He lifted an elegant hand languidly. “My dear Miss Amalie,” he protested, “you are accusing me of most undemocratic sentiments, and that is unfair! Hasn’t democracy been the most edifying way of life, since our noble Mr. Lincoln? Who am I to disagree with him? No, you are quite wrong. I do not resent you for your poverty, your lack of gentility, your arduous fight for a living, your ambiguous background. No, no, a thousand times no! Let us say that I resent you for what you are, what I know you to be.”
She looked at him silently, and he saw the bitter violet flash of her eyes. Then, with great quietness, she asked: “What am I?”
He shrugged. He sat up in his chair with an air of purpose. “Miss Amalie. You are not talking to a naive buffoon like Alfred. You are not talking to a secluded country squire, like my father. You are not talking to a trusting boy, like Philip. You are talking to a man who may be pardoned when he says that he knows something of the world, and something of the men and the women who inhabit it.”
She did not speak. Her smile was even less attractive.
“Now,” he said reasonably, “I always was an admirer of the Cinderella theme. I find it charming. But I look at your feet, Miss Amalie. I do not see a slipper of pure and innocent glass. I see a slipper of—”
“Of what?” she asked, when he paused.
He shrugged again. “Now, you would compel me to be unkind, and that you shall never succeed in. I am only advising you.”
She deliberately lifted her skirts, and revealed beautiful ankles and fine narrow feet. “My heels,” she said, “are not worn down by trampling them on the necks of the defenseless. The toes are not scarred by kicking those who cannot kick back.”
Jerome leaned forward. “Very pretty, very pretty indeed. I have not seen handsomer ankles even on the stages of New York. Thank you for the charming view.”
She dropped her skirts, slowly. She stood straight and composed before him.
“Mr. Lindsey,” she said, “I am not going to waste any more time discussing myself with you. I am not going to quarrel with you. You are not worth my efforts. I could say you are a vulgarian, and a boor, and a fool. But you wouldn’t believe it. So, for the last time, I warn you. Let me alone. Stay out of my way. Don’t address me except in the most casual manner, and then only when amongst others. For, my witty and debonair Mr. Lindsey, if you continue to annoy me I shall have recourse to Alfred. I shall tell him that you follow and hound me. I shall tell him that last night you pursued me into the pine woods, and there forced your repulsive attentions upon me.”
Again, there was silence. Then Jerome smiled gently, and said: “You would not dare.”
“I would dare, Mr. Lindsey! In fact, only native charity, and a regard for your father and your cousin, have prevented me from telling Alfred this, this morning. I am a woman of peace, sir. I prefer to remain at peace. You disturb my resolution at your own peril.”
He stood up now, and dropped the little dog, who ran eagerly to the girl. Jerome and Amalie faced each other. He took a step closer to her. She did not retreat. He could see the pounding pulse in her white throat, but she met him eye to eye.
“The words of an adventuress,” he said.
Her face changed, and then she smiled involuntarily. “Perhaps, Mr. Lindsey.”
“I can’t have an adventuress in my mother’s place.”
With immense courtesy, she said: “I do not see how you are going to prevent it, dear sir.” Then she added: “But do not forget what I have told you. You will not find me a weak enemy.”
He leaned his hand on his chair, negligently, and surveyed her with open insolence. “I admire you, Miss Amalie. I admire your courage. I admire your fighting spirit. You ought to have been a man. I think I’d have loved you, then.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Now her expression was grave and searching.
“Yes,” he said, with a considering air, “I think I’d have loved you, then. I might have been your friend, for I admire ruthless creatures.”
“I am ruthless because I have had to be ruthless,” she said reflectively. “I did not choose my parents, my poverty, my life. But I surmounted all of them. And I shall not give up what I have attained. Nor shall I be compelled to.”
She took a step to the side and prepared to pass him. He caught her arm with a sudden rough movement. He expected her to struggle. But she did not. She merely looked at him contemptuously.
“Damn you,” he said softly, “I can’t let you alone. Why? I don’t know. I really hate you and despise you. But there is something about you—”
She smiled.
“Mr. Lindsey,” she asked, “will you be content never to see me again? If I should leave, would you refrain from following me?”
Slowly, he removed his hand from her arm. He stared at her.
“No,” he murmured. “No. I think not.”
She nodded her head. “Thank you.”
He said: “I don’t know why, but you fascinate me. You are a handsome woman. There is something about you. Under other circumstances, my love, I could make a fool of myself over you.”
He stopped speaking, and a dark stain of color washed up to his brows. “I might make you an interesting offer, Miss Amalie.”
Her face changed, turned extremely pale. Then, as Charlie churned insistently at her feet, she bent and lifted him, and every motion was full of grace. She held the little dog in her arms, and he nestled his head under her chin.
“Mr. Lindsey,” she said, after a prolonged moment of silence, “all this is very interesting, I admit. But I ask you to remember my warning.”
She held out the dog to him, and he took it. They regarded each other intently.
“I shall never let you alone,” he said, and his voice was thick. “I don’t know whether I hate you, or—I’ll find out, eventually. For, you see, I am not going away again.”
“But you cannot remain here!” she said, in a low and shaken tone.
“And why not? This is my home, please remember.”
She drew a deep breath, and now the despair was brighter on her face.
“It is impossible for you to remain here!”
“Why?” He drew closer to her. She flung back her head. They looked into each other’s eyes.
“I couldn’t endure it,” she whispered.
He put his hand behind the back of her neck. He began to draw her to him. But, recovering herself, she flung him off, turned from him with a faint cry, gathered up her skirts, and fled to the door.
On the threshold, she stopped abruptly. Jerome had neglected to close the doors behind him. Dorothea, ghastly and grim in her black bombazine, stood there, in rigid silence.
Amalie retreated a step, Jerome, turning to follow her, stopped also. He looked at his sister, and she stared back at him, and her eyes were like stone.
Amalie had recovered herself. She stepped aside, then passed Dorothea without a word. They heard her steps running lightly up the stairs.
“Good evening, Dorothea,” said Jerome.
“I heard everything,” she replied, and her voice was loud and harsh, “everything.”
“Good,” he said easily. “You see I am doing what I can.”
She stirred, then. “You wicked, you most abominable man.”
“Oh, come now, that is ungrateful! You are drawing wrong conclusions.” He smiled at her sardonically. “I thought all this was understood between us.”
She drew a rough and tearing breath. “So she has you, too. I might have suspected it.”
Her Gothic features became convulsed. She lifted her hand and pointed a lean finger at him. “Stay away from that woman. If you do not, I shall tell Alfred and our father.”
Then she turned about, like a figure of black granite, and left him.
But he followed her indolently into the library and closed the door behind him. Hearing his step, she swung stiffly about, her black silk rustling with strident sound, and her gaunt face denied and repudiated him with detest
ation.
“Don’t be a fool, Dotty,” he said. But he was inwardly alarmed and nonplused. “Let us be reasonable. Do you wish me to desist from my arduous labors in inducing the woman to leave?”
He leaned negligently against the doorway and stroked his dog.
She shivered, and he saw he could not longer deceive her. He shrugged.
“Bad man,” she said, in a loud whisper. “Unscrupulous, dishonorable man! You are a liar, sir, a blackguard.” She put her veined hand to her breast, as if her heart pained her, and a grayish shadow deepened on her face. “I see now what you are trying to do. You not only would ruin Alfred in the Bank, and undermine his position, but you would destroy what he believes is his happiness.
“And now,” she continued, with bitter resolution, “I understand much. I know what I must do. If Alfred wishes to marry—her—then I shall not oppose the match further. Moreover, I will safeguard him. I shall watch you constantly. You shall never injure him, or attempt to injure him, again.”
“Threats,” he murmured abstractedly. “It seems to me I have heard nothing but threats since I returned to this house.”
“Then go! Leave us in peace. Something urges me to prevent your staying—”
Jerome laughed, and his white teeth flashed in the quiet gloom of the library. “This house is positively psychic! I shall be looking for ghosts, trying to hear their mutters. It is very odd. I feel quite perplexed. I am really a harmless person. I wish everyone good. I desire only to be enfolded to everyone’s bosom.”
Then his mood changed, and he gazed at his sister with ruthless contempt.
“You are a fool, Dotty,” he said. “Don’t believe you can frighten me. I intend to stay here. I shall be very circumspect. But I shall stay.”
It was she who was frightened now. She retreated from him, backwards. She watched him go, and she thought to herself, fearfully: He is evil. There is something terrible about him, in spite of his smiles.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jerome came down to dinner, whistling abstractedly, two small canvases under his arm. He found his father before the library fire with Alfred, Amalie and Dorothea. Before entering the room, Jerome paused on the threshold. Alfred’s low monotonous voice, as calm and persistent as a quiet stream, had been enlarging on the business of the day. Mr. Lindsey had been listening with attentive courtesy, but now he lay in the depths of his library chair with every evidence of weariness, and his eye had begun to wander. Dorothea, straight and stiff upon her own chair, embroidered with a swift grim resolution, as she did everything, whatever its importance. Clad in her somewhat old-fashioned dull purple silk, her matronly fluted cap upon her gray-black hair, she had an inexorable air of no-nonsense about her. Amalie was frankly not heeding anyone. Her face was quite pale; she ran her hand constantly over the smooth leather of her chair, her feet stretched out and crossed at the ankle. She seemed to have fallen into a deep study, and her breath hardly stirred the dark green wool of her bodice. She had dressed her hair severely, and it was drawn back from her temples and brow into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck.
They all glanced up as Jerome entered with a cheery “good evening.” Mr. Lindsey’s tired countenance brightened perceptibly, and he lifted himself a few inches higher on his seat. Dorothea glanced at him; she looked away, without speaking, and blew her nose on a kerchief she withdrew from her sleeve. Amalie studied him briefly, then returned to her contemplation of the fire, and her hand continued to stroke the arm of her chair. But Alfred rose, all restrained pleasure and open friendliness.
“Well,” he said. “I’ve been hearing good, and extraordinary, news of you, Jerome.”
Jerome regarded him easily. His eyes narrowed, though he smiled. Yes, Alfred was “pleased,” that was evident. Jerome was vaguely baffled, in spite of his previous analysis of Alfred that afternoon. There was no hypocrisy in Alfred’s pleasure. He was doing his damn duty, as usual, and quelling any natural and human apprehension or dismay which a less virtuous man might have felt.
“Good of you, Alfred,” said Jerome, politely.
“Good of me?” repeated Alfred, a trifle perplexed. “What do you mean, Jerome?”
Mr. Lindsey’s tired eye twinkled briefly. He put his hand on Alfred’s arm. “Jerome is merely felicitating you, my boy, on displaying Christian fortitude.”
Amalie turned her head slowly, and the very shadow of a smile touched her lips. Dorothea continued to embroider with new energy. But Alfred was now completely puzzled. “Eh?” he said, giving his uncle a fond and honest glance. “What fortitude? Do you think I shall need fortitude?”
“Doubtless. Oh, doubtless,” said Mr. Lindsey.
“I think not,” said Alfred, resolutely. But he was still perplexed. Seeing nothing better to do, he sat down again. Jerome approached his father’s chair and leaned against it. Alfred contemplated him. He said: “Why should I need fortitude?”
“You might find me an exasperating pupil,” replied Jerome. He tried to meet Mr. Lindsey’s eye for a private exchange of subtleties, but Mr. Lindsey refused to oblige him.
“Well, I admit that banking is not a profession that is learned in a day,” confessed Alfred, a trifle pompously. “However, any man of intelligence, and with any desire at all to learn, can soon compass the mysteries of banking.”
“Then, there is something exotic about it?” remarked Jerome, turning his head idly towards his cousin.
“Exotic?” Alfred frowned carefully, and considered the matter. He then laughed awkwardly. “‘Exotlc’ is not exactly the word for banking, I am afraid.”
Jerome gave him a cherubic smile. “But you did speak of ‘mysteries,’ my dear Alfred. Perhaps the word ‘esoteric’ best describes your labors?”
Alfred was bewildered.
“You did say ‘mysteries,’” Jerome added, gently.
Mr. Lindsey cleared his throat. Alfred stared at Jerome, and now a tinge of color came into his usually colorless face.
Jerome pursed up his lips and looked into the air. “Do you do it by divination, then?” he asked.
Alfred did not answer, but his right hand clenched involuntarily on his knee. Jerome assumed an expression of enjoyment. “Well,” he exclaimed, “I’ll not be bored, after all! Evidently the psychic element enters into banking! How very titillating! One opens a ledger, and goes into a trance, and experiences all sorts of exciting emotions. I think I’ve neglected the subject of banking too long.”
Alfred stiffened. “I don’t understand,” he said bluntly, and his voice was a trifle thick. “Banking is an exact science. It is as exact, and as prosaic, as any sum in mathematics.” His voice rose a little, and it shook faintly, as if with outrage and dim panic. “One does not divine, as you call it, Jerome. It is an utterly unemotional profession. I can think of no other business which is so devoid of the human element, so aloof from passion or whimsy, so intellectually absorbing!”
Jerome murmured: “‘Sir, you are speaking of the lady I love.’”
Mr. Lindsey bit his lip and gazed steadfastly at the toe of his boot. Dorothea’s needle flashed, and her withered mouth tightened. Amalie averted her face abruptly.
“What did you say, Jerome?” asked Alfred.
Jerome straightened up. “Nothing, really.” His tone was bland. He gave Alfred a brilliant smile. “I do hope you will not find me too obtuse, Alfred.”
Alfred recovered himself. “I’m sure I won’t,” he said. “You are a clever man, Jerome. I’ve always told Uncle William that you have wasted your talents. You will not find the business hard to grasp. It is not in the least dangerous,” he added, with his usual heavy attempt at a joke.
“Indeed?” Jerome pondered the thought, then said: “Frankly, I always regarded banking as twin sister to Medusa.”
“Medusa?” repeated Alfred, completely baffled now.
“Jerome fancies himself as a Perseus, perhaps,” Mr. Lindsey could not refrain from saying.
Jerome cast him a chiding look. “We a
re unfair, Papa. Alfred is not, perhaps, too well acquainted with classical lore. He has never wasted his time on the Greeks.”
Alfred felt all this was beyond him. “I had two years of Greek,” he said. “A waste of time, for a professional man.” He sank into thought, trying to puzzle out Jerome’s words. After a long moment or two, an unhealthy color appeared on his flat strong cheeks, and he gave Jerome a glance which had something brutal in it. “Medusa?” he said, in a low voice. “Yes, Medusa. I follow your allusion now.”
Mr. Lindsey began to perceive that the situation was taking on a certain element of strain, and he said hastily: “Are those your paintings, Jerome?”
“Yes. The portrait of Mama, as I told you, and the wedding gift for our Alfred.” He laid the small canvases on his father’s knee.
“So,” said Alfred, “you think banking might turn you into stone?”
Jerome flung up his head assuming an actor’s exaggerated attitude of heroic resolution. “I shall not let it, sir, I shall not let it! I shall infuse life into the da—, into the Apollonian science, and it will embrace me, as Galatea embraced Pygmalion!”
Mr. Lindsey picked up a canvas, and said, in quite a loud voice: “Your mother, Jerome! From the miniature she left you.” And now he was silent, looking at the portrait, which smiled at him with a kind of secret and shining tenderness. “Lovely, lovely,” he whispered, and to himself he said: “My darling.”
Dorothea embroidered more swiftly than before. Amalie turned her face to Mr. Lindsey. She saw his thin hands trembling, and leaned forward a little to see the portrait. The young face and sweet young eyes gazed back at her. Amalie was astonished. The execution of the work amazed her. The blackguard, then, had real genius. She could not help glancing at him furtively, and an expression of involuntary pain darkened her own eyes.
But Alfred did not rise to examine the portrait of his aunt. He felt coldly infuriated. He did not know at whom to look. His pale and wandering eye encountered Dorothea’s. Slowly, then, her strong and sinewy hands faltered, were still. She regarded him with bitter yearning and understanding. His large and colorless lips jerked, and then he turned away.