A Prologue To Love by Taylor Caldwell Page A

permission isn’t necessary. But I think Cynthia would like it.”
     
    John averted his face. It was impossible. Brittingham was fabulously rich; he was a close friend of the Belmonts and the Vanderbilts. His fortune was respected even in Europe, where his name was well known. He, John, must enlighten this pretentious imbecile.
     
    “I think you ought to know,” he said in a harsh voice, “that Cynthia has no money beyond a mere twenty-six thousand dollars or so. She spent it all,” he went on, throwing the words at Mr. Brittingham. “She’s very extravagant; she hasn’t the slightest idea about money and what it means.”
     
    “I know,” said Mr. Brittingham with a smile that John considered idiotic. “That’s part of her charm. And who’s more charming than Cynthia? The Esmonds had a great distaste for money; it was never mentioned in their house. Old Esmond was a gentleman of the old school.” In saying this he deliberately excluded John from the company of those who could have understood Cynthia’s father.
     
    “I want to give Cynthia everything I have,” said Mr. Brittingham. “I can even reconcile myself to Timothy, who is not exactly the most ingratiating boy in the world. I want Cynthia for my wife. I want her to have everything she wishes. She adorns everything she does.”
     
    John spoke with an effort. “Have you asked her yourself?”
     
    “Yes. And she always eluded me in that graceful way of hers. She’s like sunlight — you know. I see I am getting fatuous. I don’t know what I’ll do if she won’t marry me.”
     
    He spoke with quiet intensity, and looking into his small brown eyes, John knew that he spoke the truth. He said, “Don’t worry about Cynthia’s financial state, which you seem to know. I just settled twenty-five thousand dollars a year on her for life. After all, she is my wife’s sister.”
     
    Mr. Brittingham raised his eyebrows. “Really. How generous of you. But Cynthia won’t need that when she marries me. Very generous. But completely unnecessary when Cynthia marries me. May we consider it concluded, then?”
     
    John was silent.
     
    “I’ll speak to Cynthia tomorrow,” said Mr. Brittingham with determination. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but whether you give your formal consent or not tonight doesn’t matter. There are a dozen men like myself who want to marry Cynthia, and I must hurry and be there first, with emphasis. That is why I asked you for your permission.”
     
    “And if I don’t consent?”
     
    “Then be damned to you,” said Mr. Brittingham with cool simplicity. “I’ll just keep after Cynthia until she marries me.”
     
    He looked John up and down as if he were observing a very low fellow. Then he turned and walked out of the room, leaving John alone near the cluttered table of silver, flowers, damask, and glass, all shining under the enormous crystal chandelier.
     
    Cynthia had not lied after all. She could marry Brittingham; she could marry others. She could be the social leader of leaders, not only in Boston, but in other cities. Yet she had chosen to give herself to him, John Ames, without marriage. She would put herself in a very scandalous position. John shook his head dazedly. All at once he was aware of the weight of the bracelet in his pocket, a single bracelet. Brittingham would be happy to buy her a dozen of these, and more, and give her his name.
     

Chapter 4
     
    The ladies were grouped about Cynthia in the drawing room, standing in postures of ecstasy, hands clasped, heads bent, and Cynthia, all triumph, was bending over a large chair on which she had placed a framed canvas. Now the gentlemen merged with the ladies and there were exclamations. Cynthia looked about her, peering over Mr. Brittingham’s shoulder. “Oh, John!” she cried. “You must come and see! I’ve been keeping this a surprise for you, but I could not — I could not hold it hidden until Christmas. I just had to show