Cynthia had arrived at the Bothwell house three days before Christmas with her young son. Her bright hair was so expertly dyed that it was not obvious; she still had her fine figure and her eyes were still lovely and brightly gray. She was a little over sixty, but in a good light and in her wonderful clothes she could have passed for a woman in her late forties.
But since the tragedy she had suddenly aged. Lines webbed her face; her mouth sagged; her nose was pinched. Her whole body became limp and bent. The dyed hair was a travesty now above fallen cheeks, wrinkled brow, and livid color.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured. “I still can’t believe it. What are we going to do about poor Melinda? She seems sightless and deaf and hardly alive. She doesn’t notice her children. She didn’t seem to be present, really, at the funeral services. When I touch her or try to comfort her, she only shivers and draws away. Of course she’s in a state of shock, but I can see that the doctor is worried. I do wish she would go to the Bothwell house in Boston for a while. I suggested she go to England with me, but I don’t think she even heard. What shall we do?”
“I don’t know,” said Timothy. “But after all, she’s still young. She’ll get over it in time.”
Cynthia sipped her brandy, cried a little, then wiped her eyes. While she was doing this, Timothy was doing some hard and disagreeable thinking. Old Harper Bothwell had been a lawyer; he had constantly urged his clients to review their wills frequently in the light of new circumstances. But lawyers were notorious about neglecting their own affairs. Harper had not made a new will in spite of the marriages of his son and daughter. It had been a short will: he had no one but Alfred and Amanda, and he had made provisions in behalf of a few proper charities. So he had left his enormous fortune to be divided equally between Alfred, his adopted son, and Amanda, provided both survived him. There had been no mention of grandchildren or surviving spouses of his own children. If Alfred died before Amanda or if she died before Alfred, prior to the death of Harper Bothwell, the entire fortune was to be given to the survivor. His whole will had been based on the assumption that his heirs would be alive on his death.
If, therefore, in that wreck it could have been assumed that Alfred had died before his father, his inheritance would have passed to Amanda. But there were many witnesses to the fact that Harper was dead when the rescuers reached him and that his son was still alive and had survived almost one hour longer. Therefore, he had inherited fifty percent of Harper’s fortune, unconscious and dying though he had been, and Alfred had made his own will two years before, leaving all he had in trust to his widow for life, his children to inherit after her death. Timothy knew that Tom Sheldon’s insistence, courage, and desperation had inspired the exhausted rescuers to tear apart the small last portion of the coach. They had wanted to wait for morning; there were no cries or any evidence of life in the remaining section. But Tom had insisted.
“If someone’s badly hurt and unconscious in there he could die before morning. We have to go on.” They did, burned and bloodstained though they were, and they had found Alfred still breathing, still alive. It was too late to save his life, if there had been any hope at all. But he had, by that short space of time, inherited his share of his father’s money.
Tom Sheldon and others had made their affidavits only yesterday. If it had not been for Tom, Timothy knew, all would have gone to Amanda, for Alfred would not have been found alive. Timothy had hated Tom before; he hated him now with an insane hatred. It was not as though Melinda would have been penniless if Alfred had not remained alive long enough to inherit. Timothy had taken care of her investments; the money left to her by her father had doubled; Alfred himself had had considerable money of his own, bequeathed to him by his dead parents, which was now Melinda’s. Moreover, Timothy more than suspected that the greater part of his mother’s money would be left to her daughter. Melinda, without the money which Amanda, Timothy’s wife, would have inherited in full, would have been a very rich woman.
The years of his marriage and his fatherhood had not reduced Timothy’s love for his sister. In fact, he did not often think of his blood connection with her. She was still his love; he could never see her without longing and pain. Nevertheless, he had wanted his wife to receive the full Bothwell fortune, which he would have managed and controlled. While his mother cried tonight he wondered whom he hated more, Caroline or Tom. He did not want them dead; he wanted them ruined and beggared, by himself. The Gargoyle would then know who had done this to her. There was no gratitude in Timothy; he had used Caroline, and she had benefited him, but he considered that he had served her well while he had served himself.
He knew that Caroline wanted money to protect herself from a world she feared. But he wanted money for power, for influence, for fame. He was considering running for governor, and governors with money always had an advantage over a man of equal or even better qualities. Timothy’s lust for wealth was not innocent, as Caroline’s was innocent. Her dislike for people rose from fright; his rose from contempt.
“Oh, Timothy,” Cynthia said, seeing her son’s expression. “I know it is very hard, but what can one do? You look so terrible.”
“I hope the survivors sue the hell out of her,” said Timothy malevolently, and Cynthia cried again. “I’d like to represent them! But I can’t.”
“Timothy, she is your cousin, the poor girl. And she’s done so much for you.”
It was not hard for her to realize that Timothy was past forty now, for he had never, even as a child, seemed young to her. He had always been mature. She thought it was grief over Melinda that made his pale long face so tense, his mouth so thin and tight.
Melinda, since her husband’s funeral, had kept to her rooms, unspeaking. Cynthia therefore started when the young woman came wanderingly into the drawing room, her blue robe tied about her, her long fair hair hanging in disorder over her shoulders, her face far and unseeing. Timothy did not at first see her. He jumped when he heard his mother cry out and saw her pushing herself to her feet. It was not until Cynthia’s arms were about her daughter that he stood up.
“I should have loved him more,” said Melinda in a curiously penetrating voice. She pulled herself from Cynthia’s arms. She threw back the masses of fair hair and looked at Timothy, and her eyes were feverishly brilliant. “I’ll never forget that he loved me and that I didn’t really love him. I can’t bear to live, remembering that.”
“Of course you loved him, darling,” said Cynthia feebly. She glanced at Timothy. This Melinda was much more heartbreaking than the young widow who had lain in her bed, silent and staring.
“No,” said Melinda, and she shook her head, and her hair flew about her. “I never loved anyone but Tim, and he left me. He left me only for money. And so I married Alfred. I shouldn’t have done that. It was a wicked thing to do to him, and now he’s dead and I can’t tell him I’m sorry.” She clasped her white hands together. “If only I could tell him I’m sorry.”
Cynthia, dazed by disaster herself, blinked her eyes and dimly hated the new electric lights in the drawing room, which gave the soft hues and light tones a glaring appearance and emphasized the torment on Melinda’s face. It was nightmarish to her. She murmured, “Oh, dear God,” and wondered where Amanda was, Amanda who was sleeping in Melinda’s room and giving her sedatives at intervals. “Where is Amanda?” she murmured to Timothy in distraction. “Why did she let the poor child wander like this?”
But Timothy did not hear her. He took Melinda’s clasped hands and held them tightly and looked down into her eyes until their bright wandering stopped and he had all her attention. No one except Melinda could ever move him to a fullness of human emotion, to forgetfulness of self, to sympathy and tenderness and disinterested love; not even his wife, of whom he was casually fond; not even his children, of whom he was even more fond. He said, “Melinda dear. You did love Alfred. He knew it, and” — he hesitated only a moment — “he knows this now. Do you think it’s making him happy to know you’re to
rturing yourself?”
They were childlike words, and simple, and for this reason alone they reached Melinda. Her eyes changed. “Do you think so, Tim?” she asked. “Really, do you think so?”
“Yes,” he said, and held her hands even more tightly. “I never saw two people happier, dear. I used to envy you.”
Cynthia stared at them and cried silently. No one saw Amanda in her long white nightgown standing in the doorway. Amanda was a sensible young woman, and she knew when not to intrude or cause confusion or excitement or distraction.
“Oh, Tim,” said Melinda, and was so exhausted that Timothy had to put his arms about her to hold her, and she dropped her head on his shoulder. She began to cling to him, her trembling arms like steel. “Oh, Tim!” she cried. “I always knew you loved me! I never did believe you left me because of money and because you wanted much more! I loved Mama and Uncle Montague, but I began to know the truth, in spite of what they said. You didn’t leave me just because they said they’d cut me off — no, no, you didn’t.”
She lifted her head and leaned back in Timothy’s arms, and her hands clutched his arms fiercely above his elbows. “Did they tell you something about my parents, Tim, that sent you away? Would it have injured you if I’d married you? But then, they were happy about my marriage to Alfred — Mama loved Alfred; she wouldn’t have let me marry him if it was that! Tim, Tim, tell me why you left me? I must know, Tim, or I won’t be able to stand it!”
Amanda, astounded and incredulous, came striding into the room, her cotton nightgown billowing around her strong young legs, her long black hair floating rapidly about her. Her usually round and rosy face was pale and drawn, and her black eyes snapped.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, reaching Timothy and Melinda. She stood beside her husband and swung to Cynthia. “Mama Halnes! You surely told Melinda, didn’t you? You haven’t let her go all these years, breaking her heart and what not, in absolute ignorance, have you? Why,” she said louder, “you have! How could you do such a thing? Such a terrible, stupid thing! Timothy! Can you stand there with this poor girl and tell me you never told her either? Why, what awful cruelty!”
She clenched her sturdy hands at her sides, and her face blazed with anger. “I just can’t believe it!” she cried. “It isn’t human to have let Melinda suffer all this time. It isn’t human! I wouldn’t treat one of my dogs like this. I wondered what was wrong with Melinda when we visited her and Alfred or they came to us. Why, I just can’t forgive you, Timothy, Mama Halnes, I just can’t. And everyone in Boston knew or suspected for years and years!”
Cynthia stepped back; she became even older; she was an old, broken woman. Melinda still clung to Timothy, but his arms dropped. He turned to his shocked wife. “Amanda, I didn’t know either until I went to England to marry Melinda years ago. Then dear Mama told me. I left. Then she and Montague concocted some of their lies to appease Melly — I don’t know. What could I have done? They didn’t want Melly to know, and they convinced me it would hurt her to know.”
Amanda’s face softened as she scrutinized him and saw his misery. “Poor Timothy,” she said. But her round features hardened again when she turned to Cynthia. “How could you?” she said. “Why, even when I was fourteen and fifteen I heard the women whispering — Mama’s friends. And tittering. But of course they couldn’t ostracize you! You were one of Boston’s First Families, and First Families close ranks,” she said contemptuously. “Then you married Lord Halnes and were even more elevated, for heaven’s sake! I can understand how you felt, but not at the expense of poor Melinda. You owed it to her to tell her.”
“What? What?” murmured Melinda, her exhausted eyes moving pleadingly from face to face.
Amanda had a full round bosom, and it was agitated under her nightgown. She gently removed Melinda from Timothy and put her arms about the young woman. She kissed her soundly and tenderly. “Why, darling,” she said, “Timothy could never have married you. If he had, someone would have told. The adoption records and backgrounds of the children are sealed, but if anything threatens any of them or they get into situations like this, then the records have to be opened. Melinda, Timothy couldn’t have married you. He’s not only your adoptive brother. He’s your real brother too. You both have the same mother.”
Melinda pushed herself from Amanda’s warm grasp. She took a step or two toward Cynthia, then stopped. She clasped her hands together and leaned forward to look at the older woman, whose weeping face was averted. Melinda’s hair fell across her cheeks. She stood silently and rigidly, as if listening. Then she whispered, “Mama? Mama?”
“Yes, love,” Cynthia faltered. “Yes, my darling.”
“Oh, Mama,” Melinda said. “Mama, I’m so glad.” She held out her arms and ran to her mother, and they held each other and there was no sound from them.
“I think,” said Amanda briskly to her husband, “that we aren’t needed now. Poor, stupid, damned Timothy. Come on to bed, boy. Really, half the trouble and misery and pain people have is brought on by themselves. They either talk too much or not enough.” She rubbed her rounded flank. “That cot in Melinda’s room is made of solid iron. You and I, Timothy, are now going to bed together, and let’s have a little peace if we can.”
Timothy smiled at her. “There’s one thing about bread and butter, my sturdy sweet: it satisfies — occasionally.” He went to the wide arched door with his wife. He looked back at Melinda and repeated, “Occasionally.”
When Cynthia, moving as if every muscle in her body were torn and twisted, arrived in her room she found her son, William Lord Halnes, waiting for her in his sensible dark blue dressing gown. His respectable young face, so like his dead father’s, was serious. He had his father’s chubby body and air of innate strength. He loved his mother dearly and knew exactly what to do for her, as his father had known.
A decanter of brandy was on Cynthia’s bedside table, and two glasses. Cynthia sank on the edge of the bed, and her son filled the glasses carefully. He did not need to look at his mother. He knew that she was about to collapse. He handed her her brandy gravely. She looked at him, and he gave her the sudden charming smile of his father. She began to cry, and he did not stop her. He sat opposite her and waited. When she finally could cry no longer he presented his handkerchief, on which she blew her nose. She said, “Dear William. You are such a comfort. Like your father. You seem to know everything.”
“ ‘Everything’ is not so hard to understand,” said the boy. “You make deductions. And you listen. One of the errors of humanity is that it talks but hardly ever stops to hear. Too much babbling.” His English voice was very precise and clipped. “Do drink your brandy. It’s very consoling.”
“Boys shouldn’t drink brandy,” said Cynthia vaguely.
“I’m not a boy,” said William. “In fact, I don’t believe I ever was.”
They sipped in warm silence. Then Cynthia said, “Sometimes life is too much for me.”
“It always is for those who feel too much. But never for those who think, Mama.”
Cynthia sipped again. William said, “There’s too damned much emotion in the world. Sign of the barbarian. But then, those who think too much are dangerous. I believe Shakespeare brought that out in Julius Caesar.”
“You are a darling, William,” said Cynthia.
William considered this thoughtfully, “No, Mama, I don’t think so. There are too many ‘darlings’ in the world. Foolish, sentimental, thoughtless people. Spraying their emotions around like cheap scents and asphyxiating everybody. We need fresh air. We need muscles and guts. But in America everything is love and embraces and slopping about and looking into each other’s pockets. No privacy. The difference between man and animal is privacy. Animals run together and herd together. Man should be able to stand alone. Ibsen.”
Cynthia said, “But, darling, we do need to understand each other. We can’t live apart.”
“We don’t need to,” said William Lord Halnes. “We can live with God.?
?? He was fourteen years old. He repeated, “We can live with God.”
He studied the glass in his plump hand. “And once we can live with God, we can live with mankind too.” He lifted his glass to his mother. “Happy New Year to you, poor Mother, or as happy as it can be under the circumstances, and may this new century be better than the last. I doubt it, though. We can only hope that God, in His infinite pity, will have mercy on our souls.”
Cynthia would often say through the years, “It was never necessary to tell William anything or explain it to him, not even when he was very young. He always seemed to know. That is why he chose the life he did. There simply was no other way for him.”
Chapter 8
No one in the Sheldon household would ever have believed that Elizabeth listened at doors. She was too cool, too remote, too restrained for such a suspicion. Nevertheless, she listened with sharp avidity; there was nothing too unimportant for her, whether it was a conversation between the slatternly cook and the equally slatternly housemaid, or a short exchange between her parents, or Caroline’s discussions with her cousin Timothy Winslow, or Caroline’s telephone calls to her Boston office or New York or her small bank in the latter city, or even quarrels between her brothers. She eavesdropped, not out of aimless curiosity or malice, but merely in order to inform herself of all things, to see whether or not they could personally benefit her.