This Side of Innocence

  He laughed abruptly. “It is hard to reconcile instinct with reason.”

  She thought to herself: “He is speaking to me as he has never spoken to anyone else, because he trusts me and loves me. Perhaps he has never spoken so, even to himself.

  And again she was passionately humble, overwhelmingly touched with anger for him, and compassion. So strong were her feelings that she felt that she loved him, and her loyalty, awakened now, sprang up in full and vigorous armor.

  She said, and her voice shook: “I never really knew you, Alfred.”

  He raised her hand to his lips, and she looked at his strong round head, and smiled through her tears. She said to herself: I will do all I can. I will make myself what he wishes. I will devote myself to him. He must never know what I have been thinking these past weeks. How was it possible that I was so blind and so stupid and so greedy? How can I ever repay him?

  She felt his lips on her hand, and they did not make her flesh grow rigid as they had done before. Her compassion and tenderness were like a warm fire in her heart. His narrowness of concept, his lack of imagination, his inflexibility, his obtuseness now seemed to her the admirable marks of a man of extreme integrity and strength.

  The bell sounded softly through the warm stillness of the house, and they rose together, and went down the stairway, hand in hand, as they had never gone before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “You are a dog, sir!” cried Mehitabel Kingsley, with an uproarious laugh, after Jerome’s somewhat lewd remark.

  They had been conversing, with regrettable candor, of Alfred and Amalie. Mehitabel had expressed her opinion of the inability of a fascinating gentleman such as Jerome to seduce his cousin’s wife. The widow belonged to a lustier generation, when the influence of Queen Victoria had not been so insistently felt in England and America, and her conversation had an old-fashioned bawdiness about it which entranced and amused Jerome, and did not deceive him in the least.

  For, paradoxically, he understood that both male and female rakes had a deep underlying Puritanism in them, and that, contrary to opinion, they were much less tolerant of infractions of the moral code than those whose boots had never been muddied. So he was well aware that Mehitabel was talking shockingly for her own amusement and his own diversion. It was one thing for a man to seduce a virgin, and quite another thing for him to seduce a matron, especially in his own house. Perhaps it was a perverted sense of honor in them, or a robust health. Therefore, even while Mehitabel bawdily outlined possible strategy for him in the seduction of Amalie, no one, he suspected, would have been more censorious and more merciless than Mehitabel if he had acted upon that strategy.

  He could not refrain from saying, with a smile: “Metty, you are talking through your bonnet.”

  This made her laugh more raucously than ever, her merriment booming through her house. With one of her old-fashioned gestures, she rapped him smartly on the knuckles and leered at him. She ordered him to pour fresh whiskey and soda for them both.

  “But seriously,” she said, “I am disappointed in you. I had hoped you and that glorious wench would have eloped on the wedding night. I had my pastor in readiness. Have you lost your magic, Jerome?”

  “I am afraid I have. The lady would have nothing of me.”

  They were sitting in the parlor of Mehitabel’s huge, ugly and old-fashioned house in the suburbs of Riversend. Mehitabel’s “love” for humanity did not extend to any desire to have neighbors. “I’ll choose my own times to love ’em,” she often said. So her six acres of land were firmly enclosed in a tall redbrick wall, lavishly sprinkled, at the top, with murderous broken glass. She also had three savage dogs who ranged constantly through the grounds, though she would not allow them near the house, or in her presence, for she had an aversion to the species. (Her love was cats, of which she had many. “They are so damned evil, and hate everybody,” she would remark.) In the very center of her grounds, her house had been built fifty years ago, when she had been a bride. Tall, frowning, gloomy, it was of red brick, with deep piazzas and thin, high windows heavily draped. She had not cared for the wide expansiveness of Georgian architecture. “Too exposed,” she had said. So her house was built like a fortress, with round turrets like battlements, behind which it was easy to imagine alert marksmen. Further, she had surrounded it with heavy dark trees, so that a watery green gloom invaded all the rooms even on the brightest day.

  But she had immense fireplaces, filled with huge burning logs. She did not like lamps, but preferred candlelight, so heavy brass and silver candelabra stood on every table, and there were sconces on the panelled walls. All the floors, even those in the bedrooms, were of tile, partially covered with Aubusson rugs, and her furniture, inherited from her ancestors, was of beautiful proportions and dark shining finish. Her own tester bed, she alleged, had once been occupied by George Washington. “Quite alone,” she had added, ruefully. She paid her servants well; otherwise, because of her humors, she would have been left servantless. However, though quite well aware of this, she often denounced those who paid their servants much less. “No wonder the poor devils steal,” she would say, vigorously, carefully locking up her own valuables.

  She listened avidly, today, to Jerome’s account of the apparent devotion which Amalie lavished on Alfred. She was incredulous. “How could she? The man is a fool, an ox!” Mehitabel exclaimed. Jerome smiled.

  He said, casually, sipping his whiskey: “When the children begin to appear, it might be time for me to leave my father’s house. Especially if I desire to marry, myself. I have thought of buying some land beyond the east road.”

  He watched her closely, while not appearing to do so. He saw furtive surprise, rumination, uncertainty, on her huge and wickedly ugly face. He saw her thrust out her bulldog’s jaw reflectively, and knew that her tiny black eyes were fixed sharply upon him. He saw the struggle between her own voracity and her fondness for him.

  She said, with hypocritical thoughtfulness: “I don’t know. That is not the best of sections.” She was silent, staring at him. Apparently, however, her fondness for him won over her own greed. “I’ve thought of buying some land there, myself.” She paused. He regarded her fondly, turning upon her his strongest measure of filial charm and interest. That apparently settled her, overcame her rapacity. She leaned forward and again tapped his hand with her black-lace fan and assumed a mysterious expression. “On second thought, my love, buy that land, and buy it quickly. Do not delay.”

  “No?” he said artlessly. “Why not?”

  A sluggish color spread over her coarse skin. “Trust me, Jerome. Buy that land. Tomorrow, if possible. I have my reasons, of which I cannot tell you now. You want money, eh? Who doesn’t? So, buy that land. Let it—lie fallow for a while.”

  Now that her greed was entirely thrust into the background by her affection for him, she was all animation.

  “I have very little money,” he said, regretfully. “Two thousand dollars in all. Of course, I could take an option on the land—However, as you have said, that is not the best of sections on which to build.”

  But her determination made her quite excited. “Damn building! Take my advice. Buy that land. Two thousand dollars?” She plucked at her enormous fat underlip, frowned, again engaged in a struggle. “Enough for an option. For about six months.” She nodded her head. “Who knows what might happen in six months?” She sighed. “If they will not permit an option, come to me. I will advance you the money, without interest.”

  She brightened. “Perhaps you will not need it. When are you going to marry Sally Tayntor?”

  He put down his glass carefully. “Isn’t that a little sudden?”

  “Fiddlesticks. The girl is dying to sleep with you. But marry her first. The General is all for it; he has told me so himself. In fact, he has persuaded himself that you have already spoken for her. That is what you get for being so charmingly evasive and compliant. If you don’t speak for the girl, the General is not going to love you any more.”


  “I am not a fortune hunter,” said Jerome, with a stern air. “When I have some money of my own, that will be the time to speak of marrying.”

  “Oh—!” cried the widow. “Do not try to come over me with your sanctimonious lies, Jerome Lindsey! The girl, and her father, would snap you up in a moment, and you know it. And you are no fine gentleman of honor, and you need not pretend you are. One hundred thousand dollars as a dowry does not make you recoil delicately. There is something else. It ain’t your cousin’s wife, is it, eh?” She spoke the last with unexpected loud sharpness.

  So, thought Jerome, the darling old hag can be very dangerous. He regarded her with eyes that deliberately danced. But she was not amused.

  “That’s all nonsense!” she ejaculated. “No use pursuing a fox that’s already been caught. No profit in that, for you. Besides, it’s nasty, and nastiness never advanced a man’s fortunes. You want to advance your fortunes?” She stared at him bellicosely. He nodded. She pushed herself back in her chair, her great black belly glimmering in the candlelight. “Good. Time for you to mend your fences. No use using black dye on those gray hairs of yours. People always know. Go after Sally.”

  “Yet, you were just advising me how I could induce Amalie to sleep with me,” he said, laughing.

  “Oh, that was just an exercise in ribaldry! If you were a rich man, it would be different. But naughtiness is the province of the economically independent. It is no diversion for an insecure man.”

  He nodded in serious agreement, and her alarm subsided. She made him promise to take an option on the discussed land, and exhorted him again to come to her for any other money. “Without interest,” she repeated sadly. She became interested in the Bank, and showed gratification when she saw his enthusiasm.

  “It ain’t all hypocrisy with you,” she observed, shrewdly. “You like the damn place. It ain’t just a scheme to induce your papa to look speculatively at you, is it? No, I thought so. We need new blood in Riversend.”

  The widow fanned herself vigorously. “Remember, don’t forget about that option. Tomorrow. Do it secret. Don’t tell a soul. Not even the General. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t let anybody guess what you’re about. It can be done. I know.”

  She added: “And leave that wench alone. You say, yourself, she is all devotion to Alfred. Let them be. All women are the same in the dark anyway. And from what I’ve seen of the girl lately, she’s lost her style. Drab clothes. Creeps about like a shadow. She’s Mrs. Alfred Lindsey now, and she’s bright enough to remember it. Look at Sally: there’s a girl with vivacity and distinction. Devoted to you, too. One hundred thousand dollars. If you knew what I know, you would realize that that money will come in handy.” She hesitated, then grinned. “I’ll give you my George Washington bed. About time it was slept in, double.”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In February, Mr. Lindsey suffered a heart seizure which almost ended his life. He survived, but so painfully, and with such exhaustion, that those who loved him could not consider his escape from death merciful.

  Dorothea and Amalie, assisted by one intelligent maid, nursed him. For several days after the attack, his son and nephew did not go to the Bank even for an hour or two, as the physician had warned them that the patient might die at any moment. If he survived the first week, the physician informed them, his chances for life were increased enormously.

  A desperate and aching quiet settled over Hilltop. Jim, lest Charlie, the dog, might disturb that quiet by a single bark, kept the little animal with him on the third floor, or in the stables. Philip ceased his piano practice and stole about the house like a small deformed ghost with a white and suffering face. Even Amalie seemed to have forgotten the boy. He understood, but the loss of his two friends, Mr. Lindsey, and his new stepmother, filled him with grief and overpowering loneliness. He haunted the stables, where Jim and the other men were kind to him, but he did not find their conversation amusing or informative. He did not care for horses, and most of the talk centered about those uninteresting animals. Jim was certain that one of the mares had foaled a prospect for the racetrack, and he vehemently argued on the subject with the more cynical stableboys, pointing out the foal’s amazing features. Philip’s presence made them uneasy, though they tried to be deferentially kind to him. But Philip, whose life had been spent with books and music, and in a large unchanging solitude, finally found Jim and the others insupportable.

  His father had always been affectionate with him, but the sensitive boy had early understood that he was a profound disappointment to Alfred, and he did not blame his father in the least. In fact, he was sorry for Alfred, and, painfully sympathetic. He knew that Alfred cared little for books, and knew nothing of music, in spite of his labored efforts to appear intelligent when either was timidly discussed by Philip.

  Mr. Lindsey had always been the boy’s friend, in a gentle and tender fashion, but Philip had known, even from early childhood, that Mr. Lindsey did not particularly care for the young, and that he found their presence tedious in spite of his kindness and air of interest. Only in Amalie had Philip discovered a true and interested friend, and she was now temporarily lost to him. As for Jerome, that gentleman was so stricken by the illness of his father that it appeared he was not conscious of the existence of anyone else. He passed Philip in the rooms and corridors as if the boy were made of air and had no reality. This was true of Alfred, also, whose pallor gleamed in the dusk whenever Philip encountered him.

  The whole household was disordered. Dorothea, who out of duty and some fondness had always seen to the comfort of Philip, was now engrossed in her ministrations to her father. To make less work for the servants in these days, few of the family appeared at meals, and it was finally decided that trays in their rooms would be less arduous than the elaborate setting of the dining-room table. So Philip ate his solitary dinners and breakfast in his room, with only his loneliness for company, and his books. His tutor arrived in the morning, and they went together to the library, and then, after the tutor’s departure, the long and empty day followed. The boy tried to enliven his life by walks, but the month was raging with sleet and wind, and he dared not exert himself or expose himself after his influenza. So he sat alone, in silence, listening to the muffled striking of the clock in the hall, hearing the whispers of the servants, catching a muted footstep going in or out of the sickroom.

  Dorothea acquired a reluctant respect for her sister-in-law in these sad days. For Amalie had devoted herself almost with fanaticism to the care of Mr. Lindsey. Nothing was too hard, too laborious, too unpleasant, to do for him. It was she who lifted his tormented body in her arms while Dorothea or a maid adjusted his bedding. It was she who seemed tireless and insisted upon the night vigil. The dim light in the window was like a faint yellow moon through the dark hours, expiring only when the red and angry sun stared sullenly and briefly through the rolling clouds.

  Jerome, unable to sleep, often walked about the grounds. Very often, he would stand for a long time beneath his father’s window and watch the silent shadow of Amalie moving between him and the lamp. He waited for that shadow; he saw the blurred outline of her head, her firm breasts, her slender waist. Sometimes, when the dawn came up, he saw her pale face, briefly, staring through the window at the sky, just before she pulled the draperies closed. She never glanced down, but stood only for a moment or two, the dull red light of the rising sun glowing in the sockets of her sunken eyes, or lying, an instant or two, on her white cheek. But long after she had disappeared, Jerome stood there, huddled in his greatcoat, watching the windows.

  After ten o’clock, Jerome and Alfred were permitted to enter the sickroom for a silent few minutes with Mr. Lindsey. Dorothea would be in charge then, gaunt and more grim than ever, rocking by the fire over her knitting, or adjusting something in the room. Mr. Lindsey, sleeping or only half-conscious, would lie high on his pillows, breathing with choking and sighing sounds. He gave no sign that he was aware of the t
wo men standing at the foot of his bed. Amalie had retired to her room, to sleep fitfully until evening.

  Alfred often stole into the bedroom he shared with his wife, creeping in soundlessly. He would stand beside the bed, looking down at Amalie’s exhausted and haggard face, lost in sleep, and all the passion and love he had for her stood reverently and gratefully in his tired eyes. Sometimes she would murmur faintly and he would bend over her hopefully, wishing that she might speak his name. But the sound was blurred, full of weariness. When she would awaken at evening, on the entry of a maid with a tray for herself and Alfred, she would find that he had filled a vase on the bed table with fresh roses. She was so weary that she could not keep the tears from her eyes, and when he entered the room she would hold out her arms to him speechlessly and sigh when he held her strongly to him, as if seeking a measure of his own reassuring strength to sustain her. That short hour or two they had alone was infinitely sweet to both of them, though they could speak of nothing but the sick man. Then Amalie must dress and take up her duties again, and Alfred would not be able to talk to her until the next night.

  In later years he never forgot those hours, and never was he able to quell the leaping of his heart and the mingled sorrow and suffering that came with remembrance.

  Mr. Lindsey survived the crucial week. On the tenth day, he smiled at Amalie during the night and whispered a word of gratitude. On the eleventh day, Alfred and Jerome returned to the Bank. For the first, and the last, time in many years they felt a friendship for each other, born of their mutual anxiety and fear. They talked together with more ease and understanding, and briefly, at least, there was accord between them.