The dark days of January and February were wretched ones. Jerome went to New York alone, on business. He did not invite Amalie this time. On this journey, he also took his young son away to school.
“At least,” said he to Amalie, “you won’t have much opportunity to turn William against me.”
Amalie did not reply to this. She was very weary these days, sunken far into despondency and silence. She missed her boy. But she missed something else more urgent and passionate. She missed what she had believed was Jerome. It did not matter that the man of her imagination had never existed. She felt the loss as intensely as if he had died and a stranger had taken his place.
Though she knew that Jerome was as miserable as herself, she was powerless to do anything at all about it. She was too tired.
Mary was her comfort now, sweet, cool young Mary with her neutral voice, her eyes that never clouded for very long. Mary did not speak of that day in the dining-room when Jerome had lashed at his wife and daughter with such ugliness and fury. She did not speak of Dorothea. When Philip came, she greeted him with a brightening of her whole face, but her words were always calm and matter-of-fact. It seemed to Amalie that something strong and sure was ordering the household now. Something clean and practical was sweeping away cobwebs of wretchedness and darkness. Amalie would watch Mary and Philip together with a content she had not known for years.
Within a few days Jerome would return. Mary and Philip had decided that they must, tell him now of their plans for themselves. Mary showed no perturbation. She knew what she wanted. She had decided what to do. In a character of such clarity there could be no fear or apprehension. Sometimes Philip and Amalie caught themselves exchanging glances of rueful amusement and anxiety. But in spite of themselves they could not help but contract some of Mary’s decisiveness and tranquillity. She almost deceived them into believing that Jerome would receive the news placidly.
After all, Amalie would think, as she lay alone in the night, Philip has been Jerome’s best friend, his only real confidant. They understand each other; there is a real affection between them. What objection could Jerome have to Philip? Years? Deformity? They were nothing. Jerome was subtle; he never saw these things in Philip. Money? Philip had plenty of that, and would have more.
But there was Alfred. It was Alfred that Jerome could never overlook. Amalie knew that Jerome thought of his cousin each time he saw his scars in the mirror. At these times Amalie found that she could not blame Jerome too much. Had Alfred faced him, man to man, that frightful day in the library at Hilltop, had they struck equal blows, then Jerome might have forgotten. But Alfred had not given Jerome a chance; he had lifted his cane against him as a man lifts a cane against a loathsome dog. He had beaten Jerome down, as a man would beat down that dog.
It was very strange. Alfred had had the most intolerable provocation. Jerome had been victorious in his betrayal. Yet Amalie, with wondering perverseness, understood that in some way Jerome had been wronged. It was very confusing.
On the day of the night when Jerome was to return, Amalie said to Mary: “Let us get it over with, child. I confess that I can’t stand this much longer.”
Mary smiled. “Dear Mama,” she said. “There is nothing to be afraid of. I am just going to tell Papa that I am to marry Philip, and soon. That is all.”
That is all. It was not so simple. Nearly half a century of hatred and animosity stood behind the girl’s unworried words. What could she understand of that?
With some irritable impatience, Amalie exclaimed: “Mary, sometimes you do speak like a child! Because you have had so little experience in living, you presume that there is no such experience. You have had only a small contact with human beings, and because your range is so limited, you naïvely believe, like a child, that the world is two-dimensional. You see only what you want; you cannot understand that there are imponderables which are powerful enough to deny you your desires.”
Mary regarded her straightly and quietly. “Mama,” she said, after a moment’s reflection, “I refuse to allow the ‘imponderables’ of others to hurt my life. Yes, it is simple, to me. I love Philip, and he loves me. Neither of us is responsible for anything that happened to you, or to Uncle Alfred, or to Papa. I—we—aren’t going to let what happened destroy our own happiness. The very idea is not sensible! If anyone is hurt, it is not our fault.” Her eyes became more penetrating, a little hard. “You do not object to Philip marrying me, Mama. Nor, I know, does Uncle Alfred. Who, then? Papa? I don’t know whether he will. But if he does object, it really does not matter to us. He won’t be permitted to interfere with our lives.” She added: “He did not let anyone interfere with his.”
Amalie had long ago begun to believe that she was invariably seduced by logic. So she listened intently to what Mary was saying.
The girl continued: “It seems to me that too many people allow ‘imponderables’ to thwart them. And they are always the ‘imponderables’ of others! The thing to do is to look at the problem simply.”
Amalie said: “No matter who is hurt? That is a ruthless point of view, Mary.”
But Mary replied calmly: “It may be ruthless, but I think it is sensible. I don’t believe anyone should take happiness at the expense of another human being. No. But my marrying Philip will not destroy Papa’s happiness, nor injure him, nor wound him. Nor has he the right to demand that I let my own happiness go in order that he may enjoy to the end of his life a feud of his own making. No one has the right to interfere with the peace and happiness of anyone else, just for his own selfish reasons and prejudices. That is a crime.”
“Suppose that your father disowns you for marrying Philip?” asked Amalie thoughtfully.
Mary gestured slightly with her narrow hands and smiled. “I doubt that he will. But if he does, he will lose more than I. I’ll feel very sorry for him.”
She left the room to put on her coat and hat for a walk in the shining cold. Amalie was left alone by the library fire. The worst thing about being logical, she thought wryly, was that one ended up in confusion. One saw too many sides. She respected Mary’s clean ruthlessness, but it was ruthlessness just the same. She also admitted that Mary had a right to her own life and her own happiness. But did she not owe something to her parents?
There is something to be said for simplicity of purpose, Amalie continued to herself. Perhaps that is what has been wrong with me: I never had simplicity of purpose because I never really knew what I wanted. I began in a muddle, and I am ending up in a muddle. Jerome and I were ruthless. But it was a murky ruthlessness. At least Mary is clean and sharp like a knife blade. And I am quite certain that she would never be cruel, or helplessly brutal, or devious. As we were. Perhaps there is something to be said in favor of single-mindedness.
When Mary returned to the library, clad in a red merino frock that was short to the ankles, for walking, and in her black seal coat and round hat, Amalie held out her hand to her with tender impulsiveness. Mary kissed her calmly. She disliked all impetuousnesses, especially those based on sentimentality. She pulled up her gloves and smiled composedly. “It is such a nice afternoon for a walk. I am taking one of the dogs.”
“Mary,” said Amalie, “you are quite right, my darling. Take what happiness you can. Don’t grow murky or confused. If you do, you might become a cruel woman, helplessly cruel.”
Of course, thought Amalie, the girl was too young and inexperienced to understand. But Mary was regarding her mother with serious thoughtfulness. Then she nodded her head slowly. “Sometimes one can’t help being cruel,” she said. “Sometimes life can be so crushing that, to rescue one’s self, one must be cruel.”
Amalie went to the window to watch her daughter go romping down the hill with a cavorting dog. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her heart with aching gratitude.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Jerome returned home in much improved spirits. He had brought Amalie a beautiful cameo brooch from New York, and Mary an ermine jacket, a muff and a s
mall bonnet to match.
He greeted his wife with that lightness and geniality which she had come to know as his reactions to an uneasy conscience. And acting subconsciously on the principle of feeding a condemned man his favorite dishes, she had ordered an elaborate dinner for him. Jerome looked at them quizzically. “Is this just a welcome home, or am I expected to give something, or to overlook something?” he asked, as he began to carve the stuffed goose.
Amalie colored, but Mary smiled affectionately. “All of them, Papa,” she replied, with placid composure.
Jerome paused with the knife in his hand, then he began to laugh. He put down the knife, and reached over to Mary to pinch her cheek. “At any rate, I can be sure that anything you want would be harmless, my pet,” he said. “What do you wish to exploit me for this time?”
Amalie glanced at Mary, but the girl was still placid. “I suggest we enjoy our dinner first,” she said. For a moment her eyes softened almost regretfully as she looked at her father. She patted Jerome’s hand. At that maternal gesture, he was flattered and much amused, and tried to catch Amalie’s eye for a smile. But Amalie was playing with the stem of her wineglass.
Jerome, in high good humor, relayed messages for Amalie and Mary from William. “The boy settled down in his school like a caterpillar in its cocoon. When I finally left he was already bullying a few other boys. And I was always afraid he had a streak of timidity in him! He isn’t like my father. He isn’t like me, or like you, Amalie. Who, then?”
“Aunt Dorothea,” suggested Mary, tranquilly.
How tactless! thought Amalie. But to her surprise, Jerome was smiling. “How could you know?” he asked Mary, indulgently. Then he added: “By God, my pet, I think you are right! I was always puzzled by a certain familiarity—There must have been a brigand or something like that in the family tree.”
Amalie was greatly surprised. This time Jerome had not been angered by the reference to his sister, but only amused as he admitted the resemblance between Dorothea and young William. Then, he had always secretly admired Dorothea! In spite of the incompatibility and the resentment and suspicion and hatred! Why had he admired her for her indomitable arrogance and inflexible character? Because there was a lack of these traits in himself? Again Amalie felt a sad pity and tenderness for him.
Jerome was speaking of his visit to Jay Regan and his other friends. He had dined with the Governor. His women listened with unusual and attentive politeness.
“There is something which Philip wished me to do in New York,” said Jerome. “I thought he might be here tonight. I wrote him when I should be home.”
Mary said smoothly: “He couldn’t come tonight, Papa. He was very sorry.”
“I am, too,” said Jerome. “And disappointed.”
Mary glanced at her mother. She said: “You are very fond of Philip, aren’t you, Papa?”
“He and my father are the only men I ever trusted,” he replied, and his voice was gentle. “The same integrity, the same calm logic and subtlety. One can rely upon Philip, trust him implicitly. I miss him tonight, I have a lot to tell him.”
“You never find him distasteful—in any way?” asked Mary.
Jerome lifted his head and frowned at his daughter. “You mean his deformity? I did not think you so trivial, Mary! I am surprised at you. Philip is a man in every fine sense of the word. But then, you are young, and given to putting too much stress on externals. I never notice anything about Philip but his character.”
Amalie put down her fork and listened with painful attention. Something like a sigh came from her. Again her eyes met Mary’s.
Mary said meekly: “You are quite right. Papa. Perhaps I am trivial. I almost forgot: I have a message for you from Philip. And I’d like to give it to you alone. If Mama does not mind?”
Amalie said, almost hysterically: “Oh, I do not mind in the least, Mary! I am sure it is private.”
“I can’t imagine any message from Philip which would exclude your mother,” Jerome rebuked his daughter.
“I am sure Philip meant no harm. It was just that he said it was somewhat—private. He said nothing about Mama.”
“How single-minded you are, pet,” said Jerome. “Because he did not specifically mention your Mama being present, you concluded he did not wish her to be present. You have a rigorous mentality, Mary.”
“My New England conscience,” suggested Mary. “So after dinner could you come into my room, Papa, and listen to the message Philip sent you?”
Jerome was pleased. Mary had not invited him to her “private consultations” for a long time. He stared at his daughter with deep love. He gave Amalie a look which was compounded of smugness, satisfaction, and almost childish triumph. Amalie sighed, smiled faintly. She touched her forehead with her crushed handkerchief.
Jerome did not notice that his wife ate hardly a morsel of the good dinner she had ordered for him. But Mary, Amalie observed, ate with her customary good appetite. Could anything shake the child very much? Perhaps. But probably it would not destroy her appreciation of food. Was this because of a lack of sensibility, or because nothing could divert Mary from any purpose she had decided upon? Almost enviously, Amalie decided it was the latter.
When the meal was over, Jerome followed Mary into her warm and pretty room. She drew a comfortable chair forward to the fire for him. She lighted his cigar daintily. He watched her with fondness. Her quiet dark-brown frock had a collar of Irish lace, and there was a touch of the same lace at slender wrists. Her pale smooth hair gleamed in the lamplight. Her long and delicate face was serene, her blue eyes were smiling and steady. Again, Jerome was struck by the singular resemblance between this young girl and his father. She bent her head in the old familiar way. Her broad, thin shoulders were set like her grandfather’s, in a straight, proud elegance. She is, thought Jerome, pure white granite, like him. His hand was a little unsteady as it held his cigar.
Mary seated herself near to him. She crossed her ankles, leaned back in the chair. The firelight struck her profile. Jerome experienced a slight dizziness. It was the profile of his father, somewhat more gently carved, somewhat smaller. His father, in his youth, might have been the image of Mary.
“You are so like your grandfather, my darling,” said Jerome.
“You tell me that so often, Papa,” replied Mary, unruffled.
“But you don’t quote,” he said. “My father always quoted.”
“Perhaps that is easier than finding words of one’s own,” Mary remarked. “Or perhaps when one is older, the thoughts of others are more easily remembered than one’s own thoughts. Or Grandfather may have been too reticent, or too cautious. When he quoted others, he put the blame, or the credit, squarely on dead men’s shoulders, and left himself free from censure, or from admiration. Grandfather must have been a very modest gentleman, or perhaps a somewhat timid one.”
Jerome was not sure he liked these remarks. But he was surprised at Mary’s shrewd insight. He considered what she had said. Then he observed, with reluctant surprise: “I almost believe my father was somewhat cowardly! But there, that is an uncharitable thought. Let us say, perhaps, that my father hid himself behind quotations.”
“That does not explain why,” said Mary.
“Explanations are not always kind, my love. But what is it that you have to tell me about Philip?”
Mary put up her hands, palms down, and smoothed her hair. Then she arranged her frock. She turned her eyes directly upon her father, and without any change in her neutral voice, she said: “Philip and I wish to marry, Papa. We thought you ought to know at once.”
Jerome’s cigar was in his mouth. He put up his hand to remove it. It fell from his fingers onto the hearth. Mary pushed it towards the fire with the tip of her boot. Jerome was slowly straightening himself in his chair. His features were wizening, darkening, his eyes narrowing to bright slits. He said softly: “What?”
Mary inclined her head with a serious smile. “Yes, Papa. We are going to be married,
Philip and I.” She showed no agitation or fear, though her jaw set somewhat rigidly and she thrust out her chin.
“Are you insane?” Jerome’s voice had dwindled to a stifled whisper. “Do you know what you are saying?”
“Yes, Papa. I know very well what I am saying.” Mary put on an expression of puzzled surprise. “Have you any objections, Papa?”
He stood up abruptly. He had to put his hand on his chair to keep himself from staggering.
“You are insane,” he repeated. He had some difficulty with his breathing. There was a sick and pounding constriction in his chest, a spiral whirling before his eyes.
Mary stood up now and faced him across the hearth.
She said very quietly: “Papa, you spoke about Philip tonight. You thought I was speaking of his—-deformity—in a thoughtless fashion. I was really trying to find out what you thought. So it can’t be Philip’s—deformity—that you object to. Nor can you be objecting to Philip. What is it? Because I am young? But I’m not really. So what is it?”
Jerome’s fists clenched. He half raised his right one. It fell back to his side, paralyzed. But his expression became more malign. He was panting a little.
“Who is behind this?” he asked, getting out the words as if by tremendous effort.
“No one. Only Philip and I.”
“That vile cripple.” The phrase seemed more terrible to Mary because of Jerome’s half-inaudible muted voice. Standing stiffly on the hearth, she flung up her head, and a light passed over her face. Her eyes flashed in the dusk.
“What a sickening thing to say, Papa.” Her young voice was full of hard contempt. “But you don’t mean it. You can’t mean it.”
Even through his rage and disbelief he heard that tone, saw the white rigidity of her face. He put his hand to his neck, swallowed thickly.
He said: “Does your mother know?”
Mary inclined her head. “Yes. We told her. She is happy about it.”