All at once he had a strong hunger for Dorothea’s calm and sturdy presence, for her reassurance. He started down a step or two. But he could not continue. At any moment Dr. Hawley might emerge from the room and find him gone. He said to himself: I must be sensible. I am alarming myself unduly. In any event, I shall not be helping Amalie if I become hysterical.
He heard the swinging of a door downstairs, and saw Dorothea’s white ruffled cap below him and the firm outlines of her tall, black-clad figure. He heard the jingling of her keys, the rustle of her black bombazine apron. He called down to her softly, his heart rising a little with relief. She looked up at him, then began to mount the stairs.
“I heard Dr. Hawley come,” she said, composedly, her dark eyes searching her cousin’s face. “What is wrong with Amalie?”
He made himself smile. “I do not know yet. I am still waiting.” He paused, then said with rare impulsiveness: “Stay with me, Dorothea. I was looking for you.”
He is afraid, she thought, with bitterness and sympathy. He is afraid for that slut, who is only feeling the weight of what conscience she possesses.
“Do not distress yourself,” she said, making her voice very natural and quiet. “I have been alone with Amalie all these weeks, and I assure you that she has not been very ill.”
“She appeared so this morning,” he said, with weariness. But his expression was both pleading and questioning.
Dorothea shrugged. “The excitement of your return, perhaps.”
She hesitated, then touched Alfred’s sleeve briefly. “This is not like you. You are doing no one any good by having the vapors. And again, I assure you that Amalie is not very ill. She has been suffering from the heat.”
He looked down at the strong veined hand on his sleeve, and then, again with an impulsiveness unusual for him, he pressed his fingers over it. “Dear Dorothea,” he said, with gratitude.
He was surprised when she snatched her hand away, when her austere face flushed crimson. And as she colored so, her cheeks became less gaunt, more full, and her eyes, oddly flashing now, appeared vivid to him, and young. Dorothea, though slightly his junior, had always seemed older; he had thought of her as his elder sister. Now, as she stood before him, straight and tall, he felt the impact of her sex, and something about her that was strangely unfamiliar.
“What is wrong?” he asked, confused.
She did not speak immediately, and then only in a strained and muffled voice: “Nothing. Nothing, at all, Alfred. But I wish you would not treat me as if I were your grandmother.” She gave a short, unmirthful laugh. “After all, I am not quite thirty-nine, Alfred.”
Females were certainly unpredictable, thought the bewildered Alfred. Here, in an instant, Dorothea had turned from a sexless rigid figure of salt to the living form of a woman. The “elder sister” had become strange to him, had become endowed with a kind of stern beauty he had never discerned before. Her very dark eyes sparkled in the dusk; he saw the swell of her bosom, the knot of thick braids at the nape of her neck. He felt heat in his cheeks when he saw that her pale mouth was coral with dusky color.
“I am sorry,” he said, though he did not know why he should be regretful. “Certainly, you are younger than I. But you have always been so reliable, my dear, and so competent—”
“Perhaps,” she interrupted dryly, “it would have been better for me not to have been so reliable and so competent.”
But she smiled, as if deeply gratified and oddly amused. She looked at him tenderly. “I am not going to be quite so responsible,” she warned him. “I am going to develop a few vapors of my own, and call for the smelling salts. I think I shall buy a few delicate scarves, and I really think I shall discard this cap.” She put her hand to her head and deliberately removed the cap. Her hair, with its few threads of white, was sleek in the dim light, and her head had for him a new nobility, in its uncluttered contours.
“It would be—unsuitable,” stammered Alfred.
But she replied sturdily: “How do you know what would be unsuitable for me, Alfred? Have you ever really looked at me? Or have I just been a convenience for all of you, in this house?”
“No, certainly not,” he said, with even more confusion.
Dorothea smiled again, that new secret smile. She held the cap in her hand and glanced down at it with distaste. “Perhaps if it had not been for this cap,” she said thoughtfully, “I might have been married.”
He was startled. “Are you serious, Dorothea? Have you ever desired to marry?”
She lifted her eyes to his face, and they flashed scornfully. “Most assuredly. I am giving it very attentive thought lately.” This novel idea so distracted him that he did not hear Dr. Hawley emerging from the room, and started when he heard his subdued and cheerful voice. He turned to the physician, and the latter’s smile, his chuckle, filled him with such relief that he felt weak. Dr. Hawley smiled at him and then at Dorothea.
“Well, well,” he said, “so we can have hopes, after all. The happy occasion—er—must have occurred just before you left Riversend, about two months ago.” He put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder, and gave him a slight push. “This time, I think we can make our plans. I do, indeed.”
All at once every sound in the house appeared to fade, to die away, and there was a profound and echoless silence all through it. The dim air became spectral and very still. The doctor felt it all; it was part of the unfathomable silence of the man and woman before him, their ghostly faces, their fixed eyes.
Dorothea thought, with a numb lack of emotion: Then, it is no use, for me. The crushed cap in her hand seemed made of crumpled steel, every edge biting into her flesh. There was a sick fluttering in her chest, a thickness in her throat. She leaned back against the banister as if unable to stand upright.
But it was at Alfred that the physician was staring. He could not understand that immobile face, that rigidity. He said, in a louder and more insistent voice: “Don’t you understand, Alfred?” He glanced uncomfortably at Dorothea. “Your wife will present you with an heir, in about six and one half months, I believe.” After all, damn it, Dorothea was no young and delicate female who must be protected from the facts of life.
Then Alfred was saying huskily: “That is impossible. You are mistaken.”
The doctor smiled irritably. “Well, I’m not. I’ve just completed—ah—quite an intensive examination of Miss Amalie. And I have questioned her very closely. You can be assured, this time.”
Alfred said nothing, but the grayness deepened on his face, and his eyes appeared to have retreated far back into their sockets. Then, with a terrible effort, he repeated: “You are mistaken. I know you are mistaken. It is impossible.”
He caught at the smooth banister behind him and leaned against it. His voice came louder now, with an undertone of dull savagery: “I know it cannot be.”
The smile left the physician’s face. He saw the shaking outlines of Alfred’s mouth, his flared nostrils, the sharp points of his sunken eyes. Dr. Hawley glanced at Dorothea. She was raising herself slowly from the banister against which she and Alfred were leaning. She looked steadily at Alfred and then at Dr. Hawley. She opened her mouth, but no sound came from it. Then she covered it with her hand, in a quick and frantic movement.
My God, thought Dr. Hawley. There is something very wrong here. He said: “May I talk to you alone, for a moment, Alfred? Is there somewhere we can go?”
Alfred gestured stiffly at the closed door of Mr. Lindsey’s room, then without waiting, he went to the door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Dr. Hawley, startled, watched him go. Then he turned to Dorothea.
Dorothea was gazing at him steadily over the hand she still held pressed to her mouth.
“I don’t understand,” murmured Dr. Hawley, with an aimless gesture.
Dorothea dropped her hand. Then she moved away towards her own room, walking unsteadily. The door closed behind her.
“Well,” said Dr. Hawley, aloud, “I’ll be damned.”
&n
bsp; He followed Alfred into Mr. Lindsey’s room. The curtains had been drawn weeks before, and only the duskiest of light filled it. The furniture was covered with ghostly dust cloths. A faint edge of sunlight shot through the curtains, touched the floor like the tip of a bright sword. Alfred was standing with his back to the door, and when he heard it close behind Dr. Hawley, he spoke clearly but expressionlessly: “I have told you it is impossible. You must tell me you are mistaken.”
Dr. Hawley saw the breadth and stiffness of his strong shoulders; he saw the clenched hands which hung at his sides. Now he discerned that there was an air of suppressed and dangerous violence about Alfred’s back, and in the fixed posture of his head and neck.
“Alfred,” said the doctor quietly, “I am not mistaken. I am sure of that. I am an old man.” He paused. “This is very strange to me. I thought you would be delighted.”
Alfred said, still without turning: “I should be delighted—if it were true. But it is not possible that it is true. I have not—not—I have had nothing to do with my wife for months. So you must understand that it is impossible.”
Dr. Hawley was suddenly weak. He fumbled for a chair and sat down in its swathed depths. He pulled out his kerchief and passed it over a face that was cold and damp. The sword point of light on the floor danced before him, expanded, dwindled, became blinding. He muttered: “Perhaps I am mistaken, I—” Then he could speak no more.
Alfred turned slowly. The doctor saw him, looming larger than life-size over him, diffused, wavering, like a stony statue seen through mist. He saw Alfred approach him soundlessly, stand before him. There was a deep silence in the room.
“No,” said Alfred, after a long time, and very quietly, “I see that you are not mistaken.”
He waited. But the doctor only sat in his chair, an old and stricken man, twisting his handkerchief over and over in his fingers.
“You have told—my wife?” said Alfred, and his voice came as from a long distance, and was still very quiet.
“Yes, yes,” replied Dr. Hawley. Sweat started out over his face.
“And what did she say?”
Dr. Hawley was silent. Of course, this was all a dream, a nightmare. He would awaken in a moment, gasping.
“What did she say?” the question was repeated inexorably.
Breath entered the doctor’s lungs painfully. “She—seemed a little stunned. She is very ill.” He wrung the handkerchief more tightly over his fingers. “My God! But it is still possible that I am mistaken. I must be mistaken!”
“But you are not?” said Alfred, gently.
Again the doctor could not speak.
“She did not say—who might be responsible?” And then Alfred’s voice was brutal and maddened, though still very quiet. He had begun to beat one fist slowly into the palm of his hand.
The doctor was suddenly conscious of the grotesqueness of his nightmare. What were they saying, he and Alfred? What demented words were passing between them? He forced himself upright in his chair. “I must be wrong!” he cried. “God forgive me!” He gasped. “There have been mistakes, before—”
Alfred walked firmly to the door, opened it, held it open. “Good afternoon, Dr. Hawley,” he said.
Dr. Hawley pushed himself to his feet. He was trembling. The floor tilted under his shaking legs. He reached Alfred. He looked up at him. What lay behind that fixity, that inhuman calm, that lack of expression?
He exclaimed: “Alfred, you must be reasonable! It is quite possible that I am wrong. In any event,” he added, his voice sinking, “she is terribly ill; the poor creature. There are symptoms which are misleading—”
But Alfred stood by the door, waiting. The doctor passed through it. The empty hall trembled about him as if filled with fog. He turned to Alfred in one last despairing effort: “If I am right, be merciful. Remember—”
Alfred did not speak. The doctor moved away feebly. He held to the banister as he went downstairs. Alfred remained by the door of his uncle’s room until he heard the outer door close. Then, walking steadily, he went back to his own apartments and entered.
Amalie was fully dressed. Moreover, she had filled her old straw valise with some hastily packed clothing. As she heard Alfred enter, she almost leaped into the air with terror, then swung about. Then, as she saw his face, she stood before him in silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
If there had been the slightest doubt in Alfred’s mind before, there was none now, as he saw Amalie’s preparations for flight.
He shut the door without a sound and stood with his back to it. He contemplated his wife, saw the wild terror in her eyes, the drawn whiteness of her face under the wide brim of her hat. The pretty sprigged dress billowed about her, and was agitated as if by a slight wind. She had pressed her hands into its folds; she was retreating from him, step by step, not looking away from him. Then her retreat stopped; she appeared to grow a little taller, straighten.
Alfred looked at her throat. It was full and beating. His fingers tightened into fists.
He said, almost gently: “It is true, Amalie?”
There was no terror in her eyes now, only a frozen steadfastness.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you know it before Dr. Hawley came? Did you know it before I returned?”
“No.” She lifted her head with a kind of stern resolution. “Had I known it before, I should have left days ago.”
Then she said: “Forgive me, Alfred.”
He regarded her almost musingly. “Who is it, Amalie?”
But she only said: “Forgive me.”
He had felt only an enormous numbness before, but now it began to quicken savagely into murderous anguish. He stared at her incredulously. The light brightened in the room, so that Amalie seemed to stand in an aura of radiance.
“You did this to me, you, my wife?” His voice thickened. “Why, Amalie?”
But again she only said: “Forgive me. Forgive me.”
He said softly: “Don’t say that again, please. I might kill you if you do. I want only to know why you did this, why you betrayed me, why you have dishonored me. You see, I must understand, or I won’t know what it is that I shall have to do with you, with everything.”
He still stared at her incredulously. This was Amalie, his wife, whom he loved. This was the woman he had married, with whom he had lain, for whom he had planned, to whom he had given his name. This was the woman who had convinced him not only that she was his wife, but that she was his friend also.
“You must tell me,” he said. “I must understand. What have I done to you?”
“Nothing. Nothing! It was nothing you ever did, Alfred.” She put her hands to her throat. “It was only me. I was wrong, evil, contemptible. You should never have married me, Alfred.”
He put his hand to his eyes and rubbed them, shaking his head dazedly. “No, I see now that I should not have married you. But I did. And you married me, of your own wish. That is what I cannot understand.”
She saw that soon he would not be able to control himself, and pure animal terror seized her again. If only she could reach the door!
He had dropped his hand. He came towards her for a few steps, and she could not move.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “I don’t intend to hurt you, Amalie. I only want to know the name of—the man. I want to know all about him.”
She shook her head slowly, automatically. “You must let me go, Alfred. Let me go out of this house in peace, and then you can forget that I ever lived. That is what I have been hoping for, praying for—”
“You? Pray?” He spoke with loathing. “How is it possible that you have ever prayed, Amalie? How could you ever have dared to pray?”
She did not answer him. Her face was even whiter under the brim of the hat.
He looked at her steadily. And then he was overpowered by his hatred for her and the frightful pain of his love and passion and of his own dishonor. A spasm wrenched his mouth, made his eyes flicker. He aged i
n those moments.
“You may leave this house immediately,” he said. “But first I want to know who your—who the man is. You must give me his name. You must give it to me at once, or I am afraid that I shall kill you. You must tell me everything, how long you have known him, where you first saw him, where and how you betrayed and disgraced me.”
He waited. But she remained silent.
“His name, Amalie?”
“I can’t tell you,” she whispered. “If I tell you, nothing—nothing will be endurable for you again. It is for your sake that I cannot tell you. Let me go, Alfred.”
He came closer to her, and when she saw his eyes clearly she closed her own as if to shut out the sight of death itself.
But she spoke quickly, breathlessly: “Even if you kill me, I will not tell you. Nothing can make me tell you.”
She thought, please God, whatever is to happen, let it happen now. I am tired.
Even when he caught her throat in one hand and struck her fully and heavily in the face, she felt nothing but her tiredness. She felt nothing at all. Darkness rushed against her eyes; it smothered her. She did not even feel herself fall to the floor. She lay in a swimming pool of blackness, which slowly revolved. From far off she heard a cry, heard it repeated, heard the sound of a dim struggle about her. The cries and the struggle seemed to go on endlessly, and she had no interest in them. She was intent on drowning herself in the deepening pool, and on knowing nothing.
At last, after What seemed an eternity, the pool rejected her. A burning light beat against her eyelids. She opened her eyes. And she saw that only a few moments must have passed, and that from somewhere Dorothea had appeared.
Dorothea had thrown her arms about Alfred; with unsuspected strength she was pulling him away from Amalie. She was crying out against him. Amalie heard her voice, beseeching, accusing, weeping.
This Side of Innocence Page 37
