This Side of Innocence

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He said, not looking at her: “Please, Dorothea. Say nothing. I do not believe I—” And his voice broke, and he turned away.

  Dorothea’s hands moved up in a slight arch, and then she clasped them together. She said, very quietly: “I believe all our guests have arrived, Alfred. Shall we join the others?”

  She took his arm. At least, she thought, he has been spared the ordeal of seeing the faces of the others in the drawingrooms when they first encounter that woman. Oh, the despicable creature. Oh, Alfred, Alfred!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Amalie was a distinct sensation, to say the least. But if she was aware of it she gave no indication. Completely composed, gracious and affable, she whirled about the music room in the arms of fascinated gentlemen, who awaited their turn with every indication of most ungenteel impatience. Her flashing scarlet figure twirled and glided among the dim grays, blacks, browns and purples like a tongue of flame through sluggishly flowing lava rocks. Even those very young ladies who wore soft blouses and pinks and lavender were instantly robbed of color by her swift proximity, and after her passing they seemed not to regain it, but to remain ghosts of themselves. This did not, in the least, endear her to the ladies, who watched her passage with un-Christian sentiments in their hearts. “The men are making perfect fools of themselves over you, my love,” said the Widow Kingsley, with a delighted grin.

  The musicians, as if becoming infected by her resplendent presence, played with heightened tempo and vitality, so that even the most decorous found themselves whirling about at a tempestuous pace, quite breathless and quite flushed. Mr. Lindsey watched from his chair, and young Philip, pleading for an extra half hour, watched also, his dark eyes blazing with pleasure as they followed Amalie.

  The young ladies, panting, fanning themselves vigorously, were deposited near Mrs. Kingsley for a few moments of rest. “I will say her costume is indecent, more unrefined!” exclaimed one, gasping, her soft voice unusually shrill. “Those bare shoulders—really, almost nude,” and she blushed furiously. “Doubtless, the gentlemen are most embarrassed.”

  “Doubtless,” said Mehitabel wryly. “They are so embarrassed that they cannot get rid of you girls fast enough, so that they can be embarrassed some more.” For the swains of the two young ladies, after a brief and polite word or two, were out looking for Amalie again and skirting the fringes of the dancers with intent and delirious impatience. They were not alone. Many others were dogging Amalie. During interludes, they besieged her, glaring at her dance program, insisting an error had been made and that the next dance was theirs. Amalie’s voice, low, clear and amused, could be heard over the elegant murmuring of the ladies:

  “She has danced only once with Mr. Alfred Lindsey,” said the other of the two girls near Mrs. Kingsley. “And that was the opening dance. I call that most—irregular. But then, they say, it is impossible for her to have manners.”

  “With that face and that figure, no woman needs manners,” said Mehitabel. “She needs a bodyguard.”

  “There she goes now, with Mr. Jerome,” said the smaller and darker of the two. She added reluctantly: “What a handsome couple they make. But, dear me, how high she lifts her skirts! I can actually see her ankles.”

  “Is that why all the men are staring so rapt at the floor?” asked Mehitabel. “I wondered what caused all those downcast eyes.”

  She grinned widely, fanned herself with her huge fan of black ostrich plumes. She was sitting on a little gilt chair in the shelter of palm fronds. The two girls sat near her, one on each side. They knew Mrs. Kingsley very well, and went to her “as to a mother,” for she was kind to them in her way, and they had no living maternal parent. She was fond of them, in her rough fashion. She hoped that local gossip had not yet informed them that she and their father, General Tayntor, had been lovers between Mehitabel’s husbands. Of course, that was over and done with years ago. “There comes a time in a woman’s life when she is finished with all that,” Mehitabel would say, “and she breathes a hearty ‘Thank God!’ for it. Though, it seems, no one believes her.”

  The older of the girls, Sally, was small and dark and dainty, with a dimpled rosy face flushed with intelligence and verve. She had a high and full little breast, and the tiniest of waists, and considerable style. “With a little encouragement,” the Widow Kingsley would say, “she could develop into quite a knowing and interesting woman. But who will encourage her in Riversend?”

  Miss Sally had lively big black eyes and a mass of black ringlets and a mouth like a pudgy red rosebud, in addition to her pretty little figure. She wore a gown of deep pink faille and creamy lace, draped exquisitely. She was naturally mischievous and gay of temperament, and a great belle. It did not please her to find herself deserted by those gentlemen whose names were inscribed in her program as next in line for her dancing favors. She pouted.

  Her sister Josephine (whom no one ever called “Josie,” for obvious reasons) was taller and more graceful than the bouncing Sally. She was also much fairer. Her skin was pale and delicate, only slightly flushed at the cheekbones, and her eyes were a soft and gentle blue. Her hair, decorously without curl or twist, was of a very fragile texture, and only missed being golden by a slight margin. But its gleaming pale brown was still very attractive, and rested in a huge chignon on the nape of her long white neck. Many professed to find her prettier than her nimble sister. Miss Josephine’s features were always reserved and modest and sweet in expression. If she lacked Sally’s animation, she possessed a purity of brow, a slender length of nose, a tenderness of quiet rosy mouth, which gave her a classical look. Every movement, every lift of her head, was imbued with serene aristocracy, and her voice was soft and musical. She wore a simple rich gown of blue satin, very stylish and very elegant, her bustle caught up with pink rosebuds.

  Mrs. Kingsley found the girl dull, though she loved her more than she did the knowing Sally, who had a sharp tongue on occasion and a reckless way of using it. “For conversation,” Mehitabel would say, “give me Sally. She never bores me. But for restfulness, give me Josephine. She quite soothes me, and I find her presence a perfect cure for insomnia.”

  Josephine was only nineteen, Sally’s junior by two years. Neither of them was as yet betrothed. Sally could find no one to please her in Riversend, which she hated. As for Josephine, she had had her hopes. Amalie had blasted them. The poor girl had quite resigned herself to the prospect of fading into gentle spinsterhood and devoting herself to church work and visiting the poor and being a comfort to her father. Of this last nefarious design, the General was still happily ignorant. He fretted considerably over his daughters and urged them, in quite vulgar language, to acquire husbands. He’d not have any damned old maids about him, he would say, pulling their hair and kissing them heartily.

  No one knew of Josephine’s secret pale passion for Alfred and her fanatical devotion to him. She was nearly twenty years his junior, but since her childhood she had fastened all her silent but tenacious hopes upon his oblivious person. He was always very kind to her and found her company a relief from Sally’s. It was necessary for him to visit the General often, on business matters, for the General genially but obdurately refused to go to the Bank. Sally hardly liked him, and when forced into his presence would torment him with witty remarks. But Josephine was like a waft of attar of refined roses on air too brisk and windy. She was content to sit and embroider near him, her slender ankles crossed on a low stool, while her father and Alfred conversed of finance and mortgages and crops and investments. From time to time she would lift her lovely head and fix her sweet blue eyes upon the visitor, and a brighter flush would appear on her cheek.

  For Amalie, she had a most dismaying and desperate hatred which she did not confess even to herself. But her young and inexperienced heart was lacerated with pain and a quite violent grief. This most odious creature was not good enough for dear Alfred; she was most unrefined, a nobody, of low birth and no breeding whatsoever. She would make Alfred miserable, ruin his
life, with her flaunting ways. She had a greedy mouth, and her eyes were hard. Josephine indulged herself in the ancient wonder of neglected and heart-sick women: “What does he see in her?” She was too tall for a woman, and she was bold and coarse, with no gentility. A woman who had had to earn her own living! That was shameful enough in itself. Who, in his right mind, could endure such a creature? Alfred was not in his right mind. Amalie was not even the daughter of one of those disgusting new-rich who had exploited a prostrate South after the war. She had no money, no distinction, no background, no tradition, to bring to Alfred in lieu of cash. Josephine was vaguely aware that her sentiments were un-Christian, but between tears and prayers for forgiveness and supplications that she would be given courage and resignation, she hated Amalie with an overwhelming fury that would have amazed those who knew her.

  Besides, she would think despairingly, from her vantage point of nineteen years, she is so old! She is almost twenty-three, they say. An old maid.

  Her secret thoughts were being vehemently echoed, but vocally, among a number of other ladies who languished in corners and against the walls, while their gentlemen pursued Amalie, completely oblivious of the fact that their names were inscribed in the ladies’ programs. A malignant little breeze of voices blew along the neglected walls, accompanied by nasty titters behind fans, and virulent looks.

  If Amalie was aware of all this (and it was impossible for her not to be) she did not mind it in the least. She despised these genteel and foolish women who did nothing but breed, whine and complain gently at the breakfast table, and manage their large households. She was enjoying herself. At least, she had been enjoying herself until Jerome had become her partner. She could not have refused him, for he had made his request in the presence of others. To have denied him would have created a scene, for she was well aware that he could make scenes, shamelessly, if he so desired.

  The music soared and lilted and swung. Jerome whirled Amalie about in a rapid waltz. She danced beautifully, but she was rigid in Jerome’s arms. Her face was white and withdrawn; she looked steadfastly over his shoulder, as if she had forgotten him. He tried to draw her closer; she resisted. Again he was surprised at her strength. Couples flew by them, the women’s eyes malevolent, the men’s envious. Light poured down from the great chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling. It was all very gay and delightful.

  “I must talk to you,” whispered Jerome.

  Amalie smiled faintly, but did not reply. She glanced hopefully at the musicians. This waltz was almost over.

  He looked at her beautiful white shoulders and the swell of her white breast. He said, softly: “Come away with me. Tonight. We’ll go to New York.”

  She turned her eyes to him then, for the first time, and her smile was wider. “Mr. Lindsey, sir, is this a proposal?”

  He laughed. He pulled her to him unexpectedly, and they danced now in quite ungenteel proximity. “In a way,” he murmured.

  “An unconventional way,” she reflected, “but with no book, I presume.”

  “No book,” he agreed. “But who cares for books?”

  She did not smile now. But she looked at him long and contemptuously. “And on what, may I inquire, should we live in New York?”

  He frowned slightly. “Live on? We’d live as I’ve always lived, I imagine.”

  “On your father’s money?” She paused. “But I seriously doubt that your father would be a source of revenue, under your proposed change of circumstances. You would have to work, Mr. Lindsey, and I wonder if your constitution would endure it.”

  “You do speak of the most disagreeable contingencies,” he said, lightly. But it was evident he was thinking. “Damn it, I’m an excellent artist. I’d paint portraits, or something. Besides, after five days, I understand banking astonishingly.”

  “In short, you’d have practically no money,” she said. She pulled herself away from his shining bosom. “And money, sir, is what I am after. Of course, there are your irresistible charms. But I doubt very much that they would be a substantial substitute for what I have already been offered.”

  Her tone had been consistently light and cool and mocking throughout the conversation. But she was trembling, and her mouth was rigid.

  “You are mercenary,” he chided. Then his face changed. He bent his head. “Amalie, Amalie. I love you, Amalie.”

  She jerked back her head to look at him piercingly. He was smiling. But she saw his eyes, and her trembling became quite violent. At that moment the music ended on a wild and exuberant flourish, and the dancers halted, clapping restrainedly. Several gentlemen, with purposeful gleams in their eyes, were coming towards Amalie, trying to outdistance each other without actually running.

  “Oh, go away, go away!” she murmured. “For God’s sake, let me alone!”

  Jerome saw nothing but this woman. He was heavily flushed, and his breath was thick. He still gripped her hand. Several of the dancers, preparing to leave the floor, eyed them with avid curiosity. Amalie tried to withdraw her hand. He held it more tightly.

  “You can’t marry him,” he said, almost inaudibly. “I want you, Amalie. We belong together. Some way, somehow, I will manage things, for you and me.”

  He saw tears in her eyes for the first time, thick clustering tears that tangled her eyelashes and made the color between them a more vivid but wavering purple. Her mouth had deepened in tint, had become more intense, and softer. But she whispered: “Please. Please.” And turned away from him.

  He had to drop her hand now, for he saw that in the forefront of the pursuing gentlemen Alfred had quite an edge over the others. And there was a dangerous look about Alfred. He favored his cousin with an almost malignant glance, bowed to Amalie, and said: “My love, I believe the next waltz is mine.”

  Jerome retreated slowly towards the wall. He passed Dorothea, in the arms of an elderly gentleman with a white beard. Dorothea stared at him grimly. He did not see her. He reached the Widow Kingsley, who was sitting alone with Sally of the dimples and the bouncing black curls.

  Mehitabel gave him a long and penetrating look. “Well?” she demanded loudly, putting aside her fan.

  He smiled down at her. “Well—nothing,” he said, pleasantly.

  She considered him. “It is hard work, dancing,” she remarked. “Your face is very red and hot. Wipe it.” She paused. “You are a fool, Jerome.”

  But he turned to Sally. “Miss Sally, may I have the honor?”

  She bounded up happily and rolled her huge black eyes at him most coquettishly. “Indeed, sir, it is a pleasure,” she said saucily. “I refused all others for this!”

  He whirled Sally away to the tune of a rollicking waltz. She was a lovely little dancer. She exhaled the odor of sweet lilacs. Her pretty bosom bounced decorously. She threw back her head to laugh at him and tease him. To his surprise, he found her delicious. The strong sickness was still in him, like something festering and devouring, something bleeding and oozing. He still tried to catch glimpses of Amalie’s scarlet gown flying among the dancers. But Sally interested him in spite of himself, for he was always vulnerable to pretty women. How her black eyes danced and glittered! How her little white teeth shone and flashed! She was all warmth and voluptuousness. Involuntarily, his arm tightened about her, and she did not resist. In fact, she actually cuddled. He found it delightful.

  “You have quite grown up since I last saw you, Miss Sally,” he said.

  “The effect is not too disagreeable?” she asked pertly, but her breath came faster.

  “On the contrary, it is dazzling,” he replied, and meant it. “I am enchanted.”

  Her firm and rounded breasts leaned more intimately against him. “How kind of you, sir!” she exclaimed, and tossed her head so that her curls rioted briefly against his lips. She was a natural coquette, was Sally, and her heart was misbehaving in a most unusual fashion, and her blood felt hot and foaming in her veins.

  “I understand that you are not leaving us again,” she said, laughing,
but with an intent and suddenly serious look.

  “No. Never again.” He hesitated and looked for Amalie. “How could I?”

  He danced twice with Sally after that, and each time he found the occasion more pleasant. It was impossible to claim Amalie again. Alfred remained with her, doggedly and grimly.

  At eleven o’clock he discovered that the old wound in his leg had begun to cripple him, and he could dance no more. Instantly, a most horrible restlessness and depression fell over him. He looked about the animated music room. Mehitabel was dancing with the gallant General. Everyone was dancing. Amalie and Alfred had unaccountably disappeared. Mr. Lindsey had excused himself and had gone to bed.

  He left the room unobtrusively, his departure noticed by no one but Sally Tayntor, who immediately drooped in her partner’s arms. He went through the warm and silent hall, where the fire had burned low and the lamp was dim. The clock struck a long and sonorous series of notes. The sounds and music from the distant room were subdued here, like fairy revelry.

  Jerome wandered through, a door, entered a dark passage, continued down it. He opened another door and found himself in his father’s small but complete conservatory. It was very dark here, and silent, filled with the pungent smell of earth and growing things. He closed the door behind him. The air was cool and moist in the conservatory, and there was a hint of moss and mould. The light of the moon came through the glass roof, blurred and doubled, like a moon in a nightmare.

  Jerome could smell the hothouse roses and geraniums and lilies, but he could see only the long earthy stalls. The wooden floor was gritty under his feet.

  He leaned against a stall and slowly and abstractedly began to pull a rose apart.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The “death-dews,” as Jerome winningly called it, had settled over Hilltop. The long quiet of a country winter Sunday had engulfed not only Hilltop but the entire community in that death-in-life atmosphere. Even the horses and the fowl and the sparrows seemed to understand that this was the Sabbath, and they disturbed the empty peace at their own peril. Another storm had raged the day before, but understanding, with commendable intelligence, that this was Sunday, it had subsided precisely at midnight. The only sound at all was that of the churchbells in the valley, and they reached Hilltop’s clarified heights with faint tremblings of airy music. But they only enhanced the “encompassing gloom” and the white and religious vacuity.