A Prologue To Love (88 page)

“Amy!” he exclaimed. Was it possible that this girl, so calm and poised, was actually the terrified and cringing child he had last seen only a few months ago?

“I had to come,” said Amy, giving him her hand. “I didn’t know until this morning. We were all away in North Carolina and just arrived home a few hours ago. No one told us by letter. I suppose they thought the situation was awkward, or something just as ridiculous. One of the housemaids told us this morning; she’d seen something about Ames in the newspaper, and where he was.” Amy removed her hand. “Ames, you know, is still my husband.”

She looked at the open door anxiously. “How is he? I called Griffith and he only told me that Cousin Caroline had informed him today that Ames was still unconscious.”

“No change,” said John, drawing a chair forward for her. “It takes time, I hear. At least it wasn’t cancer.”

Amy seated herself with grace and composure. “I know. Griffith told me.” Her pretty face saddened. She lifted her mourning veil. She looked at John with straight clear eyes, no longer shy or afraid. “How is Cousin Caroline?”

“Bearing up. You know Mother.”

“Yes,” said Amy thoughtfully. “I do know your mother. My brothers blame her for everything that happened to Daddy. Mama thinks they are ridiculous, and so do I.” She waited a moment, then said, “I love Cousin Caroline dearly. She saved my life. I never knew anything before.”

The soft and hesitating voice was gone. Amy spoke like a woman, a beautiful and assured woman, with the strength of maturity. It was too bad, thought John with sincere regret — which surprised him — that Ames had never known this woman and never would now.

“Oh, Cousin Caroline!” said Amy in a soft voice, and rising. Caroline came into the room, and Amy was shocked at the visible aging, the deathliness, of the other woman. But she went at once to Caroline and put her arms about her neck and kissed her cheek. She wanted to cry, not for Ames, but for Caroline, so broken and slow and old.

“Well, Amy,” said Caroline, and patted the girl’s back.

“I didn’t know until this morning. We were away. As soon as I could, I came,” said Amy. “Do sit down; you look so exhausted. How is Ames?”

Caroline let the girl lead her to a chair. She sat down and closed her eyes, and Amy saw the dry and wrinkled lids, the purplish lips. “He hasn’t recovered consciousness yet,” said Caroline. “I suppose we must just wait. It was very serious.”

“Can’t we have some tea or something for Cousin Caroline?” asked Amy in such a peremptory and rebuking voice that John was startled and ran to the bell like a chastened boy and rang for a nurse.

“And something to eat. Sandwiches and little cakes,” said Amy sternly. “It’s far past noon. I suppose you never thought about it, John.”

Caroline made a dismissing motion. “I don’t want anything, Amy. They asked, but I refused.”

“I’m sure John had an excellent lunch,” said Amy with scorn.

“Now, look here,” said John, coloring.

“At his club. Before he came,” said Amy remorselessly. “Men are very unfeeling and inconsiderate. Well,
did
you have your lunch?”

“What of it?” said John. But again, for the second time, he was ashamed.

“You should have taken care of your mother. You’re all she has just now to depend on.”

When the nurse came in Amy said, “A hot, nourishing soup for Mrs. Sheldon, please. And a hot sandwich. And tea. And some cakes. Perhaps you’d better bring three cups, nurse, please, for all of us.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” said Caroline. But she smiled a little. She patted Amy’s hand.

“For me,” said Amy firmly. “You’ll do it for me. You will?”

“Very well,” said Caroline.

“May I see Ames?” asked Amy.

“They don’t want anyone in the room except his closest — ”

Amy looked at the distant door. “It seems to me that I’m his ‘closest’, too, even if he never knew it. I won’t disturb anyone. I just want to look at him.” She moved to the door, walking smoothly and with her new assurance, and Caroline and John watched her. She went into the room. “Well!” said Caroline, and her deathly color was less, and her usual grim smile was gentler. “There has been a change in the child, hasn’t there?” She seemed amused.

“She’s damned arrogant now if you want my honest opinion,” grumbled John. What had the damned girl said? “You’re all she has just now to depend on.” He looked at his mother coldly. “I should have insisted when you refused your lunch. From now on I think I’ll start to manage things.”

“Do,” said Caroline. But she gave him a sharp glance, conjecturing.

“You probably haven’t eaten for these three days,” said John. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll have my lunch here with you after this.”

His voice was no longer cajoling or pleasing. It was actually and honestly annoyed. “I don’t like snips telling me what to do,” he added, “but I suppose it’s all my fault. But a man sometimes lets women manage him just for the sake of peace.” He squared his shoulders in displeasure and looked his mother in the eye.

It’s too much to hope for, thought Caroline.

Amy came back. She was pale and moved. “Are you sure he is doing well?” she asked of her cousin. “He looks so — emaciated. So still.”

“He is doing well,” said Caroline. “At least his doctor says so. We can expect him to become conscious at any time now. His blood pressure is rising, and his heart is stronger.”

Amy sat down and did not speak. Once her mouth trembled. “Poor Ames,” she said as the nurse entered the room with a lunch cart. “And now, Cousin Caroline, you must start with this good beef broth. John and I” — and she looked at John with a hard expression — “will have to take care of you.”

“You are just like your grandmother Cynthia,” said Caroline, and almost meekly lifted her spoon. “She would take over everything.”

But John, forgetting his dislike, thought she resembled Mimi, who would stand no nonsense, and smiling, he sat down beside his mother. He felt warm and protective, and he decided that women were not too obnoxious after all. He gave Caroline a surreptitious glance, and suddenly she was not formidable any longer, but only a prematurely old woman who needed an adequate, manly protection.

Caroline, in her bedroom near her son, was dreaming. She was talking to a little girl who appeared to be hardly five years old, with her own young eyes, her cheeks rosy, her small mouth serious and listening, her dark curls a vapor on her childish shoulders. Caroline, in her dream, showed the little one a roll of yellow bills. “What is it?” asked the child.

“It is money, Christina,” said Caroline. “A lot of money, darling, a lot of money. Look at it. There are lives in it and all kinds of stupid dreams, and lies, and death and thousands of hopes, and envies and hatreds. There’s war in it, too, but very little peace. The philosophers say it is nothing, but they reach for it. The good say it has no value, but they’d sell their souls for it if the price is high enough. The idealists say it is worthless in itself and can buy nothing, but they are the first to envy the possessors and to hate all those who have it. Look at it. It is only paper. But it can buy a world, and the world is all we know.”

Caroline and the child were in a gray twilight and, it appeared, in a cold open space on a hill. Below them village lights glittered, and there was a hissing sound among old, dead trees. The child reached curiously for the money in Caroline’s hand, took it, examined it. Then she laughed and threw the bills into the air, and suddenly it was summer and the money had turned itself into golden fruit on leafy boughs. “Why, of course,” said Caroline.

Someone was shaking her gently, and she tried to throw off the hand which would lead her from this shining place. She could hear Christina’s laughter; then the child ran to her and kissed her warmly on the cheek. The hand became more insistent and Caroline woke up. A nurse was beside her, and her bed light was lit.

“The doctor is here,” the nurse whispered. “We sent for him. Mr. Sheldon is waking up, the doctor thinks.”

Caroline looked about the pleasant lamplit room and could not move for a moment. She could see her little granddaughter’s face in every corner of the room, the laughing golden eyes, the fluttering of dark hair — her granddaughter who was not yet born. Caroline brought herself heavily from the bed. She pulled on her old brown robe and thrust her feet into slippers and, with her white braids on her shoulders, she went into Ames’ room. Dr. Manz was sitting at the bedside, watching, and a nurse and an intern stood at the foot of the bed.

Ames was moving restlessly and muttering. He lifted his hands aimlessly, then dropped them. Once he touched his bandaged head and groaned. His legs shifted under the covers. Dr. Manz said in a low voice, “There is no paralysis, thanks be to God.” He took one of Ames’ uneasy hands and felt the pulse and nodded with satisfaction. He saw Caroline and stood up, “It is well,” he said cautiously. “But we shall see.”

Caroline stood at the bedside. Ames’ bruised eyelids were quivering; his muttering grew louder. There was distress in it, and impatience, and anger. Once his words were coherent. “I said, don’t touch it! It’s my own; I don’t want other hands on anything that’s mine.”

All the hospital was silent around them, for it was only three o’clock in the morning. Dr. Manz tenderly wiped Ames’ lips with a cloth dipped in water, and he murmured soothingly. He spoke in careful English and quite loudly: “Ames. Ames Sheldon. Wake up, please. Ames!”

But Ames subsided and began his distressful muttering again, and the doctor frowned. He felt the pulse again, and his face took on alarm. Caroline saw this. Her heart was beating with strong, fast, and physical pain. She reached for her son’s hand and held it tightly. “Ames!” she called. “Ames, come home. It’s Mama, Ames.”

She bent and kissed his wet forehead, his twitching cheek. He lay suddenly still. Then, very quietly, with no sound at all, he opened his eyes and looked directly up into his mother’s face. She smiled at him and pressed his hand firmly.

“Why,” he murmured. “Mama, of course.”

“Certainly,” said Caroline briskly. “Now you are all right.” She still held his hand tightly, and he did not try to remove it. His eyes slowly wandered about the room; he saw the doctors and the nurse, and then he frowned.

“Have I had the operation?” he asked in his weak voice.

“Yes,” said Caroline. “And it is all right. It was benign, and you are not going to be blind, and you will be all well in a few weeks.”

His eyes came back to her, and they gleamed a little, as if with amusement. “Mama, you never lied in your life, did you? So I believe you.”

“That’s a compliment,” said Caroline. “But I’m not the only one in the world who tells the truth.”

“Too bad,” said Ames with mock sympathy. “Must be damned uncomfortable.”

But Caroline felt a pressure in her hand; her son was actually pressing it, as if in affection and understanding.

“Now,” said Dr. Manz, “we must sleep. We must sleep very much for several days.”

“Good old boy,” said Ames, He fell asleep suddenly, and the gray face became cool and smooth again.

Dr. Manz took Caroline into the living room. She saw his tiredness and his satisfaction and pride. “Now I can go home, gracious lady,” he said. “I can do no more.” He regarded Caroline with kindness. “It was your love which brought him back; he responded to it.”

“I don’t know,” said Caroline. “I have always thought him incapable of love.”

“No,” said the doctor. “No man is, not even the lost or the mad.”

Melinda came, and Mimi and John. Melinda looked ill and worn, but her sweet gravity lit up her gray eyes when she embraced Caroline and kissed her cheek.

“How terrible it must have been for you, dear Caroline,” she said. “I’d have come before, but I’ve had a little cold, I’m afraid. And how is Ames?”

“He woke up three days ago, as John probably told you. He sleeps almost all the time, but each time he wakes up he is stronger and can speak better.”

John, who always held his young wife’s hand when he was in her company, said, “He’s becoming his old, disagreeable self again. He followed my last case in court in the newspapers, and he asked me how much I had to pay in bribes.” John smiled. “Yes indeed, the Young Master is himself again. You’d think, after all he’s gone through, that there’d be a change for the better.”

“People don’t change very much,” said Caroline. “That’s for fairy tales. But,” she said, looking directly at John, “we can discipline ourselves to be less obnoxious than we are naturally, and eventually being sensible and decent may become a habit.”

“Touche,” said John. He gently released Mimi’s hand, and she smiled at him. Her young body was swollen with her child, and Caroline thought of the Christina who had not yet been born. “It will be a girl — Christina,” said Caroline with her old abruptness.

“We’ve practically decided on the sex,” said John, smiling, and he spoke easily and without his old jealousy. “And the name will be Christina.”

Melinda had sat down, and Caroline could see her pallor and weakness. Now she resembled their father, and Caroline felt pain and deep sorrow. Melinda smiled at her. “I think it’s a lovely name,” she said.

“You must take care of yourself,” said Caroline.

Melinda was startled. “I beg your pardon, Caroline? Oh, myself. I’ve just had a little cold, and now I have a cough. The children are leaving tomorrow, but I am here, you know. I will call you at least once a day and will come when I can.”

Caroline looked at Mimi, and the girl was looking at her mother. She knows, thought Caroline. But she is strong; she is already accepting whatever there will be to accept. Caroline said, “I’ve always thought of Mary as my daughter.”

Amy came, as she did every day, but she had not yet seen Ames. She sat with Caroline, talking gently and peacefully. She said, “Mama will come when Ames can have regular visitors. She wants to see you more than anyone else, though, Cousin Caroline.”

“Your mother,” said Caroline, “is a very sensible woman. I hope her children appreciate it.”

Amy smiled. “Mama manages everything now, since — Even the boys are afraid of her.”

“Love can be as crippling, many times, as hate,” said Caroline with her old brusqueness. “Unless it is judicious as well as accepting and doesn’t demand everything. And doesn’t keep its hands pressed blindly over its eyes. Love, too, has its victims.”

She added with authority, “I wish everyone understood that.”

Amy reflected on this. “You know,” she said at last, “I was a damned fool. I ought to have known better. I may see Ames now if he’s awake?”

“He’s awake,” said Caroline, and the old grim smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “In fact, he’s probably listening to us. Go to see him, Amy.”

Amy walked into Ames’ room. He was indeed awake. “Well, child wife,” he said, “how nice of you to visit your husband.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Amy calmly. She sat down near his bed. “I really don’t know how you survived all this. You didn’t deserve it. But only the good die young, I’ve heard.”

“Well, well,” said Ames from his high pillows. He scrutinized her. “Is this really Amy, this gracious young lady with all that damned serenity and poise and Old Boston restraint?”

“It certainly is,” said Amy. “I’m so restrained and dignified that I don’t need corsets to keep me rigid.” She cocked her pretty head at him humorously. “I wonder what I ever saw in you, darling Ames,” she said. “You are really despicable, you know. Like a mean little boy. And I wonder why I was ever afraid of you. By the way,” she said, “I went to the apartment. Griffith informed me that you had thoughtfully taken the key to your treasure house with you, and I thought everything would be very dusty. So I called in a locksmith and he made me a set of keys, and I spent two evenings washing up all those little knickknacks of yours so they’d be quite splendid and shining when you went home.”

Ames frowned at her with his old coldness. “You had the audacity?”

“Oh, I have plenty of audacity these days,” said Amy. “I’m audacious all over the place. My beaus just love it, though, of course, since Daddy’s death we go out very seldom. But that will all end by next summer, and in the meantime I’m taking inventory. Our divorce will come through in December, you know. We plan a quiet celebration at home. With a birthday cake and candles.”

Ames flushed. “Do drink a glass of your damned cheap sherry for me, won’t you? Your father thought he was a connoisseur, but he wasn’t, you know.” His voice was gently vicious. “In fact, he was all plebe, in spite of his airs.”

“Was he?” asked Amy with smiling indifference. “I didn’t notice.”

Ames was annoyed. Amy was out of the reach of his little barbs and delicate insults. “I suppose,” he said, “that just as soon as possible you’ll be marrying again?”

“I wouldn’t for the life of me remain single,” said Amy with a smirk that goaded him. “And by the way, I’ve just visited a specialist in New York. They have discovered a way to cure me, and it’s very successful in most cases. I intend to have at least six children when I marry again, and I’ll love them and beat them regularly, as you should have been beaten when you were a child.”

“Why did you wash up my collections? And I hope to God your clumsy hands didn’t chip any!” He sat up a little higher on his pillows, and there was fire in his eyes.

Amy considered. She put a gloved finger to her lips and looked both arch and serious, and Ames wanted to slap her. She said, “I suppose it was all my solid-gold good heart. I knew how you slavered over them — ’’

“Slavered!” Ames shouted.

“A vulgar word, but the only one that fits,” said Amy. “No, I didn’t chip any. They’re really exquisite, and I love them. You never knew that, did you? I belong to the Tuesday Club, and I gave serious thought to inviting the ladies to view your collections, at so much a lady, the proceeds to go to charity.”

“Go to hell,” said Ames.

“I think not,” said Amy. Her eyes were dancing. “I think I’m going to have a very nice and pleasant life from this time on. When I have my own home again I’m going to be mistress in it. I am going to choose the rugs and the draperies and the furniture. It won’t be much different from your apartment, dear boy, because you really have excellent and impeccable taste.”

“I suppose,” said Ames, “that you have already picked out your victim?”

“Come to think of it, I have,” Amy said.

“I hope he’ll find you more interesting that I did,” he said.

“Indeed. I’m a much more interesting person day by day, dear boy. There were too many oppressive men in my life, Daddy and you.”

“Too bad I didn’t die,” said Ames. “Then you’d be a merry widow instead of a tarnished divorcee.”

“There’s no tarnish on me at all,” said Amy, “I never took money to marry anyone; I’ll not consider money when I marry.”

Ames grunted. He scrutinized her again. She seemed older, and more mature, and a grand lady, and not the cringing little Amy he had known who had exasperated him. She was a woman who would never again piteously demand kisses and love but would casually accept them if they came. If both were temperate, that would please her just as well.

“I find you a little interesting now, but not very much,” said Ames. “I think you’ve become conceited, and I always hated conceited women.”

“Does it matter what you think about me?” asked Amy reasonably. “As acquaintances and relatives, if not friends, and soon to be not even husband and wife, don’t you think you should be more polite? Not that I care, knowing how venomous your politeness always is.”

“Have you been back to finishing school to learn how to be a woman instead of an infant?”

“Indeed, yes. Your mother was my first teacher. I’m so grateful to dear Caroline. And then my mother became my teacher; she’s so sensible, you know. But I really think I did my own teaching. I developed self-respect, I also inherited a lot of money from poor Daddy. He had indicated in his will that I would inherit that money only if I had left you at the time of his death. Otherwise, not a penny. Dear Daddy. He did know all about you, didn’t he, darling boy?”

“Blood will tell,” said Ames. “I suppose you count your bankbooks daily.”

“There is nothing so interesting,” said Amy, “as bankbooks. I recommend them for everybody. But I am doing a lot of investing too. The stock market is really fascinating.”

“Blood will tell,” Ames repeated.

“I do hope so,” said Amy piously. “Well, I have stayed long enough, haven’t I? Do get well soon. Do you like those yellow roses I sent you?”

“Yes,” said Ames sullenly. “You remembered at least one thing about me, didn’t you? That I like yellow roses.”