A Prologue To Love (71 page)

Caroline was happy that the girl was here but was anxious about her return. “Oh, please don’t worry,” said Mimi. She looked at the fire and said, “My brother Nat is coming for me in our sleigh at ten.”

“Your brother?” Caroline was not pleased. She had never seen Mimi’s twin and did not wish to see him. Mimi smiled at her. “He looks just like me,” she said. “And like you.” She opened her purse. “But I have brought you a present.”

“I don’t want anyone in the house,” said Caroline. “I never see anyone.”

“He doesn’t bite at all,” said Mimi. “Honestly.”

She put a small box in Caroline’s unwilling hand. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” she asked.

“A present?” said Caroline. No one ever gave her gifts. She opened it reluctantly. It was a large golden locket on a chain, beautifully worked. Caroline snapped the locket open, and Mimi’s smiling face, in miniature, looked up from her hands. “I painted it myself,” said Mimi.

Caroline could not speak; her big fingers trembled as she held the trinket. “There,” said Mimi, “let me put it around your neck.” With loving fingers she pulled the chain about Caroline’s throat and stood off to admire the effect. Then she gently kissed Caroline’s cheek. “I’ll be here with you always now,” she said.

Caroline put up her hand and touched the fine black hair that fell over the girl’s forehead. Here was truly her daughter, as Elizabeth had never been her daughter. She still could say nothing. Then she got heavily to her feet in silence and left the room. Mimi was not disturbed; her aunt often did unexpected things. So the girl sat down and waited; then, muttering, got up again and threw a scuttle of coal on the fading fire and wielded the poker vigorously. Caroline returned to the room, holding a small picture in her hand. It was the painting of the Capri rocks and the Bay of Naples which she had bought for Tom so many years ago, the painting which even Mimi had never seen.

“Here,” said Caroline. “I’m not the only one who can get gifts.”

Mimi exclaimed at the beauty, bent to the bustling fire, and examined the painting with her expert’s eye. “Genotti!” she cried in disbelief and delight. “Yes, yes! It actually is!”

“I don’t know,” said Caroline, happy again at the girl’s extreme pleasure. “I don’t know any paintings any longer, except — Who is that painter?”

“Why, only the best Italian painter in the world!” said Mimi. She studied the picture again. “This is priceless! His early style, his ‘yellow’ period. Where did you get it, Aunt Caroline?”

“I bought it in Rome when I was very young,” said Caroline. She sat down, as if suddenly sick. “Before I was married. Over thirty years ago.” There was a tremor in her chest, a premonition, and she clenched her will against it. “For my husband.” She passed her hands over her clammy face.

“I see,” said Mimi, who did not see at all. She paused. “Do you really want me to have it, Aunt Caroline? Don’t you think it belongs to Ames or to John?”

“No,” said Caroline.

“Do you know it is worth thousands of dollars?”

“Is it?” said Caroline with interest. Their heads touched as they examined the painting. “I always thought it very beautiful, Mary.”

“And that’s why you gave it to me,” said Mimi. She felt like crying.

“Your mother won’t mind?” asked Caroline surlily.

“Mama? Certainly not. She will be so happy for me.”

Never once in all the years she had known the girl had Caroline ever wondered what her childhood had been like, and her mother, and her early girlhood. Mimi, when she came to this house, came alone, without a background, without parents. Mimi was simply there. But now Caroline stared wonderingly at the girl. She moistened her lips. “Did — do — you love your mother, Mary?”

“Mama? I adore her,” said Mimi, and her eyes sparkled. “You see, I was so young when Daddy died. She and Nat were all I had. And it was a lovely life, so peaceful and happy. We all had such good times together, boating, fishing, swimming, picnics. And endless walks, to church, to the village, through the woods, along the beach. And going in to Boston to visit friends and relatives. I can’t recall a single bleak day in my childhood.”

This was a new world to Caroline, one practically impossible to believe. It was a world that suddenly fascinated her but which she did not comprehend at all. Love and laughter, trust and faith, the calling of children, the family affection — she did not comprehend. A terrible hunger, a sense of deprivation, struck her savagely.

“I couldn’t wait to get back home on weekends from school,” said Mimi, her face soft with remembrance. “And very often, especially during the first year in Paris, I had to stop myself from running to the first ship home.”

“Does your brother ever envy your talent, Mimi?” Caroline probed, trying to find a flaw in the background.

Mimi was astonished. “Nat!” she cried. “Why, he’s my greatest admirer! He’s my brother, Aunt Caroline. How could he envy me? It would be like envying himself.”

“Brothers often envy sisters, and sisters envy brothers,” said Caroline wryly. “You are so innocent, child. Haven’t you ever heard of Cain and Abel? It isn’t a rare story and never was.”

“It is to me,” said Mimi. Then she remembered that John and Ames disliked each other, perhaps even detested each other. Her face lost its light.

“You are thinking of something,” said Caroline. “It wasn’t always so well, was it?” She did not begrudge the girl her happiness, but something in her, deprived and wounded, wished for understanding.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Mama and Nat,” said Mimi. She held the Genotti painting on her lap, and now she looked down at it. “Aunt Caroline, I must tell you. John and I are going to be married in March.”

“No,” said Caroline, and shook her head over and over. “No. That must never happen. Your mother, if she loves you, will never let it happen. Haven’t I told you all about him? I have told you so many times. It must not happen.”

Mimi sighed. “Mama is very fond of John. She’s very pleased about the wedding, Aunt Caroline. I came tonight not only to give you my Christmas gift but to tell you.” She looked up pleadingly, then started. “Aunt Caroline! Are you sick? What is the matter?”

Caroline held up her hand. “You must listen. How often must I tell you, Mary? I thought you had begun to listen. What more must I say to reach you? He is a bad man; he and his brother are both bad men. You — ”

“You didn’t mind Ames marrying Amy,” said Mimi. “And Amy can’t take half as good care of herself as I can — ” She stopped abruptly. But her astute aunt had heard the change in the girl’s voice, the sudden vague distress. She leaned toward Mimi.

“Why should you say that?” she asked. “Is there something wrong with Amy?”

“Of course not,” said Mimi hurriedly. “But she’s a very shy girl; she’d always been so sheltered. Imagine Amy living abroad for years, as I did! She doesn’t know anything about people. They — bewilder her.”

“I see,” said Caroline, looking at the girl’s face keenly. Was Ames making Amy wretched? She had not considered Amy at all, not as a human being, only as an object to aid her vengeance.

She cried, “Don’t you see? Ames is a bad man, and John is his brother. John is even worse than Ames! I can see in your face that you are trying to conceal something from me about Amy.”

“I didn’t say that Ames was making Amy wretched,” said Mimi. But she flushed guiltily. “Ames is very worldly, and Amy knows so little. But I’m sure he is teaching her; it’s only a matter of adjustment. Aunt Caroline, I’m not like Amy, and John isn’t like Ames. We are two different people.” She held out her hand pleadingly. “You love me, don’t you, Aunt Caroline? And I love John, and he loves me. We’ll be very happy. You’ll see.”

But Caroline stood up, her face darkly colored. “No, you must not marry him. I tell you, and I know.” She was smothering with her awful effort to communicate.

There was a brisk knock on the door. Caroline turned massively but swiftly, her fear of the stranger stark on her face. “It’s only Nat,” said Mimi. “Shall I let him in, Aunt Caroline?”

“No!” cried Caroline. “But wait, just a minute.” She left the room, and Mimi could hear her heavily stumbling up the stairs, and then she heard a door open and close. And so it was that Caroline never saw her nephew Nathaniel, not once in his life.

The new village girl whom Caroline had employed was in a rage of importance as she directed a temporary assistant in the cleaning up of the blighted house. “You can’t do nothing with a house like this,” the assistant complained. “Years and years of just plain mean dirt. I’m doing the best I kin. Look at this pail of suds; I just washed this little bit of skirtin’ board, and it’s like I cleaned up a pig pen. What’ve you been doin’, Maizie, all these weeks?”

“It was worse than this when I come,” said Maizie. “A big house like this, you got to have more help. I cleaned this here window three times this week, but the dirt’s ground in. Some folks don’t care about dirt, like her.”

The cold gilt of the February sun streamed through windows which no amount of scrubbing would ever make bright again, for salt and sand and soil had eroded the glass. However, there was a smell of suds and varnish in the house, and wax for the first time in decades. These only accentuated the ragged draperies, the worn rugs, the splintered wood. Caroline was preparing for a visitor this afternoon. She looked out at the fierce gray-dark ocean, the snow-robed boulders, the faintly blue sky. She had put on one of three dresses, an old black silk. Here and there it had split. The high neck was fastened with Tom’s pin, which she had not worn for many years. She touched it; it was like a talisman to her. Her hair was quite white now; it had lost even its gray since her seizure at Christmas, two months ago.

She who had cared for her appearance only briefly, and once, in her life studied herself in her dulled mirror, the ashen shadow under her cheekbones, the purplish patches under her sunken eyes, the faint blue along the edges of her big mouth. She had always eaten very little, yet she was heavy, almost monolithic. She rubbed the pin at her throat; the pearl had darkened with age; the silver had dulled. She said to her image in the mirror, “Tom, you must help me. I never believed that anyone survived after death — but you must help me. Tom?” There was only silence about her, except for a clattering of cups and saucers. Maizie was trying to find enough unchipped china for the tea Caroline intended to serve that afternoon. Caroline, listening, winced. There had been no tea served in this house for years before Elizabeth’s death, and the last had been served when Elizabeth had made her disastrous return from Europe. Caroline went into Elizabeth’s room, still stark, austere, and very clean.

She smoothed the white cotton spread on the bed and sat down near it. She said, “Elizabeth? Where are you, my child? There is a girl we must help, Elizabeth. Will you help me?” The room was full of cold clear light; Caroline could see the ocean rising and falling through the window, and the snow. Had Elizabeth ever really slept in this room? Had she ever sat in this chair? Had she ever lived here at all? No, thought Caroline, my child never lived except when she was in England. I don’t know why. I gave her all I had, all I could give. She never loved me; she never loved anyone but that man. How could you love one so weak, Elizabeth, who would listen to lies? Had he really cared for you, he would not have let you go. Does he ever think of you, Elizabeth? Elizabeth?

Small gilt clouds moved across the sky; the sea lifted its breast in a vast dark heave. Caroline heard a tinkle of sleigh bells, and she rose wearily and went down. She sat by the drawing-room fire; the tea table waited with its chipped, beautiful china. She saw that Maizie had polished the teapot and the other silver, but their crevices were still black and oily from neglect. The fire was high and warm, but Caroline felt as cold as death. She looked at the door, waiting. A tall and slender woman in her middle forties entered the room; Caroline saw ash-fair hair, a lovely calm face with smoky gray eyes and a gentle pink mouth. She wore a long brown beaver coat and a broad beaver hat to match, loaded with beige ostrich plumes.

“Caroline?” she said, and her voice was the voice of the dead Cynthia. It was still very bright outside, with the sun reflecting from the snow, but here it was dull and dim in spite of the fire. Caroline could not answer for a moment as the lady hesitated on the threshold. Then she grunted, “Here. Come in. Near the fire.”

The lady came forward with her graceful and timid movements, loosening the coat which the untrained girl had not helped her remove. She removed her gloves. She reached Caroline, and the two women looked at each other in silence. But the lady was shocked; she hardly recognized this old woman. “Caroline?” she said uncertainly. “I — I’m glad you asked me to come. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

She held out her hand hopefully. Caroline looked at that hand, and then she touched the palm with the tips of her fingers. The lady had the sensation that harsh stone had been pressed briefly against her flesh. She sat down and tried to keep the pity from her face. “Dear Caroline,” she said.

“Don’t say that,” said Caroline suddenly, involuntarily. “First I must ask you one thing, for it is important, and the time for secrecy has passed. Do you know I am your sister?”

“Oh yes,” said Melinda. “I’ve known for a long time.” Her smile left her face. “Amanda told me — a long time ago.”

“But not your mother,” said Caroline brutally.

“Please,” murmured Melinda in distress.

But Caroline hardly heard her; she was searching for any resemblance in Melinda to their mutual father. And then she saw it, in the molding of the cheek and chin, the strength about the mouth, the forehead. These had not been evident in the face of the child Melinda, but years had brought them out. Melinda sat like John Ames, upright, firm, and quiet. Caroline looked away. She said hoarsely, “No matter. You received my letter. I wrote you fully, so we wouldn’t need too much conversation. I asked you here. You came. I don’t invite people, except in extremity, and this is an extremity.”

“I’m afraid you think it is,” said Melinda apologetically. “And I’m afraid I don’t. You wrote me that you’ve been seeing my daughter Mimi for years and that she’s like a daughter to you.” She smiled. “That made me very happy. But, you see, Mimi is not the sort of girl who can deceive for very long. She’s told me all about it. Don’t be offended. Daughters just can’t keep things from their mothers, can they?”

Caroline thought of Elizabeth. Melinda thought of her, too, and remembered that the girl had not been dead a year. She said impulsively, “I shouldn’t have spoken of daughters, Caroline. I was so grieved about Elizabeth. I often visit her grave. You see — ” She stopped, coloring.

“So it was you who planted the white rose bushes on her grave,” said Caroline.

“My brother asked me to,” said Melinda. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Caroline could not help herself from speaking in a loud and bitter voice. “He always sent flowers to her when she couldn’t see them or care about them! Why did he let her go? Why didn’t he marry her, my daughter? Lies? So Elizabeth let me know; I found a letter she had begun to write him. That was before she lost her mind. If he had wanted her — after he had persuaded her he did — he wouldn’t have let her go, Timothy’s lies or no lies!” Her hands doubled on her lap. Her breath was fierce and uneven in the room. “What sort of man is it that would destroy a girl like that with the feeble excuse of ‘lies’?”

Melinda was shaken. She was torn between her loyalty for Timothy and for William. But she saw the enormous agony on Caroline’s face, the rage and the despair, and she herself was a mother and knew a mother’s thoughts.

She exclaimed, “You and Elizabeth never understood, Caroline!” Tears blurred her eyes. “You are wrong about William. He wanted to marry Elizabeth; he loved her and he still loves her. If it had meant hurting only himself and ruining himself, he’d have married her. But there were others. My mother wrote me just before she died.”

“What? What?” cried Caroline, leaning toward her like a toppling monument. “Tell me! I must know!”

Melinda shrank from that overpowering presence. “It was Timothy. I’m afraid — Caroline, I’m afraid he hated you. I never knew why. Perhaps he envied you and resented your money. I love him, but I don’t understand him,” Her tears hung on her lashes, then dropped. “I love him,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “But he’s very strange. You see, he was very fond of William — William has never written him since Elizabeth — became so ill. Not once. He never answers Timothy’s letters.”

“Tell me!” said Caroline

Melinda was helpless before such huge imperiousness. “My mother said that Timothy hated Elizabeth because she was your daughter. How can people hate so? Timothy had threatened — Caroline, if William had married Elizabeth, Timothy would have destroyed all of us, so that Elizabeth would be destroyed. Dreadful, dreadful. He would have ruined William; he would have let everyone know that — that I am illegitimate and that I am William’s sister. I’d have been disgraced, and my children, and my mother, and William would have been disgraced, too, because of Mama. And even Elizabeth would have been laughed at. There’d have been such a scandal. William is a peer; we don’t understand all the implications of all that in America. Caroline, William had to protect our mother, myself, my children, and even Elizabeth. It was a matter of Timothy’s revenge.”

Melinda’s face glistened with tears. The room had steadily darkened; only the fire lit it now. The voice of the sea invaded the air with distant thunder.

“I think,” murmured Melinda, unable to see Caroline clearly in the gloom, “that, above everyone else, Timothy hated our father. All the misery in the world starts with hatred.”

“I see,” said Caroline huskily after a long time. “And Elizabeth never knew about it, did she?”

“No. William couldn’t tell her. How could he?”

“I see,” Caroline repeated. A film of sweat spread over her face. Now she was filled with the power of complete vengeance, warming, exhilarating. She could never avenge her daughter enough now!

“And Elizabeth died thinking that your brother had refused her because of a few silly lies!” she said. “What trivial things can destroy a mind and a spirit. If only I’d have known. But we never know until it is too late.”

“Never, until it’s too late,” said Melinda sadly. She felt drained and weak. Then she started. For Caroline had abruptly reached out and had touched her knee awkwardly.

“But I think Timothy’s been punished enough now for the wrong and cruel things he did,” said Melinda. “He lost the election. He was so sure he would win; he’s so proud. And then he had that stroke and suffered so much. And I’m afraid he didn’t want Ames to marry Amy; men are so strange about their daughters. Sometimes one is frightened of the justice of God.”

Caroline smiled grimly. She nodded, a large figure of black and crimson in the firelight. “Yes indeed,” she said. “The justice of God.” She turned her head slowly and looked at the fire. “Perhaps justice is eternal.”

“I hope not!” said Melinda. “I’m sure that God forgives, too. I’m sure He doesn’t pursue His children through eternity, endlessly punishing them!”

Her voice, sweet and piercing, filled the room. Caroline said with hard insistence, “I hope He isn’t merciful. If there is a God.” She looked at the teapot as if it were a strange object. She lifted it and poured the lukewarm tea and said, “I should have poured it before. It isn’t very warm now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Melinda. Had Caroline really touched her? It seemed incredible now, that involuntary and human gesture, that desperate movement. “That girl,” said Caroline. “She never thinks of turning on the lights.” She made no movement herself to do so. It was apparent she preferred the safety of darkness. And now Melinda remembered the shy and bulky and awkward young Caroline, always in the background like an unwanted ghost, always overlooked, always rejected. Oh, Caroline! thought Melinda with passionate pity.

“Let us talk about Mary,” said Caroline. “That is why I asked you to come here.”

“Mary? Oh, you mean Mimi,” said Melinda. “You don’t want her to marry John. You think John will hurt her. I’ve known John since he was a little boy, Caroline. Albert and I were always very fond of him. He’s so full of life. And humor, and strength. He adores Mimi.” She could not understand Caroline’s inflexible antagonism, for she had known love all her life.

A large piece of the soft coal suddenly blazed, lighting up the women in a yellow glare. Caroline saw Melinda’s face, earnest and gentle, and she was full of bitterness. What did women like Melinda know of others? They judged by externals; they took pleasant manners literally; they were deceived by pleasing voices. They urgently preferred to think of the world as a lovely place, full of kindness and simplicity. Of what were they afraid? The truth? Yes, the truth would demolish these fragile creatures.

In the end, these butterflies, these criers of happiness, these implorers who wished to be reassured that they were safe from living, were consumed like so many pretty snowflakes. They talked of love, and love had its victims as well as hatred. On the tough battlefield of life their tinsel spears broke into a thousand heatless sparks, and they were stricken. And they never understood even when fierce steel pierced their hearts and killed them. Fools, fools!

“Can’t I reach you?” Caroline said roughly. “I’ve seen the world. Why do you suppose I live like this? Because I know people. I also know my sons. I know my son John. I know that if my son marries Mary he will destroy her. You must take my word for it. I know.”

Melinda was horrified and repulsed. How was it possible for a mother to speak so of her child? She thought of her son Nathaniel. She measured all young men by her son. She had measured John Sheldon by him. Lively, burly, athletic, fun-loving John. A dear boy.

She was mournfully sorry for Caroline, the recluse, the hidden, who had no real contact with the world. She said, “Oh, Caroline. I’m afraid you don’t really know John. Not at all. I’ve seen a great deal of him. I know how much he loves Mimi. They’ve loved each other for years. You wrote me that he’d stop Mimi from painting. I don’t think so! She is to have a New York show in about a year, and he’s so interested. Truly.”

“No,” said Caroline in a dull voice. “He isn’t. How do I know? I know — John. I know Mary.” Her voice rose. “Don’t let Mary marry him. If you do, it will end in calamity.”

Melinda was sure of herself, sure of the love she had always known, and the comfort and protection, and the tenderness of mankind. She murmured, “I’m afraid you are too disillusioned, Caroline. One must have hope and trust. How else can we survive?”

“By knowing the truth,” said Caroline hopelessly. “Why don’t you look at it?”

“I do. I have,” said Melinda gently. “I love living, and so do my children. There’s nothing to fear in life, nothing at all.”

Caroline stood up. “I have nothing more to say to you. I thought you might be intelligent, that I could make you think, if only a little. Very stupid of me.”

Melinda looked at her mutely. Caroline cried, “Have you thought about this war? Do you think it is just a quarrel between what you’d call ‘good’ and ‘evil’? I’ve known since I was a girl that it was coming, and I know the real reason for it! Don’t stare at me. Your children will know, and their children’s children, but you won’t! Good night!”