A Prologue To Love (50 page)

John narrowed his eyes at his sister and watched her closely and was silent. Old Lizzie often had very good ideas. She was also frequently up to something for herself. John was suspicious; but, examine the idea as he would, he could see only that Elizabeth was thinking of herself and the young men she would want to meet. What other reason could she have but those she had stated so candidly, and with such earnestness and open expression? Still John, who knew his sister, hesitated. He rubbed his big chin with the knuckles of his right hand.

“You’re a girl,” he said. “Why haven’t you talked to her yourself?”

“I have. She thinks I should be satisfied with what she had in her own girlhood.”

“You never spend a cent you don’t have to, yourself,” said John, still suspicious. “You save all you can. Try to pry a cent out of you for a loan! And you always want interest, too.”

“I have to,” said Elizabeth. “If I didn’t I’d never have money to spend on the right occasions at Miss Stockington’s. When a teacher takes us out to tea we have to pay our share. If I threw away my miserable allowance I’d have to stay behind. I have a little pride, you know, John.”

“You have your own troubles,” said John gloomily. “I can see that. What a mess our lives are. And they’ll get worse as we grow older.”

Elizabeth breathed out lightly. “Think about it, John.” She stood up and sadly smoothed her plain serge dress with a slim and elegant hand. John saw the gesture. “Poor old girl,” he said, but not with any real sympathy. He stood up also, stretched, and said, “I think I’ll beard the old lioness in her den right now.”

“Good,” said Elizabeth. She moved toward the door. “Let me know your success, won’t you?” She paused. “If I were you, I wouldn’t mention to her that you’ve had this talk with me. When I’ve asked for extra money for some lovely frock she only talked of frivolities.”

“What makes you think that she won’t say I’m frivolous too?”

“She knows you are a man, John. And you know she hates frivolous women. She thought Aunt Cynthia was a trollop, or something.”

“She was,” said John, grinning again. “I’m not the only one who listens, Lizzie. But I can see your point. A man who needs money to spend is entirely different from a woman who wants money to spend on fripperies, as Ma calls them.”

Elizabeth nodded sadly and drifted away. John combed his hair at his disorderly chest of drawers, washed his hands in water he had washed in that morning and which had not yet been emptied by the slack housemaid. Then he went down to his mother’s study and knocked on the door. He had much physical courage, and he knew that in her indifferent way his mother preferred him to her other children.

In the meantime Elizabeth went to her younger brother’s room.

Before she left her mother only a short time ago Elizabeth had fully persuaded Caroline of her deep passion and interest in art. She had complained to Caroline that Miss Stockington’s school knew nothing of true artistry and that pallid water colors were
de rigueur
and that the Boston Museum was ‘stuffy’ and unprogressive. “I know I have no real talent, Mother,” she had said to Caroline shyly. “But I’d like to try, all alone.” So Caroline, moved, had given the girl twenty dollars. It was safely in the pocket of her apron at this very moment. The money was to be used ostensibly to purchase the necessary artist’s supplies. Elizabeth had expected five dollars; she was incredulous at being presented with a gold certificate for twenty dollars. But she had been taught another valuable lesson: where Caroline’s deepest emotions were concerned, money did not matter.

Ames’ room, unlike John’s, was extremely tidy and precise. He had a large shelved cabinet for his treasures, which Tom had bought for him. He also had a smooth table near his cabinet on which he kept a record book of his treasures, their history, their age, and a magnifying glass with which he could study their smallest beauties. He kept his person well groomed, for he was excessively fastidious. He was fifteen years old, taller than Elizabeth, and had a slow elegance and appeared older than he was, with his curiously triangular face, his hard slate-colored eyes, his smooth fair hair and small tight lips and sharply cut nose. He was considered colorless at Groton. He preferred his own company. Where other students bogged at Pater, he understood almost everything instinctively.

He was examining the smallest of Meissen figures, recently purchased, when Elizabeth came in. He frowned at her coldly. “Well?” he said, and lifted the magnifying glass. He held the figurine with delicate care. Elizabeth waited until he completed his examination. He was satisfied; this was one of the best of its kind and had cost the old man seventy-five dollars and was cheap at the price. He put the figurine carefully into its cotton-lined box and looked at his shelves and wondered where he could stand the figurine to the best advantage.

“I have something to talk to you about,” said Elizabeth.

“Have you? What?” He turned on his chair. He was always suspicious of his sister. They had much in common.

“I’ve just had a talk with Mother,” said Elizabeth.

“How nice,” he murmured. “How is the stock market doing?”

“Who cares?” said Elizabeth.

“You do,” replied her brother. “You aren’t the only one who notices things. I’ve seen you studying the stock-market pages in the newspaper after Ma’s thrown them away. And you read her financial journals too. Do you think you’ll have a seat on the Stock Exchange, if they ever permit ladies to have a seat?”

Elizabeth was taken aback. She had believed her financial studies to be her own secret. Ames saw her perturbation and smiled. “I shouldn’t have let you know,” he said. “You were enjoying yourself so much, and I found it enjoyable to watch you. What do you want?”

Elizabeth recovered herself. She leaned toward the large mahogany cabinet and studied the many beautiful and exquisite objects in it. Everything was so small! She hated smallness. She hated tiny and fragile beauty. She despised imponderables. She thought Ames effeminate, which was not true. She thought him concerned solely with trivialities, for to her beauty was a triviality. She tended her own dispassionately, as a possession which would serve her well in the future.

“You have a fortune here,” she said.

“Indeed,” said Ames. “But I’m not interested in selling. Were you thinking of buying something from me? No sale.”

He smiled at her and wondered what the old girl was up to. Elizabeth did nothing without a purpose.

“Has Mother ever seen these wonderful things?” asked Elizabeth.

“Ma? Yes. She’s come in here once or twice. Now, Ma is strictly utilitarian. She doesn’t like frivolities, and she thinks my collection is frivolous. She knows nothing whatsoever of art.”

“You are wrong,” said Elizabeth seriously, and sat down on Ames’ bed. “I’ve just had a talk with her.”

“Indeed,” said Ames skeptically. “Has Ma suddenly developed a taste for curios or figurines?”

“It could be,” said Elizabeth.

Ames laughed; he had a very quiet laugh which contained more amusement than his brother John’s loud mirth. “If she hasn’t, then Dad has. A very well-developed taste, too.”

Elizabeth thought her brother was referring to the little works of art Tom had bought for his son, but when she saw the laughter shining enjoyably in Ames’ eyes she knew it was something else, something much more interesting.

“Don’t you know?” asked Ames maliciously. “I thought you knew everything. You’re always everywhere in your slippery way.”

Elizabeth ignored the insult and said, “It’s possible I know but didn’t think it was important enough.”

Ames laughed out loud now. “You’d think it important enough! Everybody down in the village is talking about it, and I’ve heard sniggers about it at Groton.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Who cares about village gossip,” she said, lifting her chin, “or schoolboy chatter?” She waited. Ames was chuckling at her and shaking his head.

“You don’t know,” he said. “But as your loving brother I’m going to tell you. Dear old Dad spends a large part of his time at the Bothwell house. He stops in at least three or four times a week to see poor old Aunt Melinda, who has a nice companion lady from Boston — best of family — as chaperone, seeing both the kids are away at school. Mrs. Ernest Griswold-Smith, a widow. Grim old hag. As she is almost seventy, it couldn’t be Mrs. Smith Dad is visiting so regularly for a couple of hours each time. It could only be Aunt Melinda.”

Elizabeth actually blushed, and Ames was delighted. “Oh no,” said the girl. “How stupid. How foolish. But Mother apparently knows; she knows everything. So it can’t be important. What a nasty mind you have, Ames. What could two old people like Dad and Aunt Melinda have in common? It’s possible that Dad feels guilty, in a way, for Uncle Alfred’s death, though it was all Mother’s fault. I remember that Dad and Uncle Alfred were close friends; Dad built his house. So it’s perfectly natural, under the circumstances, for Dad to continue his visits.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Ames. “Dad takes gifts for the kids on holidays, too. Very expensive ones. Wouldn’t it be nice for us if he left all his money to Aunt Melinda and her kids, as a sort of conscience bequest?”

Elizabeth knew that her father was now rich, probably a millionaire. She was disturbed.

“I like facts, not rumors,” she said, dismissing the subject for the time being. She had a more immediate object in mind. “Let’s come back to what I wanted to talk to you about. I had a long conversation with Mother this afternoon. She let me see her pictures in the gallery.”

“She did?” Ames was interested. “What were they like?”

Elizabeth considered. “Unusual,” she said cautiously. “Interesting, too. I don’t think you’d care for them, though, because you like old rare things. They’re by David Ames and very expensive.”

Ames sat up abruptly. “David Ames! Why, you can’t buy any of his works! They’re priceless! What does she know of art, anyway?”

“She knows a lot,” said Elizabeth, nodding her head. “You’d be surprised. Just because she’s a recluse and rarely goes out except on business does not mean she’s uninformed and ignorant. Remember, she went to Miss Stockington’s, too, and then traveled all over Europe, and even South America, with our grandfather. Though she doesn’t talk very much, as you know, I gather she’s deeply interested in art and beauty of all kinds.”

“This house proves it,” said Ames.

“She isn’t interested in houses. She’s interested in money and art.”

“I never noticed it,” said Ames, “and I have a sharp eye for such things. She made some mean remarks about my collections and said they were a waste of money.”

“That is because she thinks you aren’t serious about your collections and that you buy them only for their intrinsic value and not for any real feeling about them.”

“If she thought that, she’d approve. I know Ma,” said Ames, watching his sister. “What can’t be sold for a profit or what one just keeps isn’t of interest to her. If I were doing a brisk trade and making money at it, she would be interested all right!”

“Mother could do quite a brisk trade, as you call it, with her Ames paintings if she wanted to,” Elizabeth brought out. “But she wouldn’t sell them for any money, and you know how Mother is about money. In fact, she paid twenty thousand dollars for one; she told me. She’s now looking for another.” She paused and widened her eyes at her brother. “Why don’t you tell her how you feel about your collection and that you’d like a larger allowance so you can add to them? Why don’t you tell her you aren’t interested in money as a thing in itself, but only to spend on beautiful things? She’d understand.”

Ames was silent. His suspicions were far deeper and more astute than John’s.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “just what is behind all this? Your interest in whether or not I get a larger allowance to ‘indulge’ myself in ‘fripperies’, as Ma calls it?”

“It’s very simple,” said Elizabeth. “I want a larger allowance too. At this very minute John is trying to persuade Ma to increase his. If he gets his way and you do, too, I’ll get an increase. It would only be fair. Even Mother will see that.”

Ames twitched his sharp long nose and stared at his sister. “John’s with her now? Was that your idea too?”

“Certainly. I’m not being charitable.” Elizabeth smiled. “I want you boys to have more money so I can have more money.”

“Nothing’s simple where you’re concerned,” said her loving brother. But he thought: This is just like old Lizzie, hot after the cash. It couldn’t be anything else.

Then Elizabeth said, “If you both succeed — and I can’t see why you shouldn’t — I wouldn’t mind a small tip for my advice.”

Ames considered again. “Did you try to hit her up yourself?”

Elizabeth smiled smugly. “Why should I tell you?”

“Of course you wouldn’t. But if you had, and if you’d gotten your way, you wouldn’t be here putting the thumbscrews on me,” said Ames. “You’d just keep your mouth shut, except when you were licking your lips. What makes you think we’d do any better?”

“Because you’re boys, and mothers care more for their sons and understand them better. Mother thinks I shouldn’t have more than she had at my age.”

Try though he did, Ames could not see that there was anything more to this conversation than what Elizabeth was revealing. Elizabeth stood up. She had heard John’s door close loudly and furiously. She waited a moment, then said, “John just went into his room. Now you can go to Mother’s study and plead your case.”

“I’ll talk to John first,” said Ames, “to see how the land lies.”

Elizabeth had a fairly good idea of how the land lay, but she did not want Ames to know it. “Do you think he’d tell you?” she asked. “You know how John is — all for himself. Do hurry, Ames.”

Caroline was in her study, but not looking over her financial statements and ledgers. She was thinking of Elizabeth, and her deprived spirit was expanding more and more, and she was wallowing in remorse. But she was also hopeful. She had misunderstood her daughter; it was more than possible that she had misunderstood her sons. For the first time to her they were no longer her heirs but her flesh and blood. She was in this excited and agitated mood when John knocked on her door and then came in. His first thought when he saw her sudden and eager smile was that old Lizzie had been right, for he could not remember when he had seen his mother smile like that before.

“Well, John,” she said, and he was quite astonished at the kindness in her voice. “Come in. Is there anything you want?”

The big young man sat down and studied his mother and the room. Here all was extreme order, with a wide desk, good lights, and filing cabinets.

Caroline waited. She took off her glasses, and though her eyes were tired they were also shyly beaming and expectant. John was a little unnerved; the hard cold woman, the silent, unloving woman, the businesslike woman he had always known was gone. He could not understand this woman who suddenly looked like a mother, anxious to hear her son speak and anxious to help him. He had no way of knowing the yearning that was reaching out to him, the hope, the desperation and loneliness that ached to be relieved in him, the girlish na
ï
vet
é
and the endless suffering. He could not see the woman who wanted so dreadfully to be reassured that life had something for her at last.