He watched Amalie drive away, and returned to his quiet brick house, shaking his head. Yes, he must have a talk with Alfred, and immediately upon the latter’s arrival home. He felt quite angry about Dorothea. Was that pestilential woman annoying the poor girl? That could hardly be true, for he was aware that Amalie had a very vital character and no vulnerabilities.
Amalie allowed the horse to draw the buggy home without any direction on her part. Indeed, she was incapable of control. Her thoughts drifted across her mind like huge tormented shapes of anguish. She found no consolation or hope anywhere, but only desolation and crushing sorrow. Her naturally resolute character had always been sustained by a kind of single-hearted and guiltless courage, by the knowledge of her own peculiar integrity. But now both courage and integrity had gone. There was nothing left but grief and a despairing remorse.
I have no one to blame, not even Jerome, she thought. I knew, the first night I saw him, that we belonged to each other. He, at least, was honest enough to accept that. He asked me to go away with him, before I married Alfred. I knew that I could make him marry me; a woman always knows that. But—he had no money, no immediate prospects. So I am more guilty than he. Had I believed, then, that his father might eventually forgive him for running off with me, I should have gone. But I was too afraid of poverty and misery and uncertainty. I was a coward. We pay more, in the end, for our cowardice than we do for our crimes.
I cannot be a coward now. If there is any honor to be saved from all this, then I must not be a coward.
But in spite of this resolution, she could look at the future only with despair. And the despair was not solely for herself but in the main for Jerome. In spite of what he had said, she knew that his interest in the Bank was not a casual or expedient thing. His love for his father, too, was not to be overlooked. When she went away with him, his life here would be ended, and he would never see his father again.
How can I make it up to him? she thought, with intense suffering. How can I make him finally believe that I was worth the abandoning of his whole life, and of Mr. Lindsey? Will he come to hate me?
At this, she felt an overwhelming torment that was unendurable. The whole warm summer landscape about her dissolved as if seen under water. She had only one alternative: to run away alone, secretly, with just a note to Alfred that she had decided that her life had become too dull for her taste, and begging him to forgive her and not to try to find her. Jerome, then, and all his family, would continue their lives in peace, and eventually, she would be forgotten, the mistake of her first coming not remembered.
They will forget me, she thought. Alfred will be dreadfully hurt. But he, too, in time, will forget me, and as soon as he can. Mr. Lindsey will not understand. But he will forgive and forget me, also. And Jerome—he will marry Sally, dismissing me as a fool. But he will forget, perhaps more quickly than the others.
But now her torment became truly unbearable. She did not have the courage to leave Jerome. At least, not yet. Give me a week or two more, she prayed. Just a few more days to see him and hear his voice. I know I am cowardly and weak. But I must have just this little more time.
The buggy was climbing the slopes now. Amalie lifted her aching eyes to Hilltop, beaming in the late afternoon sun, the shadow of the trees mottling its warm gray walls. How impregnable and kind it was, how secure and welcoming! She could not bring misery and shame to that house. She must go away. She was weeping more quietly now, and her tears stopped as her determination strengthened. It was much better for one to suffer mortally, than several. She had no illusions that Jerome would speak, after she had gone. She knew him too well. He was too selfish, too expedient, too unscrupulous. He was, moreover, a realist.
She needed only this one contemptuous thought, this one embittered reflection, to make her resolution firm. She was only human, however, and her knowledge that Jerome would forget her easily, shrugging any memory of her aside, perhaps with gratitude and relief, filled her with wild anger. She remembered his uneasy coldness when she had entered his office, his furtive glances at the doors, his careful withdrawal. She would not remember anything else. She needed this to sustain her.
She left the buggy at the stable. She discovered that a terrible weakness had come over her, and every step towards the house was made by a supreme effort. She could hardly push open the heavy oaken door, and the mild exertion made her heart beat suffocatingly in her throat. The hall was warm and dim as the door closed behind her, and silent. It seemed that the house slept. The library door was open, and she saw the sunlight striking on the dim red-and-blue morocco of the books on the shelves and lying in long bent fingers on the dark carpet. She could hear the rustling of trees near the French windows, the distant clucking of drowsy fowl. All else was wrapped in shining silence.
Amalie stood at the foot of the oaken staircase. She had not realized how much she had come to love this strong house, its peace and security, its fastness and protection for her whose life had been so beset by poverty and hopelessness. Stifled, torn again by sorrow, she unloosened her bonnet strings, and let her bonnet fall from her hand. After tomorrow, perhaps, she would never see this house again, never feel its quiet walls behind her, never sleep again in an unthreatened bed. Where shall I go? she thought numbly. What shall I do?
She looked up the stairway, waiting warmly in the dusk. She saw the sunlit corridor at the top. She began to climb, and every step was agony, for she was overcome with a final weakness. The bonnet trailed by its ribbons, which she held in her hand. Her head was bent. She felt the thickness and richness of the carpet under her feet. She was already an exile, already an intruder who had no right in this house.
The door of her room was closed. She pushed it open with a hand which had lost its strength. Dorothea sat there, near the window, her big black-clad arms folded across her grim breast. Amalie saw her mouth, its bitter hatred, and its infuriated knowledge. She saw Dorothea’s eyes, burning in her gray, gaunt face under the fluted cap.
Amalie, on the threshold, did not move. She could only say to herself: She knows. She felt the floor moving and dipping under her feet, the thickening of her throat, and could hear her own loud, short breath.
“Where have you been?” said Dorothea, and even in the half-fainting condition that was overwhelming Amalie, Dorothea’s voice sounded strangely quiet to her.
She made herself close the door behind her and advance towards her dresser. She put down the bottle which Dr. Hawley had given her. And now she had gone beyond any feeling at all, any pain or terror. She kept her hand on the bottle, and faced the other woman, her face deathly white and calm.
“I have been to see Dr. Hawley. He gave me this tonic.” Her voice was expressionless and dull, but every word had been like a knife in her throat.
She knew that Dorothea was beside herself and could not restrain her fury and hatred very much longer. The two women regarded each other in a sudden and terrible silence.
Then Dorothea said, still very quietly: “Did you see—him?”
Amalie could not speak. Her fingers tightened about the bottle. She leaned back against the dresser, for her feet had begun to slide out from beneath her.
Dorothea moved very slightly, but that motion revealed the frenzied state of her mind even more than a violent gesture would have done.
“So you did see him. You sneaked away from this honorable house while I slept. You ran away—to see him. Shameless, abandoned woman.” Her voice did not rise. It had an uninflected, even a slow and thoughtful quality, which was extraordinarily frightening, like the voice of madness.
Dorothea lifted her arm stiffly and pointed her finger at Amalie. “I have known about you two for a long time. I have tried to hide my knowledge—for Alfred’s sake.” Her voice broke now, cracked with savage pain. “I have kept silence—for his sake. It was my plan to keep this silence, unless you made it impossible.” She paused. “You have made it impossible.”
Even after she had finished, her finger still
pointed inexorably at Amalie. It was as if she had no volition to drop her hand, as if it had become frozen in its attitude of denunciation and she possessed no further power over it.
Amalie said, softly: “I am going away—alone. Tomorrow. None of you need ever see me again.” She closed her eyes suddenly, for she could not bear to look at the hand extended against her.
And then she heard Dorothea say, as from a great distance: “You believe you can run away, like the vile coward you are, and leave your accomplice to face the results of his crime—alone?”
Amalie did not open her eyes. She said faintly: “Alfred—need never know. You have only to keep your silence. When I am gone, you can all forget me. Jerome will never speak.” She waited, then she added: “After all, he is your brother.”
She heard, a slight rustling movement. But it was some moments before she could lift her eyelids. She might have started back if the dresser had not prevented her, for Dorothea was standing close to her now, looking at her with an almost inhuman hatred and gloating.
“No,” said Dorothea, “he is no longer my brother. So, you thought you might save him, leave him here in peace, to laugh secretly at Alfred! No, no, my dear woman. He is not going to escape the punishment of his villainy.” And she shook her head with a stony and malevolent amusement. Amalie saw her eyes, and she thought, with a quick and leaping terror: She is insane! She fell back against the dresser until the back of her head almost touched the mirror, over the gilt and crystal bottles. A desperate panic seized her. Her eye darted to the door.
Dorothea reached out and grasped her arm. She shook her head violently, smiling.
“I cannot prevent your going. But—I can tell Alfred and my father. Your lover will not dare remain here, for he will know that Alfred will kill him. Go, if you wish. Run away, hide. But if he remains, you will be guilty of more than adultery. You will be guilty of murder.”
Her iron fingers crushed Amalie’s flesh. They stared into each other’s eyes.
“Your father,” whispered Amalie.
Dorothea’s face tightened malignantly. “My father!” The grip on Amalie’s arm had become agonizing. “Do you think I care for anybody but Alfred?” And now her look was wilder, more malefic than ever. “I have never cared for anybody, in all my life, but Alfred. When he married that young fool who died, I thought there was nothing left for me to live for. When she was laid in her grave, I was happy. I thanked God.” There was something obscene, now, in her low voice, something chuckling and delighted. “I knew that in time he would realize that we loved each other—”
In spite of her terror, in spite of her growing faintness, Amalie was astounded, revolted and incredulous. She listened to the sudden spilling torrent of Dorothea’s passion, the cataract of her thin, shrill words. She could not look away from the jerking light in the demented eyes. She wanted to put her hands over her ears, but they were nerveless with shock.
Then Dorothea shook the aching arm she held until Amalie could hardly restrain a loud cry of pain. She felt Dorothea’s, breath in her face.
“And then,” cried Dorothea, “you came! You indecent and disgusting creature! You seduced him into marriage with you; you plotted to ruin and destroy him! You took him from me, and now you think you can disgrace him forever, without penalty to yourself! But you fail to reckon with me!”
She shook Amalie with even more violence, and Amalie had no strength with which to resist her.
“You took away my life! You took all hope from me! You accepted the name of a good and noble man and besmirched it! It was not enough for you, all he had given you. You must betray him behind his back and laugh at him in secret. But you fail to reckon with me!”
Sheer terror now gave Amalie the force to enable her to wrench her arm from Dorothea’s grasp. She sidled along the edge of the bureau. She exclaimed, watching Dorothea with enormous eyes as if their gaze might restrain her: “I am going away. I will go now. But, for God’s sake, don’t hurt Alfred more than he has already been hurt. What does it matter about Jerome now? If you—you ever cared for—Alfred, have pity on him now. Don’t tell him. Let him forget me.”
But Dorothea would not let her escape. She moved with her. She laughed aloud.
“No! I shall tell him everything, so he can do justice on that man, even if you are not here.”
Amalie stopped. She clutched the edge of the bureau with slipping hands.
She murmured: “You do not love him. You never loved him. You hated him, when he married the first time, and you hated him even more when he married me. You want to revenge yourself on him because he preferred other women to you: Can’t you see that? Can’t you be sorry? Can’t you have a little pity for him?”
Dorothea straightened as if she had become rigid. Then she lifted her hand and struck Amalie full in the face.
Amalie did not wince, did not cry out. She stood still, in absolute silence, and the whiteness of her cheek slowly reddened into the full fingerprints of Dorothea’s hand. There was no anguish, no terror, in her eyes now, which deepened to dark and glowing purple. She said clearly. “You have called me shameless and disgusting. But you are more shameless and disgusting than I. It is you who would ruin Alfred and break his heart, not I. And only out of vengeance and hatred.”
Dorothea lifted her hand again with a frantic gesture, as if she would strike Amalie down. But Amalie smiled contemptuously.
“Do not touch me again, Dorothea. For, if you do, you will be sorry.” Her hand closed on a candlestick on the bureau behind her. “And now you will listen to me. I have told you I will go away. But I shall remain until Alfred returns and until I have told him myself. I have a little more pity for him than you have, and I swear to you that if you denounce me before I have spoken to him first, I shall tell him of the scene in this room and what you have told me. You will never dare to speak to him again. He will know everything, and he will reproach you for having been the cause of his ultimate misery and pain, for he will know that but for you his suffering would have been less.”
She caught her breath. She regarded Dorothea with proud disgust. “Keep your silence. When I am gone, and forgotten, and he has divorced me, he will turn to you for comfort.”
Even in her madness, Dorothea heard. She stepped back. She stared at Amalie fixedly. Deep within her eyes the light of sanity, of shrewd calculation, of reflection, began to appear.
“And now,” said Amalie, sick to very death, “please go out of my room. Leave me alone. I—I am ill, I think. I want to rest.”
Still staring at her, Dorothea backed away slowly. She reached the door. She fumbled for it blindly. Then she went out, looking at Amalie to the very last until the door was closed.
Amalie stood against the bureau for a long time, unable to move for fear she would fall. Then she pushed herself to her feet. She went to her rosewood desk. She wrote calmly: “I have another plan. When Alfred returns I shall tell him, at an opportune time, that I find my life with him insupportable, and that it will mean unhappiness for us both if I remain with him. I shall tell you where you may find me, after a suitable period of waiting, when you are able to leave without suspicion. I can think of no better plan, and I am certain that upon reflection you will agree that this is best for all of us.”
She folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it. All her movements were without hurry. She held the envelope in her hand, then rose quietly and rang for a maid. She asked the maid to summon Jim. While she waited for Jerome’s valet she stood in the center of the room, staring at nothing, and thinking to herself: It is quite easy, if one refuses to think about anything.
Jim tapped softly on her door, and she went to it, composed and smiling. Without speaking, she gave him the envelope. He glanced at it quickly, then at the young woman. His simian face wrinkled, but he bowed and retreated.
When Amalie was alone again, she went to her bed and fell upon it, face down, her open eyes pressed into the pillow.
After a long while she hea
rd the dinner bell ring, but when she attempted to rise she found it impossible. All her fortitude was gone. She lay on the bed in a state of complete shock, unable to move, her breast hardly rising with her slow breath.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When Jerome returned from the Bank his acute sensibilities informed him, or he imagined they informed him, that there was something ominous in the air of the quiet house. He saw neither Amalie nor his sister. All the rooms were still and empty, filled with the warm glow of the sunset. The windows stood open, and breezes as soft as silk and as sweet as the blossoming earth blew through every corridor and door. Jerome, could hear the cook’s canaries singing prodigiously in the kitchen. Whistling thoughtfully, he went up the staircase to his room, looking down for a moment, on the second landing, at the deserted hall below, and listening to the ancient grandfather clock as it ticked loudly in the silence. A faint beam of light struck on its round and polished pendulum, which reflected the beam in golden intensity.
His door opened soundlessly as he approached it, and he saw that Jim was waiting for him, very sober and wrinkled. Something in the little man’s sober air prevented Jerome from greeting him affably. Suddenly alert, he closed the door behind him. Without speaking, Jim gave him Amalie’s letter.
Jerome held it in his hand, unopened. But he regarded Jim with penetration. Jim stared back at him somberly. Jerome frowned. He opened the letter, read it quickly. Then, as Jim watched him, Jerome deliberately tore the paper to small pieces, went to the cold hearth, dropped the tatters upon it, and carefully lighted the little pile with a struck match. He stood and watched it being reduced to safe ashes. He turned back to Jim with a bland smile, went to a chair, sat down and produced a cheroot. Jim came forward quickly and lit it for him. Jerome puffed tranquilly and studied his man amiably.