A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Why should I be hard on my daughter?” asked Caroline.

  “Oh well.” He was relieved; she could hear that. “Did Elizabeth finally tell you?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Caroline. She paused. “Good night, Timothy.”

  So Elizabeth had seen William and Cynthia when ‘she was younger’, at school affairs, or perhaps in Timothy’s house. The fact that she had not spoken of these meetings to her mother took on intense significance for Caroline.

  Why had Elizabeth insisted on going to Devon, to the house where she could not be expected to be welcome? It was not like Elizabeth, the proud, the cold, the restrained. She had insisted in spite of first refusals on the part of Amanda, and Caroline knew Amanda’s bluntness.

  Caroline got to her feet and weightily climbed the stairs to Elizabeth’s room. It was chill and neat, as always. Methodically, and still holding the hungry pain off, Caroline examined the girl’s wardrobe. She came on the dresses folded tenderly in their tissue paper. They were like a bride’s garments, cherished, put aside, remembered, not to be destroyed by wearing. Caroline’s legs trembled and she sat down suddenly on the hard edge of Elizabeth’s bed. Her hands made fists against her breast. Her face appeared carved of broad bone, without skin or flesh, in the dim light of the lamp, Elizabeth had gone to Devon for only one purpose. To see the son of the Weasel. He had rejected her. Now Elizabeth’s avoidance of eligible young men in Boston was explained. She had loved this man, and when she had seen the announcement of his marriage she had lost her proud mind.

  Caroline looked at Elizabeth’s small plain dresser, and she got up and went to it. Here were all the plain, if expensive, underclothes which the girl had bought lately. Under them were ‘frivolities’ of lace and ruffles, hardly worn. Caroline opened the top drawer and saw a box, and she lifted the lid. Inside were brown and withered petals of a once-white rose and a piece of narrow blue ribbon. And two pieces of paper. Caroline opened one and did not recognize the handwriting. It only said: “Tomorrow? In the garden after breakfast, as usual? All my love. W.”

  So. They had loved each other. What had kept them from marrying, Elizabeth and the rich, titled son of the Weasel? Surely not Elizabeth’s fear of her mother, for in marrying William she would have a great fortune and a title. She would not mind parting forever from her mother, and Caroline knew that with sudden great clarity.

  Caroline opened the next folded piece of paper and saw that it was in Elizabeth’s handwriting and dated only last night.

  “I know,” she had written, “that it was all Timothy’s plots and doing. He’s always hated my mother. He hates me. I confronted him on the morning I left you, William. He was so happy, so pleased, so gloating. I could see it. He lied to you. But what does it matter now? Occasionally he mentions that you haven’t as yet married that girl. Had you married her soon after I left I should have known that you had not really loved me. William, I love you. I don’t think I can go on living without you. I told you about my mother. You didn’t mind; it didn’t mean anything to you, so I finally know that Timothy lied when he told me that no British man would marry me because of her. I’ve just begun to see it. How could I have been so blind as to believe Timothy? William, write me. I’ve tried for eighteen months to forget you. It gets worse every day; I can’t forget. Sometimes I can’t think because of the pain. Come to me. Or even ask me to come to you, and I’ll be there on the next ship. William — ”

  Something had interrupted her. Caroline now remembered. She had called the girl into her study to give her the dispatch case and her instructions. She had intended to finish the letter later, the abject, the anguished, the humble letter, full of passion and suffering. She had thrust the letter hurriedly into this box when she had answered her mother’s call. And then she had seen the newspaper this morning.

  “Elizabeth!” cried Caroline in so loud a voice that it was almost a scream.

  She beat the bed in a frenzy of agony and despair, and now the pain was in her heart, worrying it like a wolf. She took Elizabeth’s thin white pillow in her arms and held it against her breast. She had not cried since Tom had died; she wept now until the linen was soggy and the ticking showed through it. “Oh, my little girl,” groaned Caroline. “My child. My poor, broken child. What would it have mattered?”

  The story was not quite clear to her, except that Timothy had done this thing, with deliberate lying, with deliberate hatred not only for Caroline but for her daughter.

  Caroline did not go to bed that night, nor the next. On the third night she slept in absolute exhaustion. When she awoke, it was with vengefulness. She would ruin Timothy. She would destroy him. She needed only a plan.

  But he was invulnerable. He did not need her. He had not only his own money, which she had helped him gain, but the Bothwell fortune. He was established and powerful. But there must be something. For weeks and months, and then years, she searched and pondered while Elizabeth lay unseeing and unknowing at Hillcrest Sanitarium. When Timothy saw her she spoke to him in her usual fashion, and he believed she had forgiven him for taking Elizabeth to Devon. She saw that he watched her closely while inquiring about the girl. He had had no pity, no remorse for what he had done. There were three parts to her mind now — Elizabeth, her affairs, and Timothy.

  One plan was for the future, concerning Timothy. She had worked it out. It would take time. But another plan was still closer. On May 31, 1913, appointment of senators by the legislatures had been changed to direct election by the people. Three days ago Timothy Winslow had announced that he would seek the office of senator in November. She had known for a long time that he intended to go into politics ‘when the time was ripe’. It was ripe now.

  So now, on June 27, 1914, as she sat and looked at her daughter, her shattered daughter, she thought of Timothy and what she would do to him in a few days. Miss Crimmens saw her face, shivered, then sturdily told herself that she was imagining things. This was only a poor old woman who had nothing but money and a daughter who would never really know her again and never again be alive.

  On Monday morning, four hours before Elizabeth was to return to the sanitarium, Caroline received calls from her brokers. But she already knew. The morning paper, June 29, 1914, was spread before her. “Heir to Austria’s throne is slain with his wife by a Bosnian youth to avenge seizure of his country.”

  So the Jacobins had finally moved, with silent power and surety. The Bosnian youth had been only the instrument, the commanded ignorant finger. Caroline listened to the congratulations of her brokers, because she had bought so much munitions stock lately. Then, in the midst of a freshet of more congratulations, she hung up the receiver of her telephone. Later she would think. But first came Elizabeth.

  Miss Crimmens had informed Caroline at seven this morning that Elizabeth had not slept well. Caroline, too, had not slept. She had listened all night to Elizabeth’s distressful cries, to her mutterings, to her groans of torment. The drugs had had no effect on her, as they had had before when she visited her home. She had made sounds of a soul in extremity, in the process of dissolution.

  The nurse had exhausted herself in her attempts at quieting Elizabeth. She had failed. Caroline went up to her daughter’s room. Elizabeth was running about, her blanched hair in wild disorder around her distorted face. Her arms flew in aimless gestures. When she saw Caroline she became fearfully excited.

  “Why did you do this?” she screamed, clutching lengths of her hair. “What did I do to you? Why do you hate me? Why don’t you let me alone?”

  Miss Crimmens, like a small but active young bird, fluttered about her charge, murmuring. Suddenly Elizabeth became aware of her and with super-strength she flung the girl from her so that the nurse fell violently on the floor. Then Elizabeth advanced on her mother. Caroline waited, and when Elizabeth reached her she seized her hands and held them tightly.

  “Elizabeth,” she said.

  Elizabeth stared at her, her faded blue eyes wide. She stopped strugglin
g. She looked down at her mother’s hands. “It’s all right,” she muttered, “I won’t be late for the train to Boston. Where is the dispatch case?” She moved, as if in pain. But she was flaccid now. Caroline led her to the bed and made her sit down, and she looked at her. Great drops of water appeared on the girl’s forehead, like tears.

  “You don’t understand,” said Elizabeth with quiet seriousness. “I can explain it. It was all that money for William and me. It isn’t wrong to want money, is it?” Her far eyes questioned her mother intensely. Caroline shook her head. Elizabeth leaned toward her. “You’ll ask him to come, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Caroline, out of her own agony. “This very minute.”

  Elizabeth shook her head vigorously and she laughed, that shrill meaningless laugh. “But it wasn’t the money, really. It was Timothy all the time.” Again she leaned toward Caroline and whispered confidentially, “Do you know what he said? That William couldn’t marry me because of my dreadful mother and her father. They were so notorious! Everyone despised them. Timothy explained. Do you think he was right?” she asked anxiously.

  “Did William, too, tell you that?” asked Caroline.

  Again the pathetic hair flew as Elizabeth shook her head in emphatic denial. “Oh no! You remember that. You were there.” She smiled slyly. The pulses were beating violently in her throat and temples, and her face was the color of death. “He just told me we couldn’t be married. And I found out that Timothy had done it all. He’d lied to him. You will send for William, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Elizabeth.” Caroline squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

  “I never loved anyone but William,” said Elizabeth with the slow care and patience of one explaining to an obtuse woman. “I’ve loved him since I was a little girl, for, you see — ” She paused and frowned and shook her head. “My father was stupid. He wanted us to love him, and it wasn’t any use. A very silly man. Did you ever know him?” she asked her mother suddenly. Her wandering eyes stopped, clouded fretfully.

  “Oh yes,” said Caroline. The nurse had gotten up off the floor and was standing and looking at mother and daughter.

  “I don’t know why, but I think I feel sorry for him,” said Elizabeth. “It’s so foolish, isn’t it? And my mother goes up to his grave and looks at it. I hate her, but she was more sensible than my father; she never wanted anyone to love her.” Elizabeth sagged on the bed. Her color became more livid, and now the drops on her forehead trickled down her cheeks.

  “Could we send for the man she calls William?” asked Miss Crimmens hopefully. “She called for him all night. Perhaps he could help her.” She crept softly to Elizabeth, took her wrist and felt her pulse, and glanced worriedly at Caroline. Caroline shook her head.

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Crimmens, paling. “Her heart — There’s something wrong. We must send for a doctor!”

  “Go to my study upstairs. You will find his village number.” But Caroline spoke dully. The nurse raced from the room, and Caroline took her daughter’s hands.

  “You must tell me, Elizabeth,” she said with the utmost quietness. “It was Timothy, wasn’t it? I must be sure, very sure.”

  “Oh yes,” said Elizabeth with the earnestness of a child. “But you must excuse me. I have a letter to finish to William, and then he will come. For now he must know that Timothy is a liar and that he hated me and was trying to do something to my mother through me. Wasn’t that very wrong?” Her eyes pleaded with her mother. Her lips had become leaden, and there were leaden patches about her eyes.

  “It began a long time ago,” said Caroline, holding her daughter.

  “Oh, God,” said Elizabeth with the awful weariness of the dying. “Do you think William will come, after all? It’s a long way, and it’s getting longer every minute. I can’t stop thinking of Timothy. Where am I? Timothy hates all of us. He’s afraid Amy will marry Ames. Just as he was afraid of William marrying me. Where am I?”

  Caroline wanted to say “Home,” but she could not. She could only say, “Here. With me.” She could no longer look at the ravaged face, at the expiring and tormented eyes. She dropped her head on her chest. She heard Elizabeth breathing in short sounds as she leaned against her mother, broken with exhaustion. The girl muttered incoherently over and over.

  “Longer and longer,” she muttered. “Farther and farther. I’m getting farther away from William. I wish you’d stop the ship. The waves are very high and I think a storm is coming — Did you see the lightning?”

  “Oh, God. Please, God,” said Caroline.

  “Hush, you shouldn’t say that,” said Elizabeth with faint severity. “There isn’t any God, you know. I wish I could sleep, but I’m afraid — all those awful things and colors and going into darkness. I’m always afraid I’ll never come back and never find William again.”

  Her eyes closed. Caroline had to hold her upright, and strongly. Elizabeth suddenly slept. She weighed so little now. She was hardly a pressure in her mother’s arms. A mysterious change spread over her face, peaceful, removed, young, and quiet. It became the face of the dead John Ames. She sighed once, deeply, then did not breathe again. A slight convulsion, as of intense cold, rippled over her body.

  Caroline laid her dead daughter on the bed and stood over her, and when Miss Crimmens returned she found the mother gently smoothing the tangled hair. And then Caroline bent and kissed Elizabeth’s cheek.

  She walked out of the room then, and Miss Crimmens stepped back, feeling that the older woman did not see her at all.

  Chapter 9

  The funeral was quiet and private. Only Timothy and his family and Elizabeth’s brothers. At Caroline’s request there were no flowers. But she had heard from Miss Crimmens of the mysterious white roses, fresh and pure, which had always been in Elizabeth’s room at the sanitarium, a room Caroline had never entered. She had seen her daughter only in the reception room, when permitted.

  It did not take much pondering on Caroline’s part to know who had sent those roses through the years, though he was married now and had a son. So Elizabeth’s coffin was surrounded by identical roses from Caroline, and there were white rosebuds on the satin pillow. They filled the parlor with a heavy sweet scent. Elizabeth slept in death, serene and at peace.

  Her brothers had not loved her, but they were vaguely sorry. However, they could not help conjecturing about their mother’s will now, since the contender was dead. The old girl was very composed, even when she looked at her daughter. Her voice was normal. Her sons often caught her glance at Timothy, who appeared definitely uneasy. Amanda cried and silently regretted that she had not liked poor Elizabeth. Her two fine boys, young men now, were very sober. Amy, very subdued, cried a little, even though she had hardly known Elizabeth. It seemed very sad to her, and she would look timidly at her second cousin, old Caroline, who was also Ames’ mother, and she wanted to comfort her. It surprised the girl to find Caroline looking at her very often.

  The service was short. Elizabeth was carried to the Sheldon lot on the hill and laid near her father. The white roses were piled high on her grave in the hot July sunlight. Caroline took one bud from them.

  John and Ames had been in this decaying house for three days and could not leave fast enough. John, saying that he must get back to New York, left the day after the funeral, after some vague words of consolation to his mother. “It’s all for the best, Ma,” he said. “She wouldn’t have gotten better.”

  “Leaving on the same train with me?” he asked his brother.

  “No,” said Ames. “I just go to Boston. Someone should stay a little longer with the old lady.”

  John was slightly suspicious, then shrugged, kissed his mother, and went away. He was having his own troubles these days with Mimi.

  Caroline and Ames sat in the dank living room, which felt chill in spite of the heat and light outside. Ames waited for his mother to speak. But she only sat there in her black old-fashioned clothing, looking at the rosebud in her hands. The
n Ames said, “You asked me privately to stay for a little talk with you, Mother.”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. She lifted her eyes and regarded her son thoughtfully — the subtle triangular face, the fair hair, the delicate coloring, the hard slate-gray eyes. She said, “That girl Amy. Timothy’s daughter. I’ve heard you want to marry her.”

  Well, this was bound to come sooner or later. He said, “Yes. She’s a fine girl, a nice girl. I’ve wanted to marry her since she was eighteen.”

  “Yes? Why didn’t you?”

  “I’m not a favorite of dear old Timothy’s.” Ames paused. There had been an odd note in his mother’s voice; he looked at her more closely now and was surprised that she did not appear angry, but only intent. “In fact, he as much as suggested that I shouldn’t see as much of Amy as I was doing. That was a year ago. I should give her an opportunity to meet other men. Younger men. The devil! I’m only five years older than Amy. I think he heard,” said Ames with a full, hard look at his mother, “in some way, of the arrangements in your will. I don’t know how, but I suspect it. It would be just like old Timothy.”