Jim was anxious, now, not for himself, but for Jerome. He pondered whether the greatcoat were sufficiently warm and thick to repel the snow and wind. Bluebloods caught “humours” such as never afflicted those of coarser fiber, like himself. He cursed the farmer for not providing blankets. He considered, with distress, that Jerome’s fine kid boots were probably well wet by now, and that lung fever was easily contracted. Jerome must have felt his thoughts. (He was always so subtle and sensitive.) Jim felt the gloved hand touch his arm, squeeze it comfortingly. Jim’s wizened heart swelled, and he blinked. Let them that would say that Mr. Lindsey was “bad” and “rash.” They were fools, they were. Dull clods as would never be able to understand true gentry. He, Jim, knew better. In all his service in America he had never before worked for a gentleman.
Jerome moved closer to his servant, put his mouth to his ear, and shouted: “Hell of a place in winter!”
Yes, this was hell, Jim reflected, completely numb and wretched with cold. But he did not regret his coming. No one else would be able to care for Jerome so well as himself, in the very probable event of lung fever. Jim scowled fiercely in the darkness. Let one of ’em just try to hover round his sickbed! He’d show ’em, drive ’em off, he would!
All at once, the wagon lurched and rocked and stopped. There was a sudden lull in the wind. The farmer shouted: “Here we are! At the foot of the hill. Can’t go no further.”
Jim looked about him, incredulously. But the darkness was still thick, and the snow was heavier than ever. He could feel its bitter constant kisses on his forehead and cheeks. When he tried to move, he was as stiff as iron. He glanced upwards, despairingly. Far up, in the direction of the sky, a few yellow lights twinkled, winked out, reappeared, like candles seen at a distance. But the night hid everything else. Jerome was bestirring himself, swearing voluptuously. Jim forced himself to climb down slowly, on feet without sensation. He reached blindly in the darkness for the bags. He heard Charlie’s faint whimpering. He put the bags down in the snow. And then, though he still saw nothing, he heard the rattle and lurching of the wagon as it went on in the night. He and Jerome were alone, unseen by each other. “Follow me!” shouted Jerome. “Put your arm against mine. Curse those bags, anyway!” He took one from the hand of his servant.
Jim never forgot that long and torturous climb through snow, gale and dark. Only the bumping of Jerome’s arm against his own kept him in touch with moving life. He floundered in drifts over his knees; sometimes he slipped, and fell into the deep and burning snow. Slowly, however, the snow became visible as faint white dunes, and the lights above brightened, came closer. At length, they were so near at hand that one could see yellow shafts wavering over the swelling whiteness, and a dark bulk loomed near and above them.
Now they were staggering through smoother drifts over what was evidently the walk. The towering black shapes of pines appeared, twisting and bending in the storm. Step by step, panting, slipping, cursing, the two men pushed their way towards a great arched door. Then Jerome was beating upon it with his fists and shouting. Charlie, from the shelter of one of Jerome’s large pockets, set up a thin and furious barking.
A light twinkled behind the little window in the door. There was a sound of bolts being drawn. Then the door opened cautiously, and a young woman’s face appeared, frightened and wary. Jerome wiped away the snow from his face and addressed her.
“Open up, for God’s sake. I’m Mr. Lindsey. Open up, I say.”
He pushed the door rudely, and the servant girl fell back, squealing. Jim saw a great panelled hall with a tiled red floor, an immense grandfather clock glimmering in warm lamplight, and a mighty oaken staircase. “Just like the old country,” he thought, pleased and surprised. A fire burned against a far wall, its big logs red and glowing, and above it was a dark portrait. Jerome set down his dog, who viciously barked at the girl, causing her to retreat with fresh squeals. Jim put down the bags, and glared longingly at the fire. Jerome was shaking his coat, and removing it, and stamping the snow from his feet. “Where is Mr. Lindsey, my father?” he demanded.
The girl fled silently through a door to the left. The two men were alone. Smiling, Jerome turned to his servant. “Well, here we are, home at last. That fire looks excellent.” He moved to the fire, and Jim followed eagerly. His withered hands were drawn and blue. He extended them to the warmth. The abandoned luggage dripped unheeded on the shining dark-red tiles. Charlie yipped and leaped about his master, shivering, his reddened eyes adoring. Then he rushed about the hall, sniffing loudly and suspiciously.
Jerome was glancing about him with open satisfaction. “Always the same. It never changes. God, I’m glad to be here, after all that!” He looked up at the portrait of a young and pretty woman, who was smiling down at them from over the fireplace. His face changed a little. “That’s my mother, Jim.”
Jim looked at the portrait courteously. A lovely frail little thing, it was. And not in the least like Master Jerome.
A door to the right opened, and Jerome, wearing his charming smile, turned to it, thinking to greet his father. But a young woman stepped into the hall, then seeing these unexpected two, stopped short with a slight exclamation, her hand still on the doorknob. Jerome’s smile faded, and he stood in silence, staring at her.
“Yes?” she murmured. Then her face changed. “Oh,” she said flatly, “you must be Jerome. We didn’t expect you until tomorrow. Was there some mistake? Does Mr. Lindsey know you are here?”
Jerome did not like her manner, which was repressed and haughty, and not in the least friendly. He did not answer her. Charlie rushed at her, barking savagely. She lifted a heavy fold of her gown and swept him aside, disdainfully. Jim regarded her furtively, and there was a quickening in his monkey eyes. This must be the baggage, then, of which Mr. Jerome had told him. A proud piece, and an imperious one. Charlie, indignant and alarmed, returned to the safety of Jerome’s feet, and from there snarled at the young woman.
She moved into the hall, towards the fire. She repeated, with some impatience: “Does Mr. Lindsey know you are here? If not, I shall find him at once. He came down to dinner tonight.” Her voice, Jim noticed with approval, was deep and low, with great potentialities. She stood in the light of the fire and of the newel lamp and regarded Jerome questioningly, as though she were already mistress of this great warm house, and he, an unwelcome intruder.
Jerome remained obdurately and nastily silent. Then she smiled, and her white teeth flashed in the quiet light. “I’m sorry. I’m Amalie Maxwell.”
Jerome bowed ironically. He lifted his head and stared at her full and derisively. His brows drew together, in his contemptuous scrutiny and boldness. She was no longer smiling. She answered his look, lifting her head, not at all abashed, but challenging.
The firelight flared up; there was a strong drumming of the wind in the broad chimney. The light revealed Amalie Maxwell fully. Jerome was very still. His contempt faded, was replaced by fascinated wonder. My God, what a face, what a figure! And all this for that stick of an Alfred, that stocky, desiccated stone of a man!
Amalie was tall, so tall, indeed, that her eyes were almost on a level with Jerome’s. She had the most superb figure, slender yet swelling, and cunningly set off by a bustled and draped gown of thick gray velvet, touched here and there, at the throat and wrist, with bright coral. The tiny buttons that ran from her throat to her waist were coral, also. Her basque bodice, tight and sleek, rose and fell over a wonderful and delicately formed bosom, drew in lovingly at a perfect waist, then disappeared in the folds and draperies of her gown. Her shoulders were smooth, faultless; her carriage, beyond reproach, regal yet supple.
A connoisseur of female figures, Jerome was all amazement and reverence. Very slowly then he lifted his eyes, and encountered hers. She was smiling, and the smile was dark and knowing. What eyes, he thought, astonished. They were very large and of a deep purplish tinge, vivid and flashing, passionate with intelligence, and not in the least soft and tender,
as women’s eyes ought to be. They were set amid thick short lashes, very black and heavy. Above them was a low white forehead, a pair of smooth and satiny black eyebrows. The nose was short and straight, with flaring nostrils, and the mouth below it was rather too full and wide, and moistly red. Despite this, however, it was a somewhat hard mouth, too firm, too resolute, for a woman. Jerome, studying her as openly as though she were a work of art rather than a human being, surveyed the lines of her face critically. It was all strong angles and planes, heroic in concept, rather pale, though translucent. Too much hard strength there, he reflected, objectively, too much understanding of life. It was, for all, its amazing beauty, the face of a fighter, and it was more than a little repellent in expression.
He decided that, though she was admirable and astonishing and almost unbelievable, he did not like her. In fact, he hated her on sight. Oh, he knew all about such trollops! Women cast adrift, unprotected, forced to fight for themselves, and expecting and giving no quarter. He had seen them in London, New York and Paris, hard strumpets who knew what they wanted, and took it ruthlessly. He had never admired them, though he had enjoyed them frequently, and appreciated their natural wit and knowingness and lack of illusion. A man would never be bored with them, and a clever man could always conquer them. They were exciting. They were endlessly amusing and titillating. But a man of the world never married them.
She spoke tartly, in the silence which had been unbroken except for the sound of the wind in the chimney, and the dismayed snarling of Charlie: “I hope you like what you see—Jerome.”
Jerome stared. But Jim broke out in a hoarse giggle. She did not condescend to notice his existence. She put out her hand straightly, like a man, and Jerome took it, after a moment’s deliberate, and meaningful, hesitation. Her hand was large and white, and unexpectedly soft, and the fingers were of a beautiful contour. On the ring finger of her left hand an exceptionally beautiful emerald sparkled. His mother’s ring, thought Jerome, and something burned in him like a furious still anger.
Then she smiled again, and the strong hard planes of her face melted into lines of entrancing softness and amusement. She shook her head slightly, as if in denial. Her hair, thick and black and shining like glass, sloped back in long waves to a chignon at the nape of her long white neck, and the firelight danced on it.
Where had he seen that face, that hair, that bosom before? Jerome asked himself. Then he was surprised again, and angered, and he, too, shook his head as if in denial. He was bewitched by his father’s letter. Surely, there was no resemblance between this young woman and the portrait of his great-grandmother in the library! It was all delusion.
He said, in his insolent and languid voice: “Were you ever in New York? I seem to remember—”
She withdrew her hand. He had not been conscious of holding it all this time. She said: “No, I have never been in New York.”
The carved door at the left opened suddenly and quickly, and Alfred appeared, exclaiming, advancing with outstretched hand. “Jerome! For goodness’ sake! Your telegram said Tuesday. Was it an error? Oh, these telegraph offices! Good heavens! How did you get here in this storm? You are soaked to the skin. How are you, Jerome, my boy?”
Jerome turned to him, smiling easily. The same old Alfred, carefully effusive on the proper occasion, forthright and simple! It had been three years since Jerome had seen him last, and that had been on the occasion of the regrettable affair of the exigent lady from Syracuse. But Alfred had changed little. He was somewhat taller than Jerome, but appeared a little shorter, because his body, though straight and firm, was of a larger frame. The stiff white linen collar and wide black cravat seemed slightly too tight for his powerful neck. He wore discreet black broadcloth, expertly tailored and of fastidious cut. He had a broad but angular face, completely colorless, but firm and resolved and open. It took a perceptive observer to discover that it was also narrowly relentless of expression. There were many who called it a “good, Christian face, exhibiting his fine virtues.” Jerome found it excessively dull and lightless. The pale gray eyes between light lashes were certainly not full of sparkle, for all their resolute and candid regard. Jerome thought they resembled the agate marbles of his youth, for they were streaked with slashes of yellowish brown. They revealed nothing of a very good, if uncompromising, mind, and one of little imagination. The nose was well-shaped, short and wide, with thick and insensitive nostrils. The wide thin mouth betrayed, besides integrity, a tendency towards bigotry and obduracy. Jerome often called him an “ascetic and infernal Puritan,” and the description was maliciously apt. There was a cold dignity about the man, an unshakable strength.
For the rest, Alfred had a smooth fine quantity of light-brown hair, cropped short above wide temples and over a round big head. He disdained personal adornment of any kind, and his only jewelry was the excellent pearl pin in his cravat, the pearl studs at his wrists, and the elaborate gold chain of his watch, extended over his black satin waistcoat.
He was all real, if reserved, pleasure at the sight of his adopted brother and cousin. He took Jerome’s deliberately flaccid hand with enthusiasm, overcoming a slight and wary hesitation. He was always awkward with Jerome, and tried to compensate for this by an unusual and dignified affability.
“Let me look at you,” he said. “How well you look, after that horrible journey in the storm. How did you get here?”
“On an open farm wagon,” replied Jerome, easily. “No matter,” he added, as Alfred uttered a word of consternation. “We’re here, and that is the main thing.”
Alfred immediately subsided into polite and sedate competence. “This is your man, I presume, about whom you telegraphed us. Your rooms are ready.” He started. He had not at first noticed the dog, which again snarled and barked. “A dog?” he said uncertainly. “I trust—I hope—”
“Oh, he’s housebroken. No indiscretions,” said Jerome. Miss Maxwell laughed softly.
Alfred, recalling her in his confusion, turned to her. “Amalie, my love, this is my—my cousin, Jerome Lindsey.”
She inclined her head sardonically. “We’ve introduced ourselves, Alfred.”
“Miss Maxwell, my fiancée,” added Alfred, lamely, and his pale cheek flushed. Jerome invariably made him feel boorish. Jerome bowed in the girl’s direction.
Alfred resumed, with formality: “Amalie, will you summon a servant and order Jerome’s man, and the bags, conducted to the prepared rooms?”
Amalie moved towards the door to the right, and Jerome watched her go with furtive admiration. What a carriage was this, regal and composed, yet also young and quick! Then he was annoyed. These two were already assuming the roles of master and mistress of the old Lindsey mansion, and all that was in it. Well, he would soon alter this, he thought grimly.
“Would you care to go up to your rooms, also, and change your clothes?” asked Alfred.
Jerome looked down at his wet boots and the damp bottom regions of his pantaloons. He said: “No. I want to see my father.”
He threw his hat, coat and cane towards Jim, who caught them deftly. But he tucked Charlie under his arm and turned towards the library door. “Are you taking the dog?” asked Alfred, with disapproval, for he disliked all animals.
“Why not? Certainly.” Jerome walked to the library door. The flush deepened on Alfred’s cheek. But he allowed Jerome to open the door and to precede him into the library.
CHAPTER FOUR
The immense room was warm and dim, with here and there a quiet lamp glowing on ancient dark oak. Books completely covered the high walls. Jerome’s feet pressed deep into dark red carpeting. Before the enormous black marble fireplace was spread a huge white-bear rug, and on this rug were grouped several red and black leather chairs, with footstools. The great wide windows were completely covered, now, with crimson damask curtains. Over the fireplace was the famed portrait of Jerome’s great-grandmother. It was an austere but inviting room, full of peace and dignity, and this atmosphere was enhanced by the gl
ow and blaze of a mighty log fire.
Two people were seated before the fire, in a companionable silence, their faces turned towards the door. One was a tall, very thin, and quite elderly gentleman, a cane at his emaciated knee. The other was so small as to appear to be a very young child, but, as he stood up, pushing himself painfully from his chair, it was to be seen that he was a humpback, and about fourteen years of age.
The elderly man was visibly vibrating with his eager, excitement. In a voice calm, but suprisingly strong, he exclaimed: “Jerome! Jerome, my boy!” And he extended to the young man a long white hand of delicate shape.
Jerome went to him quickly, and grasped the extended hand. Quite naturally, and without affectation, he bent over his father and kissed the thin and sunken cheek. “Papa,” he said, and then could say nothing more. The two looked at each other steadily, smiling, their hands tightening together.
Then Mr. Lindsey said softly: “My dear, dear boy. How glad I am to see you again! Sit near me, please. I want to look at you.”
Jerome looked about for a chair, then encountered the grave dark eyes of young Philip Lindsey, Alfred’s son. He paused. “You’re growing up, Phil,” he said, forcing friendliness into his voice. He had no antagonism in him for the boy, but only an uneasy pity and aversion. Once, someone had told him that Philip resembled him, and he had been outraged. Where was the resemblance, in that white small face, so sunken, so attenuated, so spiritual and quiet of expression? Perhaps the eyes were similar, and Jerome egotistically conceded that, for they were large and black, and brilliant with intellect, quite overshadowing and minimizing the little delicate features below them, and shining steadfastly under an unusually high broad brow of extreme whiteness and strength. Also, Philip’s hair was thick and dark and curling, like Jerome’s. But beyond these, surely, there was no resemblance! Who could look on that deformed little body in gray broadcloth without a shudder of repugnance? Jerome always resolutely averted his gaze from the large hump on the boy’s back, and, as if in careless apology, assumed a jocund affability when conversing with Philip.
This Side of Innocence Page 4
