A Prologue To Love (42 page)

He told her of Caroline, and she regarded him proudly and nodded her pretty head and poured more tea. “I always told you the poor girl was no fool; she’s proved that by appreciating you, dear. Is her third baby born yet?”

“No, but imminent,” said Timothy. Cynthia laughed; she waited for Melinda’s laugh, but the quiet girl seemed to be abstracted. “Melinda,” said Cynthia, “is something wrong?”

“No, Mama,” said Melinda. “I was just thinking about Caroline. I don’t know why, but I was thinking.”

“Poor thing,” said Cynthia. “How is that country boy, her husband, Timothy?”

“As boorish and dull as ever,” answered her son. “We hate each other heartily; he’d like to boot me out of his frightful house whenever I’m there.”

The long English twilight set in, clear as water, and as still. Lord Halnes came into the sitting room in his tweeds, his respectable face cordial as he saw Timothy. They shook hands, and Cynthia rang for more hot tea. The fire brightened; one last bird sang to the coming night, and the song was infinitely sweet and sad and close. The family chattered, but Melinda was silent, listening to the bird. She did not know why, but tears came to her eyes and a faint pain to her heart. When she turned her head she saw Timothy watching her.

After dinner that night Timothy and Lord Halnes were left alone to drink their brandy together. The two men talked in low and serious voices now that Melinda and Cynthia had left them.

“And you are really convinced, sir,” said Timothy, “that we are actually about to enter the age of prolonged and universal wars?”

Montague nodded. He looked at his pipe distastefully. “I don’t know why I smoke this thing,” he said, “but it seems expected of me in the country. Yes, Timothy. These are the last years of peace. And grace. We’re all preparing for the new century and what it will bring us. My father told me that his father was certain that the year 1800 would mark a change in the world, but my father had at first thought him merely elderly and full of crochets. But my grandfather was quite right, you know. The world changed violently. The Age of Reason, or the Age of Enlightenment as they liked to call it, passed with extraordinary suddenness after the turn of the century. There was old Bony and his wars; there was also Waterloo and the Congress of Vienna and the industrial revolution and a tremendous change in mores and the solid rise of the middle class and a new Puritanism. They blame the last on poor old Victoria, but she is the symptom of her times and not its cause. She is the living symbol of the middle class, and now we have mean middle-class virtues, middle-class dullness, middle-class obstinacy, middle-class determination to have its day, and all the other dreary matters. Dash and joy, grandeur and aristocracy, intellect and pride and privilege, glory and passion — all these, my boy, began to pass away with extreme speed after 1800.

“I’ll probably never see these things again in my lifetime; I only saw their passing. When your southern states lost that war of yours, your country also lost its last grace, poetry, spaciousness, and the charm of living. No wonder we English loved your South. It was not all greed for profits, I assure you, which sent England to the aid of southern gentlemen.”

Timothy listened with sympathetic alertness and nodded over and over.

“There was a time,” said Lord Halnes, sipping his brandy and looking at Timothy over the glass, “when money and aristocracy were the same thing, for it was inconceivable in a civilized society that an aristocrat should be poor and that the barbarian should have money. It made for intellectualism and the privileges of intellectualism. Where is there a Voltaire today in the world? Unless he owned a factory, a Voltaire of today would starve to death. There is only one god today, and his name is industry and Marx is his prophet.” Lord Halnes smiled. “I am not averse to industry, my boy. It brings me a pretty profit, I admit. But it is also in the wrong hands.”

He stood up, and Timothy saw his undistinguished profile. Lord Halnes poked the fire.

He smiled pleasantly at Timothy. “Do you know, I had this same talk with old Johnny Ames one time, just before he died. He would not join us.”

“Could you expect otherwise?” asked Timothy. “He was a low-bred rascal.”

But Lord Halnes frowned thoughtfully. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think so, Timothy. He never spoke of his family, but I’m certain he had one and it was of no small reputation. There was something about him; you can’t mistake good blood. Yet he refused us.”

He sat down. “And now we’ll have wars. There are many reasons for wars. As many reasons as men have vices. What was it your Benjamin Franklin said? ‘There was never a good war or a bad peace’. He was not a gentleman, but he was shrewd and intelligent. He knew his humanity and despised it and feared it and he had no hope that the American Republic would survive. And it will not.

“And now,” said Lord Halnes, “tell me more about your cousin Caroline.”

Cynthia let her son into her private sitting room, which was as graceful and charming as herself, and full of firelight and the scent of roses and expensive perfume. She had had the dull oaken walls painted old ivory with touches of gold, and her furniture was definitely French in origin and light and airy. She was dressed in a white satin robe, and her hair hung free and she looked like a young woman. “Dear Timothy,” she said, yawning, “what on earth were you and Montague talking about so long? We go to bed early in the country.” She smiled; her contentment had made her flesh silky and vibrant.

Timothy sat down near her where she had reclined on her chaise lounge. “I won’t keep you up, Mother,” he said. “Just give me five minutes.”

“Darling, I’m not the Queen,” she said. “Dear me, you must have had a tiring journey. You look positively wan; if you keep the muscles in your face so tight all the time you’ll be old before your time. I never saw you so serious! What is it, Timothy?”

“It’s very simple,” he said, and he clasped his hands tightly between his knees. “It’s possible you’ve already guessed it. I love Melly.”

“Why, dear, we all do,” she replied with tenderness. “Now, Timothy, don’t be tiresome again. You are always saying that the English climate doesn’t agree with her. The climate in Boston is much worse than in London and just as dank and steamy. And we intend to spend much more time here in Devonshire, for Melinda’s sake, and I hope that satisfies you. Surely you must admit that the weather here is perfect, so balmy and mild. Melinda enjoys herself here; she has many friends in the country and is a great favorite. There is a certain family — you haven’t met them yet — but one of the sons — ”

Timothy broke in, “Mother! You didn’t hear me. I said I love Melly, and she loves me. We want to be married; we always did, since she was twelve years old.”

It was not possible. His mother had sat up abruptly as though struck, and she had become old, older than her years, old as death in her color and the starkness of her face and the bright terror of her eyes. Her hair fell back from her face. She caught the arms of the chaise lounge, and her hands clung to them, and her mouth opened and her jaw dropped.

“What?” she muttered, and then swallowed. Then she cried out, “What? What did you say?”

“Good God,” replied Timothy. “Is the idea so horrible to you? I’m your son, remember? You never liked me, but I never thought I was repulsive enough for you to hate. I’m sure you love me, in your way. Didn’t you hear me? I love Melly. I can support her in even your extravagant style, even without her own money. I will give her anything she wants.” As the expression on his mother’s face became even more startling, he almost began to plead. “Don’t talk about the difference in our ages; it doesn’t matter to us. We’ve spoken of it often, knowing that it might disturb you. It shouldn’t. Mother? Are you listening?”

She stood up and caught the back of the chaise lounge as she retreated from him. He also stood up. Then he remembered what Caroline had said to him, and he was sick with the very first awful dread he had ever known. But he tried to smile.

“Why are you running away from me? Do watch out; that window behind you is wide open. Oh, for God’s sake, Mother! Calm yourself. I’m not the scoundrel you think I am; if you had ever taken the time to learn about me you’d even have liked me. I really love Melly; I never loved anyone else.

I promise you solemnly I’ll be good to her and take care of her and cherish her and all the other things. I promise you; I’ll swear it to you, if that’ll help.”

Then Cynthia whispered dryly, “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, dear, dear God!” She put her hands to her face and stood there, trembling.

“Please don’t be dramatic.” Timothy tried to speak reassuringly. He took a few steps toward his mother. “Melly loves me. This isn’t something new. We’ve talked about it for years. Now she’s eighteen. We want to be married. With your consent or without it. We made up our minds, you see, long ago. I am taking her home.”

Cynthia dropped her hands. Wrinkles had webbed her face; her eyes had sunk. She put one hand to her throat.

She whispered, as though her voice had been taken away from her, “You can’t marry Melinda, Timothy. You can’t marry her. Don’t even speak of it. In the name of God, I beg you, don’t even speak of it!” She took a step toward him, and he waited. Then she flung out her arms distractedly, “Timothy! Don’t even speak of it!”

“Why?”

She was silent. They stood and looked at each other, Timothy pale and relentless, Cynthia shivering.

“I should have told you,” she said at last, humbly, brokenly. “Oh, Timothy, I should have told you! But I was thinking of Melinda; I always thought of her first. I never wanted her to know; I never wanted anyone to know. I took such care. Timothy! I can’t bear it for you to look at me like that! I’m your mother, and I can’t bear it!”

She was staring at him, not only with horror, but with anguished pity and love.

“Is it something about Melly’s background or family?” He tried to smile contemptuously.

She thought, then said in a broken voice, as if some hope had been given her. “Yes, yes! It is that. And so you can’t marry her.”

“I thought all the records at that orphanage were sealed.” He was convinced that his mother’s objection was not her objection to him, personally, after all, and he could really smile. “But I suppose you found out. Were Melly’s parents idiots or criminals or hanged, or something? It doesn’t matter. You only have to look at Melly to know her for what she is herself. Mother, I swear that Melly’s background means nothing to me. I love her too much.”

He waited, but she did not answer him. Long slow tears ran down her face. Over and over, she shook her head.

“You didn’t think Melly not fit to marry some nobleman’s son here, Mother. Why do you think she isn’t good enough for me?”

She appeared to diminish before his eyes, to become bent and withered and ancient. “Believe me,” she said, and her voice was whispering again, “you can’t marry her. If I’d ever have thought — I’d have told you, Timothy, long ago. But I thought you loved Melinda as your sister. Your adopted sister. That was all.”

He put his hands in his pockets and looked at her narrowly.

“Well, I don’t love her as my sister. I love her as a woman, as the girl I am going to marry in spite of everything. You can’t stop us.”

He remembered all at once that Caroline had had a similar reaction to his announcement. “Caroline said I couldn’t marry Melly, either. What is it? I have a right to know.”

“Caroline said that?” Cynthia cowered against the back of the lounge. “Caroline — knows?”

“Apparently. She told me that she couldn’t tell me, that it was up to you to tell me. Tell me!” His voice rose viciously. “I’ve got to know!”

Cynthia was even more stricken. She looked about her wildly, as if looking for a place to hide, to bury herself, to forget. Then she pressed her hands to her cheeks and resumed her fearful litany: “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Tell me,” said Timothy.

Cynthia’s body shriveled in her wide white robe. She looked down at the pretty carpet which covered the floor. She faltered, “She’s your adopted sister. There’s a law — ”

“Nonsense,” he said, recovering some of his surety again. “I’m a lawyer. And I’m not a Catholic and neither is Melly, and the impediment of a kind of consanguinity doesn’t apply to us. I can tell you in full honesty, that there is no law in America which prevents me from marrying Melly. None. Well?”

“You don’t understand!” Her voice was a thin wail. “Why, it would be a kind of — incest!”

“Oh,” he began impatiently. “Incest! Have you lost your mind, Mother?’’

The soft evening wind blew out the brocade curtains of the window, and they seemed to wrap themselves about Cynthia, as if to protect and hide her. She clung to the folds desperately to hold herself upright. She looked at Timothy, and then her head dropped on her breast, and she only stood there.

She became aware, in her torment and her sickness, that a long time had passed in silence. Her head felt as heavy as a stone; she had enormous difficulty in raising it. And then when she saw the terribleness of her son’s face she fell back again.

“Dear, dear Mama,” he said softly. “Would it be incest?”

She folded her arms in the draperies and held them to her breast. She could not look away from him. But she said, as if expiring, “Yes, Timothy. Yes.”

And then, “Forgive me, Timothy. Forgive me.”

“Who is her father, dear Mama?”

His voice was still soft, and she lifted her face and closed her eyes and could not answer.

Again there was silence in that pretty room, and the wind rose and a night bird cried.

“Why, that was a foolish question, wasn’t it?” said Timothy. “Her father was John Ames. John Ames. I just remembered. You were his mistress for a long time. You were, and are, a trumpery woman, dear Mama.”

“Oh, Timothy,” she said, and her tears began again. “Oh, forgive me. I’d rather have died than told you. I love you, Timothy.”

He did not move. He, too, looked old. His hands were clenched.

“And Melinda,” she murmured. “Poor child. Poor children. What can I do? What can I do now to help both of you?”

“It’s very simple,” he said. “It won’t really matter to you, Mama. You will laugh about it in a few days; I know you. It will be a joke between you and your husband. How you will laugh in your pretty way. You can tell Melly yourself, like the good sweet mother of both of us.”

He paused, then said, “But wouldn’t this be better? I’ll tell Melly myself.”

She started toward him, but he flung out his arm. She stopped and cried, “You can’t do that, Timothy! You said you loved her. You can’t break her heart by telling her and shaming her. You wouldn’t do that to Melinda, would you? Oh, God, you wouldn’t!”

“She’d hate you,” he said meditatively. “Yes, she’d hate you. And that’s what you deserve.”

“You’d kill her, Timothy! You’d really kill her! I’m all she has. You would even take that away from her, because you hate me. Hate me, I deserve it. But don’t hurt Melinda. Don’t hurt my child.”

“You’ve hurt her. You’ve destroyed her, dear Mama. You’ve destroyed me too.”

He tried to breathe against the choking desolation in his throat and the dreadful loss he was suffering, and the hatred. He thought of Melinda waiting to hear even now what his mother had to say, waiting for him to knock on her door and tell her. “Melinda,” he said aloud. “Melly.” He still could not think of her as his sister. He could only think of leaving her, of never seeing her again, of never having her for his wife. She had wanted to come with him tonight to his mother, to be with him when he told Cynthia. What had made him refuse? What had made him say he must see his mother alone? “Melly,” he said again.

“Timothy,” his mother cried.

He turned away from her. He spoke in a flat dull voice. “I won’t tell her. I couldn’t, not even to do to you what you’ve done to us. If only you’d told me when she was a child. But that was beyond you; you had to hug it all gleefully to yourself. I can’t tell Melly, and you can’t, either. I can see that. Yes, I can see that. She’s waiting in her room for me to come to her. She’s waiting.”

He went to the door. “I’m going to the inn in the village. I’ll stay there overnight and take the first train to London. And you can lie to Melly; you can say whatever you want — that I changed my mind. Anything. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any more.”

Lord Halnes, who was reading comfortably in bed in his large cool bedroom, heard a tap on his bedroom door and then his wife entered. He looked up smilingly and in welcome, but when he saw her face he stepped out of bed in his long nightshirt and was as disturbed as it was possible for him to be. “Cynthia,” he said. “What is wrong, my dear?”

She stood near his bed and was speechless, so he put his short and pudgy arms about her and forgot that she was taller than he and even forgot, as usual, to stand on his toes when embracing her. Then he drew her to his bed and was shocked to feel how feebly she moved. He put her down gently and sat beside her and picked up her hand, which was cold and lifeless. Then she bent her head and cried soundlessly and shivered. He took his woolen robe and wrapped it about her and waited. Cynthia was no light-minded woman; if she was in this state at almost midnight, then she had experienced some disaster.

“What is wrong?” he demanded more insistently, and rubbed her cold hands.

“Timothy,” she said, and her voice was so low and hoarse that he had to bend his head to hear her.

“Oh?” Lord Halnes frowned but was relieved. He knew Timothy very well; he was certain that so discreet a young man would do nothing very vital to jeopardize his position with his mother and her husband. So Montague’s alarm disappeared. He said almost indulgently, “Why don’t you get into my bed, my dear? It’s warm with hot bottles, and you are so cold.”

But Cynthia did not move. She finally looked up. “He wants to get married,” she began.

Oh, so that was it. Was the young fool about to marry some impossible trollop and make an ass of himself in public? But that was not like Timothy, the fastidious and cool-eyed and exigent. “Who?” asked Lord Halnes.

Cynthia wet her lips. She looked at her husband imploringly. “Melinda,” she whispered.

Lord Halnes dropped her hand and his eyes bulged. “Well,” he said, and then added with rare vulgarity, “That’s a bloody contretemps, isn’t it! Good God.”

Cynthia stared at him dazedly, and then she saw his sympathy and amazement.

“What?” she murmured.

“Do you mean, my dear, that Timothy didn’t know Melinda is his sister?”

Cynthia clutched the nightshirt at his chest with both hands. “Did you know, Montague, did you know?”

He put his fingers over her hands very tightly. “But certainly, my poor love. I knew from the instant I saw the girl that she was your daughter and that her father was poor old Johnny.” He paused. “Is it possible no one else knew? In spite of the resemblance and the circumstances?” He was incredulous.

Cynthia was so relieved that she burst out crying and put her head on her husband’s shoulder. “And you didn’t mind, Montague?”

He patted her cheek tenderly. “Certainly not, dear Cynthia. Do you mean that you thought I didn’t know and were afraid that I’d find out someday? What you must have suffered and feared. Yet I thought that you knew I knew.”

“Oh, Montague,” she cried, and he tried to comfort her. Now she could speak coherently and tell him of the interview between herself and Timothy, and as she spoke his expression became menacing, though he continued to smooth her wet cheek. That damned young rascal, to speak so to his mother, to Lady Halnes! When Cynthia had finished he held her to him and thought. Then he asked, “You haven’t talked with Melinda yet? You must do so at once, since she’s waiting. And I’ll have a word with Timothy myself.”