Ceremony of the Innocent

by Taylor Caldwell

  That night Mrs. Eccles sent her nephew Francis a discreet telegram.

  C H A P T E R 9

  JEREMY HAD BEEN ABLE TO procure a very large, warm, and luxurious stateroom on the train which left Wheatfield two days later, and which then would proceed to Pittsburgh and Philadelphia and after that to New York. May, hobbling on two canes, was tenderly assisted by both Ellen and Mrs. Eccles, who was as bright as a bird, and as full of euphoric chatter. When May saw the stateroom she stood on the threshold and stared, her eyes gazing suspiciously at the couches, the chairs and the tables and the big windows draped with damask, and at the carpets and mirrors. She could not believe it; she gulped and blinked. She had the air of one who had been deeply deceived and tricked by some malignant magician, and that at any moment she would be greeted by raucous and derisive laughter for her gullibility. She looked helplessly at Mrs. Eccles, who said vivaciously, “Isn’t it beautiful? And all for us. And very expensive, too.”

  May mumbled in distress, half turning, “It’s too—rich. Not for Ellen and me, Mrs. Eccles. We will go in the coach.”

  Mrs. Eccles was all archness. “And leave me alone with that naughty, adorable, delightful Jeremy Porter!” She looked at May’s derelict clothing, her wan and shriveled face, her bent and trembling body, thin and emaciated, and she felt a new wonder, a new contempt, and even a little anger that such as this, and her niece, could now dare enter this magnificence. Dear Jeremy was surely out of his mind!

  Therefore, in her resentful exasperation, she pushed May quite roughly into the stateroom and forced her to sit in one of the large soft chairs. She glanced over her shoulder at Ellen and said with her old impatience, “Ellen, for goodness’ sake, stop staring around and help your aunt take off her hat and coat and make her comfortable. We must be settled before Jeremy has taken care of the luggage, and not look like overwhelmed gawks who had never seen anything so splendid before.”

  Ellen said, “Well, we haven’t. It’s all new to Aunt May and me. Perhaps it would be best if we were in the coach.”

  “You—Jeremy Porter’s fiancee—in the coach? How absurd you are, Ellen. Do hurry, stop fumbling.” Mrs. Eccles was no sentimentalist. She did not believe in Cinderella and the prince, or, if she had ever thought of it, she had considered the prince quite mad. Her resentment grew, for all of her bright smiles. Ah, if only she had had a pretty daughter, demure and accomplished, to give to Jeremy! Yes, he must be insane—wanting to marry this homely girl who had no graces and no education, and had such chapped red hands and chipped nails. Look at her figure, now that she had discarded her coat: Not at all stylish, not at all enticing. That big bust, now, and that long thin waist and the narrow hips, and those long, long legs!

  Hideous. Her skin was entirely too white, except for that color on her cheeks and lips which I dearly believe, in spite of everything, is some sort of paint that won’t rub off, though I’ve tried it a few times.

  Ellen did not really wish to go into the coach with its cold fetidness and straw-covered floor and rattan benches. She only felt compassion for her trembling aunt as she affectionately removed the mildewed hat and darned black coat and cheap black cotton gloves. She was filled with pity and love; she smiled down into May’s pleading eyes. She’s very frightened, and not reconciled, thought Ellen, and she thinks this is all wrong and that we are out of place, and she suspects and fears Jeremy and can’t believe it, even now, in spite of two days of arguments and pleading and reasoning. She thinks it is some sort of wicked deceit, that we will be abandoned, all alone, in New York, with our meager savings in our purses and nowhere to go. She can’t believe that Jeremy actually wants to marry me.

  Ellen thought of how her aunt had implored her and had wept, crying that she did not believe it, could not believe it, and had begged Ellen to “come to your senses and behave yourself and try to see that this is impossible, it isn’t for our kind, and you should have more humility. We have a good home here with Mrs. Eccles, who has been so wonderful to us and who took us in, and this is ingratitude, Ellen, pure ingratitude, to desert her. We are stepping out of our class.”

  Mrs. Eccles, who had heard this in May’s bedroom, heartily agreed with her, and hoped that the poor woman could convince her niece to remain in Wheatfield. She hoped that May would refuse to go to New York, and May did that a moment later. How had that ungrateful girl responded? She had said in a newly resolute voice, “Well, then I will go alone with Jeremy.” Such brazenness, such outrageous boldness, such lack of respect for elders! May had been horrified. She had clutched Ellen’s hand and had cried, “But that’s just what he wants, you alone with him!”

  “Jeremy?” said Ellen, and her great blue eyes had misted with joy. “I would go anywhere in the world with him, marriage or not.”

  May and Mrs. Eccles had been appalled, and May had put her hands over her face and had groaned. “To think you have come to this, Ellen, so shameless, so—so—and with such immodest words in your mouth! I think I will stay here.” She looked miserably at Mrs. Eccles for support, but Mrs. Eccles had no intention whatsoever of keeping May without Ellen; after all, charity should extend only so far, and one should take care of oneself. May, crippled and increasingly ill, must not become her pensioner. She, Hortense, had too much business to attend to herself, and she was not running an almshouse, nor was she inclined to pay for services she did not receive in full.

  So Mrs. Eccles, seeing Ellen’s resolution to go, had soothingly patted May’s shoulder and had said, “Do not spoil Ellen’s happiness, my dear. That would be so—unchristian. To reject God’s good fortune is quite sinful, I am sure.”

  Mrs. Eccles had been able to procure, very hastily, a new cook and housemaid for her house, and Ellen and May had exhausted themselves in teaching them the ways of the kitchen and their duties. Mrs. Eccles had one satisfaction: She would be paying the newcomers two dollars fewer a month, each. “A penny saved is a penny earned.”

  Divested of her hat and coat and feeling more alien and unworthy of this grandeur every moment, May said to Ellen, “Where are your manners, dear? Help Mrs. Eccles with her own things and take her bag and put it—somewhere.” She looked about her weakly, and shivered, and clutched her aching elbows in her hands. Mrs. Eccles graciously permitted Ellen to make her comfortable, and said, “I will sit on this couch with dear Jeremy. It is only seemly, while you sit with your aunt, Ellen, in those two chairs near the window.”

  Ellen was slightly amused, and then she rebuked herself for her lack of charity. Mrs. Eccles meant well; she had really been very kind and solicitous these past two days, and very lively with anticipation. Mrs. Eccles was one of the very few people whom Ellen was to suspect and understand thoroughly, yet she never looked with clarity at the woman without a sense of anxious remorse, and an eagerness to make amends for her ungenerous thoughts.

  Jeremy entered the stateroom then, saw May’s meek hostility and suspicion, Mrs. Eccles’ complacency, and Ellen’s serene expression and the sudden brilliance of her eyes when she encountered his again. He was both amused and vexed to see Mrs. Eccles occupying the place he had intended Ellen to occupy, and he sat down and regarded the ladies pleasantly. “Well,” he said, “the luggage is all taken care of and we leave in five minutes.” He glanced at his watch.

  May said in her flat yet shrill voice, “All this space here, Mr. Porter. We could’ve had our bags here. Things get stolen on trains.” She made a nervous if aimless movement with her hands.

  “Not from first-class passengers,” he said, and May winced and glanced almost frantically through the window. Steam hissed from wheels; a trainman was ringing a bell; the platform was filled with people waving to passengers, and the engine suddenly roared. May had a desperate impulse to rise, put on her hat and coat, and seize Ellen by the hand and drag her from the train as if she were a threatened child. All wrong, all wrong, for people of our station, she wailed inwardly, a sentiment with which Francis would have agreed with a grave nod of his head. Jeremy sa
w the poor woman’s tremblings and apprehension and he was sorry for her, if impatient. Mrs. Eccles also saw these manifestations and she winked at Jeremy, who turned away, thus discomfiting the lady and causing her to bridle.

  The train began to move and May’s hands clasped themselves convulsively and painfully together. Ellen, near the window, saw this and she put her own warm hand over those chilled and crippled fingers. May wanted to cry. She had had such a safe haven with Mrs. Eccles and Ellen, such comparative peace, but the willful girl had ruined this for a precarious if not actually dangerous future. Lured away, thought May Watson, deceived by a man like this! She glanced through the comer of her eye at Ellen, whose face was almost incandescent with love as she gazed at Jeremy, and May thought of the bridal night and screamed within herself.

  May had never known a man; she was a virgin. She knew nothing of the mechanics of sexuality, except what had been darkly hinted to her by her late mother, who had rolled up her eyes and had shuddered and then had covered her face. So May had come to consider “congress,” as her mother had called it, shameful, horrible, degrading and agonizing to a woman. To think Ellen, that innocent girl, was to be subjected to this dreadful thing was more than May could endure. Had she later married the elderly farmer of May’s dreams and hopes, he would have preserved her as a daughter, while she dutifully, and virginally, labored in his kitchen and on his land and in his chicken yard, and fed his pigs. May was vaguely of the opinion that sexual desire ended for a man when he was forty, and women never possessed it at all. Mary had succumbed to the dirty and evil “wiles” of a man, and look into what an abyss she had fallen! Tears began to gather at the corners of May’s eyes and she blindly fished for a handkerchief in her worn purse. No, she could not bear it, she could not bear it.

  Mrs. Eccles was coquettishly engaging in conversation with Jeremy, who had become taciturn if polite. lie was looking at Ellen and she was looking at him, and she was smiling radiantly, and he wanted to hold her and love her. The thought made him move, embarrassed, on his seat, and again he glanced at his watch.

  “The dining car is crowded,” he said, “so I have ordered our dinner to be served in here. What wine do you prefer, Mrs. Eccles? A sauterne or champagne? We are having lobster and then pheasant under glass.”

  Mrs. Eccles preened, then thought. Then she said archly, “Why not both? Sauterne with the lobster, and, yes, a sparkling Burgundy with the pheasant, and then”—she clapped her hands like a delighted girl—“champagne with the dessert! After all, there is a wedding approaching.” She looked at him with loving brightness.

  May listened to this conversation, then she forced herself to speak. “Mrs. Eccles, I made some sandwiches with the last of the roast beef—Ellen did it well this time—and the last of the pound cake. It’s all in my black bag there. Wrapped in napkins, which you can take back, ma’am.”

  To Mrs. Eccles’ horror and fury Jeremy appeared to consider this suggestion soberly. Mrs. Eccles glared at May, and Ellen kept back a smile. She pressed May’s hand again and said with her usual gentleness, “Jeremy has ordered the dinner, Auntie, and you and I know nothing of wines.”

  “There’s wickedness in strong drink,” May said.

  Mrs. Eccles nudged Jeremy but he said to Ellen, and the polished whites of his eyes glinted in the sunlight that flashed through the windows, “Have you any objections to sauterne, sparkling Burgundy, and champagne, Ellen?”

  “You know very well, Jeremy, that Aunt May is right: we know nothing about wines. You must order for us.” She turned to her aunt and said, “There is no ‘wickedness’ in wine, Aunt May. Jesus, through a miracle, changed water into wine at the marriage in Cana, and He drank it regularly, as did all the people in Israel. It is the abuse of a good thing which is wicked, and not the thing itself.”

  Hear, hear, thought Jeremy. My love is not as unsophisticated as others believe, and she has read wisely and well.

  “I won’t drink it,” said May with the stubborn sullenness of her convictions. “And neither will you, Ellen.”

  Ellen sighed, feeling that sickening thrust of guilt which she was never to overcome. But Jeremy said, “Surely, a glass of champagne, Ellen. And a little of the others. As my future wife, and hostess, it would be very uncivil of you to reject what my friends will drink. They would think it rude of you.”

  May could hold herself back no longer. “You are dragging my little girl into a den of iniquity, sir! A den of iniquity, mingling with shameful people, godless people, drunken people.”

  Mrs. Eccles nudged Jeremy again and smiled at him maliciously, as if to say: There! And you are going to marry one of that kind!

  “People who never go to church, who are doomed to Hell,” continued the distraught May.

  Jeremy was not in the least a patient man, and he never or rarely had patience with ignorance. He had restrained himself these past days from replying to May’s wails and anguished suspicions with brutal harshness, because he both pitied May and did not want to hurt Ellen. Nor did he want, just now, to force Ellen into choosing between him and her aunt, and distressing her. Again that stab of desire for the girl came to him, and he regretted that he had included May in this journey and had promised to care for her the rest of her doleful life in New York. He knew, now, the profound love and passion Ellen had for him; he was sure that he could have persuaded her to let him put May into the Hitchcock Hotel in Wheatfield, where she could live in great comfort and under the care of physicians. He foresaw a future in which Ellen would have to either placate her aunt or defer to him, and he did not want that for his love. She had suffered enough.

  He tried to keep the natural roughness out of his voice, and leaned towards May with a kindly air, which did not become his features. “Mrs. Watson,” he said, “I assure you that my friends are good and respectable people, even if they drink wine with their meals, as do tens of millions of other people like them, all over the world. Many of them are even Christians, too, and some are Catholics.”

  This horrified poor May even more and she clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Romans!” she cried, and glared with terror at Ellen. “Ellen, he will drag you into the midst of Romans, and you know what they are!”

  “What are they?” asked Mrs. Eccles with malevolent kindness and glee. “To be sure, they aren’t well thought of in America, especially the Irish, but I have a Catholic friend in Wheatfield—English—or maybe it’s High Church, and she is an exemplary person. May, you shouldn’t be bigoted.” She hoped that Jeremy “was beginning to realize.” Certainly his expression indicated that, in her estimation.

  But his voice was restrained when he said, “Shall we leave, then, the question of wine for you and Ellen, today, at your own discretion?” He looked at Mrs. Eccles and could not help saying, “You drink wine at dinner or supper, don’t you, Mrs. Eccles?”

  “Quite regularly, Jeremy, and May knows that only too well. Are you implying, May, that I am a dissolute and wicked woman?”

  May’s gray and tortured face flushed with a sickly crimson. “Oh, no!” she cried. “I know you are a good and Christian lady. I know only too well! You must excuse me.”

  Mrs. Eccles became all graciousness and leaned back enough to touch Jeremy’s shoulder with her own. “Well, then,” she said. “You and Ellen do as you please, but Jeremy and I are going to enjoy our dinner.” She now decided that neither Ellen nor May had been tippling in her wine cellar, though she had been suspicious at the disappearance two weeks ago of a half bottle of her cheaper wines, though all her wines were cheap. It was probably the handyman; she thought darkly. I will discharge him at once when I return.

  Having won this small and pathetic victory, Mrs. Eccles sat back in her velvet crimson chair and looked at Ellen almost with pride. Ellen merely seemed sad and uncomfortable. But Jeremy gave her a cheerful smile, and as cheerfulness was not one of his more prominent virtues, this was quite a victory for him, too.

  Daughter of John Sheldon Widdimer, indeed, thought M
rs. Eccles, tossing her head. I don’t believe a word of it, though obviously Jeremy does.

  The train was passing rapidly through the autumn landscape, and Ellen, looking through the window, was suddenly absorbed in the wild burning of color everywhere, in the trees, on the scarlet-laden grass, on the rising plum-tinted hills in the distance. The western sky was a deep pellucid green, remote and awesome, over the far mountains, which had turned to bronze iridescence in the sunlight. She was conscious only of beauty, except for the insistent awareness of Jeremy’s presence, and that awareness only enhanced the tranquillity and grandeur of what she was seeing. In his turn Jeremy was watching her profile and again he marveled at such immaculate perfection, and felt the charm and the magnetism of it.

  Two waiters in long white aprons to their ankles came in with a number of tables, all steaming, and Mrs. Eccles, sparkling and avid, leaned forward to look at them, and at the glistening white linen and silver and flowers in a silver vase, and the silver ice-filled tubs of wine.

  “Oh, lobster! Don’t you adore it?” she asked in the groaning voice of ecstasy. “I haven’t tasted it since I was last in New York a year ago.” She inspected the pheasant under glass and groaned again, and Jeremy said to himself that she sounded as if in the midst of an orgasm, which, come to it, he thought, is probably happening to her, but in her stomach this time. May looked at the lobsters, red and glossy with butter, and at the huge claws, and she was nauseated and put her hands to her middle and turned her face aside. Then when she saw the pheasant under glass she rose abruptly and said to Ellen in a weak voice, “Please—take me to the lavatory.” So Ellen led her into the corridor, her face pink with embarrassment, and to the lavatory, where May promptly vomited, while Ellen held her head and was almost ill with sympathy and self-reproach. When May had finished she sat down in a state of collapse on the toilet seat, her face coldly sweating, her damp hair falling down her scorched neck, her whole body trembling.