This Side of Innocence

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  It was then that Mary proposed that she and Philip take a walk before he leave for his own home. Philip amiably agreed, glanced at Amalie for permission. She nodded with a faint smile. But she watched Philip and Mary leave the room with trouble in her heart. There had been something in Mary’s clear and delicate face that renewed Amalie’s apprehension.

  Jerome said, after a little: “Sometimes Philip annoys me. I am afraid he is something of a pedant himself.”

  He is your conscience, thought Amalie, with sudden and piercing intuition. He is what is really in your mind. She said: “Oh, no, Philip is not a pedant. You know he is not, really, Jerome.”

  Jerome did not reply. He refilled his brandy glass. Amalie returned to her embroidery. She was vaguely disturbed because her fingers were trembling.

  In the meantime, Mary and Philip were walking slowly down the road from Hilltop. They reached a stretch of fragrant pines and spruces. Overhead, the sky had deepened to a soft heliotrope, wide and calm. The moon was a white face in the sky, as she slowly climbed through tinted mists. The silent west was a lake of pale green, as deep and flat as jade, in which sailed small rosy clouds. The grass gleamed with drops of crystal; crystal hung on the pines, which exuded a strong fragrance. It was that hour of twilight which casts no shadows, so that everything seemed without substance. Even the violet hills appeared to be only banks of cloud against the cool sunset.

  The pine woods were very quiet. Philip and Mary walked hand in hand. Her head was higher than his, and lifted with that prideful grace he loved so much. There was such a tranquillity about the girl, such an integrity. Philip’s hand tightened on hers. He thought, with deep and simple passion: Let nothing ever hurt her! She is not a nature to endure hurt, without maiming. My darling, my dear darling.

  They reached a small clearing in the little woods. There stood their favorite flat stone. They sat down on it, and did not speak for a long time.

  Then Mary said, very softly: “In February, I’ll be eighteen.” She tossed her head, as if her silvery mane still lay upon her shoulders instead of being coiled in its shimmering smoothness on her neck.

  “Yes. I know, my dear.”

  “I have decided not to go to Cornell, Philip. I thought I would, at first, and Papa was pleased. But I want something else now.”

  Philip lifted Mary’s hand, and smoothed each of the white fingers separately. She watched his bent head. Now her slender pale face quickened, glowed, melted.

  “What do you want, Mary?” he asked gently.

  “You, Philip,” she answered, and her voice was very clear.

  He dropped her hand. He looked at her, white with shock and disbelief. He moved as if to get up. But she put her hand on his arm.

  “You’ll never ask me, dear,” she said. “I don’t know why. I’ll have to ask you, it seems. Will you marry me, Philip?”

  He saw her shining eyes, her smile, the pale brightness of her hair. He thought: I never knew a man could experience such a pain as this, and not die of it. Then he said: “Mary, look at me.”

  She obeyed him slowly and intently. She did not answer after she had finished her deliberate and tender scrutiny, but only smiled, as if he had said something foolishly endearing, like a child.

  “I see you,” she said.

  Philip sighed and turned away.

  “I think,” she added, and now her natural voice was shaken, “that you are being very stupid, Philip. You wanted me to see your back, didn’t you? You wanted me to see the way your neck is set deep in your shoulders, didn’t you? Yes, I saw all this. But I see your face, too. I see all of you.” She took his arm and forced him to turn to her again.

  His eyes were stark and somber with pain. “I am fifteen years older than you, Mary.”

  “Fifteen years.” She spoke meditatively. “What are fifteen years? I’m not a child, dear. I don’t think I ever was.”

  He saw her mouth. It was very near to his. He thought: It would do her no harm, would it, to kiss her? Just once? Only once?

  He moved away from her. He said: “Mary, I have always loved you. I don’t think it matters so much now whether I tell you that. At least, I hope not. You are so young, Mary, my darling. I must try to make you understand. You really don’t know what you are saying!” He had to stop, to catch his breath, for there was a constriction in his throat. “I thought about—this—once. But now I see how ludicrous, how shameful, the very thought was.” Despair was confusing him. “You must think of your parents,” he added faintly.

  But Mary, looking off into the distance, only smiled with dreaming reflection. “Philip, I know a lot of things now. I know Mama married your father because he had what she wanted. I know all about her life. While we were in Europe together alone she told me everything. I know that I was born scarcely six months after she married Papa. Mama and I have grown very close. We never were, you know, until I was almost fourteen.

  “Then we understood each other. Mama loves you. Papa admires you, and is very fond of you. They will be glad.”

  Philip uttered a sharp exclamation of denial and pain. Mary took both his arms in her hands and looked at him fully.

  “All my life,” she said, “since I have known you, I have loved you, Philip. Papa and I understood each other; Mama and I do now. But neither of them has my whole confidence, as you have. You are part of me, Philip. I have never been able to see, or want, anybody else. Mama understood, and that is why she took me to Europe—I think. But it was as if I had—armor—over my heart. I thought of nothing but you. So you mustn’t be afraid. You are all I have, and all I ever want.”

  She waited. He did not answer. But she saw his suffering, his stern repression, his denial and misery. She said: “You’ll have to trust me, Philip.”

  She held out her hands to him, palms up, in a simple and touching gesture of pleading surrender. He took them, held them with desperate strength.

  “How can I take you, Mary? You are so young, so—unknowing. It would be a crime.”

  “Oh, why!” she cried, loudly and impatiently. “You are insulting, Philip. Philip, my darling! Look at me, really look at me, Philip!”

  “I have never done anything else but look at you, Mary. I—I had my hopes, my silly dreams. But now I’ve had time to think.”

  She laughed with sweet triumph. “You think too much. Are you going to marry me, Philip? Or must I haunt you up and down Riversend until public opinion compels you to make an honest woman of me?”

  Again she waited. But he did not move. His eyes, however, stared at her with passionate wretchedness and hunger. Then, sighing with indulgent impatience, she put her soft young arms about his neck, bent her head, and kissed him full upon the lips.

  Still, for several long moments, he did not move. Then he caught her to him with a kind of wildness and abandon, and pressed his cheek against her hair.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  “You did—what?” said Amalie incredulously, pushing back a lock of hair, her familiar gesture when baffled.

  “I asked Philip to marry me,” replied Mary, with her usual crystal composure.

  Philip said: “Please, Amalie. It wasn’t quite like that. Mary makes it sound so bald. That is because she is so direct.”

  Amalie had begun to smile. “You misunderstand me, Philip. I was surprised that you hadn’t asked her, and that you made it necessary for her to ask you.”

  Her smile remained steady, but her eyes were anxious and abstracted.

  They were together, these three, in Amalie’s small sitting-room. The late August twilight deepened outside the opened windows in purple and lush green shadows.

  “I knew Philip would never ask me,” said Mary calmly. “I knew it was no use to wait.”

  “But how—improper,” murmured Amalie. She seemed tired. She rested her head against the black-and-red tapestry of her low rocker. She was forty now, and her natural stateliness had increased with her years. A startling white lock ran through the thick masses of her black hair, from t
he peak on her forehead to the nape of her neck. Her strong face was hardly lined; her violet eyes were steady and full of vigor. Only her mouth, though still ripe and rich, betrayed a chronic sadness and restless despondency. These disappeared when she smiled; then her features sparkled with merriment and humor.

  Philip thought that not even Mary had this splendor of Amalie’s. Her green silk gown, tight of bodice, tight and prim to her ankles, was caught towards the back in falling tiers of drape and ruffle. The smooth and shining cloth outlined her long thighs; her ankles were the ankles of a girl.

  Mary, tall and straight, even stiff, on the edge of her chair, was very slender in her youthful immaturity, her blue voile dress classic in its gentle folds. If Amalie had splendor, this girl had a patrician grace, valiant and pellucid.

  There is something to be said for having a mind without doubt, thought Philip. Mary might frequently give battle, but she would always have an inner peace. That peace had been denied Amalie. She had too much imagination.

  “I can’t see that I was improper,” said Mary simply. “Someone had to speak. It had to be me.”

  Philip laughed, somewhat embarrassed. Then he said: “Amalie, I am so glad that you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” Amalie lifted her brows. “I am grateful. I’ve always loved you, Philip. I am proud that you want Mary.”

  She moved restlessly. She looked at her slippers. “I want to ask one thing of you both, however. I want you not to speak of this to your father, to Jerome, until Mary is eighteen. That will be next February.”

  Mary’s fair brows drew together. “But why, Mama?”

  Amalie glanced at Philip. She said, and her voice was not quite candid: “Mary, you are still only seventeen. Until a girl is eighteen, she seems a child to her father. He would be outraged at the thought that you are thinking of marriage.”

  “I quite agree,” said Philip.

  Amalie’s eyes, unwillingly lifting, met Mary’s. You will then, said those eyes, be your own mistress, when you are eighteen. And Mary’s eyes replied: I see. I know.

  “If you think it best,” Philip went on, “then it is best, Amalie.” He hesitated. “Do you think Jerome might have any objection? After all, I am nearly fifteen years older than Mary. Jerome might think that too elderly.” He smiled with an eager anxiety. “And, of course,” he added, with painful hesitation, “there are other things too.”

  “None are important. None exist, except in your own mind,” said Amalie. Her face had clouded. Then she stood up suddenly, and Philip rose also. Amalie took his hand, bent her head and kissed him. “Dear Philip,” she said, and her voice faltered.

  She kissed Mary then, touching the fair smooth head with a tender hand. “It was only yesterday that you were a most provoking little girl, darling,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. And the trouble and fear in her heart became sharper, more alive.

  Philip walked home slowly that evening, under a moon that threw a brilliant wash of silver over the quiet world.

  Far below in the valley he could see the chaotic tiers of light which were the windows of the Riversend Community buildings. They were set in a small park-like tract of land, lovingly kept by hundreds of appreciative hands. Now that the days were drawing in, the workers were flocking to the buildings again, there to work, to read, to listen, to sing, to laugh, to play, to boast of harvests and to plan work for the winter.

  The night was sweet, warm and quiet. But Philip was filled with a curious uneasiness, a sense of foreboding. He could not shake it off. He had just become betrothed to a girl he had always loved. For the first time in his life, the future had potentialities for beauty and fullness and excitement. He had become a whole man, was no longer merely a scholarly spectator.

  Yet he was troubled. He knew that part of this came from a growing apprehension as to Jerome’s reaction to this betrothal. Much as Jerome relied upon him, and liked him, and confided in him, Mary was his ewe lamb, his darling. Philip thought of himself with dispassionate coldness. What had he to offer Mary? Not strength of body, nor youth, nor ardor. He saw himself as Jerome would see him.

  He had at first decided not to tell his father of this betrothal until February. But now he felt that he must tell him. He wanted some reassurance from another.

  He found Alfred alone in the chill and lonely house, reading in the narrow library. Alfred looked up with his usual pleasure when his son entered the room. He is so lonely, thought Philip. I leave him too much. I am always at Hilltop.

  He sat down near Alfred, who immediately asked about Amalie and Mary. Philip answered with constraint. Then he leaned towards his father and said:

  “I must tell you something, though it must remain a secret between us. When Mary is eighteen, she and I are going to be married.”

  Alfred’s book slipped from his hand. It dropped to the floor. His pale seamed face became blank, disbelieving.

  “Yes,” said Philip, nodding his head, his heart sinking at his father’s expression. “I hope you don’t mind too much, sir.”

  “You say you are going to marry Mary?” said Alfred slowly.

  “Yes,” said Philip again. He stood up, as if forced to his feet. “We have spoken to Amalie. She seemed—glad. She even seemed to have expected it.”

  Alfred was silent.

  “You disapprove, Father?” Philip’s question was almost an exclamation.

  Alfred regarded him fixedly. “No. No, I am very happy, Philip.” But his light hazel eyes were full of deep trouble. “But what of Jerome?”

  “We’ll tell Jerome in February.”

  Philip waited. Alfred was silent again. His eyes did not leave his son. Then Philip could endure it no longer. He cried: “You think it disgusting of me? You think it contemptible? You look at me, and think: This poor creature dares to think of marrying that lovely girl, that child?”

  Alfred started as if something sharp and fiery had touched him. He got to his feet. He said: “No, Philip. I’m not thinking that. How could you believe such a thing? You are my son, and to me you are perfect, not only because you are my son, but because of what you are.”

  Philip sighed.

  “I am thinking of Jerome,” said Alfred, with pity.

  Philip walked to a table and began to lift and lay down various small objects upon it. “I’ve been thinking of Jerome, too,” he murmured.

  He heard his father’s voice then, strong and firm as it had not sounded for years: “It doesn’t matter, Philip. We’ll find a way.”

  He paused, then exclaimed: “Why, how wonderful this is! I can’t believe it! That dear girl, my daughter! Philip, look at me!”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  It was on the fourth of January, 1889, that Dorothea Lindsey died.

  There had been no preliminary warning, except that Dorothea, who rarely if ever complained, had remarked to Alfred, the day before, that she was extraordinarily tired. It had been the holidays, she had said, as if in apology. Besides, she added quizzically, she was not as young as she had been, and that when a woman had lived fifty-four years she might be pardoned for feeling her age.

  Alfred had repeated after her: “Fifty-four years!” He was very slightly older than Dorothea, and had not thought of time in relation to himself. He had been somewhat shocked and sobered. Why, it was only yesterday that he and Dorothea had talked seriously together as they strolled about the grounds at Hilltop. How old had they been? Dorothea had been eighteen, he nineteen. He had been full of plans, and Dorothea had been all sympathy and gentleness. The intervening years were like wisps of foggy mist. Through them, he could see himself and Dorothea, young and fresh and strong.

  Alfred slept only fitfully that night. When he awoke in the morning he was very tired. Feeling his age! But he had not felt his age yesterday. He and Philip went down to breakfast. They were informed by a maid that Miss Dorothea was not feeling well, and that she had requested a tray in her room.

  Alfred expressed his regrets. He and Philip prepared to leave f
or the Bank. The sleigh was waiting for them, heaped with its furry robes. The bright blue morning was just beginning to illuminate the world of snow; every fir tree was weighted with white. So pure and clear was the air that they could hear the busy sleigh-bells in the village, as others glided to their business establishments.

  Alfred suddenly discovered that he had left his dispatch-case on the hall table. Philip was already in the sleigh. Alfred’s first impulse was to send the coachman for his case. Then, not exactly knowing why, he turned and went back himself.

  The narrow bleak hall was only duskily lighted by the radiance outside. Alfred’s case was on the stiff oaken chair near the door. He lifted it. Then a strange thing happened. He felt that someone was with him in the hall.

  He stood and listened. He heard nothing but the mysterious accelerated beat of his heart. It sounded like a quickening drum. He could see the dimmed light trying to struggle through the slit-like stained-glass windows on each side of the oaken hall door. Through the door to his left he saw the somber library; one of its windows looked out upon a blindingly shining world of blue and white. There was not a whisper or a movement that he could hear in all that tall and gloomy house.

  Yet someone was here with him in the hall. An odd tremor passed over Alfred’s flesh. His heart beat louder. He looked about him searchingly. He felt the closeness of some unseen personality; that personality came nearer to him, gliding without the slightest sound. Alfred stepped back involuntarily towards the door, his hand clutching his case. Then he could not move. Some other sense held him still, waiting, listening, feeling, with an intensity, he had never before experienced.

  Then he knew. He said aloud: “Uncle William!”

  The unseen personality seemed to glow gently all about him, as if pleased at recognition, and radiating affection. Alfred said again, even louder: “Uncle William? It is Uncle William?”

  He was no longer afraid. He was almost happy, almost excited. He exclaimed: “Uncle William! What is it, sir? Is there something you want?”