A Prologue To Love (15 page)

“One doesn’t hide beauty,” Cynthia said with kind seriousness. She smoothed the girl’s tangled hair, and Caroline shrank from her, and Cynthia was startled. But she continued without a change in tone: “Beauty is to display, to decorate, to make the world a lovelier place.” She looked at the dun-colored heap of Caroline’s discarded clothes on the floor; Cynthia had not laid them upon a chair because of the filth and bits of straw and dust all over them.

“There’s no beauty without money,” said Caroline, and turned her head away.

“Oh, Caroline. Nonsense. You really don’t mean that.” Cynthia smiled again. “Why, I have very little money, but I do have a lovely house and I live well, if not grandly.”

“We’re not talking about the same things,” said Caroline in a mutter. But Cynthia heard, and her face became thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps we are.”

Caroline made no protest at all when Cynthia ordered that the girl’s clothes be taken from the room ‘and given away to someone’.

Cynthia, who was rarely inquisitive, did not ask why Caroline later became interested in better, if not handsomer, clothing. For a few years at least Caroline wore excellent material, even though it was badly draped and poorly cut, for Caroline would not employ Cynthia’s expensive seamstress. And always, Cynthia noted, Caroline was never without a good, strong leather purse, and she held it in a clutching grasp.

What had happened to Caroline on that destroying day remained her own secret. She had no words to give it substance. It stayed with her always. The note she had signed for Fern and Son was, many years later — two generations later — incorporated in a witty book about her life by the grandson of old Fern, and it was considered very risible and multitudes greedily laughed, and the book was translated into many languages. But no one read of raped innocence in that book, and the dark terror of a young girl, and the sad ruins of a whole life.

Caroline was crying because of the letter she had received from Tom Sheldon.

It was spring and Tom was with his elderly parents now. His father had bought, with Tom’s earnings on the Erie Canal and on harbor ships in Boston, some scrubby land in Lyme near the sea and, going largely into debt, had built a number of small summer homes upon it. These he had sold at considerable profit a year ago and had been encouraged to buy more land for the same purpose. During the summer months Tom helped his father, who did most of the building, and was investing in the venture.

He wrote in his letter to Caroline:

I know we couldn’t spend much time together last summer, Carrie, but you knew how it was, with all the work. But even when I did have time on Sundays you didn’t often meet me on the beach and in the back of your house, the way we always did, and only once did you go down to the village with me for some ice cream. Don’t you like me any more, Carrie? You know how much I love you. Why, I never saw a girl as nice as you anywhere, and I’ve seen some beauties, too. Nobody has your eyes and your ways and your pretty smile; you’re the only girl for me. It’s because of you that I began to read so much. Now I read for my own pleasure, and when I’m in Boston I go to the Museum and sit in the balcony when they have concerts. Once it was just to be worthy of you; now I know that a man has to do things for his own soul, as well as for the girl he wants to marry. I go to church whenever I can, for, as I’ve told you, there is more to life than success, and more to life than death or just living from day to day.

You haven’t answered my last two letters. I was on the move, though. Perhaps I missed your replies. Did I, Carrie? I reread all your letters; I’ve kept every one. The last one I had disturbed me. I thought you were merely thinking on paper when you wrote the previous ones, but now I am wondering. Why do you always write about money and ask me if I am saving as much as I can? You sounded so afraid of something in your last letter. Now, I’ve worked hard enough as long as I can remember; my parents were poor and I did what I could. I know the value of money. I’m not improvident, and I’m not a spendthrift. But I know, too, where the value ends. We weren’t born for the sole purpose of acquiring money and saving it and worshiping it. There is another reason why we were born, and that reason isn’t cash.

I’ve known what it is to be hungry and alone and shabby. You write me that the world hates those who have no money and tries to destroy them. Carrie, that’s going too far! I’ve had my share of knocks and punches and other things when my pockets were empty. Does that matter? That, too, is a part of living. And I’ve met kind people almost as poor as I was, who shared what they had with me. Wicked people can be found anywhere. I’m not foolish enough to say that there are more good people than bad; there aren’t. The devils are ten to one more than the angels, and I have scars to prove it. But even that doesn’t matter. It’s only your own soul you have to consider, and your own justness to others, and your own determination to be decent.

Money can bring you a lot of peace of mind, and I’m trying to get it as fast as possible, Carrie. A man’s an idiot if he says money is nothing. But he is a worse idiot if he thinks there is nothing else besides money. Why, Carrie, there is the whole world. Don’t you remember how you used to point out things I might have missed without you, the way the light lies on the ocean just before a storm, and how the trees look in the early morning, just as if they’re shaking themselves awake and spreading out their green clothes to catch the wind? Hundreds of things, Carrie dear. You gave me eyes. I was always too busy to see before. Now I know that you don’t have to have a lot of time to look at the world; you just have to look. What has happened to you, Carrie?

I love you; I love the way you smile, and the soft way you have of laughing. What troubles you, Carrie? Can’t you tell me? You’ve changed. Don’t change, Carrie. Wait for me.”

But how can I explain to Tom? Caroline asked herself, holding Tom’s letter in her hands tightly and seeing the strong and controlled writing through her tears. I never could explain to anybody; I just don’t have the right words. Tom, I love you; I wish I could see you every day. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so frightened all the time. Sometimes, for weeks on end, I see nothing at all but my fear, and no other faces but those in that awful shop. Tom, you are wrong. Yes, you are wrong. My father was right from the very beginning. But still, I love you.

“You really must help me with Caroline,” said Cynthia to John Ames in early June. “She shows absolutely no interest in the things which absorb young girls. She isn’t yet eighteen. It’s time for me to give her her presentation tea — boring, I admit, and I do loathe tea, a fact I keep discreetly to myself. The tea is only the beginning for a Boston girl, and especially for the daughter of John Ames. You will have to give her a fine ball at her coming out. Do be quiet, and let me finish. You think it ridiculous; perhaps it is. I never had such a wearisome time as when Ann and I were presented to society — old haughty dowagers we’d known all our lives and who had been present when we were christened. Nevertheless, one has to conform sometimes. It is much less wearing to conform to the unimportant things than to oppose them. Perhaps I don’t have the stamina of other Boston ladies. Please stop kissing my arm and listen, for I am quite serious.

“If for no other reason but sound logic and shrewdness, Caroline must go through these things. After all, she will have to deal with these people later. (Much later, I hope, my love. What should I do without you? I really love you dearly, though I can’t think why.) Unless, of course, you are intending to appoint a Board of Directors or something to manage Caroline’s affairs in the future and let her drift along in this dull and aimless way all her life. And she must meet young men, the sons of the dowagers who are already asking when Caroline is going to be presented to them. The dowagers have seen Caroline fleetingly, one might call it, and I think they rather approve of her sturdy appearance, being so sturdy themselves. Are you sure there is no Boston blood in you, sweetheart? But then, you never did tell me anything about yourself, which makes you mysterious, and I love mysteries. Don’t ever tell me.

“Caroline goes dutifully, but miserably, to dancing school. The boys, when at home from college or spending an afternoon or evening away from their blessed Harvard, show considerable interest in Caroline. We don’t deceive ourselves that it is her fragile appearance which attracts them. It’s your money. And I do believe that they, like their mothers, approve of Caroline’s sturdiness; she has a no-nonsense figure and manner to which they are accustomed; it seems most proper to them. But she isn’t interested in riding or charities or good works and all the other tiresome things. She ought to pretend, at least, for her own sake.” Cynthia paused.

They were sitting together in Cynthia’s suave little sitting room next to her bedroom. The rose-and-silver draperies moved in the warm June night wind, and there was a scent of tearoses and peonies from the garden below. Cynthia’s dressing gown, of a silvery material, flowed gracefully about her beautiful figure and parted softly to show her white throat and part of her white breast. She sipped an excellent cordial; her lovely hair rippled loosely about her shoulders and down her back.

“You’ve seen me many, many times before, John,” said Cynthia affectionately, and touched him lightly on the knee. “And how handsome you still are, in spite of being an elderly gentleman in your fifties; hardly any gray in your hair; you look so distinguished. I like to see you smile. Do you know that you rarely smile except when we are alone together, or when you look at Melinda before she goes to sleep?” Cynthia’s voice dropped.

“Before I talk to you about Caroline, I want to ask you a question,” said John.

She shook her head again and sighed and smiled. “And the answer is still no, dear. Not even for Melinda’s sake.”

“Now that the usual formalities are cleared away, we will talk about Caroline,” said John. “I don’t agree with you. I’m not afraid of offending the Boston biddies and their sons. I doubt if Caroline will ever marry. There is something missing in her. She probably understands this very well. Give your tea, Cynthia, if you wish, and I’m sure you’ll be sorry for Caroline afterward. But, no ball. If it’s money only that interests the ladies of Boston — and I know it is — their interest in Caroline won’t decline because she wasn’t presented at a ball. And they will invite her to the Assemblies, and she won’t go. I won’t say a word to her. Let her alone, love. I am about to begin a much more important course of education for her. Beginning tomorrow.”

He looked gloomily at her swinging foot. “She will learn. She has great capacities. She understands many things. I’ve had talks with her. And tomorrow the intensive education will begin.”

“How?” asked Cynthia, alarmed.

“I am going to take her down to the docks and show her my ships and clippers. That is only the beginning.”

“I try to remind myself,” said Cynthia sadly. “I try to tell myself that if you were completely a wretch you’d never have brought Caroline to me and sent her to Miss Stockington’s. You see, I like to believe that I’m incapable of loving a man who is an absolute beast. So I tell myself that in spite of what you say about Caroline you do have some love for her.”

“Oh, God,” said John, and stood up impatiently. “If demonstrations of selfless love are so important to you, Cynthia, you’d have married me years ago. You’d have some consideration for Melinda.”

“You make me sound like a fool,” said Cynthia sharply. “Of course I have consideration for Melinda. She’s my precious darling. And it’s partly because of Melinda that I won’t marry you, and I wish you’d stop bringing up the tedious subject. Very well. I won’t argue with you about Caroline any longer, though the very sight of the poor girl breaks my heart sometimes. I’ve never seen anyone so desolate-looking; the only time she glows a little is when you’re here, and you hardly speak to her about the casual things a girl loves to hear from her father. I’m very vexed with you. No, you cannot stay with me tonight. Be understanding and go up to your own room. I’m tired.”

Caroline, as usual, had been inarticulately joyful when her father had returned to Boston that afternoon from an unusually long absence. While she did not feel the curious and inexplicable security she felt when with Tom Sheldon, she always had the sensation that when her father was present he represented some kind of desperately needed shelter for her. She never doubted he loved her; she believed he was only as inarticulate as she in expressing his emotions, and as shy as she. In return, her love reached adoration, unquestioning, absolute. John Ames, to his daughter, was all-wise, omniscient, beyond good and beyond evil, to whom everything had been explained and to whom nothing was strange and without an answer.

It was this fixed idea which Beth, in her simple way, and Tom Sheldon, in his love and anxiety, and Cynthia, in her wise sophistication, had tried to shake. They had failed. Beth thought Caroline’s adoration piteous; Tom recognized it as dangerous for the girl; Cynthia had considered it a crippling of the spirit and an absurdity. It was Cynthia who had given Caroline a copy of
Dombey and Son
, with the subtle hope that Caroline might find there something resembling herself and the tragic heroine who loved her father without reason, and stupidly. When Caroline had finished the book Cynthia asked her how she had liked it. To Cynthia’s wry despair, Caroline had answered seriously, “Poor Mr. Dombey!”

It seemed quite natural to Caroline for John Ames to occupy the large and pleasant apartment on the third floor. She did not even ask herself how long he had occupied it or if he had been there before her own removal to this house. She was his daughter; for him to go to a hotel when in Boston would have been ridiculous. Moreover, Cynthia was his sister-in-law. Caroline had a jealous eye for evidence of affection; she saw that while her father had respect for Timothy, and interest in him, and advised him when the young man was at home — Timothy was to go to Harvard, of course, in the autumn — John Ames showed no other sign of any attachment. But Caroline, to her dismay and lonely fear, saw that her father loved little Melinda. A dull, sick resentment began to fill Caroline at the sight of the little girl. More and more, she avoided Melinda and muttered only short answers to the girl’s remarks. Sometimes she thought that Melinda was as trivial and as mindless as Cynthia; certainly the two enjoyed incomprehensible jokes together which bewildered her.

She was not quite as na
ï
ve as both John Ames and Cynthia believed. Her wide reading had left her with a very solid idea of sensual attachments, and she had some dim understanding as to why she felt a throb of joy at the sight of Tom Sheldon and why his kind touch on her cheek was electrifying. She was innocent but not uninformed. There was a lack of specific detail in her mind, which often engrossed her wonder and conjecture at night, but that there were very specific details she had no doubt. Cynthia, in spite of her suavity and worldliness, was still of her era; she had attempted with what she had believed to be the utmost tact and delicacy to enlighten Caroline in some fashion. She had been quite astonished to see Caroline turn a bright, confused red; Caroline used to terminate these sessions abruptly. She was curious, but her dislike for Cynthia, which had become aversion since that malignant night last December, rejected Cynthia as a confidante.

When John had returned that afternoon they had had what Cynthia referred to as an intimate family dinner. She and John spoke together politely and with friendly interest, avoiding any sign of intimacy in the presence of the obdurate Caroline, whose shining eyes were almost entirely fixed on John’s face, and in the presence of Melinda, to whose every childish remark John listened with faintly smiling attentiveness. The dinner, as usual, was loathsome to Caroline. She detested the taste of sherry in the fowl, the mushrooms on the fish, the exquisiteness of the little cakes, and the wine-flavored prepared fruit. One of the maids, who was almost a friend of hers, would leave a slice of cheese and some bread and milk on her bedside table and a round apple. These Caroline would devour with a lustiness that would have interested, if not revolted, Cynthia.

John, admonished by Cynthia’s sparkling eyes, spoke to his daughter a few times at dinner. He remarked coldly but with approval that the last report received from Miss Stockington had indicated that Caroline was extremely proficient in mathematics. “The Apollonian Art,” he had added. “And the most utilitarian.”

“I doubt bankers know it is an art — or anyone else connected with money,” Cynthia had said. But Caroline did not hear her. She was overwhelmed with joy at her father’s approval. She wanted to tell him how mathematics fascinated her, how there was a tempo, flow, and precision in it that were intensely musical, and how its order and clarity reminded her of color and harmony. But she could only stutter and look at him adoringly, and he turned away.

It was then that he decided he must now undertake Caroline’s education himself. She had been expertly taught at her school; she spoke German and French well and with good accents. History had been another of her best subjects. If nothing else, Caroline had been an excellent scholar.

Caroline was so happy over her father’s approval that she wished to talk to him after dinner, but he indicated that he was tired. He disappeared upstairs after a short interval in the drawing room. Caroline’s disappointment was very visible. Cynthia said, as she began to work on another square of gros point for her dining-room chairs, “Your father is a very busy man, you know, Caroline. He is going to stay for a few days, so don’t be too disappointed that he couldn’t remain with us tonight.”

“I’m not disappointed,” said Caroline with hard coldness. Even the faintest criticism of her father outraged her. “I know he’s tired. And he has many responsibilities.”

Cynthia shrugged. She knew that John was now with Melinda in the child’s bedroom. Caroline showed indications of leaving the room. She must not encounter her father leaving that pretty room with all its flounces and bright lamps, nor must she hear the muffled laughter. When Caroline began to pull herself to the edge of her chair Cynthia said coaxingly, “Dear, would you please refill my glass with that cr
è
me de menthe? My digestion is a little out of order tonight.”

Caroline obeyed sullenly, but she watched the smooth green fluid flowing from the carafe into the crystal glass with pleasure. Lamplight flashed on it, deepening its running hues to emerald. “Won’t you try some, Caroline?” asked Cynthia. But Caroline put down the carafe with such speed that it clattered on the silver tray. “I don’t like spirits,” she mumbled.

Cynthia sighed. “It isn’t ‘spirits’,” she said. “Dear me, why do you always try to make me look like a drunken trollop, Caroline?”

Caroline was shocked, which was what Cynthia had intended. “Aunt Cynthia!” cried the girl, and flushed darkly.

“Well, you do,” said Cynthia, smiling and sipping the liqueur.

“You drink whiskey sometimes,” Caroline blurted.

“So I do. I have a theory that many people would go mad without an occasional indulgence in alcohol. The world isn’t exactly a Garden of Eden, you know, Caroline, and there are some people who must retreat from it sometimes or lose their minds.”

“You live in a kind of Garden of Eden,” said Caroline bluntly.

“Do I?” Cynthia lifted a humorous eyebrow. “I’m glad you think so. I try to give that impression. It is very ill bred to show your troubles or your doubts or your illness or worries to the world. It is like undressing in public — indecent. Thank you, dear, for reassuring me.”

Cynthia’s little witticisms always confused Caroline, who never knew whether her aunt was serious or not. She stared acutely at Cynthia and decided that the older woman was mocking her gently, and she colored again. “I’ve never known you to be ill, Aunt Cynthia,” she said in her somewhat loud and very direct voice, “and if you have troubles I’ve never seen any sign of them, and I’ve lived here a long time. What worries could you have?”

Cynthia put down the square of canvas and looked at Caroline thoughtfully. She shook her head a little. “My dear child,” she said, “I do hope that you won’t be one of those obtuse women who see only the obvious and insist that there is nothing else in life but the obvious.”

“I don’t,” said Caroline with harshness in her voice.

Cynthia was surprised. She was also bored. Talks with Caroline were frustrating and unrewarding; they never seemed to be talking about the same thing. Besides, she had heard Melinda’s door open and close and John’s footsteps going to his room.

“Good,” said Cynthia absently. She took up the gros point again. Her dress, of silk exquisitely printed in pale lilac and gold, was like a spring garden. Diamonds glowed and winked about her neck, her wrist, and her fingers. Her throat was white and smooth, her hands pearly. Caroline looked at her, her strong black eyebrows drawn together in a newly formidable fashion.

“I’m not as stupid as you think I am,” said Caroline suddenly. Cynthia, again surprised, glanced up. “I never said you were stupid, Caroline,” she replied, “and I certainly never thought so. That’s another bad habit you have: you put things into people’s mouths and then accuse them of your own imaginings. You’re a very difficult girl.”

“So you often say,” said Caroline. She got to her feet clumsily and left the room without another word. Again Cynthia shook her head. The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed half-past nine, tinkling musically. A carriage or two rumbled by on the cobbled street. The spring wind sighed at the windows. In half an hour Cynthia would go to her own rooms and John would join her.

Caroline, in her bedroom, took up her schoolbooks. There was a sensation of tight excitement in her. Her father had remarked with approval on her scores in mathematics. She must apply herself even more intensively to them to gain more approval. She smiled a little, and a tender look appeared about her mouth and a brightness in her eyes. She stood up with an unaccountable restlessness and went to the window. The light from her father’s room shone down upon her. He would be busy with his papers tonight. All of the girl’s senses were acute; the spring night air blew into her face, stirred her dark hair, flowed on her cheeks. Her young body was suddenly and mysteriously aroused. All at once, powerfully and involuntarily, her thoughts turned like an eager face to Tom Sheldon, and her eyes filled with tears. A sensation of joy spread from her heart over all her flesh and nerves.

She ran to her dressing table and stared at herself. Her cheeks were softly colored; her big mouth was red and unusually full and moist. And her large and beautiful eyes looked back at her with a startled and joyous expression, the irises swimming in gold. Her face was strongly molded; her artist’s eyes found a greatness and splendor of earth and vitality in it, and she marveled and thought again of Tom. Her fingers fumbled at her hair; she pulled down the long narrow braids, unwound the strands. Her hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back like rippling glass.

I am not pretty, she thought. I’ll never be pretty, as people call it. But I think I see what Tom sees in me! I am not ugly at all!