A Prologue To Love (56 page)

She paused; her dark brows wrinkled in puzzlement. “It’s funny, seeing you are only my adoptive aunt, but I look like you too, don’t I?”

“Yes,” said Caroline. She looked at the girl’s hair, so like her own as a child, and again at the flaunting red ribbon. Then she said, “And why not? I am really your aunt. Didn’t your mother ever tell you? She — and I — we’re half sisters.”

Mimi’s mouth opened in a red circle of astonishment.

“Honestly?” she exclaimed.

“Honestly,” said Caroline. And then she smiled like a girl, and her gray lips trembled at the edges.

Mimi smiled in joyous response. But she was puzzled. “Well, I’m glad. Truly I am, Aunt Caroline. But no one ever told me! I wonder why?”

“Probably because they didn’t think it important,” said Caroline. She was speaking without effort now, and in the voice of a young woman. She stretched out her hand again and picked up a silky length of the fine dark hair. “This is like mine was a long time ago,” she said. The hair clung lovingly to her fingers. “When I was your age.”

“Why didn’t anyone think it important?” insisted Mimi, much intrigued.

Caroline reluctantly dropped the strand of hair. She came to herself. She said with stiffness, “It’s supposed to be a secret — for your mother’s sake. We had the same father.”

“Oh,” said Mimi. Her cheeks turned very scarlet. She considered. Then she added buoyantly, “But it was long ago, wasn’t it? A long time ago? It doesn’t matter any more.”

“Not any more,” said Caroline. “Nothing, I suppose, matters very much after a long time has passed.” For the first time in many years she thought of someone besides herself and Elizabeth and her father and Tom, and she was anxious. “I shouldn’t have told you if your mother didn’t. I think it best you never tell her.”

Mimi considered again. Then she nodded seriously. “I think you’re right. If Mama didn’t tell me it was for a special reason, and it would hurt her feelings if I let her know. Wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” said Caroline. Again she looked at the stricken tree. “Let me see what you’ve painted.” She held out her hand commandingly.

She looked at the painting. How was it possible for water colors to catch that emerald blaze, that empty and shining sky, that postured agony of a tree? The hues started from the paper, as furious as life, as deep as life, with a somewhat terrible emotion. Caroline looked at the girl, so young and untouched. “How can you paint like this?” she said. “You never felt what you’ve painted.”

Their heads touched as they examined what Mimi had done. Then the girl said, “Well, yes, I felt that way when I painted it. It’s very funny, but when I paint I’m a different person. I feel happy or wretched and even a little frightened sometimes. It’s as if someone else were in my mind. I just can’t explain it.”

“Frightened?” said Caroline.

Mimi said, “Yes. Nothing ever really did frighten me in my life. I wasn’t even afraid of the dark the way Nat is. He’s my twin brother, you know. He looks like me. Well. I could climb even higher in trees than he could, and I was never scared. But when I paint, sometimes I am afraid. Because what I see makes me that way.” She added with increased earnestness, “I don’t think I’m explaining it right, but do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Caroline. “Of course.”

Mimi sighed with relief. “I saw a print of a painting by David Ames once. Do you know about David Ames? A very famous painter. I never saw the original of that particular painting. But it was a tower, all alone on rough land that looked bleached and stony. An old broken tower. And I felt very — ”

“What?” cried Caroline.

“I don’t know,” said Mimi helplessly. “But as if it was threatening, or something. Something to run away from, very fast. As if someone were in there — I don’t know! It was dreadful.”

“Yes,” said Caroline. “Very dreadful.” Still holding the painting, she put her other hand on the girl’s shoulder again. “I will tell you something else, Mary. David Ames was your great-grandfather. He was my grandfather and your mother’s.”

The girl’s eyes started with amazement. “No!” she exclaimed. “Mama never told me!”

“She doesn’t know,” said Caroline. “Only two people who are alive know. I. You. The other who knew is dead. Your grandfather, John Ames.”

Mimi was actually white with shock and wonder. Then a vivid light ran over her face. “Only you and I! And you don’t want me to tell anyone, do you?”

“No,” said Caroline. She paused. “It will be our secret, won’t it? Our secret.”

“Yes, yes!” said Mimi with immense exhilaration. “Our secret.” She thought, and the vivid light ran over her face again like ripples. “Not even Mama? I shouldn’t tell even Mama?”

“Not even your mother,” said Caroline. “I knew I could trust you,” she said, as if she were Mimi’s own age and they were friends.

Mimi nodded. “I remember. It was when I was a very little girl. Uncle Timothy had one of David — my great-grandfather’s — paintings. Mama loved it. But Uncle Tom bought it. For you.” She stared at Caroline. “I just remembered that! Isn’t it funny I didn’t remember before? But then, I was awfully young. It was just after Daddy died.”

The color left her face. She was remembering other things, too, that she had overheard.

Caroline pressed the paper against her breast. “Listen to me, Mary! I know what everyone thinks, but it isn’t true. It wasn’t my fault that your father died on the North Shore road; I had tried to stop the runs that evening, but no one seemed to get my telegram. I’ve never told this to anyone but you. I want you to know.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Mimi with tears in her eyes.

“For what, child?”

The color rushed back into Mimi’s cheeks as she said simply, “For you.”

Caroline turned aside and put the painting carefully on the top of a flat boulder and stood looking down at it in silence. She started when she felt a touch on her arm. Mimi was beside her, very close, and the young hand held her sleeve. Mimi was crying. “How terrible it must be for you,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Caroline in a rusty voice. “Nothing matters any more.” She studied the painting again. “You are a great artist,” she said. “Do you know that?”

Mimi fumbled for her handkerchief, discovered it was lost, and so wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her middy blouse. “Thank you,” she said. “I think Mama believes I do well. I’m going to study art very soon, and not just as a pastime.”

Caroline glanced at her house beyond the littered sea walk, the moldering house. She was feeling a tremendous excitement. “Come!” she cried, and took the girl’s hand. It was warm in hers, as her children’s had never been warm, and confiding, as her children’s had never been confiding.

“Where?” asked Mimi.

“I have a number of my grandfather’s paintings. I want you to see them, Mary.” Caroline turned and walked like a young woman, her black dress blowing about her, pulling the girl with her. They were running by the time they reached the crumbling steps of the house. Blotches of color stained Caroline’s cheeks. Her eyes were the eyes of Mimi.

“But you must never tell!” she cried, stopping at the steps.

“Never tell!” Mimi exclaimed in answer, and they ran into the musty house together, and Caroline, who had forgotten how to laugh, was laughing.

“I really don’t know,” said Amanda Winslow to Elizabeth.

She wanted to be rid of Elizabeth, if even only for a few days.

“But, after all,” said Elizabeth calmly, “why not? Timothy’s mother is my great-aunt. My Aunt Cynthia. I’ve seen her a few times. And her son William too. Do you mean I wouldn’t be welcome in her house?” She smiled at Amanda derisively. She knew these honest, blunt people. They were really very sensitive about hurting anyone.

“I didn’t say that,” said Amanda, annoyed. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Elizabeth. Mother Halnes is gracious to everybody. And, as you say, she’s your mother’s aunt. It’s just that when she invited us — she just invited us.

“She didn’t know then that I’d be coming with you, Amanda.”

“She knows you’re here with us in London,” said Amanda forthrightly. “She’s written to us at least four times. She never suggested that we bring you along, though she did mention you and hoped that you were enjoying yourself in England.”

“But you didn’t suggest that I be invited.”

“It’s her house, not mine. Don’t be rude, Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry if you think I am, Amanda. I was merely stating a fact. It is a fact, isn’t it?”

“You have a very artful way of making a person feel guilty,” said Amanda, disliking Elizabeth more and more. “I refuse to feel guilty. Your mother and her aunt are not friends; you know that. Caroline has her reasons, and I’m not going to discuss them. But your mother would be very angry if you visited her aunt.” Amanda stared at the girl curiously. “Just what is your reason for wanting to go, anyway?”

“This is my first trip abroad, and I’ve heard a lot about Devon. I want to see all I can. Is that so surprising?”

“I suppose you could stay near there, if there’s an inn or something in the village,” said Amanda. “But it certainly would be considered very improper in England for a young unmarried woman.”

“It would also be improper in London, too, for me to be here alone in this hotel.” Elizabeth smiled.

“Not really.” Amanda was beginning to enjoy herself. “Timothy’s friend, Mr. Eccles, has a widowed sister. I’ve spoken to her, and so has Timothy. She’s quite willing to do us a favor and move into this hotel as your chaperone during the week we’ll be in Devon.”

Elizabeth’s beautiful face became almost ugly. “No, thank you,” she said. “If my presence in Devon isn’t wanted, I’ll go to Scotland. There’s a music festival there just now, I understand.”

Amanda was now the one frustrated. She glared at Elizabeth, who smiled again, very sweetly.

“It’s very simple,” said the girl. “You could send a telegram to Aunt Cynthia, telling her I’d like to see Devon and asking her if I’d be welcome. If she says no, then I’ll remain here in London with that wretched old woman to watch my morals and comings and goings and peering into my room at midnight to see if I am alone.”

“You can be very crude, can’t you?” said Amanda. “The delicate Miss Sheldon, at that, who is so very precise and always full of propriety. Very well. I’ll send the telegram at once. If your great-aunt declines the pleasure of your visit, then you agree to accept Mrs. Stonewall?”

“Yes, dear Amanda,” said Elizabeth demurely.

Amanda gave her a hard look and sent the telegram. Later, as she had feared, Cynthia replied that of course Elizabeth could come. It would be dreary for her alone in London. Cynthia added that she would really be pleased by the visit.

Timothy was very amused. “Don’t be so infuriated, Mandy,” he said. “I know you’re loving the girl less and less each day. But, as she said herself, my mother is her great-aunt. However, it isn’t like Elizabeth to be so obviously pushing. I wonder what’s behind it all?”

“It could be William,” said Amanda, and had to laugh, and Timothy laughed with her. Quite suddenly he stopped laughing.

“I must admit that the girl is a genius,” said Timothy. “I’ve been in conferences with her and her mother’s associates, and it’s remarkable, honestly remarkable, how keen she is and how informed. Nothing escapes her.”

“I’m only glad,” said Amanda, “that my boys are too young for her.” She smiled. “Amy actively dislikes her now. So we don’t have to worry about her precious brother any longer. I think Amy has had her fill of all the Sheldons, thank God. She’ll never be able to look at Ames without thinking of our darling Elizabeth, our albatross.”

As Amanda had been brought up to be self-sufficient and self-reliant, in spite of her family’s wealth, she was packing her own trunks. She folded one of her sturdy Irish tweed suits, made in Boston, but as properly ugly as any fashioned in England. She had a sudden thought and looked sharply at her husband, who was just lighting a long cigarette and studying the view from the hotel window. Amanda straightened up. She said slowly, “You haven’t objected to Elizabeth’s going with us.”

“I?” said Timothy.

“Yes, you. Timothy, I love you and I know all about you. And that takes a lot of tolerance on my part. You’ve never been able to deceive me in whole. You’re up to mischief, and I have a feeling that it is very malicious mischief, and perhaps dangerous as all malice is.”

Timothy turned about and looked at his wife, and the expression in his eyes alarmed her. “I haven’t the slightest notion of what you mean, Mandy,” he said in his nastiest tone. “Do you feel quite well?”

“I know,” said Amanda. “When a man is caught in something by his wife or any other woman, he falls back on the old bromides: the lady is not ‘herself’. The lady is hysterical. All right. You won’t tell me. If I knew what it was, though, I’d warn Elizabeth. I don’t like her, but after all, she is only twenty-one and, in a way, at our mercy here.”

“She’s never been at anyone’s mercy, and she has no mercy for anyone,” said Timothy.

Amanda nodded, as though what he had said confirmed her suspicions of him. “I see,” she said. “Timothy, has the valet finished packing your luggage?”

She went on with her work deftly and quickly, and Timothy watched her. He was very fond of Amanda, and sometimes he even liked her. He did not like her now. She was the only one in the world who had ever caught full glimpses of him. He went out of her bedroom and into his own. Amanda quietly closed the dividing door and then went and stood on the balcony of the suite. She tried to recapture her old pleasure in London, which she had visited many times as a girl.

It was really a southern city, she thought. Smoke and soot might mar its light gray and light brown buildings, but it had a southern air, balmy and vital. The sunlight seemed to be reflecting from subtropical seas. It was as hot as Rome just now. It was very possible that ancient Rome, Imperial Rome, had been like this, strong and dominant and full of the bustle of Empire. Timothy often said lightly that Amanda had no imagination. But Amanda, standing on the balcony and looking down at the streets heavy with traffic, at birds wheeling about — endlessly climbing ranks of chimney pots with the sun on their wings — and listening to the deep voice of London, thought of Imperial Rome. There was the same power in this city, the same source of destiny, the same arrogance and surety. London was not ‘quiet’ in the sense that other English cities were quiet and subdued and dully correct. Londoners had dignity, but they laughed and were friendly, too, conscious of importance.

For a time they had been too subdued and respectable under Victoria; in this Edwardian Age they had emerged in their true nature, just a little gaudy, overdressed but colorful, splendid, gallant, rich, full of pageantry and dancing. Shakespeare would have known these merry Englishmen, these adventurers, swashbucklers, and wenchers, these admirers of grandeur and pomp, these ribald and masculine men who loved actresses and opera prima donnas and yachts and horses and wine and gaiety.

It was the men of London Town who had begot liberty. It was the heirs of Dick Whittington who had not turned back at any time but had flung their flag over every continent and over multitudes of islands. If they ‘exploited’ the ‘lesser breeds without the law’, as Kipling had called them, they had also brought civilization to them in their merchant ships, and Bibles and science and a code of honor and justice, and the Christian imperative. They had revitalized an ancient world; they had built a new one. It was in London where feudalism had really died in the Western world.

Amanda was not given to brooding, but all at once, looking at London, she was strangely depressed, as if with a premonition. Empires passed. They died, not from without, but from within. They rotted first at the core. Who could win over a brave, resolute, and honorable man? Not even Satan. It was the man himself who defaulted his nature and fell into the pit where lay the monuments of dead civilizations and the bones of self-betrayers. Would this happen to London and the empire of which she was the hub? Amanda remembered snatches of conversations she had heard in English drawing rooms, murmurs of misgivings. “There is something on the move in the world,” she had heard. “And it isn’t good.” “You can just almost get a glimpse of evil faces,” one gentleman said, “as they slip around corners.”

“The King despises Asquith,” others remarked. “Let’s hope he won’t be elected.” “But what does the Anglo-Russian Agreement mean?” a lady asked. “Germany seems suspicious.” A gentleman grumbled, “And well she should be!”

King Edward, said his loyal subjects, certainly knew what he was about when he had negotiated the Anglo-French Entente. (“Why agreements? Why ententes?” asked some. “It’s been a long and peaceful time since Britain had coolly detached herself from the Continent. Why this sudden diplomatic flurry, these visits ‘abroad’ on the part of the King? Did His Majesty know something we do not know? Germany — ?”)

The press constantly discussed the Anglo-German rivalry. “The beggars are invading our trade areas,” said one of Timothy’s friends.

“They have the highest standard of living in the world,” said another. “You’ll not find any slums in Germany, or panics. You must admit they know how to work! Yet the working people there have an eight-hour day, and we have a ten. Our people accomplish less than the German worker with his shorter hours. Our industrialists are uneasy, and envious.”

“You must admit that Germany has her reasons to be suspicious,” said a nobleman of ancient family. “Not only that agreement and that entente. But a general air of isolating Germany. Then we’re ‘strengthening ties’ with Spain and Portugal. No wonder the Kaiser sat up when King Alfonso was maneuvered into marrying Edward’s niece, Ena of Battenberg.”

Amanda had listened eagerly, for she loved these Englishmen. Then she observed that Timothy was listening also, apparently relaxed, but intent and slightly smiling. Later he said to Amanda, “Give an Englishman his politics and his port or beer, and he’s happy for hours. Men, it’s been said, are political animals. Englishmen are even more so.”

Something was stirring darkly underground in sunlit and happy London. Amanda could feel it as she stood on the balcony this hot July day. A pity England did not have a George Washington, who had warned of foreign entanglements as the way to war. But what had Karl Marx and the Battenbergs and ententes and agreements to do with each other? Amanda shook her head. Let Timothy laugh lightly. His English friends were not laughing.

Amanda resumed her packing. There was surely no connection, but all at once she thought of her sons Henry and Harper, kind and goodhearted American boys. And she was terribly frightened; she a wholesome woman of much common sense and no vague fears.

Timothy never took this pleasant journey to Devon without remembering, with the same pain, that long-ago June day when he had taken this exact journey, thinking only of Melinda and his hopes of marrying her. He never forgot the flight from Devon the following day and his new hatred for Caroline Ames. He knew that she had been perfectly right in not informing him before he had left New York; as a Bostonian woman, it would have been unthinkable for her to tell him of his mother and John Ames. But she was the daughter of the dead John Ames. The daughter remained, ‘the old gray hag’. Her father had brought that misery to him.

He and his family and Elizabeth Sheldon completely occupied one first-class compartment from London to Devon. The day was very hot, and the sun had a stinging quality to the eye. The window was wide open, as well as the door to the compartment, in a hopeless effort to create a cooling breeze. As a result, everyone in the compartment, including the fastidious Timothy, was gritty with soot, choking with smoke, and was constantly fishing cinders out of eyes. All, with the exception of Elizabeth Sheldon.

Timothy looked at this daughter of Caroline without appearing to do so. He often thought of her more as the granddaughter of John Ames than as the daughter of Caroline. How the young devil resembled him! She was a young and female replica, cold, aloof, immaculate in her dark blue linen suit with the white shirtwaist and the broad yellow straw hat bound about the crown with a ribbon to match her clothing. Her gloved hands rested in her lap; there was no soot, miraculously, on their whiteness. She rarely spoke, even more rarely smiled; she appeared remote from her companions in the compartment. Her profile, turned occasionally to the window, had the rigidity of stone about it, just as her grandfather’s once had had. The lips were palely pink and beautifully formed, yet gave an impression of hardness. The line from her ear to her fine chin was sharply drawn and austere. The light brown hair, slightly waving, was not disordered by the hot wind. To think of her as corrupt, as Timothy did now and often had in the past, seemed absurd.

The heat had made both Amy and Amanda drowsy; they had removed their hats and were frankly dozing. Harper and Henry yawned. They got up, sleepily restless, and went into the corridor, where they leaned over the edge of the window and watched the calm green landscape pass, and the moors and the blue ponds and little blue streams. They pointed out the wild horses to each other and craned their necks after lonely farmhouses. Timothy gave all his attention to his young cousin Elizabeth, who was apparently unaware of her companions in the compartment.

Why had the girl been so quietly insistent on visiting her great-aunt, Timothy’s mother? Her own mother would be enraged when she heard of it. Elizabeth did not enrage people like her mother without a reason, and it had to be an imperative one. She had seen Cynthia only a very few times. The old woman and the young had not been attracted to each other. In fact, Cynthia had expressed both aversion and troubled sadness. The two had hardly exchanged a hundred words in those years. Yet Elizabeth had made things impossible until she had got her wish to visit Devon.

As Amanda had accused, Timothy had not actively opposed Elizabeth’s accompanying the family to Devon. There had been a reason: he was powerfully curious. Precisely, carefully, he went over the last few years. Cynthia. Elizabeth. Meeting briefly, the girl without obvious interest. She had not seemed impressed by Cynthia’s title and riches and position. She had hauteur. Why was it so important to her that she visit Devon and a woman who was nothing to her? Timothy concentrated again on every occasion when the young and the old woman had met so briefly. Who else had been there, connected with England, with Devon?

William Lord Halnes, Timothy’s half brother.

Timothy sat up so abruptly that his elbow jogged his drowsing wife, and she murmured a sleepy protest. Now he began to remember other things which had escaped his usual alertness: Elizabeth’s apparently idle and uninterested questions about William. Her voice had been polite but not eager.

So the significance had escaped Timothy until now. Elizabeth never expressed much interest in anyone. In spite of her casual and remote manner, there had surely been interest, if only in the fact that she had mentioned the young man at all. “He’s very rich, isn’t he? He’s going into the Church? Why? He’s twenty-four — twenty-five? Don’t the High Church clergy marry? I thought it was something like the Roman Catholic Church — celibate clergy. I see. Is he engaged yet? No? He’s entitled to be in the House of Lords? Something like our Senate? I see.”