This Side of Innocence

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He put his hand on the heaped white pillows of the bed, stroked the silky linen gently. Here her head would lie; her black hair would be spread out on this whiteness; her long pale arms would rest on this blue and puffy quilt. Her black lashes would lie on her cheeks; they were pale cheeks, and translucent, and the moon would shine on them and make them look like marble. Her mouth would look like a dark plum, in her sleeping face.

  As if bewitched, Jerome stood motionless by his bed, staring down at it fixedly. He was very still, but now that strange and devouring pain had him once more, that inexplicable and bitter pain. He said to himself: I can’t endure it. I won’t endure it. But the words were mechanical. The pain grew stronger. He could actually see the dreaming woman in that bed; he could see, beneath filmy silk, the soft rising of her beautiful breast He held his breath. He bent over the bed. His heart was beating with a curious and stifling wildness, and the pain was tearing him with iron teeth. He put his trembling hand on the phantom’s breast, and so great was his enchantment that he could actually feel the warm round flesh under it.

  He stood like that for a long time; he was frozen in his enchantment Only his heart was alive, like a raging and hungry animal.

  Then, as if shaking off a bewitchment, he pulled himself away from the bed. He drew out his handkerchief, and wiped his wet palms. He went back to the sitting-room and stood before the fire, looking blindly at the glowing grottos formed by the coals. He ran his fingers through his hair; a cold prickling followed their path. He said, aloud: “No. No.”

  He felt sick and shaken. The pain had subsided to a huge and pulsating ache, less sharp, but larger. Again he asked himself: What is wrong with me?

  A hideous answer began to form in his mind. He shook his head, and turned away. He went down the stairs to the library.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The clock in the hall struck a long and sonorous series of notes as Jerome descended the stairway. Ten o’clock. The great warm house lay in complete and dusky quiet; the fire in the hall grate had fallen into glowing coals that palpitated a little. Somewhere, in the darkness, the gales were still screaming beyond the stone walls, increasing the atmosphere of security and strength within. The hall chimney boomed faintly; the coals flared into brilliance, then faded.

  William Lindsey was alone in the library, his head bent over a book, his tortured feet stretched out to the fire.

  Jerome paused on the threshold to study his father. And he thought: He’s a stranger. Strange it was, indeed, that never before had he felt, under a surface kindliness and tolerance, this formidableness in the older man, this cold and patrician steelness, this relentless quiet. He saw his father’s frail profile outlined by the bright fire, and now it seemed no longer to be full of wise composure and aristocratic gentleness and profound understanding. Rather, to Jerome, it appeared without pity, of a Roman sternness and austerity. There was a sad cynicism about the wide, reserved mouth, and its very serenity precluded any emotionalism.

  Jerome had always smugly prided himself on his ability to discern even the subtlest hints of inner character. Now, he was singularly disturbed, and helpless, and even a little afraid. He remembered his childhood, his youth, his early manhood, in this house, and he wondered, with angry perplexity, how his father had ever deceived him so completely. Always, William Lindsey had exhibited only the most tolerant understanding of his children, and a deep quiet affection. Always, he had said: “Your life is your own. You must make your own judgments. Whatever I advise will appear old-fashioned and tiresome to you. Rochefoucauld once said: ‘Old men are fond of giving good advice to console themselves for being no longer in a position to give a bad example.’ Moreover, what was valid and proper for me might be a grave error on your part. You must conduct yourself according to your own interpretation of life, and according to your innate conscience.” Whenever Jerome had been unusually stupid or flagrant, William would quote again from his beloved Rochefoucauld: “‘Scarcely any man is clever enough to know all the evil he does.’ Jerome, I believe you are not so much reckless and absurd as you are conceited. ‘Virtue or vice would not go so far if vanity did not keep her company.’ And, my dear boy, I consider vanity the silliest of the vices.” Then, he had once smiled as he said: “If I sound too unbending, I remember that ‘he who lives without folly is not so wise as he thinks.’”

  He had never, Jerome remembered, been inexorable in his precepts. He had never declared that black is black or white is white. He was flexible in his judgments. He argued from both sides, and ruefully admitted that no one actually knew which side was wrong and which side was right. Compromise, he had declared, was the watchword of the intelligent man. Nothing in life was clearly defined and immutable.

  You were wrong, thought Jerome, with sudden confused anger. That is no way to bring up children. They are not intelligent men. They must, for their own safety, be guided by hard and fast rules. They have no experience by which to judge wisdom or folly. To set children adrift with the remark that perhaps their ignorant folly is right, after all, and the old teacher wrong, is to add bewilderment to their inexperience, and take from their horizon any firm landmarks which would guide them to safety and reasonable living. The iron hand, and not the benign and skeptical philosophy, is the need of the young.

  He did not find his own unique thoughts strange, as he watched his father. Always, he had considered his father the most just and the wisest of men. Now, distrust was added to his furious resentment. He began to wonder whether it was indifference, rather than love, which made a man temperate towards his children.

  His father had become a frightening enigma, but in view of what Dorothea had told Jerome, it was a consistent enigma. His children had never really known him. The mystery of him had remained undiscovered by them until now. If his will had seemed incredible to his children and not in accord with what they believed was his character, it was they who deceived themselves and not he who had deceived them. If he intended to humiliate his daughter, to set his son adrift with a beggarly pittance, the fault was theirs for egotistically believing that they thoroughly understood their father, and that he could do nothing that would be a surprise or an embarrassment to them. William Lindsey, then, had not changed; he had remained himself. His children had been self-deluded.

  Jerome was suddenly afraid, as he stared at his father. He felt impotence in himself, and this enraged him. He clenched his hands at his sides. The clock in the hall ticked loud in the stillness; a coal dropped; the wind drummed in the chimney.

  Mr. Lindsey quietly turned a page. Then he glanced up, slowly, and saw his son in the doorway. He smiled. “Jerome,” he said. “My dear boy, come in. I had been hoping we might have a little talk together, and that is why I have waited here for you.”

  It was his old tranquil voice, affectionate and calm, and a surge, as of nostalgia, rushed through Jerome. It was a stranger speaking in the voice of one who had never really existed except in Jerome’s mind. He went towards the fire in silence, then stood on the hearth, looking down at the fire. His father ‘watched him with smiling thoughtfulness.

  “You have seen Dorothea?”

  Jerome moved a little, but without looking away from the fire. “Yes, Father.” He no longer used the childish “Papa,” yet the “Father” was involuntary rather than deliberate, and he was not aware of the changed word. But Mr. Lindsey heard it, and his blue eyes quickened and darkened, and he laid aside his book.

  “Sit down, Jerome,” he said, very quietly.

  Jerome sat down. Mr. Lindsey scrutinized his son. Jerome wore an unfamiliar expression, now, confused and surly. Mr. Lindsey could not recall having seen that look before, and his white brows drew together for an instant. But he said: “Dorothea is well tonight?”

  Jerome shrugged slightly. “She seems so.” He paused; he lifted the poker and turned over a few smoldering coals. “She is naturally upset about this—marriage.”

  “Ah,” murmured Mr. Lindsey. He lay back in his chair, his long
and elegant figure hardly bending the cushions, so slight it was. “Yes, she is inconsolable, poor girl. She always believed Alfred would marry her, eventually.”

  Jerome took a long time to light a cheroot; he clipped the end, studied it intently, stood up, lifted a wax taper from the vase on the mantelpiece, lit it, puffed at the cheroot experimentally, then sat down. It was evident that he had no wish to meet his father’s level eyes. And Mr. Lindsey watched him, thinking: It is not like Jerome to beat about the bush. It is certainly more in his nature to rush in, violently and explosively, in spite of all his genteel affectations. Something has perturbed him; something has upset his usual indifference.

  “Ah, well,” sighed Mr. Lindsey, when he saw that Jerome would not speak. “Man proposes, and then his passion disposes. We mustn’t condemn Alfred, after all.”

  “No,” said Jerome, and now he spoke in his old hard and cynical voice. “We must always remember that Alfred is a fool, in spite of that granite and reasonable exterior.” He pointed at the book near his father’s hand. “Rochefoucauld again? Well, I can quote from that, too, and it is pertinent, for Alfred. ‘Some people of great merit are disgusting.’”

  “You find Alfred disgusting?” Mr. Lindsey spoke calmly.

  “Yes, I always have. But that isn’t news to you, Father, is it? However, I confess that even I am surprised at this new folly of his. I never believed him fatuous; I always thought he had great self-protectiveness, and an eye out for what was prudent and safe for him.”

  Mr. Lindsey stirred in his chair. “Will you give me a small glass of sherry, Jerome?”

  Jerome rose, went to a nearby table, and poured a glass of sherry for his father. Mr. Lindsey received it with an absent murmur of thanks. He put the glass to his lips. He said, looking inscrutably at the fire: “You do not think Miss Amalie a safe or prudent choice for Alfred? How can you tell? You have scarcely seen her.”

  Jerome laughed a little, and it was an ugly sound. “Father, I am not a child. I have seen hundreds of women of her kind. Paris, London, Rome, New York, are full of such women. I recognize the sort instantly.”

  Mr. Lindsey put aside the glass of sherry. He said: “Jerome, look at me. You’ve been avoiding that ever since you entered the room.”

  Jerome turned his eyes reluctantly to his father, and he flushed darkly. His black eyes were very strange to Mr. Lindsey: they were uncertain and full of vicious resentment and distrust. “Ah,” murmured the other man, and passed a lean white finger over his lips.

  He sat upright in his chair. “Jerome, you might be mistaken, you know.” His tone was mild. “I have had occasion to study Miss Amalie for the past three weeks, since she came to live here with us, on my own invitation. After all,” he added, “it was important to me who was marrying into the family.”

  “Yes.” Jerome smiled nastily. “And, you are satisfied with your study? You approve of the marriage?”

  When Mr. Lindsey did not immediately reply, Jerome exclaimed: “Are you going to be ‘tolerant,’ again? Are you going to ‘compromise’ again? Are you going to ‘withhold your final judgment’?” He paused: “I suppose you have never considered that such an attitude indicates vacillation, a dislike for facing issues squarely and realistically?”

  Mr. Lindsey was about to say: “What is wrong with you, Jerome? This is not like you.” But he held back the words. After all, he thought, what can one know of another? If Jerome seems strange tonight, it is perhaps because I have never really understood him. This saddened him, and he regarded Jerome with quiet earnestness.

  “You would prefer that I make quick, even if erroneous, judgments?”

  “No!” Jerome kicked at the hearthrug. “That would not be in accordance with your character, Father.” His smile was more disagreeable than ever. “However, I cannot see how even you can ‘compromise’ with regard to this woman. Or, perhaps, you think a strumpet would enliven this genteel and refined atmosphere?”

  Mr. Lindsey’s voice was louder and clearer now, as he said: “It is ungentlemanly, and cruel, to use that abominable word. You know nothing of this young lady. Your indecent conclusions, doubtless from your own experience, might not apply to her. The appearance of virtue does not presuppose virtue, nor does the appearance of—lightness—presuppose a lack of virtue. I always believed that I had instilled in you some measure of respect for every woman.”

  “Not for strumpets.” Jerome looked fully at his father now, and it was an alien and derisive look. “Nor do I enjoy the thought that a strumpet will live in this house and lady it over my sister, and fill these old rooms with her ambiguous brats.” His voice thickened towards the last, for his heart had begun its inexplicable pounding again.

  “Jerome!” Mr. Lindsey’s tone was stern. “I must forbid you to apply that word to Miss Amalie again in this house, and in my hearing.” He waited. But Jerome did not speak. He was breathing loud and unevenly, but his fixed and evil smile did not disappear as he stared at his father. At last he said softly: “I will not apply it again. Forgive me. But that does not change my opinion of her.”

  He stood up. “Do you actually believe this a love match on her side?”

  To his surprise, his father responded evenly: “No. I do not. I have talked, alone, with Miss Amalie. She told me frankly that she has only the mildest fondness for Alfred, but considerable respect. She also told me that she was marrying him for what he represented: security, home, money, position, fine clothing, a carriage, jewels. She confessed, with a commendable lack of reticence, that were Alfred a poor man, without prospects, she would not look twice upon him. She also told me, and I believe her, that she had been equally frank with Alfred.”

  Jerome waited, for he saw that his father had not finished. Mr. Lindsey lifted the sherry to his lips and drank composedly. “From that moment on, I knew Miss Amalie to be an honest and fearless woman, without hypocrisy, and incapable of lies and deceit. That was when I accepted her, and consented to the marriage.”

  Jerome said: “You do not find her admissions repugnant, and repellent, and without decency and honor?”

  Mr. Lindsey laughed softly. “I find them refreshing and reassuring. Thousands of refined and respectable young ladies make such marriages every day, but are less honest in their avowed reasons. I am also reassured that Miss Amalie will make Alfred an honest wife. Jerome,” and he laughed again, “you are being sentimental, and you surprise me. Do you think all marriages should be, or are, love-matches? Dear me, I am afraid you are a romantic, and this surprises me excessively and disappoints me a little.”

  Jerome clenched his teeth. But he had nothing to say. Mr. Lindsey continued, as if mildly amused: “Surely you know that the most enduring and respectable marriages among the French are arranged marriages, into which sentiment does not enter? Marriages like that, I have discovered, are almost invariably sound, and as they are based on realism, they are very seldom disappointing. This marriage was ‘arranged’ between Alfred and Miss Amalie. Alfred wants the girl, and she accepts him for what he can offer her. I predict a very successful and solid marriage, without disillusionment or upheavals.”

  “In spite of her antecedents, low birth, lack of breeding and refinement?”

  Mr. Lindsey turned the glass in his attenuated fingers. His face changed. He said reflectively: “I have considered that, also. As I wrote you, if I had to choose, I should not have chosen as Alfred did. I believe both partners to a marriage should bring equal gifts. I am not complaisant, Jerome, about Miss Amalie’s background.”

  “Ah!” said Jerome. “Now we are getting somewhere, at last. Dotty has acquainted me with the lady’s past history. So, it does revolt you. You are not democratic. You do not look upon the daughter of a drunkard and a charwoman as a proper mate for your adopted son.” He paused. “And, may I ask, what do our friends think of the matter?”

  Mr. Lindsey, disregarding Jerome’s sneers, replied composedly: “Our friends are astounded, to say the least. Of course, their opinions are colore
d by the fact that, they have eligible daughters who would make Alfred acceptable wives. That he chose a stranger, an obscure young woman who has had to earn her living, who has lived too freely for a female, who has no family, no money, no connections, no position, is naturally outrageous to them. Many, I have heard, have vowed not to accept her. However, I doubt that this antagonism will long continue.” Nevertheless, he frowned.

  “They are hostile to Alfred, as a result?” Jerome’s smile was gleeful.

  “No. On the contrary.” A slight cynical smile touched Mr. Lindsey’s lips. “They seem to share Dorothea’s conviction that he has been seduced by Miss Amalie’s face and ‘wiles.’ Which, I confess, is probably true. Well, I must admit that there is more sympathy for Alfred, and for us, than reproach. I hope, I pray, that the disagreeableness will not endure too long. Not that Miss Amalie would be devastated. The whole thing amuses her. And that causes me to recall that a sense of humor is very strong in her. And a most intelligent and discerning mind, and a surprising taste.”

  “You think these make up for all the other things.”

  Mr. Lindsey moved in his chair. He put his hand to his lips and gazed at the fire. Then he said, as if in wonderment: “Strange to confess, they do! I wondered why I was not more antagonistic, or disapproving. Now I know. Miss Amalie is not such a young female as I knew in my youth, or know even now. There is strength in her, and courage, and fearlessness, as well as honesty. She does not simper; she never has the vapors. There is a clarity and a forthrightness in her mind which is like an open wind. I have never heard a word of deliberate malice from her, nor gratuitous cruelty, nor any meanness.” He was silent a moment, then said, softly: “If I were a young man, I could not resist her. She is a woman.”