This Side of Innocence by Caldwell Taylor;

Author:Caldwell, Taylor;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2018-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Dorothea Lindsey was having a very strange dream.

It was half memory, that dream. She was sitting in her mother’s room, a young girl again, and there was a child in her arms, and that child was Jerome, dark and restless and vigorous in a Scotch-plaid silk frock with a white lace collar. He had not yet been promoted to bifurcated garments, and apparently resented the fact, for he was screaming: “Pant’loons!” at the top of a very loud and disagreeable voice. Dorothea was struggling with him and scolding him and hearing soft and lilting laughter. She heard a rustle and saw her mother again, young and fragile and very sweet-faced.

Her mother wore white silk and lace, with a violet shawl over her shoulders. Her hair lay in heavy ringlets over that shawl and in a mass down her back. Dorothea felt a pang of adoration and sadness as she looked at her mother’s face. The room seemed to darken, and her mother’s voice came as if from a far and echoing distance, full of sorrow: “Dorothea, my love, you must care for your little brother, if I am called away. I know I can trust you, my dearest one.”

Dorothea heard her own voice, faint with despairing premonition: “Yes. Oh, yes, Mama.”

The room steadily darkened, and now her mother was only a white and spectral shadow in the dim room, only the faintest of rustles. Terror seized Dorothea; Jerome was no longer on her knees. He had disappeared, yet she knew he was somewhere near, watching with cold and inimical eyes, full of mockery and hatred. Dorothea’s mother began to speak, and her voice was chill and far-off, filled with urgent grief and pleading: “You must care for your brother, my love. You must remember me. For my sake, you must not desert nor injure him.”

Dorothea cried out: “Oh, Mama, you do not know Jerome! He has hurt us all so terribly! You must not ask this of me, Mama!”

But her mother’s voice, dimmer now, far off as the stars, pleaded: “You must help your brother, Dorothea.”

Dorothea woke, trembling and chilled and sick. Her room was in deep darkness. Trees rustled against her windows; she saw the sharp fingers of moonlight through the draperies. She sat up in bed, struck a match and lighted her bedside lamp. It was then that she became aware that she had heard a low but insistent knocking for some time, and that this had apparently awakened her. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was midnight.

She caught up her shawl which lay at the foot of the bed and flung it about her shoulders. She called out huskily: “Who is it?”

“Jerome.”

Dorothea stared at the shut door. Her heart pained her with its sudden swift beating. She looked about the room. Her mother had gone yet she seemed to be present, her large eyes imploring. Dorothea moistened her parched lips and said: “Come in.” She lifted herself up on her pillows, ran cold bands over her dark and graying hair, flung back her heavy braids.

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