A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  Mr. Chalmers, feeling his way, coughed. Caroline’s cousin, Timothy Winslow, was now of the opposite party and also a candidate.

  “Yes. A splendid gentleman, Gideon. You knew his family in Boston, I believe.”

  Caroline said impatiently, “No matter. I am not interested in Gideon, except that I want him to be elected senator and defeat my cousin, Timothy Winslow.”

  “What!” exclaimed Mr. Chalmers, and took his handkerchief from his mouth. Caroline was silent; she merely waited. Mr. Chalmers stared at her. “Er — pardon me, Caroline, but am I mistaken in believing that Timothy is the only member of your family with whom you are on cordial terms? I’ve heard such a rumor.”

  Caroline’s face appeared to retreat in the duskiness. “The rumor is correct,” she said. “That has nothing to do with the fact that I wish him defeated, and very soundly.”

  Mr. Chalmers was quite stunned. “You do not — er — agree with his principles and politics?” he murmured.

  Caroline grunted. “As a woman, I cannot vote and so am classified with idiots, criminals, and children,” she said. “It is of no interest to me. You will remember that I wrote you that the matter I wished to discuss with you is most confidential?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “I know nothing of Timothy’s principles or politics, at least not of his averred ones, which I believe are only for public consumption, as are all politicians’ promises and opinions. I merely want him so defeated, so dis credited, that never again will he offer himself for public office.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Mr. Chalmers, who wondered if he was hearing correctly.

  Caroline stirred again on her chair. “He wants political office and political power; he has only money. So it must be brought to his attention that he will never attain that office, that power. And that will take a great deal of money, will it not?”

  Mr. Chalmers, who had been a politician since he was twenty-five and who thought he had encountered everything extraordinary in his career, was truly speechless now. He rubbed the moist palms of his hands on his handkerchief and could only look helplessly at Caroline.

  “I am a very busy woman,” said Caroline with new impatience. “Do you accept or not?”

  “Accept what?” said the dazed Mr. Chalmers.

  “Money! I thought it takes money to elect anyone.”

  “So it does,” said Mr. Chalmers. He pulled himself together. He became grave. “I will be brief. I never liked your cousin. I was always suspicious of him, even when we were youths together.” He lifted his plump palm. “Please, Caroline, let me finish. I have heard that your father called him ‘pernicious’. So he is. I hardly expected him to become the candidate of a party which calls itself ‘progressive’ and is enthusiastic about Mr. Wilson’s ‘New Freedoms’ and is really responsible for the passing of the Sixteenth Amendment — the Internal Revenue Act — of February 1913. After all, Timothy is a rich man. I won’t even expound to you my well-grounded theory that that amendment was rushed through, not to gain revenue for the benefit of America, but to finance the present war in Europe and ultimately involve us in the catastrophe. That is my opinion; it is shared by many others. No matter. We are not discussing that now.

  “Timothy is an unusually rich man, even for Boston. He has the Bothwell money in his control. I should have thought such a man would be emphatically against the ‘New Freedoms’, whatever on earth they mean — are we not a free, strong nation as it is? Yet Timothy is the candidate of those people, for senator! That is what I do not understand.”

  “He is a Jacobin,” said Caroline. “I have been reading his speeches lately. He is fervent about the workingman. Timothy despises what he calls ‘the people’. Yet he is very eloquent now about the ‘rights’ of the poor worker. So he is a liar.”

  Mr. Chalmers, the astute politician, knew that something else lay under Caroline’s sudden and curious air of violence. He kept his voice quiet, and he watched Caroline carefully. “A Jacobin. Very good. Very good, indeed. I suspected that.”

  “My father suspected and disliked Timothy,” said Caroline.

  But it is not that, thought Mr. Chalmers. He leaned toward her. “I will be brief, Caroline. It takes a great deal of money to get elected. A man cannot put too much of his own money into his campaign; there are laws against that. But he can have friends — Timothy has much influence in Boston and many influential friends who are indebted to him. Moreover, it is becoming quite fashionable, even among Bostonians, to be slightly ‘progressive’. There are fashions in politics as well as in other things. There is something in the air — I do not say that all men who are concerned with the deplorable conditions of the workingman today are liars and potential oppressors. No. My great-grandfather was a bricklayer, himself. But, as a conservative, I believe in the balance of power. This country will fall when there is only a rich and powerful elite and subservient masses, no matter how many circuses and free food are furnished the latter, and how many flatteries. The plan, I am afraid, was laid long ago.”

  He sighed. “I have said that it is becoming somewhat fashionable, even in Boston, to be slightly ‘progressive’. It gives silly, rich people a feeling of eclat, takes them out of their fat sluggishness and gives them a sensation of being part of a dynamic movement. It is only an illusion, of course, but I doubt they will awaken in time to the fact that not only has their own ruin been well plotted, but the destruction of their country as well.

  “To be desperately candid about it, I think Timothy will be elected. Gideon has only honor, integrity, and justice to offer.”

  “I am not interested,” said Caroline. “Are you aware that I own the mortgage of the Boston Morning Enquirer, which is supporting my cousin?”

  “No!” cried Mr. Chalmers in consternation.

  Caroline nodded. “Within a few days they will change their tune decisively. They will take ‘second thought’. They will ‘weigh the issues’. They will be very grave. They will support Gideon Lowe. With growing emphasis.”

  Mr. Chalmers stood up, put his hands under his coattails, and walked about the room on his short fat legs. Caroline watched him with her intent hazel eyes. Then he stopped before her. “Thank you, Caroline,” he said. “You don’t know what this means to me and Gideon.”

  “I am not interested,” she said wearily. “Why can’t you understand? I am only interested in defeating Timothy.”

  Mr. Chalmers stood very still, his hands under his coattails, and looked down at her. He did not know why he thought it, but he said to himself: The cost of revenge is very big. Often, it is too high. As a sensitive man, he could feel Caroline’s enormous weariness in his very bones. He sat down heavily.

  He said, “It will take a vast amount of money to defeat Timothy, Caroline. Perhaps more than you are willing to expend. The newspaper will be of great help. But money is necessary; I know, in some measure, how much is being expended, through force, flattery and threats, and friendship, on Timothy. Gideon, who is honest, intelligent, mild, and good, does not have that money and does not have Timothy’s friends. How much are you willing to expend to defeat your cousin?”

  “What is needed?” The August sun was moving to the west. Long fingers of gold and rose touched the decaying wall near Caroline.

  “The Boston Morning Enquirer is the largest newspaper in Boston, Caroline. It also reaches all the suburbs and small towns in our vicinity. I suggest thousands of free copies be distributed everywhere. That is only the beginning. Then we must have eloquent speakers, who will demand a fee, and posters and advertising. We must buy expensive pages in other local newspapers. We must have workers. We are not a poor party, but we simply don’t have the outlets our opponents have. We must bring the important issues to the people. As the state chairman of our party, I, too, am limited in what I can spend. We must flood the whole state with news of Gideon, not only Boston.”

  “What is needed?” repeated Caroline.

  She reached over to a table and took a slim slip o
f paper in her hand. “I can trust you, Higsby,” she said. “I am giving you this check. When you need more, you have only to call me.”

  Mr. Chalmers looked at the check, could not believe it, then readjusted his glasses.

  “Not enough?” asked Caroline sardonically.

  “Enough,” said Mr. Chalmers in a subdued voice.

  “As a beginning,” said Caroline. “I will spend whatever you need to defeat him.”

  Mr. Chalmers held the check in his hand. He looked at Caroline. He was not an impulsive man, but he said, “Caroline, can I help you?”

  She stood up. “No one can. I must leave you now, Higsby. The maid will order a hack for you. Your train to Boston will leave in half an hour.”

  She left him and went upstairs. He could hear the rustling of her dress, the sound of grit under her shoes. He heard a door open, then close.

  Caroline lay down on Elizabeth’s bed. “My darling,” she whispered. “My darling.”

  There was a stunning blank feeling in her head. She had a strange dream about Elizabeth, who stood before her silently. She said to the shadow, “But I was betrayed long before you were born. Perhaps even before I was born.”

  Six days later the maid came to Caroline in her study. “Miz Timothy Winslow wants to speak to you, ma’am. She’s downstairs. Should I send her away?”

  Caroline reread a letter from her son Ames and smiled. “I will see Mrs. Winslow,” she said. She went downstairs.

  Amanda was waiting in the drawing room, sitting on the edge of the chair where Mr. Chalmers had sat. She did not speak when Caroline came into the room, nor even when Caroline sat opposite her in silence. The two women looked at each other, Amanda’s candid brown eyes straight and steady, Caroline’s indifferent. Amanda was dressed in a light tan suit, long and pleated, and she wore a large feathered hat, and her hands were gloved. Her round and pleasant face was grave and pale.

  “A warm day,” said Caroline at last.

  “Oh, Caroline. You must know why I’ve come all the way from Newport to see you,” said Amanda in a tired voice.

  “Yes?” said Caroline. “But you and Timothy quite often come here, don’t you? What is so unusual about your visit today?”

  “Ames. Your son Ames,” said Amanda.

  “Ames?”

  Amanda looked at her.

  “Has something happened to Ames?” asked Caroline.

  Amanda did not speak.

  Caroline spoke irritably. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at guessing, Amanda. What has Ames got to do with you?”

  “Then you know,” said Amanda flatly.

  “I know nothing and care about very little,” said Caroline.

  Amanda looked at her gloves and purse. She had never noticed it before, for her family had always been rich, but now she felt power in the room, and ruthlessness, and a force beyond money.

  “You’ve always hated Timothy’s mother,” said Amanda. “I suppose you still hate her, though she died a year ago. And you hate Melinda, my sister-in-law.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Caroline. “I thought you were speaking of my son Ames.”

  “You and Timothy have always been such friends,” said Amanda. “I had hoped you and I could talk frankly today.”

  “Why don’t you then?” asked Caroline with impatience.

  Amanda wanted to cry. She swallowed her tears. “Very well. You know our daughter Amy.”

  “I have seen her a few times. A pretty young thing. But a little vacuous, isn’t she?”

  Amanda was shocked. “Caroline! Amy may be quiet, but she is a lovely girl.”

  “What has Ames got to do with Amy?” asked Caroline.

  “Amy told us last night that she and Ames are going to marry after the elections,” said Amanda.

  “Indeed,” said Caroline. “Well, isn’t that their own business? Amy is of age, isn’t she?”

  “Not until November the first.”

  Caroline frowned with more impatience. “Ames and I are not very close,” she said. “He has gone his way, and I have gone mine. Are you asking me for my approval, Amanda?”

  “I’m asking you to disapprove, Caroline.”

  “Why should I?”

  Amanda said, “Ames asked Amy to keep their decision to marry to themselves until after Timothy is elected senator. But Amy is devoted to her father; she felt she ought to tell him. Timothy is wild, Caroline.”

  “Why?” said Caroline brutally. “Is my son such a poor marriage prospect? Aren’t you being a little insulting, Amanda?”

  The harsh large face confronted her with derision. Amanda exclaimed, “You did know, Caroline! You knew all the time! You’ve always hated Timothy’s mother, but you don’t mind Ames marrying her granddaughter! Why, Caroline?”

  “I make it a point not to interfere in anyone’s affairs,” said Caroline. “Don’t be hysterical, Amanda.”

  “I, hysterical?” Amanda was outraged. “I’ve never been hysterical in my life! Oh, it is all too much! That Boston newspaper attacking Timothy all at once! The letters, the advertisements in the other newspapers! All the new posters! Editorials! Poor Timothy. He was so certain he would be elected, and now all this! It’s too much for him to bear.”

  “You are incoherent,” said Caroline coldly. Amanda had snapped open her purse and taken out her handkerchief and was wiping her eyes. Her plump shoulders shook. “What has this political matter got to do with Ames?” Caroline continued.

  “I don’t know!” cried Amanda. “You are muddling me. I am trying to say that Timothy has a great deal to bear just now, and then Amy tells us that she will marry Ames after the elections. And you sit there, Caroline, and it means nothing to you.”

  “What have you against Ames? You and Timothy?”

  Amanda lost all caution in her extremity. “We don’t want our little girl to marry Ames. He’s only five or six years older, and as you say he is doing well and has many friends. But there’s something else. We feel, in many ways, that he is too old for Amy, and it’s not just his age. I’m sorry, Caroline, but we don’t like him.”

  “That is unfortunate. But evidently your daughter does.”

  Amanda, who was never wild, became wild now. “He’s corrupt! He isn’t a good person, Caroline!”

  “I still don’t follow you,” said Caroline.

  Amanda stood up and looked about as if searching for an escape. Then she swung toward Caroline. “You corrupted him! He hasn’t any real human feelings. You never treated him as a human being, as your son. And so he is callous. You destroyed your children, Caroline, because your father destroyed you. You didn’t know any better.”

  Caroline’s face swelled and became an ugly red. “Go on,” she said.

  “I never knew your father. Timothy hated him.” She blushed under her tears.

  “I never did care for family history,” said Caroline calmly.

  “Timothy doesn’t want our daughter to marry the grandson of John Ames. There it is, Caroline, and I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you.”

  “Let me see,” said Caroline. “You have just insulted my father, me, and my son. Yet you are ‘sorry’.” She smiled tightly. “Is it that Timothy thinks Ames won’t have enough money?”

  “Oh, Caroline!” Amanda sat down again and looked at the other woman in despair. “We aren’t talking about money. It’s Ames. We don’t want him to marry Amy! He will destroy her.” She put her hands to her mouth.

  “Timothy mentioned your husband, Tom Sheldon. I always liked Tom.”

  “What has Tom got to do with this?” Caroline began to tremble with sickness and wrath.

  “You don’t understand. How can I say it? We are afraid you — that you — that Ames will treat Amy as you treated Tom. Harshness and indifference would kill her.”

  “So you think I was harsh and indifferent to my husband.”

  “You were, Caroline, you were. Not that Timothy blamed you too much.”

  “You must not speak of Tom,” said Caroline w
ith great quietness. “I can’t understand what you are talking about. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stop Ames from marrying Amy!”

  “What would you suggest?”

  Amanda wrung her gloves in her hands. “You surely have some influence over Ames. Perhaps you could promise him some money if he didn’t marry Amy.”

  “I certainly will not offer Ames money to prevent any marriage he wishes to make. Why should I, even if the girl he wants to marry is the daughter of Timothy Winslow?”

  Caroline stood up, and Amanda stood up also, slowly, as if pushed to her feet. They confronted each other.