“What?” she muttered, and then swallowed. Then she cried out, “What? What did you say?”
“Good God,” replied Timothy. “Is the idea so horrible to you? I’m your son, remember? You never liked me, but I never thought I was repulsive enough for you to hate. I’m sure you love me, in your way. Didn’t you hear me? I love Melly. I can support her in even your extravagant style, even without her own money. I will give her anything she wants.” As the expression on his mother’s face became even more startling, he almost began to plead. “Don’t talk about the difference in our ages; it doesn’t matter to us. We’ve spoken of it often, knowing that it might disturb you. It shouldn’t. Mother? Are you listening?”
She stood up and caught the back of the chaise lounge as she retreated from him. He also stood up. Then he remembered what Caroline had said to him, and he was sick with the very first awful dread he had ever known. But he tried to smile.
“Why are you running away from me? Do watch out; that window behind you is wide open. Oh, for God’s sake, Mother! Calm yourself. I’m not the scoundrel you think I am; if you had ever taken the time to learn about me you’d even have liked me. I really love Melly; I never loved anyone else.
I promise you solemnly I’ll be good to her and take care of her and cherish her and all the other things. I promise you; I’ll swear it to you, if that’ll help.”
Then Cynthia whispered dryly, “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, dear, dear God!” She put her hands to her face and stood there, trembling.
“Please don’t be dramatic.” Timothy tried to speak reassuringly. He took a few steps toward his mother. “Melly loves me. This isn’t something new. We’ve talked about it for years. Now she’s eighteen. We want to be married. With your consent or without it. We made up our minds, you see, long ago. I am taking her home.”
Cynthia dropped her hands. Wrinkles had webbed her face; her eyes had sunk. She put one hand to her throat.
She whispered, as though her voice had been taken away from her, “You can’t marry Melinda, Timothy. You can’t marry her. Don’t even speak of it. In the name of God, I beg you, don’t even speak of it!” She took a step toward him, and he waited. Then she flung out her arms distractedly, “Timothy! Don’t even speak of it!”
“Why?”
She was silent. They stood and looked at each other, Timothy pale and relentless, Cynthia shivering.
“I should have told you,” she said at last, humbly, brokenly. “Oh, Timothy, I should have told you! But I was thinking of Melinda; I always thought of her first. I never wanted her to know; I never wanted anyone to know. I took such care. Timothy! I can’t bear it for you to look at me like that! I’m your mother, and I can’t bear it!”
She was staring at him, not only with horror, but with anguished pity and love.
“Is it something about Melly’s background or family?” He tried to smile contemptuously.
She thought, then said in a broken voice, as if some hope had been given her. “Yes, yes! It is that. And so you can’t marry her.”
“I thought all the records at that orphanage were sealed.” He was convinced that his mother’s objection was not her objection to him, personally, after all, and he could really smile. “But I suppose you found out. Were Melly’s parents idiots or criminals or hanged, or something? It doesn’t matter. You only have to look at Melly to know her for what she is herself. Mother, I swear that Melly’s background means nothing to me. I love her too much.”
He waited, but she did not answer him. Long slow tears ran down her face. Over and over, she shook her head.
“You didn’t think Melly not fit to marry some nobleman’s son here, Mother. Why do you think she isn’t good enough for me?”
She appeared to diminish before his eyes, to become bent and withered and ancient. “Believe me,” she said, and her voice was whispering again, “you can’t marry her. If I’d ever have thought — I’d have told you, Timothy, long ago. But I thought you loved Melinda as your sister. Your adopted sister. That was all.”
He put his hands in his pockets and looked at her narrowly.
“Well, I don’t love her as my sister. I love her as a woman, as the girl I am going to marry in spite of everything. You can’t stop us.”
He remembered all at once that Caroline had had a similar reaction to his announcement. “Caroline said I couldn’t marry Melly, either. What is it? I have a right to know.”
“Caroline said that?” Cynthia cowered against the back of the lounge. “Caroline — knows?”
“Apparently. She told me that she couldn’t tell me, that it was up to you to tell me. Tell me!” His voice rose viciously. “I’ve got to know!”
Cynthia was even more stricken. She looked about her wildly, as if looking for a place to hide, to bury herself, to forget. Then she pressed her hands to her cheeks and resumed her fearful litany: “Oh, God. Oh, God.”
“Tell me,” said Timothy.
Cynthia’s body shriveled in her wide white robe. She looked down at the pretty carpet which covered the floor. She faltered, “She’s your adopted sister. There’s a law — ”
“Nonsense,” he said, recovering some of his surety again. “I’m a lawyer. And I’m not a Catholic and neither is Melly, and the impediment of a kind of consanguinity doesn’t apply to us. I can tell you in full honesty, that there is no law in America which prevents me from marrying Melly. None. Well?”
“You don’t understand!” Her voice was a thin wail. “Why, it would be a kind of — incest!”
“Oh,” he began impatiently. “Incest! Have you lost your mind, Mother?’’
The soft evening wind blew out the brocade curtains of the window, and they seemed to wrap themselves about Cynthia, as if to protect and hide her. She clung to the folds desperately to hold herself upright. She looked at Timothy, and then her head dropped on her breast, and she only stood there.
She became aware, in her torment and her sickness, that a long time had passed in silence. Her head felt as heavy as a stone; she had enormous difficulty in raising it. And then when she saw the terribleness of her son’s face she fell back again.
“Dear, dear Mama,” he said softly. “Would it be incest?”
She folded her arms in the draperies and held them to her breast. She could not look away from him. But she said, as if expiring, “Yes, Timothy. Yes.”
And then, “Forgive me, Timothy. Forgive me.”
“Who is her father, dear Mama?”
His voice was still soft, and she lifted her face and closed her eyes and could not answer.
Again there was silence in that pretty room, and the wind rose and a night bird cried.
“Why, that was a foolish question, wasn’t it?” said Timothy. “Her father was John Ames. John Ames. I just remembered. You were his mistress for a long time. You were, and are, a trumpery woman, dear Mama.”
“Oh, Timothy,” she said, and her tears began again. “Oh, forgive me. I’d rather have died than told you. I love you, Timothy.”
He did not move. He, too, looked old. His hands were clenched.
“And Melinda,” she murmured. “Poor child. Poor children. What can I do? What can I do now to help both of you?”
“It’s very simple,” he said. “It won’t really matter to you, Mama. You will laugh about it in a few days; I know you. It will be a joke between you and your husband. How you will laugh in your pretty way. You can tell Melly yourself, like the good sweet mother of both of us.”
He paused, then said, “But wouldn’t this be better? I’ll tell Melly myself.”
She started toward him, but he flung out his arm. She stopped and cried, “You can’t do that, Timothy! You said you loved her. You can’t break her heart by telling her and shaming her. You wouldn’t do that to Melinda, would you? Oh, God, you wouldn’t!”
“She’d hate you,” he said meditatively. “Yes, she’d hate you. And that’s what you deserve.”
“You’d kill her, Timothy! You’d really kill her!
I’m all she has. You would even take that away from her, because you hate me. Hate me, I deserve it. But don’t hurt Melinda. Don’t hurt my child.”
“You’ve hurt her. You’ve destroyed her, dear Mama. You’ve destroyed me too.”
He tried to breathe against the choking desolation in his throat and the dreadful loss he was suffering, and the hatred. He thought of Melinda waiting to hear even now what his mother had to say, waiting for him to knock on her door and tell her. “Melinda,” he said aloud. “Melly.” He still could not think of her as his sister. He could only think of leaving her, of never seeing her again, of never having her for his wife. She had wanted to come with him tonight to his mother, to be with him when he told Cynthia. What had made him refuse? What had made him say he must see his mother alone? “Melly,” he said again.
“Timothy,” his mother cried.
He turned away from her. He spoke in a flat dull voice. “I won’t tell her. I couldn’t, not even to do to you what you’ve done to us. If only you’d told me when she was a child. But that was beyond you; you had to hug it all gleefully to yourself. I can’t tell Melly, and you can’t, either. I can see that. Yes, I can see that. She’s waiting in her room for me to come to her. She’s waiting.”
He went to the door. “I’m going to the inn in the village. I’ll stay there overnight and take the first train to London. And you can lie to Melly; you can say whatever you want — that I changed my mind. Anything. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any more.”
Lord Halnes, who was reading comfortably in bed in his large cool bedroom, heard a tap on his bedroom door and then his wife entered. He looked up smilingly and in welcome, but when he saw her face he stepped out of bed in his long nightshirt and was as disturbed as it was possible for him to be. “Cynthia,” he said. “What is wrong, my dear?”
She stood near his bed and was speechless, so he put his short and pudgy arms about her and forgot that she was taller than he and even forgot, as usual, to stand on his toes when embracing her. Then he drew her to his bed and was shocked to feel how feebly she moved. He put her down gently and sat beside her and picked up her hand, which was cold and lifeless. Then she bent her head and cried soundlessly and shivered. He took his woolen robe and wrapped it about her and waited. Cynthia was no light-minded woman; if she was in this state at almost midnight, then she had experienced some disaster.
“What is wrong?” he demanded more insistently, and rubbed her cold hands.
“Timothy,” she said, and her voice was so low and hoarse that he had to bend his head to hear her.
“Oh?” Lord Halnes frowned but was relieved. He knew Timothy very well; he was certain that so discreet a young man would do nothing very vital to jeopardize his position with his mother and her husband. So Montague’s alarm disappeared. He said almost indulgently, “Why don’t you get into my bed, my dear? It’s warm with hot bottles, and you are so cold.”
But Cynthia did not move. She finally looked up. “He wants to get married,” she began.
Oh, so that was it. Was the young fool about to marry some impossible trollop and make an ass of himself in public? But that was not like Timothy, the fastidious and cool-eyed and exigent. “Who?” asked Lord Halnes.
Cynthia wet her lips. She looked at her husband imploringly. “Melinda,” she whispered.
Lord Halnes dropped her hand and his eyes bulged. “Well,” he said, and then added with rare vulgarity, “That’s a bloody contretemps, isn’t it! Good God.”
Cynthia stared at him dazedly, and then she saw his sympathy and amazement.
“What?” she murmured.
“Do you mean, my dear, that Timothy didn’t know Melinda is his sister?”
Cynthia clutched the nightshirt at his chest with both hands. “Did you know, Montague, did you know?”
He put his fingers over her hands very tightly. “But certainly, my poor love. I knew from the instant I saw the girl that she was your daughter and that her father was poor old Johnny.” He paused. “Is it possible no one else knew? In spite of the resemblance and the circumstances?” He was incredulous.
Cynthia was so relieved that she burst out crying and put her head on her husband’s shoulder. “And you didn’t mind, Montague?”
He patted her cheek tenderly. “Certainly not, dear Cynthia. Do you mean that you thought I didn’t know and were afraid that I’d find out someday? What you must have suffered and feared. Yet I thought that you knew I knew.”
“Oh, Montague,” she cried, and he tried to comfort her. Now she could speak coherently and tell him of the interview between herself and Timothy, and as she spoke his expression became menacing, though he continued to smooth her wet cheek. That damned young rascal, to speak so to his mother, to Lady Halnes! When Cynthia had finished he held her to him and thought. Then he asked, “You haven’t talked with Melinda yet? You must do so at once, since she’s waiting. And I’ll have a word with Timothy myself.”
He paused and considered. “You know, it might have been best not to say anything, Cynthia. After all, the Egyptian chaps, all the Pharaohs, married their sisters. It was the law. Full sisters, too. Well, don’t shudder. The truth might have come out someday when real damage had been done through a marriage. Let me give you a little brandy before you speak to Melinda. I don’t think she should know the truth; no, I truly do not. You must be very inventive and very calm, my poor girl.”
He gave her a glass of brandy, and she humbly kissed his fingers before taking the glass from him. He touched her gently on the head, put on his robe, and went to Timothy’s room. He found that Timothy had packed a valise and was ready to go.
He was not particularly moved by Timothy’s controlled but very apparent suffering. He shut the door behind him and said, “Were you thinking of walking to the village inn at midnight, three miles away, Timothy?”
“Then you know,” said the young man.
“Certainly, I always knew. I am surprised that a man like you didn’t know all the time. What blind eyes you have. Now, concerning that inn and that walk, for of course you haven’t rung for a carriage?”
Timothy sat down on the bed as if exhausted. “No,” he said. “It isn’t a long walk; I don’t want to disturb anyone, and it’s all downhill.” He looked at Lord Halnes and could not keep the gleam of hatred from his eyes. “You knew all the time and you never told me.”
“Why should I have? Did you take me into your confidence? I do admit now that I should have been suspicious of your obvious affection for Melinda all these years, knowing you as I do. A man of your kidney doesn’t love anyone merely for family reasons; had you had a brother or a sister you had known as your sister, you would most probably have hated them and considered them impediments to your own fortune and inheritances. Yes, I should have been suspicious.”
He paused. “I have no intention of providing you with a carriage. I also have no intention of permitting you to create scandal in the village by appearing past midnight with your luggage. You are not going to cause tongues to wag about your mother. And about me. Is that understood?”
“Are you threatening me?” asked Timothy, roused from his sick apathy.
“Of course I am, if you wish to be so blunt. And I don’t threaten weakly. I can ruin you. I will certainly ruin you forever, my dear boy, if you do anything rash tonight. I think you will consider that, for you are no fool. I say this in warning, so that you will never scandalize your mother’s name, anywhere, or at any time. Again, is that understood?”
Timothy was silent. Lord Halnes smiled coldly. “It isn’t that I do not sympathize with you,” he said. “But you are a man, after all, and not a whining girl or a child. What is done is done, and there will be no revenge for you.”
He waited, but Timothy said nothing. The young man’s fair hair gleamed in the lamplight. Lord Halnes said, “There is a morning train to London at half-past seven. You will spend what is left of tonight in this house, then a carriage will be ready for you at the door at seven; b
efore that you will be served breakfast in your room. You will indicate to the coachman — confound servants! — that you are needed urgently in London, at once. Good night.” He hesitated, then held out his hand to Timothy. Timothy looked at the warm plump hand, that most powerful hand. And so he shook hands with his stepfather.
“Good night,” Lord Halnes repeated. “I assure you I am sorry, but often things like this cannot be helped.” He looked at Timothy again. “I prescribe a stiff drink of brandy. Ring for it.”
Never in her life had Cynthia been so devastated as she slowly crept to Melinda’s room and saw that there was light under the girl’s door. She had seen her beloved parents dead and had thought she would never suffer so again; she had lost a husband, and then, much more agonizing, John Ames. Yet all that was nothing to what she was enduring now. Three times she lifted her hand to knock on the door, and three times her hand fell down helplessly. But she must have made some sound, some catch of the breath, for the door was flung open eagerly and Melinda stood there, the light shining in her hanging curls, her beautiful face smiling. When she saw her mother the smile disappeared, and her eyes opened wide and she felt disaster. She stood aside, and Cynthia moved into the light and pretty room, found a chair, and fell into it silently.