Jerome murmured: “The slut.”
Mary’s expression changed. She moved back a step, not in fear but in repulsion. She closed her eyes to shut out her father’s face, but her own remained hard and invulnerable.
Jerome, his breath catching, was speaking again, almost incoherently: “One could never trust her. I never trusted her. She has no dignity, no honor, no sense of proportion. And she did this to me, to my daughter.”
Mary said loudly and sharply: “My mother had nothing to do with it. She has been wretched, wondering what you would say. We had a talk, just recently. She said I had no right to take happiness, if it would hurt you. I told her you had no right to be hurt.” Now, for the first time, she felt a passionate emotion of disgust and anger. Her eyes widened, filled with strong blue light. “You can’t stop us, Papa. No matter what you try. I didn’t think I’d have to say this to you. I thought your fondness for Philip, or some natural decency, would make you consider our marriage temperately and justly, whatever your private objections which have nothing to do with us. You make me quite ill, Papa.”
But Jerome was now beside himself. “I see now, why he came here, wandering obscenely around, talking smoothly. He was after you, the filthy creature. He dared to think of my daughter! He dared to think he could bring his obscenity and loathsomeness into this house!”
Mary smiled strangely, but she said nothing.
Jerome continued rapidly: “If he ever presumes to set foot in this house again, I’ll kill him. You can write him to that effect, that repulsive son of a contemptible father. As for you, I’ll send you away at once, until you remember who you are and what you are. Until you get over this—this sickness. You dirty little animal!”
Mary saw that there was no reasoning with him, that anything she said would only increase his demented fury. He was beyond understanding. So she only stood in silence, looking at him steadily.
He raised his fist again. “You’ll stay in this house, in this room, until I can plan what to do with you. You are not to step outside for an instant, not even on the doorstep. You are not to speak to anyone.”
A flicker passed over Mary’s eyes, but she pressed her lips soundlessly together.
“As for your mother, and—him—I’ll deal with them myself.”
Slowly, as if blind, fumbling along the side of his chair, he turned away. He put out his hands, as if to guide himself around tables and lamps. Mary watched him go. Her cool young heart seemed to open on a deathly pang. She took a step towards him, then stopped. He closed the door behind him softly.
Mary put her hands over her eyes and drew in a deep, strong breath.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Amalie sat in her room waiting. A fire burned warmly on the hearth, but she felt terribly cold. She shivered. Then she would wipe dampness from her forehead and upper lip.
The house was very quiet. She could hear the notes of the grandfather clock as it struck the quarter hour, the half hour. She could hear the snapping of the trees outside in the intense cold. The curve of a brilliant crescent moon shone in through the window.
How can I bear this waiting? thought Amalie. Perhaps I ought to have gone with them.
The stillness increased. It seemed to Amalie that she was sitting alone in empty space, helpless and abandoned. The walls of the house, the very fire, the furniture, all appeared to have retreated from her. She remembered this sense of withdrawal. And then she realized that the house had never accepted her and that this was why she had never felt peace within it.
O God, she thought, and remembered how often she had thought this, I am so tired! I am tired of all the years of anxiety and pain and confusion and uncertainty. I am tired of all this insecurity and uneasiness. What is wrong with me?
She listened. There was still no sound, no movement. A wind rose briefly, shook the windows, made the fire roar up, then passed.
Jerome and Mary had been together for a long time. What was taking place there? Amalie had not heard a voice raised, nor an exclamation. The clock chimed again.
The door opened. Jerome stood on the threshold looking at her. And when she saw his face she rose up involuntarily, as if pushed.
He spoke, very softly: “You slut.”
She put out her hands before her, as if to defend herself. No, not to defend herself. It was to hide Jerome’s face, Jerome’s most terrible face.
“You did this to me,” he said, still softly. “I ought to have known that a woman like you, without tradition or honor or decency, would do a thing like this, behind my back. Well, you can’t do it.”
Amalie straightened until she was very tall. She was no longer terrified or stricken. She looked at Jerome unwaveringly. Then, without hurry, she went past him and out of the room.
She went to Mary. She found the girl sitting before her small fire, motionless, very white, and very still. Mary stood up when her mother entered.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” said Mary gently. “I am going to marry Philip. Nothing can stop me.” Her eyes were shining, undaunted.
She came to Amalie and put her arms about her. Amalie did not move. She had no tears. She had only this appalling suffering in her heart.
“Stay with me tonight, Mama,” said Mary, understanding. “Sleep here with me.”
“Yes,” said Amalie. She leaned heavily against her daughter.
Mary led her to a chair. She knelt beside her mother and rubbed Amalie’s icy hands. She kissed her cheek and her numb lips. Amalie appeared unaware of it all. She stared before her emptily. Then, after a little, she began to speak:
“I don’t know what to do. It was his face—He hates me. I can bear anything but that.”
Mary lifted her mother’s hands and pressed them against her cheek.
“Oh, no, Mama, he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t hate anyone except, perhaps, himself. He is so confused.”
But Amalie’s broken voice went on: “All these years. It was like living, always, on the cracking crust of disaster. We both felt it. I don’t know why. There was something wrong with us, both of us. I thought we could be happy.” She pressed the palms of her hands together, shrank in her chair, and shivered. “We were happy. Yes, I am sure of it. But always something was there, threatening. It was in ourselves. There was something wrong. It has always been wrong.”
Mary sat on her heels and regarded her mother compassionately. Amalie’s eyes were wild and distraught.
“We wanted security and peace, and we couldn’t have them. I don’t know why. Mary, you must remember that about your father. He has been cruel because he was always frightened. Do you know what it is, to be frightened like that?”
“No, Mama. I was never frightened. Because I had no need to be frightened, as you had.” Mary spoke in a deep and newly enriched voice of pity and understanding. “Poor Mama. Poor Papa.”
“You can’t really know, Mary. You can’t really know!”
“I don’t know. But I can feel.”
With sudden feverishness, Amalie grasped Mary’s shoulder with her hand. “You mustn’t marry Philip, Mary. Not for-a long time. You must think of your father. Promise me this, Mary.”
Mary stood up. She said, softly: “Mama, Papa must not be permitted to have his senseless way. In your heart, you know that. So you mustn’t ask it of me.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The cold broke during the night. It was followed by a wild storm, a blizzard that roared in on white wings from the north.
By daylight, the world was one vast movement of wind and snow. Roads in some spots were swept bare to the earth, heaped high in others. The hills were blotted out behind an immense and agitated veil of gray. Riversend huddled under the fury; at midday, it was dark enough to light lamps. The gas lamps on the streets flared with a wan and yellow light. But the streets were empty.
Philip and Alfred were sitting together in the latter’s warm office. They had been talking for an hour, and their conversation was not about the Bank.
“Yes,” said
Alfred, “go to his bank at about three o’clock. Of course, there is the possibility that he may not have left Hilltop this morning. This is the worst storm I have seen for nearly twenty years.”
He remembered the storm on the night when Jerome had returned home, to bring such devastation and misery to Hilltop. This was another such storm, savage and screaming and turbulent. Alfred was uneasy. He kept glancing through the windows. Thick flakes of snow clung to them, to be swept off, to be replaced. The fire spluttered and crackled.
“I should have gone there last night,” said Philip. “But Amalie and Mary especially requested me not to. Now, it seems cowardly of me to let them face it alone.”
Alfred turned his face to his son. His pale eyes were suddenly stern.
“Philip, it appears to me that I should be the one to object, not Jerome.”
Philip said nothing.
Alfred sighed. “Jerome, however, was always a vindictive and passionate man. From what I hear, he has not changed in the least. And why should he not change? He is past fifty. If a man doesn’t learn wisdom and maturity by that time, then there is no hope for him. How can Jerome be so childish?”
Philip said: “We have no proof, as yet, that he is ‘childish’ about this, Father.”
“No,” admitted Alfred, “that is quite true. We must reserve judgment.”
“It is hard enough for a man to give up a daughter he adores, even if—if everything else is satisfactory,” said Philip, with sadness. “We mustn’t blame Jerome too much, should he prove a little difficult. I am relying, however, on our years of friendship and understanding and work and mutual sympathy. He can’t forget all that, surely.”
“You would be surprised at what a man can forget under the stress of emotion,” said Alfred grimly. “He can forget love and decency and honor and reason. He can do and say things which can never be forgiven. Never. Never.”
He waited a little, then he said: “To many, Dorothea may have appeared hard and unrelenting. But she wasn’t really. She lacked understanding of many things, but they were the small things. She had a large awareness of big issues. During her last years, especially, she became kinder, gentler. I only wish she had lived long enough to see you and Mary married. That would have made her so happy.”
“You ought to have married Aunt Dorothea, sir.”
Alfred moved restlessly. He flushed. “Well, I thought of it a few times, I confess. There was a deep affection between us. I—I had an idea she hoped it. But it would not have been fair to her. You see, my dear boy, I couldn’t forget Amalie.” He looked again at the storm. “I still love Amalie, Philip. I think I always shall.”
He said, as if speaking aloud to himself: “I have seen Amalie a few times, at a distance. I thought she seemed unhappy and abstracted. I—I’ve never spoken to you of this before, Philip. But now I must ask you outright: Is she really happy with Jerome? Is he good to her? Kind, charitable, tender? It would give me some peace if I could know that with surety.” Philip hesitated. Then he said reflectively: “I don’t know whether Amalie has the capacity to be truly happy. Perhaps it isn’t Jerome’s fault.”
Alfred quickened. “You say she is unhappy, Philip?”
“If she is, I don’t think it is Jerome’s fault.”
“He doesn’t understand her, then,” said Alfred, urgently and greatly moved. “I didn’t—long ago. But the years have made me understand. Amalie needs a sense of permanence, of security. She never had it. Neither of us—Jerome or I—could give it to her. I don’t know why. I think I might have, if things had been different.”
He said huskily: “Yes, I am sure I could have given it to her. Eventually. When I finally realized that I didn’t have to justify myself. But I didn’t have time then.”
Philip felt an emotion of sad indulgence. He began to speak, then paused. He stared at his father incredulously and knew the truth with a sort of blinding clairvoyance. Yes, Alfred could have made Amalie happy, happy as she had never been before. A few years, only a few years, had been needed. Alfred would have gained in wisdom, in quietness, in peace, under the happiness of being married to Amalie. There were some who were slow in maturing, and some who would never mature. Alfred was among the first, Jerome among the second. If Jerome had never returned to Hilltop, then, in a few years, there would have been peace there, and contentment.
Philip’s heart ached. Then he said to himself: But if that had happened, Mary would have been my sister!
Could he, Philip, be sorry? If he had the choice, would he wish things might have been different? Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps not.
The door opened, and an excited clerk appeared. “Mr. Jerome Lindsey is here, sir, and wishes to see you and Mr. Philip!”
“Jerome!” exclaimed Alfred, starting up. Then he paused, turned to Philip mutely.
Philip had paled. “Send-him in,” he said.
The clerk went out. Philip put his hand on his father’s arm. “Please,” he said, “let us be as calm as possible. It is evident that Jerome isn’t in the least calm. Otherwise, he would never have come here. I can rely on you to keep your temper, Father, under any provocation?”
Alfred bent his head. He sat down again. His hands were shaking. He clasped them together, very hard, on his desk. Philip, standing, waited.
The door opened again. Jerome appeared on the threshold, his hat brim, his shoulders, white with snow.
He did not look at Philip. He looked at Alfred. He closed the door behind him.
Over the space of dark warm carpet, over the space of years of hatred and madness and bitterness, the two men regarded each other in silence.
Neither saw any change in the other. They were young again; their childhood, their early youth, their later manhood, rolled all about them like a scene dissolving into scene and sound into sound. In the flash of a moment, they remembered a hundred things, all the years of enmity, misunderstanding, hatred, envy, small triumphs and devastating victories, defeats and humiliations and shames. Their incompatible natures stood opposed, while the years tumbled and flowed past them, and only they remained the same.
Philip, always so adequate in emergencies, could not speak. Very dimly, he was aware that the fire flared up, that the lamps flickered, that the wind screamed at the windows. The silence in the room became like breath held to suffocation. But, more than anything else, he was aware of Jerome looking at Alfred with eyes from which all sanity and reason had been burned away.
But Alfred was returning that implacable malignant look very quietly. His own face was gray and rigid, as if with shock at what he was seeing with his inner eye. But he was not afraid, not even alarmed. His expression was, it is true, stern and still, but it was the expression worn by one who confronts dementia and knows that, for the sake of the madman, himself, he must not be taken aback by it.
Then Alfred’s expression changed. Philip saw that he was staring at the bright red scars on Jerome’s face. His shock seemed to increase. His lips jerked. One of his hands half rose as if to shut out the sight of those scars. Then it fell heavily to the table again. In the silence, the sound was loud.
Jerome remained where he was, leaning against the door through which he had entered. His breath came sharply. He said, and his voice was low:
“Look here, you. I have only one thing to say: No.”
Philip moved involuntarily. Jerome caught that movement. He turned on the younger man. Philip saw the flash of his teeth.
“You disgusting, contemptible, miserable cripple,” said Jerome, with soft loathing. “You foul and wretched creature. Don’t cross my path again. Don’t ever let me see you. If you do, I will kill you.”
Now he was full of uncontrollable and wondering outrage. “How dare you look at my daughter, you! How dare you think of her? You!”
Alfred had never before seen Philip shrink or fall back before anything. For the first time in Philip’s life, the light went completely out of his eyes. Alfred forgot everything then, except the agony he saw in his son,
the overwhelming despair and humiliation. He forgot everything but that this was his son, who was being so hideously attacked, and who had no defense, Alfred stood up, walked around his desk and faced Jerome, so that there was only a yard or so between them. His strong legs felt weak and numb, but there was a fiery burning in his chest.
“Listen to me, Jerome Lindsey,” he said, without hurry. “I, too, have a few words to say. And I want to tell you now that I forbid my son to marry your daughter. I ought to have done that before. I was a fool to think you might have changed, that you might have become a man, a decent and understanding man. I see now that you’ll never change. I might have known that a bad man is incapable of change, or of acquiring any kindness. Yes, I was a fool to believe that we could have anything but hatred for each other.”
They stared into each other’s eyes. Alfred’s were inflexible and calm. Jerome’s leapt about in their sockets.
Philip, devastatingly weak, leaned against his father’s desk. Something bulked in his throat, salty and choking.
Alfred was speaking again: “I want nothing of your ugliness of spirit in my family. I’d be afraid. I don’t want anything to remind me of your evil tongue and your bad nature. You took from me everything that was worth having. I have forgiven you, and I had hoped to forget, but you’ve made that impossible now.”
He turned to Philip, and it was unbearable to him to see his son like this. But he said, forcing his voice to strength and sternness: “Philip, do you understand me? I forbid you to marry this man’s daughter. If you do so, against my command and wish, you’ll no longer be a son of mine.”
He was all resolution and pride and dignity, but it was becoming increasingly impossible to endure the sight of Philip’s suffering.
“Answer me, Philip. Are you going to obey me?”
Philip pressed his hand harder against his father’s desk. He said: “Yes. I will obey you, Father.”
My son, thought Alfred, with heavy pain. My son, my son. He took a step towards Philip, and Philip tried to push himself away from the desk. He said to his father, silently, from out of his own inner torture: It is all right. Don’t be so unhappy for me. It is all right. We’ll manage, somehow, together. And Alfred stood there, his hand half lifted towards Philip, and he seemed to be listening, too moved to speak.
This Side of Innocence Page 62
