He wanted to say, “I can’t bear sleeping in the same room with her; the very air becomes sticky with sweetness when she breathes it. I detest her.” But he held the words back and said instead, “You will remember that I wrote you last March that Amy had been seriously ill with pneumonia. We had the best men caring for her. She recovered her strength very slowly, and then they gave her a most complete physical examination. She’d become lifeless — ”
“I shouldn’t wonder, with you as her husband,” said Caroline. “Well? Go on.”
“Is it necessary to go into painful and intimate details?” asked Ames, who knew his mother to be excessively prudish. He could not see her dark flush, but he had no doubt that it was there. “Since the first verdict that she’d never be able to have any children, we’ve had several consultations with other specialists. We even went to New York, to the best. Amy will never have any children.”
“Um,” said Caroline. She considered. She said, “I think I understand. You aren’t thinking of children, you’re thinking of natural and legal issue to inherit the Ames money. Don’t bother to try to deceive me with sentimentalities.” She paused. “I won’t bother to deceive you, either. You were born for the very same reason.”
“I gathered that. Over all the years,” said Ames. He fumbled for one of his delicate Turkish cigarettes. “Pardon me a moment.” He let the receiver swing as he lit the cigarette. He looked, a little startled, at his fingers. They were trembling. He wondered why. It was a very warm day; he had a slight headache suddenly. “Yes,” he said, speaking again to his mother, “I think I first knew when I was about four years old. I heard my father accusing you of that very thing. Elizabeth wasn’t the only one who listened at doors, you know.”
He could not see his mother at her desk in her study; he could not see her shut her eyes as if she had been struck by a powerful pain which was almost unendurable. She had known so much tormented and abysmal sorrow. But this was quite different, and she could not recognize it as grief and the instantaneous black flowering of remorse. The pain did not ebb quickly. It retreated but remained as a vast dark haunting in her mind, only a shadow waiting for features and form.
“ — all the time,” Ames was saying lightly.
“What did you say?” asked Caroline in a voice so dull and empty that Ames became alert again. He repeated patiently, “We all knew it, even John, who had the least brains in the family, the least perceptiveness. Why, Elizabeth was only ten, and I was younger, when we discussed it. We thought it great fun to be born as cattle are born, for a definite purpose.”
“Elizabeth?” said Caroline so faintly that he could hardly hear her.
“Why, certainly. She was a girl. And so she was more sensitive than we boys. That’s what made her a bloodless fiend. Probably.”
The vast shadow sharpened in Caroline’s mind. Ames smoked rapidly; he felt a trifle breathless, as if he were suddenly running. He regarded the thought with surprise. He recalled that when he had heard his father’s accusation he had had this sensation, this quickening to flight. He became suddenly reckless. He said kindly, “It’s much harder on a girl, you see. She had no — what do they call it now? — yes, resources. I don’t know why she went out of her head; she was always peculiar, though, I remember. A girl likes to think she means something important to her mother besides her actual existence. So when whatever it was that came up, she hadn’t any strength to fight it. I wonder what it was.”
His mother was silent. Ames smiled to himself. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He smoked again, rapidly. Then Caroline said in that same faint voice, “Don’t pity yourself, Ames. Your father loved you and wanted you, and you all repaid him with contempt. Is that the return a parent can expect from children? You at least respected me. Or my money. That’s better than contempt.”
“You taught us to despise our father,” said Ames. He no longer, at this moment, cared for his mother’s money. He would care later, he knew, but not now. “Yes, we respected you and your money. We also hated you, all of us.”
He felt vaguely nauseated. This damned heat! “What did you say, Mother?” he asked gently.
He could not see the enormous effort Caroline was making to speak through the huge pain.
“Don’t divorce Amy, Ames,” she said, and he was astonished to hear the pleading in her voice.
He said, “I want a woman who can give me ‘natural and legal heirs’, Mother. Just as you wanted them. I thought I explained.”
“You mustn’t divorce Amy. She’s a good little girl. I’ve not seen much of her, but she’s good. And she — cares — about you. You can’t throw that away.”
“Is my staying married to her worth a little money, Mother?”
He waited. “How much?” said Caroline, and she was defending herself and not only Amy.
“Well, seeing that I’ll never have the managing of the Ames estate because there’ll be no children, I should say a few million dollars.”
He knew his mother was flinching and cringing, as she always did at the mention of large sums of money. He let her suffer, and winked and smiled at himself in the mirror.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars a year, from this year on, as long as you remain married to Amy,” said Caroline. Her voice had become stronger and firmer. “Even after I’m dead. I’ll call my lawyers now.”
“That’s not a fraction of what John will get through Mimi’s share of the Bothwell estate,” said Ames, affecting dissatisfaction. “Or what he’ll get from the estate you’ll leave his children.”
“You don’t know,” said Caroline. She added, “Thirty thousand dollars a year. That is all I am going to offer you.”
Ames was exultant. Not the endless millions of the Ames money which should come rightfully to him, but quite a sum. And what was that cryptic remark of his mother’s?
“Done!” he said. “I suppose I can expect the first installment almost immediately?” He thought of the enamels.
“Yes.” There was a click in his ear. Ames hung up. He began to hum and went back to his locked library. He sat down and pondered. Was it possible the old girl was sweet on Amy, that little prattling and apprehensive fool? In that case, there was hope of much more than his mother had offered. “You don’t know,” she had said. Ames laughed aloud. Perhaps old Johnnie was due for a shock on his mother’s death.
Griffith looked up from the board on which he was carefully slicing carrots for the julienne soup. “Yes, madam?” he said to Amy. Then he ran to the white-faced girl and caught her in his strong arms and helped her to a chair. “Madam!” he exclaimed. The girl sprawled in the chair like a broken doll, her gloves and purse spilling to the floor, her head dropping. Her eyes were closed; her mouth sagged. Griffith held her, for she would have fallen without his support. He wondered whether to shout for the master, whom he had heard talking in the hall for a considerable time.
Griffith looked down with deep pity and concern at the fainting girl half in his arms, half on the chair. She appeared to be dying. The soft dark hair spilled from under her wide gray silk hat; her thin throat palpitated feebly. Then she opened her eyes and looked at Griffith blankly, in a state of extreme shock.
“I heard,” she whispered slowly. “I — was looking for my key, in my purse. I’m always losing it. Ames — ” She swallowed and shivered.
“You should have rung, madam,” said Griffith. “I’d have come.”
But the blank, blind eyes only stared at him. “He — was in the hall. His mother.” The whispering voice was almost too low to be heard, so Griffith bent closer. “He was talking to his mother. Then he told his mother — He wants to divorce me. I — I didn’t hear much after that, I don’t think.” She shook her head feebly. “But there was something about money if he’d — if he’d — keep me.”
Griffith’s face darkened. He should not be listening to this, he told himself sternly. He was only a servant. Young Mrs. Sheldon would regret this later. He said, “It’s very hard to hear
correctly through a stout wooden door, madam. Everything is blurred, distorted. Do you think I could leave you for a moment to get you a little refreshing brandy?”
But Amy seized his arms in her little white hands. “Griffith! I heard. He hates me.” The pathetic face lifted to his with the dying expression in the eyes. “I — I thought he loved me, Griffith.” She began to shake her head over and over, and her loosened hair fell in soft clouds over her shoulders. “I found the key. I even had the door a little open — I think I was stunned. He said it, Griffith, he said it. He hates me, I can’t have any children, you see.” And the eyes implored him.
“Oh no, no, indeed,” said Griffith, overcome with his compassionate distraction. “You heard wrong, madam. Why, the master — ”
“Hates me,” she said. She was like a shattered child clinging to him. “He is all I have, Griffith. My father won’t see me. I can’t go to the house, you see. Papa found out I was visiting Mama, and he told her not to let me come any more. And my brothers — I hardly ever see them, Griffith. Mama comes here twice a month. The last time — ” She could not go on.
“You were not in, madam,” said Griffith. Like a father, he smoothed the hair on one of Amy’s shoulders. “You were ill. You didn’t want to worry your mother.”
“Yes, Griffith. I wasn’t in,” she said. “I was in bed. I was drunk, Griffith.”
“No, no, madam.”
She sighed, almost moaning. “Yes, Griffith. And one day — I was shopping — I could hardly walk. Old Mrs. Spencer — she was with her daughters. They had to help me — to a room — I lay down. I don’t know. When I could open my eyes again I was in our automobile and Peters was looking straight ahead, driving. That was the day after Ames moved to the other bedroom. You remember?” she asked earnestly, as if it was most important that he remember.
He shook his head. “Madam, I will get you a little brandy. You are not yourself.” He slowly and carefully released his arms. Then he ran into the dining room and returned with a glass of brandy. Amy was still sitting, sprawled, in the chair, staring blankly at a wall. “Thank you,” she said in a little girl’s voice, and took the glass and put it to her lips. She drank the liquid down in one gulp and did not even cough. Amy gave him the glass politely.
“I don’t like brandy much,” she said. “Whiskey is much better. Peters buys it for me now. I just ran a few minutes ago into my room and took a big drink, and then I had to talk to you.”
Griffith wondered distractedly if he should tell Mr. Sheldon. No, that would never do. He must talk to Peters, the chauffeur. No, the least said, the sooner mended. Peters was young and surly. He would not listen to threats. But what could he, Griffith, do to help this poor little lady? A young lady, still hardly more than a girl, and whiskey. More horrifying was the thought of the talk which must inevitably be going about Boston even now through that old Mrs. Spencer and her daughters. Or would they, being First Family, murmur about a member of another First Family? Certainly, thought the despairing Griffith with anger. A lady who used a plush-seated water closet was no better when it came to gossip than a farm maid and her odorous outside privy.
“I’m so lonely,” Amy was saying. One tear after another was dropping off her thin cheeks onto her immature breast. The gray silk was becoming rapidly spotted.
“Yes, madam,” he murmured. “It will be well again, madam.”
“Oh no,” she said, and she shook her head once more, over and over. “Never again. How could it, Griffith? He’ll let me stay, for the money his mother will give him. Not love, not children, not being happy together. Just money.” The slurred voice was almost unintelligible now and weaker. “Ames doesn’t love me. That’s why I have to drink, to stop thinking about it, Griffith.”
“May I help you to your room, madam?” said Griffith, more and more despairing.
“Yes, please get me some more brandy,” said Amy. “Then I’ll be strong enough to walk.” Griffith did not move. “Please!” said Amy. Griffith took the glass away, refilled it, and returned. Amy swallowed the brandy as neatly as she had done before. He had seen drunkards in his time, and they had drunk as Amy drank, swiftly, as if seeking an anodyne. But surely this delicate shy child was not a drunkard. Dear God, thought Griffith, thinking of the whiskey hidden in some drawer or closet in Amy’s room. Should he tell the master? Griffith shook his head. There was violence under Ames’ sleek exterior, but also a kind of wickedness which might find Amy’s awful condition highly amusing. Rage or amusement in this case would be equally disastrous to the girl.
“It’s because I’m so stupid,” the childish voice was continuing. “It’s not Ames’ fault. It’s all mine. Poor Ames.” Then she cried out, “But how can I live without him! He’s all I have! I can talk to him better when I have my whiskey. You see, you see? I’m not afraid of him then; I can make myself feel he loves me, though he doesn’t. It’s awful to be lonely, isn’t it, Griffith?”
She had talked rapidly, almost incoherently. She tried to get up, staggered, and Griffith caught her. She clung to him and began to laugh wildly. With consternation Griffith looked at the closed kitchen doors.
“I can’t sleep unless I drink,” Amy said after her laughter had abruptly stopped. “I can’t live, knowing — it’s always the knowing — isn’t it, Griffith?”
“Yes. That is it. The knowing,” he said with aching pity. Then he lifted her in his arms, swung open the kitchen door, crossed the hall on tiptoe to Amy’s room. He laid her down on the bed, removed her crumpled hat and her little gray slippers. He opened the windows. The girl was already deep in alcoholic slumber, her flushed face, like a child’s, turned into the pillow, her hair streaming about her. Griffith shut the door. He had come to a stern and desperate decision.
The butler went back to the kitchen. In about an hour he would take strong coffee to that child. He thought of what she had said. The ‘knowing’. Yes, it was always that, the knowing that one was without love, and lonely, and abandoned. A drunkard did not have ‘loved ones’, as the foolish said. He was always alone, and the starved spirit reached instinctively for a little death.
Henry Bothwell Winslow came into the Boston house of his parents sweating heavily on this hot August day. He removed the stiff straw sailor from his head, laid down his smart white cane, and unfastened the broad red, white, and blue ribbon which spread from his waist and over his right shoulder in the manner of the British Order of the Garter. He had been marching for three hours in a Preparedness Parade through the main streets of Boston, and he was hot, foot-blistered, and weary. He was just twenty-three years old; he thought President Wilson a cautious old fuddy-duddy; he was afire with patriotism; he hated Wilhelm, Emperor of Germany, and was absolutely convinced that should the Kaiser be victorious in Europe he would immediately order the whole German fleet and every foot soldier and every howitzer and ‘big Bertha’ to set themselves on the United States of America.
“Preparedness,” he would tell his mother firmly, “is the only way to prevent war with Germany.”
“It seems to me that the Kaiser has enough to do with Europe,” Amanda would reply. “Why should he bother with us?”
“Because he wants to conquer the whole world,” Henry said with unusual irritability.
“Who says so?” his mother inquired.
“Why, everybody. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Certainly.” Amanda thought of Timothy, her husband. “Do you believe every excited opinion you read, child?”
“I am not a child,” said Henry with exasperated patience.
“There is something going on in the world much more dreadful than this war; I’d had a glimpse of it years ago when we were all in London. This war was for a reason, and it isn’t an ambitious war on Germany’s part, though we are being led to think so. Does it ever occur to you, my child, that President Wilson, who isn’t of our party, might have some very sound reasons why he doesn’t want us to get involved in the European war? Reasons so terrible but so hidde
n that he doesn’t speak of them because everyone but the men responsible for this war would laugh at him?”
Henry frowned. “I don’t follow you, Mother.”
“Do you actually believe that all of Europe would have been embroiled in this war merely because a crazed Bosnian boy killed the Archduke of Austria and his wife? There have been many assassinations in Europe over the past one hundred years, and no war resulted from them. But this war was planned.”
“By whom?” Henry asked incredulously.
“By people I hope you will never meet,” said Amanda. “From some of the opinions I’ve heard you airing recently, I am even more afraid that you’ve already met them.” She looked at the handsome, kind face of her son, so ingenuous and so honest, and shook her head. “I’ve heard you talk very kindly about Eugene Debs, for instance. Where did you first hear of him?”
Henry looked bewildered. “Why, at the university, of course. Mother — ”
A Prologue to Love Page 78
