A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  “I don’t know,” said Caroline. “I have always thought him incapable of love.”

  “No,” said the doctor. “No man is, not even the lost or the mad.”

  Melinda came, and Mimi and John. Melinda looked ill and worn, but her sweet gravity lit up her gray eyes when she embraced Caroline and kissed her cheek.

  “How terrible it must have been for you, dear Caroline,” she said. “I’d have come before, but I’ve had a little cold, I’m afraid. And how is Ames?”

  “He woke up three days ago, as John probably told you. He sleeps almost all the time, but each time he wakes up he is stronger and can speak better.”

  John, who always held his young wife’s hand when he was in her company, said, “He’s becoming his old, disagreeable self again. He followed my last case in court in the newspapers, and he asked me how much I had to pay in bribes.” John smiled. “Yes indeed, the Young Master is himself again. You’d think, after all he’s gone through, that there’d be a change for the better.”

  “People don’t change very much,” said Caroline. “That’s for fairy tales. But,” she said, looking directly at John, “we can discipline ourselves to be less obnoxious than we are naturally, and eventually being sensible and decent may become a habit.”

  “Touche,” said John. He gently released Mimi’s hand, and she smiled at him. Her young body was swollen with her child, and Caroline thought of the Christina who had not yet been born. “It will be a girl — Christina,” said Caroline with her old abruptness.

  “We’ve practically decided on the sex,” said John, smiling, and he spoke easily and without his old jealousy. “And the name will be Christina.”

  Melinda had sat down, and Caroline could see her pallor and weakness. Now she resembled their father, and Caroline felt pain and deep sorrow. Melinda smiled at her. “I think it’s a lovely name,” she said.

  “You must take care of yourself,” said Caroline.

  Melinda was startled. “I beg your pardon, Caroline? Oh, myself. I’ve just had a little cold, and now I have a cough. The children are leaving tomorrow, but I am here, you know. I will call you at least once a day and will come when I can.”

  Caroline looked at Mimi, and the girl was looking at her mother. She knows, thought Caroline. But she is strong; she is already accepting whatever there will be to accept. Caroline said, “I’ve always thought of Mary as my daughter.”

  Amy came, as she did every day, but she had not yet seen Ames. She sat with Caroline, talking gently and peacefully. She said, “Mama will come when Ames can have regular visitors. She wants to see you more than anyone else, though, Cousin Caroline.”

  “Your mother,” said Caroline, “is a very sensible woman. I hope her children appreciate it.”

  Amy smiled. “Mama manages everything now, since — Even the boys are afraid of her.”

  “Love can be as crippling, many times, as hate,” said Caroline with her old brusqueness. “Unless it is judicious as well as accepting and doesn’t demand everything. And doesn’t keep its hands pressed blindly over its eyes. Love, too, has its victims.”

  She added with authority, “I wish everyone understood that.”

  Amy reflected on this. “You know,” she said at last, “I was a damned fool. I ought to have known better. I may see Ames now if he’s awake?”

  “He’s awake,” said Caroline, and the old grim smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “In fact, he’s probably listening to us. Go to see him, Amy.”

  Amy walked into Ames’ room. He was indeed awake. “Well, child wife,” he said, “how nice of you to visit your husband.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Amy calmly. She sat down near his bed. “I really don’t know how you survived all this. You didn’t deserve it. But only the good die young, I’ve heard.”

  “Well, well,” said Ames from his high pillows. He scrutinized her. “Is this really Amy, this gracious young lady with all that damned serenity and poise and Old Boston restraint?”

  “It certainly is,” said Amy. “I’m so restrained and dignified that I don’t need corsets to keep me rigid.” She cocked her pretty head at him humorously. “I wonder what I ever saw in you, darling Ames,” she said. “You are really despicable, you know. Like a mean little boy. And I wonder why I was ever afraid of you. By the way,” she said, “I went to the apartment. Griffith informed me that you had thoughtfully taken the key to your treasure house with you, and I thought everything would be very dusty. So I called in a locksmith and he made me a set of keys, and I spent two evenings washing up all those little knickknacks of yours so they’d be quite splendid and shining when you went home.”

  Ames frowned at her with his old coldness. “You had the audacity?”

  “Oh, I have plenty of audacity these days,” said Amy. “I’m audacious all over the place. My beaus just love it, though, of course, since Daddy’s death we go out very seldom. But that will all end by next summer, and in the meantime I’m taking inventory. Our divorce will come through in December, you know. We plan a quiet celebration at home. With a birthday cake and candles.”

  Ames flushed. “Do drink a glass of your damned cheap sherry for me, won’t you? Your father thought he was a connoisseur, but he wasn’t, you know.” His voice was gently vicious. “In fact, he was all plebe, in spite of his airs.”

  “Was he?” asked Amy with smiling indifference. “I didn’t notice.”

  Ames was annoyed. Amy was out of the reach of his little barbs and delicate insults. “I suppose,” he said, “that just as soon as possible you’ll be marrying again?”

  “I wouldn’t for the life of me remain single,” said Amy with a smirk that goaded him. “And by the way, I’ve just visited a specialist in New York. They have discovered a way to cure me, and it’s very successful in most cases. I intend to have at least six children when I marry again, and I’ll love them and beat them regularly, as you should have been beaten when you were a child.”

  “Why did you wash up my collections? And I hope to God your clumsy hands didn’t chip any!” He sat up a little higher on his pillows, and there was fire in his eyes.

  Amy considered. She put a gloved finger to her lips and looked both arch and serious, and Ames wanted to slap her. She said, “I suppose it was all my solid-gold good heart. I knew how you slavered over them — ’’

  “Slavered!” Ames shouted.

  “A vulgar word, but the only one that fits,” said Amy. “No, I didn’t chip any. They’re really exquisite, and I love them. You never knew that, did you? I belong to the Tuesday Club, and I gave serious thought to inviting the ladies to view your collections, at so much a lady, the proceeds to go to charity.”

  “Go to hell,” said Ames.

  “I think not,” said Amy. Her eyes were dancing. “I think I’m going to have a very nice and pleasant life from this time on. When I have my own home again I’m going to be mistress in it. I am going to choose the rugs and the draperies and the furniture. It won’t be much different from your apartment, dear boy, because you really have excellent and impeccable taste.”

  “I suppose,” said Ames, “that you have already picked out your victim?”

  “Come to think of it, I have,” Amy said.

  “I hope he’ll find you more interesting that I did,” he said.

  “Indeed. I’m a much more interesting person day by day, dear boy. There were too many oppressive men in my life, Daddy and you.”

  “Too bad I didn’t die,” said Ames. “Then you’d be a merry widow instead of a tarnished divorcee.”

  “There’s no tarnish on me at all,” said Amy, “I never took money to marry anyone; I’ll not consider money when I marry.”

  Ames grunted. He scrutinized her again. She seemed older, and more mature, and a grand lady, and not the cringing little Amy he had known who had exasperated him. She was a woman who would never again piteously demand kisses and love but would casually accept them if they came. If both were temperate, that would please he
r just as well.

  “I find you a little interesting now, but not very much,” said Ames. “I think you’ve become conceited, and I always hated conceited women.”

  “Does it matter what you think about me?” asked Amy reasonably. “As acquaintances and relatives, if not friends, and soon to be not even husband and wife, don’t you think you should be more polite? Not that I care, knowing how venomous your politeness always is.”

  “Have you been back to finishing school to learn how to be a woman instead of an infant?”

  “Indeed, yes. Your mother was my first teacher. I’m so grateful to dear Caroline. And then my mother became my teacher; she’s so sensible, you know. But I really think I did my own teaching. I developed self-respect, I also inherited a lot of money from poor Daddy. He had indicated in his will that I would inherit that money only if I had left you at the time of his death. Otherwise, not a penny. Dear Daddy. He did know all about you, didn’t he, darling boy?”

  “Blood will tell,” said Ames. “I suppose you count your bankbooks daily.”

  “There is nothing so interesting,” said Amy, “as bankbooks. I recommend them for everybody. But I am doing a lot of investing too. The stock market is really fascinating.”

  “Blood will tell,” Ames repeated.

  “I do hope so,” said Amy piously. “Well, I have stayed long enough, haven’t I? Do get well soon. Do you like those yellow roses I sent you?”

  “Yes,” said Ames sullenly. “You remembered at least one thing about me, didn’t you? That I like yellow roses.”

  “I remember so many things about you, unfortunately, that it sometimes depresses me. But I am learning to control even that.” Amy stood up and smiled down at him. “I must leave you now. So good-by. You need not, you know, even appear in court.”

  Ames looked up at her. How pretty she was, really beautiful. He had never noticed before the loveliness of her serene eyes, the firm curve of her pink lips. She had spirit and grace. She was a woman, too, and she was tender and not maudlin. She had the power of self-assurance and self-control and kindly warmth.

  Ames said suddenly, “Oh, I’ll be in court, all right! To contest the divorce.”

  Amy stood very still. Then she said quietly, “But why? You never really wanted me, Ames.”

  “I do now.” He darted out his hand and took one of hers.

  “My dear,” she said, watching him and holding back her tears, “you’ll never see one cent of my money. Not one cent.”

  “I don’t want it,” said Ames.

  “Good heavens. What’s come over you?”

  “You,” said Ames.

  Amy let him hold her hand. “I must think about all this. I’m not sure I care a thing about you. The girl who loved you has gone. I am a different person entirely, a stranger.”

  “Let’s get acquainted, then,” said Ames gravely. “Permit me, madam, to introduce myself. Your husband. May I have the next dance?”

  “You may, sir,” said Amy. “But only that one dance. My program is all filled up.”

  “I’ll manage that,” said Ames.

  They looked at each other, then they began to laugh together, and Amy bent down and gave him a chaste kiss. But his arm went about her neck and he kissed her thoroughly, until her hat fell from her head.

  “You’re not the only one who’s been a damned fool,” said Ames. “But as former damned fools, and therefore dangerous, let’s take each other out of circulation. Who else could stand us?”

  When Amy, adjusting her hat, came into the living room, Caroline was waiting for her in cold and somber silence. Amy sat down near her, and then Caroline said, “When I took you home you told me that you could not love my son, for you had become entirely different.”

  “Yes,” said Amy. “I did. I am. But I think, too, that Ames has become a little different too. We’ll see.”

  “I don’t believe in happy endings,” said Caroline.

  Amy shook her head. “I don’t either, Cousin Caroline. I don’t believe in endings at all.”

  Caroline studied her, then her hard expression softened. “I never saw it before, but you resemble your mother more than a little. What do you mean by not believing in endings?”

  “Every day is different, and in some way we change with every day,” said Amy. “I must think about all this.”

  Caroline walked into her son’s room. His bandaged head was turned to Amy’s yellow roses. Caroline said at once, “I hope you fully understand what you and Amy are doing.”

  He half turned his head and slanted his eyes at her. “Does anyone?” he replied. “Did you always know?”

  Caroline considered this. Then she said, “I don’t think, really, that I ever knew.”

  He looked at the ceiling. “It’s very funny,” said Ames, “but I felt I was sliding down a long black slope and couldn’t stop. Then I heard you call me, and I began to be rushed back. When I woke up, you were here.”

  “Did you want to come back, Ames?”

  He thought about it. “Frankly, I don’t know. I never had that lust for life that I hear about. That teeming exuberance for living, like John’s. I wasn’t afraid of dying; I was only afraid of going blind, before the operation. But when I heard you calling me, I came back, and I can’t tell you if it was willingly or not.”

  “Did life always seem immaterial to you, Ames?”

  He thought to himself: What a strange conversation to be having with the poor old girl! He said, “I think so. I can’t ever remember being all worked up about living, now even when I was a kid. I can stand it fairly well if things don’t become too involved and emotional, for life’s just not worth all that trouble. That was a great part of the difficulty between Amy and me. But now I think she’ll never be that way again.” And he smiled.

  “And you?”

  “I? Well, dear Mama, for the first time in my life I think there may be something to this life-loving hullabaloo. I’ll explore the matter. Gingerly.”

  Caroline said as she turned to leave, “I told you before that I love you, Ames. I love John also. It doesn’t matter in the least whether you care about that or not.”

  No, thought Caroline, there are no happy endings for anyone in the world. But when we repent and try to make amends, there is hope, not for a happy ending, but for peace. And some small understanding.

  Chapter 10

  The gray wind and the gray sea shouted at Caroline’s back on this cold, early November day as she climbed up the steep and forgotten road to the cemetery. Her head, in its knit cap, lifted to the top of the slope where the ancient and abandoned gravestones stood at desolate angles or had fallen on their faces, names obliterated, memory vanished, love forsaken. The black spire of the empty church raised its point against the bitter and turbulent sky. It was almost dusk; it was hard to see the slipping earth and knotted roots that covered the path. Tall and empty trees lined the forgotten road, but here and there some small maple or elm had clutched at its handful of red or yellow leaves tenaciously, as if to deny the coming darkness and the coming death of winter. But the wind tore them away, and the leaves rattled and scurried along the path, alive in their deadness, their dry voices scrabbling. An owl cried. The air was filled with the threat of sleet, and a low and melancholy thunder invaded it as the sea raised its voice.

  Though the graveyard was forgotten, even by all those in the village below, there was an area, wide and groomed, surrounded by a low iron fence. In the center of it stood a great tall shaft, white and glimmering in the dull light of the day’s ending. Here lay Tom’s father and his mother, and Tom and Elizabeth and Beth, under the large lettering: ‘Sheldon’. Even Beth, who had never had that name. There was much space for more graves, and here, thought Caroline, I’ll lie, myself, and perhaps it won’t be too long to wait. There were urns here, filled with ivy, and cypresses, and flower beds, blasted now. In the summer it was beautiful and had become somewhat of a local spectacle. Caroline opened the low gate, which was surrounded by all tho
se many forgotten headstones, and stepped inside the private area she had bought.

  Something, or someone, moved suddenly in the dull light, and Caroline found herself confronted by a stranger in the black garments of a priest. He was not very tall, but he was plump and had a very peaceful and serious face, and his bared head was somewhat bald, with fine flying hair sparsely fluttering over the empty places. He smiled at Caroline’s sudden halt and look of alarm, and when he smiled his face was instantly charming and radiant. Caroline stared at him with shock, remembering. She put her hand, gloved in rough wool, to the breast of her old brown coat.

  “You are Caroline Sheldon, aren’t you?” he asked, and his voice was strong yet gentle. “And I — ”