A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

“You are wrong. Her painting is as much a part of her as her eyes. Perhaps you won’t ever understand it or what it means to her. That doesn’t matter to Mary. You are only distressing her by not understanding that you are first, before everything.”

  “How do you know?” asked John suddenly.

  “She hasn’t told me, so don’t suspect you are being betrayed again, John. But she’s very like I was, for a year or two, perhaps, and she is as I’d have been if — ”

  “Was anyone ever first with you?” asked John with sincere curiosity.

  “Yes. My father.”

  John nodded. “But not my father?”

  Caroline hesitated. “I don’t know how to answer that. Yes, I think he was. But I didn’t trust him.” She looked into John’s bold hazel eyes, and all at once they shifted away from her. She said, “I didn’t trust his love for me. I thought he was capable of betraying me, not for his own gain, but because of his attitude toward life. No, I didn’t trust him, though I loved him.” She paused.

  John was silent.

  “I finally believed he didn’t love me at all,” said Caroline. “I made his life so terrible that he stopped loving me. That is the worst faithlessness: to make someone stop loving you when once he had. Don’t make Mary stop loving you, John.”

  John smoked in silence. She saw his burly profile, and it was vulnerable now.

  “Mary didn’t marry you for anything but yourself, as your father married me for myself. What had either of us to give them? Except ourselves? I didn’t give myself, because I was so frightened of living. Don’t be afraid, John. That’s the greatest crime we can commit, not only against ourselves, but against others. We destroy each other in our fear. You want Mary to give herself completely to you, as you’ve done to her, and she has, and you haven’t believed it. But you must, or one day you’ll be sitting alone as I’m sitting, and it will be too late.”

  John had never asked himself before: Why is my mother so concerned about Ames? Does he actually mean something to her? Do I?

  “Yes,” said Caroline, “it’s too late. I didn’t love any of you when you were children. I suppose you all knew it. I was concerned about you because of my money. I needed heirs. Otherwise Melinda would have inherited it. And so my three children grew to maturity without ever having had any love in their lives, except from their father, and I made them despise him, made them incapable of accepting his affection. You don’t love what you despise.”

  John cleared his throat. Some remark was called for, but he did not know what to say. Caroline said, “But I want you to know this, John: I now love my sons because I know how I’ve injured them. It’s too late for Elizabeth.”

  It came to John that he must say something, and he felt elated. So the old girl was softening, was she? Like Old Brundage? Senility, perhaps?

  “You can’t possibly love me,” said Caroline. “I’ll never ask you even to try, for it would be impossible. How could you love me? But perhaps someday when you sit waiting for someone to live or die, like this, you’ll remember that I did come to love you and to understand, and it might comfort you.”

  John had a sudden vision of Mimi lying in a room like that one in which his brother lay, and he was sick with fear and helplessness.

  “I know,” said Caroline, watching him, “that you are thinking of Mary. Just remember that perhaps she often thinks that of you too. There’s so little love in the world that we must try to hold it to us, for there is nothing else, John. Nothing else at all.”

  She stood up and went into Ames’ room again, and John was alone. He felt confused, and he was still afraid. He lifted the telephone and called Melinda’s house, for he wanted, more than anything else, to speak to his young wife.

  “Of course I’m all right, dear,” she said laughingly. “But how is Aunt Caroline?” Her voice dropped. “And — Ames?”

  He felt his old familiar anger that she should be concerned with anyone but himself. But at the very moment of anger it vanished, and he felt the first shame of his life. He stopped to consider it. Then he said, “Mother is — I don’t know, darling. But she’s changed in some way. I’ll tell you about it later. I’m coming back early tonight.”

  “No,” said Mimi. “You must stay with your mother until the last train home. She needs you.”

  John paused. Then he said, and more than half meant it: “You’re right. She’s pleased with your flowers too. And you and your mother may come just as soon as visitors are permitted.”

  He went to the door of Ames’ room and saw his mother stooping over the bed. Funny about Ames, he thought. They’d never had anything in common; Ames had always been able to find the weak spots in anyone, then press on them. It amused him. There was something hellish about Ames, thought John, something laughingly cruel and disgusting. He had had a marriage that hadn’t been a marriage — that silly little girl. But perhaps he never could care about anyone, not even someone like Mimi. Now that, he said to himself, is a kind of deformity or a crippling.

  John turned. A young woman had entered the living room, dressed in black, carrying her slender body proudly, even nobly. Her black hat was far down on her forehead, and its wide shadow almost hid her face, which was further concealed by a black veil. But her dark eyes gleamed through the mesh, and she was smiling a little at him.

  “Amy!” he exclaimed. Was it possible that this girl, so calm and poised, was actually the terrified and cringing child he had last seen only a few months ago?

  “I had to come,” said Amy, giving him her hand. “I didn’t know until this morning. We were all away in North Carolina and just arrived home a few hours ago. No one told us by letter. I suppose they thought the situation was awkward, or something just as ridiculous. One of the housemaids told us this morning; she’d seen something about Ames in the newspaper, and where he was.” Amy removed her hand. “Ames, you know, is still my husband.”

  She looked at the open door anxiously. “How is he? I called Griffith and he only told me that Cousin Caroline had informed him today that Ames was still unconscious.”

  “No change,” said John, drawing a chair forward for her. “It takes time, I hear. At least it wasn’t cancer.”

  Amy seated herself with grace and composure. “I know. Griffith told me.” Her pretty face saddened. She lifted her mourning veil. She looked at John with straight clear eyes, no longer shy or afraid. “How is Cousin Caroline?”

  “Bearing up. You know Mother.”

  “Yes,” said Amy thoughtfully. “I do know your mother. My brothers blame her for everything that happened to Daddy. Mama thinks they are ridiculous, and so do I.” She waited a moment, then said, “I love Cousin Caroline dearly. She saved my life. I never knew anything before.”

  The soft and hesitating voice was gone. Amy spoke like a woman, a beautiful and assured woman, with the strength of maturity. It was too bad, thought John with sincere regret — which surprised him — that Ames had never known this woman and never would now.

  “Oh, Cousin Caroline!” said Amy in a soft voice, and rising. Caroline came into the room, and Amy was shocked at the visible aging, the deathliness, of the other woman. But she went at once to Caroline and put her arms about her neck and kissed her cheek. She wanted to cry, not for Ames, but for Caroline, so broken and slow and old.

  “Well, Amy,” said Caroline, and patted the girl’s back.

  “I didn’t know until this morning. We were away. As soon as I could, I came,” said Amy. “Do sit down; you look so exhausted. How is Ames?”

  Caroline let the girl lead her to a chair. She sat down and closed her eyes, and Amy saw the dry and wrinkled lids, the purplish lips. “He hasn’t recovered consciousness yet,” said Caroline. “I suppose we must just wait. It was very serious.”

  “Can’t we have some tea or something for Cousin Caroline?” asked Amy in such a peremptory and rebuking voice that John was startled and ran to the bell like a chastened boy and rang for a nurse.

  “And something to eat. Sandw
iches and little cakes,” said Amy sternly. “It’s far past noon. I suppose you never thought about it, John.”

  Caroline made a dismissing motion. “I don’t want anything, Amy. They asked, but I refused.”

  “I’m sure John had an excellent lunch,” said Amy with scorn.

  “Now, look here,” said John, coloring.

  “At his club. Before he came,” said Amy remorselessly. “Men are very unfeeling and inconsiderate. Well, did you have your lunch?”

  “What of it?” said John. But again, for the second time, he was ashamed.

  “You should have taken care of your mother. You’re all she has just now to depend on.”

  When the nurse came in Amy said, “A hot, nourishing soup for Mrs. Sheldon, please. And a hot sandwich. And tea. And some cakes. Perhaps you’d better bring three cups, nurse, please, for all of us.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” said Caroline. But she smiled a little. She patted Amy’s hand.

  “For me,” said Amy firmly. “You’ll do it for me. You will?”

  “Very well,” said Caroline.

  “May I see Ames?” asked Amy.

  “They don’t want anyone in the room except his closest — ”

  Amy looked at the distant door. “It seems to me that I’m his ‘closest’, too, even if he never knew it. I won’t disturb anyone. I just want to look at him.” She moved to the door, walking smoothly and with her new assurance, and Caroline and John watched her. She went into the room. “Well!” said Caroline, and her deathly color was less, and her usual grim smile was gentler. “There has been a change in the child, hasn’t there?” She seemed amused.

  “She’s damned arrogant now if you want my honest opinion,” grumbled John. What had the damned girl said? “You’re all she has just now to depend on.” He looked at his mother coldly. “I should have insisted when you refused your lunch. From now on I think I’ll start to manage things.”

  “Do,” said Caroline. But she gave him a sharp glance, conjecturing.

  “You probably haven’t eaten for these three days,” said John. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll have my lunch here with you after this.”

  His voice was no longer cajoling or pleasing. It was actually and honestly annoyed. “I don’t like snips telling me what to do,” he added, “but I suppose it’s all my fault. But a man sometimes lets women manage him just for the sake of peace.” He squared his shoulders in displeasure and looked his mother in the eye.

  It’s too much to hope for, thought Caroline.

  Amy came back. She was pale and moved. “Are you sure he is doing well?” she asked of her cousin. “He looks so — emaciated. So still.”

  “He is doing well,” said Caroline. “At least his doctor says so. We can expect him to become conscious at any time now. His blood pressure is rising, and his heart is stronger.”

  Amy sat down and did not speak. Once her mouth trembled. “Poor Ames,” she said as the nurse entered the room with a lunch cart. “And now, Cousin Caroline, you must start with this good beef broth. John and I” — and she looked at John with a hard expression — “will have to take care of you.”

  “You are just like your grandmother Cynthia,” said Caroline, and almost meekly lifted her spoon. “She would take over everything.”

  But John, forgetting his dislike, thought she resembled Mimi, who would stand no nonsense, and smiling, he sat down beside his mother. He felt warm and protective, and he decided that women were not too obnoxious after all. He gave Caroline a surreptitious glance, and suddenly she was not formidable any longer, but only a prematurely old woman who needed an adequate, manly protection.

  Chapter 9

  Caroline, in her bedroom near her son, was dreaming. She was talking to a little girl who appeared to be hardly five years old, with her own young eyes, her cheeks rosy, her small mouth serious and listening, her dark curls a vapor on her childish shoulders. Caroline, in her dream, showed the little one a roll of yellow bills. “What is it?” asked the child.

  “It is money, Christina,” said Caroline. “A lot of money, darling, a lot of money. Look at it. There are lives in it and all kinds of stupid dreams, and lies, and death and thousands of hopes, and envies and hatreds. There’s war in it, too, but very little peace. The philosophers say it is nothing, but they reach for it. The good say it has no value, but they’d sell their souls for it if the price is high enough. The idealists say it is worthless in itself and can buy nothing, but they are the first to envy the possessors and to hate all those who have it. Look at it. It is only paper. But it can buy a world, and the world is all we know.”

  Caroline and the child were in a gray twilight and, it appeared, in a cold open space on a hill. Below them village lights glittered, and there was a hissing sound among old, dead trees. The child reached curiously for the money in Caroline’s hand, took it, examined it. Then she laughed and threw the bills into the air, and suddenly it was summer and the money had turned itself into golden fruit on leafy boughs. “Why, of course,” said Caroline.

  Someone was shaking her gently, and she tried to throw off the hand which would lead her from this shining place. She could hear Christina’s laughter; then the child ran to her and kissed her warmly on the cheek. The hand became more insistent and Caroline woke up. A nurse was beside her, and her bed light was lit.

  “The doctor is here,” the nurse whispered. “We sent for him. Mr. Sheldon is waking up, the doctor thinks.”

  Caroline looked about the pleasant lamplit room and could not move for a moment. She could see her little granddaughter’s face in every corner of the room, the laughing golden eyes, the fluttering of dark hair — her granddaughter who was not yet born. Caroline brought herself heavily from the bed. She pulled on her old brown robe and thrust her feet into slippers and, with her white braids on her shoulders, she went into Ames’ room. Dr. Manz was sitting at the bedside, watching, and a nurse and an intern stood at the foot of the bed.

  Ames was moving restlessly and muttering. He lifted his hands aimlessly, then dropped them. Once he touched his bandaged head and groaned. His legs shifted under the covers. Dr. Manz said in a low voice, “There is no paralysis, thanks be to God.” He took one of Ames’ uneasy hands and felt the pulse and nodded with satisfaction. He saw Caroline and stood up, “It is well,” he said cautiously. “But we shall see.”

  Caroline stood at the bedside. Ames’ bruised eyelids were quivering; his muttering grew louder. There was distress in it, and impatience, and anger. Once his words were coherent. “I said, don’t touch it! It’s my own; I don’t want other hands on anything that’s mine.”

  All the hospital was silent around them, for it was only three o’clock in the morning. Dr. Manz tenderly wiped Ames’ lips with a cloth dipped in water, and he murmured soothingly. He spoke in careful English and quite loudly: “Ames. Ames Sheldon. Wake up, please. Ames!”

  But Ames subsided and began his distressful muttering again, and the doctor frowned. He felt the pulse again, and his face took on alarm. Caroline saw this. Her heart was beating with strong, fast, and physical pain. She reached for her son’s hand and held it tightly. “Ames!” she called. “Ames, come home. It’s Mama, Ames.”

  She bent and kissed his wet forehead, his twitching cheek. He lay suddenly still. Then, very quietly, with no sound at all, he opened his eyes and looked directly up into his mother’s face. She smiled at him and pressed his hand firmly.

  “Why,” he murmured. “Mama, of course.”

  “Certainly,” said Caroline briskly. “Now you are all right.” She still held his hand tightly, and he did not try to remove it. His eyes slowly wandered about the room; he saw the doctors and the nurse, and then he frowned.

  “Have I had the operation?” he asked in his weak voice.

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “And it is all right. It was benign, and you are not going to be blind, and you will be all well in a few weeks.”

  His eyes came back to her, and they gleamed a little, as if wit
h amusement. “Mama, you never lied in your life, did you? So I believe you.”

  “That’s a compliment,” said Caroline. “But I’m not the only one in the world who tells the truth.”

  “Too bad,” said Ames with mock sympathy. “Must be damned uncomfortable.”

  But Caroline felt a pressure in her hand; her son was actually pressing it, as if in affection and understanding.

  “Now,” said Dr. Manz, “we must sleep. We must sleep very much for several days.”

  “Good old boy,” said Ames, He fell asleep suddenly, and the gray face became cool and smooth again.

  Dr. Manz took Caroline into the living room. She saw his tiredness and his satisfaction and pride. “Now I can go home, gracious lady,” he said. “I can do no more.” He regarded Caroline with kindness. “It was your love which brought him back; he responded to it.”