Josephine Tayntor was still unmarried; she had dimmed to pale and silent and graceful spinsterhood. She was only three or four years older than Philip, and Dorothea saw to it that the young lady dined frequently at The Pines when Philip was at home. Dorothea was full of plans.
It had been a grief almost unendurable when Alfred had informed Dorothea that he did not intend to marry again. Dorothea, at first hopeful, had finally given up hope. With her native good sense, her ability to make the best of everything, she had taken what there was left to be taken, and had contented herself with making a home for her cousin and Philip. She was no longer unhappy. She was almost forty-eight now, and her original passion for Alfred had settled into a sisterly and severe affection, capped, aproned, bombazined, and giving off a sharp clean scent of soap and lavender.
She believed that Alfred was content. He was nearly forty-nine, and all his ways were rigid and punctual. His fair hair had whitened; there were furrows in his broad square face; his hazel eyes had chilled, become frozen over with hard reserve. Even when he spoke of Jerome, his voice remained measured and restrained and cold, without any inflection of contempt or hatred or bitter antagonism. Dorothea had sighed thankfully. Alfred, too, held no hands with the past. What was done was done. The future might be paved with stones, but there were no ambushes along its quiet paths, no hot and noxious thickets, no secret byways of regret.
But Dorothea did not know that often for hours together Alfred sat at his window in the moonlight, in the darkness of his room, looking up at Hilltop, and thinking thoughts which would have stricken Dorothea with pain and sorrow. She did not know of his sleepless nights, when he sighed and tossed and stretched out his hand to the empty place beside him. She did not know that in a steel box in his wardrobe he kept mementoes of Amalie: a tall, rhinestone comb, a length of ruby velvet ribbon, a knot of fine lace which had been fastened at her neck, the letters she had written him, one of her silk stockings, and her wedding ring. This, to Dorothea, would have seemed a dangerous sentimentality.
Worst of all, it would have seemed to her, was the retaining of a lovely miniature he had had painted of Amalie during their honeymoon in Saratoga. It was set in brilliants. It was well for Dorothea’s peace of mind that she did not know that the velvet back of the miniature was worn with much handling, and that Alfred often slept with it in his hand after long and motionless gazing at the strong pale face, the full red lips, the intent purple eyes.
Life ran smoothly and silent and with expert efficiency at The Pines. No feverish currents were here, no alarums, no midnight disturbances, no turbulent uneasiness. All was peace, courtesy, pleasant amenities. Amalie was never mentioned; her memory, for Dorothea at least, never walked the long chill corridors, never smiled in mirrors. She was a loathsomeness which had died, which had been quickly buried and forgotten.
If Dorothea ever glanced up at Hilltop, hoary and gray and warm in the sun, or with chimneys smouldering and red roof burning against bitter winter skies, she had forced herself not to think of Amalie Maxwell within those thick walls, nor of Amalie’s children. The house was a house of dreams, where William Lindsey lived, immured and unchanging. Dorothea had suppressed her memories. The house was only a mirage of her youth, which had become unreal and insubstantial. She had no desire to climb the hill, to look at the gardens she had supervised, to gaze through the windows at familiar furniture and old fires. This too was done and gone.
Philip, always treated with unvarying kindness and affection by his father, had become very dear to Alfred. It no longer pained Alfred that his son was deformed, that his back was bent. He saw no resemblance to Jerome in Philip’s face, with its gentle and thoughtful humor, its strong and compassionate integrity. For there was much about Philip’s character which recalled William Lindsey to Alfred, and Alfred had never forgotten his uncle.
Philip, after no struggle at all, had consented to enter the Bank. Alfred had been uneasy over his son’s artistic gifts. Yet, when already braced for argument and protest, he had discussed the Bank with Philip, Philip had readily agreed with all that his father proposed. If he displayed no eagerness, he displayed no disappointment or regret.
Alfred had decided, after consultation with Philip, that his son should enter the Bank in September. In the meantime, he was to “rest.” Alfred discovered that Philip’s presence in the house now made him return home with pleasurable sensations of pride and contentment. Philip was always so attentive, so courteously interested, so respectful, and so affectionate. Alfred’s face, which had become increasingly somber and grave during these past ten years, would light up at the sight of his son waiting for him near the gates of The Pines or in the bleak square hall. They would walk together in the formal and uncluttered gardens after dinner, or sit by the library fire, discussing the Bank or their friends, or the disconcerting future of Riversend. Philip would listen to Alfred’s grave complaints, his expressions of reserved disgust, his hard resignation. And always, his replies were sympathetic and thoughtful. Alfred, always so lonely all his life, always so hag-ridden by his secret sense of inferiority, always so hungry for understanding and kindness, found enormous surcease in his son. He found a friend. The days were less grim now, the nights less empty.
He never guessed that Philip, in his compassion for his father, in his determination to bring some happiness and peace into that harsh and deprived life, was willingly sacrificing himself and all his hopes. Philip knew all that was to be known about Alfred, and sometimes he was seized with a veritable and silent anguish and pity. The stony and solitary contours of Alfred’s existence stood in full view of Philip’s discerning inner eye, and he had determined that he would soften them with fresh green foliage and a few pleasant gardens.
Thus so far, there had been no conflicts with his father. There was to be one tonight, and he knew it. Philip was not of a nature to be secretive or sly. His natural integrity sometimes overcame his tact.
The ghosts, long buried, must tonight be torn from their graves. It would be easy, Philip reflected, not to mention the fact that he had seen Amalie and her daughter at the cemetery, and not to remark, casually, that he intended to visit Hilltop. All that he had to do was to pay his visits in secret, and let his father live in peace. But Philip had stubbornly decided that buried ghosts had a terrible habit of leaping out of their graves at unexpected moments, and he suspected that much of his father’s unsleeping pain might be alleviated if a certain air of naturalness could be given to Hilltop’s inhabitants. He knew, if Dorothea did not, that Alfred often sat by his window and stared up the hill. Besides, Philip, with sudden human selfishness, could not believe that it was best not to see Amalie, or to acknowledge her existence and the existence of her children. In a way, the attitude of Alfred and Dorothea seemed to Philip absurd.
If his father could hear of Amalie occasionally, that look of frozen pain might disappear from his eyes, thought Philip, and, smiling ruefully, he told himself that he was rationalizing his own desire to see Amalie whenever he wished.
Philip went down to the gates of The Pines to meet his father. Alfred, for his health’s sake, walked the less than two miles to the Bank, daily, except on the occasions of very severe weather. Philip, waiting for him, saw his tall, broad and erect figure striding swiftly, if stiffly, up the gentle rise towards the estate. Now that he was beyond the streets of Riversend, he felt that he could dispense with correctness, and he had removed his hat in the hot August breeze. His big round head, cropped and white in the late sunshine, was held high and with a magisterial pomp. His pride, always strong, had during these past ten years become more assertive, as more and more blows had been inflicted upon it. He had met each event with stony courage, and thus had inspired respect even among those who disliked him and secretly derided him. If, in himself, he had the hard tenacity of despair, which kept every warm and fruitful tree naked in his heart, and every hope without a blooming time, only his son knew this. He was only forty-nine, and if his hair had not whitened dur
ing these years, he might have passed for much younger, so much vigor did he express in every movement, so decisive was his voice and so firm were his gestures.
There were moments when Philip, with pleasure, came to the conclusion that his unimaginative father, so pompous and so circumscribed in attitude and opinion, had begun to think. Despair, Philip thought, is sometimes the great energizer of the mind, though sometimes its flowering may be sterile. If Alfred was thinking, if the once calm and egotistic crust of his nature had been cracked by subterranean upheavals, then this nature was growing, under the surface, expanding painfully and with hidden groanings, but expanding indeed. There were moments when his dogmatic voice faltered uncertainly, when a look of self-questioning doubt would cloud his prominent hazel eyes, when his hand, lifted in a didactic gesture, would slowly drop and lie helpless. Alfred’s was not a temperament to soften with age; rather, it had an innate tendency to crystallize into smaller and harder molecules. But Philip, with secret delight, thought that he often caught glimpses of a nature becoming more distrustful of its omniscience, and he knew that this distrust was the sign of a soul increasing in stature and pushing itself vigorously, if with pain, against the harsh boundaries of an old pattern.
If I can do nothing else, Philip, often thought, I can help him push.
When Alfred saw Philip standing at the gate, his stride quickened. He waved his hat. He shouted: “Hallo!” Philip waved back, began to walk slowly towards his father. They met, half-way to the gates. Alfred looked down at his son fondly. He put his hand on Philip’s shoulder, and together they walked to the house. Had Philip “rested” that day? Had he taken his tonic, and a quiet walk? Had he napped?
“I went to the cemetery and put some lilies on Uncle William’s grave,” said Philip.
“Ah, yes.” Alfred’s face darkened with sadness. “It is the anniversary of his death.” The firmness of the hand on Philip’s shoulder relaxed, dropped away. “But that’s a depressing place for you, Philip. You ought not to have gone.”
“On the contrary, it doesn’t depress me at all, Father,” said Philip cheerfully. “I like to think of the old gentleman. And, you may decide I am fanciful, but I sometimes imagine he comes to meet me there, and we have pleasant and amiable conversations.”
Alfred looked uneasy; but the glance he gave his son was both troubled and hopeful. “Well. Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I shouldn’t make a practice of it.”
“When I came home, I read quite a good deal in those books on banking you brought me yesterday,” said Philip.
Alfred’s smile had more spontaneity than it had had in the old days, and less smugness. “Did you? Did you find them interesting?”
“Indeed. There is quite a romance in banking.”
Alfred’s brows drew together doubtfully. “Romance? Romance in banking? In business?”
“I mean, it could be exciting,” said Philip, tactfully. His father’s face cleared with open pleasure. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know about excitement. Sometimes you are given to extravagant language. I presume you mean it is not without interest?”
“Yes.” Philip smiled, and tried not to, but without success.
“And how is Aunt Dorothea today?” asked Alfred, as they reached the flagged walk leading to the house.
“Splendid, as usual, and very energetic. She dressed down three of the maids, and seemed much refreshed afterwards.” Alfred’s smile was almost boyish. “Indeed. She is a great disciplinarian. But we must not reproach her, Philip. Discipline seems weakening in America these days. I view it with alarm.”
If Philip was sometimes amusedly impatient with his father’s tendency to quote aphorisms, and if he found them tedious, he never betrayed it. So he arranged a serious expression on his face, and nodded slowly. Alfred was satisfied. They entered the house with a warm sensation of mutual understanding and affection.
Dorothea met them in the square bleak hall, which was all black walnut and stiff uncushioned benches and chairs. She greeted Alfred with dignified amiability, inquired if he were not hot from his walk, and announced that cold lemonade was waiting for him, and a biscuit, until dinner time. As she spoke, she looked from father to son with more softness than she knew, then bustled off to get the promised dainties. Alfred went to his room to freshen up, and Philip wandered off to the brick terrace at the rear, sat down on a cushioned iron-filigree settee, and waited for his father to join him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Alfred had put on a black alpaca coat as a concession to the warm evening, and a soft blue cravat in place of the stiff dark one of his banking hours. He sat beside Philip and looked tranquilly over the formal gardens at the rear, beyond the stretch of uncompromising green lawn. An elm tree near by threw a fretted shadow over the warm earth, and the evening sky was a veined turquoise.
“Did you have a hard day at the Bank?” Philip asked, as they sipped their fresh lemonade.
“No. An unusually restful one. Routine and quiet business.” Alfred was thoughtful. “You will like the air of our Bank, Philip. It is stable, fixed on firm foundations. Nothing febrile. But that is because our business is founded on land, on farms, on sound real estate. Nothing adventurous, dangerous or speculative.” Now his expression became somber and dark, and he stared at the distant banks of delphiniums and late roses.
“Nothing dangerous,” repeated Philip.
Alfred nodded. “I am really worried about the—the new spirit—which is invading America. Very unsound.” He moved with ponderous restlessness. “In fact, I am sometimes afraid. I can conceive of nothing more menacing, more detrimental to individual dignity, than the threatening change, in America, from an economy based on land to a money-urban-industrial society, where men will be rootless and have their being, not under the sun, but within the dank walls of factories. Of course, I do not seriously believe that such a threat will broaden and deepen and become a universal and accomplished fact. But the tendency is there, in the minds of unstable and adventurous men who do not care for the welfare of the American people.”
“Perhaps their idea of what is the ‘welfare’ of the American people merely differs from—ours.” Philip added the last word with his usual tact, so that Alfred’s first glance of reproof and uneasiness lightened.
“They don’t care about the welfare of the people at all,” he said dogmatically. “They care only for huge profits. Now, I am not against profits,” and he allowed himself a smile which on a less strong and angular face would have been almost coy. “But I believe in small, frequent and sound profits, which do not upset the equilibrium of a secure and ordered society. And I also believe that such profits can come only from the land and the people on it. Factories! Who will protect the workers there? Who will guard their health, their Constitutional rights, so that they do not become a burden to society? No, Philip, I see a faceless society emerging, a nation of homeless men, without dignity, pride, or self-respect.”
Good, thought Philip approvingly. When a man begins to spin metaphors his brain is shuttling with alacrity. But, whoever would have thought my father capable of metaphors! He looked at Alfred, and saw that quickened thought had ruffled the stern surface of his face, so that it had become almost fluid.
Philip said thoughtfully: “I see your point very clearly. There is much in what you say, Father. But the year or so of law which you had me take at Harvard has afflicted me with that bedevilling propensity of being able to see the other side, or at least to understand what that side is getting at. Not that I agree. I merely see both sides dispassionately.”
Alfred felt rather wary at this, but his pride in his son kept his eyes questioning and attentive. “Let us hear the other side,” he said indulgently.
Philip leaned back against a cushion and looked reflectively at a distant tree. “There has been much discussion of this very thing, Father,” he said. “I read of it in the newspapers and in the periodicals.
“There are some men, and they are not all greedy and exigent explo
iters, who believe that a new industrial age will bring more leisure, enlightenment and freedom for the common man. They see commodities produced in such quantity, and so cheaply, that the luxury of today will be the pleasant necessity of tomorrow—”
“An evil, softening process!” protested Alfred.
Philip inclined his head. “Perhaps. Remember, I am only quoting the protagonists of an industrial and urban society.
“They picture great industrial centers, surrounded by small gardens enclosing individual homes, after a new awareness of social responsibility gets rid of the slums. They say it may be ‘dignified’ to have a society based on land, but that it might be more agreeable to wear cheap good shoes, to send one’s children to school, and to have money in the bank.”
“That is encouraging the common man to rise out of his station without the preliminaries of self-sacrificing hard work and struggle,” said Alfred. “An easy urban life makes an indolent and selfish people, who think they have ‘rights’ without toil.”
Philip pursed his lips. “Perhaps,” he repeated, and this time without hypocrisy. “There is much in what you say. I am only theorizing, following the arguments of new and enthusiastic men.”
This Side of Innocence Page 46