A Prologue To Love (55 page)

Elizabeth was by nature austere, like her grandfather, and bought stylish clothing as he had bought it: to impress others only. It was she now, over the past year or so, who visited the Boston office. She also accompanied her mother to New York to consult with Tandy, Harkness and Swift. They knew she was practically her mother’s sole heir, except for the five thousand each for the sons, to be paid yearly from the estate, and the mysterious legacy to the Sisters of Charity in Boston. “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” said ‘young’ Mr. Tandy, “if the girl had managed all this herself,young as she is. She’s malign. Not a good, sound human emotion in all her character.”

In this, of course, they were wrong. From the age of thirteen Elizabeth had had her deep secret emotion, of which she told no one. As her grandfather had been obsessed by Cynthia Winslow, so Elizabeth was obsessed by young William Lord Halnes, whom she had seen precisely three times. Ames had not understood his passion for Cynthia, so Elizabeth did not understand her urgent need for young William, now twenty-four. Timothy Winslow had a fine portrait of his half brother in his home which Elizabeth coveted. She visited the Winslow house merely to see the portrait and always sat where it was visible to her. He looked like a sober, respectable young merchant or junior broker or lawyer and was somewhat stout. But Elizabeth had seen him smile on those three occasions when she had met him and had been overwhelmed by his curiously changeful expression which he had inherited from is father, whom he resembled closely. But whereas Montague’s changefulness had been satanic, William’s was mirthful, almost beautiful, kind, and light as quicksilver. Elizabeth was never conscious of her own basic needs, which she would have detested had she permitted herself to know them, but her ascetic spirit and her barren life had been instinctively drawn to something rich, bountiful, and joyous.

It was Elizabeth who, having heard of the Winslow trip to Europe, had told her mother that as Caroline had been introduced in youth to those of great affairs and financial associates abroad, so she needed to be introduced to them. Caroline had agreed reluctantly. Elizabeth did indeed want the introductions as her mother’s successor. But she wanted much more: to be in the company of William Lord Halnes. Timothy and his family would naturally visit Lady Halnes and her son, and Elizabeth would contrive some way to accompany them. The fact that Caroline vehemently loathed the whole family meant nothing to Elizabeth. Caroline had no other real heir; she would never consider letting the money leave the family; she would not cut Elizabeth off with five thousand dollars a year; she leaned on her daughter, who was taking more and more responsibility from the weary woman; she needed Elizabeth. It was as simple as that to the girl.

It did not matter to Elizabeth that William might neither love nor want her. She had extraordinary beauty, and she knew it, though it was a thin and angular beauty, cold and contained. She dressed with taste and flair when necessary. She was also an heiress to one of America’s mightiest fortunes. These were enough, she believed, to entice any young man. She had wanted the money, since she was sixteen, for William.

And so she was now in Europe, and Caroline was deprived, as she thought, of the only person in the world who loved her. Daily she was aware more and more of how she relied on Elizabeth, had trusted her, and had been relieved of many petty responsibilities. She was truly alone, as Elizabeth had nicely calculated she would be.

It was a very hot day in July, so hot that even the moldering house on its hill facing the water was intolerable. It was also very silent. The sea had taken on an astounding color this late afternoon, like a deep and fiery emerald, sparkling on every wave. It seemed to throw a reflection of its color on the sky, so that it was hard and polished aquamarine, utterly cloudless and still. The water made no sound except for a slight hissing on the black stones and the almost inaudible murmur of a lacy wavelet on the beach.

Caroline had received an eminently satisfying report from Elizabeth which had arrived today from London. It was indeed a report rather than a letter, precise, thorough, objective. Elizabeth wrote that she did not care to put something even more important in a letter but would discuss ‘a certain international matter’ with her mother on her return. “One should,” wrote Elizabeth, “really visit Europe at least four times a year in these significant days.” She had visited Parliament during a full-dress session. “Many of our associates are deeply concerned with the invasion of British foreign markets by Germany,” she informed her mother. “This was discussed in Parliament last Tuesday.” She had been received everywhere with the deference due the daughter of Caroline Ames.

Caroline looked for something else in the letter, some expression of affection, some personal note, some hint of natural concern of a daughter for her mother. It was not there. It was like her father’s letters. Elizabeth had signed herself ‘affectionately’, but it had not gentled the ache in the heart of the prematurely aging recluse, the hungry woman. However, because it was so necessary, so mortally necessary, for Caroline to believe that her daughter loved her, she would no let herself think or criticize or long too much. She told herself, therefore, that Elizabeth was everything a mother could wish, and a great deal more.

But the dusty and decaying house this hot afternoon suddenly became more that Caroline could endure. She went out through the front door, dressed as always in her old and rusty black dress, her gray hair braided on top of her head, her sallow face betraying lack of sun and air and vitality. Though she had lost her old massiveness and weight, her broad bones filled the lack, and though there were hollows in her cheeks, the bones above were still wide and strong and gave her an immovable expression. The once golden eyes were only a dull hazel, sluggish and without life. The short nose had expanded almost grossly; the big lips were fixed and had a repellent hauteur. The old charming smile had long died; if she smiled now it was with grimness, and it barely moved her mouth. Lack of exercise had stiffened her limbs and her muscles; she moved like an old woman.

The sea walk was almost completely filled with boulders. She stepped among them, holding her long skirt. She wanted to go to the beach and look at the incredible color of the sea. It had attracted her from her window. Then, from behind a particular large boulder near the beach, she saw a flash of brilliant crimson, like the ribbon she had worn so long ago. It was a small flag bobbing about against the blue of the water.

A trespasser. Caroline’s anger was out of proportion. The beach and the acres about the house were rigorously posted. Yet some trespasser was here. She quickened her walk, and her joints creaked in the unfamiliar motion. She came to the boulder and looked over it. A young girl was sitting on the sand, holding a large pad of white paper and a brush. She was evidently painting the ocean.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Caroline roughly. “This land is posted.”

The girl, without fear, turned her head and looked at Caroline smilingly. And Caroline looked into the wide hazel eyes flecked with gold, the eyes she had had as a young girl, the eyes of the portrait of her grandfather, shimmering and soft and welling with light and trust. Caroline, stunned, stood in rigid silence, her hand on the boulder.

The girl was about sixteen, not pretty, but with a charming and gentle face, the features somewhat plump, the mouth full and red and sweet. She was slender and apparently tall, for her long legs were outlined under the blue skirt. Her white middy blouse showed the young breasts; the dark blue collar fluttered about the ingenuous face. She had curling soft dark hair which had broken away from its pompadour and streamed about her shoulders. The slight sea air had ruffled it, had flaunted the scarlet ribbon which was supposed to restrain it. The girl stood up and brushed sand from her skirt.

“How do you do, Aunt Caroline,” she said, and looked at Caroline with the eager, seeking eyes of the young Caroline Ames of so many years ago.

“What?” muttered Caroline. Her hand moved awkwardly to her breast.

“I’m your niece,” said the girl. “Mimi, though my name is really Mary, which I like better. My mama is your adopted sister, Mrs. Bothwell.” She smiled again, hoping for a smile. “So I’m not really a trespasser, am I? I’m painting that tree there, near the water.” She pointed to a blasted, withered tree with distorted limbs near the shoreline. “I’ve been waiting all summer for the sea to be just this color so I could paint the tree against it.” She paused, and now she looked at the silent Caroline anxiously. “I love color,” she said in a lower voice. “And that tree is really — ” She paused again. “It’s like something that died, without anyone caring about it. You can see the salt spray on it, gray and crusted. I just needed a figure sitting under it. Somebody nobody cared about, either.”

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, said Caroline inwardly. She looked at her grandfather’s eyes, so beaming and soft and full of hope and tenderness.

“Painting,” she said in her rough mechanical voice.

“Why, yes,” said the girl. “See?” She held up the paper. The color was vivid and startling and full of intensity. The tree had taken on an anguished shape, as if it were human and despairing. Caroline’s dry lips parted, and she suddenly squeezed her eyelids shut.

“Is there something wrong?” The girl spoke anxiously. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

Caroline opened her eyes. The girl had come closer to her, wishing to help. Caroline could see her face with abnormal clarity; it was her own face of decades ago, when she had been this age, even though it was prettier, ardent, and totally without diffidence.

“No,” said Caroline in a rusty tone. “You haven’t disturbed me.” This was her father’s granddaughter, but more, the girl was the great-granddaughter of David Ames.

She wanted to be angry; she wanted to order the girl to leave. She wanted to repudiate this daughter of Melinda Bothwell. But she could not. It was herself she confronted. It was the girl who had loved Tom Sheldon, who had cried in the night, who had been abandoned, laughed at, derided, unloved. It was herself.

“Well,” said the girl uncertainly. “I’m glad I haven’t disturbed you. I often sit here. It’s so beautiful, sitting alone and looking at the sea. Alone, but not alone, in a way.” She stared at Caroline, and then something must have startled her, for she moved back a step.

“What?” muttered Caroline, and without her will she stepped toward the girl.

Mimi laughed nervously. “I never saw you before. But you look familiar. Perhaps it’s because John resembles you.”

“John?”

“Why, yes. He often comes to our house.”

“John!” Caroline was suddenly distracted.

“Why, yes. Do you mind?”

Caroline was young again, and terrified. “He shouldn’t go to your house! You shouldn’t see him!”

The girl was silent. She looked at this woman in embarrassment. Had she offended her? She, Mimi, was always saying the wrong thing. And now Aunt Caroline was angry.

“If he wants to come, why shouldn’t he?” asked Mimi reasonably, clutching her pad of paper. (The people in the village said that Aunt Caroline was crazy.)

“Because he isn’t good for you!” blurted Caroline in a loud voice. She took another step toward Mimi, and the girl retreated again. “Not for you!” cried Caroline. “Oh, not for you. Mary.”

The girl stopped her retreat. She regarded Caroline earnestly. “You mean it’s because he’s so much older, twenty-three?”

“Where is your mother!” Caroline cried. “Doesn’t your mother care about you?”

“Certainly,” said Mimi. Now she was a little offended. “Of course Mama loves me.”

Caroline had never known how to conduct a real conversation except with her father, Beth, and Tom, and she had failed with them all, she would tell herself. It had always been nearly impossible for her to talk with strangers except during business, and then with curt brevity. All the years stood between her and humanity, years grown dark and rusty. Once, because of her training at Miss Stockington’s, she had learned how to murmur polite and meaningless things if absolutely cornered and forced to answer. But for too long a time she had spoken only of debentures, stocks and bonds, of law and the market, for only in that field was she competent in speech. It did not seem harsh or improper for her to say with loud vehemence to Mimi, “If your mother cared for you, you wouldn’t see my son John!”

Mimi blushed in her renewed embarrassment, but she kept her eyes candidly on her aunt. She knew that John saw his mother only three or four times a year, and she understood that there was some estrangement. He had mentioned it lightly and in an amused fashion, as one speaks of the very old or peculiar who must be sheltered from criticism. She had thought it very kind and good of John, and her mother had thought so too. So Mimi, a properly reared girl, murmured softly, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

What a strange woman this adopted aunt of hers was! Poor thing, commented the girl, so old, so sick-looking, so gray and shabby. Then Mimi thought: Why, she’s just perfect for under that tree! It looks like her. She repeated with real and mature depth in her voice, “I’m sorry.”

“You mustn’t see him again!” said Caroline.

Mimi murmured, bent, and picked up her box of paints. The scarlet ribbon blew in a sudden rise of wind, and Caroline was sixteen once more, in the wild garden of the house in Lyndon, looking at the autumn trees with a similar ribbon in her hand. It was that young girl she touched now as her hand suddenly shot out and she put it heavily on Mimi’s shoulder.

“Promise me!” she cried.

Mimi was really disturbed for the first time. “Why?” she said.

But Caroline had no words she could speak, no cry of warning and distress. She could only stare and blink at the girl in confused pain.

Mimi, tender and gallant and unacquainted with tragedy, decided that this was an opportunity to reconcile Caroline with her son. She smiled at Caroline and stood still under the gripping hand.

“I’m only sixteen,” she said. “Are you afraid about John — and me?” The bright color was high on her plump cheeks. “Please don’t be. I do like John, but after all, he’s twenty-three and he wouldn’t even look at anyone my age.” She forgot the hints her mother had given her about Caroline’s hatred for the Bothwells. They had been very slight hints, and sad, at the very most, and very infrequent. “Your Aunt Caroline is a little — eccentric,” Melinda had explained. “She never really cared for anyone but her father and her husband, I understand. I think she is a frightened person, and no wonder, and she’s a recluse.”

“You don’t know anything about my son,” said Caroline. She pulled the girl a little closer to her and looked down into the frank eyes.

“Probably not,” admitted Mimi. She was naturally sympathetic, but true pity came to her for the first time, and she did not know why. “Don’t worry,” she said.

Caroline sighed, and her hand slid from the girl’s shoulder, as if exhaustion had struck her. Her sunken eyes wandered to the ocean, to the tree, and stayed there.

“How did you know I am your aunt?” she asked.

“Why, John looks very much like you,” replied Mimi, putting up her hand to control her blowing hair. “His eyes.” She peered, then laughed softly. “Well, the color, maybe. But not the expression. I always notice expressions.”