Ceremony of the Innocent (46 page)

They did not answer. Jeremy stood up with grim intentness. “The new child-labor laws—Children have worked for centuries, in factories and fields. I don’t like it, I don’t approve of it. But why can’t their fathers earn enough money to keep their children out of factories and industries? You know why. The government taxes all materials so heavily that it is an impossibility for free enterprise to pay adequate wages to their workers, and make the slightest profit. In the meantime the people are being incited against capitalism. You know it, I know it. What is the object? You know what it is—the alleged destruction of capitalism in behalf of Socialism or Communism; they are both the same, as any intelligent man knows. Then the middle class will be eliminated; it is part of the general design.”

They looked at him and said nothing, though one or two indulgently shook their heads.

“The Scardo Society,” said Jeremy. “Ostensibly just good sound financiers and bankers, meeting in quiet closed spots all over the world. Just excellent gentlemen concerned with the soundness of currency and investments, yes? Now, boys, you know better than that. And the Committee for Foreign Studies, on Fifth Avenue. ‘Studies’ don’t require armed guards, do they? Or barred windows and doors?”

He was aware of a sudden sharp stillness in the room, though a few of the politicians seemed honestly puzzled. Jeremy looked from one to the other with a cold savagery. “I see some of you understand me perfectly. When is the great war coming? Next year, the year after, or the year after that?”

“You belonged to the Committee for Foreign Studies once, didn’t you?”

“Ah,” said Jeremy, “and how did you know that, sir?”

“Oh, come, Jerry. It’s not a secret. Nothing criminal about it, is there? Some of the most powerful men in America belong to it—”

“True. And has any one of you any idea of what is discussed among those ‘powerful men’? I do. War.”

“With whom?” asked one of the politicians who was genuinely baffled. “And why?”

“Ask your friends here. They know.”

“What are you smoking, Jerry? Hashish?”

They all laughed loudly. Jeremy watched them, and suddenly he was weary. He threw up his hands, while some regarded him with half-hidden hostility and watchfulness. “Politicians,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if you are Democrats or Republicans. Politicians are all alike. As Aristotle said, ‘Politicians are not born. They are excreted.’”

No one was amused. One man said, “Why don’t you return to the Republican Party, if you’re so dissatisfied?”

He replied, “There is no difference between you.”

“You might join the Populist Party out West.”

Another said, “Jerry, you and I know that enormously rich men belong to the Committee for Foreign Studies. They know that Socialism would eliminate them. So they can’t be for it.”

Jeremy looked at the speaker in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? Socialism will not destroy the great rich, otherwise they wouldn’t secretly advocate it. Again, they want to destroy the middle class, which stands between them and the exercise of the tyranny they want.”

He paused, then said, “There is just one thing I want to know: Who paid you off?”

They rose as one man in honest or simulated indignation. They said nothing more. They left his office.

C H A P T E R   23

MAUDE CUMMINGS DINED WITH THE family during intimate dinners when only one or two old friends were present. Ellen had often invited her to the large parties, but Maude had gently declined. “They are strangers,” she said. “And I am a stranger.” On these occasions there had been a far and startled sadness in Ellen’s eyes and she had turned away, her head bent. Maude had watched her go and she had thought, “My dear, you too are a stranger, and always will we be, you and I.”

Maude never declined when Charles Godfrey was present at small dinners. She had early detected his love for Ellen. She knew, with her perceptiveness, that he was also a man to be trusted. Still, she hesitated. She was English, and she had the English love of reserve and privacy, the English dislike of intrusion and subjectivity. Also, though a governess, she was only an employee of the household. She doubted that Jeremy would approve of her “interference,” especially one so delicate as the one she was considering. But her urgent desire to help Ellen overcame her reticence, and one morning she quietly called Charles Godfrey. Jeremy was in Philadelphia.

“Mr. Godfrey,” she said in her soft but firm voice, “I should like a conference with you, if you please, and at your convenience, preferably today.”

He was surprised. He could see Maude’s face before him, smooth, pale, composed, and he wondered, for the first time, why he had not seen before that she possessed a certain distant beauty of her own. He had admired her from the beginning. She was a lady of “sense.” He also knew that Ellen had an air of uneasiness when the governess was present, as if she knew she should listen but did not wish to do so. It was as if some warning instinct was trying to speak to Ellen, and she denied it out of fear.

“Certainly, Miss Cummings,” said Charles. “Would you lunch with me? Delmonico’s, perhaps?”

“A smaller, less conspicuous place, perhaps, sir? Besides, I do not have the proper dress.”

He named a discreet little restaurant near Delmonico’s where he frequently took his women friends. He wondered if the air of discretion would embarrass Miss Cummings, then he no longer wondered. The girl was worldly, he thought, and he wondered, again, why he had not seen that before. Ellen might be abashed, but certainly not Miss Cummings. So he gave her directions on how to reach the restaurant. “Perhaps it would be best for some conveyance?” he said.

“No, thank you. The trolley will be quite sufficient.”

It was a sweet mild day in April, sweet even in reeking New York with its streets littered with garbage and random filth, which made walking, except for the main avenues, somewhat difficult and dangerous. There were always rowdies about, and the sinister loiterers who followed women alone, with abusive language and obscene gestures. Charles was worried, then not worried. Miss Cummings was a young lady who could cope with almost anything, he decided, with fresh admiration. It would be a doughty wretch who would press her.

Miss Cummings’ wardrobe was small and not fashionable, though the materials were excellent, as Charles had noted before, and were doubtlessly expensive. She is a very mysterious girl, he had often thought, watching her at the table. Today she wore her customary black silk dress, plain in bodice with a white lace collar, handmade and weblike, and fastened with an opal brooch, the skirt slim and only slightly draped in front. Her black shoes were polished and well made, her black kid gloves impeccable. Over this she wore a black cloak of fine broadcloth. Her wide hat was of black felt, with subdued silk roses in a maroon color. It was always her desire to be inconspicuous, and so she was in her clothing, her severely dressed hair, her quiet face. She carried a purse of black leather, old but not shabby or poor.

Yet, on the trolley she had immediately attracted curious glances and speculations as she sat serenely on the rattan seat, alone. Her expression was withdrawn, though not secretive. She looked through the dusty windows at the seething streets, and her thoughts were as composed as her face, but clear and determined. She knew exactly what she intended to say, without any maidenly coyness or hesitations or pretended shyness, or fluttering protests that she knew that she should not be speaking thus, but she was compelled—No “forgive me, please.” A person must do as she must, thought the daughter of a vicar.

The shops were bustling, though the Panic had not been over long. The walks were crowded with hurrying men and women. The spires of churches reached up towards the warm and whitish sky. On each corner were ragged women selling violets, and there were many men trundling hot-roasted-chestnut carts. The trolley clanged and swayed and rattled. Why did everything in America seem so noisy? Miss Cummings reflected. Even the omnibuses roared. It was like a fever; everyone rushed, even those obviously not going anywhere in particular. The trolley banged its bell incessantly, when drays and carriages and automobiles impeded its way, though it moved hardly faster than these. Not English, thought Maude, then laughed at herself for her light snobbery. Her laughter was mainly reserved for her own foibles, for she was innately too kind to laugh much at others. Yet, for the dolt and the unworthy, the lazy and the stupid, the ignorant and the impetuous, she had nothing but a silent contempt which would gleam in her splendid dark eyes.

She found the restaurant without any wanderings and Charles met her at the curb. She thought, and not for the first time, how handsome he was in a compact and masculine fashion, and how genuinely strong and capable was his face. He did not have Mr. Porter’s restive vitality, of course, nor did his eyes flash and appear to crackle, as did Mr. Porter’s. Yet, he had an equal strength and a quiet alertness. She looked at him with pleasure as he took her hand and led her into the restaurant, with its discreet curtained booths. “We can talk easily here, Miss Cummings,” he said, “without interference or curiosity.” She knew at once what all this prudent richness implied, and smiled a little, hearing the subdued voices behind the crimson velvet curtains, voices mainly of women. She saw Charles’ sidelong glance at her, and she was somewhat amused. Did he think her naive?

The headwaiter bowed to them and led them to a booth, and before he drew the curtains together he had given Maude an admiring glance and knew instantly that she was a lady and that this was no rendezvous. The round table had a glittering white cloth upon it and heavy silver and an exquisite epergne, with violets in a polished bowl. Charles, after seating Maude, looked at her again. No, he thought, she does not resemble these violets, for all her appearance. A carnation, perhaps, and he was surprised again. Yes, possibly a carnation, though certainly she did not outwardly resemble that pungent and sensual flower. He had not thought to enjoy this meal with the governess; now he was full of anticipation. “Wine?” he said, and knew instantly that her choice would be perfect. “A Chablis, if you please,” she said. “I do not particularly care for sweet wines.”

He liked her English voice, which did not, however, have that warbling high treble so many Englishwomen affected, which made communication difficult for an American. There was a stateliness about her voice, which indicated breeding. He glanced at her clothing and thought of Shakespeare’s “rich, but not gaudy.” She was composedly removing her gloves. Her hands were superb, he thought, and delicate. The signet ring on her left hand glowed in the soft gaslight.

He consulted her about the menu, and was pleased with her taste. He wondered again why he had not seemed to see her as beautiful before. She did not possess Ellen’s incomparable and dazzling beauty, of course, but she had a distinctive charm born of worldliness and unclouded knowledge. Though younger than Ellen by several years, she yet gave the impression of profound maturity. A fine woman, he thought, a truly fine woman, and her eyes were remarkable, like black sapphires.

Maude noticed his furtive evaluation of her and she felt a stir of gentle elation. This was going to be less awkward than she had feared once or twice. She mused, for a moment, on the pleasure she was beginning to feel. All at once Charles was no stranger to her. There was a warmth of confidence between them. They talked pleasantly during the meal of many idle things, and Charles discovered that she had a wit of her own, not sharp and raucous like Kitty Wilder’s, not cruel, not darting. Nor did it have the insistent personal quality about it, like Kitty’s. Personalities were not for Maude Cummings. She did not crave attention, as Kitty did, nor was she feverishly animated. Charles disliked Kitty Wilder intensely, and knew all about her.

It was not often that Charles found a woman’s company so pleasing as he found Maude’s. She was restful; her gestures were small and few. She had absolute control of herself. As they ate their dessert and drank their coffee, however, the still light on her face began to subside, and her expression was increasingly remote and abstracted.

Now she was raising her eyes with total candor and looking at him directly. She said, “I am considering leaving my position in the house of Mr. Porter.”

“Indeed,” he said, as if they were speaking of the weather. “May I ask why, Miss Cummings?”

Now she hesitated for an instant “There is nothing I can do for Mrs. Porter, sir, though I have tried my best. She is so vulnerable. I am afraid for her. If I could do anything at all I would remain.” She hesitated again. “I know you are a friend as well as an associate of Mr. Porter’s, and that you—that you are most kindly drawn to Mrs. Porter. You are concerned about her as I am concerned.”

Charles sipped his coffee in a short and reflective silence. Then he said, “Have you discussed this with Mr. Porter?”

“No. I fear he already knows—much. About Mrs. Porter. But he does not know, fully, about his children.”

“I see,” said Charles. “But you do.”

“Yes. I know children well, perhaps too well. That is why I never married. I did not wish to have children.”

He looked at her quickly. His gray eyes were very bright, she noticed, and very intent. He slowly moved his hand over his thick light-brown hair, but did not turn his eyes from her, and now she could not read them, though a faint tingle ran over her body.

“Not all children are wicked,” he said.

She sighed and relaxed in her chair. So, she thought, I do not need to tell him anything more. He knows about Christian and Gabrielle. She said, “Quite right. But one never knows, does one? Then it may be too late. I wish”—she paused and looked at her hands—“that Mrs. Porter did not love her children so much. That is very dangerous. Still, I sometimes feel she is afraid of them. Instinct, perhaps.”

He thought about this, and frowned, again rubbing his hair. At last he said, “You must not leave that house, Miss Cummings. I think it needs you.”

She knew he meant Ellen, and all at once she was namelessly despondent. “I will consider it,” she said. “Cuthbert and Annie want me to stay, also.”