America, Jerome saw, had arrived at the age of machines.
He had not come to this almost psychic conclusion of himself, for he had never been aware of the intrusion of the machine either into his own life or into the lives of his friends. His social companions were singularly free from any suspicion that the pleasant handwrought world about them was threatened by any conglomeration of mechanics. If some new machine was heralded in the public press as guaranteed to do the work of one hundred men while guided by only one man, they would murmur: “How dull.” One of Jerome’s friends, however, blessed or cursed by a greater imagination than the others, had remarked, with concern: “If machines make many things quickly, then they will be able to make them cheaper, and neither in wardrobe nor conveyance, in books nor furniture, will it be possible to distinguish between the gentleman and the plebeian.”
The idea had struck Jerome, for no discernible reason. It stayed with him, and he found himself discussing it one agreeable evening with his friend, Mr. Jay Regan. Jerome had ridiculed the thought, but Mr. Regan’s ambushed eyes had begun to sparkle. He had nodded his head.
He had said: “The complete industrialization of America has begun. The war has given it impetus. There may be some mysterious design in this. If America is to grow, to expand, over her vast territories, then the hand must be implemented by the machine, most enormously. It is a matter of life or death, for America. The machine is her private messiah; without it, she will remain a little spot of civilization in a mighty wilderness. Necessity is always the mother of invention, and the machine is America’s necessity, and mechanics will, and must, become the very life of this country.”
Jerome sardonically murmured his friends’ remark: “How dull.”
“Not dull!” Mr. Regan had exclaimed. “Most exciting! Think of the huge production of commodities, the cornering of world markets, the expansion, the wealth! We shall pass from an almost defenseless and ridiculous position in the family of nations to that of the most powerful, the leader, the dictator of policies. Through the machine.”
Jerome had become much interested, in spite of himself. He had an inspiration. “But mechanics superimposed on life will murder the importance of the individual. He will be ruled by the clock, and I have always had a singular aversion to clocks.”
Mr. Regan had considered it, with a deep brooding gleam in those hypnotic eyes of his. Then he had said, slowly: “Yes. I can see that. Subordinated to the machine, Americans may become lifeless and mechanical, servants, not masters, of mechanics. That must be combated by those with vision. Mankind tends to dullness, for it is easier than activity. Inertia is the natural state of all things, and is only disturbed by outer or inner convulsions or compulsions, mostly violent. It will be wise for future generations not to set up the golden machine and worship it, but to control it. It will be necessary to declare war on any system of life which subordinates the individual to the service of any one thing, or of any one idea, however seductive and easy it may seem. Uniformity in anything is death-dealing. There is nothing so uniform as a cemetery.”
Old Jay was right, Jerome reflected. Mankind tended to uniformity. It saved individual effort and ardor. The masters took advantage of this natural trend in the nature of men. Man preferred to subordinate rather than to sublimate. For instance, the old Pilgrim religion of service to God had been superseded by the service to money, and it served the latter with equal, if not greater, dedication. The expansion of the morals and the dignity of men, so dearly beloved of the Founding Fathers, had been reduced to the expansion of individual power and the degradation of vast masses of mankind to the service of that power.
Jerome was filled with violent hatred. He saw Alfred’s face before him. It was not that he cared so much about the degradation of his fellowmen to the service of the deathly lust of a few. But he felt his own dignity and potency as an individual man threatened by that lust. He felt himself thrown upon an anvil, to be beaten by the iron hammers and ruthlessness into a shape which would best serve those who were stronger than himself.
He marvelled at the ancient paradox that if a man is to save himself he must first save others. If he is to protect himself, he must build armor for his fellows.
In microcosm, then, what was happening in Riversend was happening all over America. Jerome enjoyed his hatred passionately, for the thing he hated had always been his hatred: uniformity, lightlessness, hopelessness, and the dull march of days. He had always avoided them, making his individual escape, and believing that his derision could keep the horror at bay. But now he saw that the horror was a spreading gray fog over America, and that he could not escape it. It was everywhere.
The three or four weeks during which Alfred was away became to Jerome a time of feverish activity and thought. He was at the Bank at eight in the morning. He demanded that all books be opened to him. He read ledger after ledger, report after report, endless files of correspondence. He now saw clearly that Alfred and many of his friends had refused to allow a manufacturer of farm implements to buy a stretch of farmland, on which they held mortgages, or owned outright, near the outskirts of Riversend, whereon the manufacturer had desired to build a factory. After Alfred’s first refusal, the manufacturer had become eloquent in his pleading. The whole community would prosper, he had pointed out, beguilingly, not understanding his Alfred Lindsey in the least. The necessary raw materials were to be found in the country near Riversend, or in nearby Pennsylvania. The manufacturer outlined his plans to induce new workers to swell the population of the town; he would build a community of hideous shacks near the factory, which would give local carpenters and others considerable employment. (Jerome could see the shacks, in his mind: a mass of hideous ulcers on the faces of the lower slopes of the hills. Expansion, he had heard somewhere, inevitably resulted in such scars. He was wondering if this were true.)
Alfred, however, had permitted himself to foreclose a small farm on which the local railroad proposed to build its shops. But this did not account for the fact that the Widow Kingsley, General Tayntor, and a few others, had bought considerable land about the coveted acres desired by the manufacturer. Jerome read Alfred’s bewildered queries to his friends, and their evasive answers. Jerome also read Alfred’s grim and obscure reminder to all of them (couched in somewhat ambiguous phrases) that he, personally, owned the land on which the railroad might build a spur at some vague time. The ladies and gentlemen to whom these remarks had been addressed had replied very sweetly, and in phrases that imparted some innocent bewilderment. Why should they be interested in a railroad spur?
It was often that Jerome hardly arrived home in time for dinner. Even then, he brought along ledgers and records to read over in his own room. Mr. Jamison, in terror, had aided and abetted him. Mr. Jamison did not know what Mr. Jerome “was after.” But he had a foreboding that it did not tend to peace and comfort in the Bank.
Dorothea, observing this incredible manifestation of energy on the part of her brother, only thought to herself, with sour and passionate indignation: “He is trying to undermine Alfred. He is trying to be important, to make a name for himself. He is trying to influence Papa, hypocritically, for really, he can have no genuine interest in the Bank.” She could not know that, as usual, Jerome’s interest was in himself.
Mr. Lindsey, for all his weariness and illness and retirement, knew that something was going on, but he did not speak of it to his son. He had long ago withdrawn from any active participation in the Bank, and often declared that he had no further interest in it. But he felt radiations of intense energy in the house, all emanating from Jerome, and while he was amazed and delighted, he was also uneasy. He wished Jerome would tell him what was on his mind. But he was both afraid and vaguely aware that Jerome would be uncommunicative. However, an idea of his own was forming in his own thoughts, for he, too, had begun to ask himself: “Is it really possible that Jerome is taking an interest? Has it really captured his imagination? If so, then I must consult—”
B
ut the man he intended to consult was not Alfred.
In the meantime, he was entirely aware of the ledgers and books under Jerome’s arm, and the fact that his son was gone all day.
Jim, Jerome’s valet, was thunderstruck at the change in his master. Jerome was often gone when the little man arrived with the breakfast tray. Jerome was often gone before the household was astir. Jerome was becoming careless of the finer niceties of his dress. Jerome was drinking more than ever, and eating a great deal. He could be seen, at night, pacing the snowy walks around Hilltop, his head bent, brooding, little Charlie yapping unheeded at his heels. Jerome’s color was rapidly improving, in spite of all these incredible goings-on, and he looked less fleshless. Moreover, there was a buoyancy about him now, a physical energy, quite different from the elegant languor and cynical detachment which had been his affectations.
When Jerome met his father at dinner, his conversation was always sprightly, but superficial. And Mr. Lindsey, as usual, was delighted and amused. He had a natural and cynical pessimism of his own, and this was echoed in Jerome’s conversation. But now Mr. Lindsey saw that all this sprightliness had become but bright sparkles on deep water. He preferred, just now, that the water be not explored.
One evening, as they sat over their port near the library fire, Jerome said casually to his father: “Did you know that a feller by the name of King Munsey wants to build a factory in Riversend, to manufacture farm implements?”
Mr. Lindsey aroused himself feebly, frowned a little, and murmured: “Alfred did not—er—agree?”
“He did not. I gathered, from the correspondence, that he considered Mr. Munsey’s offer to be compounded of rape, mayhem, the refutation of Alfred’s belief in the divine right of the poor to starve peacefully, and a sinister desire on the manufacturer’s part to paint the façades of the landed gentry’s houses with soot. There was a great deal of real poesy in Alfred’s lyrical prose to the unhappy industrialist. Riversend would remain ‘unspoiled and undespoiled,’ a ‘tranquil spot in a turbulent State,’ or Alfred would die gallantly in the attempt. In his noble excitement, he committed a few gross errors in grammar, and I detected a split infinitive or two. Which reveals his state of mind.”
Mr. Lindsey sternly prevented himself from smiling. But he gazed at his son attentively. “How did you discover all this, my dear boy?”
“Curiosity, as well as love, laughs at locksmiths.”
Mr. Lindsey was shocked. “You ought not to have done that to Alfred, Jerome! You had only to ask him—”
“How could I,” Jerome pointed out, reasonably, “when I had no idea what I was looking for?”
But Mr. Lindsey was really perturbed. His New England conscience grumbled alarmingly. How unscrupulous Jerome was! And what an unpardonable thing to do! He said: “Well. What else did you discover, while you were laughing at locksmiths?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mercifully unaware of what was transpiring during his absence, Alfred had quite recklessly extended his honeymoon from three to four weeks. Though he had a stern belief in the sanctity of the Sabbath, he unavoidably was compelled to violate the holy day and arrive home on the last Sunday in January.
A January thaw had set in, and all the countryside was awash with slush and sleet, howling with boisterous winds, and robbed of all color by the ashen skies. Dorothea was “indisposed,” and young Philip was abed with influenza, and it was impossible for Mr. Lindsey to accompany the carriage down to the depot to gather up the bridal pair. Alfred believed that Jerome, at least, would be at the depot to greet him, and welcome him home. But Jerome was not there. As usual, he had blithely ignored all amenities which might cause him any inconvenience.
Besides (and of this Alfred was also mercifully ignorant) Jerome was working against time. He was completing his impertinent investigations into Alfred’s affairs. He closed, and hid, the last ledgers just as the carriage, wallowing in slush, climbed up the winding driveway to the door. He looked down from his windows, passed his hands over his ruffled hair, and then, humming lightly, descended to the hall below.
There was quite a bustle going on. Jim, who had appointed himself overseer of the servants, was assisting in the disembarking of the luggage. It stood in the hallway in heaps, running with drops of water. Alfred and Amalie were standing before the fire, removing their gloves, while a maid gathered up their cloaks Alfred was murmuring something to his wife, and she had turned to him, smiling politely. It was her face that Jerome saw first, lit by the leaping firelight in the early afternoon gloom that filled the hall.
He saw that she was rather pale and quiet and abstracted, in her dark gray traveling dress with the black fur collar, dark gray bonnet and veil, and fur muff. She was very composed, and very still. So, thought Jerome, before revealing himself, the money has not been enough, then.
She discovered him first, glancing up as he descended the last stairs. She did not move, or smile. But he felt her strange alertness, her withdrawal.
Jerome greeted them affably, shook hands heartily with Alfred, then turned to Amalie. “Would it be in order,” he asked, “to kiss the returning bride?”
She looked bored. “It would not be in order,” she responded, and looked at the fire indifferently.
Alfred appeared smug and satisfied. He laid his hand possessively on Amalie’s arm, as he asked Jerome about the family. He was genuinely concerned at the report of his uncle’s increased illness, Dorothea’s indisposition, and Philip’s influenza. At the mention of Philip, Amalie looked up, alarmed, and addressed herself directly to Jerome.
“Is he very ill? I must go to him at once.”
Alfred was pleased. “My love, I understand influenza is infectious. And from Jerome’s report, the boy is being well cared for.”
She moved impatiently. “How lonely he must be. Really, I must go to him. Besides, I have something for him which he especially wanted.”
Alfred was more pleased than ever at this evidence of Amalie’s genuine fondness for his poor son. “We shall both go up, my dear, after we have had tea.”
But Amalie glanced at her reticule, and said: “If you will please excuse me, Alfred, I will go now. Do not wait tea for me, if it is inconvenient.”
She turned away abruptly, and ran lightly up the stairs. Alfred watched her go, smiling, according to Jerome, quite fatuously. Jerome, in turn, watched his cousin with cynicism. “Let us have tea in my father’s room, Alfred,” he said. “He suggested it himself. Dorothea will join us.”
Amalie discovered that her breath was short and her heart beating heavily as she arrived at the upper landing. She also felt extremely ill, and had to pause in the warm dusk for a few moments. She heard her husband and Jerome giving last directions about the luggage below. The long hall before her was quiet in the Sunday gloom. She bit her lip and clenched her hands about her reticule. No, she thought, one mustn’t think. Ever. She went down the hall to Philip’s room, knocked gently, then entered.
Philip was lying on his pillows, coughing feebly. A book lay near his hand, but he had abandoned it in his sick weakness, and his face was turned away from the lighted lamp. He thought it was some maid bringing him his tea, and he lifted his head listlessly. But when he saw it was Amalie, he rasied himself on his pillows, his eyes sparkling with delight, and stretched out his hands to her with a cry.
She came to him at once, smiling, and took both his hands. She felt their tremulous heat and throb. She searched his feverish face, sighed, smiled again, and kissed him warmly. She sat beside him, still holding one of his hands. His fingers clung to hers almost desperately.
“Oh, Miss Amalie!” he exclaimed, hoarsely. “I have missed you so much. It was almost more than I could bear.”
“And I have missed you, too, my darling,” she said, in her full strong voice. “You received all my letters?”
“Yes. I have saved them all,” he said, unable to look away from her. He laughed a little, feebly. “They were so amusing. Especially the stories abo
ut the fat old ladies who sat in the lobby of the hotel, and gossipped. Did they really say all those things?”
“Oh, and much more.” They smiled into each other’s eyes. Amalie gently straightened the boy’s pillows after a moment, brought him a cool glass of water, and pushed the lamp a little farther away on the table. He submitted to her ministrations with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Do have tea with me here, Miss Amalie,” he pleaded.
“If you wish it, darling,” she said, sitting beside him once more. She sat and smiled while his wise young eyes studied her. “What is it, Philip?” she asked, after a long moment or two, when she saw that his thin face had clouded.
“You have changed, Miss Amalie,” he murmured, and his flush deepened. “You seem so tired, and pale.”
She rubbed his hand strongly, and her smile was forced. “Well, it was a dreary journey home. And our four weeks were very festive. I am really just a country girl at heart.”
He said an odd thing then, on strange impulse: “Miss Amalie, I do hope Papa understands you!”
She stared at him, and was silent. Then she laughed. “How curious of you to say that, Philip! Your papa is very good to me, and is the best possible husband.”
But he murmured: “Miss Amalie, tell me you are happy.”
She laughed again. “Philip, don’t you know that happiness means getting what you want? I have what I have always wanted. So, I must be happy.” She paused. “Except for one thing, dear. Will you call me Mama, now?”
He gazed at her with such incredible love that she had to kiss him again. She laid her head beside him on the pillows. Her hands clung to his. The boy turned to her as one turns to deep rest and surcease from pain.