“I’m sorry, sir,” stammered the stationmaster. “I was just curious—”
“Well, look, damn you, and satisfy your curiosity. Where is that coffee?”
His hands shaking, his heart beating with indignation, the stationmaster poured the steaming brown fluid into the cup, shook a little sugar into it from a striped paper bag which stood on the counter, stirred it with an iron spoon. He brought it to Jerome. Charlie, the dog, growled. Jerome took it languidly, sniffed at it suspiciously. He put it to his lips, drank a little, grimaced, then drank some more. The two other men watched him earnestly. “Not bad,” he remarked. “Full of chicory, though. And coffee’s not so dear. Thank you.”
He held the cup in his hands, warming them against the sides. He glanced at his servant. “And you, Jim?”
Jim bowed to the stationmaster, who disliked him thoroughly. “If there’s no tea—”
“There’s no tea,” answered the stationmaster, on surer ground with this servant. “We don’t like tea, much, in these parts. But there’s more coffee.” His blood flowed warmer with his hate and indignation. He glared at Jim. “You can have coffee, if you’ve a mind to.” An Englishman, eh? Well, no Englishman could put it over on a good sound American, damned if he could.
“Coffee, and thank’ee, my good man,” smirked Jim, grinning. Like a weasel, thought the stationmaster, gathering confidence.
Jerome rose and walked over to a window. The stationmaster observed that he had the slightest limp in his right leg. Wasn’t there some story that he’d been an officer in the war, and got wounded? Yep, he walked like a soldier, and had shoulders like one, and that commanding air, too. One couldn’t believe it, with all that fine elegance, but the story must be true. Must’ve been a devil with his men, by the looks of him. A bad un. Yet, he was lettin’ all that money, and the Bank, get away from him, though if he, Jack Thompson, knew anything about men that was a greedy point on this fine gentleman’s nose, and a hard hungry line or two around that hawk’s mouth. Was he gettin’ his dander up now, about the money, or was he just a’comin’ for the weddin’? Didn’t look the sort to be traipsin’ into the country at this time of the year just for a weddin’, and not for his cousin’s sake, either. Stories had it there was bad blood between ’em. Trust the devil, himself, to come smellin’ around when there was money! And this was the devil in flesh, and no mistake.
Jerome had bent his head, and was peering through the window, rubbing a dainty hole in the frost. He began to whistle, tonelessly, as he peered. Jim drank his coffee. The dog pattered, whining, after his master. Jerome looked down at him and smiled. The stationmaster was surprised. It was a humorous and charming smile, and showed a flash of strong white teeth. Jerome picked up the dog and returned to the bench. He was easier now, and indolent. He crossed his knees and favored the stationmaster with another friendly smile.
“You live in Riversend?” He had a beguiling voice now, gentle and ingratiating, with a deceptive note of sympathy in it. It was an actor feller’s voice, thought the stationmaster, but without resentment.
He replied eagerly: “Yes, sir, Mr. Lindsey. Down near the blacksmith’s. It was my uncle’s house. You remember it?”
Jerome shook his head, regretfully. “I’ve been away a long time. Funny I don’t remember you.”
“Oh, I lived in Thorntonville until the old man died, my uncle.”
The name struck at Jerome’s memory. “Thorntonville.” He paused. “Then you must know Miss Maxwell, the young lady who is to marry my cousin?”
The stationmaster drew nearer. “Indeed I do, sir. A handsome young lady, much admired.” His voice had a note of familiarity in it which caused Jerome to scowl, briefly. He averted his head, pursed his lips, and whistled tonelessly again. Jim pricked up his pointed, faunlike ears, and grinned. His bald round head twinkled in the lamplight.
There was a bustle at the door, which burst open violently. A burly farmer in cap and coat entered, swearing, brushing off his snow-covered arms. Charlie set up a wild and furious barking from Jerome’s knee.
The stationmaster turned to the newcomer in relief. “Oh, there you are, Bill! Look’ee, are you goin’ back up to the farm, tonight?”
Bill Hobson was staring frankly at the strangers and did not answer for a moment. Then he muttered: “Yeh. Got to. Old woman’s down with the rheumatism and can’t milk in the mornin’.” He looked at the stationmaster inquiringly.
“Well, these gentlemen’ve got to go up to Hilltop. They was to be met, but no one came. You’ve got a place for them in the wagon, Bill?”
Bill gaped, amazed. Then he said: “For the weddin’?” He shook his head. “They couldn’t stand it, open like it is. Best wait for morning and a rig or sleigh. Yep, best wait for a sleigh.”
Jerome stood up, and gathered his dog under his arm. “We’ll go with you, Bill, if you don’t mind.”
CHAPTER THREE
It was a world of hellish and bellowing darkness through which the open wagon heaved and groaned and stalled The lantern that swung near the plank seat glared fitfully on millions of swirling white fireflies, but revealed nothing of the frozen and drifted road. The three wretched passengers, huddled close together on the plank, could see no shadow of the climbing pines, but could hear their roaring voices challenging the bitter gales. The two horses whined and panted as they struggled through the valley, and their smoking breath blew backwards along their haunches. The wagon might have been a small and laboring boat adrift on black and falling seas, and two of the passengers, at least, clung desperately to the plank and huddled their faces deep into their collars. Soon, their hands and feet were numb, and the spreading coldness crept up their limbs. They could feel their warm thick hearts beating deep within them. Sheltered by a lap of Jerome’s coat, curled up between Jerome’s lean warm thighs, Charlie, the dog, whimpered and burrowed against his master. The luggage jolted and smashed and rolled impotently in the rear of the wagon.
Conversation was impossible. One could only endure, grimly, blinking the freezing snow from eyelids, feeling the weight of the furious snow gathering on shoulders and arms, averting the head sideways to escape as much as possible from the tearing wind. Breath was sucked away, so that the passengers gasped frequently. There were no blankets to shelter them. The icy straw on which their feet rested only heightened their misery.
The wagon made the five miles to Hilltop in two hours, two hours of incredible endurance and grim suffering. Jerome cursed softly to himself, his voice lost in the tumult. The melting snow on his shoulders seemed to seep through the fur down to his very bones. What a fool he had been, to undergo this! He would have lung fever before morning, if he was lucky enough to arrive at Hilltop, and was not lost for days in the drifts. He could hear the hissing of the snow against the wheels, the groaning of the axles. Sometimes, for minutes at a time, the wagon was stalled, and the horses heaved and neighed in their struggles. Bill Hobson cracked his whip, shouting, suffering with his horses. But he dared not stop even for a moment.
He had informed Jerome that he would not attempt to climb up to Hilltop. Ice was thick under the snow. The wagon would never negotiate that long steep slope. The two passengers must walk up the hill as best they could.
Jerome had not been in Riversend since he had been invalided home from the war over five years ago. He had returned then only because of his father’s unusual insistence and pleading. It had not been the happiest of times. In fact, he could not recall that many occasions at Hilltop had been happy. In conversations with his friends and acquaintances he was fond of saying, ruefully and with humor, that Riversend was the dullest spot imaginable, that his family was insuperably complacent and middle-class, and that, contrary to’ the fixed belief of mankind, there were some places in the world where time stood still. Notably Riversend. During more than thirty years it had less than doubled its population, and now boasted only ten thousand souls, including the farms of its township. Yet, villages within a day’s radius of Riversend had
increased to the dignity of towns, and a few had actually become small cities. What was wrong with Riversend, which barely replaced its dead with the newborn? Jerome did not know. Perhaps the reason lay in the fact that its middle class was stupid and stuffy, hating change, cautious of allowing new industry to enter the village, suspicious of strangers, and sunken in apathy and drowsing inertia. Certainly, it discouraged enterprise. For instance, during the war a “foreign” concern wished to build a mill for the manufacture of army blankets, for the river was a highroad to other towns and cities and labor was plentiful. After long and minute discussion among the local gentry, a site for the building of the factory was refused, and the “foreigners” were given to understand, with pointed politeness, that their departure would be appreciated. Jerome’s family’s own Bank took an active part in this refusal. The whole, if secret, reason, Jerome believed, was that the locally powerful were afraid that the farm labor and village labor might get “ideas” brought on by good wages, and thus inconvenience the local employers.
“We wish to keep the idyllic atmosphere of old Riversend unimpaired,” the Mayor had said smugly, to the applause of his friends. “There are more things in life than factories, and high wages, and bustle and hustle. Let us maintain the Old World quality of our peaceful life in Riversend; let us maintain this quiet air of contentment and calm and contemplation. Let us cherish our retreat, our contentment.”
The fact that the poor of Riversend found no contentment, and did not appreciate this quiet opportunity to remain chronically hungry and ill-clad, was a matter of no importance, naturally. Farm and village girls served in the stolid mansions for less than eight dollars a month, and excellent gardeners and grooms and coachmen could be obtained for ten and board. The feudal air of the village and the farms delighted the residents of fat estates. Lying snugly in its long and level valley, protected by the high foothills, Riversend seemed destined to pass its life in a dream. It had only one anxiety: the younger folk, who had palpably been created by a wise Deity for service to their masters, showed a disquieting new tendency to leave the farms and the village for distant towns and cities, for employment on “public works.” This was the fault of the new railroad, of course. The owners of Riversend had fought despairingly to prevent the coming of the branch line, and success was apparently to be theirs until the incredible day when the “old gentleman,” Mr. William Lindsey, suddenly displayed an ancient energy and demanded that the line be allowed to enter the village. This stunned his friends. For years, he had delegated all authority to his adopted son and nephew, Alfred Lindsey, and had not interfered with any of his mandates or decisions. Yet, on this occasion, his frail voice was heard like a stern command from the grave, and the branch line made its appearance in due time. He would not explain nor discuss the matter. After that one severe intrusion into the affairs of his own Bank and community, he retired into arthritic silence again.
The direst prophecies were fulfilled, and the young and able men and women began to leave Riversend for more lucrative employment. Now the farms, almost exclusively, supplied the local labor, and this was not always to be had. It was easy to board a train, and to ride in comfort to distant towns and cities, whereas even the hardy would consider long and thoughtfully a two or three days’ journey by wagon or on foot. Without a railroad to bring in newspapers and periodicals regularly from the larger cities, the young folk would have had no stimulation for their “rebellious ideas.”
Jerome had been at Hilltop during this controversy, and he had enjoyed it immensely. He loved to see his adopted brother and cousin thwarted, though Alfred was not of the character to express his disappointment and regret with any vehemence, and was the soul of filial respect and obedience. Alfred, however, was no fool. He suspected, and with considerable shrewdness, that Jerome had had some influence in bringing the railroad to Riversend. The “old gentleman” loved his real son, and though Alfred would have been the last to deplore this, and never by word or gesture or expression endeavored to turn his uncle’s regard from Jerome, he regretted that his cousin possessed such power over his father. It was not a power for good, Alfred was convinced. What good could such as Jerome Lindsey possess? He was profligate and dissipated, egotistic and selfish, conceited beyond endurance, and as ruthless and devious as a serpent for all his languid and amiable ways. Whenever he interfered with the affairs of the community, however infrequently, convulsions ensued. Worst of all, Alfred firmly believed that Jerome did not interfere altruistically, and did not care a snap of his fingers for local welfare. It was all done in a spirit of mischief. Unfortunately, Alfred was quite correct in his gloomy surmises.
It was a matter of real concern to Alfred that such congenital antagonism existed between him and his cousin. It had disturbed him from his earliest years. At all times, he had been scrupulously polite to Jerome, deliberately and anxiously friendly, tolerant and just. Yet it had been evident, even in Jerome’s childhood, that he was maliciously hostile to Alfred, that it amused him meanly and cruelly to disturb, shock, and frustrate him, even in the most inconsequential matters. However, when Uncle William had adopted Alfred, Jerome said nothing. He had not even written, protesting. He had displayed no interest whatsoever. That had amazed and bewildered Alfred, for a word of dissent from Jerome would have turned old Mr. Lindsey from his plan at once. Alfred simply could not understand. Dorothea had suggested that Jerome did not care to have any part in the affairs of the Bank or the community, and though no other solution of the enigma was more valid, Alfred could hardly credit it. Did not Jerome constantly demand, and receive, large sums of money from his father? Was he not extravagant, irresponsible, and avaricious? How, then, could he be so indifferent? Alfred, as adopted son, would share equally in any estate, would encroach on Jerome’s property. It was not to be explained.
Had Jerome and Alfred been affectionately attached to each other, had they been old friends, Alfred might have understood in a measure. But Jerome had always amusedly hated his cousin, had consistently ridiculed and plagued him, laughing at his uprightness, his integrity, his stony “conscience,” his stern piety. Alfred, to his credit, had always struggled despairingly to reach some rapport with his cousin, had tried to soften him, had undertaken long walks with him, had talked endlessly to him, with diffidence and in an earnest endeavor to establish a friendship, had written him long and frequently during his army service, and even afterwards, and had scrupulously attempted to create an atmosphere of goodwill and family regard. But Jerome had received all his overtures with derision and malevolence, had laughed openly at Alfred’s “sentimentality,” had derided and made much fun of him in private and public. There was nothing one could do with such a character. It was demoniacal. It was past all comprehension. It was only after long struggle against conviction that Alfred surrendered to the conclusion that Jerome was naturally evil and hardhearted, obdurate against the simplest human emotions, arrogantly disdainful of family feeling, and contemptible. How else explain his repudiation of all cousinly advances, and his shameful life? How else explain his neglect of his ailing father, his scorn of his old home, his indifference to family affairs?
It had been Alfred who had paid off an insistent lady, in the sum of ten thousand dollars out of his own pocket, rather than agitate Uncle William. Jerome had not asked him to do this service. The lady, from Syracuse, had written to Uncle William, and Alfred had intercepted the letter. Mr. Lindsey had been dangerously ill at that time, and Alfred had done this to spare him. When he later informed Jerome, in New York, of what he had done, Jerome had laughed long and excessively, with pure enjoyment. He had informed Alfred frankly that he was a fool, and that he hoped that his cousin had received some personal gratification from the lady in exchange for the money. There was no remorse in him, no conscience, no kindness, no decency. When Alfred, shocked and shaken, had suggested that it was most probable that the lady’s child was Jerome’s, Jerome had only shrugged, and had made some obscene remark.
Alfred, how
ever, had his consolations. Uncle William was dearly fond of him and trusted him. And he had a strong and fanatical ally in his cousin, Dorothea. He often thought that if only Jerome would remain away from home forever, life would be very pleasant. When this thought occurred to him, he would sternly repress it, as unworthy of his innate loyalty to all the family and his strong sense of justice. Only one thing endlessly and sadly disturbed him: why did Jerome hate him? No one else had anything for him but affection, regard and respect. He had even asked Jerome this agitating question, and had received the usual immoderate laughter in answer. Yet Alfred continued to write his cousin with quiet affection, relating everything that might be of interest to the exile. However, Jerome never replied. Alfred suspected that he did not read his letters, and this distressed him. This did not prevent him from continuing the one-way correspondence. His conscience would not permit it.
As he precariously clung to his seat in the wagon, Jerome began to think of all these things and laughed aloud. No one heard his mirth in the gale, but Jim and the dog felt the prolonged shaking of his body. Jim tried to see his face in the darkness, but nothing could be seen.
The English servant had his own thoughts. He had been Jerome’s familiar for three years, and though his wages had a curious way of not being paid regularly, Jim’s devotion to Jerome was not shaken. He had the English servant’s reverence for true gentry, for “fine” and careless gentlemen. Further, whenever Jerome was in funds, he was lavish with gifts for his valet, and Jim never forgot that during a prolonged illness it was Jerome who cared for him with tenderness, anxiety, and unremitting affection. Jim was not horrified at his master’s escapades. Such things were expected of young gentlemen, and he exercised his own natural wit and resourcefulness in extricating his master. In fact, he thoroughly enjoyed his precarious and unpredictable life with Jerome, and would not have exchanged it for twice the wages and twice the security. “A chap’s got to ’ave some fun in his life, he has,” he would think, of himself. “And life’s as gay as a pantomime with Mr. Lindsey.” No two days were alike, with Jerome. None of this quiet life, with regular duties, that was so tiring to one with an adventurous heart.
This Side of Innocence Page 3