This Side of Innocence

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Jim’s anxiety quickened. Had that ride in the snow brought on lung fever? He stretched out his hand and touched Jerome’s forehead. He breathed more easily. There was no fever, after all. He said, coaxingly: “Just try that coffee, sir. Nothin’ like it, in New York. And the bacon’s heaven, like. Had five rashers, myself.”

  Jerome flung aside the bedclothes, and sat up, furiously. “I said a drink, blast you! Do I have to get it, myself?”

  Jim said desperately: “Bad for you, sir. You wouldn’t want the old gentleman to smell it on you, so early in the mornin’? And the ladies?”

  Jerome stared at him, enraged at this disobedience. But before he could speak, Jim continued, hastily: “You’re not lookin’ yerself, sir. Drink’ll make it worse. Try the coffee, if nothin’ else. Then the drink. You don’t want the old sickness back, do you, sir? Thought all this might buck you up a little.”

  Jerome opened his mouth to swear. Then he began to smile. “All right, I’ll have the coffee.” There were tremulous lines about his mouth. “But I’ll have a drink afterwards, damn your impudence.” He blinked his eyes; the rims felt raw and sore. He yawned, winced away from even the subdued light.

  Jim was delighted. He hastily brought a silver bowl and towel to the bed. Jerome splashed his hands impatiently. He looked with repugnance at the tray which Jim set upon his knees. Babbling happily about the air and the sunshine, Jim plumped up the pillows behind his master’s lean back. He poured the coffee into the fragile cup, deftly added cream and sugar. “Look at that cream, sir! Like thick velvet. And the eggs, shinin’ like suns. Hot, too. Made certain of that.” He spoke as if to a sick and disagreeable child. He whisked away the silver covers over the plates, and looked about him for a place to lay them. He saw Jerome’s coat, flung over a chair. He frowned. He’d hung it up, he thought. He lifted the coat uncertainly.

  Jerome, thirstily drinking the coffee, paused. “I went out for a walk last night,” he said. “In the snow.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Jim hung the coat up in the wardrobe. He went to the fire and stirred up the coals. He straightened himself, after laying aside the poker. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed with a sweet light note. Jim smiled happily. Nothing like the country. All peace and quiet, like. He saw a thin strand of black silk on the white marble of the mantelpiece, and lifted it up curiously. He saw that it was not silk, after all, but a slender length of a woman’s black hair. It curled about his fingers, as if alive. Even in the subdued light, it glimmered softly.

  Instantly, Jim knew whose hair this was. He had seen the masses of it only that morning, and had admired it greatly, shining, as it had done, in the brilliant light.

  Jerome spoke angrily behind him: “All right, I’m eating your damned eggs and bacon. You’ll have me as fat as a pig, soon, you old woman.”

  Jim seized the poker again, stirring up the fire with violence. Surreptitiously, he flung the strand of hair onto the glowing bed. It curled up, caught fire, disappeared. Jim turned back to the bed. “That’s the ticket, sir,” he said, jovially. “We’ll soon have the roses in your cheeks. Long tramps in the snow, breathin’ God’s good air, and eatin’ hearty, like.”

  But his little bead-like eyes were frightened. Then he thought: Might be this was the lass’s room before he came. You can’t rely on chambermaids. She might have left it about. Sloven.

  Jim stood beside the bed. If “roses in the cheeks,” depended on an excellent appetite, then they would be long in coming to Jerome’s face. He had hardly touched the food. But he was drinking a second cup of coffee. Though inwardly warned, Jim could not help saying, with elaborate carelessness: “Found a piece of hair on the mantel, sir. Can’t rely on servants, these days. Messin’ about with a feather duster, and overlookin’ things. The young lady must’ve had your room, before we came.”

  Jerome replaced his cup slowly. He looked up at his valet. He said: “Hair? Disgusting. What did you do with it, Jim?”

  “Flung it in the fire. Girl needs a talkin’ to. I’ll remind her, this mornin’.”

  “Never mind. After all, we’re only guests here.” Jerome leaned back against the pillows. He motioned towards his silver case of cheroots. Jim leapt dexterously to the table. He struck a light for his master. Jerome did not meet his eyes. “Jim, how do you like the country?”

  “Ah, sir, I loves it! All this air, and the snow. Not filthy, like. Never saw snow like this.”

  “It’s better in the summer.” Jerome looked at the fire. “How would you like to live here, Jim?”

  Jim was astounded. “Here, sir? For good? Not goin’ back? What’d you do here, sir? And all your friends in New York?”

  Jerome smoked carefully. “Friends? Frankly, now, Jim, what friends have I? None at all, to be candid. I’m tired of the city, anyway. Yes, I’m thinking of staying here for good. I’m thinking of going into my father’s Bank. Do you think you could stand it?”

  Jim was silent. His face was more monkeylike than ever. His eyes were sharp and searching, and he felt a little sick. He glanced involuntarily at the fire.

  “It’s not like you, sir,” he said, vaguely. Then his voice quickened, and he shook his head. “You’re not serious, Mr. Jerome. You couldn’t abide it, after awhile. After all, there’s a lot to be said for New York.” He became falsely enthusiastic. “The theatre. The opera. The musicals. The ladies. All the excitement, and such. You’d miss it, sir. You couldn’t abide bein’ away.”

  Jerome said: “I think I could. At least, I’m going to try it. Jim, if you feel you couldn’t stand it, please be frank. I’ll miss you, but I won’t insist that you stay here and die of boredom. It’s very quiet. And the servants aren’t your sort.” He smiled. But he waited for Jim to answer, with more anxiety than he would have thought possible.

  Jim was still incredulous. The two regarded each other intently. It’ll be bad, this, thought the valet. No good’ll come of it. He’s up to his old tricks. I’d’a’ thought he’d not mess up, like, with his connection’s lady.

  Jerome spoke again: “Try it, Jim. Please try it. We can always leave if we get tired of the quietness. After all, haven’t you just sung rhapsodies about the air and the sun and the roses in my cheeks? You remember, I haven’t been well for a long time. This might do the trick for me. You see, Jim, I’m almost begging you.”

  He drew his leg out from under the sheets, and rubbed it with ostentatious tenderness. He said: “Well, Jim, what’s your answer?”

  Jim drew a deep breath, though his alarm was increasing. “I’ll not leave you, sir. How could I, after what you’ve done for me? We’ve been together a long time, ever since the army. Though I’m not a chap as bets, I think we won’t be stayin’ long.”

  Jerome smiled. “I shouldn’t wonder if you were right, Jim. But even a few weeks might set me up as well as ever. And now, tell me how everything is. Have you seen my father, Mr. Lindsey, this morning?”

  “No, sir. He wasn’t up and abaht. Had his breakfast in his room. And Miss Lindsey is still in bed, they say, with her feverish cold. I didn’t even see Mr. Alfred. He was gone early, to the Bank. But Master Philip,” he added, slowly, “and Miss Maxwell—they’re up and abaht, with the dog. Charlie’s off his head, like, with the snow.”

  Jerome lifted his watch from the table, and exclaimed. “Eleven o’clock! That’s country air, for you, Jim. Slept like the proverbial log. Now, then, please bring me my clothes.”

  Jim chattered amiably through the dressing. He shaved Jerome neatly. He rubbed his hair with tonic, and brushed it vigorously. “No new gray hairs, sir, and that’s a blessin’. Your black cravat, sir, or one of the new French ones? Subdued, like, for the mornin’. What abaht this?” And he held up a rich Paisley design for Jerome’s inspection. “Go well with the brown broadcloth. Just the thing for mornin’.”

  Jerome studied the proffered garments critically. Then he shrugged. “Your taste is better than mine, Jim. We don’t dress much, in the country.”

  “I heard abah
t the Christmas eve party, sir. Carols and such. Like the old country.” Jim sighed. “Reminds me of the old country, this. Solid, like. New York’s nothin’ to it. All the hustle and bustle, and no one rooted down. I’m to go into the woods with the coachmen and the stableboys, and look for mistletoe, and a tree.”

  Jerome laughed. “I can imagine you looking for mistletoe, Jim! Well, don’t mind me. Go rustic. Climb about, like the monkey you are. Do you good.”

  He fastened his watch-chain across his brown silk waistcoat. He looked in the mirror. He rubbed his sunken cheeks with the palms of his hands. Jim sprayed a little eau de cologne on a linen kerchief, and neatly folded it into his master’s pocket. He held the coat and carefully smoothed the shoulders after Jerome had slipped his arms into the sleeves. “Bright you are, sir!” said Jim. “Fresh as the mornin’, itself. Will you be going for a walk, sir?”

  “Shortly. First I must visit Mr. Lindsey.”

  He still regarded himself critically in the mirror. Then he paused. He saw Jim’s anxious face, all the wizened features screwed together. He turned from the mirror. “What is it, Jim? Something’s wrong. Come on, you’ve never kept anything from me before. What is troubling you?”

  Jim was frightened again. He said, hurriedly: “Nothin’, sir. I beg your pardon.” Then, as Jerome scowled, he went on, almost incoherently: “It’s a feelin’ I have, sir. That nothin’ good’ll come of us stayin’. Stayin’ long.”

  Jerome glanced at the fire. The strand of hair was gone. But he seemed to see it there still. Then he smiled easily, and laid his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Nonsense. Haven’t you always been at me to settle down and accomplish something? See here, Jim, I’ll take up my painting again, seriously this time. After banking hours, and during week-ends. I’ll become the country gentleman, and you won’t know me.”

  Jim sighed. “Yes, sir,” he said, in a subdued voice.

  Whistling softly, Jerome went down the warm corridor to his father’s room.

  He found Mr. Lindsey in scarlet dressing gown, gray shawl and woolen nightcap before the fire, slowly inspecting the contents of a silvery tray laid at his elbow on the round mahogany table. He appeared very wan and tired in the blazing noon light, and the fire, too, was pale and fugitive. His room resembled himself, for it was austere, the draperies grave in coloring, the bare floor polished, and relieved only by scattered Oriental rugs. The walls were lined with his cherished favorite books, as if the library below were not enough. His prim tester bed was neatly made. Jerome had often remarked that his father’s room smelled of New England, and that it had a frosty and rebuking odor, fresh, but chilling.

  “Ah ha,” said Jerome, stepping briskly into the room. “A slug-a-bed, I see. Just beginning breakfast.”

  Mr. Lindsey laid down a silver cover over the contents of a dish. “This might possibly be luncheon, you know,” he remarked, thoughtfully. He lifted the dish-cover again. “In fact, it is.” He looked at his son, and smiled, and his pale face, wrinkled and dry as parchment, brightened. “Good morning, my dear boy.”

  Jerome laid his hand for a moment on his father’s shoulder, and after an instant or two, Mr. Lindsey touched that hand with his cool fingers. Jerome sat down. In spite of his air of gaiety and affection, he felt that new constraint with his father, that strange uncertainty and wariness. But if Mr. Lindsey, himself, discerned his son’s constraint he did not betray the fact. He regarded Jerome with affection.

  “Well, if that is luncheon, then I am reproached,” said Jerome. “Please do not delay—Father. It smells very appetizing.

  But Mr. Lindsey lay back in his chair. “It can wait. I never did like fish, anyway. But Dorothea insists it does something for the brain. She must think I am getting senile.”

  They laughed together, and for a brief few seconds the constraint was entirely gone and they gazed at each other with the old fondness and understanding, complete and intimate.

  Still smiling, Mr. Lindsey said: “At eight this morning, I had a talk with Alfred. I told him of your—decision. He was much interested. He waited to discuss the matter with you. He waited until nine o’clock.”

  “Did he expect me to be up then?” asked Jerome, with light derision.

  Mr. Lindsey rubbed his lip reflectively with his index finger. “Banks have not changed their custom. They open at half-past eight still, I believe. Or were you under the impression you might stroll in at noon?”

  Jerome winced elaborately. “Then, it seems, I must crack the dawn every morning after this?”

  “No, but I fear you will have to meet it face to face.” Mr. Lindsey paused, as Jerome pretended, with ruefulness, to consider the unattractive idea. “I repeat, my dear boy, that Alfred was much interested. And pleased.”

  “Oh, certainly. He would express his pleasure. Especially when you indicated that you were already partial to the thought.”

  “You do Alfred an injustice. Do you mean to imply he is a hypocrite?”

  Jerome’s eyes were unpleasant. “No, he hasn’t the imagination. Don’t frown. I grant that he, after judicious and conscientious reflection, decided that justice, and fealty, demanded that he be pleased. So—he was pleased. He manufactures his reactions, with the highest motives.”

  “That is very encouraging. It leads me to hope that mankind, after due consideration, might be able to manufacture lofty sentiments at will, however base the initial emotion. Aren’t you a little too sanguine, Jerome?”

  “Oh, I have the utmost faith in human nature, Father.” Jerome glanced at the fire, then stirred it up vigorously. “I believe in everybody. I am full of brotherly love. Sweetness and light originated in me. But, in the name of God, did Alfred actually believe that I would be up carolling at the dawn, my first morning home?”

  “He might have believed that a gentleman, suddenly inspired by auspicious ambition, would not be able to sleep for excitement and resolution, and so rise early.”

  “I was busy putting the roses in my cheeks, among the pillows,” said Jerome. “I am quoting Jim, my valet.”

  Mr. Lindsey again rubbed his lip. “That brings me to another thought. Don’t you think it slightly pretentious of you to retain a valet, here in the country?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m used to being waited upon. Besides, Jim can do other things. He is an excellent cook. Not English cooking. French. He has imagination. Then, he is marvelous with horses. He used to be a jockey. He is good at mending, too. He is full of virtues, and conveniences. You, yourself, will soon find him indispensable. He serves beautifully. In fact, you could discharge half the staff here and never miss them. Not that I recommend that, however. Jim is bent on going rustic, so he will probably be out in the stables most of the time, doing things with the horses, if you ‘do things’ with them. He shoots, among other things. I expect to do some hunting again.”

  “Remarkable,” murmured Mr. Lindsey. “Where did this estimable man learn all this?”

  “Some talents he acquired in gaol.”

  “Gaol!” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey.

  “Yes. I forgot. He has a talent for pickpocketing. Don’t look so dismayed. He has reformed. Like me. He doesn’t pick pockets now. He has sublimated that genius into a knack with magic. He will keep the other servants endlessly amused, and satisfied.”

  “That is a consideration,” said Mr. Lindsey, ironically. “We ought to keep the rabbit hutch well-filled, then.”

  But he was not displeased. He felt quite invigorated. Jerome had that effect on him, always. His eye was even bright, as it had not been bright in months, or years.

  “With your arduous work at the Bank, and your hunting, you will be very busy, my boy. Do you intend to give up your painting?”

  “No. I expect to have time for everything. You have no idea how energetic I can be, when I wish. I have only one failing: I cannot endure to be bored. Is banking exciting?”

  “I imagine you will make it exciting. I think that worries Alfred. He believes banking is sacrosanct, and that any le
vity with regard to it is blasphemy. But, seriously, you must not expect to discover a circus within the confines of that august institution. There is much dreary detail, there, and much dryness. And you were never one to love detail and exactitude. I fear you are indeed going to be bored at times.”

  They gazed at each other in a little silence. Jerome’s eyes narrowed, though he still smiled. “My decision has not changed,” he said, finally.

  Mr. Lindsey sighed. “I know. I only hope you will not regret it I have always feared that you like to add experiences to your garden of adventure. I trust you will not regard this as just another experience, something to be collected for future merriment. That was always your way, was it not, Jerome?”

  “I like to live.” Jerome’s voice was hard, if still light.

  Mr. Lindsey raised himself in his chair. He no longer smiled. He said: “Under that pretty heading you have inscribed a number of foolish things. Forgive me if I seem to harp, or complain. I am only warning you. You have thought yourself very unique taking that motto as your own: ‘I love to live.’ As if everyone else detested life, and grimly replaced joy with duty, out of sheer perversity! No, my dear boy, there are many happy men who know duty and fulfil it with pleasure, and still continue to love life. The foolish man, prating of his love of life, believes that only vice is enjoyable.”

  He pushed aside the silver tray, and picked up a book. Jerome closed his eyes. “Not your old favorite, Father! Again!”

  Mr. Lindsey could not help smiling. “No, another. Joseph Addison this time ‘—that vice and ignorance, imperfection … should contend for praise, and endeavor as much as possible to make themselves objects of admiration.’”

  Jerome colored. “I am not contending for praise, nor do I wish to make myself an object of admiration, in desiring to enter the Bank. I care only for my own opinion of myself.” He indicated the book. “Addison’s essay On the Wise and the Foolish? Well, I know that, too. “The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation and the fool when he recommends himself to the applause of those about him.’” He paused, then said in a soft and ugly tone: “Alfred adores your applause, Father. And, doubtless, you have been lavish with it.”