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!”
Part 5
My help cometh from the Lord,
which made heaven and earth.
Psalms 121
Chapter 1
Ames Sheldon, this warm late-summer Saturday afternoon, was carefully examining some fine late-sixteenth-century Italian enamels under his magnifying glass. Excellent! The Boston Museum had made a bid of twenty-five thousand dollars for them, but the dealer with whom Ames always dealt had confided that Ames could have them for three thousand dollars less, out of ‘old’ friendship. But twenty-two thousand dollars, thought Ames, frowning. That would be his entire net profit for a year, excluding, of course, the income from his wisely invested three million dollars which his mother had given him. (He reinvested the income, for it was sacred and not to be used even for treasures.) For a moment he considered using that income for the purchase, but with a revulsion which would have pleased his mother he put the thought aside. He considered his bank account. It held nearly fifty thousand dollars. He sighed. A loan? He shuddered from that thought also. There was nothing to do, of course, but to use half his bank account.
He suddenly felt poverty-stricken and degraded. And, so feeling, he was both frightened and humiliated. No money had been forthcoming from either Timothy or Amanda. Of course, on Amanda’s death, there would be a certain portion of the estate in behalf of her daughter, but Amanda appeared in fine health. Timothy had made it quite clear that he would leave Amy only one thousand dollars; the word had come from his wife. He had never forgiven his daughter for her marriage. So he, Ames, had literally a penniless girl on his hands who had brought him nothing. He discounted the three million dollars his mother had given him; that was a separate department entirely.
Not only was Amy penniless, but she was a fool. Ames concentrated on Amy’s ‘foolishness’ and on an even worse crime she had recently committed. He reached out to his desk and restudied a physician’s report, only another report to add to
the unbearable six other reports he had received over the past five months. I’ve been had, thought Ames with sudden bitterness, indignation, and disgust.
Everything was lost. That damned John’s wife, Mimi Bothwell, was already doing her duty, John had happily written his brother from New York. (Ames overlooked the fact that his mother had not only violently opposed the marriage but had again vindictively informed John that he would not receive a penny from her, now or after her death.) Yes, thought Ames, I’ve been had. Saddled with a fool for a whole lifetime, a penniless fool. He felt so alarmed and so poor that he could think of Amy with quick hatred. He thought of her ‘silly’ face, with the dark eyes growing so witlessly large and enormous over these months, the lost color in her cheeks and lips, her thin young body that could no longer entice him. Prattler! Stupid! Not even a whole woman! He would look at her with disgust when she was in her pretty, girlish night dresses and turn from her, revolted.
John could afford to be triumphant. There was that enormous Bothwell estate which Mimi would partly inherit! No wonder John was as smug as a tomcat who had drunk deeply of cream. Then John would have children, and they would inherit Caroline’s vast fortune. Leaning back in his chair, Ames tapped his teeth with a pencil. He could divorce Amy, who infuriated him with her foolish adoration and clinging. What then? Ames considered his mother. How would she look upon a divorce? Why, thought Ames with a sudden surge of hope, she might even approve of it! That would be more revenge on Timothy — a rejected and despised daughter again on his hands. He must consult a lawyer at once. He pulled a sheet of thick ivory paper toward him and wrote a rapid letter to his mother.
“I am enclosing a final report . . . Under the circumstances, I am considering divorcing Amy.” He paused, glanced at his enamels. The sunlight streaming through a window in his elegant flat struck them, evoking blue, crimson, scarlet, green, and golden fire. Those old monks and artists knew how to do these things with infinite artistry and genius and taste. No one any longer took the patience to work like this, and in this tumultuous twentieth-century world no one even cared to learn. The enamels would grow increasingly priceless with time. Ames touched them with real love and reverence. He glanced at his cabinets. He had already prepared a shelf for his new treasures. When he had finished gloating and admiring he would draw tight curtains over his cabinets. He would not share their glory with others, and his cabinets were always in his library, and the library was always locked and he carried the key with him. He himself cleaned the library and the cabinets and the treasures, as Caroline cared for her secret hoard of paintings.
He looked at the letter he was writing to his mother. Then a restless impatience came to him. Why write? He could go to her. His impatience increased. Go to that decaying huge hovel again? He had been there only three months ago and had felt a smothering. He remembered how that house had been during his early childhood, pleasant, sunlit, warm, polished. But his father had been alive then. Yet the house had begun to decay and sift even before Tom’s death. How many rooms did the old hag use now? Two bedrooms, one for herself and one for the maid from the village, and the kitchen, her gallery, and what used to be the ‘breakfast room’, and her locked study. That was all. The rest of the rooms, all fourteen of them, including the ‘help’s’ rooms, were never entered, never cleaned. They were as molded as tombs and as earth now. They loomed over the old hag like a towering and powdering and moss-grown mausoleum, and she huddled in the depths beneath. Toad, thought Ames.
Yet, she still had power. Houses were streaming up from Lyme and from other directions, smallish and cheap little houses crowded with laughing children and inquisitive adults who possessed the repulsive American spirit of neighborliness and friendly curiosity. Ames chuckled. The old hag had handled the matter deftly. She had actually spent money to wall in her property, high stone walls with splintered glass on their tops, the walls extended to the very shore. The walled property was like a moated castle in the midst of a teeming town of barbarians, its massive iron gates always locked. There was a bell on the gates; one yanked it and Caroline came to admit a visitor — rare, indeed — or a tradesman. Sometimes the sullen maid strolled out, glowering, her hands wet and grimy.
But it protected Caroline, and that was all that mattered. There was one way to reach her which the walls could not stop, and that was the telephone. Ames went into the beautiful hall, stopped to admire his genuine Cézanne for a moment, and lifted the receiver of his telephone from its hook. He called his mother. While waiting he studied his cool pale reflection in the very fine Florentine mirror which had cost him five hundred dollars and which reflected the Cézanne. The hard slate-colored eyes stared back at him, unrelenting. There was not pity in him for the girl whom he had married less than nine months ago and who was growing quieter, more timid, and thinner each day.
“Mother?” he said in his light and charming voice.
“Well?” Caroline grunted. “What is it now?”
He raised his eyebrows humorously at himself in the mirror. “Now, Mother, you know that this is almost the first time I’ve ever called you. This is serious — ”
“Make it short,” said Caroline impatiently. “I thought you were the important call I am expecting from New York.”
“Investments again?” asked Ames, as though there had ever been anything else but investments. “Anything worthwhile?”
“Bethlehem Steel,” said Caroline with slightly less impatience. “It’s high, but I expect it to go much higher very shortly. Well? What is it?”
“Bethlehem Steel,” Ames repeated, remembering that he was invested quite heavily in that stock. “You’d advise me to buy more?”
“Did you call me to talk stocks?” his mother demanded. “Don’t you have a broker in Boston?”
“None as perspicacious as you, dear Mama,” said Ames.
Caroline said nothing, but he could hear her rasping breath clearly. “I am really calling for some advice,” he said, looking at the fingernails of his right hand. “I am thinking of divorcing Amy.”
He could not see Caroline’s sudden violence of expression. He could not know that she was again standing at her dying husband’s bedside and that Tom was speaking of divorcing her, almost with his final breath. She was feeling once more the awful, incredulous despair, the bitter anguish, the tearing sorrow, the sense of complete abandonment and loss.
“No! No!” she shouted at her son, and he had to pull the receiver from his ear. “How dare you say such a thing! It’s all wrong — No! No!”
He was deeply shocked, almost frightened. It was as if Caroline’s monumental personality had surged into this small but beautiful hall with its sacred Cézanne, its Florentine mirror, its gleaming Kirman rug, its chartreuse-colored damask walls. He actually glanced over his shoulder, more than half expecting to see his mother rushing at him.
“Divorce?” she cried. “No, never, never, never!”
“I’ve been thinking of it for a considerable time,” he said, trying to ride over that furious voice. “I didn’t know you objected to divorce. Of course First Families don’t indulge in it often,” and now his own voice turned vicious. “But I wasn’t aware we were First Family. That was Timothy’s main objection to me, you know.” He tried to laugh.
But the furious voice thundered at him again. “He isn’t First Family! He’s nothing but gutter blood!”
“Oh?” said Ames, standing up very straight and beginning to smile. “Tell me. I’m curious.”
But Caroline had fallen silent. “Hello, hello?” said Ames, and jiggled the telephone hook eagerly.
Then Caroline spoke derisively. “It won’t do you any good,” she said. “Don’t you remember that I’m supposed to be an Esmond too? His mother and mine were twin sisters.”
He looked at his smooth long face, so like Timothy’s except for the sharp triangular chin with its deep if narrow cleft. His grandfather and his father had been ‘nobodies’. He had entry in Boston because of his ‘Esmond blood’. A n
ervous and infuriated itch began between his lean shoulder blades. “I hope I’m no fool,” he said, trying to keep his tone reasonable. “But I’m married to a fool and I’ve reached the end of my endurance.”
“But not the end of my three million dollars,” said his mother brutally. “What’s wrong?”
The itch subsided a little. “I’d stand even a fool if she could give me children,” said Ames. “But Amy can’t.” He winked at himself in the mirror as he said, “I want children, deeply. Deeply.” He put a note of baritone sincerity in his voice.
“Oh, you do, eh?” said Caroline. “Why? You’d make a dreadful father; you were a dreadful little boy, and I have no doubt but that you are a dreadful man.” She paused, then said abruptly, “You haven’t been married a year yet. Give the girl time.”