He looked up, seemed about to speak, then was silent. For the strangest look had appeared on Jerome’s face, an indescribable look that suggested pain and restlessness and confusion.
The young man stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, half turned from his father. He said, in an odd voice: “I hoped that you would be agreeable if I did all I could to prevent this marriage.”
Mr. Lindsey was so perturbed by the glimpse he had had of his son’s face that he did not immediately answer. Then his voice was obscurely disturbed and impatient: “What can you do, Jerome? There is nothing you can do. There are things which must be accepted.”
Jerome did not turn. He said: “If you forbade the marriage, Alfred would obey you. You have means to compel his obedience.”
Mr. Lindsey was silent. His fingers stroked each other, slowly, over and over. He said to himself: There is fear in this room, and danger. What is it? What has happened? Yes, I feel violence, too. Does it come from Jerome? What does he care whom Alfred marries? What is it to him? There is more here than I can understand. Is it money? Yes, perhaps, it is money.
He said: “I will not compel obedience. Alfred is not a young man. It is his life to live. I accord him that dignity. Jerome, will you please sit down?”
Jerome dropped into his chair again. He looked into the fire. His profile was dark and intent, and unreadable. Feeling his father’s gaze, he put up his hand instinctively, and hid his face behind it.
Mr. Lindsey said: “I trust you are to remain with us for a while, after the wedding? It has been a long time since you were home, my boy.”
Jerome did not move. He said, from behind the shelter of his hand: “Would you care if I remained—indefinitely?”
Mr. Lindsey sat upright in his chair. “Would I care? Jerome, are you serious?”
Jerome dropped his hand. He appeared quite calm. “Yes, I am serious.” He hesitated. “I think I am a little tired of a footloose life—”
Mr. Lindsey smiled, and the smile was pleased and radiant. He put out his hand and touched Jerome’s arm. But Jerome did not respond. His eyes fixed themselves, with a hard expression, on his father’s face. “Jerome! If I could believe that! It is what I have always hoped for, but in the past years, since the war, I had given up hope.”
Jerome watched his father. “I have considered asking you to place me in the Bank,” he said, evenly.
Mr. Lindsey frankly stared. Then, all at once, his face slowly closed, withdrew. He lay back in his chair. He said: “Jerome. What is behind this?”
“I thought I was clear, Father. I’m tired of a footloose existence. I think I might like the Bank, if I tried it. Are you going to give me the opportunity?”
“Is that not a peculiar and sudden decision?”
Jerome smiled. “Perhaps, to you. But, on the way here, I did some thinking. Perhaps, unconsciously, I have been doing some thinking during the past year. Then, since I have been home, I have felt some contentment. It is probable that I have been homesick and never knew it.” His eyes were candid on the surface, but Mr. Lindsey thought that something murky moved under all that clarity.
“You are not frank with me, Jerome.”
“Damn it, sir, I am frank! Is it so strange that a prodigal wishes to return home?”
“But, you have not exactly eaten husks or lain with the swine and the oxen, to continue with the parable.”
Jerome’s smile grew wider. “How could you know, Father? My God, I think I am getting literary in my approaching old age!”
But Mr. Lindsey did not return that smile. Instead, he became stern and reflective, not removing his steadfast regard from Jerome.
He said: “Your decisions have always been volatile, Jerome. And banking is not a profession to be taken up lightly, and deserted as lightly. It demands discipline, study, clear judgment, application and much tedious thought. You will forgive me if I say that so far you have not demonstrated any of these qualities, which, tiresome though they might be at times, and offering no amusement, are necessary for banking.”
“Why not try me?”
Mr. Lindsey said: “What do you know about banking?”
“Nothing, frankly. But, I can learn, under Alfred’s excellent instruction. After all, I am not an imbecile, and I flatter myself I have a quick mind.”
“Too quick, Jerome.” But Mr. Lindsey’s tone was abstracted.
“You never reproached me on that score before, sir.”
Mr. Lindsey moved in his chair, as if seized with pains. He said: “Jerome, I have never reproached you for anything. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps, remembering my stern parents, I had decided that no child of mine should be restricted, or forced to fit any preconceived pattern in my own mind. Perhaps I was wrong in giving you your way at all times. Certainly, it has not proved eminently successful. You have no respect for money, and I am not speaking of its grosser values.
You have no respect for it as a symbol of man’s time and effort and sweat and invention and life. To you, it is only a means of exchange for the purchase of pleasures and follies, and the gratifying of facile desires.”
His voice was gentle, but his eyes were full of a blue sternness, and his mouth had taken on a relentless if saddened look. “You have a low opinion of me, Father.”
“Jerome, have you a better?”
Jerome was silent. Mr. Lindsey resumed, almost compassionately: “Jerome, you must remember what you did with your grandmother’s money. Now, I have no quarrel with pleasure and joy, with travel and gaiety. I had too little in my own youth. I wanted you to see the world, and enjoy it. I did not believe that you would waste your entire fortune in the silliest of sensual pursuits and follies. I believed that you had some sense of proportion.
“Perhaps, though, I am wrong. Perhaps you will have something in your old age more joyous to remember than balanced ledgers. Perhaps it is the better part.”
Oh, damn your “compromise,” your “tolerance”! thought Jerome, somberly. He said: “I am coming to doubt it is ‘the better part,’ Father.”
“But, you have enjoyed it?”
Jerome said: “Yes. I should be a sentimental fool to deny it. I should be even worse if I said the pleasures were ‘empty.’ They weren’t. They gave me considerable satisfaction. However, even champagne and caviar and dancing can become tiresome, too. I’d like to try to be a solid citizen, for a change.”
“You would revolt.”
“I am not sure of that, Father. At least, let me try it.”
“Your only excursion into the realms of banking, Jerome, was when you wisely induced me to help bring the railroad to Riversend. I must admit I was surprised and gratified at your vision.”
“Oh, then try me with other visions!” His tone was light and facetious.
“Jerome, banking is not to be treated as a game. There is too much at stake, too many pulsing human lives are involved. It is not baccarat or roulette; it is not gambling, except in a conservative way, based on actual properties, values—”
“And on human character, and imponderables.”
Mr. Lindsey smiled. “I see you remember my own remarks, Jerome. Well. But we must have some knowledge of the human character, and the imponderables, with which we deal. Nothing is certain in this world; mistakes are made in banking. But not too many. Too many mistakes mean ruined lives, despair, death and misery. We cannot take that chance.”
“Does Alfred understand these things?” asked Jerome, fixing his father with his hard, shrewd look.
Mr. Lindsey hesitated. “Not always,” he admitted. “Alfred has a reverence for money, as a thing in itself. But it is a good quality, after all, a safeguard, a protection for those who depend upon us. It is better in banking to lack imagination than to have too much.”
“And, I have too much?”
Mr. Lindsey looked at him steadily. “Yes, perhaps. And too much irresponsibility. You wished me to be frank?”
Jerome went to the silver tray where the decanter and whiskey glas
ses still remained. He poured himself a rather prodigal drink, and swallowed it quickly. He came back to the fire. “Yes,” he said, “I adore frankness. It is no more deadly than the guillotine.”
Mr. Lindsey smiled involuntarily. “I am afraid I am offending you, my son. But one must consider everything.”
Jerome said: “Suppose you try ‘withholding final judgment’ with respect to me, sir? Suppose you give me a chance? After all, as a neophyte in the banking business I could not do much harm. Alfred probably keeps the keys on a chain around his neck.”
Mr. Lindsey lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. He seemed to drowse, to have fallen into one of his interludes of weakness. The fire crackled, shot up flames. The gale no longer pounded the windows or shook the doors. The house was still, and the clock struck a melodious eleven, one slow and ponderous stroke after another.
Then Mr. Lindsey spoke, not moving, not opening his eyes: “You and Alfred have never been very congenial. That is your fault, Jerome. However, congeniality is not an absolute necessity in business. It is not that that worries me, nor doubt of your qualities. At least, they don’t worry me as much as something else.”
“Yes, Father?”
Mr. Lindsey still spoke as if out of a deep sleep: “I don’t know what that something else is, what it is that lies behind this decision of yours. I do not fully believe it is homesickness, or weariness of sensuality and thoughtless living, though they perhaps have a share in your decision.”
He opened his eyes. They were very wide, shining and blue. “What is it, Jerome?”
It had always been a rare occasion when his father had looked at him like this, and always it had intimidated Jerome. It had made the heart in him shrink, it was something impelling shameful retreat, something which seemed to penetrate to every corner of him. He felt all these things now, and a dull and heavy flush moved over his features.
“Yes,” said Mr. Lindsey, gently, “I was right. It is something else. What is it, Jerome? I am afraid. I have always used reason in my life, I believe. Yet, there are times when reason is not enough. The instinct is stronger, then, and more to be trusted. My instinct is disturbed, Jerome. For I do not believe that the powerful thing which impels you to this strange decision is a good thing. I think it is violent, dangerous, and terrible. Moreover, I think you are not completely aware of it, yourself. I am afraid, Jerome.”
Jerome could not speak. His hand tapped slowly on the mantelpiece, for at his father’s words he had stood up involuntarily. He could not look away from the inexorable blue shining of his father’s eyes.
“Do you think to usurp Alfred’s place?” asked Mr. Lindsey, almost pityingly.
Still, Jerome could not answer, though he realized the necessity of it.
“Then, in all honesty, Jerome, let me assure you that Alfred’s position is impregnable. I have taken care of that matter, and nothing will induce me to change my—mind. You can do nothing to Alfred. But, what am I saying? Why should you wish to do anything? I do not believe that you have any active hatred for Alfred. Rather, it has been derision and contempt—petty things, both. No matter. You cannot hurt Alfred, Jerome. Reflect on that a moment.”
Jerome said, in a muffled voice: “I don’t think I want to hurt him. Why should I? Let him have what you, in your charity, have planned for him.”
Mr. Lindsey’s brows wrinkled. “I see. I believe you, Jerome. Then, what is it?”
Jerome’s hands, suddenly cold and shaking, fastened themselves on the edge of the mantelpiece. “I don’t know,” he said, as if speaking without volition. “I don’t know. I only know that I want to stay, that I wish to have a part in the Bank.”
“You would not care to remain here—without a part in the Bank?”
“No. I must have occupation.”
Mr. Lindsey closed his eyes again. “My instinct, against all my reason and my affection for you, urges me to ask you to go away, Jerome.”
Jerome was silent again. His fingers felt stiff and aching when he lifted them from the mantelpiece. He flexed them. He saw the moist marks they had left on the marble. His knees were weak; the old wound began to throb in his leg, as if bleeding again.
He said, somewhat hoarsely: “If you wish me to leave, I will go. But, I’ll never come back. Never again. I swear it. You will never see me after I leave.”
“Why not? Have I offended you so, Jerome?” Mr. Lindsey’s voice was very sad.
Jerome said: “I don’t know why I should never return. I only know that I would not. I could not endure it.”
There was a long silence in the room.
Then Jerome whispered: “Don’t send me away, sir.”
Mr. Lindsey stirred. He said: “Give me my cane, Jerome. Thank you. Your arm, please. I’m not what I used to be.”
They faced each other on the hearth, eye to eye.
“Stay, Jerome,” said Mr. Lindsey. “Stay. There is a place for you in the Bank.”
Jerome forced himself to smile. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“Regret it,” repeated Mr. Lindsey, musingly. He put his feeble hand to his forehead. “I am getting fanciful, perhaps, and a little feverish. But something tells me that I shall do more than regret it.
“No, please, do not go with me. I can find my way alone. Good night, Jerome.”
Jerome was alone. The fire was dying down. He looked at his father’s empty chair.
“Oh, my God,” he said, aloud.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was very late, but Jerome Lindsey could not go to bed. The profound silence which had followed the storm enhanced, rather than decreased, his tremendous and feverish restlessness. Yet his restlessness did not take the form of constant movement. It seemed to immobilize him, as a man is immobilized and rigid under the onslaught of long and intense pain.
He stood by the window and looked out blankly, his hand on the cord of the draperies. He fixed his mind on his inner suffering, resolutely, afraid to analyse it, to understand it.
He turned his head slowly and far to one side to see the faint golden lights below in the valley, faint golden stars here and there that flickered and shifted. Even as he watched, they went out, slowly, one by one. Finally, there was only darkness. He could hear the faint dropping of the coals in the fireplace, the musical boom of the clock below, the constant dim creakings and settlings of the old house.
Slowly, at last, his consciousness moved from himself and enlarged to take in the scene below his windows. They looked down upon a brilliant black-and-white world under a blazing moon flung at great speed like an enormous silver coin through the black sky. There was nothing static in this scene, in spite of the midnight silence and the lack of color. It was all white-and-black fire, furious with burning radiance. The stars crackled with it; the fleeting wisps of cloud that raced above and below the spinning moon were illuminated with flaming silver. The argent grounds flowed purely down a gentle slope to the black copse of pines below. A huge elm stood halfway down; its shadow lay like a stiff black web on the smooth snow, sharp and intricate and minutely detailed. Spruces were scattered about, each loaded with a weight of shining alabaster, each casting a vivid reflection of itself on the snow like deep black ink. The snow, itself, glittered and shimmered in its rounded swells, its long marble wastes.
The whole night was effulgent, leaping with scintillation, too dazzling for reality. It was not a night for sleep. Its splendor was too violent, with a kind of palpitating coruscation, its silence too intense, too wild with frozen rage. Yet, there was no wind, no movement of any kind. It was this that inflicted a sort of terror upon Jerome, in spite of his fascinated enjoyment of the spectacle—a sort of disorientation. It was as if he were deaf, and were witnessing a primordial scene of utter savagery, and yet could hear no sound. It was as if he had been transported to the moon, and were seeing an aspect of frightful beauty, tempestuous yet cold as death, never before discerned by the eye of man.
He thought: I should like to paint this!
But what paint could possess that livingness of black and white, that violence? His thoughts ran over his inner depression like little rivulets over chaotic stone. He forced himself more strongly to be objective. But his restlessness increased. He felt a kind of panic. There ought to be movement, there! Something should move, stir, give evidence of life. There was terror in lack of motion. The warm human heart repudiated it.
He, himself, moved. He saw a long thin shadow gliding over the snow below his window. Incredulous, he pressed his face to the cold window-pane. The shadow lengthened, became clearer. Someone was walking down there, soundlessly. That which cast the shadow came into view. It was Amalie Maxwell.
She wore a short jacket of fur, and her hands were in a muff. But her head was uncovered. She became part of the black-and-white brilliance of the world about her. Jerome could clearly see the black shadow of her hair falling down below her shoulders. Her face was pure and moonlit, her eyes caverns of darkness. She stood below his window, her profile towards him, and she gazed steadily at the moon. Now she, herself, was as still as all about her.
Jerome looked down at her, his fingers wound in the cord. The moon became ever more radiant. He could see the dark clarity of her mouth, and even its expression of mournfulness. Then she began to move again. She had turned away and was walking slowly down the gentle slope towards the pines. She paused in their black shadow, and now she could hardly be seen at all.
Without thinking, Jerome rushed to his wardrobe, pulled out his fur-lined coat, and flung it over his shoulders. He ran to his door, opened it with swift softness. He went down the dark warm well of the stairway. He passed the door of the library. He could see nothing except the faint crimson coals burning on the hearth. The bolt on the door had been drawn, and he opened the door without a single creak. He pulled it shut behind him.
Now the pure and sterile air of the snowy night flowed all about him. It was very cold, but exhilarating. He felt the bounding of his heart. At some time, during his haste, he had twisted his injured leg slightly. It was throbbing. Yet that very throbbing excited him. He was, he thought, in a delirium. He was in a wild world without reality.