This Side of Innocence

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Once her mind was made up, she, as usual, dismissed all qualms, all quailings. She could even undress with firm hands and go to bed quietly. Then she rang for a maid and asked that Amalie be sent in to her at once.

  The first frightful step taken, she could fix her eyes calmly upon the door and wait for the other woman, her heart quite steady.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dorothea was compelled to draw heavily on her capital reserves of faith, courage, strength and determination during the next two weeks. She must never leave Amalie “unguarded.” But she must not make this obvious. She was naturally robust of constitution, and she must pretend to be afflicted by vapors, sufficiently disabling to demand Amalie’s presence at night but not enough so to make her keep to her bed during the day. So she moved from chair to chair and from room to room, directing Amalie in the household management, and needing various cups of tea and her smelling salts. She was merciless in her constant demands. It meant nothing to her that Amalie became more quiet, more stern-lipped, more ghost-like, as the days passed. (Was it possible that the drab had a conscience? But no, it was apparent that she was merely restive under restraint, and wished to be gone.)

  It was easier to deceive Amalie than Jerome. This, Dorothea knew. So she, almost at once, stirred up an hysterical quarrel with Jerome over some triviality connected with his dog, and pretended such elaborate hostility (due to her “unnerved state”), that it was not hard to affect an unforgiving and petulant attitude which prevented any exchange of amenities with him. As Dorothea had always expressed her disapproval of little Charlie, Jerome did not find her present attitude inconsistent, and as he cared little for his sister’s company, he shrugged away the matter and avoided her.

  It was with Amalie, then, that Dorothea had to be most dissembling, but here again her “unnerved state” came to her rescue. The family physician assured Amalie that Miss Dorothea was suffering from certain delicate nervous and physical symptoms common to women of her age, and Dorothea took full advantage of this diagnosis. So Amalie could not be puzzled by Dorothea’s bitter silences, her hard words, her criticisms, her cold mute glances of aversion. Amalie endured it all with stoical compassion and abstracted courtesy. Perhaps, too, her own misery and desperate state of mind made her overlook unguarded looks and intemperately vicious remarks. She moved, spoke, dressed and did her work in a removed and mechanical state that suggested the actions and voice of a sleepwalker.

  Jerome never saw her alone for an instant. But he did see her bemused white face and hear her neutral voice at the dinner table. She did not turn her eyes his way; he had no method of communication, silent or otherwise, in Dorothea’s constant presence.

  A gloom, reminiscent of the dark days of February when Mr. Lindsey had been ill, fell over the house, with the sole distinction that there was now no anxiety, no terror, no lamps that burned all night. But the heaviness was there, the silence, the sense of imprisonment. “Damn the woman,” said Jerome to himself, “she fills the whole place with dank melancholy and somberness with her humors and her hysterias and her demands.”

  When he would emerge from the house into the bright May weather and feel the nimble air on his face, and the dancing light of the sun, it all seemed incredible to him, and he began to hate the confining walls, the dark rooms unenlivened by firelight, and the hushed voices of the servants. He wanted to cry out to Amalie: “Come here with me, into this gay weather, into this air of hope and life!” But Amalie was a prisoner in that house, and he hated it for her imprisonment. He thought of her almost constantly, with tenderness and anger and impatience, and he tried to convey these things to her with his eyes, with a subtle intonation of his voice, under Dorothea’s very nose. He did not know whether she understood, for her head was always bent wearily, her face averted.

  Finally he could stand it no longer. He wrote a note to Amalie, sealed it, gave it to Jim. “It is a matter of some importance,” he informed the little Cockney. “And it is necessary that Miss Dorothea be unaware of it.”

  Jim’s gnomelike features darkened apprehensively, but Jerome, whistling, had gone out in the trap on his way to the Bank. Jim turned the note over and over in his hands, pursing his lips, and sighing. He would give it to the young lady at once.

  But he found this unexpectedly difficult. It was hard to find Amalie alone. Jim began to hope, foolishly, that he would be compelled to return the note to its writer that night. However, shortly before luncheon, Amalie came downstairs to arrange some garden flowers for the table, and here Jim found her, all her movements listless and tired and abstracted. He glanced about the dusky dining-room, warily. He heard Miss Dorothea descending, and her petulant voice: “Are you down there, Amalie?”

  Amalie lifted her head, looked at the doorway, and replied in the affirmative. Jim approached her hastily, the note in the hollow of his palm. He whispered: “I was to give you this, ma’am.” He pressed the note into Amalie’s hand, and for a moment he was surprised at the coldness of her fingers. Her expression was mute, her lips pale. Jim fled, for Dorothea was in the hall. The kitchen door swung to behind him.

  Amalie had hardly sufficient time to thrust the note into the bosom of her dress before Dorothea entered, all rustling bombazine, harsh face, hair severely coiffed under her cap, and jingling household keys. She, stopped on the threshold of the room and stared about her suspiciously.

  “Was someone just here?” she demanded, in the loud contemptuous tone she unconsciously reserved for Amalie.

  Amalie pushed the last flower into its bowl. Now something within her began to burn with a sharp fire, and her breath came quickly. She said, and her own voice was loud, also: “Did you expect to find someone?”

  Dorothea stiffened, was silent, regarding the other woman intently. She was suddenly frightened. Had she betrayed herself, put this wretch on dangerous guard? But before she could speak, Amalie was saying, in a gentler tone: “Forgive me. I am afraid I am somewhat nervous myself.”

  Dorothea slowly approached the table. She found it odd that she was trembling. The two women sat down to their silent meal. A maid tiptoed in and out through the baize door. Then Amalie said, as if stifling: “It is so bright outside. Would it not be possible for us to go out for a short walk or a ride?”

  Dorothea fished grimly for her smelling salts, which she carried in the pocket of her black alpaca apron. She sniffed at them elaborately, and then in a pent and melancholy voice, she replied: “I am afraid that you have not understood Dr. Hawley, Amalie. Have you forgotten that he said I must rest constantly, no exertion, no disturbing—conditions?”

  The new fire in Amalie glowed and quickened. She said, steadfastly, looking up at Dorothea with her large purplish eyes: “No, I have not forgotten. But you seem quite strong, and the mild weather might do you good.” She turned her head to glance with bitter longing at the bright panorama which made every window in the room seem a painted picture of Paradise.

  “I feel exceptionally weak, today,” said Dorothea, leaning back in her chair, and staring heavily before her. “I shall have to ask you to come to my room with me, Amalie, and go over the household accounts while I rest in bed.”

  You selfish, inconsiderate wretch! thought Amalie, following Dorothea to the latter’s bedroom. All her listlessness was gone. It was as if Jerome’s note, which lay in the hollow between her breasts, had given her renewed and febrile life. Her heart was beating with painful strength; there was moisture along the line of black hair which ran above her forehead. She helped Dorothea remove her boots, assisted her into bed. Then she announced that she would bring her knitting into the room, for work when the accounts were finished and Dorothea napped. She ran into her own room, shut the door, locked it, though her first thought was that she was behaving ridiculously. Then she took out Jerome’s note and read it.

  It was quite brief: “Can you escape the Gorgon today for a few minutes? Or, in the evening, perhaps? There is much to discuss, as you know.” It bore neither salutation nor
signature.

  Amalie crushed the note in her hand. Her face had come alive, brilliant, tremulous. She ran to the window, thrust aside the draperies to their limit. She opened the window and leaned out, breathing deeply of the soft, warm air. She felt the sun on her head; it was too bright for her cloistered eyes, and she blinked. She said aloud: “O God!” And laughed, tears thick on her lashes. The fever was strong in her now; her whole body was tingling.

  She left the window, opened a drawer in her bureau, and hid the note deep under piles of silk and cambric garments. She saw her flushed cheeks in the mirror. She dashed cold water over them, and over her hands, in the wrists of which she felt the drumming blood. She smoothed her hair, took up her knitting bag, and returned to Dorothea’s room.

  The room was already darkened, but there was an alert tenseness about Dorothea’s reclining figure which Amalie at once detected. She seated herself tranquilly. She was aware of the sun beating on the drawn curtains, the smothering warmth in the room, the close smell of wax and furniture and carpet. But she rocked, and discussed household accounts with Dorothea. Her voice was soothing and low. The heat thickened in the room. The house was silent; birds murmured drowsily in the newly leafed trees. Finally Amalie was quiet, her needles clicking sleepily. Dorothea, who always napped briefly in the afternoon, let her eyelids fall. She knew that she would find Amalie there when she awakened, still knitting, still rocking, or perhaps drowsing herself. This was the usual procedure every day. Dorothea fell away into an uneasy sleep. She heard the needles; the faint sound followed her down into the pits of unconsciousness.

  Amalie stopped both knitting and rocking. She rose and tiptoed to the bed. Dorothea lay motionless, her long gray face relaxed in slumber. Her mouth was slightly open; she snored restlessly. Amalie crept soundlessly from the room, closing the door inch by inch behind her. Once it creaked, and she shivered, almost with terror. Dorothea stirred on the bed, muttered, then snored again.

  Once safe in the hall, Amalie ran to her room again, hastily threw a shawl over the shoulders of her blue foulard frock, tied on a bonnet with fingers that shook absurdly. Damp tendrils of her hair clung to her cheeks. She caught up her reticule, fled silently down the stairway. She found a servant dusting the dining-room. She forced her voice to composure: “I need the buggy, Elsie. And please peep in at Miss Dorothea occasionally, and when she awakens tell her that I have gone to see Dr. Hawley, as I am feeling unwell myself.”

  Elsie, startled, could only gaze curiously at Amalie’s excited face and shaking lips. She murmured something, watched Amalie retreat towards the door. “Never mind calling for the buggy, Elsie,” said Amalie. “I am in a hurry, so I will go to the stables myself and get it.”

  She went through the baize door in a blue flurry of dress and shawl and bonnet, stopped for a moment to inspect the roast the cook was preparing for the evening meal, then let herself out through the back door. She ran to the barn. All her blood was crying: “Escape! Escape!”

  The barn had a hot and fecund smell; the golden light streamed through the broad doorway and the small windows, and motes of drifting gilt danced in it. The carriage horses stamped restlessly, turning their heads to stare at Amalie with round and impatient eyes. Two of the stableboys came towards her, pulling on their caps.

  She regarded them in silence. She felt quite delirious; her face was damp. Then she said: “I’d like to have the buggy, please.”

  One of the boys hesitated. “You’ll be driving alone, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” She moved towards the door, her excitement growing, her hands clenched together under the fringes of her shawl. She glanced at the house, serene and dreaming in the warm sunlight. Dorothea’s draperies were still drawn. Amalie’s breath came fast.

  She winced fearfully as the buggy was driven from the barn. What a fearful clatter the wheels made on the caked earth! The horse’s back shone like brown watered silk. The nickel trimming on the harness winked in the sun. The boy helped Amalie climb into the buggy. She settled herself on the seat. It was more the sight of her pale set face and feverish eyes than anything else that made him say, dubiously: “You’ll be all right, ma’am? You know how to drive? Burney’s a frisky mare.”

  Amalie gathered up the reins in her gloved hands and said, with a smile; “I can drive, Tom. I think I can control Burney.”

  She slapped the reins on the mare’s back, and the animal, happy to be at liberty, jumped forward, throwing Amalie against the back of the seat. She recovered herself, tightened the reins, uttered an angry word of remonstrance, then turned the horse more sedately onto the gravelled driveway. Again, she winced as the wheels grated on the small stones and threw them aside. She loosened the reins, let the horse go swiftly in spite of the hazard of the downhill grade; she leaned forward on her seat as if in flight, not looking back.

  Then the shining silence flooded all about her. The horse had found the clay roadway; the wheels rolled with a gentle swaying motion. Sunlight, silent and calm, glittered on the trees, on the brown earth, on the green grass. Amalie passed from light into shadow, from shadow into light. She heard the birds, the whisper of tall grasses, the scurrying of animals in the brush. The valley stood clearly and distinctly below her. The roadway bent, straightened, flowed past woods, past blue and running streams, past abandoned old barns. Now she had reached the road to the village, and the round hill lay behind her. Hilltop was a toy mansion among its trees.

  She was acutely sensible of everything about her, and she fixed her attention on the road, on the back of the horse. But her mind was empty. She kept it deliberately so, sternly controlled the sudden sharp tremblings that ran over her flesh. She passed the General’s house. Josephine and Sally were daintily working in the garden. Amalie lay back in her seat, so that the curtain of the buggy concealed her face. She thought she heard a call, and slapped the reins briskly on the horse’s back, her heart pounding. The wheels skimmed and bounced on the road: the mare threw up her head, her mane flowing.

  It was fortunate that the village streets were unusually deserted this warm afternoon. Amalie moved to a corner of the leather seat and lowered her head. The Bank rose before her, sturdy and smug on its low green slopes, every window gleaming. It had a solid arrogance which normally irritated Amalie, and made her smile, for its self-importance was too much for her sense of humor. But now she reached out for it, mentally, as for a refuge against the peril and gossip of the town streets.

  The buggy drew up at a carriage block and hitching post, and Amalie sprang out; stumbling on her heavy skirts and petticoats. She tied up the horse, bent her head, and with as much decorum as possible walked swiftly up the long low stairway. It was after banking hours, she reflected thankfully. There would be no customers about to stare at her curiously. She adjusted her bonnet, smoothed her shawl, and entered the cool dim interior of the Bank with a tranquil air. The clerks lurked behind their gratings; she pretended not to see them. She put her hand on the door of Alfred’s office, and entered quickly, closing the door behind her.

  The office was empty. All at once, Amalie’s controlled calm left her. She fell into a chair and began to tremble. She looked at the door which led to Jerome’s office. She wanted to rise and go to it, but her legs had become too feeble. She loosened her bonnet ribbons, passed her kerchief over her wet face, fumbled at the strings of her reticule. How terribly indiscreet she had been! What were the clerks saying in their cages, probably smirking all over their pallid faces? Then she whispered, aloud: “I am ridiculous. It is perfectly proper for me to visit the Bank.”

  The office was as quiet as a cemetery. She heard the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. She forced herself to stare at the engravings on the walls. And now everything reminded her of her husband: the neat row of pens on the desk, the heaped closed ledgers, the big mahogany chair standing silent and empty, the green vase waiting for flowers, the streaks of sunlight on the dark carpet and on the draperies.

  Sick terror and misery made her st
art to her feet, run swiftly towards the door of Jerome’s office. She flung it open. Jerome was at the windows, smoking, his hands clasped behind his back.

  He heard her enter. He said: “Well, Jamison, did you find those letters?”

  Then he turned. They looked at each other across the width of the room in an alert and intense silence. Jerome removed the cheroot from his mouth; his eyes narrowed.

  But he said nothing at all. With a sense of sickness, Amalie saw that he glanced at the doorway which led to Alfred’s office, and then at the doorway which led to the Bank proper. He came away from the windows with a step that sounded furtive in Amalie’s sharpened ears. His eyes narrowed still more.

  “Well,” he said, softly.

  “There was no other way—to see you,” she said huskily. And now shame and exhaustion welled over her, made her feel actually ill. She felt the wretched blood in her cheeks. She said: “Was it indiscreet?”

  He hesitated, then replied quietly: “It was not exactly the most discreet thing in the world.” He hesitated again. Then he drew out one of the chairs which stood against the wall, and said, more gently now: “Sit down, Amalie.”

  She sat down, clutching her reticule, her lips dry and thick with her increasing shame and ignominy. As clearly as if she saw herself in a mirror, she was aware of her country blue dress, her shawl, her dowdy bonnet, her pale and lifeless face and heavy eyes. The gloved hands on her knee appeared to her to be too large, too awkward. There was a sudden and desperate urge in her to rise, to fly from the Bank, to go home, to forget. How contemptible she must appear to him, how disgusting, how unwanted!

  To her horror and mortification, she heard herself repeating dully: “There was no other way.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” He put down his cheroot in a metal tray and sat down behind the desk. She glanced up at him, sitting there so unperturbed, so immaculate, so contained. And then she hated him. Her despair was a salt taste in her mouth. How could he regard her like this, with such a dispassionate look, and with such cool and thoughtful eyes? Then he was glancing at the doors again.