made Dr. Cosgrove rejoice. “I never thought of that,” she said. She hesitated, while she thought. Her face changed. “I’m thinking of many people I’ve known. I’m beginning to realize that they weren’t all nice, as I thought at first. I know you think that is uncharitable of me, and perhaps it is.”

“An awareness of reality is not uncharitable, Ellen. May I call you Ellen? Thank you. Not to see things clearly and as they are, and that includes people, too, is to be deliberately and foolishly blind, not charitable. It’s also dangerous. I am an old man now; I’ve been a priest for nearly sixty years. I’ve seen a multitude of people and have heard thousands of confessions. I know humanity, Ellen, I know its endless crimes and sins against God and man. I know there are very few really good people in the world, and they are very hard to find. As for the wicked, and their name is legion, we should not judge. We should have compassion, even while we recognize what they truly are. Compassion is not sentimentality or self-deception. We share the human predicament; we all have the capacity for evil. Evil is not strength; it is weakness, a violation against our immortal souls, and against God. Therefore, the strong, the good, should pity these malformed people—and pray for them.”

Ellen pondered. “I always felt so guilty when I had uncharitable thoughts about others—”

“There is no guilt in recognizing the truth. The truth can not only make you free—it can put you on guard and even save you. The recognition of truth does not mean you should condemn, though condemnation is often justified.”

Her voice dropped. “There’s another thing: When I do see people for what they are—I am thinking lately of some I have known—it depresses me and makes me feel—desperate—and frightened. I think that’s what started my—illness.” She made herself smile apologetically. ‘Truth, I think, can also kill you, can’t it?”

He nodded. “Keats was quite wrong when he said that truth and beauty are the same. They are often mutually exclusive. But we should encourage strength in ourselves so that we can face even the worst of realities with fortitude. We can be brave. In fact”—and he smiled at her winningly—“I have presumed to add another Commandment to the Ten: ‘Thou shalt be brave.’ God knows, most of us are not brave at all. It is a virtue few possess, but it can be cultivated just as surely as the other virtues.”

Ellen whispered, “I don’t think I was ever very brave.”

Priest and physician exchanged glances. The priest had already been fully informed of Ellen’s life. The priest said, leaning towards her, his hands clasped between his black-clad and very thin legs, “I’ve never met you before, Ellen, but in some way I know, with absolute conviction, that you are one of the most courageous people I have ever known.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I? Oh, you are wrong—Father! I have always been so afraid—”

“Fear and bravery are not—like truth and beauty—sometimes mutually exclusive. I think only those who have reason to fear can be greatly brave. Your soul, perhaps, recognized that reason even if you did not, consciously, yourself.”

She shook her head slowly, and now there were tears in her eyes. “I was quite brave, when my husband was alive. Now I am not.”

“I’ve heard about your husband, your first husband, Ellen. He was a brave man as well as courageous. Are you disappointing him?”

Her mouth trembled again at his use of the present tense. “I—I don’t know if he—lives—any longer, though in my dreams—” She paused. “How can I be sure he is not—dead—his spirit dead, I mean?”

“You can be sure that he lives, for there is no death. That is a scientific fact, as well as a spiritual verity. Everything changes, but it never dies. The seas come and go, but they are never lost. Fiery stars collapse in on themselves, and are darkened. Then they explode into new fire and new life. Everything is always contemporary, Ellen. It is never the past. For present and past and future are all one and the same thing. You have surely read that love is deathless; it never dies, for it is an immortal force. So you can be absolutely certain that as your husband loved you, he still does. Can you imagine not loving him?”