He will not come, now, she thought vaguely. He came home on Friday, at the latest. If he had wanted to come he would have been here three days ago. He promised me. He said he loved me. But he lied. Now he wants only to forget me.
She saw a speck far down on the winding road. She leaned forward, the better to see. Yes, it was a buggy! She saw the newly bright sun glancing off the horse’s back. She pushed herself out of her chair, a deep sob in her throat. “Jerome!” she cried, fluttering her hands at the window. And then she saw that the buggy was a strange one. But she stood there by the window, staring blindly.
A short and elderly man was alighting now, near the corner of the farmhouse. She recognized him. It was Mr. Eli Kendricks, one of Alfred’s lawyers. He bustled towards the door, carrying a dispatch case with him, his brown suit pulled tightly over his stout and busy contours. Amalie heard him talking to Mrs. Hobson, then she heard his brisk firm footsteps on the stairs.
He entered, wearing a grave smile. He saw Amalie turning to him slowly. The words of formal greeting which he had prepared stuck in his throat. He thought: Good God, the poor creature’s dying!
But there was a job to be done, and he was not one to waste troubled and compassionate thoughts on a defendant. He cleared his throat as he laid down his dispatch case. He wished she would not tear at him with her eyes like that—hungry, desperate, pleading eyes. Wants news of that bastard, he thought, grimly. Looks like she’s been waiting for him.
He said, making his voice as detached as possible: “Mrs. Lindsey. Your husband has sent some papers for your signature.” He busied himself with his case, and fussily withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Just a formality. You’ll read them, please, if you wish, and then sign them.”
He put a bottle of ink and a pen on Amalie’s dresser and extended the papers towards her, trying to quell the quite unprofessional pity that struggled in him.
But Amalie shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said, feebly. “I don’t need to read them. But I’ll sign them, please.”
“Quite out of order, Mrs. Lindsey,” he said, with false briskness. “Law’s a peculiar thing. You’ll have to read ’em. Quick, if you want to. Just glancing over ’em.”
She stretched out her trembling hand; it was almost transparent, he saw. She took the papers obediently and tried to read them. But only a phrase or two reached her consciousness. “—acknowledges and admits that the child she is to bear is not the child of her husband, Alfred Lindsey, of Hilltop, Riversend, N. Y.—refuses to divulge the name of her guilty partner—agrees not to contest the proposed divorce—”
Mr. Kendricks reflected, without the previous satisfaction he had felt, that this was a damnable thing to do to the poor young creature. He and his partner had discussed the matter with Alfred, completely. It was better for the family, for its reputation, to keep Jerome’s name out of the messy proceedings. Least said, soonest mended. The family must close ranks, however bitter the pill Alfred must have to swallow. Anyway, the dirty devil had had his punishment, with the beating, and his father—. Let the matter die down. Conclude the divorce; let the woman go, and be damned to her. Close ranks. There was the Bank to consider, and Master Philip, and Miss Dorothea.
But Mr. Kendricks, to his professional horror, discovered that he no longer wished Amalie to be “damned” and forgotten. He shook his head. He had practiced law for many years and this was the first time he had wasted pity on the defendant.
Then, to his astonishment, he saw that Amalie was smiling. It was like a frail light on her ravished face, that poor smile. She was saying: “I am so glad.” And he knew that she was glad that Jerome was not mentioned, that he was not named as co-respondent in Alfred’s suit for divorce. Damn him, thought the lawyer savagely, with the feeling that Jerome had not been sufficiently punished. And damn him, thought the lawyer, with a clear vision of his client.
He said: “Then we’ll just sign the papers, and I’ll go, Mrs. Lindsey.” He paused. “And there’s just another little matter. Mr. Lindsey will give you one thousand dollars immediately after the divorce, on the condition that you will leave Riversend at once.” Five hundred dollars had been the amount, but the lawyer, again quite unprofessionally, had generously increased the sum.
“Oh, yes, I’ll go away,” said Amalie, with piteous docility. She signed the papers. Her signature was faint and shaken. “But I don’t want Alfred’s money. Please tell him that.”
“But what’ll you do, ma’am?” protested the lawyer.
Amalie looked through the windows. Now her voice came stronger and clearer: “I’ll find a way. I’ve had to fight all my life. I can fight again.”
Her shoulders straightened, lifted. She had forgotten the lawyer. She was not seeing the road now, for she knew that Jerome would not come. It did not matter. She was alone again, as she had always been alone. She was not afraid. She put her hand to her body. No, she was not alone. Somewhere, somehow, she would find a way to provide for herself and for Jerome’s child. For the first time, she thought of the child, helpless and weak, dependent on her, and a living thrill of resolution and new joy ran over her. She would protect that child and ease its way. She would fight for her child, and make certain that such terrible things should not attack it; it should not be vulnerable to life as she had been vulnerable.
Mr. Kendricks still hesitated. Perhaps he could give the poor girl a word of encouragement, a slight hint But no, it was better this way.
Amalie was turning to him, and her smile was alive and aware. “Thank you,” she said.
She twisted her fingers together, and her smile died. “May I ask just one question? Is Jerome Lindsey home? And is he well? That is all I want to know.”
Mr. Kendricks was acutely uncomfortable at this awkward question. And so he answered surlily: “The—gentleman—is quite well. He returned home last week.”
Amalie was silent. But her eyes implored him, held him.
Mr. Kendricks, to avoid that pathetic gaze, returned the papers to his case. He searched for his hat, mumbled, put it on his head.
Then Amalie was saying softly: “And Mr. William Lindsey? He is well? He—he is not too unforgiving? And Philip?”
The lawyer turned a bright scarlet. He did not know where to look. Then he said quickly: “Mr. Lindsey is—well. I—I am sure he forgave you—.” He turned abruptly. “And now, good-day to you, ma’am.”
He went as fast as possible down the stairs, out of the house. He jumped into his buggy, turned the vehicle about, and drove away. He discovered he was sweating.
He had the papers. It would not be necessary for that poor girl to appear in court. The divorce would be granted by default. He, Kendricks, was glad of that. He could not have endured it to have seen her stricken down again, before the eyes of a ravenous courtroom, guilty though she was of the worst sluttish conduct. But what was to become of her? It was all nonsense, her refusing that money. She would take it; she would have to take it. Two thousand dollars, said the lawyer savagely to himself.
Amalie did not stand by the window now. She went to her bed and lay down upon it, gazing at the ceiling, lying as rigid as a corpse. She tried to recall more of what she had read in the papers. The divorce was being expedited. It would be granted on Wednesday, the day the suit was to be brought. She understood that. She had no defense. She had only to remain here, in case any unforeseen circumstances should arise. It was the last thing she could do for Alfred. To help him, to spare him, she would gladly appear in court, to confess herself before judge and jury and all her enemies. If nothing arose which demanded her presence, in the event that the judge was not touchy about law, she could go away, silently and unseen, and they would all forget her. She had understood, without having been told, that the implication to be conveyed to the court was that she had gone into deliberate and guilty hiding.
She did not know when night came. She did not know when it was morning. She knew only that an enormous sickness had come to her, shot through with pain like ligh
tning. Through clouds of suffering she was occasionally conscious that Mrs. Hobson was ministering to her. She felt hands that lifted and moved her, cold wet cloths on her head. Between these periods of consciousness, she knew that she was so tired that she could not turn her head, and that some far-off shadow was approaching towards her over vast distances. Once the thought occurred to her: I am dying. It did not frighten her.
Once or twice she saw sunlight. Then she would sleep, and again, the sunlight was there, fixed, unmoved, unchanging. This surprised her childishly. Time was standing still. It was always day. Or, perhaps, she slept only for an instant or two, and awakened to daylight. But it was odd to see Mrs. Hobson, and then not to see her; sometimes Mrs. Hobson’s face melted into Farmer Hobson’s, and then into the face of a strange young countrywoman with firm and capable hands. It was very confusing.
Her eyelids were so heavy that she could hardly raise them.
After a long time she heard louder voices, protesting voices, and then a strong and vibrant silence. Someone was in the room; someone was sitting beside her, holding her cold hand. The touch of the strange hand was warm and firm and strong. She smiled. She forced herself to turn her head. She opened her eyes.
Jerome was sitting by her bed, looking down at her. When he knew that she saw him, he dropped his head to her pillow and held her to him, without speaking.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Amalie sat up on her pillows, and obediently drank the broth which Jerome held to her lips. She was too weak to speak much. But when she smiled at him her whole face turned bright and radiant. She could not have enough of seeing him.
She knew that he had not left this house for two days. With deep comfort, she could be sure that when she awakened, at any hour, he would be there, either in the sunlight or in the lamplight. His features had grown clearer each time, until now she could see his dark face clearly. It was not until the third day that she saw the long red wound on his forehead, and another, just beginning to heal, on his cheek. One of his eyes was still swollen and bruised; his left arm was in a rigid contraption of wood and linen.
It was then that she came fully to life, crying out. He had lifted her with his right arm, pressing her head against his shoulder so that she might not see. But she had struggled with him, had pushed him away with new strength, had cried out her accusations against Alfred, had demanded, with desperate pleading, that he tell her all that she must know.
But there was much that Jerome could not tell her yet. He told her that Alfred had assaulted him. But he dismissed the matter lightly, for he could not bear the horror and anguish in her eyes. “After all,” he said, “Alfred did have some provocation.” He even smiled. “It could have been worse.”
“But he might have killed you!”
Jerome shrugged. “I doubt it. He is too careful of himself. He only wanted to slash at me a little.” His bruised mouth tightened grimly as he recalled that night. There was no need for Amalie to know the details.
Amalie searched his face, tears running down her cheeks. She saw that Jerome was much thinner and paler than she had ever seen him, even during those February days when his father had not been expected to live.
“He took me unawares,” said Jerome, with natural male egotism. “He struck me down before I knew what he was about. Otherwise, I might have done a little mutilating, myself.”
He was glad that Amalie was still too enfeebled to sense the full implications of what he must now tell her. He sighed. He looked down at the black broadcloth of his clothing.
He told her that the divorce had been granted three days ago.
He told her that he had not known where she was. But he did not tell her that for three days he had not been conscious of her with any clarity, and that for those three days he had lived in a hell of pain and sorrow and despair.
He had sent Jim to the town for news of Amalie. Jim had ascertained that Amalie had taken no train from Riversend, so they both concluded that she must be somewhere in the vicinity. No one, discreetly questioned by Jim in Riversend, knew the girl’s whereabouts. For hours at a time, Jim and Jerome had discussed the matter carefully, eliminating, conjecturing. Then Jim had suddenly, and awkwardly, been accosted on a street in Riversend by Farmer Hobson, who had pulled him aside with many doubtful and sidelong looks. Jim had been allowed to see Amalie, but the poor creature had not recognized him. “Brain fever, it was.” Jim had returned to Jerome with the news.
“I could not come immediately,” said Jerome, and he looked away from Amalie. His eye fell again on the somberness of his clothing. “I—I wasn’t capable of moving just then. Doctor’s orders. My arm was broken in two places. My face had been stitched—”
There was so much that he could not tell her yet. He must hold this devastating pain still, so that she would not suspect until she was stronger.
But he did say: “The house is ours, if you wish it. Alfred and Philip have left. They have taken up temporary residence in the old Anstead house. With Dorothea. We can go home just as soon as we are married. And that will be when you are stronger. We’ll have to be married in Pennsylvania. A matter of law. The judge here will not contest that marriage; no one will.”
Amalie listened, weeping silently. But she understood. The guilty party to a divorce could not be married in New York State within five years, except by special permission of the court. The judge was in a bad position. Alfred was his friend. But there was the child to be considered. A marriage performed in Pennsylvania, then, would not be questioned. Amalie and Jerome could return to Riversend, and no one would molest them.
“But your father,” whispered Amalie, pushing back the pain that she must face when she was strong enough to remember that she and Jerome had driven Alfred and Philip and Dorothea from their old home. “What of your father? He has not gone with—them?”
Jerome got up abruptly. He went to the window. There was a smarting in his eyes, a heavy load on his heart. “No,” he said quietly. “My father did not go with them. He—stayed.”
“Then he has forgiven us!” exclaimed Amalie with joy.
“Yes, my dear, he—forgave—us. I—I have just learned about his—will. His lawyers told me. Alfred and I were to have the house together, or to sell each other our share, if we did not wish to live in the house jointly.” Jerome’s voice was low and stifled. “I think Alfred will prefer to sell me his share. We are to share the Bank, too. That is going to be a little hard. But somehow, matters will adjust themselves. They always do. However, that is something to arrange in the future. The first thing is our marriage.” He paused. “So, you see, my father understood. Somehow, I think he always knew.”
There was the strangest silence in the room. Jerome still looked blindly through the window. He heard no sound behind him. At last he became aware that Amalie had not spoken for a long time.
He turned quickly. Amalie was sitting up in bed, white as her sheets, her eyes staring fixedly at him. He went back to her with an exclamation. But she held him off with her hand.
“Jerome,” she murmured. “Jerome, your father is dead.”
This was what he had wished to spare her, and this was what he had stupidly betrayed. He sat down on the bed beside her, cursing himself. He searched in his mind for lies, for comfort. But she looked at him, and he could say nothing.
She turned away from him then and buried her face in her pillows.
He began to plead with her; his words rushed out. But he dared not touch her. He stammered and stumbled, running his right hand distractedly through his hair. It was not unexpected, that death, he said. His father’s heart had been failing steadily. It was only a matter of time. Even if these events had not occurred, he would probably have lived only a little longer. Now he, Jerome, must tell her everything. He must tell her that William Lindsey had unaccountably come down to the library, and had saved his son’s life. He must let Amalie know, in full, that Mr. Lindsey had collapsed after a brief and feeble struggle with Alfred, that Alfred, forgetting t
he unconscious man at his feet, had carried his adopted father upstairs and had laid him on his bed, and had then summoned Dorothea and Dr. Hawley. (Jerome had learned this later, from Jim.) Jerome himself had been left to lie in the library, forgotten except by Jim, who was not capable of moving him. But Jim had ministered to him as well as possible, and when Dr. Hawley had come downstairs at midnight, Jim had called to him. With the physician’s assistance, Jim had been able to get Jerome to his room and to his bed, and the exhausted Dr. Hawley had stitched his gashes and set his arm. For days Jerome himself had known nothing of what had occurred. Jim never left him. The little man nursed and fed him, changed the dressings on his face. The rest of the household was absorbed in the dying old man.
It was on the fourth day that Jerome was remembered, and a servant was sent to bring him to his father.
But Jerome could not tell Amalie of that scene by his father’s bed. He never could tell anyone.
He was silent now, remembering. Amalie turned slowly towards him, speechless and still. She waited.
After a while, Jerome continued, speaking in a dull and weary voice. He and Amalie must not feel themselves too guilty of Mr. Lindsey’s death. Mr. Lindsey had sent her his love before he died. He had urged Jerome to tell her that he had known for some time that he was dying, and that nothing could save him. He was glad that his son and Amalie were to be married. He only wished that he could see that wedding, and welcome them to their home. Amalie would understand, Mr. Lindsey had said, when she knew of his will.
Jerome took Amalie’s hand. She did not shrink from him. But she whispered: “Alfred. How terrible it must be for him.”
Jerome thought of his cousin, and his face involuntarily twisted with hatred. He averted his head. “But Alfred knew, too, that my father could not have lived much longer. Dr. Hawley assured him of that. I don’t think you need worry about him too much.”
This Side of Innocence Page 42
