Like all thinkers who are disturbed by distrustful and realistic thoughts. Mr. Lindsey hid his meditations now under fatuous words. He turned to Jerome and said simply, “I don’t agree with all your arguments, my boy. But I am delighted that you have these convictions. For, you see, when you first told me you wished to go into the Bank, I had a strange sense of foreboding.” He smiled his pale New England smile. “I am afraid that I am something of a romantic, after all.”
Jerome gave him a sharp and furtive look. They were on the way back to Riversend. In fact, in less than an hour they would arrive. Philip sat opposite them on the dusty cushions of the train, reading. The sooty windows looked out upon a dark-green, drenched countryside. The pale rain trembled like a dully silver curtain between heaven and earth, faintly sparkling and quivering. Low mauve clouds, in thick and swollen folds, threw a dim lavender twilight over hill and meadow and quicksilver stream. Far to the west, where the sun ought to have been shining, the heliotrope sky was hung with a shield of diffused and dusky copper.
Mr. Lindsey studied with fondness Jerome’s arrogant, brooding profile. He said to himself: “How young he has become, and how vital! He has lost years. He has regained his youth. It seems that a man must have a single-hearted obsession if his soul is to be virile. I only hope that he may retain this obsession!”
Jerome was speaking abstractedly: “I ought to have returned sooner.” He turned to his father, smiling. “I ought to have seen Amalie first.” His words were casual, but he watched Mr. Lindsey closely.
Whatever foreboding Mr. Lindsey might have had in the past was gone now. He chuckled. “Ah, yes, Amalie is all in a woman that a man might desire. I used to think, myself, that it was unfortunate I am no longer young and strong and ardent. If, for instance, I had known her twenty years ago, you and Dorothea would have had a stepmother immediately, had Amalie given her consent.”
Then he looked distressed. “Have you noticed, Jerome, how pale she has become, and how listless? Dorothea, in her letters, mentioned this and ascribed it to the very hot weather. Let us hope the dear girl has recovered. Doubtless, also, she missed Alfred.”
Jerome moved restlessly. He glanced at Philip, who, at the mention of Amalie’s name, had lifted his head alertly from his book.
“Is Mama ill?” he asked, with faint but strong alarm.
“No, no,” said Mr. Lindsey soothingly. “It is just the weather, it seems. She will be very happy to see us, I am sure.”
Philip smiled, Jerome stared at him. Damn it, the boy did, indeed, resemble him, Jerome! He might have been looking into a mirror which reflected his own face of twenty years ago. Philip, feeling his eyes, looked at him quickly. Jerome, with discomfort, turned away. Yet he had a most curious thought: Philip, at least, would not blame either him or Amalie. Philip was Alfred’s son of the flesh, but his mind was not his father’s.
He said to Philip: “Will you get me a glass of water, please?”
Philip was only too pleased. His old admiration for Jerome, for his colorfulness and easy kindness and insouciance, had returned during the last few days at Saratoga. Jerome never treated him as an invalid, or a cripple, as did the others in the family. He had a way, too, of looking directly into Philip’s eyes as one looks at an equal in mind and ability, and his interest in the boy’s music and studies, his awareness of Philip’s sensitivity, were genuine and open. So Philip rose hastily, put aside his shawl and book, and standing as straight as his poor deformed back would allow, went off for the water.
Jerome turned to his father and said quickly: “I am afraid it is more than the weather that troubles Amalie. I am afraid she is unhappy.”
“Unhappy?” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, in a low and troubled voice. “But why? Alfred is devoted to her. She married him for what he could give her, and he denies her nothing. I think you are wrong, Jerome. I noticed a distinct fondness between them, after my illness.” He frowned. He was remembering Amalie’s face, her sunken eyes, her lassitude, and he was remembering with new and acute alarm.
Jerome shrugged. “Nevertheless, she is unhappy. I know that marriage should never have taken place. I feel it would be best for both of them if they separated.”
Mr. Lindsey was both outraged and indignant. “Nonsense, Jerome. What a disgusting thing to say! Marriage is irrevocable. Amalie is a female of sense and discretion, and I am sure that no such thought has ever entered her mind. When she has children any difference or incompatibility between herself and Alfred will disappear.”
He was annoyed. He stared at Jerome closely. “What are you trying to say?” he demanded. “Has either Amalie or Alfred hinted anything to you?”
“No, no. Certainly not. It is just a feeling I have.” Jerome was angered. He had thought to “pave the way,” to prepare his father. Now he saw that he had lost much of what he had gained, and Mr. Lindsey was distrustful of him.
“Don’t meddle,” warned the older man. “It is not only dangerous, it is bad taste.”
“And good taste is sacrosanct,” said Jerome.
Mr. Lindsey smiled. “Well, for the civilized man, it is a very adequate substitute for ethics, morality and religion.”
Philip returned with the water, and there was an expression of boyish gratification on his face as he watched Jerome drink of it deeply. Jerome was attracted by that expression. “Tell me, Phil, do you believe I am guilty of bad taste?” he asked, more to divert his father’s scrutiny than anything else.
“I think your taste is wonderful, Uncle Jerome,” said Philip with a smile.
“And I think he is a meddler,” said Mr. Lindsey. But he smiled again, with less distrust. “A frustrated meddler, Philip.”
“So was Luther, and Savonarola, and John Huss, and perhaps, even Jesus,” said Philip, shyly, but with stoutness.
This so amused Jerome that he burst out laughing, and Mr. Lindsey, after a confused moment, joined him.
The heavy wet twilight had settled down determinedly when they arrived at Riversend. Jerome had sent a telegram to Alfred, informing them of their hour of arrival. But the carriage which awaited them, running with mercurial drops of rain, was empty of all but the coachman. The station, too, was empty. For all the lush green of the trees, there was a look of desolation over the whole August countryside. The village seemed to have withdrawn; the street lamps flickered in the strong wind.
Mr. Lindsey asked the coachman for news of the family. The man spoke cautiously. (He had been warned by Alfred.)
Miss Dorothea had one of her bad colds again, and was in bed. Mr. Alfred would have come himself, but he had been suddenly called away to Horton Hills on a matter of importance. He would return that night. He hesitated when asked about Amalie. The young lady, said the man, with a slight embarrassed cough, was not too well. But Mr. Alfred would explain everything when he came home.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Lindsey, depressed. “It seems we have returned at a bad time.” He was exhausted by the short journey. He lay back in the seat, closing his eyes, hearing the painful and irregular throbbing of his heart. A somber sense of foreboding came over him.
Jerome was silent. The sense of foreboding in his father was stronger in himself. To him, the darkening countryside had an inimical look. Philip, too, was quiet.
Just before entering the rise that led to Hilltop, they passed the home of General Tayntor. The General was fond of his long daily walks, even in the rain. He was just entering his gates when he saw the Lindsey carriage and the faces of the occupants behind the streaming glass. He stopped suddenly, as if shot, and stared at them, his hand on the gate.
“Isn’t that the General?” asked Mr. Lindsey, with pleasure. He indicated to the coachman that the carriage should pause, and he began to struggle with the sliding window.
But the General had come to life. He flung open the gate and closed it violently behind him. They saw his tall figure melting into the wet gloom.
“Is it possible that he did not recognize us?” asked Mr. Lindsey, ceasing his
struggle with the window.
Jerome’s own heart had begun to beat with thick strong strokes. Something was wrong. He had seen the General’s face in the light of the last lamp. He signalled the coachman to continue. The carriage rolled on.
“It’s dark and wet,” he said, “and there was no definite date set for our return home.”
“But surely he knows our carriage,” protested Mr. Lindsey.
Jerome began to talk of something else. But he was weak with alarm. He argued with himself. His foreboding only increased. He signalled the coachman again, and pushed aside the glass which separated him from the man. “Are you sure everything is all right at home?” he asked.
The man did not turn his head. He only clucked at the horses more vigorously. “Why, surely, sir, Mr. Jerome,” he answered. Jerome replaced the glass. But he was not satisfied. All his senses were alerted, like soldiers at the sound of an enemy trumpet. The General’s face floated before him. Jerome had been the nearest to the old man. He had seen fury there, black rage and hatred, suppressed murder. And all of this had been directed fully, and with deliberation, into the eyes of Jerome.
Jerome was not one to shrink from alarming crises. He preferred to go out to meet them. He was certain now that something had happened at Hilltop. The carriage was climbing the long rise. He saw the house at the top. It was dark. Only one window was lighted. The rain was increasing in intensity, and the wind. Now, to Jerome at least, there was something sinister in that dim pile on the hill, something ominous in its cold and unlighted windows.
He controlled himself sternly. Something was most terribly wrong. He could not forget the General’s face. Had Amalie spoken prematurely to Alfred? Yes, that must be it, and gossip had travelled down to Riversend, and to the ears of General Tayntor, father of Sally. But if Amalie had spoken (and, God in heaven, what had she said?), Alfred was too discreet, too egotistic, too vain and prideful, to have broadcast the news to all and sundry that his wife was tired of him and wished to leave him. A grotesque picture of Alfred flying wildly all over Riversend, shouting the dolorous news, and beating his breast, occurred to Jerome. He had to smile at the absurdity. If Alfred did anything at all, it would be to keep his mouth shut and lock himself up in his own secret counsel. And Amalie, with her protectiveness towards Jerome, would never have told her husband of that thunderous night in May, nor would she even have, mentioned Jerome to Alfred. There was something else. Jerome’s imagination, always lively, painted fantastic pictures, which his common sense immediately dismissed. Unless Dorothea had told Alfred? No, Jerome was certain she had not. At the last, she would remember that Jerome was her brother.
He began to sweat in the sticky confines of the carriage. He recalled the coachman’s words about Amalie: “The young lady was not too well.” Little enough, but reassuring. Amalie was still at Hilltop. She would not be there if she had told Alfred anything at all.
Nevertheless, apprehension grew stronger in Jerome. When the carriage drew up at the door, he bounded out, impatiently assisted his father. He flung open the door of the house. The hall lamp was lighted. The clock struck eight, slowly and sonorously. A low fire had been lighted against the dampness, and the air was hot, almost stifling. But there was no sound, and there was no one in sight.
“It is good to be home,” said Mr. Lindsey wearily. His thin and transparent face was heavily shadowed at the cheeks by exhaustion. He allowed Jerome to help him up the stairway. There was a last vibration in the air as the clock ceased striking. The vibration, to Jerome’s ears, hung in the silence like a warning voice.
They encountered no one in the upper hall. It was as if the house were completely deserted. Philip went into his own room, and the quiet shutting of the door echoed through every corridor with a dull booming. But Mr. Lindsey’s room had been prepared. There were late roses in glass bowls on the tables, and another low fire on the hearth. His bed had been turned down.
“It almost seems as if we were unexpected,” said Mr. Lindsey, “except for my room. Dorothea must indeed be ill. And where are all the servants?”
“Never mind. Let me help you undress,” said Jerome, somewhat, thickly. He was positive now that something terrible had happened, and again he literally sweated with his urgency to go out to meet it, to grapple with it openly. He seized the bell rope. “We’ll soon have someone here with tea for you. And that reminds me: the train was nearly an hour ahead of time. It is possible that we are not expected for another hour.”
“Yes, of course,” murmured Mr. Lindsey, only too glad to slip between the cool, lavender-scented sheets. “But there is such a curious atmosphere here in the house. Deserted. I do hope that Dorothea is not too ill. But then, the coachman would have told us.”
Jerome piled the pillows neatly under his father’s tired head. Then he listened, alertly. Was that the front door closing? There was another vibration in the air, stronger, more ominous. But no footsteps ascended the stairway.
Mr. Lindsey smiled at Jerome. “You have hands as tender as a woman’s, my dear boy,” he said, with deep satisfaction.
There was a knocking at the door. Jerome sprang to open it. But before he could reach it, Jim, his valet, appeared on the threshold with a steaming silver tray.
“Jim!” exclaimed Jerome, with gratitude and relief.
The little man was almost pallid under his brown skin. He kept his eyes on the tray. He brought it carefully to Mr. Lindsey’s bedside table. Mr. Lindsey smiled at him. “Good evening, Jim. It seems we returned at a bad time.”
Jim started slightly. His hands shook as he removed the silver covers, which hid a delicious and delicate supper. “Yes, sir, Mr. Lindsey,” he croaked. “Rather a bad time. With sickness and all. Miss Dorothea is in bed, and—” He paused.
Jerome had been regarding him with silent intensity. In some curious way, he knew.
Jim looked haggard, frightened and old. Jerome watched him pour Mr. Lindsey’s tea. Then the little man glanced up at him, and there were warning and fear in his nut-brown eyes. “Not yet,” he seemed to say, desperately. Jerome moved slowly towards the door, his hands clenched at his side. He listened. There was still no sound in the house. But someone had come in? Alfred? And why did he not come up to this room? He must know that the family had returned.
Jim put sugar and cream into Mr. Lindsey’s tea. He asked whether there was anything else he could do. Jerome said quietly: “I will change, myself. And, Jim, will you bring me a tray, too?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Jerome,” said Jim, in a dull voice. He moved towards his master. Their eyes fixed themselves on each other. My God, thought Jerome. He went out into the dim corridor and listened. Still no sound. He leaned over the banister. The library door was closed, but there was a light under it. So, someone, Alfred (?), was down there, waiting. Waiting for what? He felt Jim pluck at his sleeve.
“Sir, please come into your room, quiet as you can,” the little man whispered. “There’s bad trouble here. But it doesn’t do to dwell on it. I’ll tell you.”
They went into Jerome’s room. Nothing was prepared here. No fire, no flowers. The curtains were closely drawn. Jim shut the door soundlessly behind them both. He motioned to Jerome to tiptoe to the center of the room. Now fear was on the Cockney face, fear that sharpened into lively terror and despair.
“I tried to warn you, sir. I sent a telegram. You didn’t get it?”
“No.” Jerome was whispering also. “Out with it. What the hell is the matter here?” He paused. “Where is Miss Amalie?”
Jim put his hand urgently on Jerome’s arm. “Wait a bit, sir. Let me tell you.” He cocked his ear at the door. But there was only silence. Jim came closer to his master.
“It was less than a week ago, sir. I don’t know it all. They try to keep it from me. Mr. Alfred had come ’ome. The young lady was ill in her bed. Mr. Alfred was alarmed. He told one of the lads to go for the doctor. That was Monday night.”
“Yes, yes. For God’s sake go on, you fool!” excla
imed Jerome softly.
The little man wrung his hands. His face twisted. “I don’t know it all, sir. I tried to listen. But it was no go. I only know the doctor comes the next mornin’. I saw him go. Then, later, in Miss Amalie’s room, I heard her scream. It was pitiful, like. I didn’t hear anythin’ else, though I listened. And then, after a bit, I heard Miss Dorothea in there, talkin’ to Mr. Alfred. Confused, like. They spoke low, and I couldn’t put my ear to the door, for there was others listenin’ now, all the lasses movin’ and bobbin’ around on the backstairs, and pokin’ their heads up into the hall, and whisperin’ to the lads who was in the kitchen.”
“You heard Miss Amalie scream?” asked Jerome, almost inaudibly. “Do you know why she screamed?”
Jim shook his head. “That was all as I heard, sir. But I saw Mr. Alfred later, and he looked like death, sir, that he did. Moved like in a dream. Didn’t go to the Bank at all. Still hasn’t been. And Miss Dorothea took to her bed last night. But before that, somethin’ else happened, and it’s bad.”
He shook his head distractedly. “It was given out that Miss Amalie was ill in bed,’ and Miss Dorothea took her trays in and out. And she locked the door behind her.”
Jerome drew a deep breath. His heart was beating so fast that he had a sensation of smothering. But now a terrible rage was rising in him, and reddish wisps of mist began to float before his eyes.
Jim was whispering again: “Then, two days ago it was, Mr. Alfred took away Miss Amalie, in the buggy.”
Jerome caught Jim’s arm fiercely. “Where is she?”
Jim shook his head again. “That I don’t know, sir. Nobody knows. There’s been lots of talk. Nobody knows wot it’s all abaht. Even in the village. Mr. Alfred went to see General Tayntor, one of the maids ’as told us. I’ve told you all I know, sir.”
This Side of Innocence Page 40
