Ceremony of the Innocent
But just for an hour, a day, a week, of peace and aloneness, of freedom from fear and dread, of time to read a book by a fire, to listen to music, to go to a theater, of time to walk in woods and by rivers with no pressing duties hurrying me along, and away, from all that is lovely! I would gladly die for that hour, that day, that week, and would ask no heaven and would petition no God for anything more. I would sleep—O God, to sleep!—never waking again, afterwards, and it would be enough. It would be more than enough.
But there was no hope for such as she, nor for countless millions like her, laboring like trolls in the dark mountains to forge and to contrive treasures of gold and gems for those who lived and laughed in the light, and rejoiced in the sun.
There was no bitterness or envy in Ellen, but only sadness that she would never see the splendor of the world in which she had been born, never see new skies or mysterious islands swarming with many-colored dancing birds, never see the ocean or the great white sails of ships, or mountains draped in snow and glaciers, or mighty cities throbbing with voices and music and the thunder of mills. She would never see the stone lace of cathedrals, or listen to the silence in their incensed vaults, or hear a choir, or walk through exotic bazaars. Of all these things she had read—she would never know them, no, not even for an hour.
She fell into fantasy, her one refuge from reality. She thought of Jeremy Porter and her lips were suddenly afire with the memory of his kiss, the enfolding strength of his arms, the pressure of his body against hers, the feel of his chest against her breasts, the stroke of his hand on her hair, his murmuring, his half-heard words of consolation and tenderness, the warmth of his flesh.
The heat at her lips spread through all her body until it tingled and yearned and urged against her poor clothing. She could see and hear and feel him so acutely that the pain in her heart rose to an inner groaning and weeping. The yearning was so fierce that it became almost unbearable. She wanted to get up and run, run into the approaching twilight, run into his arms. She could see him so intensely that it was as if he were there with her and calling to her.
She dimly heard the crunching of gravel under someone’s feet. And when she looked up, her eyes full of tears, and saw that it was Jeremy himself, clad in a heavy wool chinchilla coat and dark trilby hat, she was not surprised. In silence, she immediately got to her feet, and as he came closer to her she held out her hands, then ran to him, and she was in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder. I am dreaming, I am only dreaming, she thought incoherently, and then he was kissing her lips and a deep quiet came to her, a fulfillment, a joy she had never known before, a peace, a safety, a surcease, and the air sang in her ears.
C H A P T E R 8
THEY SAT ON THE BENCH in the cold twilight and Jeremy’s arm was about her waist and her head lay on his shoulder, and she was sheltered and secure.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“I never lost you,” he answered, and smoothed away a small curl that was blowing into her eyes. “I knew you came to this park, on Thursdays. Never mind how I knew, love, my dear love.”
She leaned against him and felt wave after wave of the utmost tranquillity and happiness flowing over her, stilling even the remembrance of pain and wistful longing and despair. She was complete, in a refuge, protected, and, incredible though it was to her, loved. Her diffidence was gone, for the first time in her life, and she talked to Jeremy with delicious confidence, and a naivete he found pathetic, and a trust which was entire. She questioned nothing; it was sufficient for her that he was here, as she had dreamed thousands of times, and though the air of the increasing twilight had become very cold she felt warmth all through her body, and a comfort so profound that it was both physical and spiritual. At moments she was frightened that this, too, was fantasy, but a glance into his face above her, reassuring and tender, made her sigh with rapture.
She had confided to him all the wretchedness of these past four years, all her fantasies of him, and her yearning, all the hopelessness, all the inability she was experiencing to “love and trust.” “I feel so guilty,” she said, “for my rebelliousness, when all this time you loved me and knew where I was, and were waiting for me.” She had told him of the “kindness” of Mrs. Eccles, who had “taken Aunt May and myself in,” and the solicitude of Francis Porter, who came to Wheatfield at least once a month to see if she was faring well. Ellen did not see that Jeremy’s face had darkened at this, though he made no comment. He only looked down into her eyes and her face, as he listened, and he saw that maturity had brought more beauty to her even though there were shadows of sadness around her mouth.
She did not ask about the future, nor did she think of it. She only knew that Jeremy was there, that he was no dream, that he had not really abandoned her, that he had thought of her always. In her timid voice she asked him, over and over, to repeat this, and then she would sigh with delight and solace. But she mourned, again and again, that she had not “loved and trusted” enough.
At this his mouth became wry and he glanced away. Finally he said, “‘Love and trust?’ My darling, there is no one you can really love and trust in this world, not parents, not brothers and sisters, not even husbands or wives, and especially not friends. Haven’t you found out yet that this is an ugly and evil world, the seven-story mountain of hell, where only malice and envy and treachery flourish?”
She drew away from him for a moment, and then he laughed slightly and pulled her to him again. “I’m a cynic,” he said. “And a pessimist, and I got that way from associating with the brotherly-lovers and the optimists.” He did not want her to realize the full hideousness of living; her shyness and innocence were part of the touching qualities which had made her adorable to him from the first. So he said, “Well, never mind. Maybe you can—er—trust in God. You do trust in Him, don’t you, my love?”
Her face became downcast and sorrowful. “Not enough, as I did when I was a child. I have been so rebellious! I hope He forgives me.
“‘Beautiful daughter of Toscar,’” he said.
“Thoreau,” she said, comforted again. “At night, when everybody is asleep, I creep down to Mrs. Eccles’ library, with a candle, and read some of her marvelous books—”
“And the books I sent you every month?”
She was startled. “Your books? I never saw them—Jeremy.”
He was silent for a minute or two, while she looked up into his face anxiously. Then he said, “I see. Yes, I see. The dragon at the gate, warned by another dragon.”
“I don’t understand, Jeremy.”
“Never mind. It’s bad enough that I understand. And what do you read in that library, Ellen?”
“Hobbes. Edmund Burke. Montaigne. Kant. Erasmus. Spinoza. Shakespeare, all Charles Dickens’ books, and Thackeray. History. Adventure. Many other things.”
“It’s very kind of Mrs. Eccles to let you read her books.” He waited for the reply he was sure he would get.
Ellen said, “Oh, she doesn’t know. She and Aunt May say that books weaken a female’s mind. Mrs. Eccles reads only business journals; she is heavily invested, she says.”
“And all that business doesn’t ‘weaken’ her mind, does it?”
Ellen laughed gently. “Mrs. Eccles is a very strong-minded lady.”
“I bet. And very religious, too, no doubt.”
“Yes. She makes Aunt May and me kneel down with her every night for prayers. She is the one who prays aloud.” Ellen felt a thrust of betrayal, and said, very hastily, “She believes absolutely that God guides our every movement.”
“Especially to the bank,” Jeremy said. “I’m sure that Mrs. Eccles believes more in banks than she does in her God, and that is very sagacious of her.”
Ellen felt vaguely uneasy, though she did not entirely comprehend. However, she said, “God brought you to me, Jeremy. He answered my prayers.” There was something like a plea in her beautiful voice, and he could not resist it.
“If it gives you consolatio
n to believe that, love, go on believing.” He drew her tighter to him. “Now that you are eighteen—we have plans to make.”
He felt her pull away from him, and he glanced down at her. “What is wrong, Ellen?”
She looked frightened, then gazed at him beseechingly. “I’m not eighteen.”
He smiled indulgently. “Frankly, I thought you were older. Nineteen? Twenty?”
“No.” He could hardly see her face now in the dark. “I’m only seventeen. You see, I had to work, in Mrs. Porter’s house. We needed the dollar a week, and then I got two meals in that house, and Aunt May told me I should say I was fourteen, and not thirteen, as I was. If we had told the truth the law wouldn’t have let me work full time, over twelve hours a day.”
Now, that’s damned contretemps, thought Jeremy. Her aunt is still her legal guardian. Then he reminded himself that in New York State laws were somewhat different, and that children were permitted to work in factories and in shops as young as the age of five or six, and considered “a female” after puberty mature enough to marry, at her own desire, at any time.
Darkness now filled the little park and a shivering icy wedge of moon rose over the loud crackling of the trees and stars danced through the leaves. In her entrancement and joy Ellen had forgotten the time and her Duty; she was elevated into a world where all was consummation and serene perfection. She did not see the darkness or the moon, or the slowly lighting windows of the houses across from the park, nor did she feel the bitterness of the rising night wind on her face. Jeremy could see her eyes, as sparkling as the stars, even in that duskiness, and he thought that in these four years Ellen had acquired an immaculate charm and a powerful magnetism, of which she was obviously unaware. He did not know if this was because of her innocence or because no one had ever told her, surrounded as she was only by women, and especially by women who found charm and magnetism only in the prettily average. At any rate, mingled with his tenderness, his solicitude for her, his genuine love, his desire to protect and rescue, was a growing lust. He bent and kissed her lips again, in a prolonged encounter, and she opened her mouth and gently returned the kiss. He almost lost his self-control; he touched her breast, then held it, her rich young breast, covered by harsh wool. She did not flinch or draw away; in a natural surrender and still incomprehensible return she pressed her breast more firmly into his palm, and sighed, long and profound, and in absolute trust. It was this trust, this innocence, which made him hastily release her, then pat her cheek in what he hoped was a paternal gesture.
A silence, deep and content, fell between them, while Ellen nestled against him like a lost child who had come home to love and light. He reflected that even while she was telling him of the most dreary moments of these past four years she had shown no resentment, no self-pity, no petulant wonder as to why she had been chosen for this misery. He found this even more pathetic than her recital. She had obviously been assured that this was her ordained station in life and that to protest, except feebly on occasion, when driven, was “wrong” and an affront to God. Had he not been convinced years ago of her intelligence he would have thought her stupid, and his love for her would have been infinitely less.
A church bell stridently struck the hour of seven, and Ellen came out of her encompassing dream of joy with a start and a little cry. “Oh, I forgot! It’s seven, and I should have been home two hours ago! Oh, Mrs. Eccles will be so angry; she will scold Aunt May, and perhaps she will discharge both of us! What shall I do?” She looked at Jeremy with terror and dismay, and smoothed her clothing and resettled her hat. He drew her tightly to him again.
“Dear love, but I came to take you away, and to marry you as soon as possible. Didn’t you understand that?”
Her enlarged eyes, as she stared at him, became stupefied; her mouth fell open. “Marry?” she murmured, faintly, and he shook her with fond impatience.
“Of course. That’s why I came for you today.” He laughed at her stupefaction. “What did you think I came here for? Just to hold you and talk with you? Ellen, haven’t you any sense at all?”
She gripped her hands together, still staring at him with disbelief. “I—I didn’t think, Jeremy. It was enough that you were here.”
“And you thought we’d spend the rest of our lives sitting on this bench in the park, and no doubt be covered eventually by leaves and snow? What a goose you are, Ellen.”
“But you can’t mam me! You are—Jeremy Porter—a rich man and a lawyer, and I am only a servant girl!”
“Well, then, haven’t you heard of King Cophetua and the servant girl, or Cinderella and her prince? Or, in your heavy reading have you neglected the dear old myths?”
“I didn’t think at all,” she whispered, and closed her eyes and squeezed them together to shut out the glory that was suddenly visible to her: a life of bliss, with Jeremy, in his own house, in New York! She suddenly began to cry, deep shaking sobs, and he was alarmed, and then he understood that she was crying because she was overwhelmed with joy and could not bear it. He drew out his handkerchief to wipe her streaming face, and then she convulsively tore off the gloves Francis had sent her, and she spread out her swollen and reddened and burned and callused hands vehemently, to show him, in the gaslight which was now burning yellow in the park, what she believed he must see. “Look at them.” She faltered. “Are these the hands of the wife of Jeremy Porter?”
He took them in his own and kissed them. “I hope they are indeed, you little fool.”
Confused and shaken, but glowing, she pressed her hands to his lips. “I don’t believe any of this. How could I believe that a man like you would want a girl like me?”
“You should look in the mirror occasionally, and hear your own voice, too.”
She was bewildered, and blinked at him. Then she had another thought, and her face became distraught. “But I can’t leave Aunt May here, Jeremy. I can never leave her.”
“Who said you should leave her? She will come with us.” This was a new aspect of the situation he had not as yet considered. “Or if she wants her own place, in a quiet hotel, we will let her have it. God knows, she deserves what little pleasure she can get from life now, with her arthritis and her whole life of suffering.”
Ellen grasped his arm with an impetuous strength and he could see her enraptured face, beautiful again with happiness. “You mean that, Jeremy, you mean that?”
“Certainly I do. And now we’ll go to Mrs. Eccles’ house and break the glad news to your aunt. I am at the Hitchcock Hotel, and you and your aunt will pack as soon as possible, and we will all leave together, for New York, where we will be married.”
She uttered a great cry of delight, and they stood up, and hand in hand hurried towards the house. Ellen, to Jeremy’s half-amused compassion, began to skip like the child she still was murmuring little sounds of ecstasy and anticipation. When he saw her face it was shining brighter than the moon, and he was almost unbearably touched, and he held the hand in his tightly. She glanced at him with total adoration.
Lamps were burning in the lower windows of the house and it was Mrs. Eccles herself who came to the door, her plump cheeks darkly flushed with anger, her eyes jumping with fury. “Ellen, this is shameful!” she said. “You are two hours late—” Then she saw the dark shadow of Jeremy behind the girl, and she was more furious. So, the young sneak had a “follower” after all, and she would plunge this house into scandal, and would have to be sent away, and Mrs. Eccles would then be deprived of the cheapest, and best, cook and housemaid she had ever employed. “Oh,” she gasped. “Who are you, young man?” Her voice was full of contempt and umbrage.
He took off his hat and said, “Mrs. Eccles, I am Jeremy Porter, the cousin of your nephew Francis.”
Her mouth fell open and she stared at him idiotically, and for the first time she noticed his clothing. She stepped back. She recalled what Francis had told her, that this man had tried to seduce Ellen and that Ellen must be guarded from him and all letters confiscated and dest
royed, and that his name—the name of a very bad and licentious man—must never be mentioned. “Best it be forgot by Ellen and May,” Francis had said. “They must be protected from a born womanizer and seducer, who tried to take advantage of a poor girl in my mother’s house.” Mrs. Eccles had thought that this had shown Francis’ wonderful heart and charity, and his concern for “the lower classes,” who all had propensities for vice and indecent behavior and were flighty and full of low passions, and never considered the results of their irresponsible acts.
She had read of Jeremy in the New York newspapers. “A rising young lawyer of considerable brilliance, who will make his mark in the world,” one account had read. So Mrs. Eccles did not know what to do. Jeremy was above her in station; Francis had informed her, with some gentle envy and resentment, that Jeremy was rich in his own right and was certainly becoming richer. He was also a gentleman, and anyone in Wheatfield would have been honored to entertain him. Her training urged her to obsequiousness and hospitality; on the other hand, she was still enraged at Ellen, and the direful thought came to her that today Jeremy had accomplished his obscene purpose. She wanted to strike the girl for this dilemma, for her morals impelled her to upbraid Jeremy, and her realism impelled her to welcome him with gratification and pride, and fawning.