“I don’t care what you think, Carrie. But I am thinking of Beth and all that Beth means. And I’m thinking of the way you won’t have anything to do with your family, and especially with Alfred Bothwell’s wife, Melinda, who never hurt you.”
(The storm howled about them and shook them, but Caroline was the girl who had first seen her aunt in her father’s arms, in warm lamplight, and she was hearing Cynthia’s soft, seductive voice. And she herself was betrayed.)
“Listen,” she whimpered. “Please listen.”
“What you have, Carrie, in money means nothing to me. It never did. What is money? You gave your life to it, just as your father did. You’re nearly forty, and you worship money and put all your humanity in it, as if it meant anything at all.”
(She was the young Caroline crouching on the dirty floor of Fern and Son, robbed, beaten, dragged, thrown down.)
“Listen,” she sobbed, and shrank back from him. “You don’t know what money means to me, Tom.”
“Yes, I do,” he said in a hard voice above the storm. “It means your life, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes. But not the way you think. Please listen.”
One of her hands clutched him again, and he pushed it off, not feeling its icy wetness. “I’m going in,” he said. “And you’d better too. Doctors cost money, you know.” He paused. “You’ve even made our house ugly and dirty because it costs money to keep a house clean. You’ve bought all those expensive pictures, but you keep them locked away and hide the key. Why, Carrie, why?”
(She was the young girl who had sat in the woods near the old house in Lyndon in the autumn, with the trees fiery about her and the sky brilliant through and above them, and there was a scarlet ribbon in her hand.) “They’re mine,” she said, her voice rough and hoarse. (They were hers, secret and loved, and they loved her in return, and she was not alone but was communicating in fullness with beauty and tenderness.)
“Yes, everything’s yours, Carrie. Everything. But not everything now. You can have your money. That’s where your treasure is, as the Bible says.”
(But her treasure was in love, and there was no love and no security now.) “Why don’t you listen?” she said. “Let’s go in and I’ll try to tell you.” Her voice died away futilely.
“You don’t have anything to tell me any longer, Carrie.”
He stood apart from her, and there was no love, no concern, no softening on his face. Her thin slippers had sunk into the wet sand; a wavelet of the incoming tide dashed over her ankles. He said, “You hate people. You always did. I don’t know why. Maybe you think that friendship will cost you a little cash. You never give anything to charity. You care for no one but yourself. And your money.”
(She was beating again on the doctor’s door, and then the doctor was there and she was pulling at his sleeve and he was resisting her and regarding her with scorn and detestation because he thought she had no money to pay for help for her dying father. She heard the last echoes of the clanging of his doorbell.)
“You can’t live without money!” she cried. “They’ll let you die, without money! They’ll let you die!”
“You let Beth die, and you had money enough to give her a little ease at the last, but you didn’t. She died all alone.”
(But her father had not died all alone. She had been with him, and there were tall kind women in white with cowls about their faces. They had helped her through those terrible days. She felt again their gentle hands, the comforting of their arms. She had forgotten. She must remember them — today — tomorrow.)
“I forgot,” she mourned, and clasped her freezing hands together piteously. “I’m so sorry. I forgot. I should have remembered.”
“It’s too late now,” said Tom, and he turned away from her and slogged through the wet sand of the shingle to the sea walk and the house. (He was her father, leaving her forever, forgetting her, and she uttered so terrible a cry that Tom was struck, and he looked back at her.)
“Come in, Carrie,” he said uncertainly. The faint gray light lay on her face, and he was horrified at its expression, its blindness, its complete agony.
(But there was no place for her to go any longer. There had really never been any place to go. There was only a dark wilderness in the world, and she was all alone.)
That night she moved from their bedroom into a ‘guest’ chamber which had never sheltered any guest, and she never returned. She was alone as she had never been alone before. She began to spend long hours in her gallery, looking at her grandfather’s paintings, and only there, walking from one to another, did she feel communication and understanding. Tom later tried to reach her, but it was impossible. She had mistrusted him earlier with regard to money, but now she mistrusted his love, on which she had leaned and by which she had been warmed and consoled. The wall had been broken; the fire had been quenched. She loved him but did not feel that he loved her. He had left her, and though he had half carried her to the house on that dreadful morning and had dried her hands and her hair and her face tenderly, she never again believed in his love, never again believed that he was truly, warmly concerned about her. She confronted the world alone, and all the terrors in it.
As for Tom, he was stricken by Caroline’s coldness, her shrinking, the way she averted her face and head when he approached her, her silence, her indifference. She did not speak to him of her affairs after that day; she showed no interest in his. He prayed for her, and often he would stand at her closed bedroom door. She had shut him out; she had left him. He loved her, but she had left him. It was not his fault that he could not hear her weeping, for she cried silently, as the lost cry, as the abandoned mourn.
Chapter 6
Mr. Tandy walked very rapidly into Mr. Swift’s office, and his old face was tense with consternation. He held a letter in his hand. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Has Caroline Ames gone mad or become a Roman? Look at this! She has ordered me to send a cashier’s check for — this enormous sum! — every year, to something called the Sisters of Charity in Boston! And she’s adding a codicil to her will to make it perpetual as long as her estate exists! Good heavens! She never gave anything to charity before, though there’s Phillips House, the Humane Society, the Boston Park Commission, and a dozen other proper charities! And listen to this from her letter: ‘The Sisters are never to know the donor’. She was circumspect in that, at least!”
A few days before Christmas the new young priest of St. John the Baptist Church in Boston walked through his warm and silent church, smiling here and there at a young boy or girl kneeling before an altar or at an old woman saying her beads or a tired man sitting with his hands folded on his knees. The yellow candlelight flowed and bent a little; the door boomed its echoes along the nave; the Gothic ceiling trembled and moved with the faint sunlight that filtered through high stained windows; the crucified Man dropped His head above His altar; the statues, in that fragile illumination, seemed to stir behind their candles. It was silent and peaceful, pervaded by the ghost of incense, by all the thousands of prayers which had been whispered here, and by the Most Holy Presence.
A woman was sitting alone, with empty pews all about her, and there was something in her aspect, her rigidity, which made the priest hesitate and then pause near her. She was staring at the crucifix, and her hands were clenched tightly on her large and ugly purse. She was like one in catalepsy; she was not praying and seemed hardly to breathe, and the priest could see her eyes shimmering in the soft gloom, empty eyes like glass. She was evidently a poor woman, for her clothing was black and unfashionable, though neat and severe, and her black buttoned boots showed cracks under the polish. She wore a black bonnet in the style of at least fifteen years ago, and her gloves were black. But she had dignity. She reminded the young priest of his Aunt Marie, who had lived in Cincinnati until she died when he was still a child. He had been fond of Aunt Marie, a widow, and proud and poor, who had been a seamstress and had known the bitterness of sorrow and loss and privation.
The priest genuflected, then slipped quietly into the pew beside the woman. She did not appear to notice him. She was still staring emptily at the crucifix, her eyes unblinking. Again the priest hesitated; he saw one tear run down her broad cheek, then drop onto the plain black of her winter coat.
“Is there something wrong?” he whispered. “May I help?”
She did not move for several moments, and he had just come to the conclusion that she was either absorbed in some awful agony that had deafened her to the human voice or she had not heard him, when she stiffly turned her head toward him. She regarded him silently, no expression on her features, and he was startled at the clear yellowish gleam of her eyes.
“Something wrong?” he whispered gently.
She shook her head. She did not move, yet he had the impression that she had shifted away from him.
“Are you sick?”
Again she shook her head.
‘Won’t you let me help you?” he insisted.
Her face changed, and he saw that she was not as old as he had believed and that she still had some youth. Again he thought of his aunt, who had, years ago, received the news that she was losing her sight and would soon be blind. His aunt had sat so, immobile in her tiny hot little parlor, too stunned to speak, too anguished with her thoughts. The priest put his young hand on this woman’s shoulder impulsively and said again, “Won’t you let me help you?”
Her big pale lips parted, and her throat trembled, as if trying to reply. The priest glanced again at her black clothing and said, “Are you a widow?”
A widow. Yes, she was a widow, she thought. She could finally speak, but only in a hoarse, far whisper. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Her tone, her words surprised the priest, and he looked more keenly at her. She had not spoken like a poor and ignorant woman, but like a lady of family and substance.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I will pray that you will be comforted.”
Again her face changed, and he saw the dark shadow of bitterness on it.
“Please don’t bother,” she said. “There is no comfort for me any longer; there never was; there never will be.”
“There is comfort here,” said the priest earnestly. “God never forgets His children.”
She smiled very slightly. She stood up and he stood up also, and she passed him and did not bend her knee at the end of the pew. She marched solidly toward the door, and he watched her go, her black skirts swishing about her, her back rigid. The door boomed behind her as she opened and closed it.
It snowed heavily and wetly just before Christmas, dropping down in big fat flakes and burying trees and shrubs and sand dunes. Tom Sheldon drove his sleigh to Alfred Bothwell’s home. He did not hear the merry tinkle of the harness bells; he had long forgotten the sound of merriment. The road was packed with thick alabaster and the pale sun shone on it, and even the old horse felt the briskness of the air and recalled how it was to prance over the snow. “Steady, boy,” said Tom, and the bells rang and the sleigh glided smoothly and the sea was a bright gray and the sky was opalescent, like the inside of a shell.
Alfred Bothwell was a member of his father’s law firm and lived in Lyme rather than Boston because he preferred the freedom and the lack of constraint. There were quick half-hour trains in the morning and evening. He was a kind and carefree young man of thirty-two, with an open manner and a generous lightness of disposition, and his father’s friends often said meaningly that it was lucky he had a rich adopted father and would inherit half that father’s wealth and had not had a start ‘from scratch’. His lightness extended to law, and his good humor toward all things and all people, and Bostonians recalled severely that his mother had never had any reverence for anything.
“It’s not as if we’re missing anything of importance,” Alfred would say. “We go to Dad’s house frequently for a weekend and to Newport for a while in the summer, and we attend anything worthwhile, such as a concert, a charity ball or musicale or opera, and the Assemblies. But I don’t want to keep up the formal dance every hour I’m not sleeping or doing something else as private! Talk about the British! They’re lax compared with Bostonians; they’re indecently limp. One of these days everyone who can afford it or really wants it will live outside the big cities and go back and forth every day.”
Because he was by nature beneficent and had what his mother-in-law considered a ridiculous trust in people, he was always eager to help others and was overjoyed when they succeeded. He genially called the fine house Tom Sheldon had built for him “illegitimate Regency with all the amenities,” but he recommended Tom to his friends, and so Tom had an excellent business now, building not only the small comfortable houses he preferred but also sound and handsome homes for the summer, along the beach, for Bostonians of good fortune. In fact, he was making Lyme and other suburban small villages and towns very popular for summer residents.
The two men had one fast thing in common: absolute honesty, and an honest way of looking at the world, without illusion but also without cynicism. This alone would have made them friends, and they had been friends from the very day Alfred had bought his land from Tom Sheldon.
As Tom had hoped, he found Alfred and Melinda at home and happy to see him. There was always such serenity in this large and pretty house, and even on dark days it appeared full of light. There were also contentment and good humor and much laughter and affection. But Tom often wondered why, when she thought she was not under scrutiny, Melinda’s expression would become so sad, her gray eyes so absent and full of longing. He had been attracted to the young woman from the very first for this thing alone, for in some way she reminded him of Caroline. Unlike Caroline, she was engrossed in her pretty five-year-old twins, Mimi and Nathaniel, and would glance repeatedly at her husband with an affectionate smile and placidity.
Every room in the house was fragrant with flowers, scent, and polish and was filled with excellent furniture and oriental rugs and decorated in good taste. Tom found some peace when he came here and was happy in the genuine warmth of Alfred’s pleasure. Alfred was a tall and somewhat plump young man with lively large blue eyes, curling black hair, and features which could not, even in the eyes of charity, be regarded as aristocratic. His mouth was too full, his nose too nondescript, his color too high. He loved the table. He loved almost everything and everyone, and the affection seemed reciprocated.
“Well, well,” he said jovially, “glad to see you, Tom. Whiskey, as usual?”
He served Tom and himself very generously and gave Melinda a glass of sherry. They sat together in the morning room, which had a wonderful view of the sea and the snowy beach and the shining sky. Melinda did not speak very much; she had a silent poise which was sympathetic and gentle. Tom smiled at her and thought how beautiful she was, so tall and slender in her red merino frock with white lace at her throat and about her wrists, and with such a touching line from ear to delicate chin. She was twenty-nine, but in spite of her dignity and sweet reserve she appeared much younger.
Alfred told Tom some amusing things about nameless clients and Tom listened, smiling. He did not know that his friends were a little concerned at his pallor and the haggard expression about his eyes. He had not seen them since October, and they found a change in him, an aging, a hint of misery. Alfred was too sensitive to pry, to ask personal questions, but he understood that something besides friendship had brought Tom here today after the snowstorm. He saw Tom looking at the wreaths of holly at the windows, at the holly fastened along the molding, and then at the tall Christmas tree glittering with tinsel and ornaments in one corner.
“We’re having our holidays at home this year,” said Alfred, watching Tom. His father’s old friends may have disapproved of him and thought him insensitive, but he was in fact very perceptive. “Dad and Tim and Amanda and their kids are going to be with us, and best of all old Cynthia and young William will be here three days before Christmas. Superb as ever, old Cynthia, though she never did get over that rascal’s s
udden death. Think he was murdered, myself.”
“Now, Alfred,” said Melinda with a slight smile. “You know very well he had a stroke and died in Mama’s arms.”
“Somebody poisoned him,” said Alfred. “I’m hearing a lot about these international fellers. Sinister devils. Became interested in the subject about ten years ago and did a lot of reading about it. You’d be surprised. We have presidents and kings and czars, but those old boys pull the strings, and the others dance to the tune. Probably old Johnny Ames was murdered too. Always suspected the bastard, and pardon me, Melinda.”
He had been quite right, he thought, watching Tom’s face become hard and closed. It was something about Caroline.
“Alfred, you do have such an imagination,” said Melinda. “If they are as powerful as you always say, they’d take very good care to protect themselves.”
But Alfred was serious. “That’s exactly what they want you to think, my pet. Who said that the greatest triumph Satan had ever had was convincing the world that he didn’t exist? When everybody was so excited about the Spanish-American War and freeing Cuba and what not and nearly went out of their minds when Admiral Cervera’s fleet was destroyed in the Battle of Santiago de Cuba in July last year, I thought, ‘Well, the boys are probably licking their lips now, having pulled it off, and are making plans to exploit not only Cuba now but the Philippines and then Central America and then all of Latin America’. I was right about the Philippines but expected it to happen earlier than February of this year. Just watch from now on. We’re never going to have any peace any longer. The boys are up and doing. I have friends in England and Germany and France who are sending me undercover material.”