She looked about her calm and pleasant room — at the fire burning discreetly behind a brass screen, at the draperies, the rug, the bed, the desk, the chairs — and her slow gaze had a sudden searching in them, a wild relief, and, above all, a hungry fear. She was safe at last; she had been rescued from horror, the implacable horror of not having any money. But she was only momentarily safe from the world, which hated those who were poor and tormented them. Unless she had a great deal of money, and always had it, she would be open again and again, forever and forever, to what her father had called ‘the faces’, the loathing, the ignominy, inflicted on those who were destitute, who were helpless, and who had no golden armor to protect themselves even from their own ravenous kind.
For the first time in her own life Caroline now truly hated, grimly, icily, and with powerful revulsion. She clenched her hands into fists. What her father had told her had frightened her; she had believed him without doubt. But sometimes vague dissatisfactions and humble questionings had invaded her mind. She despised herself now. Her father had been only too right; he had known the truth. He had tried to teach her the truth, for her own protection, and she had not fully believed. Not until this frightful day, this frightful night.
Then she thought, “But we don’t have much money! What shall we do, Papa and I? We must have a lot of money, all the money we can get, or they’ll kill us, as I was almost killed tonight. A lot of money, all the money in the world — if we can get it. Then we’ll be safe.”
She began to cry without tears, and only with great heaving sobs of fright. She felt an almost crushing pity for her father and for what he had endured as a young boy and a young man. She remembered vividly all he had told her, all he had suffered, and only for the crime of not having money. “But it is a crime!” she cried to her elegant room and its subtle furnishings. She put out her hands and groped toward the bed and then sat on the edge of it, shuddering, feeling cold ripples on her flesh.
The door opened, and with a quick and pretty rustling of blue silk Cynthia entered, her well-bred nose wrinkling fastidiously as she looked down at the newspaper-wrapped parcels in her hand. “What on earth, Caroline!” she exclaimed. “Where did you get these, for goodness’ sake! Where have you been so late? I was almost frantic.”
She stopped at the sight of the silent girl sitting on the bed, shivering as if with influenza, still dressed in her hat and coat, her hands clenched on the woolen knees. “Caroline! What on earth! Why, you are wet and streaked with dirt! Caroline!”
The big hazel eyes regarded her silently; the dry lips were parted. Cynthia stared back. Then she placed the parcels on the floor and pushed them aside with her foot. Something had stricken the poor girl, something had most evidently scared her out of her wits. Where had she been? Why was she so late?
But Cynthia was a sensible woman and knew there was a time for questioning and a time for not questioning. She came to the bed and said gently, “Let me help you off with your things, dear. It is an awful night, isn’t it? Have you a chill?”
“Yes,” whispered Caroline. “I’ve had a chill.” She had never been sick in her life before, but now she felt physically broken, cold to the heart. She did not protest when Cynthia, who concealed her distaste, helped her to remove her clothing and to find one of her ugly flannel nightgowns. Cynthia considerately averted her head when Caroline, trembling, stood naked before her — a large, smooth, and impressive young statue — and slipped the nightgown over the big shoulders.
“There, there,” said Cynthia soothingly, as one speaks to a frightened child. “Now, we’ll just turn back the counterpane and we’ll get under the warm blankets and the puff and we’ll have our dinner in bed, a nice hot dinner of soup and a little fish and some chicken. We’ll just be quiet and see how we are tomorrow.”
Caroline lay stiff and straight in her bed, and silent, and looked at the fire. She said in a weak voice, “I lost my purse — somewhere. I had seventy-five dollars.” But she did not turn her head to her aunt.
“Oh, how unfortunate,” said Cynthia, bending over her anxiously and studying the girl’s pallor and the fixed bright distention of her eyes. “Well, it isn’t too much money, is it? I will give it to you tomorrow.”
“You don’t understand, Aunt Cynthia,” said Caroline, and her eyes fastened on her aunt’s face with what Cynthia almost believed was sharp dislike and aversion. “Seventy-five dollars is a lot of money. It is the difference between — between — ” But she could not tell Cynthia of what she had experienced.
“Certainly it is quite a sum of money,” said Cynthia, trying to smile away that afflicted expression on the girl’s face. “But if it is lost, then it is lost. Dear me, why do you wear that ring I gave you around your neck and not on your hand? Won’t the cord choke you in bed?”
“It’s too expensive to wear,” Caroline muttered. She had always been afraid of Cynthia’s sophistication and had always been shy with her, feeling clumsy in her presence. But she had never hated her before. Her aunt was a silly, spendthrift woman who did not know that money was the difference between ignominy and respect, slavery and freedom, life and death.
“One doesn’t hide beauty,” Cynthia said with kind seriousness. She smoothed the girl’s tangled hair, and Caroline shrank from her, and Cynthia was startled. But she continued without a change in tone: “Beauty is to display, to decorate, to make the world a lovelier place.” She looked at the dun-colored heap of Caroline’s discarded clothes on the floor; Cynthia had not laid them upon a chair because of the filth and bits of straw and dust all over them.
“There’s no beauty without money,” said Caroline, and turned her head away.
“Oh, Caroline. Nonsense. You really don’t mean that.” Cynthia smiled again. “Why, I have very little money, but I do have a lovely house and I live well, if not grandly.”
“We’re not talking about the same things,” said Caroline in a mutter. But Cynthia heard, and her face became thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps we are.”
Caroline made no protest at all when Cynthia ordered that the girl’s clothes be taken from the room ‘and given away to someone’.
Cynthia, who was rarely inquisitive, did not ask why Caroline later became interested in better, if not handsomer, clothing. For a few years at least Caroline wore excellent material, even though it was badly draped and poorly cut, for Caroline would not employ Cynthia’s expensive seamstress. And always, Cynthia noted, Caroline was never without a good, strong leather purse, and she held it in a clutching grasp.
What had happened to Caroline on that destroying day remained her own secret. She had no words to give it substance. It stayed with her always. The note she had signed for Fern and Son was, many years later — two generations later — incorporated in a witty book about her life by the grandson of old Fern, and it was considered very risible and multitudes greedily laughed, and the book was translated into many languages. But no one read of raped innocence in that book, and the dark terror of a young girl, and the sad ruins of a whole life.
Caroline was crying because of the letter she had received from Tom Sheldon.
It was spring and Tom was with his elderly parents now. His father had bought, with Tom’s earnings on the Erie Canal and on harbor ships in Boston, some scrubby land in Lyme near the sea and, going largely into debt, had built a number of small summer homes upon it. These he had sold at considerable profit a year ago and had been encouraged to buy more land for the same purpose. During the summer months Tom helped his father, who did most of the building, and was investing in the venture.
He wrote in his letter to Caroline:
I know we couldn’t spend much time together last summer, Carrie, but you knew how it was, with all the work. But even when I did have time on Sundays you didn’t often meet me on the beach and in the back of your house, the way we always did, and only once did you go down to the village with me for some ice cream. Don’t you like me any more, Carrie? You know how much I l
ove you. Why, I never saw a girl as nice as you anywhere, and I’ve seen some beauties, too. Nobody has your eyes and your ways and your pretty smile; you’re the only girl for me. It’s because of you that I began to read so much. Now I read for my own pleasure, and when I’m in Boston I go to the Museum and sit in the balcony when they have concerts. Once it was just to be worthy of you; now I know that a man has to do things for his own soul, as well as for the girl he wants to marry. I go to church whenever I can, for, as I’ve told you, there is more to life than success, and more to life than death or just living from day to day.
You haven’t answered my last two letters. I was on the move, though. Perhaps I missed your replies. Did I, Carrie? I reread all your letters; I’ve kept every one. The last one I had disturbed me. I thought you were merely thinking on paper when you wrote the previous ones, but now I am wondering. Why do you always write about money and ask me if I am saving as much as I can? You sounded so afraid of something in your last letter. Now, I’ve worked hard enough as long as I can remember; my parents were poor and I did what I could. I know the value of money. I’m not improvident, and I’m not a spendthrift. But I know, too, where the value ends. We weren’t born for the sole purpose of acquiring money and saving it and worshiping it. There is another reason why we were born, and that reason isn’t cash.
I’ve known what it is to be hungry and alone and shabby. You write me that the world hates those who have no money and tries to destroy them. Carrie, that’s going too far! I’ve had my share of knocks and punches and other things when my pockets were empty. Does that matter? That, too, is a part of living. And I’ve met kind people almost as poor as I was, who shared what they had with me. Wicked people can be found anywhere. I’m not foolish enough to say that there are more good people than bad; there aren’t. The devils are ten to one more than the angels, and I have scars to prove it. But even that doesn’t matter. It’s only your own soul you have to consider, and your own justness to others, and your own determination to be decent.
Money can bring you a lot of peace of mind, and I’m trying to get it as fast as possible, Carrie. A man’s an idiot if he says money is nothing. But he is a worse idiot if he thinks there is nothing else besides money. Why, Carrie, there is the whole world. Don’t you remember how you used to point out things I might have missed without you, the way the light lies on the ocean just before a storm, and how the trees look in the early morning, just as if they’re shaking themselves awake and spreading out their green clothes to catch the wind? Hundreds of things, Carrie dear. You gave me eyes. I was always too busy to see before. Now I know that you don’t have to have a lot of time to look at the world; you just have to look. What has happened to you, Carrie?
I love you; I love the way you smile, and the soft way you have of laughing. What troubles you, Carrie? Can’t you tell me? You’ve changed. Don’t change, Carrie. Wait for me.”
But how can I explain to Tom? Caroline asked herself, holding Tom’s letter in her hands tightly and seeing the strong and controlled writing through her tears. I never could explain to anybody; I just don’t have the right words. Tom, I love you; I wish I could see you every day. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so frightened all the time. Sometimes, for weeks on end, I see nothing at all but my fear, and no other faces but those in that awful shop. Tom, you are wrong. Yes, you are wrong. My father was right from the very beginning. But still, I love you.
Chapter 7
“You really must help me with Caroline,” said Cynthia to John Ames in early June. “She shows absolutely no interest in the things which absorb young girls. She isn’t yet eighteen. It’s time for me to give her her presentation tea — boring, I admit, and I do loathe tea, a fact I keep discreetly to myself. The tea is only the beginning for a Boston girl, and especially for the daughter of John Ames. You will have to give her a fine ball at her coming out. Do be quiet, and let me finish. You think it ridiculous; perhaps it is. I never had such a wearisome time as when Ann and I were presented to society — old haughty dowagers we’d known all our lives and who had been present when we were christened. Nevertheless, one has to conform sometimes. It is much less wearing to conform to the unimportant things than to oppose them. Perhaps I don’t have the stamina of other Boston ladies. Please stop kissing my arm and listen, for I am quite serious.
“If for no other reason but sound logic and shrewdness, Caroline must go through these things. After all, she will have to deal with these people later. (Much later, I hope, my love. What should I do without you? I really love you dearly, though I can’t think why.) Unless, of course, you are intending to appoint a Board of Directors or something to manage Caroline’s affairs in the future and let her drift along in this dull and aimless way all her life. And she must meet young men, the sons of the dowagers who are already asking when Caroline is going to be presented to them. The dowagers have seen Caroline fleetingly, one might call it, and I think they rather approve of her sturdy appearance, being so sturdy themselves. Are you sure there is no Boston blood in you, sweetheart? But then, you never did tell me anything about yourself, which makes you mysterious, and I love mysteries. Don’t ever tell me.
“Caroline goes dutifully, but miserably, to dancing school. The boys, when at home from college or spending an afternoon or evening away from their blessed Harvard, show considerable interest in Caroline. We don’t deceive ourselves that it is her fragile appearance which attracts them. It’s your money. And I do believe that they, like their mothers, approve of Caroline’s sturdiness; she has a no-nonsense figure and manner to which they are accustomed; it seems most proper to them. But she isn’t interested in riding or charities or good works and all the other tiresome things. She ought to pretend, at least, for her own sake.” Cynthia paused.
They were sitting together in Cynthia’s suave little sitting room next to her bedroom. The rose-and-silver draperies moved in the warm June night wind, and there was a scent of tearoses and peonies from the garden below. Cynthia’s dressing gown, of a silvery material, flowed gracefully about her beautiful figure and parted softly to show her white throat and part of her white breast. She sipped an excellent cordial; her lovely hair rippled loosely about her shoulders and down her back.
“You’ve seen me many, many times before, John,” said Cynthia affectionately, and touched him lightly on the knee. “And how handsome you still are, in spite of being an elderly gentleman in your fifties; hardly any gray in your hair; you look so distinguished. I like to see you smile. Do you know that you rarely smile except when we are alone together, or when you look at Melinda before she goes to sleep?” Cynthia’s voice dropped.
“Before I talk to you about Caroline, I want to ask you a question,” said John.
She shook her head again and sighed and smiled. “And the answer is still no, dear. Not even for Melinda’s sake.”
“Now that the usual formalities are cleared away, we will talk about Caroline,” said John. “I don’t agree with you. I’m not afraid of offending the Boston biddies and their sons. I doubt if Caroline will ever marry. There is something missing in her. She probably understands this very well. Give your tea, Cynthia, if you wish, and I’m sure you’ll be sorry for Caroline afterward. But, no ball. If it’s money only that interests the ladies of Boston — and I know it is — their interest in Caroline won’t decline because she wasn’t presented at a ball. And they will invite her to the Assemblies, and she won’t go. I won’t say a word to her. Let her alone, love. I am about to begin a much more important course of education for her. Beginning tomorrow.”
He looked gloomily at her swinging foot. “She will learn. She has great capacities. She understands many things. I’ve had talks with her. And tomorrow the intensive education will begin.”
“How?” asked Cynthia, alarmed.
“I am going to take her down to the docks and show her my ships and clippers. That is only the beginning.”
“I try to remind myself,” said Cynthia sadly. “I try to tell myself that
if you were completely a wretch you’d never have brought Caroline to me and sent her to Miss Stockington’s. You see, I like to believe that I’m incapable of loving a man who is an absolute beast. So I tell myself that in spite of what you say about Caroline you do have some love for her.”
“Oh, God,” said John, and stood up impatiently. “If demonstrations of selfless love are so important to you, Cynthia, you’d have married me years ago. You’d have some consideration for Melinda.”
“You make me sound like a fool,” said Cynthia sharply. “Of course I have consideration for Melinda. She’s my precious darling. And it’s partly because of Melinda that I won’t marry you, and I wish you’d stop bringing up the tedious subject. Very well. I won’t argue with you about Caroline any longer, though the very sight of the poor girl breaks my heart sometimes. I’ve never seen anyone so desolate-looking; the only time she glows a little is when you’re here, and you hardly speak to her about the casual things a girl loves to hear from her father. I’m very vexed with you. No, you cannot stay with me tonight. Be understanding and go up to your own room. I’m tired.”