“Oh, Elliot, if only I could feel I’d been a bridge to you!”
“A bridge?”
“Yes, which you passed over, from your grieving about Elaine, to being happy with somebody else. Perhaps on the boat—or over in England—you’ll meet somebody, and you’ll be all ready for her—the bridge crossed, and everything.”
“And I suppose you’ll meet somebody sometime who you’ll be more ready for.”
“No, I don’t think I shall ever marry. Some women aren’t the marrying kind. But thank you ever so much for asking me. I’ve got that on my record, anyway!” She smiled in an attempt to relieve the solemnity.
“What will you be doing this summer and afterward?”
“Oh, closing the house, going to Maine, coming back, opening the house, taking care of Mother, same old job. I’m awfully glad there’s no ring to give back to you, Elliot.”
“When shall I tell my mother and sisters?”
“Tonight. I’ll tell my family tonight, too.”
There was a pause. “Shall I kiss you goodbye?”
“Oh, let’s not. It really isn’t goodbye. For we’ll be seeing each other next fall. We’ll still be friends, won’t we?”
“Of course. Well, goodbye till we meet again.”
“Goodbye, Elliot, till we meet again.”
A moment later she heard him going down the stairs, and then the muffled thud of the front door as it closed. It had never been his custom to turn and wave nor hers to follow him out of sight with her gaze, but this time steadfastly she watched him cross the sidewalk, get into the car, and close the door. It moved away. As if she was performing a last rite she kept her eyes upon the car as it grew smaller and smaller and disappeared.
That last long gesture of Elliot’s was something like the last long breath which her father had drawn when he had disappeared into the cosmos of shifting identities. There had been no gasping, no struggle. He had simply taken an extra long intake of air into his lungs and seemed to straighten out his body a little. She had thought at first that he was holding his breath, and had looked questioningly at the nurse. The nurse had nodded and smiled at her, withdrew her fingers from his wrist, glanced at her watch, and said quietly, “Five-twenty-three.” Now Charlotte glanced at her watch. “Five-fifty-five.” A blur of tears filled her eyes.
She had missed the sound of her father’s labored breathing in the house terribly at first. For weeks it had been as incessant as a tide upon the shore. Now she would miss the labored efforts of her engagement to Elliot. No longer would there be any necessity to adjust to its complaints. No longer any brief flashes of false hope. It was over, finished, ended forever.
She went upstairs to her room, stealthily climbing the three flights so that her mother would not hear her.
She would never have a child of her own now. She would never have a home of her own. She would never have a man of her own. She would never have even a friend to whom she was important. She was no longer young. Such relationships must be started in one’s youth. Oh, Jerry, Jerry, where are you? I need you so. She lay upon the bed and wept.
24
THE HEIRESS
It was a bitter disappointment to Charlotte’s mother when she heard of the broken engagement. She highly approved of Elliot Livingston as a husband for her daughter. For years her tyranny had vented itself on Charlotte, selfishly and cruelly, it may have seemed, but she had a strong maternal instinct.
Charlotte ate dinner alone that night, then went upstairs to her mother’s room. She was seated in her wheelchair in the bay window. Charlotte sat down opposite in a low rocker.
“What was Elliot’s hurry this afternoon?” crisply her mother demanded. “He was here less than half an hour.”
“Mother, Elliot and I have broken our engagement.”
Her mother was leaning back in the chair. Her body stiffened as if a charge of electricity had passed through it. “Why have you done that?”
“Because I’m not in love with him,” she replied, rocking gently back and forth.
“Hmph! ‘Not in love with him’! At your age such talk is just sentimental foolishness.”
Charlotte made no comment.
“What do you intend to do with your life, anyway?”
“Get a cat and a parrot and enjoy single blessedness,” Charlotte replied airily.
“Without any means of support?”
“I’ve already told you I’m not afraid of that.”
“I sometimes wonder how you can be a child of mine! Haven’t you any ambition at all? Here you’ve got a chance to join our name, Vale, with the name of one of the finest families in this city, Livingston, and you come in here and tell me you’re not ‘in love’! You talk like a romantic young girl of sixteen.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” Charlotte agreed calmly, but the old smoldering bitterness was very near the surface.
Her apparent composure was infuriating to her mother. “Stop rocking,” she commanded. Charlotte obeyed. “You’ve never done anything to make your mother proud. Not a single thing. Nor to make yourself proud, either. Why, I should think you’d be ashamed to be born and live all your life as just Charlotte Vale—Miss Charlotte Vale.”
“I never wanted to be born,” Charlotte retorted, the bitterness bursting into flame now. “And you never wanted me to be born either! It’s been a calamity on both sides!”
Her mother’s eyes flashed. She looked as fierce as an enraged eagle. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, pressing her lips tightly together as if to get herself under better control. A sort of spasm contracted the muscles of her face for an instant.
“Oh, Mother, don’t let’s quarrel. We’ve been getting along so well together lately.”
Again her mother tried to speak and failed. Again there was a muscular contraction.
“That was a horrid thing for me to say. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Mother.”
But Charlotte’s contrition came too late. Her mother’s hands were gripping the chair arms. Without further warning, or another spoken word, one of her mother’s hands loosened its hold and fell down at the side of the chair. At the same time her body slumped, listing to one side like a rammed ship.
Charlotte stepped to the door. “Dora! Dora!” she called.
By the time Dora had helped Charlotte raise the crumpled body into a sitting position again, one corner of her mother’s mouth was pulled down, her face contorted, and she was making strange gurgling sounds.
Once more Dan Regan lifted the shrunken little old body in his arms. “Hold on tight now,” cheerfully he sang out. She seemed to understand him. Her good left arm clutched his neck. “Now let go.” Again her left arm obeyed his command.
Dan laid her down gently in the middle of the wide bed. Dora pulled down her thick cotton nightgown, and spread the sheet over her tenderly, then the warm blankets, patting and stroking it, murmuring, “There! There, Gramma! Dora is here. So is Dan. Dora and Dan understand. Don’t worry, darling.”
Her mother tried to speak, but only unintelligible sounds came forth. Her tongue had apparently become as useless as the dangling right arm. Charlotte turned away from the sight. There was nothing for her to do. She went downstairs and waited in the living room. Another nurse arrived a half hour later.
“HAS ANYTHING HAPPENED to excite her today?” asked Dan when finally he and Dora joined Charlotte in the living room.
“Not that I know of,” said Dora.
“Yes, there has, too,” contradicted Charlotte. “I’m to blame for this. Mother and I quarreled. I did it.”
“Oh, I don’t believe so, Miss Vale. This often happens to old people without any provocation whatsoever.”
“You’re trying to let me out, Dan. That’s kind of you, but I did it,” Charlotte insisted. “I said something simply awful to my mother.”
“Well, even so, it isn’t likely that the effect could follow so closely upon what you fear may be the cause. It was just a coincidence.”
&nbs
p; “No, I saw it happen. I know. I did it. I did it.”
Five days later, Dora stole into Charlotte’s room early one morning and said gently, “Isn’t it nice for Gramma? When I went to see if she was all right, I found she’d gone to sleep forever.”
“I did it. I did it, Dora,” again Charlotte repeated.
On the morning of the funeral Charlotte stole into her mother’s darkened room. She was lying on her bed covered with its lace spread. She was all dressed up in her best black velvet, ready to go downstairs to play the grand dame at her last party. Charlotte stood and gazed at her long and silently.
Strange, she thought, how death repairs, restores, and even beautifies. Or more likely the undertaker, she concluded, with that relentless honesty of hers. There was no indication of her mother’s last sickness. The muscles of her face no longer sagged. Her mouth was no longer drawn down. To all appearances the afflicted right arm had been healed. Both her hands, ringless now except for the wide gold wedding ring, were crossed on her chest, wrists and fingers gracefully flexed. Both her eyes were closed as in sleep. Many of the wrinkles on her face had disappeared. There was no trace of anger, or disapproval, no suggestion of their last quarrel, and yet, as Charlotte gazed, dry-eyed, she was tortured by two refrains: You’ve never done anything to make your mother proud and I did it. I did it.
LLOYD TOLD CHARLOTTE about her mother’s will in the late afternoon on the day of the funeral. There was no formal ceremony. Besides Charlotte only Lloyd and Rosa, Hilary and Justine were present, all dressed in black, seated in the living room. Lloyd, as eldest son and one of the executors of the will, assumed the position of master of ceremonies. He produced the important document from his breast pocket and stretched out its long, thin, typewritten pages. They crackled like fresh tissue paper.
“Mother has left a will we shall all feel very proud of, when it is published in the papers,” he began. “She has made many public bequests, not as large as I think they should have been in view of the size of her property, but they will be considered generous.” He put on his glasses and glanced down. “All the best known charities are included in the list, several hospitals, the Art Museum, the Boston Symphony Orchestra, the Audubon Society, and so forth, to the amount of some $250,000 in all. Also there are many personal bequests. I won’t read them all at present. However, the following may interest you.” He turned a page, and cleared his throat. “I give to my daughter-in-law Rosa, wife of my son Lloyd, the sum of $25,000. To my daughter-in-law Justine, wife of my son Hilary, the sum of $25,000. To each of my grandchildren, born at date of my signature, the sum of $5,000. I give to my faithful chauffeur, William McGinnis, the sum of $10,000; to each of my other servants who has served in my employ for the period of three years prior to my death, the sum of $300 for each year in my service. I give to my devoted nurse, Dora Pickford, the sum of $5,000. To my devoted doctor, Daniel Regan, the sum of $5,000.” Lloyd cleared his throat. “All the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, real, personal, or mixed, of whatever nature and wherever situated, I give, devise, and bequeath to my beloved daughter, Charlotte Vale.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, and then, chiefly to relieve the tension, Hilary inquired, “Doesn’t she bequeath anything to either of her beloved sons?”
“Not a red cent.”
“Mother told me that Father had already given you and Lloyd your property,” said Charlotte. “But if you think you ought to have some more, Hilary, then let’s fix it right.”
“Good Heavens, Charlotte,” Lloyd exclaimed, “if you’re going to be any such easy mark as that you don’t deserve to be in charge of any such amount of money. Even after you pay your taxes, it’s going to be a disgraceful lot.”
“Hasn’t Mother left anything to Lisa?” asked Charlotte.
“No. Lisa isn’t mentioned.”
“Nor to little Christopher?”
“Naturally not. The child wasn’t born.”
“But Mother knew! Please see that both Lisa and Christopher are treated like the other members of our family, Lloyd.”
“But they aren’t members of our family, Charlotte. We all felt very strongly that out of respect to Rupert, Lisa should not have considered marriage for at least two years.”
“I didn’t feel that way.”
“Possibly not. But this isn’t your will, my dear.”
“But it’s my money, isn’t it?”
“Not yet. But in time—in time, yes,” he acknowledged grudgingly.
“Well, then, as soon as it is mine, Lisa and Christopher will receive the same amounts as the others,” Charlotte announced.
Lloyd’s face twitched. “I hope you aren’t going to be difficult, Charlotte. For many years I have been Mother’s adviser about all her financial affairs. You know nothing about such matters.”
“Then I must learn.”
Again Lloyd’s face twitched. It was an inherited trait. “Charlotte, Mother has committed to you a grave responsibility. I do not feel this large estate is yours to spend and distribute as you wish. I look upon you simply as the custodian of our family property. It is my sincere hope—the sincere hope of us all—you’ll be a wise custodian.”
“WELL, YOU’RE SURELY very lucky, Charlotte,” said Justine, when she rose to go.
“I hope you’ll be willing to make a nice large subscription to our new Foundling’s Home,” said Rosa, “and perhaps come on to our board sometime.”
Oh, dear, I wish it made me happier, thought Charlotte that night during the long stretch between one and five when she couldn’t sleep. But all the money in the world won’t let me call up Jerry and tell him I’ve broken my engagement to Elliot and killed my mother and am all alone in the world.
MARLBOROUGH STREET in late July presents somewhat the same aspect as a summer amusement boulevard in late September. Some of the houses showed signs of life within, but intermittent and languishing. Many front doors were shuttered. Many windows boarded. There was still a good deal of traffic, however, especially in the morning and late afternoon. The suburbanites still traveled in and out of town along their favorite routes. But there were few pedestrians. Charlotte could walk a whole block or more without meeting anyone.
She didn’t open the Maine cottage. There was no reason to now. There was no reason to do anything now. She decided to remain in town for the summer. All the servants, except William and the cook, felt they must get away from the heat of the city. Charlotte didn’t try to dissuade them. In view of the For Sale sign, which she had attached to one of the brownstone pillars, it was wiser for them to place themselves in permanent positions as soon as possible.
Dora, of course, had taken another case. There were no more calls from Dan Regan. The telephone scarcely ever rang. There were few people left in town who might ask her for an occasional game of bridge. The various members of the family had all departed to their respective summer retreats. June was in Europe with Fabia, who had been granted a two months’ leave of absence. Her sisters-in-law, all three, extended cordial invitations to Charlotte for a visit, but she shrank from the effort.
The one activity she indulged in was driving her own car. During the spring she had learned to operate an automobile. The only purchase of importance which she had made since her mother’s death was a Lincoln roadster. Every hot evening she would run out into the country to escape, not only the heat of the city streets, but their loneliness. She felt her desolation less keenly speeding by the green lawns and unclosed houses and the hills and meadows farther out. Sometimes she left her car on the roadside, and strolled in the fields and meadows, or sat down against a stone wall and read, or tried to read. She was finding it more and more difficult to feel interest in a printed page.
That lack of interest in reading had been one of the definite symptoms of her last illness. Other definite symptoms intruded themselves upon her—periods of extreme fatigue without any cause, sleepless nights, a sensation of impending calamity, and all those inexplicable sensations too.
Most recovered victims of a nervous breakdown fear the possibility of its return for several years after recovery, Doctor Jaquith had warned her. “But fear is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s what you do about fear that determines whether you’re weak or strong. If there’s something you can do to get rid of your fear, do it, or else your fear may become an anxiety, and that’s harder to deal with.”
Charlotte called up Doctor Jaquith one morning in early August, and made an appointment with him.
25
CONSULTATION
Charlotte arrived in New York on the afternoon before her appointment. It was a forbidding day of fog and drizzling rain. She did not go to an uptown hotel. Either the Roosevelt or Biltmore required less effort. The old pall of lassitude was becoming thicker and thicker.
A bellboy showed her into a musty bedroom on the twentieth floor. It was elaborate and perfectly equipped, but about as alive as a dressed-up dummy in a showcase. After the bellboy had left, Charlotte went to the window and gazed out into the limitless expanse of dense gray murk.
She took off her hat and coat, and sat down on the edge of the crotch walnut bed, covered with rose-colored moiré trimmed with gilt braid. It was only four o’clock. What was she to do, closed up in this sealed cube of dead air, nearer the clouds than the ground, till tomorrow morning at ten o’clock?
Suddenly the telephone bell ripped through the still staleness like a streak of serpentine lightning. She took off the receiver and held it to her ear.
“Hello, Babs,” a vibrant male voice called.
Charlotte was silent.
“It’s Mike, Babs! Missed you at the train. Be up in a jiffy.”
“You have the wrong number,” said Charlotte and hung up the receiver.
That joyous welcome was not meant for her! The fresh, crisp sound of it increased her pangs of loneliness—like food in a baker’s window the pangs of hunger of a half-starved child.
As she gazed at the telephone with a mixture of reproach, envy, and self-pity, an old temptation returned. A person-to-person call. She need only to say that she was at such and such a number, and would he please call her up on a matter of business in the next hour or two. His office wasn’t six blocks away. Possibly, perhaps, they might meet for a few innocent minutes! They might even have an early dinner together!
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