The Listener by Taylor Caldwell Read Free Book Online Page B

sympathy. He took off his glasses and rubbed them, for they had dimmed. “I hope,” he said a little hoarsely, “that I’m not going to lose my eyesight into the bargain. That would just top everything, wouldn’t it?” He coughed, and the cough was like a sob.
     
    Then his words rushed out. “I wish I could do something for Celia! Damn it, do you know that I didn’t really see her for nearly twenty-five years, until just recently? Now you’ll think I’m out of my mind. I mean that I was always too busy to ‘see’ her. She was just Celia to me. Perhaps it was six months ago or less when I ‘saw’ Celia. It was a shock to me. Sixty-four isn’t a great age now, you know, what with vitamins and exercise and beauty parlors. But when I saw Celia, she was old, very old. Not so much physically — ” He stopped. “What in God’s name am I talking about! ‘Not so much physically’. Of course it was physically! Her hair was dyed, and her skin was smooth — you know all those creams women use — and her body was slender. But she was old.” He stopped. “Even older than I. And that’s a damned funny thing. She’s three years younger. Of course women age earlier. But there was something strange about it. It was as if Celia had become lifeless. That’s the word. Lifeless. And I had the peculiar sensation that she’d been that way for a long time. God! I must really be going out of my mind! Or blind.”
     
    His voice rose, became harsh and brutal. “I can see now. It was all that worry over me. Celia’s afraid. She’s afraid of being poor again. And that’s what Henry Fellowes did to me — to Celia. He made us poor again. Poor Celia. Poor Celia!”
     
    He stood up in his powerful hate and rage and began to walk up and down the room, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The turmoil of his spirit filled the room.
     
    “I don’t know why I’ve been blabbering like this, when the most important thing in my life is still unsaid. What has Celia to do with it, or George, that young idiot? I had no intention of telling you about Celia and George — wasting your time! If I hadn’t stopped myself, I’d be telling you now that I never even saw the gardens we planted. They were pictured in that big national magazine; Celia was so proud of them; she worked side by side with the gardeners. George and Celia stood there together in the photographs, and I thought to myself — you can see how things had affected me — ‘Is that actually my son, George, near Celia, with his arm around her shoulder?’ I didn’t recognize him at first. I hadn’t ‘seen’ George for years, not really ‘seen’ him. There was never any time for anything but work, but George had everything I could give him. Everything. Ungrateful, too. He never once thanked me. He’s been pouting for years because I didn’t have the time to go to Boston when he was graduated from Harvard. Children are very ungrateful these days. I tried to explain to him that I had a government contract, but he shrugged it off. Now he has a government contract — a very small one, no importance — himself — ”
     
    He took off his glasses and wiped them vigorously. “Damn it! Am I getting cataracts? Everything seems a little dim.”
     
    He sat down in the chair with determination. “I’m taking up too much of your time. Just send me your bill. It’s very relieving, though, to talk. I haven’t really talked to anyone for years. I was brought up in an age when a man valued every hour and knew he must accomplish something. I remember what I learned in Sunday school about the talents the king gave his servants, and how he damned the one who was afraid to invest the talent he was given and buried it in the ground — where it certainly didn’t breed other talents! You must utilize every minute.” He stopped. “And now I can utilize nothing.”
     
    His hands made fists. “Henry Fellowes. I didn’t tell you. He was the first man I took on. He was