Was it Jesus, or someone else, who had said: “Perfect love casteth out feat”? But there was no perfect love. There were short periods of utter self-abnegation and self-sacrifice, and during those periods man forgot himself and his terror. But it was impossible for any but a saint to live in a perpetual state of “perfect love.” For men had to live with themselves.
Amalie knew that, even more than most men, Jerome was tortured with fear. Fear of what? She did not quite know. But she knew it explained his life, his periods of brutal irritability, his equally irrational elations, his cruelties, his feverish plans and industry, his concern with Riversend. Doubtless, too, it had been behind his earlier almost paralyzed mode of living.
There were some men who, hounded by the universal fear, fortified their houses. There were others, more profoundly afflicted, who fortified the whole city about their house. Jerome was fortifying Riversend; it was the wall around his fortified home.
Amalie stared at the warm trees in the distance, shimmering in wind and sun. She, too, was always afraid. Her strong old courage was, she knew, the product of her fear. But she was not as afraid as Jerome. There was in her a kind of fatalism. She no longer expected happiness, and so, at times, could be almost tranquil.
Perhaps it is because I am not so intelligent as Jerome, she thought, with bitter amusement. The more conscious a man was, the more vulnerable he was, the higher were the walls he built to protect himself. But at the end his walls were nothing, his fortifications were nothing. “He that hath no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down, and without walls.”
Amalie thought of the years of her marriage to Jerome. In them she had known joy and laughter and delirium and excitement. But no happiness. She had been a fool to expect it. The nearest she had come to happiness was when she had been married to Alfred, she thought, and this thought made her sit upright as if suddenly and invisibly struck. Those few days following the almost fatal illness of Mr. Lindsey, so many years ago! When Alfred had sat beside her on the bed where she lay in her exhaustion, and had talked to her gently, telling her things he would never tell anyone else, and holding her hand, while she listened more with her heart than with her mind and her ears, she had come perilously close to peace and happiness. But she had never known them again. For there was no approaching Jerome. She saw him only as he wished to be seen at a particular moment. Or if in a moment of his abstracted defenselessness she came upon him, he would direct a reasonless anger and brutality upon her, as if she had caught him in a humiliating posture or an indecent act.
But Alfred had frequently, and humbly, indicated to her his wish that she look at his spiritual nakedness, and understand and pity his deformities.
He, too, had been afraid. But his fears had been superficial, almost childish. In some way, she now knew that he was no longer afraid of anything. She could not tell how she knew. Perhaps it was because Philip had told her some things obliquely.
But she had not, she thought, loved Alfred. Perhaps that had been because of her own fears, her own restlessness, which was the symptom of her fear. In Jerome she had instinctively recognized her own distrusts and alarms. Had they pooled their—cowardice? She did not know. Even now, their lives were full of tempestuous periods of almost desperate gaiety. This did not make for harmony and contentment, Perhaps she was growing old. But she longed now for such harmony and contentment. She longed for the security they would bring, but which, with Jerome, she would never know.
We should, she thought, teach our children not to fear anything, neither sorrow nor illness, death nor disappointment, grief nor pain. But first it was necessary for the parents not to fear. How was that possible? Of course, there was God.
She stood up restlessly and began to walk up and down the shaded terrace, her hands wrung together in an unconscious gesture of misery. How teach Mary and young William that events are only water flowing about the strong keel of the human spirit? How so fortify their souls that their sails might fly gallantly before any wind? Of course, there was God.
But God, Jerome had said, was a superstition, born of fear. Amalie shook her head despairingly. Yet he had also suggested that the children attend church. She sent them to the village Congregational church every Sunday. As yet, there was no way of telling whether they were becoming strengthened against fear. There was a world of churches, but the world remained terror-stricken and full of hatred. Was it because it had never really tried religion? The mouth might be full of the Name of the Lord, but the spirit could remain starved and unfed. Something was wrong. Pews were crowded, and men emerged, later, into the Sunday sun, and looked at their fellowmen with distrust and fear and hate. Were the shepherds false, the words they said meaningless? Never, as yet, had men tried God. Until they did, they would know fear, and destroy in their fear, and they would kill, and there would be no imagining their ultimate enormitles.
She heard a child’s steps running through the house; a door opened and slammed, and young William, almost nine now, came towards her, shouting and laughing. She looked at him with passionate fondness, and smoothed his thick dark hair. Then she caught him to her, and cried: “My darling, don’t ever be afraid! Never, never be afraid! If you are afraid, you will be a bad man, and a cruel one, and there’ll never be any peace in your house!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Here, at least, thought Dorothea, it does not change.
She was rigorously pruning the lilac bushes of their withered blooms. They hung, brown and dry, on the green branches. One could depend upon a garden, which knew no changes but the seasons and in the repetition of the seasons only reaffirmed their changelessness.
Her garden was only thirteen years old, and Alfred had said that it took much more than thirteen years to make a garden. It was unlike Alfred, she reflected, to say things like that. It was not so much his words; there seemed always to be a deeper undertone to what he said these days. These days? Dorothea paused, the sharp knife in her hand. It had been many days. Strange, how insensible she had been!
She threw the dead blooms into the basket beside her. She looked at the walls of the garden, and then at the blank red face of the house. A sudden heavy depression overcame her. She shook her head. It had been only last night that Philip had read Alfred a most melancholy poem. Dorothea knew, and cared, little about poetry, but she had listened to this. She knew of its author, for he was very notorious and very shocking, and gentlefolk quite properly spurned him. His name was Algernon Swinburne.
The poem had filled her with a formless despair, and she had listened to jt unwillingly. Worst of all, Alfred, too, had listened, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair, and supporting his chin in his hand. Dorothea remembered clearly only one verse:
“I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap;
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.”
Incomprehensible gibberish! She could not understand why it haunted her with an eerie apprehension, why it threw a spectral and insubstantial light over her garden. She moved her shoulders stiffly and uneasily; her crinolined skirt creaked a little.
Had Alfred found it gibberish? Why had he sat there, so still, listening to Philip read? His face had been very quiet, but very strange. The years had thinned it, brought out unsuspected sharp modeling from under once-heavy flesh. He had sat there and looked at Philip, and his eyes had been too motionless, too fixed.
She glanced down at the basket which contained the dead cones of the lilac blooms. “Blown buds of barren flowers.” She shivered. “Nonsense,” she said aloud. That terrible poetry, with its note of wanton deathliness! Why did the very memory of it impart a forsaken aspect to her pretty and flourishing garden? Why did it hint of decay, of mortality, of “doubtful dreams of dreams”?
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p; The warm sun moved behind a cloud, and now the garden was robbed of color. The roses bobbed ghostly heads in a low wind; the very trees were wan. Dorothea had the strangest sensation that she had stood here for a long time and had seen death come to the earth.
Change, she thought, wretchedly. Alfred had changed. He had never been exuberant. But he had been forceful, his voice strong, almost dictatorial. He had known himself. When had he changed? She could not remember. But she saw now that he was a different man, somber, abstracted, sometimes too gentle, almost uncertain, given to weighing matters doubtfully, whereas at one time he had had an instant and dogmatic opinion. He was tired. He was very tired. She knew this now.
She felt sick with pain and grief and love.
Philip’s little white dog, which had been sniffing busily among the shrubs, suddenly emerged, barking shrilly. He ran towards the garden gates, very excited. He stood there, making the most annoying uproar. Dorothea called to him sharply. He glanced back at her, still barking. A young girl was leaning on the other side of the gate, calmly gazing over it.
Dorothea was unnerved. She smoothed back a lock of her heavily streaked hair. She said coldly: “What is it? What do you want? Are you looking for someone?”
She approached the gate slowly but determinedly. Doubtless this was one of those insufferable new young people from the valley. A most impossible intruder. Dorothea decided to send her packing immediately. She repeated: “What do you want?” and bent down to take the little dog in her arms.
The girl was very tall and slender in her printed muslin dress. Her very light hair was tied back with a blue ribbon the color of her eyes. She had a delicate cool face, firm and finely cut. She said: “Philip lives here, doesn’t he?”
“Philip?” Dorothea frowned. She stared at the girl forbiddingly. But her heart had begun to beat in the most curious way, as if it had responded to some instinct as yet unsensed by Dorothea’s conscious mind. “Who are you, my girl?”
The girl smiled. Dorothea was suddenly dazed and upset. She had seen that slow and thoughtful smile before, she could not remember where. But it was very familiar.
“I am Mary Lindsey,” said the girl. “And you must be my Aunt Dorothea. My real aunt. Not Philip’s.”
She put her hand on the gate and opened it, and stepped inside, moving with surety and poise. Dorothea watched her, numbed. The dog barked wildly. Dorothea put her hand on his head and pressed it so harshly that he yowled briefly.
Mary tossed back her hair; the sun, coming out from behind its cloud, shone suddenly and brilliantly on that pale bright mass, which hung far below her waist. “How do you do, Aunt Dorothea?” said Mary formally.
She has my father’s face, thought Dorothea. She has his eyes, and his movements. She is my own flesh and blood, my niece.
Dorothea was almost gray with shock; her gaunt cheeks drew in.
Mary was glancing about her at the garden; she looked at the house seriously. “I wonder why I was told I mustn’t come here?” she asked, in a musing voice which was almost neutral in its timbre.
Dorothea found her own voice. She said, faintly but bitterly: “Have you asked your father?”
Mary smiled a little. “Yes. He was very indefinite. It seems he doesn’t like anyone here but Philip.” She studied Dorothea coolly. “You don’t seem very formidable, Aunt Dorothea.”
Dorothea put down the dog, who frolicked to Mary and sniffed her eagerly. Mary touched him lightly with her slender foot.
“I have just come home from Miss Finch’s School on the Hudson,” she said. “I thought I’d come to see if Philip were home.”
“He is not.” Dorothea spoke as if half stifled. “He is at his father’s Bank.” She hesitated. Her eyes had dimmed quite unaccountably. “So, you are Mary.”
“Yes.” The girl’s smile, even if it was cold, could be charming.
“And, let me see: you are about fourteen, aren’t you, child?”
“Almost. Next February.”
“A young lady,” murmured Dorothea.
Mary inclined her head with stately graciousness. “Yes. I am going, to marry Philip when I am seventeen or eighteen.”
Dorothea was stunned. Blinking her eyes, she stared at the girl.
“I haven’t told him yet, of course,” Mary continued. “But I shall soon. That is why I came down here. I think it is so silly that I shouldn’t know my own aunt and Philip’s father.”
Dorothea glanced involuntarily at the house. It so happened that Alfred was home today, with one of his severe headaches. Dorothea was alarmed. Alfred must not see this strange girl. She turned to Mary abruptly. But when she saw that fair and composed young face, she could not say what she had been about to say.
“I think,” she said, her voice breaking involuntarily, “that you ought to ask your father’s permission to come here, child.”
“He would not give it to me,” said Mary, smiling again. “I know that. It’s so foolish. Aren’t you going to kiss me, Aunt Dorothea?”
She came up to Dorothea, and she was almost as tall as her aunt. Dorothea regarded her with stupefaction. She saw that Mary was presenting her cheek; she could see the frail color under the fine and vibrant white skin. To her further stupefaction, she found herself bending towards the girl. Her lips touched flesh as soft and sweet as a rose.
Something happened to Dorothea then. Something melted and flowed in her like tears, full and uncontrollable. She put her hand on Mary’s shoulder and looked into those aloof blue eyes. She said: “Mary. Mary.”
Mary’s smile became gentle. “Aunt Dorothea,” she answered softly.
Then Dorothea, her eyes moist and aching, said hurriedly: “My dear, you must not come here again without your father’s express permission. It would be wrong and undutiful.”
“I have every intention of telling Papa that I came here,” said Mary primly. “But he was not at home this morning, and I could not ask him then.”
That, Dorothea thought with mournful irony, is what Papa would have called sophistry. Mary had a pure and untouched look, a delicate transparency. But Dorothea was suddenly enlightened, and not without amusement. This was a resolute child, with quiet and determined strength, with a will and a mind of her own. She was no milk-and-water miss. There was Lindsey steel in her. She is as I was at her age, Dorothea commented to herself.
She searched the girl’s face for some resemblance to Jerome and Amalie. But there was none. She is more my father’s daughter than theirs, thought Dorothea, with pathetic gratitude.
“You have a little brother, too, haven’t you, my love?” she asked.
Mary inclined her head with a gesture so familiar that Dorothea’s heart opened on a quick pang.
“Yes. William. He is eight years old, and a bother,” said Mary. “Little boys can be very annoying, and he is Mama’s pet, which makes him worse.”
Mary had an air of disarming frankness, but Dorothea was not deceived. The girl had potentialities for secrecy and deep reserve. She did not speak impulsively, though her words could be startling.
“I am sure that mothers do not distinguish between their children,” said Dorothea, with Mary’s own priggishness.
Mary laughed. Her porcelain-like features sparkled. “So long as Papa does, I do not care,” she said.
Dorothea studied her with new affection and scrutiny. There was such a cleanness and freshness about the girl. One could not imagine her hurried or mussed or confused. For all her appearance of fragility, she would be competent on all occasions.
“I am about to have my luncheon,” said Dorothea, suddenly reckless. “Will you join me?” What did it matter if Alfred saw this beautiful young girl? Dorothea had the oddest thought that Alfred would not mind, would not be disturbed. That was part of the change which had come over him.
Mary politely, and with the most matter-of-fact manner, accepted the invitation at once. She looked about her with courteous interest as she accompanied Dorothea into the house. Dorothea saw this, and
again her voice was embittered when she said: “This is not like Hilltop, is it, Mary?”
“I think Hilltop the nicest place in the world,” replied the girl. “But this could be very nice, too, if there were just a little more sun in the rooms.”
Dorothea said: “They do not make fabrics and rugs as they did once. These might fade if I allowed too much sunlight to come in.”
“Oh, everything at Hilltop is faded. And I think it charming,” said the insouciant Mary.
Dorothea was annoyed, then she hesitated. She drew back the draperies at the windows of the living-room, and let the sun pour in. She winced when she saw it splashing in golden pools upon her best Brussels carpeting. Mary nodded, approvingly.
Dorothea said: “Please sit down, my dear. I will consult the servants about setting an extra place.”
Again, Mary inclined her head with that painfully familiar gesture. But though she put her hand on the back of a chair, she did not sit down until Dorothea had begun to move out of the room. A flush of pleasure touched Dorothea’s lined and weary face. She went upstairs at once with a quicker step than usual. She felt both excited and pleased. She knocked on Alfred’s sitting-room door. Alfred, pale and drawn, was at his desk writing in his personal expenses book. He smiled at his cousin when she opened the door and stood on the threshold. She actually came in and closed the door behind her, something which she had never done before.
“Alfred!” Dorothea spoke quietly, but with obvious excitement. “We have a visitor! She wandered down here without invitation, without any by-your-leave. I do hope you do not mind.” She regarded him eagerly. “It is Mary. Jerome’s young daughter.”
This Side of Innocence Page 54