“You took my daughter from me. You killed her. You drove her to death with your lies. Did you think I didn’t know?”
An awful silence stood between them. It continued moment by moment.
Then Caroline said, “I am not finished with you, Timothy. You will see me everywhere because of Elizabeth. You will remember Elizabeth until the day you die.”
Timothy could finally move, stiffly and painfully. He was full of dread and fear.
“You, too,” he said, “will remember Elizabeth until you die. You had a part in killing her.”
Chapter 11
The Boston Morning Enquirer published its editorial on the front page the day before the elections, and it filled half the columns. Its headline asked: ‘Shall Timothy Winslow Be Our First Senator?’
Inexorably, doggedly, it demolished Timothy’s claims and aspirations, ruthlessly, one by one, “He declares himself the great champion of the ‘working class and all those who are afflicted’. A careful examination of Mr. Winslow’s charities, which this newspaper has undertaken over the past few weeks, shows that always he has given niggardly, even among a population that is prudent and careful of its gifts. It is true that he has allowed his family name to be used in the promotion of charities. Nevertheless, the sums given by him fall far below the gifts of family physicians of modest income, the managers of small factories, dentists, shopkeepers, independent businessmen, and struggling office superintendents. Yet Mr. Winslow is one of the richest men in Boston, in the Commonwealth, and his fortune is respected even among such men as Mr. J. P. Morgan and Commodore Vanderbilt. He has considerable control of the Bothwell money, into which he married.
“We have come into possession of documents from Harvard University. In his student speeches and themes, Mr. Winslow insistently repeated his dogma of ‘Family Prestige and Name’ as opposed to those he chose to call ‘Vandals’. His diatribes against Irish Catholics — ‘the newcomers whose religion and race are alien to us’, to quote his own words — were extremely contemptuous and intolerant. One wonders how he brought himself to condescend to the great-granddaughter of an Irish Catholic immigrant and marry her. Yet now this gentleman cultivates our Irish Americans and recently accepted an invitation to speak before the Holy Name Society in fervent periods and affection, during which he frequently mentioned Mrs. Winslow’s great-grandfather who had been a hod carrier.
“ ‘In the name of office every man is a liar’, said Scipio Africanus over two thousand years ago. That was true of Rome; it is also true of America, which uncomfortably resembles Rome just prior to her period of decline. But, we must ask, is it necessary? Is it not possible occasionally for Americans to elect an honorable man and a just one? Must we always have charlatans and hypocrites who are so lured by the power of office that they will speak piously, with their tongues in their cheeks? Are there no Americans of honor and uprightness who will not only ask for office but will receive it? American politics have been arousing the amusement and disgust of other nations for decades, and rightfully so. We have consistently elected liars and thieves and plunderers and rascals, until our political parties are notorious for their stenches and cannot be trusted either with their constituents’ money or welfare.
“These are the days when men in office should not be plunderers and hypocrites and liars. The events in Europe, however we ignore them today, will shadow our future, for we no longer are an island complete in itself. We need patriots, not betrayers. We need prudent men, not profligates. We need politicians who will think first of their country before they vote in the Senate and Congress. We need legislators who will not cater to special segments of our society but will consider the welfare of all the people. ‘Equal justice for all, special privilege for none’, said Thomas Jefferson. In inciting the basest instincts of humanity, such as greed and envy, lust and hate, any would-be politician is doing the most terrible disservice to his country.
“Mr. Winslow speaks movingly of ‘the workers’. Let us call his attention to the fact that the greater part of the American people are workers, whether they are surgeons or sweepers, plumbers or planters, mechanics or merchants, bricklayers or businessmen, lawyers or layers of streets. Only those who have inherited fortunes — and they are few — cannot be considered ‘workers’. And the politician who attempts to create classes in America, in the style of corrupt old European governments and societies, will help to destroy America.
“We have no distinct ‘labor’ in America. All who work with their hands or brains for their sustenance are ‘labor’. No man is a ‘common man’. We are mightily uncommon in America, and we must remain that way!”
It continued: “There is something sinister abroad in America today. It is our opinion that it has its roots in Europe and that the European war is the result of some malign philosophy. If we listen closely enough we can hear its whisper in our own land. That whisper will grow to a shout of death and destruction if men of the caliber of Timothy Winslow are elected.”
The Boston Enquirer was a morning paper and had a high repute in Boston and was read in streetcars and in commuters’ trains, in kitchens and factories, in offices and shops. Timothy Winslow read it and called his campaign manager in rage. The manager said, “I have some possibly good news for you, Tim. I’ve just found out that your cousin, Caroline Ames, has a large mortgage on that paper. It’s very late, but can’t you call her at once and tell her to have the Enquirer publish a retraction of that editorial? It could come out in special editions tomorrow morning, just before the voting starts. She’s a recluse and probably doesn’t know what that rag is up to. Tim? Tim?”
But Timothy had hung up. He sat for a long time, alone, staring at the vision of Caroline’s face as he had seen it yesterday. “Probably doesn’t know what the rag is up to!” She knew. She had done all this. His pale face whitened with hate and fear. But he finally assured himself he would win. The sheepheaded electorate would not understand half the words in that damning editorial; it did not have the intelligence to understand its implications. The American people were stupid dogs, and on that stupidity he would gamble, as so many others before him had gambled — and won.
Ames Sheldon loved Amy Winslow as much as it was possible for a young man whose emotions were superficial.
He had not been exactly candid with his mother. It was not Timothy’s opposition alone, nor Amy’s unwillingness to hurt her father, which had kept him from marrying the girl. He, too, had dallied, in spite of his shallow love for her. A penniless girl was quite another thing from a girl who would inherit a large part of the Winslow and Bothwell fortunes. He had waited, not because of Amy’s sentimentality, but in the hope that Timothy would be reconciled to his daughter’s marriage to him. His waiting had proved to him that Timothy would never openly consent to the marriage or welcome him. Until he had had that talk with his mother on the day of Elizabeth’s funeral he had been more than reconsidering, if reluctantly.
He had greatly increased the fortune which had come from his father, though not as spectacularly as his brother John had done. He had more of the nature of his mother, prudent, calculating. His construction business was sound and prosperous; he now employed twelve architects, the best in the city, and paid them well. But he had no intention of marrying a poor girl without financial prospects. He had only to withdraw from the situation gracefully. He did not consider Amy’s feelings or the fact that the girl loved him desperately.
Caroline’s offer had made all the difference in the world. The three million dollars waiting for him in the bank, for the very hour of his marriage to Amy Winslow, was the most golden of lures. It even increased his affection for Amy; in a way, it was her dowry. He would smile at that. Then, of course, there would be children, and Caroline’s money had to go somewhere. Certainly not to charities or foundations or funds!
A plotter, he had wondered why the Boston Morning Enquirer had changed its tune about Timothy Winslow only recently. There was a reason behind everything. It needed only mo
ney in the proper hands. He soon discovered that his mother owned the mortgage on the paper. He had no doubt this morning, as he read the devastating editorial, that Timothy would be defeated.
He had been almost sure a week ago, and that was why he had been pressing Amy to marry him before the elections. Had Timothy had a real chance to be elected, he would have waited, as his mother had originally suggested, until after the votes were in. But Timothy’s defeat would be so disastrous to him that his daughter, in pity and love, would delay marrying Ames until her father’s calamity had lost its full force. In that delay Ames might lose her. Worse, he would lose that three million dollars.
Though he had much work on his desk and it was only nine in the morning, he called Amy. He must see her at once; it was imperative. She demurred; Daddy seemed very upset about something. Had Ames seen that dreadful editorial in the Enquirer? How could a paper be so cruel? Mama was with him now, upstairs in the study. Couldn’t Ames wait until the afternoon, perhaps, or the day after tomorrow, when it would be all settled?
Ames could not wait. Amy had never heard his voice so urgent and so cajoling and so sincerely ardent and pleading. She would meet him, then, in about two hours in the Boston Museum. The girl was intrigued and more than a little excited by Ames’ voice. She loved him dearly. Her experience of real life was very little. She was certain that the world was mainly composed of gentle and affectionate people, good people, kind and honorable people, people who sheltered the weak and protected them, people who had extreme good will.
At two o’clock that afternoon, after hours of pleading, threats, expressions of love, renunciations, reconciliations, tendernesses, and assurances, Ames Sheldon and Amy Winslow were married in Brookline in an office of the justice of the peace. Amy was in a state of immense confusion before and during the marriage. Mama and Daddy would be very hurt. Mama, especially, would want a large wedding for her only daughter. “We can have the church wedding at any time, after the elections,” said Ames.
“Then why not wait until after the elections?” asked Amy.
Ames repeated over and over: in the excitement and joy when her father was elected he would naturally not be too displeased at this clandestine marriage. Later, when he became accustomed to the idea that he was now a senator, he would have many second thoughts and again he would oppose it. He would take his family to Washington.
Amy, the trustful, the innocent, the loving, and the confused, could see no flaw in these arguments. She hated the little untidy office of the justice of the peace. She shrank from the two witnesses. But when Ames kissed her, she was filled with wild, shy joy and clung to him. At that moment he felt a deeper love for her, but more than love, he felt gratitude. The three million dollars was now his. He sent a telegram to his mother. Caroline could move very quickly on occasion. In less than an hour the bank welcomed Mr. Ames Sheldon and had him sign documents, while Amy, in Ames’ carriage outside, sat and waited and wondered dimly why her bridegroom should bother about any bank at all.
After his bank visit Ames took Amy immediately to his tasteful flat on Beacon Street and saw to it that the marriage was consummated then and there. At five o’clock, disheveled and flushed and trembling, Amy called her mother and explained that she had met some friends while shopping but would be home very shortly. Then, in her innocent nakedness, she turned to Ames on the bed and embraced him with a sweet passion of which he had never considered her capable. He held her and felt the first true tenderness of his life. He kissed her hair, her throat and breast — her childish breast — and her hands and knees. I’ll be good to you, sweet, he said to himself silently, and actually believed it then.
He sent his shaken and ecstatic bride home in a hired hack. Amy was to say nothing, not even to her mother, until tomorrow night. “I’ll come in about nine,” Ames said, kissing her over and over. “It’ll be a welter, but think of the excitement!”
Amy could not even remember her mother’s objections and warnings. She was too full now of the force of life and her own joy and fulfillment. There was no one in the world for her but Ames. While the hack waited outside, she kissed Ames with abject love and passion and mourned that she had to leave him. The black vapor of her hair blew about her face, and her child’s face was radiant with delight and happiness. Twice she ran back up the stairs to hug him and cling to him, her brown eyes full of shining tears. Once she even humbly kissed his hand, and feeling that child’s kiss on his flesh, Ames shrank, vaguely ashamed.
But within an hour, complacent and smiling, he was at his desk in his flat, with papers before him and a pen in his hand, calculating just exactly what he would do with that glorious three million dollars. He actually forgot his cousin, his bride, and the trusting kiss on his hand. He remembered her at midnight, after a gourmet dinner in his flat and a bottle of Chablis, and toasted her smilingly. Then, as usual, he made his accustomed round of his treasures in their various cabinets and sipped a little brandy and laughed a little to himself. There was a shop on Bond Street, in London, full of greater treasures. He saw himself examining them closely.
Timothy could not sleep. He was filled with forebodings. Amanda pretended to sleep beside him. She watched him later pacing the large bedroom and prayed for him and wondered, as she often did, if prayers were effective for such as Timothy Winslow.
Long before noon Timothy was at party headquarters. Telephones rang and shrilled about him. The first returns were very good. The Silk Stocking districts were voting for him solidly, though they were not usually of his party. (Nor was he.)
Then, at three o’clock, the votes of the working-class districts began to come in. They were three to one against Timothy Winslow. “Impossible!” cried Timothy, stunned and aghast. “I thought the bas — I thought they would be the ones who would solidly support me!” He remembered the almost empty union hall of the night before. He had been reassured by his campaign manager: “After all, they work twelve hours a day and are tired, So they just went home. But wait for tomorrow.”
It was tomorrow. The returns came in faster now. The ‘working people’ were not supporting Timothy Winslow. He was their self-declared champion, but they were not supporting him. They had unflawed instincts. They were voting for Gideon Lowe, who had not promised them a ‘rich, full life’. He had promised them only prudent government, and they had believed him. He had spoken of a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay. “This is a matter of morality, and morality has always been the prime mover of Americans. The immorality of great wealth and great poverty, side by side, has no place in our nation.”
He had attended Groton with Timothy, and then Harvard, through the stinted generosity of an old aunt who was still alive and in her nineties. His family was truly ‘First Family’, if impoverished. A gentleman, he had not replied to Timothy’s elegantly phrased but vicious attacks in the newspapers. Shy and quiet, he had few rich and influential friends. He did not know who it had been, at the eleventh hour, who had come so lavishly to his assistance. He sat with Higsby Chalmers, who smoked cigars contentedly, and watched the returns being marked up on the big blackboard in party headquarters. By half-past three he was more than a little amazed. Higsby merely asked for more hot coffee and lit another cigar.
The polls were within an hour of closing when Timothy Winslow knew he had been defeated. Party workers, with dark faces, were already drifting out of the room.
Then Amanda called him. “I can’t talk with Mrs. Winslow just yet,” said Timothy, who looked sick and faint. (He knew what this dreadful and resounding debacle meant; he would never get the nomination again for any political office.)
“She says it is most terribly important,” said the wife of the campaign manager, who was attending to the telephones. “She sounded very upset, Timothy.”
So Timothy took the telephone. Even before she spoke, Timothy could hear her sobbing. “Oh, I didn’t want to disturb you just now!” she cried. “Not just now! But the reporters — ” Her voice broke.
“S
end them away,” said Timothy bitterly. “I’ll make a statement later. About seven o’clock.”
“No, Timothy! It isn’t about the elections! It’s about Amy.” Amanda’s voice broke again. “Timothy! She was married to Ames Sheldon yesterday in some justice of the peace’s office, away out somewhere in Brookline. The reporters just found out about it, and they came here; that horrible justice must have called them this morning.”
“What?” said Timothy softly. “Amy? Ames? Amanda!” His voice rose. “I don’t believe it. Where is Amy now?”
“I don’t know! She left at noon to shop, she said, and she isn’t home. I’ve called Ames’ office, and he isn’t there, either! I’ve called his flat, and there’s no answer. I’m sure it’s true! I — I talked with the justice himself while the reporters were here. Oh, Timothy,” she groaned. “Today, of all days. And our little girl and that awful, cruel Ames. Can’t you get the election returns sooner than seven? I can’t stand it, Timothy!”
“I’ll be home at once,” said Timothy. “Don’t interrupt. I’ve already lost. Yes, I said Lost. I’m finished, Amanda.”
“No, no! It can’t be! It can’t be!” exclaimed Amanda, appalled. But he had already hung up the receiver.
A Prologue to Love Page 73
