“He’s staying in Boston?” asked Beth.
“For a bit, a few extra days.”
Beth’s eyes brightened. She said, “Maybe he has a secret love there.”
“No secret love,” replied Kate with her crone’s chuckle. “He’s got an office there. How sentimental you are, my girl.”
“He’s handsome enough,” said Beth hopefully. “And not too old. And he dresses well.”
“Like a toff,” Kate agreed. “Well, you’d best get down the bags from the attic. There’s some old blankets there too. Better pack them; we’ll need ‘em in Lyndon. I’ve a feeling we’re in for a hard winter this time.”
“They’re just rags,” said Beth. She climbed the shaking narrow stairs to the gloomy attic, holding high her brown woolen skirts to keep them from the thick soft dust. Once in the attic, she shut the decrepit door and licked her lips, then tiptoed to one of the tiny windows at the end of the long cold room. She rubbed a spot in the dusty glass and peered out, smiling like a conspirator. Tom and Caroline, far behind the windowless lower back of the house — as Beth had advised — were tossing a ball to each other. Caroline was learning to run quite lightly for one of her bodily form. Beth could see her smile. The child jumped on the low dunes; now Tom was chasing her playfully. The wind blew her braids; there was a rosy color on her cheeks; she pushed Tom and he pretended to be overwhelmed and fell flat on his face. Caroline clapped her hands.
Sighing and smiling secretly to herself, Beth looked for the bags they had brought in June. Long black spiderwebs, like thick nets, hung from the rough wooden ceiling with its pitched roof; the dust on the floor was like a carpet. It was very cold here, and yet airless, and had the musty, almost evil, smell of shut old places. Mice squeaked constantly in hidden corners dark with age and shadows. After gathering the tattered bags and her own straw suitcases, Beth paused. She listened intently. But Kate never came up here on her arthritic and ancient legs. There was no sound but the heaving and incessant pulsing of the sea, like a gigantic and mysterious heart. Beth had bought a naked waxen doll in the village for Caroline’s Christmas present; she had spent the three dollars Caroline had given her for her birthday. It was very pretty and large, with blue glass eyes tangled in a thicket of spiky lashes, and it wore a perpetual rosy smile, and its arms and legs could be moved. Moreover, it had a mane of coarse yellow horsehair. It deserved the finest of satin and silk and velvet clothing. Thoughtfully the woman eyed some old trunks in the attic. Old trunks were famous for containing cast-off dresses and laces and ribbons. Beth tiptoed to the trunks and opened one. It held nothing but rusty iron tools and some chains. She closed it; the next one held not a thing but dust. What had become of the dead Ann’s dresses and mantles and hats? There was one last trunk, and the lid creaked loudly when Beth opened it.
A flat thin parcel, wrapped in newspaper so old that it was yellow and broken, lay in the bottom of the trunk. Beth curiously picked it up; she knew at once from the weight and the bumpy border of the parcel that it was a picture of some kind. The newspaper crackled and fell apart in her hands. The light in the attic was failing; Beth carried the parcel to the window and, holding it close to her eyes, peered at the newspaper. It had been published, not in Boston, but in a strange place called Genesee, New York, and the date was April 4, 1839. Thirty-one years ago! The paper drifted in crisp fragments from Beth’s hands. Then recklessly she tore the rest away.
It was a portrait, about twenty inches by twenty-eight. Beth held it closer to the gray and uncertain light. It was as if the young Caroline were looking up at her from the canvas. The shimmering golden eyes smiled at Beth from the square pale face with its big chin and coarse nose. Big ears flared from the sides of the too large head; that head appeared to be set, as Caroline’s was, almost solidly on the wide shoulders, with practically no neck. But the dark fine hair was very thin, appearing hardly more than a glimmering lacquer over the skull.
Then Beth, holding the portrait closer to the indistinct light, saw that this was a portrait, not of a girl or a woman, but of a man of about thirty-eight or a little younger. He was dressed in the fashion she remembered of her own father; he did not wear the modern wide black or crimson or dark blue cravat. He wore a white stock pierced with a simple golden pin. Beth knew nothing of art. She only knew that the face — especially the eyes — was very vivid and alive. She saw that some words had been brushed upon the lower right-hand corner of the canvas, and she had to squint to read them.
“Self-portrait. D.A. 1838.”
The canvas had been set in a carved wooden frame; flecks of gold still remained on it; they filtered on Beth’s hands. A gust of wind caused the fragments of paper on the floor to move and whisper like old dried leaves, and Beth started. Suddenly there was a harsh pattering on the wooden roof; it had begun to rain, and the large drops were stonelike on the thin shingles. Beth put the portrait back in the trunk. She brushed up the fragments of old paper and tossed them onto the portrait. But even in that dusk the eyes shone up at her, living and vital, and very kind, with a hint of shyness. Shivering, Beth closed the trunk with a feeling that she was shutting away, not a portrait, but a face that lived and understood. It was a kind of horror to her, thinking that those eyes now stared in darkness.
She gathered up the empty bags and lumbered down the stairs with them. Kate was drowsing before the low driftwood fire. She opened her eyes as Beth entered. “You took your time,” she grumbled. “I could do with some of your tea; my feet are like death.”
“Where is Carrie?” asked Beth.
“In the kitchen. Stuffing herself, as usual, the sly fox. I heard the cupboards opening.”
Beth sat down and absently brushed dust from her skirts and hands. “The kettle’s hot,” suggested Kate impatiently. Beth continued to dust herself.
“You never told me,” she murmured. “Did he have any brothers?”
“Him? Nary a one I ever heard of. Why?”
“I just wondered. Didn’t you say he was from Boston?”
“That’s what I heard, from Ann. Born in Boston. Dear me, are you never going to stop being curious about him? What’s he to you?”
“After all!” said Beth, looking up. “It’s natural to be curious about people! Am I a dead stick?” She paused while Kate peered at her humorously. “Never mind. Did you ever hear of a place called Genesee, New York State?”
“How you change subjects! No, I never did. Did your husband come from there?”
“I don’t know,” said Beth vaguely. “It just floated into my mind — Genesee. Did you ever see his father, Kate?”
“No, for goodness’ sake! Heard his parents died when he was almost a baby.”
Beth thought, 1839. She shook her head, baffled, then took the tea can from the mantelpiece. She stood with it in her hands and looked about her at the dreary walls with their peeling wallpaper. There were no pictures in this house. She thought of the portrait in its trunk, immured in the attic, and shivered again.
“Have you got a chill?” asked Kate in her sharp voice.
The man stood in the middle of the beautiful drawing room of the house on Beacon Street. The room was long but narrow, for the house itself was that shape, and of rosy brick with gleaming white shutters and a door of polished wood with a fine old fanlight above it. It was the first of October, but chilly, and a fire burned briskly in a white marble fireplace of Italian origin and excellently carved. The tall windows at each end of the room, framed by French draperies of blue and rose and gold brocade, let in the mellow sunshine of autumn. One window looked out at the brick-paved street with its opposite houses equally as well built and handsome as this; the other window showed a small garden. The golden leaves of an elm tree brushed the grass; each leaf was plated with gilt sunshine.
An Aubusson carpet covered the floor of the room in shades of gray, dim blue, muted yellow, and pale scarlet. These shades were repeated in the French chairs and sofas scattered about the room; little fragile tables with silv
er or glass lamps stood about, holding exquisite boxes of Florentine origin, or tiny ivory statuettes, or English dancing figures in swirls of porcelain lace, or small vases of flowers. The walls had been painted a soft ivory, and the high ceiling was ivory also, with moldings of gold. A great portrait of two young blond girls, dressed in identical dresses of blue velvet, hung over the mantelpiece.
The smoky eyes, set in faces like blush roses, smiled down at the man. It was impossible to discern any difference in the features of the girls, and it was apparent they were twins. Pearl necklaces curved about their long white throats, and pearls were fastened in their ears. Their lovely hair was parted in the center and then allowed to fall in cascades of curls about their dainty shoulders. One girl sat, the other leaned, standing, behind her.
The room had a rich odor of spice, burning wood, and flowery perfume. An occasional carriage rumbled on the bricks outside; the mellow light, almost tawny, brightened through the polished windows. It sprang back in colored light from the huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
The man frowned. A door near the fireplace opened, and a maid in black bombazine and a white frilled apron and cap entered the room, carrying a silver tray on which were a glass decanter filled with sherry and two small glasses of curious shape. She curtsied and then placed the tray on a table by the fire. “The mistress will be down in a moment, sir,” she murmured, and retreated from the room. The man lifted one of the glasses; it was as smooth as silk, and carved and heavy. He hesitated, then filled it with sherry. He stood and sipped. It reminded him of the mellow day and the mellow city. Ann had once said, “Boston is an autumn city, even in spring or summer. Like a topaz.” Another carriage rumbled past the house. The fire blazed stronger, and the scented air was pleasantly warm. No, thought the man, it isn’t like a topaz. It’s like this sherry, aged and matured. He opened a box on the table and took out a glacé chestnut and chewed it. Cynthia spared herself nothing. He frowned again.
He began to wander slowly about the room. But he finally came back to the fire. He studied the sherry bottle; it was really a carafe, and he had never seen it before. But Cynthia was extravagant; she was always buying beautiful things, though she could not afford them. This was eighteenth-century, he was certain; it was of the most gleaming crystal with an overlay of silver tracery, vines, bunches of grapes, tendrils, with little faunlike faces peeping mischievously through the broad leaves. What delicacy, what tenderness, what marvelous care to expend on a bottle! Americans spent their time and effort on larger and worthier things. Disdainfully the man turned from the bottle, thinking of blackened and bellowing factories and foundries and turning wheels. These had significance; beauty had not. A steaming ship filled with products of industry had more meaning than statuettes and silken rugs, poetry and paintings, literature and art. Science was the new god, and deservedly so; it was not decadent and perfumed. It was money, and there was nothing in the world but money. There never had been, really, in spite of unmanly and posturing fools who quoted Keats and Shelley and delighted in texture and shape.
He heard a soft gay trilling, and a door opened and a woman of thirty-one tripped gracefully into the room, lifting a pretty white hand in welcome. He never saw Cynthia without a catch in his gloomy heart. She was tall and slender, with a charming and youthful figure, like a girl’s; her dress of silvery satin had a tight bodice with little brilliant buttons undulating to her lissome waist; the front was smooth, daringly so, over her rounded hips and thighs, but the back puffed in an exaggerated bustle under which had been caught bunches of artificial violets. Her slippers were silver, pointed and traced with silver beads, and just appeared from under the flowing hem of her gown.
Her face was an older face than the one in the portrait, but it had retained its girlish bloom, dazzling and fair, and her white throat was unlined and the pearls of the portrait glimmered on it. Her blond hair had been cut into wavy bangs on her clear forehead, lifted high on the back of her small head, then permitted to float almost to her shoulders in glossy and gleaming curls. Her lips were a bright pink glow, and her large gray eyes, full and luminous, shone through heavy golden lashes. Unlike her innocent portrait, she now had a saucy but extremely intelligent expression, full of liveliness and very sprightly.
So Ann would look now, thought the man, if she had lived. He had forgotten, however, that Ann had always been more gentle than her sister. Ann, her father often had said, was a dove. But Cynthia was a shining bird.
“Dear John,” she said now in a light but firmly pretty voice. She gave him her cool hand and smiled up at him. “How nice to see you again. Really. I was pleased to receive your letter. How well you look! Europe always renews you.” There was a tiny malice in her tone, and she tilted her head quizzically.
“I’m not too decrepit, even if I am forty-five,” he answered, trying to retain her hand. But she deftly removed it and patted her curls, continuing to look at him. She said thoughtfully, “Forty-five! I must admit you are well preserved.” She smiled again. “Do sit down. Have you had sherry? Dreadful thing, sherry, isn’t it? I prefer brandy.” She sat down with a silvery rustle and clasped her hands in her lap. One of her fingers bore a large diamond set in emeralds, and a bracelet of emeralds circled her slim wrist.
She lifted her beautifully formed arm and pulled at the bell rope, and when the maid entered she ordered brandy. John Ames watched her; he thought how perfect she was. He said, trying to be arch, “Brandy? Is that a lady’s drink?”
“Don’t be foolish, John. It doesn’t become you, with that heavy stiff voice of yours and your stiff manner.”
He frowned. “Am I that pompous, Cynthia?”
“Gracious, no. You’re never pompous, my dear. That’s one of your few charms. There, I am teasing you again.”
John Ames was very tall and lean, without gauntness, and though his posture and mannerisms were exceedingly stiff he had a certain grace. His black broadcloth suit had been excellently cut in London, and his brocaded vest of black and gray fitted him exactly. His polished boots had also been made for him in London, of the best of black leather. He had a long, well-shaped face and a strong, somewhat brutal mouth from which deep cleft lines extended downward. Cold blue eyes, very bold and merciless, looked out from under a forehead without wrinkles, and his brown hair, thick and slightly curled, had no gray in it. There was a diamond in his black cravat and another on his right hand.
He is almost a gentleman, thought Cynthia, regarding him pleasantly. But he is a man; there is no doubt of that! He makes me tingle, which is quite naughty of me, I am sure, for he is my brother-in-law. She sipped her brandy and looked up over the brim of the glass at him as he stood near her on the hearthrug. Her gray eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Do sit down,” she urged again. He sat down opposite her. The mellow sunlight heightened the colors in the rug and gilded Cynthia’s hair. “Tell me all about everything,” she said. “How was dull old London and my dear, lovely Paris?”
“You’ve forgotten that your ‘dear, lovely Paris’ and France are now engaged in a war. And ‘dull old London’ is making a pretty profit from it.” He smiled at her, and his somber lips parted to show square white teeth.
“I keep forgetting,” said Cynthia. Her face changed. She made a restless gesture with both hands. “I never look at the newspapers. I loathe wars. How terrible of Germany to attack France!”
“I believe it was mutual,” said John Ames. “But wars are in the nature of men; they spring out of their character. However, the French statesmen were fools; they knew it was inevitable that someday they must fight Germany, since Prussia defeated Austria in 1866. The French are penurious; they waited until it was too late to buy the munitions they needed. But now, when it is too late, they have the chassepot, a breech-loading rifle, far superior to the Prussian needle gun. They also have a machine gun, the mitrailleuse. English patents, sold for a very pretty price. This won’t help France, however. The war isn’t expected to last more th
an a year, if that.”
Cynthia gazed at the glass in her hand. She said almost abstractedly, “You must have made a lot of money from those armaments, John.”
“I always make a lot of money,” he said coldly. “But what do you know of these things, Cynthia?”
“My dear John, I may be a woman, but I’m not a fool! Do you know what I heard a friend say once about you? ‘John Ames is a bird of disaster. He always appears where there is carrion’.”
He laughed. “Complimentary! A profit is a profit. I dabble in anything profitable. I have a dozen investments and businesses.”
“Some legitimate, no doubt,” said Cynthia.
“True.”
Cynthia said nothing. He waited, but still she did not speak. Then he said, “Why didn’t you buy that land and properties in Virginia, as I advised you to? They could have been had for almost nothing; they were sold at a handsome profit just before I left for Europe.”
“You bought and sold them yourself?” asked Cynthia quietly.
A Prologue to Love Page 4