A Prologue to Love

  What ugly, abrupt words, he thought in his misery. He made himself meet her eyes now; hers had turned wide and still.

  “What did you say?” she muttered, and moved her head as if it had begun to ache. She glanced away from him. It really is quite a chilly morning, she thought. She said in that muttering tone, “It was when I was sixteen. I wanted all the money so you would marry me.” She paused. Then she cried, “What did you say!”

  Her face was stark; it had an expression as if she had been struck violently, and her cheekbones, shining whitely, stood out below her eyes. “What did you say!” she cried more loudly.

  “Elizabeth,” he said with alarm and pain. “Didn’t you hear me? We can’t be married. You would be hurt all the rest of your life; you’d come to hate me. We aren’t alone, my darling. There are others who would be affected.”

  Very slowly she looked away from him and stared at the garden, moving her eyes from right to left. “I don’t understand,” she said indifferently, as if he had told her something incomprehensible in which she was not the least interested.

  “You must trust me,” he said, holding her hands firmly and trying to get her wandering attention. She had now the appearance of one in extreme shock. “There are many things you don’t know, and I am not the one to tell you. Elizabeth, you must trust me.”

  She smiled a little. Her eyes still moved over the garden. “It was at Christmas, the first time I saw you,” she said, and her voice was the voice of a child. “There was a stupid Christmas play. I was a boarder at Miss Stockington’s, and so I couldn’t pretend to be sick and not attend. Mimi and Amy, those silly children, were dressed like angels, and they prattled in foolish voices. I was sitting next to you. I hated all those children, the ridiculous teachers, the babbling and the carols. But when I sat there, and your shoulder was against mine, and you were smiling at the stage, it all didn’t matter. I think I was about twelve. They say a girl that age can’t love, but I did.”

  She smiled up at him with sudden brightness. “You were about fifteen or sixteen, weren’t you, William? I’ve wanted to tell you about this before, so we could laugh together. You weren’t the handsomest boy in the world; I think you were a little fat and short then. But there was something about you — something I’d never known before, and that’s why I loved you. Something — good. And I never forgot you.” She seemed proud and delighted.

  What is wrong with the poor girl? William asked himself, deeply shaken. Her eyes were like brilliant glass. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he said. He sat down beside her on the bench and bent his head in his grief and consternation. She moved closer to him; her head touched his shoulder.

  “It’s impossible,” he said quietly. “Believe me, my darling, it’s impossible.”

  “I had to get the money, for you,” she said in a soft voice. “I see now how ridiculous that was, but it seemed very important when I was sixteen. I had, you see — I thought — to have the money so you’d marry me. I thought that was the most important thing. Who would marry Elizabeth Sheldon unless she had a great deal of money, a fortune? Who would want a girl who had a mother like mine unless she had money? So I put all my mind to it; I even tried to stop thinking of you too much, so I wouldn’t be diverted. I didn’t know then, William, that you could love me, just for myself, as you’ve said.”

  She stopped abruptly, then cried out wildly, “What did you say?”

  She lifted her head from his shoulder. Her face had become sharp and long, almost fierce, angular in its profound terror.

  “I said we can’t be married,” said William. “Elizabeth, try to understand. We’d injure — too many others — if we married. We must think of them too.” He put his hand on her arm. Her flesh was as cold as stone.

  “I’d rather be dead now than to be sitting here and telling you all this. I love you dearly; you’ll never know how much, Elizabeth.” His round face expressed his sober anguish. He saw she was really listening at last, bending a little toward him, as if she were confused or somewhat deaf, and trying to understand. Her nose had a blue, pinched look, and her mouth was utterly white.

  “Did you say we couldn’t be married?” she said, stammering a little. “What other people would be hurt? Did you say that?” she added insistently.

  “Yes.”

  “Why should they be?” she asked anxiously. “And even if it’s so, what does it matter?”

  He knew there was something wrong; he guessed it from her expression, her stiff posture, the color of her lips, the petrified stillness of her eyes.

  “We must think of others,” he said, feeling sick and empty.

  “But why?” the insistent voice demanded. “No one ever thought of me. Nobody cares about anyone else, do they? Not when they’re going to be married? William?”

  She was pleading for understanding, for explanation.

  “I care for others,” he said. And then, because he was to be a priest, he added, “And I’m sure you also care, very much. You wouldn’t want to hurt those who’ve never harmed you. That is only human, Elizabeth.”

  He saw that he had not reached her at all. She was white with frozen bewilderment.

  “You don’t love me!” she exclaimed. “You think my mother will cut me off if I marry you! I thought you didn’t care — I thought you loved me.”

  “I do, before God, darling, I do. Do you think this is easy for me?” He was too young to understand what he had heard from Elizabeth; he had missed all the implications in what she had said. “Your mother’s money has nothing to do with it, I swear to you.”

  She was all tenseness, searching his face with her eyes.

  “She cut off John and Ames in a spendthrift clause; they’ll only get five thousand dollars a year. I’ll have all the rest,” she pleaded. “All the rest. What else could she do with it but leave it to me? And she’s old. She loves me, too, though you would not believe that, would you? I’ll have it, William, really I will.”

  Now she clutched his arm in both her hands and shook him a little and smiled at him, like a despairing penitent, and he was brokenhearted.

  “Oh, my God!” he said. “Oh, Elizabeth.”

  “Don’t you believe me?” she urged. “I love you, William. I never loved anyone before. I’ll give you the money when I get it. I’ll sign papers or something. Don’t you believe me?”

  He could not answer in his suffering. Then her eyes left him again, though she continued to clutch his arm painfully. She looked at the gardens. They were green and shimmering with light. But it was so cold, so deadly cold, she thought. The sunlight became a sick dazzle to her, and the trees stood as if they were tormented and crying for help.

  “I only wanted the money for you,” she said. “I wanted to have it. I wanted to be proud and show it to you. All that money! You don’t want to let it go, do you?”

  “I want you, Elizabeth,” he said, and he felt the smart of tears in his eyes. “I’ll never really love anyone but you. But there are the others.”

  He put his arms about her. It was like grasping marble, she was so stiff and taut. Then she was shivering. She shook her head slowly, over and over. “I ought to have known,” she muttered. “Who would want me, after all?” Then she cried out in a penetrating voice, as if she were being torn and mangled.

  “All those people in London! I didn’t know — I sat and listened, and then all at once it was like — like being caught in something terrible. But if you want me to — ”

  He was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. For a cringing moment he regretted that he had not let his mother speak to Elizabeth, to explain, to tell her. But he had wanted to shield his mother from degradation, for she would have told the girl in her extremity.

  She was watching him; he could feel the probing of her eyes. He said, “Can’t I make you understand, Elizabeth? It has nothing to do with you and me. But — well, someone will hurt others if we are married. You, too, would be hurt more than anyone else.”

  She put her hands in
her lap and, biting her lower lip in concentration, she began to make pleats in the dotted Swiss of her frock. Her head moved slowly from side to side in denial. Her profile had a tremulous appearance to it, as if she were extremely sick.

  “Can’t you trust me, Elizabeth?” asked William. “Trust me to know what is best for you, for others?”

  “Oh no,” she said with the utmost simplicity. “I don’t believe a word of it. I never was your darling, was I? You never really wanted me, did you? You are really mistaken about me, William. I am Elizabeth Josephine Sheldon and I will be one of the richest women in the world. It’s just that you can’t believe it.”

  Now she lifted her head, and her face had a regal look. “I’m not like my mother. She killed my father, you know. She didn’t care about him. I’m not like her. I love you. You must believe it.”

  “I do,” he said miserably.

  She stood up. She began to blink her eyes rapidly, as if clearing them. She looked down at him. She had changed again, become gaunt, and there were gray shadows under her cheekbones.

  “I’ve just thought of something,” she said. “It’s Timothy, isn’t it? He did this, didn’t he? It was Timothy!” The wandering look, the inattention had left her. She bent a little to the young man. “Answer me! It was Timothy! He lied to you, lied, lied!”

  “Hush, Elizabeth,” he pleaded, “someone will hear you.”

  She began to laugh, a loud, abrupt laugh which she couldn’t control. She put her hands over her mouth and struggled to stop the laughter. Then, as suddenly as she had laughed, she was silent and was staring down at him, not with love, but with hatred.

  “You could believe him! You could humiliate me like this because of what Timothy said. No, don’t stand up. Don’t touch me. I hate you. And Timothy — he’ll suffer for this.”

  Her words were full of ferocity; there was no sensation in her at all except hatred. She smoothed her frock and lifted her head. For the last time she looked at the gardens, slowly, carefully.

  “You made no promises, I remember that,” she said in a voice that was totally mechanical. “That should console you, shouldn’t it? You’ve decided against marrying me because of Timothy and something he has told you. You are a coward, aren’t you? But the English are all family, aren’t they? I am only Elizabeth Sheldon, and I may not have any money, and what am I to you?”

  She turned so swiftly that her frock swirled, and then she was running from him, away from everything that had meant life to her. William could only let her go. He sat on the bench long after she had gone and he prayed for her, and though he tried to suppress it he was wild with the first fury he had ever experienced. Finally, as he was intrinsically very sensible, he told himself that Elizabeth would forget. She was beautiful and rich, and someday he would not even be a memory to her except a vague mortification.

  The family was in the dining room when Elizabeth entered the house, and she could hear them laughing and talking, and the clatter of breakfast dishes and silver. She had eaten nothing as yet. She went upstairs and packed her bags methodically and swiftly. She was not thinking any deeper than her decision to leave this house at once. She knew that there was a train for London leaving within the hour. She put on the linen suit she had worn on her journey here, smoothed her hair calmly, placed her hat on her head, and caught up her gloves. She was ready. Then she rang the bell for a servant.

  “Please ask Mr. Winslow if he will come up to see me for a moment,” she told the maid. She smoothed the gloves on her hands and waited. Timothy came immediately. She turned her quiet face toward him, and he saw no expression at all in her eyes.

  “I am leaving,” she said. “I have asked for a carriage. I don’t want to say good-by to your mother or Amanda. Or anyone.” She paused. “Have you anything to tell me, Timothy?”

  “Nothing,” he said. They looked at each other.

  “I think you have,” she said, and waited again.

  Now he felt exultation. “It’s possible you are right,” he said. He made his face serious and concerned. “I think I know what’s behind your decision to leave like this. And I think you should know why it happened. Your mother.”

  “My mother?” She repeated the words in a voice without intonation.

  “Rather, all that your mother is, Elizabeth.”

  She believed him, as she had not believed William, for he spoke in words that she could understand and that were in her nature.

  “Are you responsible for telling — anyone — about my mother’s peculiarities, Timothy?”

  “No. Nor my mother, either, nor Amanda. Elizabeth, what your mother is, is common knowledge. And what your grandfather was. Such people are not accepted among the British. I’m sorry. But you wanted to know the truth, didn’t you?”

  A manservant came for Elizabeth’s bags, and the girl waited until he had gone before she spoke again. “Yes, I wanted the truth. My grandfather was a nobody and an adventurer, and my mother is a miser and perhaps worse. I’ve heard people say that she is mad.” Elizabeth was very calm. Then she smiled slightly. “But she does have such a lot of money.”

  She regarded Timothy with curiosity. “You’re ready for the break with my mother, aren’t you? You’d not have told me all this if you weren’t. By the way, it would be dangerous for you — for me — if you told her I had come here. You understand that?”

  Timothy hated her now. He was not capable of seeing a tortured young girl who was suffering beyond any suffering he could imagine.

  “ ‘Break’? What do you mean? You asked me to tell you what I’ve told you; I didn’t volunteer it, you’ll remember. What my own opinion of your mother is, is my affair. I merely informed you of British opinion and what it would mean to — a man — who would marry a woman with a grandfather like John Ames and a mother like Caroline Sheldon. You practically forced me to tell you. When you first asked I told you I had nothing to say. Please remember that.”

  “I will,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll remember everything. You’ll also have something to remember, later.” She picked up her purse and passed him without another glance and went quietly down the stairway.

  Chapter 5

  John Sheldon visited his mother a few times a year, not out of affection, but to exhibit his well-being and success to her. To others, his own fortune and business would have seemed picayune compared with his mother’s enormous estate and holdings, but he knew that to Caroline no money or fortune was small and that one dollar to her was as precious as a million. Moreover, as he was a naturally optimistic person, unlike his brother Ames, he was somewhat convinced that when his mother saw that he was really a ‘responsible’ man she would come to change her will or at least modify it. He had increased his inheritance from his father with some wild but lucky investments. If nothing else, his mother was keenly interested in the market, and she would listen to the stock quotations as some women listen to sonnets.

  “We shouldn’t let everything go by default to that scheming sister of ours,” John would say to Ames when he came up to Boston from New York.

  “You haven’t any proof that she’s not the victim of a ‘spendthrift’ clause too,” said Ames. “You know how suspicious Ma is; she’s also convinced she’s going to live forever.”

  While in Boston, John stayed with Ames. The two brothers were not natively congenial, but they had been almost exclusively thrown together as companions in early childhood and they had much in common, such as their hopes of inheriting a large part of their mother’s money.

  John knew that his sister was abroad, and so she would not be there with her icy and sneering face when he visited his mother today. When he arrived at the station he was pleased with the coolness that greeted him; Boston was usually a sweat box in the summer. He hired a hack and drove to his mother’s house. Each time he arrived he thought that it appeared more abandoned and decrepit than ever, though it was little more than a quarter of a century old. Shingles curled and fell and were never replaced; the woodwork about the
stone windows had not been painted in years; the doors were beginning to take on the ancient silvery appearance of neglected wood. The glass was filthy everywhere, the walks neglected, the grimy draperies like coarse ropes, the gardens overgrown and forgotten, so that the once beautiful grounds had reverted to wilderness. The whole scene had a wild and desolate air; mortar and fragments from the stone and brick littered the three walks that led to the house, and there was an immense silence about all things except for the silken hiss of the summer sea.

  John rang the bell and heard it echoing through the house. He waited. He rang again. There was no answer. What the hell! Didn’t the old lady keep a maid any longer? Where was she, herself? He tried the door facing landward, and it was locked firmly. He went to the side and found it ajar, so he entered. The musty smell of a closed house was all about him, and the acrid stench of dust and grease and neglect. He went through the rooms, calling for his mother, half hoping that he would find her dead in her bed room. He was a lawyer; there were ways of getting around a will. ‘Nuisance’ suits. But his mother was not in the house.