Ceremony of the Innocent (79 page)

“Cheer up,” said Gabrielle as they entered Christian’s fine new Packard, later. “I am beginning to see what darling Aunt Kitty has in mind. It’s very clever, indeed. And our troubles will end.”

On November 9, Charles Godfrey, in Boston, said to Maude, “I have a feeling, my love, that we should go back to New York tomorrow.”

“You and your Irish ‘feelings’!” said Maude, kissing him. “You are all fey, you Irish. I don’t know why I listen to you so much, but I do. Very well. But tell me about your ‘feelings.’”

“I don’t know, frankly. But I am uneasy; I feel it is urgent that we go back. It’s not the Market, thank God. I never bought on much margin, anyway. Perhaps it’s the air of general foreboding—or something. I’m also thinking of Ellen Porter.”

“But she is now so well, Dr. Cosgrove and Father Reynolds told us.”

Charles nodded. “So they say. But I know Ellen. Perhaps better than they do. And there are those damned children of hers—I can never forget what they tried to do to her.”

Maude knew that her husband still loved Ellen with the wistful and poetic love he had had for her from the beginning. But Maude was not jealous. Every man was entitled to his romantic devotion to the dream of fair women. Maude was contented to be his competent and sensible wife. A man without poetry in his soul was poor, indeed, even if that poetry concerned another woman. In fact, the more inaccessible the woman was, the more she was beautifully enhanced for him. It gave him an air of noble pathos, and chivalrous renunciation.

“Ellen’s children wouldn’t dare try to injure her again,” said Maude. “They are too afraid of you.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Charles. “But perfect greed casteth out fear, to paraphrase the Bible.”

In the past days, Ellen had actually taken the shy initiative with regard to the few friends she had had before she married Francis. They were astonished to hear from her; they had almost forgotten that she existed. But they were genuinely pleased to receive her calls, and to accept her invitation to tea on November 11. She felt quite elated at her own boldness, and sang softly to herself in her warm and comfortable house. She had let Miss Hendricks go a few days before, with regret. “Just you call me, Mrs. Porter, anytime you need me,” Miss Hendricks said on the eve of her departure. “I’ll come at once.” She looked fondly at Ellen, with her sunny youthfulness and vivid complexion, and felt a personal triumph.

Ellen, just lately, had returned to her piano and admitted ruefully to herself that she needed a great many more lessons to restore her former skill. She called the teacher she had had at one time and was joyful that he would teach her again, if only once a week. He was also astounded to hear from her. “I have been ill,” she said. “But now I want the happiness of music again. My husband would like that.”

Her only regret was that her children did not appreciate the sort of music which entranced her. But then, they were young. They preferred “modern music,” which, to Ellen, was only discord—all those blazing trumpets and those alleged singers they called “crooners,” and the frantic beat. They were part of a world completely distasteful to Ellen, the world of stockbrokers and “company men,” and gangsters and vulgar nightclubs, and Prohibition and avid and suspect women and “gang” murders, and shouting “movies” and very short skirts and shameless public scandal and activities. I must be getting old, she thought to herself with a smile. I suppose I should, like my children, find this all very exciting. I find it very shoddy and cheap and without substance or beauty. Tawdry and synthetic. Where in the world did all these strange people come from, to fill the air with their howlings and the streets with their sharp painted faces, and their rudeness? No longer was life rich and sedate and civilized. The Vandals had arrived. Would the true America ever be restored again, the America of principle and decency and decorum, the America of authentic values? The question itself was depressing. Ellen was determined never to be depressed again, and so she put aside the question. The world went on its merry way, for good and evil, and no one could halt it. One had to—adjust? As Dr. Cosgrove had called it.

But adjust to paltriness, to inanity, to the inferior and third-rate? Was it “progress” to accept the trashy and ugly and vile? Grace had vanished from the world; could it ever be restored? Ellen put this thought aside also. It was not the world she had made; this world had only contempt for the past and all its traditions.

The world of her youth, Ellen reflected, had not been a gentle world. It had been harsh and demanding. But it had also been strong. The competent and the able had been rewarded, justly. A man with bravery and courage and intelligence had always been able to succeed to the extent of his native capacity; he had always been able to deliver himself from adversity’. If he suffered in the process it was an enabling suffering. People had had pride, even the humblest.

She was surprised, that afternoon, to receive a call from Maude Godfrey, and she became shy and abashed again. She stammered, “I do want to thank you, Maude, for your kindness to me. I just found out about it. You must have thought me very ungrateful.”

“No,” said Maude. “You could never be ungrateful, Ellen. It is not in your nature. I am glad you were pleased.”

“And you will come to my tea at four o’clock on November 11?”

“Of course,” said Maude with real pleasure. She paused. “Charles has been worried about you, that is why we returned earlier than we had expected.”

“Oh, Charles is always worrying,” said Ellen with a new lightness. “I am so splendid now, so happy. I can’t be grateful enough to Charles for calling Dr. Cosgrove for me.”

“You see,” said Maude to Charles that night. “You were, thankfully enough, unduly worried about Ellen. I haven’t heard her speak as she did today for many, many years.”

Charles thought for a moment or two, and then he said, “I don’t know why, but I am still uneasy about her. She is too vulnerable.”

And I am so very competent, thought Maude, with amused annoyance.

When Charles spoke to George Cosgrove about Ellen, the latter said, “She is in a state of euphoria, such as one sees in a person who was almost moribund and then is restored to health. Life takes on a color never before seen. There is a light on everything, a surprised joy in existence, a discovery. When all this subsides somewhat in Ellen she will be completely mature, in a large way invincible, and will lead a reasonably happy life for many years, with contentment and balance. She will be able to resist almost any misfortune. And, I hope, she will have forgotten that nonsense of ‘loving and trusting’ anyone, save God.”

“You sound as cynical as a lawyer, George.”

“Well, I’ve heard enough in my professional career, God knows, to make me wonder, sometimes, why we aren’t all swept from the face of the innocent earth. And, by the way, I am hoping to rid Ellen of her innocence, which has been her greatest enemy. I even hope to make her more sophisticated, tinged with a little skeptical humor. Too much to hope?”

“Well, as that German philosopher—Fichte?—said, we are born what we are and nothing can change it.”

“We are also born with a measure of self-respect and individualism, too, Charles, and a hearty and healthy streak of selfishness. We ought to cultivate these in the young, or we’ll all end up, in America especially, slobbering like infants and whimpering for our nice warm bottles of milk—at someone else’s expense.”

Charles said, “To change Ellen, or to bring out good latent qualities, will make her a different person, George. I wonder—”

“I hope it does! She has been a victim of those she loved and trusted too long.” The doctor laughed. “When she does a little gentle victimization herself, I will know she is cured!”

C H A P T E R   44

KITTY, OF COURSE, DID NOT know that the Godfreys had returned to New York before they were expected. But she did know that Francis would return this November night of the tenth, from Washington. There should be no interference with her plans and the plans of Ellen’s children. She had enlightened them as to her “idea” a day or two before. “Be sure it will succeed,” she said to Christian, who was somewhat doubtful. “Your enemies are out of town, your mother is alone. We must act at once—that is, if it is still your intention.”

“We don’t have any other choice,” said Gabrielle. “It’s now or never. Tomorrow may be too late. Look what the Market did today! Even my stockbrokers are gloomy, and when a stockbroker is gloomy it is time to—what is the old sea phrase—trim your sails.”

Gabrielle called her mother, speaking in a soft and loving voice. “Mama, are you busy this afternoon? Christian and I, and Kitty, would like to have a drink—I mean tea—with you at four o’clock. That is, if it is convenient.” She winked at her brother.

Ellen was overjoyed. “Do come! What a dismal day it has been, so dark and dull and windy, with some snow swirling. I was wondering what I would do with myself today, except reading. I am getting so restless, Gabrielle! It seems I want to go out to the theaters or museums or art galleries all the time! I have been thinking of taking dancing lessons, so I can keep up with all you young people. Isn’t that disgraceful of me?”

“Very.” Gabrielle’s voice was more than ironic. She hung up the telephone and turned to her brother. “Yes, we must act now. The old fool is even thinking of taking modern dancing lessons! What next? A divorce from Francis, and probably a new husband. It wouldn’t surprise me. Childish, just about senile. Call your lawyers, Chris, and explain, and ask them to meet us outside of dear old Mom’s house at four. Imperative.”

“I am thinking of Charles Godfrey,” said Christian.

“What can he do, when it’s all settled? Signed, sealed, and delivered. The only way he can overthrow our plans or change them is to bring out the fact that Mama is incompetent and didn’t know what she was doing. That would prove our case, don’t you see?”

Elated at the thought of her beloved children’s visit, Ellen dressed in a new frock, silvery blue velvet. She put on her sapphire necklace, earrings, ring, and bracelet—Jeremy’s last gift to her. She considered her hair. The streaks of gray were softened now, and not so harsh; the red strands were glistening with life. She considered cutting her hair short, and wondered if Jeremy would like it. She rolled up the mass in a reasonable resemblance of a “bob.” It was very becoming.

She must ask Gabrielle, and Kitty, about it this afternoon. After all, she was not yet forty-four, and that was no great age any longer. Poor Aunt May, it was true, was an old woman then, worn thin by living and hunger and exhaustion. Ellen paused. She thought of May with sorrow and tenderness, but without the old destroying guilt. As Dr. Cosgrove had told her, she had done everything possible for a sick and suffering woman, and with love, and if that aunt had misunderstood, and had endlessly complained, one must remember that illness frequently had an evil effect on anyone’s disposition. Ellen, he had said, must only keep in mind that her aunt had loved her and had worked for her, and in return she had given her aunt all of which she was capable. No one could be expected to do more.

“False guilt is a destroyer,” he had told Ellen. “It is also a sort of masochism, a self-flagellation—a—a—” He had hesitated a moment, then had smiled widely at Ellen. “I will use a psychiatric term. It is often sexual in origin. A voluptuous self-indulgence. A kind of masturbation.”

Ellen had blushed, then she had laughed, shaking her head.

“I have had cases,” said the doctor, “where patients had even hired whippers to ‘punish’ them for sins they imagined they had committed. And then it was resolved in an orgasm, and the patients felt much better.”

“Oh, Dr. Cosgrove!” But Ellen was laughing again. “Are you applying that to me?”

“Well, not exactly. But insistence on self-guilt is often only hidden sexual desire. Especially if there is no reason for guilt at all. It is a very strange thing, but the truly guilty never experience guilt. They are certain they are righteous, or were forced to do what they did, or were justified. That is why the wicked hate their victims; they must have a reason for their wickedness. A nice reason.”

“I have certainly acquired a new way of looking at people,” said Ellen. “I am not sure I like it, but at least it is real.” Dr. Cosgrove was satisfied.

“Our Lord,” said Dr. Cosgrove, “did not demand that we go unarmed in this dangerous world. In fact, St. Peter, and others, wore swords.”

Thinking of all this, and smiling, and scented with jasmine, Ellen went singing down the stairs to the library to wait for her children and Kitty. She sat at her piano and played a little Debussy, the notes lifting and shining in the air like golden bubbles. She could see them dancing in the light of the fire, and tinkling like chimes. At four, her housekeeper, a competent and bustling woman, came to the door and announced Ellen’s visitors, and she flew from the piano stool like a young girl full of anticipation. But she was surprised to see two strange men with her children, two small gray men with foxlike and intelligent faces and hard searching eyes.

Silently, she let them in. Kitty was there also, wrapped in sable. Ellen noticed, with sudden dismay, that her children looked very grave, even grim, and Gabrielle’s eyes appeared to have been recently weeping. As for Kitty, she spoke to Ellen in a subdued voice, asking her solicitously if she were “quite well.” “You look so tired, dear, and so pale. Didn’t you sleep last night?” She kissed Ellen’s cheek as one kisses the cheek of an invalid.

Ellen stammered, “I feel very well.” She looked at the strange men. “Mama,” said Christian, “my lawyers, Mr. Witcome and Mr. Spander. Gentlemen, my mother, Mrs. Porter, who is just recovering—we hope—from a prolonged illness. We must make it brief. She is still in very precarious health.”

The gentlemen bowed to Ellen with a lugubrious air and spoke softly and distinctly, like those who are careful not to disturb the fragility of a seriously ill person. Ellen became confused and distrait. “Please come into the library,” she said. She led the way and glanced back over her shoulder at the strangers. “Lawyers, Christian? But why? Is something wrong?”