Mr. Lindsey heard the sigh. He regarded Amalie with sudden concentration. How had it escaped him, consciously, that she was so pale and thin, so subdued and listless these days? He was startled into deep anxiety by what he saw. Where had the splendor and power of Amalie gone? He had always thought of her as a wild young mare, standing on a hilltop, wise but passionate, trembling with a sense of delicious adventure, confident and dauntless. He recalled now that he never heard her laugh; that she had become a ghostlike presence in his house, her voice low and without accent. He remembered, vaguely, that Dorothea had reluctantly praised Amalie’s devotion to household duties, her new “common sense.” (Dorothea had discovered that Amalie did not attempt to replace her, that she was content to be an industrious and younger inferior, and for this Dorothea had been immeasurably grateful. She, Dorothea, had unbent so far as to complain, apprehensively, of the addition of Miss Sally Tayntor to the household, Sally who would most probably not be so amenable and so “sensible.”)
Mr. Lindsey knew that Amalie was not in the least popular with the matrons of Riversend, but she had failed to arouse in them the antagonism and dislike they had so vigorously expected. They had armed themselves against her, and then had found that she carried no arms of her own, and made no hostile gestures. They were beginning to accept her in the pattern of their quiet days, and even to patronize her with some kindness. All her flamboyance, her defiant laughter, her sharp comments, had gone. She was “settling down,” and a good thing, too. In time, they said, she might be quite acceptable, for she was probably realizing, now, her good fortune and the full extent of her base background and lack of advantages.
Mr. Lindsey, recalling all this with a kind of angry alarm, said to himself: What has happened to Amalie? Has she discovered that her bargain was too much for her? But no, Amalie, he knew, was not ingenuous. She had long known the full extent of her bargain. When with Alfred, she was all gentleness and compliance, and her few smiles were reserved for him. If he was in her vicinity, she always managed to be near him, putting her hand into his, as if for protection. It was evident that she had no distaste for him, but a kind of touching fondness. But Mr. Lindsey had often caught her expression as she looked at her husband. He had seen a kind of fear there, a humility, a vague despair. However, all these things had been observed by him subconsciously; only now did they rush strongly to his conscious mind.
Was she bored by her quiet life in this backwater? It was more than that. Did she find existence without vitality and excitement? There had always been a subdued vivacity about her, a suppressed ardor, as if she were too filled with an awareness of being. But now this terrible melancholy had fallen on her like a flat and crushing tombstone, and she moved faintly and sluggishly under it in blind and mechanical helplessness.
He knew Amalie too well to be deluded that she wished she had not made this bargain, or that she had a longing to return to the perilous and miserable existence which had been hers before she had married Alfred. It was something else which had taken the light and brilliance from her face, which had taken the color from her eyes, and made her lips white and languid, her step slow and heavy, her voice almost feeble.
For a moment he had a certain thought. But no, women in that “condition” involuntarily bloomed, became rosier and rounder. It was some sickness of soul that possessed Amalie, some hidden but murdering grief.
His alarm grew. Something had happened to this girl, whom he loved more than he had ever loved his daughter. Something had taken life from her, had replaced it with a silent and soft-footed deadness. Perhaps some relative had died, whom she had loved? But no, she had none; this he knew. What could have happened to her in this quiet and orderly house, where even Dorothea had become her harsh and reticent friend, where he and Alfred and Philip adored her, where Jerome treated her with the casual fondness of a relative? What had someone, something, done to her?
He said: “Amalie. Is there something wrong? You do not look well. How stupid of me not to have seen it before!”
He noticed, with his sharpened awareness, how slowly and heavily she lifted her head, on which the black thick hair had lost its brightness. She was smiling at him now, but his tired heart quickened with concern when he saw that her eyes were only full of dull pain. “Please do not alarm yourself, dear Uncle William,” she said softly. “It is just that—that the spring weather, so warm, is tiring me.”
“You have not been well since I was ill!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “It was too much for you.” But he did not believe it.
“I was so very anxious about you,” she said, and his quick ear caught her evasiveness.
He leaned back in his chair and was silent. Philip, in his turn, regarded his stepmother with loving concern. His hand stole involuntarily to her, and she took it, pressing it, smiling reassuringly at him.
Mr. Lindsey said: “Nothing ever happens here. You need young people, young women, Amalie. It will be good for you when Jerome marries Sally, and brings her here. You are almost of an age.” He smiled, momentarily forgetting his anxiety. “It will be pleasant to hear children running about these quiet rooms of ours.”
Amalie’s thin fingers tightened about the book. The pinched look deepened about her mouth.
Mr. Lindsey returned his attention to her. “Is it not possible that you could accompany Philip and me to Saratoga, Amalie? Of course, you do not have arthritis, like us old people,” and he gave Philip a gentle smile. “But the waters might do you good.”
“No, it would not be fair to Dorothea, to leave her with—everything,” said Amalie, in her dull voice. “Besides,” and she smiled, herself, “I have already suggested it to Alfred. I have pointed out to him that when he leaves you and Philip in Saratoga, and goes on to his business in New York, I should love to go with him. But he believes, and wisely, that I should remain here.” And now a dim flush crept over her face, rose to her forehead, and she thought to herself: When he returns, I will end the farce. When he returns, I shall have recovered a little of my strength and my reason, please God. I shall have had time for perspective.
Mr. Lindsey saw the flush, and he thought it natural resentment against a domineering husband. But he wisely said nothing, only gazed at Amalie with increasing concern.
The radiant sun sloped towards the western hills, and a more mellow light, faintly misted, blew over the valley below. The three on the terrace could hear the gardeners, clipping and pruning. They could smell the lilacs, the wild cherry and apple blossoms, the scent of the rich green earth. The upper windows of the house turned slowly to fire.
They heard carriage wheels on the gravelled drive, the sound of Alfred’s and Jerome’s voices. Then the two gentlemen came around the side of the house and greeted them pleasantly.
“A lovely day,” said Alfred, taking off his hat and lifting his head to the quickening breeze.
“I have just been saying to Alfred that work is a crime when the weather is good,” said Jerome, glancing casually at the three with an affable smile.
Alfred, the humorless, suddenly became censorious. “A man must work to live,” he said sententiously. And frowned. He and Jerome had reached quite an accord since Mr. Lindsey’s illness, and he earnestly hoped that his cousin was not about to relapse into incorrigibility and his old unpredictable heresies.
Jerome laughed. “But if a man works constantly to live, then his life is worth nothing.” He threw himself down on the grass and stared agreeably at the sky. “We need a new educating influence in America. Americans should be taught that man cannot live by bread alone. They should be taught that work is a thing to be done in as few hours as possible, and that the world is full of amazing wonders and joys to be savored only in long periods of leisure, that the universe of the mind cannot be invaded by an exhausted man who has wasted the substance of his life over a machine or a desk.”
He looked, with his dark and mocking smile, at the others. His eye touched Amalie, lingered a moment, turned away. Mr. Lindsey smiled in retur
n. “I almost agree with you, Jerome.”
But Alfred said sternly: “Man was made for work. Civilization is the result of work. Do you suggest we return to barbarism, Jerome?” He did not sit down, but stood stiffly near his wife.
Jerome said meditatively: “The Spartans, who were all for work, and who labored from sunrise to sunup, never created a noble statue or wrote a poem or founded a religion of love and beauty and joy. They produced only soldiers. It was the Athenians, who gathered for hours in the shade of colonnades, and in the ’porticos of temples, who founded life-giving philosophies, who wrote immortal poems and plays, and who built the altar to the Unknown God.”
He glanced up at his father, who returned his look gravely and eagerly. Jerome touched the shawl that covered his father’s knee.
“All nonsense,” said Alfred, frowning. “I do not know about the past, but I do know that if America is to be built up to her proper position as a leader among nations, we must all work, and work hard. After all, work is the salvation of man,” he added.
“Sparta,” said Jerome softly, “is forgotten, and her soldiers, too. But Athens lives forever.”
He got to his feet, lightly and restlessly. He hardly limped any more. There was a kind of feverish buoyancy about him these days. Mr. Lindsey found himself studying his son with his new acuteness. Was he imagining things about Jerome also? Was it really true that Jerome had aged much, had become haggard and febrile? He said: “Are you tired, Jerome?”
“Oh, I think I was born tired,” laughed his son. “I am especially weary when I waste my time working. Not,” he added, “that I do not understand the importance of work!” And he glanced at Alfred maliciously.
“How is the Bank?” asked Mr. Lindsey.
“Splendid.” It was Alfred who replied, and now his pale strong face lighted. He hesitated, then continued: “Jerome is doing remarkably well. I feel I shall leave the Bank in good hands, when I go to New York tomorrow.” His voice became warmer, and he gave his cousin a reserved smile, to which Jerome responded with a deep bow.
“We are all packed, Papa,” said Philip timidly.
Alfred turned his attention to his son. “Are you, Philip?” he asked, in a kindly tone, and with his usual shadowed but affectionate look. “I do hope you and your—your grandpa will benefit from the waters. I will return for you in two weeks, and I hope to see both of you very rosy and fat.”
He held out his hand to his wife, and she took it. She stood beside him for a moment, as he put his arm about her. Her head was bent. Jerome studied them intently, from the background, and his face was impassive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It had been very warm during the day. But at noon the sun became curiously brazen yet dull. A little later the sky turned saffron, and a yellowish light, ominous and appallingly silent, lay over the hills and the valley.
That silence had swallowed up in a yellow vortex even the smallest sound. It was Sunday, but the bells from the valley churches were not heard at Hilltop. Everything was muffled. By two o’clock the last servant had gone, Dorothea graciously allowing them an extra holiday (which she rigorously hoped would be devoted to pious pursuits in the valley churches and Sunday schools) because of the absence of three members of the family. Shortly after two, in the wake of the servants, she called for the family carriage for herself. Her best friend, the wife of one of the local lawyers, had been taken seriously ill, and Dorothea intended to spend the rest of the day, and possibly the whole evening, with her. As she prepared to leave, anxiously glancing at the saffron sky, she complained of Jerome’s inconsiderateness. He might have waited for her in the small buggy, and thus have given Joe, the coachman, an earlier start on his unexpected holiday. But no, he must be off to see that young minx, Sally Tayntor, at a very early hour, and she, Dorothea, must lumber down into the valley in this heavy and stately vehicle. Now Joe must wait for her, within call, unless Jerome could be induced to bring his sister back when she desired.
“I shall send a message to him,” she said, threateningly, to Amalie. “I do wish, my dear, that you would come with me. It would be a change for you.”
“No, please,” said Amalie. “I—I have a headache. It must be the weather.” At the very thought of any exertion, a hideous apathy would come over her, and she would feel exhausted. “I intend to nap this afternoon. Will you return in time for late supper?”
“I am afraid not.” Dorothea irritably adjusted her bonnet with a mittened hand. “But I understand that a cold luncheon has been set out for you.” She paused. “I do not quite like it that you will be here all alone, with not even a single servant, unless you can call old Hiram in the barns any protection.”
“I do not need protection,” said Amalie, smiling faintly. “Please do not concern yourself with me, Dorothea. I shall be asleep in half an hour.”
Dorothea considered, staring at the girl fixedly. She certainly seemed vaporous. Dorothea’s sense of duty stirred uneasily. If only Jerome were here, he might be some slight protection. Dorothea lived in a world where everyone needed “protecting,” in one form or another, from the vague terrors which stalked life incessantly. She regretted that she had given the servants a holiday. Perhaps it might be possible to find one below, and send him or her back immediately. That was hardly possible, however, she thought, ruefully. Servants had a way of disappearing, and she suspected that the disappearances boded no good. She looked at the sky again. It had a very strange look, indeed. “There will be a storm,” she said hesitatingly. “I almost feel I ought not to go.”
But at that moment the sun came out from behind the yellow vapor and threw a cataract of strong and golden light over the whole landscape. That decided Dorothea. She said: “I will try to return as soon as possible. Rest, if you can. You are not looking very well.”
She hesitated again. Then she kissed Amalie’s cheek with her dry lips. With her usual good sense, she had become reconciled to the thought of Amalie as Alfred’s wife. She wasted no time in weak repinings or sadnesses. The fact accomplished demanded readjustment in one’s mind, and she had made the readjustment. She saw only that Alfred was happy, that Amalie was amenable and gave no trouble, that she had “settled” into a pattern of wifely duty, that she was beloved of Mr. Lindsey and Philip, and that she had removed considerable of the burden of the household from Dorothea’s shoulders. It was far more than she could ever have expected, thought Dorothea, and she was not ungrateful.
She drove off in the carriage. The top was down, but Dorothea hoisted her black parasol over her head. Amalie watched her go.
She went outside and stood on the terrace near the front door. She saw the sinister golden light on the hills, whose very May greenness had been dimmed. She saw the brazen shadow of the sun through the citron-colored clouds. The valley floated in an ochre mist. The grass at her feet had a tawny overtone; the shadows under the spruces and the pines and the elms were jaundiced. The gray stone walls reflected amber, as did the windows. The strangeness of the spectacle awed Amalie, increased, as it was, by the overpowering silence, the absence of the slightest wind. The trees and shrubs stood in lemonish passivity. No sound came from the horses in the stables, or from the fowl. It was as if life had retreated, flying from something ominous which was about to occur.
She felt the heat of the oppressive air heavy on her flesh. She took a languid step or two, then halted. Her instincts stirred apprehensively. It was cooler in the house, she remembered. She went in, closed the oaken door behind her, stood in the dusk of the hall. At least the horrible yellow tint was absent here. She wandered into the music room, then shivered. Every window was a painting of ochre desolation hung upon the dim walls. How terrible it is, she thought vaguely. We shall have a storm. The weather is unseasonable.
The old familiar lassitude was creeping over her again, the old dreadful weight dragging at her heart. She could hardly move over the polished floor of the music room; it was as if she were carrying an immense burden on her shoulders. Her
sprigged voile dress scratched her shoulders and arms; her hair felt too ponderous on her aching neck. Her feet shuffled in their passage. She pushed a lock of hair from her forehead, and said aloud: “I am so tired.”
She stood beside the piano and looked down at the keys glimmering with pale ivory in the deepening dusk of the lonely room. She sat down; her hands lay on the piano soundlessly. She stared before her.
I cannot endure it, she thought simply. I shall have to go away. Forever. Oh, Alfred, Alfred. What have I done to you? You never deserved this. Where shall I go? What shall I do? Where can I hide? If only I could die. I am a coward, because I can never forget. It is always with me.
She put her hands suddenly over her eyes. She heard the sound of her own weeping, desolate and abandoned. She leaned her head against the piano and her tears rolled over the dark wood. She felt the silence and the immensity of the house closing in about her, and in her weeping there was the sound of helpless chained terror, the sound of nightmare.
After a little she was quiet, but the tears still gushed from her eyes in the silence of an unutterable grief. She knew there was no escape; she could not leave Alfred, who loved her, and his uncle, and his son, who trusted her, and loved her also. She had nowhere to go; there was none who would give her shelter. She had no money, save what Alfred gave her. She trembled with the urge for flight, but there was no spot on earth where she could live in peace, or hide.
She thought of the long life before her, and knew no hope that her present agony would subside in those years to come. How could she endure it, to see him every day, to see him with Sally, to hear his voice, catch his disinterested eye, listen to his laugh and the sound of his footsteps which would never come to her? How could she endure to be Alfred’s wife, Alfred who had no fault and no folly, except the fault and the folly of having wanted her? She tried, as she had tried so often before, to picture the kindness in his eyes for her, the tenderness, the thoughtfulness. And then she could only shiver and cry out feebly, as if sick with torment.