Mr. Jamison looked at Jerome’s ringed hand for a long moment before taking it, and then only after a beseeching glance at Alfred, which implored forgiveness in advance. He whispered breathlessly: “I’m delighted to see you, Mr. Jerome. Yes, delighted. No, I have not retired.”
But his eyes glowed upon Jerome with spaniel passion.
“Well, now, I am very pleased,” said Jerome. “How is Mrs. Jamison? And the boy?”
The little man colored with pride. “Brewster is at law school, in Syracuse, sir, and doing excellently. He may establish himself there.” Then he sighed. “Mrs. Jamison is not very well, I am sorry to say. But not complaining.”
Alfred cleared his throat. “Jamison, you remember that I told you yesterday that Mr. Lindsey is joining us? I am wondering if you have time this morning to instruct him in procedure?”
Jerome made a wry face, but Mr. Jamison shook with startled pleasure. “Indeed, indeed, Mr. Lindsey, sir! Most delighted.” His hands trembled as he laid a sheaf of papers on Alfred’s desk. “The report on the Hobson farm, sir. Doing quite well this year. Winter wheat in. You will be gratified.”
Jerome pricked up his ears. Hobson? Hobson? Where had he heard the name before? But Alfred was already seating himself at the desk and indicating severely that he was about to get to work. So Jerome followed Mr. Jamison into the back office.
The room was smaller and much darker than Alfred’s, and there was only the barest glimmer of a fire on the hearth. Jerome shivered elaborately, stirred up the coals, flung another scuttleful on the feeble blaze. Mr. Jamison was alarmed and made a timid sound. “If he thinks I’m going to freeze, he is mistaken,” said Jerome. “Order some more coal for this mausoleum, Jamison. I don’t cherish the thought of lung fever.”
He looked about him with disfavor and was depressed. There was no rug on the granite floor. Two dull oaken desks stood side by side. No crimson curtains hung at the windows, as they did in Alfred’s office. No etching brightened the panelled walls. Jerome said: “I’ll order a rug, and put up a couple of my sprightlier canvases. They ought to add interest to this tomb. And a clock for the mantel, something bright and rococo. And, let me see: no, I don’t think I’d care for crimson draperies. Something with a touch of dim gold, perhaps.”
Mr. Jamison listened to this heresy, and was terrified. He whispered: “Mr. Alfred Lindsey might not—care—for that, Mr. Jerome.”
“The hell with Mr. Alfred,” said Jerome, in a genial voice. “I am the one who must endure this damned place, not he. Who the devil does he think he is? He’s only my father’s nephew and adopted son, after all. I am of the blood royal. Jamison, I think we can do something gay for this room.”
Mr. Jamison regarded him with adoration. He stood at the hearth beside Jerome and rubbed his cold veined hands. Jerome looked at him affectionately. “Good old Jamison. We ought to be happy together, comforting each other under the Pyramids.”
He hung up his greatcoat and hat in the wardrobe and then from the pocket of his coat he extracted a beautifully traced silver flask. “Glasses, Jamison, two,” he ordered, grandly. “We’ll drink to my initiation among the dead.”
“Oh, Mr. Jerome! I am sorry. I cannot. What would—”
“Glasses, Jamison,” said Jerome, with inexorable gentleness.
Mr. Jamison, quite white now, produced the glasses. Jerome poured a quantity of golden liquid into them, added a dash of water from the battered carafe on Mr. Jamison’s desk. Mr. Jamison held his glass as if it contained hemlock; his hand shook.
“It won’t poison you, Jamison,” Jerome promised. “Down with it. I command it.”
They drank. A spot of color appeared on Mr. Jamison’s meager cheekbones. He giggled tremulously and wiped his mouth neatly with his kerchief. “Oh, Mr. Jerome!” he whispered, with a glance at Alfred’s door.
They settled down at the two desks, side by side, and Jerome began to receive his instructions. He forced himself to listen attentively, but eventually his face became quite grim with his suppressed yawns. Mr. Jamison brought out ledgers, and Jerome scanned them. Rows upon rows of figures, without the slightest vitality. Jerome glanced at his watch. It ought to be noon now. It was only ten. He took another drink.
“Banking is really very interesting, sir,” said Mr. Jamison, hopelessly.
“It could be, old feller, it could be. But not in here. What this community needs is a little sparkle and enterprise. Investments, necessitating long business trips to New York. Mines, a little precarious, but exciting. Industries to finance, with smooth exploiters. Visits to mining sections, manufacturing sections, in private railroad cars, with a battery of young and enthusiastic investigators. Finance. This business here had nothing to do with finance. Wheat, chickens, oats, cattle, vegetables, by God!”
“This is a farming section, sir.”
“Yes, I know. But does one need to limit one’s activities to farms?”
At half-past eleven Jerome put on his coat and hat and announced that he intended to visit the shops for a suitable rug and draperies. He ordered Jamison to bring in more coal. He took another drink. But he was careful to leave the office inconspicuously by a back door. Once out in the lively air of the street, he felt renovated and happy.
He did not return until nearly one, and then only had time to replace his hat and coat before Alfred entered.
“Good afternoon!” cried Jerome, briskly returning to his desk.
“It is not yet one,” said Alfred severely. He looked at the two desks. “I trust the instruction is proceeding?”
“Oh, excellently. Jamison is a fine teacher.” Jerome beamed at his cousin.
“Will you dine with me at Riversend House?” asked Alfred, frigidly. “There are some matters we might discuss, about your instruction this morning.”
“Has the cuisine improved there?” said Jerome, returning to the wardrobe for his garments, and furtively inspecting them for snowflakes and dampness. “Or is it still watery roast beef, or chicken which has died of old age?”
Alfred did not reply. They went out for lunch.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hilltop blazed on its heights. Every window threw golden reflections on the snow, mingled with firelight. The great drawing-rooms stood open; the tree twinkled with scores of candles, which were carefully and unobtrusively watched by a servant with a pail of water nearby. Every hearth roared with logs; every lamp was mellow. The crystal chandeliers, lit only on these occasions, were stalactites of glittering radiance; the polished floors reflected back lights and color. The musicians were already tuning up in the music room, which was to be used for dancing; the potted plants were grouped strategically in miniature grottoes. The servants, augmented by “help” from Riversend, were putting the last touches to the collation in the dining-room, where hams, turkeys, beef and sundry other edibles were already waiting on the sideboards.
The forty invited guests were arriving now, and the grounds were musical with sleigh bells, the shouts of stableboys, the laughter of women and the gay voices of men. Some were singing carols; the bells jingled; a night of brilliant stars drowned out the waning moon. Servants stood to relieve the guests of greatcoats and cloaks, of canes and bonnets and gloves and furs, and the big hall seethed with the rich gowns of the ladies and their bright and festive faces.
Dorothea, Jerome and Alfred waited to receive their guests, while Mr. Lindsey sat in the first drawing-room, his cane beside him, greeting those who surged in. Young Philip, pale with excitement and shyness, stood near him. But Miss Amalie Maxwell had not yet appeared, and from his station Alfred kept glancing impatiently over his shoulder at the stairway, his face suffused with embarrassment. In a slight lull, he managed to whisper to Dorothea: “Did not Amalie understand that she was to be here with us to receive the guests?”
Dorothea, in a severe black satin dress with the slightest bustle, whispered back grimly: “I am certain she did. I told her only this afternoon. Perhaps she mistook the time.”
; “She cannot help hearing what is going on below,” said Alfred, exasperated, and feeling more humiliated every moment. None of the guests had mentioned the absent lady, but their tactfulness, in the face of absence, did nothing to relieve him.
Dorothea tossed her head; her gold chains and bangles rattled. More guests arrived, and the three received them.
An incredibly ugly old woman was entering, in purple velvet and pearls, her train sweeping behind her. She was very short, very fat, and had a face resembling a huge and less good-natured bulldog. Her hair, a mass of bright black bangs, curls and chignon, was frankly false. Her color was ruddy, her jowls magenta. She had a short gross nose and vicious little black eyes, darting and bawdy. Her heavy and sensual mouth was both arrogant and humorous. Thick clusters of rings sparkled on her hands, which resembled the hands of a washwoman rather than those of a powerful aristocrat. The scent of musk surrounded her like a visible aura.
This was the Widow Kingsley, or Mehitabel, as she was known to her intimates. Like her great friend and fellow-raconteur, General Tayntor, she was extremely “uncoventional” and “quite a character.” Thrice married, thrice widowed, she had added to a very considerable fortune by her shrewdly plotted marriages, and her income was only less than the General’s. She was famous for her loud and raucous voice, her indecent language, her malice, her deliberate insults, and her rapacity, not to mention her extraordinary toilettes, her lavish and luxurious mansion, her stable of excellent horses, her many cats, and her insatiable appetite for food and drink. Her enemies were legion, especially among women, and her friends devoted. She feared no one, and her scalding tongue spared few.
She came in on the wave of her own shouted execrations. She walked with a wallow and carried a gold-headed ebony cane. She was exuberant. Dorothea, wincing, came forward primly, followed by Alfred and Jerome. The widow’s eyes swept over them; she paused, and her expression was deliberately contemptuous, though she merely exclaimed: “Those boys of yours are impossible, Alfred! I’d—” And then she caught sight of Jerome, lurking behind, his cousin. Her coarse face changed, became delighted. “Jerome!” she bellowed. “You dogl Come here at once and kiss me!” And she flung out her arms to him and caught him to her in a pungent embrace.
He hugged her affectionately and patted her back. “Metty,” he said, “I’ve come all the way from New York just to see you again, you darling rascal.”
“Liar!” she screamed, with a knowing grin, releasing him. “I wager I know why you came,” and she winked and took his arm in a strong grip. She snorted happily. “Never mind. It is enough for me to see you. My God, but you’re beautiful, Jerome! Kiss me again.”
She had another thought and scowled at him. “Like animals any better, eh? Know the front end of a horse from the back, yet? Heard you were in Saratoga last year, betting, so you ought to know now.”
“I have a dog, a spaniel,” he admitted.
Her scowl deepened. “A dog? You never liked dogs. French. That was Louis XIV. Spaniels. Do you mean to tell me you like dogs now?” she demanded, outraged.
“Not very much,” he admitted. “In a way, I inherited Charlie. The lady went abroad.”
She laughed boisterously and struck his arm with her free hand. “Oh, in that case.” She literally howled with laughter now. “What is this about you and the Bank? I don’t believe it! You’ve got to tell me it isn’t true!”
“It is,” he said, smiling. “I am to be a business man now. I am settling down, and beginning to grow moss and roots.”
Alfred came forward now, clearing his throat. “Good evening. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Kingsley,” he said, with a cold glance at Jerome. The old lady swung on him, frowning. “Eh? Thank you, Alfred. What is so merry about tonight, please tell me? All this damned snow, and my rheumatism.” And she regarded him with umbrage, as if he were personally responsible for the weather. She took Jerome’s arm and said: “Take me to your papa, sir, at once.”
The two turned away. She suddenly halted and looked over her bulky shoulder at the discomfited Alfred and the shocked Dorothea. “By the way, Alfred, where is that girl of yours, that dressmaker, or something?”
“Miss Maxwell has not yet appeared,” said Alfred, and his pale eyes flashed dangerously as he forgot the power of the widow. “She will be down very shortly, now.” He turned to Dorothea. “My dear, would you please—”
“I shall go up for her at once,” said Dorothea, turning away with a stately swish of her skirts and beginning to climb the stairway.
The widow grinned, and chuckled hoarsely. “Let us wait a moment, Jerome. I have a fancy to see the wench immediately. I hear she has a handsome face.”
A pulse began to beat in Alfred’s forehead, but he controlled himself. A few more guests arrived. A pleasant confusion ensued.
A figure began to move down the stairway, very slowly and haughtily. The guests, including the widow, glanced up with polite smiles. Then the smiles disappeared, and the faces were startled masks, and a silence fell over them.
Against the dark shadow of the stairwell, Amalie was descending with indifferent poise and erect head. The blaze of the chandelier struck her. She wore a gown of vivid scarlet velvet, exceptionally daring. Her white shoulders were entirely bare and glimmered like snow under the moon. The tight bodice was moulded over her high and pointed breasts and slender waist, falling away from the latter in folds of glowing ruby-like color, which were caught up at the rear in a cascading bustle. Rubies sparkled in the masses of her severely coiffed black hair and low chignon, and in her small ears. Her beautiful face was luminously white, her eyes deep and purple, her mouth as scarlet as her gown. Her large and lovely hand moved along the balustrade, and it, too, sparkled with fiery gems. My mother’s, thought Jerome, through the strange humming in his ears, and the stranger pounding of his heart.
Now she was fully in the light, almost on the last step. She paused. All the strong carved planes of her face were revealed, the molding of her firm chin.
The petrified silence deepened in the hall. It enveloped everything.
“My God!” screamed the widow, staring.
Everyone started violently. Some of the ladies then lifted their fans to cover the lower half of their faces. The gentlemen stared at Amalie, completely fascinated. And now behind Amalie appeared the spectral figure of Dorothea, who was paler than any ghost and apparently quite numb.
Jerome looked at the pulsating vision on the last step, and there he stood in silence, his arm falling to his side.
Alfred, recovering from his stupefaction, stirred. His color was quite ghastly. But he lifted his head and advanced firmly to the stairway. He extended his hand to Amalie, and she took it. He led her down, and forward. He said, very clearly and quietly: “Amalie, my love, our guests.” And proceeded to introduce her.
The ladies tried to acknowledge the introductions, but could only whisper, their eyes huge in their appalled and genteel faces. Amalie was quite composed. She acknowledged each introduction with cool politeness and calm. She looked openly and steadily at each bowing gentleman, who stammered her name. She arrived at the Widow Kingsley, smiled a little, and gave the older woman the brief curtsy of youth being presented to age. Every eye rotated to her as if bewitched, noting every fold of scarlet drapery, every gleam from her white shoulders and throat and only half-concealed breast.
“Well!” shouted Mrs. Kingsley, deliberately inspecting the girl through a raised lorgnette. “So this is our great beauty, eh? My God! Alfred, you’ve done yourself proud now. A handsome wench, if I ever saw one, and a hard filly to handle, I wager.” She fixed her eyes shrewdly upon Amalie’s face. Amalie smiled. The widow began to grin, her thick underlip curling out. “I like you, my dear,” she announced. “Even if you are a dressmaker, or something.” She added: “You may kiss me, if you like.”
Amalie bent her head and kissed the old woman, who patted her cheek during the embrace. The widow sighed. “And to think this lived in Riversend, and I never knew
. Tell me, my love, did you design that gown yourself?”
“Yes,” said Amalie, with a deeper smile. “But I’m not a dressmaker. I am a teacher, ma’am.”
“Who cares?” demanded the widow, recklessly. She studied Amalie again, and again she grinned. “I like you, my child,” she repeated, and took Amalie’s hand. Then she snickered. “But why are you marrying Alfred, when you can marry my beautiful Jerome? Two handsome rascals together. For you are a rascal, aren’t you, my pet? Yes, I was never mistaken in my life, and I am not mistaken now. Why are you marrying Alfred?” she demanded, stridently. “It’s his money, of course.” She paused, beetling her brows as she glanced at the unhappy man. “I never liked Esau,” she commented, witheringly.
The guests looked at each other, and again the ladies covered their faces with their fans and their eyes danced maliciously. The gentlemen smiled, but considerately turned their regard away from Alfred.
The widow glanced up with a hard chiding look at Jerome. “Well,” she said, “speak up, can’t you? Why aren’t you marrying this delightful creature yourself? It isn’t too late, you know.”
Jerome bowed. “Why, ma’am, the lady has not asked me,” he said. He turned to Amalie: “Have you?”
Amalie gazed at him with cool consideration. “I believe I have not. Doubtless an oversight on my part, for which I hope you will forgive me.”
The widow chuckled. She took their arms, drew them on each side of her. “Let us go in to Papa,” she said. “We can leave Alfred to do the stupid honors.”
And she drew them away with her towards the doorway of the drawing-rooms.
Slowly, one by one, the guests considerately removed their embarrassing presence from Alfred and Dorothea, and talking and laughing more ostentatiously than necessary, followed the remarkable trio.
Dorothea and Alfred were alone in the warm but still palpitating silence of the hall. Alfred was visibly shaken. He drew out his kerchief and wiped his brow. His features were rigid. His temples throbbed, the veins thickened. Dorothea regarded him with bitter compassion and understanding.