A Prologue To Love (12 page)

“But the funny thing about it,” said Beth, “was that you never saw any of the Schillers smile, and nobody ever heard them laugh, and they had sour faces, thick around the nose, as if they were always mad at everybody all the time. They had a girl working for them, and they’d bicker every time they paid her her six dollars a month, and they’d lock up the food-safe at night and the pantry door so she couldn’t have a bite if she got hungry at night after working from dawn to dark. Bessie would tell us; she was a friend of my oldest sister. ‘It’s like working in an icehouse,’ she’d say, and we’d all laugh at her stories about the Schillers. They never got a single mite of happiness out of their lives, Carrie. They’d never speak to anyone who didn’t have as much money as they had, or more. Nobody liked them, but our house was full all the time with children, and on Sundays friends would come with fresh pumpkin pies or mince, and there was always a turkey on hand at Christmas, or a goose. And Papa never spared the fires; the boys always kept a lot of firewood ready.”

Caroline smiled slightly, but it was a sober smile. “Do you honestly think all the poor are happy and all the rich miserable, Beth?”

“No, no,” said Beth shaking her head. “I’m not that simple, Carrie. I mean, you can be happy without money and you can be wretched with it. It depends on what kind of a person you are. The Schillers were just awful people, that’s all.” Now she was becoming confused. “Carrie, I just don’t know! But I do know that our family never had any money and we were happy, and maybe we’d have been happier with it. I don’t know!”

“You see,” muttered Caroline.

Beth shook her head emphatically. “I don’t see, Carrie. You read my Bible sometimes. God is no respecter of persons, it says. There’s more to living than money. I’m not educated, Carrie. I can’t think very deep. But I do know that God isn’t interested more in a rich man than a poor one, except He expects more of the rich.”

Beth was perturbed when Caroline gave her a sly golden glance out of the corner of her eye.

“ ‘A rich man’s wealth is his strong city’,” quoted Caroline. “That’s what it says in the Bible. And the Bible classes the poor with the other dead: the blind, the childless, and the lepers.”

Beth sat upright on the bed. “Carrie, the Bible often comments on things as they are in the world. That doesn’t mean that it approves classing the poor, the childless, the lepers, and the blind together as dead. Carrie! I have no children of my own.”

Caroline turned away from her trunk and ran to Beth and knelt down before her and took her hands. “Beth, I’m terrible sorry. Please forgive me. Please — ” And she began to cry. Beth pulled the large head to her breast.

“Carrie, Carrie darling, what is it?” she asked. “What’s hurt my girl? Why, Carrie, you’re all the child I ever wanted. Don’t cry like that; you’ll be sick at your stomach. What’s the matter, Carrie?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Caroline, and clung to her friend with desperate arms. “I wish you were going with me, Beth. I’m awfully afraid.”

Beth sighed and smoothed the coronet of long thin braids. “Yes, dear. I understand. You don’t want to leave home.”

After Caroline had gone and the lonely, empty house thundered with dull far echoes, Beth discovered that the girl had not taken the Bible which she had bought for her three years ago. It was a fine Bible with a black leather cover stamped with gold, and Caroline’s name had been engraved on it, also in gold, and the pages were of thin silky India paper and the small print clear and sharp. It had cost Beth a whole month’s wages. Beth wrapped it up carefully and sent it to Boston to Caroline. The girl never opened the package. She put it away in her tin trunk. It was found forty years later, the leather moldering away, the pages matted, the gold obliterated, and what had cost Beth so much in love and money was thrown out.

“You’re a difficult girl,” said Cynthia Winslow to her niece. “There was a time when I thought you had the disposition of your mother. You don’t look like Ann, of course, but you did have many of her traits of character. I must have been mistaken after all; children change. You’re seventeen, Caroline.”

“I can’t help it if I’m not stylish, Aunt Cynthia,” said Caroline sulkily. She looked at the portrait of her aunt and her mother.

“We aren’t talking about the same things,” said Cynthia with pettishness. “Dear me, Caroline. You are becoming more like your father every day. You are stiff like him and cold and too silent, and you keep yourself from any contact with people. Why? No one has ever hurt you, to my knowledge, to make you so distrustful and withdrawing. If you’d been hungry or homeless or lost or beaten or brought up in some dreadful slum, then I could understand. Dear me. I thought I was a very perspicacious person and understood people. But now I am beginning to think I’m really a fool and don’t understand anyone at all.”

She was exasperated. Her long and delicate hands were folded together on her blue velvet lap. She looked more Florentine than ever before, cool, polished, and chiseled, in her forty-first year. Her hairdresser came once a week to arrange her bright hair and to instruct her maid; if he brought a tint to conceal any gray, the maid never betrayed that fact to the other servants.

There were no lines in her long porcelain neck, no wrinkles about her pink lips. The smoky color of her eyes was as ardent as ever.

“What is it you want to know about me, Aunt Cynthia?” asked Caroline. She looked at her aunt warily.

“I don’t want to know anything, Caroline. What a person is, is God’s business and his own. But I do wish you’d be more cordial to the girls in your school. You’ve been going there two years, yet you never invite them here. Why can’t you laugh more? You’re a young lady, and though you say you aren’t stylish and I must admit that your figure could be improved — what a pig you are about chocolates and bonbons! — you do have a nice face when you smile, and your eyes are simply beautiful. Your complexion is sallow. That comes of being burned brown every summer at Lyme. Why don’t you go home to Lyndon more often? You used to count the days to the weekends, but in the last year you’ve never wanted to go there, and you hardly read poor Beth’s letters and hardly ever answer them. Never mind. I am, in a way, talking to myself and wondering. You must have your reasons, and I never pry.

“But I am interested in your making the best of yourself. I made your father give you a generous allowance. You could dress well, and a little restraint over the sweetmeat dishes would do wonders for your figure, even though your bones are broad and heavy. But you are tall enough and broad enough to be imposing. You could have presence. But what sort of clothes do you insist upon? Ugly dull browns, which call attention to your freckles; dark blues, which make you appear more sallow than you are; maroons fit only for old ladies. And your boots! Like a stableboy’s.”

“I’d look foolish in ruffles and fluffs and bangles,” said Caroline. She looked at the diamond bracelet on her aunt’s arm. Cynthia had told her that John Ames had given her the bracelet when she had adopted Melinda.

“I don’t mean such things,” said Cynthia. “They aren’t for you. But you could wear pleasant colors. You could be statuesque in the proper shaping and style of your clothes. Impressive. Even your father complains.”

Caroline, who was bored and resentful at this lecturing, became interested, “What does Papa want me to do?” she asked eagerly.

“He wants you to look like a young lady who will inherit a tremendous amount of money,” said Cynthia.

“But there isn’t a tremendous amount of money!” cried Caroline.

Cynthia was taken aback. There was more here, she reflected, than met the eye. She studied Caroline. Then she smiled a little. “Oh yes, my dear, there is an enormous amount of money. Your father is one of the richest men in America. He could buy up half the gentlemen in Boston. He can touch rubbish and it turns to gold. It’s a gift, and a very convenient one, though it must be dull at times.”

Caroline’s eyes glowed as though she had had a message from a lover, and Cynthia frowned.

“But why didn’t Papa ever tell me that, Aunt Cynthia?”

“Possibly because he is afraid you might get extravagant ideas,” said Cynthia dryly.

“Such as you have,” said Caroline with a candor that removed the innocent bite from her words. Cynthia laughed. “Very true,” she agreed. “Your papa is always accusing me of extravagance, as you know, it seems. Dear me, I am a Bostonian born and bred, as was my own papa, but I don’t have the Bostonian’s reverence for money. I consider that vulgar. The really fine and aristocratic families of Boston have disappeared, have gone away, or have been extinguished by poverty or no male heirs. Now we have the merchant princes and an absolute money society; your worth, in Boston, is judged by how much you actually weigh in gold. And what irritable people, and how truly mannerless and brutal! My papa would never have admitted them to our house.

“It’s very odd,” said Cynthia, meditatively looking at her pretty foot and apparently examining it. “The Bostonians adore the English, who at least pretend not to use money as the sole criterion of a man’s worth. But the Bostonians, except for their everlasting and tedious afternoon teas and an affected accent, are not like the English at all, who have manners and graces. There’s nothing so distinguished as a mannerly Englishman, and there’s nothing really so undistinguished as the Bostonian who loves the English and makes very little effort to imitate them.”

Cynthia paused. Caroline was restlessly playing with the wool fringe about her throat. The older woman laughed and shook her head. “My father didn’t really have a tremendous fortune. The clever diminished it very neatly for him. But he never let anyone know! He was of a great and gentle family, and he was very intelligent, and he loved his daughters. So he pretended to be extremely rich, knowing his neighbors, and he let them pretend to him that they admired family background. You see, he was kind, too, and he was sorry for them.”

She looked at Caroline briskly. “But here we are in Boston, and there are the Assemblies to consider and your presentation at a proper tea. I know your father doesn’t consider them important; there are times when I believe he is an authentic gentleman. Don’t stare that way, Caroline. It’s most disconcerting. What I am trying to say is that you live in Boston, and you will probably spend a great deal of your life here, and if you live in a certain society by your own choice — and it is your father’s choice — you should at least abide by some of their rules even if they appear ridiculous to you. As your father’s heiress you will have considerable importance in Boston, and you will meet young men — Do move back from the fire, my dear. You have suddenly turned a quite fiery red, and your eyes are watering.”

“Excuse me, please,” Caroline muttered, and jumped to her feet and ran heavily out of the room. Cynthia was accustomed to the girl’s sudden awkwardnesses, but they still annoyed her. Only all that money would get her a suitable husband; even then the effort would be formidable. Cynthia sighed, then smiled, thinking of Melinda. Cynthia reached out her beautiful rounded arm and pulled the bell rope, and Melinda came in as at a signal.

Cool and sunny spring wind had brightened Melinda’s cheeks, had ruffled the pale ashen gold of her hair, had made her gray eyes brilliant. She was a most beautiful child of nearly seven with a tender pink mouth, a dimpled white chin, and a forehead of touching purity. All her actions were graceful; she was grave by nature, but when she laughed everyone listened. She ran to Cynthia and kissed her and put her chilly cheek against Cynthia’s and murmured lovingly and wordlessly in her ear. Cynthia forgot the elegance of her dress and pulled the child on her knee and kissed her passionately. The resemblance between them was remarkable.

Though many frequently spoke of the child’s lack of ‘background’ — and this was spoken of the most frequently by those who had no true background at all but only one invented after the acquisition of money — all loved Melinda, the nameless, the adopted, who had lived for nearly four years in a very exclusive ‘home’ called ‘Miss Christie’s Nursery and Children’s Shelter’ much esteemed in Boston. It was not entirely an orphanage, though many of the children were of old and impoverished families. Boston society felt itself obligated to help care for these children, offspring of lifelong friends, and very often adopted them later or made themselves responsible for their higher education and ‘good’ marriages. Others were truly nameless but well financed from mysterious sources abroad as well as in Boston. It was a never-ending source of spirited conversation as to whom these children could really claim as parents, but tact and certain discretions did not permit of any real probings. Melinda was one of these children. Miss Christie, if she had sealed records, never mentioned them. Her high cold serenity when referring to ‘her’ children intimidated even the most curious and malevolent. Her standards were meticulous and inflexible, so few had any dubiousness when adopting a nameless child of unknown parentage.

Cynthia Winslow was on the Board which assisted the home, as were many of her friends. (But even the Board never had access to Miss Christie’s sealed files.) She had ostensibly first seen Melinda when the child was three years old. She adopted her a year later. “I could not resist the darling,” she had said to her friends with tears in her eyes. Others had wished to adopt Melinda, but in some way, never disclosed, John Ames had secured the child for Cynthia. Miss Christie answered no questions.

Timothy Winslow, to everyone’s surprise, loved Melinda. It was quite unusual for a young man approaching eighteen to care for a child, and especially one adopted by his mother. Timothy was called ‘aristocratic’ by his mother’s friends, with the after-remark ‘that of course it was to be expected, with the Esmond and Winslow blood’. No one particularly liked Timothy, in spite of the ‘blood’, for his monetary prospects were poor and he was at the mercy of his uncle’s well-known aversion to spending money. Moreover, he had a silent personality and a look of perpetual but polite disdain which others, while affecting to admire, found annoying.

It was one of the major delights of Cynthia’s day when Melinda returned from Miss Stockington’s. She carefully recorded in her memory any unusual remarks the child would make so as to repeat them to John Ames, who would listen to them and smile. Only Cynthia and Melinda knew how much he loved this graceful and beguiling child.

“Tell me, darling,” said Cynthia today as she smoothed Melinda’s curls, “did anything interesting happen at school?”

“Everything,” replied Melinda with enthusiasm. “Miss Stockington has the very first hyacinths. Ours are just green leaves; she puts glass jars over them when they first push up. Why don’t we do that, Mama?”

“I like things in their season,” said Cynthia, smiling. “Why hurry them? They know better than we do when they are ready.”

She looked over her shoulder at the long windows leading to her narrow garden. The crab apples were still chill and empty of the many-colored blossoms they would display in a few weeks; sun lay golden on the branches of the maple tree, and its buds were like small and wrinkled garnets, darkly red in the wide spring light.

Melinda chatted softly. It was a sweet and murmurous sound to Cynthia. John Ames had wanted a governess for Melinda, but Cynthia insisted upon Miss Stockington’s. “I am not bringing up a recluse like Caroline,” she would say, and her large eyes would become less smoky and take on the hard brightness of an implacable stare. When Cynthia looked at him that way John always retreated.

The child, who liked to please others, not to gain their approval, but because she was instinctively tender, talked to Cynthia about some ‘new’ children from New York whom she had met at Papanti’s dancing school. They were nice, said Melinda, but only two of them could be called First Families. “Their grandfathers came from Boston,” said the child.

“Truly?” murmured Cynthia, abstracted. She was examining Melinda’s profile. The profile was exactly like her sister Ann’s, and Melinda had Ann’s gentle spirit and great sympathy even at this early age.

“The others are only rich,” said Melinda.

“That should not stand against them in Boston,” said Cynthia wryly. “It depends, of course, just how rich they really are. Or if they have committed the unpardonable sin of having anything else but an English ancestry.”

Melinda was puzzled. She leaned back in Cynthia’s arms to look at her closely, and Cynthia laughed. “I am a wretched cynic, darling,” she said. “I hope you won’t be. It’s salvation to be a cynic, but it can sometimes be very sorrowful too.”

“What is a First Family, Mama?” asked Melinda.

Cynthia hugged her. “That depends on the locality. In England it has something to do with the Normans; you’ll learn about that later. In France, with the nobility. In Germany, with the high military class. But in Boston it means being rich for two or three generations and never spending your capital, as I do always, and getting richer all the time. And being constipated.”

Melinda blushed vividly. Cynthia was delighted. “Ah, I’ve said an improper word, haven’t I, pet? You see what it means to be a cynic? You are always improper and always at the wrong time, deliberately.”

“Are we First Family, Mama?”

Cynthia shrugged. “My status is in chronic doubt. My ancestry is impeccable — you must ask Miss Stockington what that means — but my finances are deplorable. I am afraid I am a great trial to my friends and occupy a lot of their anxious conversation. Fortunately Uncle John is very rich. Does it matter to you, love, if we are not First Family?”

Melinda considered. She knew she was adopted; she remembered the pleasant years at Miss Christie’s very well. She took her life and all the love which was given her for granted, for she loved in return. “Do you mean, Mama, if we weren’t First Family no one would love us?”

It was on Cynthia’s tongue to say, “Of course they wouldn’t.” But she looked into the eyes so like Ann’s and she could not say it. She kissed Melinda lightly. “No one could help loving you, dear,” she said. “And love makes a first family of anybody.”

Caroline was crying in her room.

She hated this room where she had spent the past few years. It had little color, and this alone would have been offensive to a girl who was moved unbearably by passionate hue and strength of line, and to whom the scarlet flare of trees in the autumn was an exquisite and joyous anguish. The room was excellently proportioned and quite large, and looked out upon a garden which Caroline always thought too pale and restrained, and its walls were of smooth ivory faintly touched with silver at the moldings and along the panels. Caroline, who never spoke of what she felt to anyone except one person, would have preferred walls of a deep and singing yellow, a ceiling of strong blue, and furniture simple and upholstered in intense colors of crimson and green and gold. She disliked the dim Aubusson rug with its muted soft tints; she would have liked a floor of black lacquer strewn with little carpets of absolute luminosity. She had never seen a room such as she imagined, full of light and vigorous color values. But she imagined it with a nostalgia that became agony to her. Everything in this room she occupied was a misery to eyes yearning for ardent vigor and emotion, for graphic affirmation. Its cool bed of neutral wood with its spread hangings of faded blue velvet seemed to suffocate her. Here in Boston she lived in what she believed to be a designedly blanched house in a city of brownness.

Her father wished her to be here. That was enough for her. He appeared to have respect for her Aunt Cynthia, of whom she was afraid and whose wit tortured her spirit and whose humor was beyond her understanding. All that was earthy and powerful in Caroline was repelled by the cool sophistication of Cynthia Winslow which affirmed nothing and denied nothing and regarded raw feeling as something offensive. Cynthia was too civilized, and in many ways too attenuated, for Caroline’s comprehension. Cynthia’s laughter bewildered Caroline, who saw no humor in what Cynthia considered humorous. The older woman’s love of clothing baffled Caroline; what did it matter what one wore? An orange sunset glittering behind black winter trees was surely more important than the proper way of waltzing. Cynthia, with some sardonic wrinkling about her eyes which Caroline never appreciated or even saw, had explained that someday Caroline must ‘take her place’. Caroline had no desire to take any place whatsoever. Had she been articulate enough to tell this to Cynthia, she would have found instant sympathy. But she was not articulate. Between the woman and the girl there lay an area of exasperation bounded by the impassable walls of semantics.