This Side of Innocence

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Alfred put down his pen so suddenly that it made a sharp click on the mahogany of his desk. His eyes seemed to retreat under the eaves of his brows. He gazed at Dorothea intently.

  “I have invited her to have luncheon with me,” Dorothea went on. “She is such a sweet child. But it is not necessary for you to come down. If you wish, you may have a tray in your room.”

  Alfred saw that Dorothea was quite unusually flushed and tremulous. He could not remember having seen her like this before. He smiled painfully.

  “That is not necessary,” he said. “I shall be glad to join you both.”

  “How kind of you, Alfred! She has asked about you, and expressed her intention—her intention, if you please!—to know you. That is the sort of forward young person she is!” She sighed, still excited, and smoothed her apron. “I do not know what young people are coming to, these days! They have no reticence, no delicacy.”

  “Children do not need it,” said Alfred, rising. Dorothea was startled at this peculiar remark from one who had been so rigid, so correct Alfred continued: “I will go down at once. We must not leave our guest alone too long.”

  “I must speak to Elsie about another place,” said Dorothea breathlessly, and hurried away.

  Alfred went slowly and heavily down the stairs. He went into the living-room. He saw the outline of a smooth bright head, then the head turned and he saw Mary’s cool and exquisite face. The girl stood up most politely, and curtseyed.

  Alfred could not move for a moment. Amalie’s daughter! She might have been his own, this fair sweet child with the strangely familiar blue eyes! He felt cheated, robbed, and something burned hotly in his chest, made his vision uncertain.

  “I am Mary Lindsey, sir,” said the girl politely. “And I presume you are Philip’s father.”

  “Yes, my dear.” Alfred’s voice was low and shaken. He held out his hand to her, and she took it calmly and without shyness. She surveyed him frankly and openly. What she saw apparently pleased her, for she gave him her sweetest smile. “I think you are my second cousin, sir?”

  Alfred hesitated. “Yes, that is correct, Mary. But I was adopted by your grandfather, too. So I am your adopted uncle. You may call me Uncle Alfred.”

  Mary’s hand, soft and slender, was still in his. It was her mother’s hand, firm under its yielding flesh; smooth, for all the delicate strong bones. Alfred held that hand more tightly than he knew. And Mary, always so subtle, waited patiently for release. She understood that the sight and touch of her was disturbing this quiet gentleman very much. But she did not know why.

  “I am very glad to know you, Mary,” said Alfred. “I hope you will come often. It is unfortunate that Philip will not be home for luncheon, but I hope you will not be too bored by us.”

  “Oh, I am sure I shan’t,” she assured him seriously. “Philip has spoken of you and Aunt Dorothea so often that I feel I already know you.” She remembered her manners, sedulously taught in Miss Finch’s School. “I hope you will not be bored by me, nor think it presumptuous of me to come here without express invitation.”

  “I do not think it necessary for you to wait for invitations,” said Alfred, with equal politeness. “Please come often. We’ll be delighted to see you.”

  She waited for him to seat himself, then sat near him, her feet primly held together, her hands folded in her muslin lap. Alfred was deeply touched by her daintiness, the outline of her firm and pretty chin, the brightness of her calm blue eyes. Yes, this should have been his dearest daughter, his dearest child, his pet and his consolation. Something in him yearned towards her; he felt that she was his own flesh. Well, he thought, in a way she is. After all, she is my uncle’s granddaughter. She is a Lindsey. Looking at Mary now, he could not think of her as Jerome’s child. It had been quite some time since he had felt any rage or hatred for Jerome. This was Amalie’s daughter, the granddaughter of William Lindsey. For Alfred, that was enough.

  He asked Mary about her school. She informed him that this was her first year away from home. Her papa had not wanted her to go, but Mama had insisted. Now Papa was quite reconciled. He thought she, Mary, had improved very much. Mary smiled indulgently at this. No, she was not unhappy at her school. She had a most excellent music teacher. The girls were often escorted to New York to the Opera, and sometimes to a play. There were so many things to see in New York.

  Mary’s voice, high and somewhat neutral, but very sweet, soothed Alfred’s ear. He listened as if absorbed. He watched a streak of sunlight running through her hair. His Uncle William’s hair, in his earlier days, had been this color, this texture. Mary turned her profile to Alfred for a moment, and its outlines, cool and clear, caught at his heart. It was William Lindsey’s profile. But there was something else, too. There was a certain tilt to her head, a certain shadowy modelling about her cheekbones which hinted of Amalie.

  Mary, in turn, had decided that she liked her Uncle Alfred. There was a stillness, a strength, about him of which she approved. He was not in the least a “gray man.” Papa was wrong. But then Papa was frequently sharp about many people. Mary often thought him slightly cruel and malicious, but so very, very amusing. One could, overlook the cruelty and malice, if one was made to laugh. Dear, dear Papa. She smiled and Alfred saw that smile, and with the old tearing at his heart he thought again of Amalie.

  He said: “I once lived at Hilltop, too, Mary. Before you were born. I still remember and love it.”

  Mary looked at him quickly. “I did not know.” She studied him seriously. “Why did you leave? There are so many rooms. I should have loved it to have Philip there.”

  Alfred was silent. Then, when he saw that Mary was waiting for his answer, he said: “After all, it is best for a family to be alone. Two families can often become very tiring to each other. I—I thought it the proper thing to take my own family away, and build a home of our own.”

  “But Aunt Dorothea is my father’s sister,” said Mary, puzzled. “She ought to have stayed with us.”

  Alfred’s smile was somber. “But your—father—had your mother, my dear. He had your mother. But I had no one. So Dorothea came with us.”

  Mary fixed her eyes upon him penetratingly. She knew that he had not told her everything, and she had a child’s natural curiosity, which had grown over the years.

  “But you never visit Hilltop. Don’t you like my papa, and my mama?”

  Alfred stood up, stung by pain. He glanced at the door, wishing desperately for Dorothea’s return. He said, in a stifled tone: “Your father and I did not have very much in common, my dear.” He could not go on for a moment or two, then Mary could hardly hear his words: “Yes, I liked your mother very much. Very much. But sometimes families are incompatible. Was that the gong I just heard?”

  Then, to Alfred’s deep thankfulness, Dorothea rustled into the room. She looked from Alfred to Mary. She saw that Alfred was extremely disturbed and wretched. What had this strange child said to him? But Mary was all aplomb and pleasantness, and rose properly when her aunt entered.

  Mary thought the luncheon very plain and tasteless, quite unlike the spirited meals at home. The house, too, was abnormally quiet. There was no striking of a clock, no friendly voices of servants at a distance. There must be horses, and there had been Philip’s little dog, but there was no neighing or barking. She heard the lonely rustling of trees. The windows in this stark dining-room faced north. Mary could see dim shadowed lawns, made duskier by evergreens. She sensed a dampness of the atmosphere and shivered. No wonder darling Philip came so often to Hilltop. The silence and the chill here must be very disagreeable to him too.

  Dorothea suddenly became anxious. “But your mother, my dear: will she not wonder where you are, and why you have not appeared for luncheon?”

  Mary shook her head, and her web of pale hair was slightly agitated. “I had an earlier luncheon with my brother, in his nursery. Mama is entertaining Mrs. Kingsley today, and she told me to keep William away from them. Mrs. Kingsley doesn’t
like children. She likes animals best.” Mary considered this thoughtfully. “I don’t blame her, really. Little boys, especially, can be very tiresome.”

  Dorothea had a sudden swift memory of her own guardianship over the obstreperous Jerome so many years ago. She, too, had often been warned to assist the nursemaid in keeping Jerome away from the guests. Her eyes became moist. She said: “Is your brother rather noisy, my love, and uncontrollable?”

  “Only with Mama,” said Mary. “He is very well-behaved when Papa is at home. Papa is sometimes stern with him. But when Mama is alone, William can’t always be controlled. He takes advantage. He has tantrums.”

  Ah, yes, Jerome “took advantage,” and he often had “tantrums”! How well Dorothea remembered. She smiled at Mary with sympathy and understanding. How odd that history could so repeat itself in a family! She felt a quick deep bond between herself and this calm young girl. She knew instinctively that without too much effort Mary could control William, as she had controlled Jerome.

  Dorothea turned to Alfred. He was smiling at her. He too was thinking of the things that were filling her own mind. It had been a long time since Dorothea had experienced this sense of warmth and understanding, this closeness.

  Then Dorothea remembered that Mary had been remiss in her duty. “But you left your brother alone, after all,” she reminded her niece, with an attempt at severity. “That was quite wrong.”

  Mary was not abashed. “I had had enough of him, for two hours,” she said. “I gave Margie, his nurse, an old locket of mine on her promise to keep him away from Mama and Mrs. Kingsley. She said she would tie him down if she had to. Of course, he roars,” she added, reflectively. “But Margie can keep the doors shut.”

  Once Dorothea had locked Jerome in a closet. That was when Mama was so ill. He had not been frightened. He had kicked the inside of the door to splinters. Dorothea’s hand held her tea-cup but did not lift it to her lips. She stared at the tablecloth, remembering.

  It did not occur to her until later that she had recalled these memories of Jerome without bitterness or hatred.

  Mary made a spot of radiance in the dim dining-room. It was so natural for her to be here. It was like having Alfred’s daughter in the house. Alfred’s daughter! He had been deprived of this treasure, this sweetness, through no fault of his own. But still Dorothea could feel nothing but sadness and regret.

  Mary refused a drive home. She liked the walk. She left messages for Philip. He was not to forget that he was dining at Hilltop tomorrow night. She hoped that he would bring the copy of Shelley he had promised her, bound in limp red morocco. He had written her that he had bought it especially for her.

  Mary composedly kissed her Aunt Dorothea and then Alfred, thanked them for the luncheon, and sedately went away. They accompanied her to the gates. They watched her tall slender figure climbing steadily up the hill. When she was some distance away she turned to wave to them. They both felt a poignant sense of loss, of irreparable grief. It was wrong that she should leave them. They watched the sun glinting on her hair until a bend in the road hid it from their sight.

  Her name should have been Elizabeth, thought Alfred. My mother’s name.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  “Really, Mary!” exclaimed Amalie, very perturbed and exasperated. “You have no sense of proportion at all. I can’t think what your father will say when we have to tell him. Unless you do not tell him.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” said Mary placidly. “There is no use having secrets.”

  She regarded her mother reflectively. “He never said expressly that I should not visit Uncle Alfred and Aunt Dorothea.”

  Amalie sighed resignedly. “Don’t use that sophistry on me, my girl. You’ve known, surely, that you should not go down there. You have not been in ignorance of your father’s—feelings—about that family.”

  Mary smoothed her hair with both hands, then shook it back again.

  “Mama,” she said, very quietly, “I am almost fourteen years old. I am not really a child any longer. Don’t you think I ought to know why there is such a feeling about Philip’s family? It is all so mysterious.”

  Amalie was silent. The girl was right. Some day, perhaps very soon, she would hear the story. It might be garbled. People could be so merciless. Amalie knew that Mary, in spite of her surface tranquillity, had a deep capacity for feeling, for emotion. Amalie did not know what to do! Whatever she did, it would infuriate Jerome. But Jerome would be infuriated anyway, and he would blame his wife without reticence and with no mincing of words.

  But, my God! thought Amalie, with despair, the actual story was bad enough without fearing it would be “garbled.” The bare facts might be shocking enough. However, there was nothing that could be done about it. It would be best if Mary’s mother gave her a brief and tactful outline. She thought of Jerome’s anger. It could not be helped.

  She said: “Mary, you are a sensible girl. And I agree with you that you ought to know about this. Otherwise, other people may tell you, and they can be unkind.” She paused. After all, Mary was not yet fourteen. What could she know of human passions? Would she blame her parents? Would she build up in her mind some fantastic opinion?

  Amalie, despairing again, said: “At one time, Mary, I was married to Alfred Lindsey.”

  Mary moved quickly. She turned on her chair and gazed steadily at her mother. But she made no remark.

  Amalie twisted her fingers together. She bit her lip. Mary waited.

  “We—all lived together at Hilltop then. Your father came home for the wedding.” Oh, God, this was going to be worse than she had thought! “It was very unfortunate, perhaps, but your papa and I—your papa and I—decided we loved each other. So, a few months later, Alfred Lindsey and I were divorced, and your papa and I were married.”

  “Divorced!” said Mary, too softly.

  Amalie frowned. “Surely you know what divorce means, Mary. Of course, divorce is rather—unusual. But sometimes it is necessary. I found I did not really love Alfred Lindsey. It was best for all of us that it happened that way.”

  She could not read Mary’s large blue eyes. They had not moved from her mother’s face. Then, all at once, it came to her with a shock that Mary was admiring her!

  “Why, Mama,” said Mary, almost with wonder. “You must have been very courageous!”

  Amalie actually gaped in her stupefaction.

  Mary was scrutinizing her mother with profound interest. Mama was not dull then, or so strait-laced! Mama had been daring and young and strong; she had had the courage to do a most outrageous and adventurous thing. She had faced down a whole world of censure. Mary was excited, her budding sense of romance stirred. And Papa! How gallant, how irresistible, he must have been! He was not merely his children’s father; he had been a romantic and dashing figure in his own right, a figure of gaiety and abandon. Mary decided that she had never loved her parents so much. Why, she had never loved Mama like this, Mama who had always appeared so correct and rigid with her daughter!

  “So,” said Mary dreamily, “that is why our familes don’t visit. Uncle Alfred must have been hurt, wasn’t he?”

  Amalie moved her head restlessly. “I believe he was,” she said, still dumfounded at what she had seen in her daughter’s face. “But he is a very sensible man. I am sure he holds no grudge. But things are somewhat awkward, you see. So we think it best to have nothing to do with the family down there.”

  “Yes,” said Mary, staring at the window. “I think I see. Uncle Alfred is very kind. He doesn’t hold any grudges. He asked me about you, Mama. A lot of things.” She was silent a moment. “Why didn’t he marry again, too?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know!” exclaimed Amalie. “After all, he had been married twice. Perhaps he thought that enough.” She stopped. “What did he ask you about me, Mary?”

  “He wanted to know whether you were still pretty.” Mary concentrated on her mother, with new eyes. She had never thought of her mother as handsome or otherwise. M
ama was just Mama. But now for the first time Mary saw her mother’s beauty, and a strangeness, a shyness, overcame the girl. She also saw her mother as a woman, not merely as a mother. “He wanted to know whether you still liked the garden. He asked me whether your favorite color still was green.”

  Amalie’s eyes darkened. She dropped her head a trifle.

  “I didn’t know it then,” continued the terrible Mary, “but I know it now. He still likes you, Mama.”

  Amalie rose. She said in an odd voice: “Mary, I don’t know what we can do. Your papa is going to be very angry. I—I think you yourself ought to tell him. I think you ought to tell him what I have told you. I don’t want to be there when you do.”

  Mary nodded. Her smile was secret and mature.

  “I think he will tell you not to go down there again, Mary. And you must obey him.”

  “I don’t think children should obey stupid commands,” said Mary, with composure. “And I like to visit my relatives.”

  Amalie gasped. She turned quickly on her daughter.

  “Why, Mary! How can you say such things? Can’t you realize that parents sometimes give children commands which are beyond the understanding of foolish girls?”

  “No,” said Mary. “After all, I am not a child. I am old enough to form my own opinions and decide what I want to do. I think Papa will see that, too. He always listens to me.”

  Jerome was white with rage. He and Mary were sitting together in Mary’s room. Mary had invited him there after dinner. She often had these confidences with her father. They had walked out of the library as they had often done, together, Jerome giving his wife his old indulgent and somewhat sheepish smile, as if laughing with her before going away with Mary for one of their affectionate “talks.”

  If Jerome was almost speechless with his anger, Mary was all calm.

  “You must not blame Mama,” she was saying. “She did not know I was going. In fact, I left the house without her knowledge. I fully intended to go down to Philip’s home when I left. When I returned, Mama was very angry with me. I insisted that she tell me about everything. So she told me. I am not in the least shocked. I think it very exciting. And now I understand everything, and I wonder why I wasn’t told before.”