A Prologue To Love Read Free Page A

hates her. No telling what people are like.”
     
    “Perhaps he doesn’t like Caroline because she isn’t pretty like her mother.”
     
    “Never heard him say anything about her looks. I’ve just got a feeling she reminds him of somebody he hates.”
     
    “It’s a mystery,” said Beth, delighting in it.
     
    “Nothing’s a mystery,” said Kate crossly. “Everything’s got an explanation, if you can find it. How you go on about mysteries! But lonely people love ‘em.” Her voice was thin and had a tone of crackling to it, tinged with malice.
     
    A heavy gust of wind, massive as an avalanche of stone, fell against the house, and the gloomy light darkened at the windows. The walls trembled, and the ancient floor vibrated. Beth shuddered. “I’ve had five summers of this,” she said. “People who come to Lyme leave September first. But not us, dear me, no! We stay until the first snow flies. The house in Lyndon’s worse than this for cold, but at least I can go in on the train to Boston in twenty minutes and look at the shops and see somebody besides us. By the way” — and Beth poured another cup of tea for Kate — “why don’t we ever see the neighbors? Nearest one’s a mile away, but that isn’t too far. People by the name of Sheldon, I heard in the village, and they live here. They’ve got a boy, Tom, about twelve; could be a playmate for Carrie.”
     
    “He don’t like neighbors; never did,” said Kate cryptically. “He hasn’t any friends; never had. How my Ann could put up with him I’ll never know. But he doted on her. And kept her locked up like a prisoner. Not that she ever minded; he was enough for her, poor child. Sometimes he’d take her to London and Paris and Berlin; it was a gala occasion for her, as if she’d never seen them places before with her father.”
     
    “Well, he’s a dandy,” said Beth. “And dresses like a prince. Sometimes I could speak my mind to him and tell him about Carrie’s old worn clothing! Like a beggar.” She brightened. “I suppose he never got over his wife’s death. Mourned for her.”
     
    “Not he,” said Kate. “There’s some made for mourning and some not. He’s not.” She rubbed her papery palms together and meditated. “It’s all business with him. Importing or something.” She looked slyly at Beth, as if amused at the younger woman’s unsatiated curiosity.
     
    “Where did he meet your Ann?” asked Beth. “If you don’t mind me,” she added, bridling.
     
    “Oh, I don’t mind telling,” said Kate indulgently. “In her father’s house; she had just come out; it was one of the grand parties. No mystery about it. Mr. Esmond had some business with him; don’t know what. But Ann looked at him, and he looked at her, as if he was a nob, and he wasn’t.”
     
    “A nob?”
     
    “Oh, that’s English for aristocrat; gentry. And he isn’t gentry. But never heard, even from Ann, where he came from, except that once she said Boston. He was an orphan, she said, since he was a little chap. That was all. No family.”
     
    “And her father let her marry him!”
     
    “Ann had a mind of her own, for all she looked so soft. And Mr. Esmond didn’t seem displeased. I heard him say once that he had a future. Anyway, Ann inherited two hundred thousand dollars when Mr. Esmond died, and Cynthia got the same. Two hundred thousand dollars. That’s a fortune. She turned it over to him .”
     
    “So he’s rich, in spite of him living like a beggar and making us live like beggars too,” said Beth resentfully.
     
    “Um. I didn’t say he was rich, now. Investments went down during the war; haven’t come back yet. Maybe he lost it all.” The old woman smiled under her long nose. “Well, you get eight dollars a month. That’s not a fine sum. You could get more elsewhere. With a warm room and a fire of your own, and better money, and a cheerful house around you.”
     
    “I know,” muttered Beth. “But it’s Carrie.