Caroline, after reading, looked mutely at the precise little lawyer who had again seated himself. “I cannot open the safe except in the presence of Mr. Harkness and Mr. Swift. That is our rule. But I will make an exception in this case and tell you the contents of the codicil, Caroline.” He paused and regarded her solemnly. “In the event, my dear, that you die without natural and legal issue, the estate is to go to the adopted daughter of Mrs. George Winslow, Miss Melinda Winslow, without any restrictions whatsoever. Remarkable, that! And Mrs. Winslow is to receive ten thousand dollars a year from that bequest, in addition to the life income of twenty-five thousand dollars a year, which she already possesses. Moreover, Mr. Timothy Winslow is to receive an outright bequest of five hundred thousand dollars.”
Caroline stood up, and her purse crashed to the floor. She caught the edge of the desk. Mr. Tandy actually ran to her and put his arm about her. But she stared before her blankly.
Then she cried fiercely, “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe Papa ever made such a codicil! No!”
“Caroline, you must be calm.” The little man, with supreme strength, forced her back into her chair. Then he stood over her; she sat stiffly and rigidly, her hands clenched on her knees, her eyes glazed, and she repeated over and over, “I don’t believe it! He would never have made such a codicil!”
“You must be calm,” said Mr. Tandy, alarmed at her appearance. “Caroline, certainly he made such a codicil. He made it in the presence of the three of us, during the time he made the body of his will. There were four other witnesses, also, in accordance with law. I thought it strange, myself. But then, he had no other family but you, no nephews, no nieces, apparently, no brothers or sisters. To whom else would he leave his money if you died without issue? In a way, it is to be expected that he would leave it to Mrs. Winslow, or at least that he provide more money for her, and to her son. Frankly, I expected that Timothy would inherit in the event of your death, for he came to regard Timothy with considerable esteem.” Mr. Tandy coughed. “But the naming of Miss Melinda Winslow, who is only the adopted daughter of Mrs. Winslow, did strike me as extraordinary — she, a stranger, and not connected with your father by ties of marriage or family.”
Caroline had never felt so ill before. A sensation of huge and shameful betrayal came to her. She dropped her head on her breast and sobbed.
“Be calm, my dear,” said Mr. Tandy soothingly. “I know it is a shock. But you must remember that your father reconsidered. He wrote this letter. We’ll never know why; we only know he wrote it. It is authentic; it is in his own handwriting. No one else could have known about that codicil but your father and ourselves.”
But Caroline said, “It still remains that if I die — without natural and legal issue — the money — all that money — will go as written in the codicil?”
“Certainly. We are not authorized to change the codicil; we are only to tell you of its contents.”
“He left it all — to Melinda! To Melinda!”
“To you, Caroline. You are distracted. You are the heir, not Miss Winslow. Unless you die without — ”
“I know, I know,” Caroline interrupted. The tears ran down her cheeks.
Mr. Tandy, though he would never have admitted it, possessed normal human curiosity. He watched Caroline wipe her eyes, and his expression was thoughtful. He cleared his throat. “Er, my dear, you would have no opinion as to why he made that — most unusual — codicil?”
Caroline was silent. She twisted her handkerchief in her hands. Her feeling of betrayal was still huge in her. But now it was brightened with furious hatred for Melinda. That dreadful woman, her aunt, had been responsible for this!
“No?” murmured Mr. Tandy.
“No,” said Caroline with loud firmness. “I can’t imagine why.” It was the first falsehood she had ever spoken.
“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Tandy. “We wondered, at the time.” He was disappointed.
Then Caroline said with even more firmness, “I must make my own will today, Mr. Tandy. I wish to leave my outright fifty percent of Papa’s money to Mr. Thomas Sheldon of Lyme, Massachusetts, whether or not we are married at the time of my death.”
Mr. Tandy sat down abruptly, and he was quite pale. “Mr. Tom Sheldon?” he repeated. “I don’t believe we know any Sheldons, Caroline.”
“I know him. That is sufficient, Mr. Tandy.”
A most remarkable day, this, reflected the lawyer. He cleared his throat again.
“It must be today, this very minute,” said Caroline. “For, if I should die, Melinda would have that money also.”
“True,” said Mr. Tandy. “And, as your father’s will stands now, even after your marriage to this — Mr. Sheldon? — and if there is no issue, Miss Winslow inherits, with the exception of what you have invested of your fifty percent outright legacy during your lifetime and your marriage. Ah, here are my partners now. You wish Timothy to be present?”
“No,” said Caroline at once. “I do not. Mr. Tandy, another thing: if after my marriage I die, the terms of my father’s will remain, and my balance is to go to Miss Winslow, in spite of any will I make?”
“I thought that was clear, Caroline. Legally, you can only dispose of what you have personally invested of your outright bequest — to Mr. — er — Sheldon. Unless you have natural and legal heirs.”
“And the other invested fifty percent, in trust, will go to her, in spite of any will of mine or even if I am married, unless I have natural and legal heirs?”
“Correct, my dear.”
Caroline said in a loud, harsh voice, “I will marry very soon, as soon as possible! I do not intend to wait, as I originally intended.”
“Let us go into the conference room, then,” said Mr. Tandy. He paused. He had thought that Caroline would marry Timothy Winslow. This was all very disconcerting.
He said, “My dear Caroline, I don’t believe you are imminently about to die!” He attempted a jocular smile. “Please consider what you are about to do. Would it not be best, as you are almost alone in the world with the exception of your aunt and your cousin, for us, your co-executors, to meet this — this Mr. Sheldon — and let us consider him well and give you our advice, our best advice, of course?”
“No,” said Caroline.
Mr. Tandy was hurt. He said, “Your aunt and your cousin know him well, then?”
“No,” said Caroline.
“But, my dear! Who knows him?”
“I do,” said Caroline, standing up.
“But what is his background, his family?”
“He hasn’t any,” said Caroline.
Caroline arrived at Lyme at nine that night and found an anxious Beth Knowles waiting for her with a station hack. “Carrie!” exclaimed the old woman. “I’ve been so worried about you!”
“Foolish,” said Caroline curtly as she climbed into the hack. “You know that sometimes I’m late returning from New York.” She settled her shawl about her shoulders. “When we get home I am sending the driver of this hack for Tom Sheldon. I must see him immediately.”
“What?” said Beth. “Tom? Tonight? Why, Carrie, his father’s just been buried! On the way to the depot I passed his house and it was full of people!”
“No matter,” said Caroline. “I want him, I need him, and this is urgent.”
“Carrie, use some common sense,” said Beth. She had seen Caroline’s stern pale face in the lamplight at the depot. “His friends are with him; it’s very late; he’s probably thinking of bed; it’s been terribly tiring, and he did so love his father. He won’t come, Carrie.”
“Yes, he will.”
“Carrie, you may be a very rich young lady, but Tom has his feelings too. Can’t you think of that?”
“No,” said Caroline.
“Why, you’re shaking, dear. You must have had a chill, though it’s so warm.”
“On second thought,” said Caroline, “we’ll stop near Tom’s house and you will go in, Beth, and ask him to come with us
back to our house. At once.”
“Why, people will think that we are both out of our mind!” said Beth.
“No matter,” said Caroline. “What is their opinion to me?”
“He won’t come,” repeated Beth. “He has some respect for his father, even if you don’t. He won’t come.”
Caroline was silent. A little later she ordered the driver to stop on the village street near Tom’s house and nodded to Beth, who after one last protest left the hack and obeyed, muttering to herself. Caroline waited, still staring fixedly ahead of her. The night was soft and warm, and she could hear the sea beyond the village. She did not turn her head when Beth, clucking distractedly, appeared with Tom. She said, “Get in, please. There’s enough room.”
“Carrie,” said Tom gently, standing near her. “I can’t leave a house full of good friends. Don’t you remember that my father was buried today?”
“Please get in,” Carrie said. “This won’t wait, Tom.”
He had never heard that tone in her voice before. He took her hand; it was cold and stiff. He said to Beth, “Would you please tell my friends that I’ve been called away for a little while? I just can’t face them myself.”
“Yes,” said Beth, subdued. They waited in absolute silence until she returned. Then they drove off to the desolate and shattered house, and no one spoke all the way. Darkness surrounded them; there was no sound but the trotting of the old horse and the mutter of the ocean.
Beth ran into the house to light more lamps while Caroline, still in silence, paid the driver and gave him his meager tip. Then she walked ahead of Tom up the shifting wooden boards to the house. He could see the shadowy outline of her, tall and straight and formidable. He was exhausted with his grief; his head ached and he felt profoundly numb. He could not even find the strength to wonder why Caroline needed him at this hour.
Beth, as usual, desperately tried to make matters look normal. She said brightly, “I’ll make some coffee right away, and I’ve made some fresh doughnuts.” She looked at Caroline anxiously.
“No,” said the girl. “Go away, Beth.”
Tom dropped wearily into an old rocker. “Yes,” he said. “I need it. Please, Beth.”
He looked about the room, which he had never entered before, and he was dully disgusted. Caroline threw aside her shawl and her purse and sat down on the other side of the cold and ash-filled hearth. The uncertain light of the kerosene lamp struck her face, and then Tom was greatly concerned. She appeared ill and, in spite of her silence and stillness, distraught. “Carrie,” he said. “What is it? Has something happened to you?”
“Yes.” Then she added bitterly, “Do you think I’d come after you like this, Tom, if it hadn’t?”
She had become harder, older. She sat stiffly in her chair, looking before her, her profile massive and fixed.
“It’s so important that even tonight you had to see me, Carrie?”
“Yes. It’s the most important thing in the world. Why do you have to have coffee and those ridiculous doughnuts?”
“Possibly because I haven’t eaten anything today,” said Tom. He did not know this girl, this pallid and unyielding stranger. He said in a gentler voice, “And you look as if you need something too, Carrie.”
“I only had breakfast,” said Carrie. Now she looked at him, and her eyes blurred.
“Carrie! Are you sick? Has something terrible happened to you?”
“I told you, yes. Please, Tom, sit down. Don’t touch me. I couldn’t bear it just yet.” One large tear ran down her right cheek, and she mopped it away.
Tom, who had stood up to go to her, sat down again. She had offered him no consolation; she had expressed no sympathy; she had not even mentioned his father. For the first time Tom thought: Why, she doesn’t act human. This isn’t my Carrie. She thinks of nothing but her own will.
He stared at Caroline and then again saw her misery and her muteness, and he almost forgot his own sorrow. Beth bustled in with a tray of steaming coffee, three cups and a plate of fresh doughnuts. She gave Tom a comforting look and said, “Here, now, I think we all need it, don’t we? Such a terrible time. Dear Tom, I — ”
“Go away,” said Caroline. “Leave us alone, Beth.”
Beth looked at her helplessly, then at the three cups. Tom stood up and poured coffee from the battered pot. He gave a cup and a doughnut to Beth and looked at her kindly. “Well, I never,” said Beth feebly, the easy tears on her eyelashes. She glanced at Caroline, then seemed afraid. She took her coffee and doughnut and left the room and closed the door behind her.
“Drink some coffee, dear,” said Tom, giving Caroline a cup. But she waved it away with a fierce gesture.
“Tom,” she said, “I want you to marry me tomorrow. I’ve thought it all out.”
Tom put down his own cup on the splintered old table near him. He stared at Caroline as if she had suddenly gone mad. Her eyes were wide and blazing now in the lamplight.
“What are you talking about, Carrie?”
“You want to marry me, don’t you? Or have you changed your mind?”
Tom had no words. She smiled at him, and it was an ugly smile, “I made you my heir today, Tom. Whether you marry me or not. Will that change your mind?”
Tom clasped his hands slowly and looked down at them. “No,” he said quietly, “that won’t change my mind. But I think you have lost yours, Carrie. Don’t you want to tell me anything?”
“No.”
“I don’t want your money, Carrie.”
“And you don’t want to marry me, after all you’ve said?”
“I want to know what’s happened to you. Yesterday and today. Something has. I love you, Carrie, and so I know something has happened. You must tell me.”
“I can’t. Isn’t it enough that I’ve made you my heir?”
“This is crazy, Carrie. What’s wrong with you?”
“I can’t tell you. Don’t you trust me, Tom? There are some things I can never tell you. Never!”
Then he saw her anguish and her fear.
“No!” she said. “Don’t touch me. Not yet, Tom. Will you marry me? Tomorrow?”
“Carrie, I thought you wanted to wait a decent time after the death of your father. You were the one who said that. And now my own father just died.”
“It doesn’t matter, Tom!” she cried. “Nothing matters now!”
“And there was the house I was going to build for you. We were going to wait for that.” He was confused, in his exhaustion. “You wouldn’t want me to live here — here, in this house, Carrie — until we built the other, would you?”
“What does it matter where a person lives?” She stood up and wrung her hands and looked about her as if she had never seen this room before. “Tom, we can’t wait. Who knows what will happen to me?”
Tom walked up and down the room, heavily and tiredly. “You’ve forgotten, Carrie. You’re Caroline Ames. You aren’t just an obscure working-class girl. You have a position. I’ve been thinking too. A Caroline Ames can’t marry a nobody. I wanted to talk about it to my dad. And then he died.” He paused. “What am I, Carrie? A nobody. A village builder of summer houses. I haven’t even had an education. I’ve been out of this village only twice in my life, and then only to Boston. What will everyone think of you if you marry a man like me? You’ve traveled all over the world; your father was one of the richest men in it, and now you have his money. Carrie, don’t you know yet about the newspapers? They’ll make fun of you; all the reporters will be swarming out here, laughing at you. Caroline Ames and the village hayseed! If you aren’t thinking of yourself, I am. That’s because I love you.”
“You don’t want to marry me,” said Caroline in a dull voice, as if she had not heard a word he had said.
“I had no right to ask you, Carrie. I must have lost my mind, somehow.”
“Why?”
“If I’d given it a minute’s thought I’d have known how stupid I was. Carrie, can’t you think of your own position?�
��
“You don’t want to marry me,” Caroline repeated.
“Oh, Carrie. Don’t you have a sense of proportion?”
They looked at each other.
“I know only one thing,” said Caroline, trembling. “You don’t want to marry me.”
A Prologue to Love Page 38