This Side of Innocence

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Why, isn’t that old General Tayntor?” asked Jerome, with pleasure. “I haven’t seen the old devil since the war.”

  “I believe it is Brigadier General Tayntor, yes,” said Alfred, stiffly. He began to rein in the horse. “I told him a few days ago that you were here, and that you intended to go into the Bank. He was much interested and pleased.”

  But Jerome was smiling broadly at the sight of his old friend. His teeth flashed in the bright sun. He began to wave. The cutter drew up at the gates of the estate. “I ought to have visited the old bastard before this,” said Jerome, forgetting that in the country one does not visit regularly, but only upon stated, and stately, invitation.

  “Your language, sir,” said Alfred, angrily, then touched his cap as the elderly gentleman, recognizing them, came briskly towards the cutter, waving, and pushing his way through the barking and leaping dogs.

  Brigadier General Wainwright Tayntor was a very alert soldier whose movements denied his sixty-five years. He was as tall and lithe and thin as a vigorous sapling. His black fur-lined cloak blew about him in youthful lines, revealing the gloved hand and the strong right arm that held the dogs’ leashes firmly, and the empty sleeve of his left arm. He walked briskly, with long and purposeful strides. His tall hat was set at a rakish angle on his smoothly clipped white hair. He smiled broadly, with delight.

  “Well, well!” he exclaimed, reaching the cutter. “Jerome, my dear, dear boy! How delicious to see you again! Damn these dogs! I cannot shake hands with you, dear boy, in this predicament. Let me look at you. Damn you, my boy, you give me pleasure just to see you! Ho, ho!” said the General.

  “And it gives me pleasure to see you, sir,” said Jerome, leaning out of the cutter to grasp his old friend’s shoulder. He pushed aside the robes, and got out, courteously, his hand still in place. He was tall, but the General topped him by at least three inches. They stood and beamed at each other, fondly.

  “Good morning, General,” said Alfred, formally.

  At the sound of his voice, the General started. “Eh? Oh, yes, Alfred. How are you, Alfred? Bright morning, eh? But cold as hell.” He dismissed Alfred and returned to Jerome. “What is this I hear about you, you rascal? Going into the Bank. You, in the Bank. Ho, ho, ho!” said the General, turning quite crimson, and going off into a spasm of ribald chuckles.

  Brigadier General Wainwright Tayntor had a wicked and Satanic face, gaunt and ruddy and mobile, all sharp points and quirking angles and licentious wrinkles. His white eyebrows slanted upwards, as if he were full of constant and sinister amusement, which was very possible. He had very small and very bright blue eyes, flashing and knowing, and completely disingenuous, and extremely witty and subtle. He also possessed a long thin nose, which dipped over his wide thin mouth, when he grinned, like a sardonic beak. His color was usually very high, for he was happily addicted to whiskey, which he consumed in great and lighthearted quantities, and his expression was alert and openly bawdy. Whiskey was not his only reprehensible addiction; he was also addicted to women, the younger the better. Had he not been a rich man, and a power in the community, he would have been regarded with horror and ostracized from all decent society.

  Alfred Lindsey was afraid of the General, and disgusted by him. But the General was powerful, and believed in his community, and was a heavy depositor in the Bank. He owned the local railroad, the land on which the workers’ shacks stood, and held many secret, and juicy, mortgages over the heads of the local gentry. So Alfred climbed out of the cutter, also, and stood uneasily against it, while Jerome and the old soldier slapped each other’s shoulders and exchanged improper and insulting remarks.

  “Come in, come in, and see the girls!” cried the General. “They are pining to see you, you scoundrel. Sally, especially. As for Josephine, she languishes daily, and sits at the window, though she is too modest to say anything.”

  Jerome was intrigued by the idea. But Alfred cleared his throat politely. “We are already late, sir. I understand, however, that the young ladies and yourself are to be present at our reception on Christmas Eve. We shall all meet again, at that time.”

  The General scowled at him. “Yes, yes, of course.” And then he laughed loudly, and struck Jerome on the arm with such force that Jerome staggered. “Ho, ho! You, at the Bank! It is delicious, incredible. Have you been reduced to that, at last?” He glanced at Alfred. “Watch the safes, sir, watch the safes! I know this rascal!”

  Alfred smiled painfully. He put his hand tentatively on the cutter, and gave Jerome a beckoning glance.

  “I’ve some investments I am considering,” said the General to Jerome. “I want your opinion. Oh, this is delightful! New York investments. Know the Vanderbilts well, the—! They’ve been after me. Might make a deal with ’em, on the railroad. For a luscious consideration. Coal, too, in Pennsylvania. Need new life about here, with vision and daring,” and he threw Alfred a mocking sparkle.

  “Safety—” began Alfred. But the General had forgotten him, and was again shaking the younger man by the right shoulder. “Damn it,” said the General, “you fill my eyes like the sunset. How’s your leg?”

  “It gives me little trouble, sir.”

  They beamed fatuously upon each other again. Alfred began to find it tiresome. He could not fully understand the General’s infatuation for Jerome, though he had the suspicion that they were much of a kind. He caught himself abruptly, conscious of impudence and impropriety. He sternly reminded himself of the General’s position.

  The General had an inspiring and agreeable thought, and remembered Alfred. “And how is our exquisite Miss Maxwell?” he demanded, with a wink. He rolled up his eyes with a sprightly expression. “What charm! What grace! What—” He halted, looked at Jerome, grinned, winked again.

  “Miss Maxwell is in excellent health, sir,” said Alfred, coloring. His hand clenched on his whip.

  “I love that lady!” exclaimed the General, with enthusiasm. He wagged an arch finger at Alfred. “Ah, sir, had I seen her first!”

  He pushed his tall hat far back on his head, touched his lips with gathered fingers, and threw a kiss into the air. “You lucky devil, sir,” he said, with a romantic sigh. “And now, if the contents of the package but live up to the label, ah, what a treat is in store for you!”

  Alfred’s color deepened with suppressed fury. But Jerome laughed loudly, looking from his old friend to his cousin.

  “There are times,” said the General, “when I become quite addicted to the Cinderella theme.” He thought of something which pleased him, and said to Jerome: “Did I ever tell you, my dear boy, about my great-grandfather, who lived in Virginia?”

  Alfred suspected that the story would be very bawdy, and that in some way it would cast an oblique reflection upon Amalie, so, in spite of his respect for the General, he sprang into the cutter and gathered up the reins. He was shaking with inexplicable anger. Unable to control himself, he cried: “Jerome, it is almost nine o’clock, if you please!”

  Jerome reluctantly tore himself away from his old friend, and Alfred involuntarily struck the horse a savage blow. The cutter leaped forward, and Jerome, only half in the vehicle, was flung back into the seat. Recovering himself, he waved his hat at the General, who watched the flight with a wide and knowing grin. The General kissed his hand; the dogs barked; the cutter rushed forward, spume spurting up from its runners.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Riversend, township and county seat, was precise and clean amid its snow. But, then, it always was rather immaculate, due to the efforts of its “best families,” who could invariably procure cheap labor for the streets.

  The snow had been well cleared; the red-brick streets were wet and shining in the sun. To the north, were those sections inhabited by the imperious holders of wealth: the three physicians and surgeons; a few buxom widows; the Sheriff of the county (a fat little man who was “independent”); Judge Barlowe and his family; rich retired farmers; Mr. Burt Shrewsbury, owner of the beer and ale
brewery; Mr. Seth Brogan, owner and proprietor of the very well equipped and flourishing boot, saddle and harness works; Mr. Ezekiel Sewell, owner of the four local taverns and breeder of race horses for the Saratoga events; the Reverend Adam Gordon, pastor of the Riversend Episcopal Church; Mr. Horville Danton, of the big lumber mills located in the nearby village of Milton, and Mr. Endicott Spinell, of the law firm of Spinell, Bertram & Sinclair, Inc. There were several other families, also, most genteel, who were not in trade at all, and so were much emulated and admired and respected.

  About five or six streets composed this section, which was farthest away from the railroad tracks. They rose and fell gently through arches of trees. The houses were all of gray stone or red brick, with vast and dignified lawns and great gardens in the rear. No touch of commerce violated the calm and dignity which rigorously prevailed; no brewers’ wagons polluted the delicate air. There was little noise, even in the summer, for the immense piazzas were shrouded in vines and rattan curtains, and shaded by thick, well-groomed trees. At the end of West North Street stood the Episcopal church, properly decorous, and impressed by its association with the genteel. The lesser churches, of course, lived timidly in the streets occupied by a very struggling, and very refined, small middle class, who, naturally, were far more exclusive than their betters and far more overbearing and oppressive to their employees. Ignored or patronized by the local aristocracy, feared and hated by their inferiors, they lived in chronic consciousness of their respectability.

  The middle-class section, closer to the main street of Riversend than was the wealthy section, stopped abruptly at the end of East River Street. There began the sections of the poor, the workers in the brewery, the tannery, the big lumber mills, the taverns, and the stables of Mr. Sewell. They also supplied a number of the servants of the county, the laundresses and the railroad workers, though most of the latter lived on the slope of the hill, Their little houses and shacks were execrable, but, belabored by their masters, they were forced to keep their streets in some semblance of cleanliness. However, the dirt of commerce could not always be held at bay, and here the snow was soot-grimed, trampled and muddy.

  The town’s edges were sharply defined. The last houses stopped at the very edge of fields and meadows and the rising slopes of surrounding white hills.

  The Bank of Riversend (the only bank in the township), built of smooth and shiny gray granite, stood in its own impeccable dignity on East River Street. It lay on the top of the very slightest rise of ground, surrounded by virgin snow in the winter, and smooth green lawns in the summer. Very unnecessary, but very impressive, stone stairs approached it from the street, and though the rise was almost imperceptible, the stairs were so ingeniously shallow that it was possible to mount them from the sidewalk and reach the very door without a single blank space. This gray stone stairway had been well cleared and sprinkled with rock salt against ice, and it sparkled with gray diamonds in the early sun.

  The Bank repudiated the surrounding evidences of trade: the shops and the taverns, the markets and the blacksmithies. It stood alone in its austerity and polished severity, its big glass windows glittering in the light. No speck of dust ever marred that pristine radiance, this temple to flourishing commerce, and depository of the county funds. It denied that it financed mortgages on obscure farms, lent money on future crops, or had anything to do with anything so humble as chickens and stock and truck-farm business. Nevertheless, this was the bulk of its business.

  The great bronze door (Alfred’s joy and pride) stood squarely between two plate-glass windows. At the bottom of the window to the right were inscribed, in neat gold letters, not too obtrusive: “William Cherville Lindsey, President. Alfred D. Lindsey, Vice-President.” Then, in even smaller letters, but the more pretentious for that: “Associate: House of Regan, Wall Street, New York.” Jerome maliciously suapected that the last phrase was more brilliantly and sedulously polished than the others, for all its genteel modesty.

  The interior of the Bank lived up to its exterior. The floor was of polished gray granite and black granite squares, while squat and solid black granite pillars suported a white plaster roof. The light poured in the windows, gleamed on floor and pillar, with a religious and subdued intensity. To the rear, were the cages of the three cashiers, all shining brass bars, very impressive. Approaching them was like creeping down a glimmering nave to the altar, and the pale and waxen faces of the young men behind the bars added to this atmosphere. Two guards, in dark blue uniforms, and with conspicuously displayed lethal hardware, marched slowly up and down, passing each other with a soldierly lack of recognition. (“Muskets over the shoulder would be very appropriate,” Jerome had once remarked, and had been properly ignored by Alfred.) To the left, on entering the solemn hush of the nave, were two carved wooden doors, bearing brass plaques: “President.” “Vice-President.” Alfred now occupied the first office, by courtesy of Mr. Lindsey, and his own was occupied by his assistant, a Mr. Frederick Jamison.

  Behind the cages were the offices, dark and cold and grim, where the three bookkeepers and two clerks labored at high desks and kept their mufflers and greatcoats on in the winter.

  Jerome always smiled when he entered the Bank, and invariably always shivered, for effect, irreverent manifestations ignored by Alfred. Today, Jerome looked about him with more interest, and despite his amusement, his heart sank. How was it possible for a man to spend his days in these precincts and not expire of chill and gloom?

  Alfred, suddenly ceremonious and full of hard pomposity, responded to the trembling greetings of his cashiers and led Jerome into his own office. Here a fire burned on the black hearth, a fact which Jerome noted appreciatively. Alfred had put a crimson rug on the polished stone floor and a few excellent prints on the panelled walls. The furniture was all old and massive oak, gleaming with a careful patina. His desk, like himself, was immaculate, the silver inkwell shining, the pens and pencils laid out in a row. He had a bookcase containing volumes on banking, both national and international. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of a stout and massive gentleman with a thick gray moustache, very well executed. The little pale eyes gleamed under enormous gray eyebrows which accentuated the immense expanse of bald head above. The gentleman was the high priest of the banking profession: Mr. Jay Regan of New York, personal friend of Mr. William Lindsey.

  “Very good of him,” said Jerome, pleased, for the portrait of Mr. Regan had not been there on his last visit. “I know the old bandit. When did he give you the holy canvas?”

  He stood beneath the portrait and critically examined the execution. “Oh, yes, Thompson. A very good artist. This is really quite excellent. Did Regan give you this, or did you have to pay for it yourself?”

  Alfred was standing by his closet door and was removing his greatcoat and hat and gloves. He shot Jerome a cold glance, which was lost on the younger man, whose back was to his cousin.

  “Levity,” said Alfred, with disapproval. “Mr. Regan sent this to Uncle William on his last birthday. ‘Pay for it,’ indeed!”

  “Well, I was only asking. I know Regan. So it surprises me that he’d give anything away, even an old shoe. Good old bastard, though.”

  Alfred paused. “You know Mr. Regan? I wasn’t aware of that.”

  At his somewhat tentative tone, with its hint of uneasiness, Jerome turned and eyed his cousin curiously. “Well, I do. He wanted me to paint him and his daughter, Alice. Free of charge, of course. All in the name of friendship. But I wasn’t interested, free or otherwise.”

  “It would have been a great honor,” said Alfred, censoriously, with some shock.

  Jerome bowed. “Yes, I know. But I didn’t wish to extend him the honor.”

  Alfred opened his thin colorless mouth and then closed it firmly. He pushed the door of his closet into place, moved to the fire, and began to rub his cold hands. Not looking at his cousin, he said, with dignity: “I haven’t yet had the honor of meeting Mr. Regan.” He paused. “Is he as impressive as his po
rtrait? Did you find him inspiring?”

  Jerome drew out his silver case and thoughtfully lit a cheroot with a taper which he lighted at the fire. “Inspiring? I don’t know whether that is the word. He’s a very solid patron of the arts in New York, that I know. Box at the opera. Patron saint of worthy artists. A rounder. Yes, I should say he was a rounder. Did you know of Miss Mary DeVere, the variety actress? Well, he was exceptionally generous to her. But then, she is a very exclusive whore, and has half of New York’s fashionable gentlemen after her.”

  Alfred was stunned at this sacrilege. He stared blankly at Jerome’s dark and serene profile, which was lifted with a knowing smile to the portrait. Then he slowly turned crimson.

  Jerome inclined his head modestly. “She seemed to prefer me, though I am no man to poach on another’s—temporary—property. Good old Regan. He lent me five thousand dollars once.”

  “Five thousand dollars!” cried Alfred. He was terribly agitated. “You owe Mr. Jay Regan five thousand dollars?”

  “My dear cousin,” said Jerome mildly, “you have your tenses mixed. It is ‘owed’ not ‘owe.’ I paid him back, eventually. He only charged me two per cent interest. It was a struggle for him. I could see he wished to charge me no interest at all, but once a banker always a banker. He gave me a huge party when the last note was paid, and I imagine it cost him all of the five thousand dollars.” He smiled, reminiscently. “Miss DeVere performed very creditably that night.”

  There was a timid knock on the door which separated the two offices, and in an unnecessarily loud and infuriated voice Alfred commanded the knocker to enter. It was Mr. Jamison, Alfred’s assistant, a tiny meager little man with enormous moustaches and timid-blinking eyes. He started to speak, then recognizing Jerome, he bowed, overcome.

  “Jamison!” cried Jerome, advancing and extending his hand with complete bonhomie. “I thought you’d retired long ago!”