A Candle in Her Heart

by Emilie Loring

  Doris hesitated, the color deepening in her cheeks. “Look, Leslie, you’re so lovely you can get anyone you want. You always have a whole string of men. Are you serious about Paul?”

  “No one could be serious about Paul. He’s not serious about himself.” Leslie thought of the gay, debonair young bachelor who was her shadow every minute that she allowed. “He’s fun to be with,” she said. “Lots of fun. Light-hearted and gay.”

  “But?” Doris probed with dogged persistence.

  “But—that’s all,” Leslie said slowly. “I mean that he’s satisfied just to play.”

  “Why not? He can afford it,” Doris pointed out. “Look, Leslie, darling Leslie, if you don’t want Paul, how about letting me have him? At least, you’ve got the glamorous Harrison man at your beck and call. Will you?” She broke off. “Oh, here’s the theater. Let me get the tickets. You paid for lunch.”

  * * *

  When the lights came on in the theater, the two girls got slowly to their feet, not yet ready to be jolted back into everyday life. Doris’s eyelashes sparkled with tears.

  “I didn’t know it had been like that. Did you?” she asked huskily.

  “I didn’t know he had been like that,” Leslie said softly. She was in a daze. While she walked beside Doris, a part of her still strained up a hill, through dust and machine-gun fire, accompanying the man who had clawed his way to meet the enemy single-handed. What had happened over the crest of the hill? How had Douglas Clayton met his lonely death? How had he felt as he hoisted himself over the top to face the enemy, single-handed and defenseless?

  Doris had shaken off her emotion and was exclaiming about a cranberry-red evening dress in a shop window. If Paul saw her in that she’d make an impression he would never forget. She was still talking about it as they went down the stairs to the big rotunda in Grand Central Station. She looked at the big clock in dismay.

  “Darn! We’ve missed the train. We’ll have to wait for ages and ages. Jeepers!” She stopped short, staring at the tall man who had paused abruptly before her, who was running the fingers of his left hand through his hair. She clutched at Leslie’s arm.

  “Les!” she whispered. “That’s exactly the way Doug moved and looked. It’s Doug’s gesture. I’d know it anywhere. Les! Do you suppose—”

  Leslie shook off her hand, ran to touch the man’s arm, her heart singing with gladness. “Douglas Clayton!” she cried out.

  He wheeled around and she looked up, a long way up, into the grim face of a stranger.

  Her hand dropped to her side. “Sorry,” she said through dry lips. “My mistake.”

  As she turned back to Doris, the latter giggled nervously. “I guess we were both hypnotized by that movie. But what made you—I mean, after all, you never knew him—what made you seem so glad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Doris looked at her friend in surprise, started to speak, and then, for once, the Babbling Brooke was silenced. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder. The stranger was still looking after them.

  3

  The Clayton Textile Company sprawled over a number of acres of ground across the river from the village of Claytonville. It was much bigger than Donald Shaw had anticipated. The original building was now used for executive offices, and other buildings had been added—a laboratory for experimental chemists, and the big shops where the products were being manufactured.

  The only approach from the village was through an old covered bridge that the people of Claytonville stubbornly refused to supersede by a more modern structure. Because he could not afford a car, Shaw had purchased a motorcycle of ancient vintage and equipped with a sidecar. It sounded like a freight train as it rumbled over the worn, uneven floor boards of the covered bridge.

  In front of the main building the ground had been attractively landscaped, with well-cared-for lawns and vari-colored flower beds. At one side a large parking area was marked off. Judging by the space allotted for employees’ cars, the Clayton Company, he reflected, must support a vast majority of the people of the vicinity.

  The spacious reception room was brightly lighted and impressive with its handsome draperies at the long windows, deep-piled carpet, and comfortable chairs with small tables. A first-rate decorator had obviously been at work to produce the results.

  The receptionist was a pleasant young woman who welcomed him with a smile. He handed her his card.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Corliss Blake,” he said.

  She spoke over the telephone and then conducted him down a hallway to a corner office. It was large, comfortable and efficient, but there was no indication here that the president of the company had called upon the decorator’s art. The desk was a battered old rolltop and the black leather chairs had seen many years of service.

  On the desk there was a large framed photograph of a lovely girl with short copper curls, big brown eyes, a warm mouth and a chin whose firmness was softened by an unexpected dimple. Donald Shaw recognized the girl who had hailed him the day before in Grand Central Station with a gladness in her voice that still left him shaken when he thought of it. Hailed him as Douglas Clayton.

  “That is my daughter,” Corliss Blake said rather dryly, and with an effort Shaw pulled his eyes away from the smiling girl in the photograph to meet the unsmiling scrutiny of the man who had risen to greet him.

  “She is very—lovely,” he said quietly.

  “Sit down, Mr. Shaw.” Blake waved him to a chair. There was a thin folder lying before him, bearing the words Donald Shaw. “I am sorry there has been so long a delay about your application here. Your qualifications seem to be just what we want but there are other experimental chemists whose qualifications are equally good. Two others, as a matter of fact. I talked with them yesterday.”

  The eyes under the shaggy overhanging brows continued to study the younger man intently. Shaw felt his first qualm of uneasiness but he managed to remain relaxed and quiet in his chair, meeting those x-ray eyes, his own level.

  “What we need here at this time,” Blake told him abruptly, “goes beyond technical and scientific ability. We need a loyalty that is absolutely incorruptible. We’re on the track of a new textile; there’s no secret about that for the simple reason that there can’t be. Rumors were flying months ago. That means the competition won’t overlook anything to find out exactly what we are doing here.”

  “Particularly the Gypton Company,” Shaw said in his deep, pleasant voice.

  “You know them?”

  “By reputation. Who doesn’t?” Shaw smiled and his cold gray eyes warmed for a moment. “They dominate the field but they are as ruthless as gangsters from what I hear.”

  “And not above gangster methods, by all accounts.” Blake pushed back his chair. “Would you like to look around the plant?”

  Shaw was surprised but he answered promptly, “Very much.”

  By the end of an hour and a half, Shaw found himself lagging a trifle behind the older man. In a misleadingly casual manner, Corliss Blake had probed into his life, his opinions, his point of view on a dozen apparently unrelated topics that had no bearing on textiles. Little details that added up to a complete picture of a man. Keenly aware of what was happening, Shaw was careful to weigh every word he spoke, alert for the meanings that lay behind apparently innocent questions. He was keyed up, cautious, and beginning to tire physically.

  Blake, who had been standing at a window, his back to Shaw, pointing out the site of the picnic grounds that were being laid out for the benefit of the employees, spoke gruffly, without turning around.

  “You’re exhausted. You should have told me. Suppose we go to lunch. We have a good restaurant here for our people. Run it at cost so that they get excellent food much more cheaply than they could elsewhere.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  The eyes under the shaggy brows surveyed Shaw. “Been ill, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m all right now though.”

  “Hav
en’t got back your strength yet,” Blake commented.

  “I’m no invalid,” Shaw declared. “I’m practically back to par. My physician has thrown me out because I’m much too healthy to bother with.”

  “Well,” Blake said as he led the way to the restaurant on the top floor of the main building, “you’d probably better not try to do too much for the first few weeks. Work into it slowly.”

  It was a moment before Shaw grasped his meaning. “Does that—are you saying that I am hired?”

  For the first time Corliss Blake smiled and Shaw saw a resemblance to his enchanting daughter. “Oh, yes, you’re hired.”

  At a small table beside a window he seemed to become absorbed in the menu, giving his new employee time to recover his self-possession. Then he looked across the room and raised a finger. In a few minutes a man stood beside him, a tall, good-looking, blond man.

  “Join us, won’t you, Oliver?” Blake said.

  “Delighted.” The blond man pulled out a chair, looked curiously at Shaw.

  “You must know each other,” Blake said. “Mr. Oliver Harrison, our head chemist; Mr. Donald Shaw, our most recently acquired chemist.”

  Harrison’s lips tightened for a moment with a shock of anger and then he held out his hand, trying to cover his fury. “Welcome to my department, Shaw. I’m sure we’ll be able to work together.”

  There was a slight stress on the word “my.” He was making clear that the head of the department was putting his subordinate in his place, and that the place was a minor one.

  “It should be most interesting,” Shaw said noncommittally.

  “It occurred to me, Oliver,” Blake said, “that you might be able to help Shaw find a suitable and comfortable place to live. I suppose,” he added, looking at his new chemist, “you’re at the Fox and Rabbit. Only inn we have within twenty-five miles. Of course, there are a couple of motels but—”

  “Yes, I checked in at the Fox and Rabbit.”

  “Perhaps,” Harrison said smoothly, “it might be as well to stay there for the present. You wouldn’t want to commit yourself to a long-term lease until we know for sure whether or not you will be with us on a permanent basis.”

  Blake shot his head chemist a swift look and then devoted himself to his lunch. Donald Shaw, pouring dressing on his salad, was alerted to something odd in the situation. He had a curious feeling that Oliver Harrison held the whip hand over Corliss Blake. He looked up and met Harrison’s eyes, read the naked hostility in them. A thrill ran along his nerves. Harrison was determined that Donald Shaw’s term of employment with the Clayton Textile Company would be a brief one.

  He returned the look. “You know,” he said cheerfully, “I think I’m going to enjoy it here.” He grinned.

  Once more, Corliss Blake looked up swiftly, his eyes moving from face to face. Once more, he concentrated on his lunch, without speaking.

  * * *

  Next morning, Corliss Blake was standing on a ladder, pruning a tree, while his wife, as usual, gave directions and instructions.

  Leslie ran across the lawn. “I’ll be out for lunch, Aunt Agatha. All afternoon, in fact. Later, I’ll be playing golf at the Country Club with Paul Logan.”

  She remembered Doris’s pleading words and wondered what she could do about it: “I want someone who is always around to play with and Paul is lots of fun. I don’t know what you expect of men, Leslie, but Paul’s exactly my kind.”

  “Are you having lunch with Paul, too?” Agatha Blake asked.

  “No, with Oliver Harrison. He just telephoned and, I don’t know why, but he’s a hard man to say ‘no’ to.”

  “I must say,” Agatha remarked, “I don’t know why you should say ‘no’ to Oliver. There’s a lot more substance to a man like that than to an inveterate playboy like Paul Logan.”

  Sometimes, Leslie thought, Agatha revealed an unexpected amount of insight. She was right about Paul and Oliver.

  “Playboy or not,” Corliss said, “there’s something very pleasant and trustworthy about Paul. I’ve always liked the boy.”

  “Oh, by the way, Corliss,” Agatha asked, “did Oliver find you a new chemist?”

  “No,” Blake answered oddly, “I found my own. I selected the man I thought would fill the bill. Matter of fact,” there was a glint in his eyes, “I suspect that he’ll quite possibly do rather better than that.”

  Agatha sighed. “I must say, in a matter of this kind, where the requirements are so specialized, Oliver would know best.”

  There was a look of amusement on Blake’s face. “I rather imagine that Oliver would agree with you.”

  “Well, then?”

  “You may both be right, my dear,” he said pacifically. “Time will tell. And yet it has been my observation all my life that a man’s achievements rest less on his abilities than they do on his character. It’s not what a man can do; it’s what he will do. That’s why you find so many brilliant failures, so many people of no more than average talent who succeed. They have put to use all they had while the other fellow either misused or misdirected it.”

  He climbed down from the ladder and smiled at his daughter. “You’re looking very bonnie in that pale yellow dress. As crisp and fragrant and sweet as a daffodil. Like spring walking.”

  “Dad! How lovely of you.”

  “Is that in Oliver’s honor?” There was something searching in the look Blake gave his daughter.

  Leslie felt the warm color washing over her face. She couldn’t say that two days earlier she had looked for a startled moment at a strange man and suddenly she had known the meaning of spring magic.

  “It’s—I just felt spring in the air, I guess.”

  “You’re like your mother.” As her father spoke, Leslie caught her breath in surprise. It was the first time he had ever referred to his first wife in Agatha’s presence. “She was always infected with spring madness; I used to tell her that she was never responsible for what she did in the spring.”

  Agatha’s full mouth was rather pinched. She turned away to look fixedly at the tree which he had been pruning.

  A big white Chrysler came purring up the driveway. Oliver Harrison got out and strolled over to greet them, his blond hair shining like a Viking’s under the sun, good-looking face alight. For a moment he paused, turned to look at a flower bed, presenting what Paul Logan had called “The Great Profile.”

  Leslie found herself struggling not to laugh. You couldn’t laugh at Oliver. Oliver never laughed at himself. She remembered now, early in their acquaintance, she had said that people needed laughter, particularly needed to laugh at themselves, in order to keep their perspective, not to take themselves too seriously; above all, not to be bogged down in self-pity.

  Oliver had taken a firm stand. He disagreed entirely. “If a man laughs at himself,” he had pointed out in dead seriousness, “there is always a chance that other people will laugh at him. And laughter can be fatal, the most fatal weapon there is. No, it doesn’t pay for a man to laugh at himself.”

  As usual, Oliver turned first to Agatha who expanded with pleasure at his attentive manner, his fulsome compliments. Then he spoke to Corliss Blake in a tone that, for all its courtesy, held an undercurrent of condescension.

  “Morning, Mr. Blake. I’m borrowing your lovely daughter for a while.”

  “Quite all right, Oliver. Home for dinner, dear?”

  “Six-thirty at the latest,” Leslie promised and let Oliver help her into the car. He did things like that gracefully but with a manner that reminded her irresistibly of Sir Walter Raleigh spreading his cloak for Queen Elizabeth. Something had gone wrong for her today. She must stop seeing everything as either incredibly wonderful or incredibly absurd.

  “Heavens,” she exclaimed, “what luxury! You must be trying to impress me.”

  Oliver slid under the wheel, his manner a trifle stuffy, and she recalled with compunction that he mustn’t be teased either.

  “I wish I could impress you,” he said soberly
as he turned the car and headed for the center of the village.

  “This is new, isn’t it?”

  He smiled with a flash of white teeth. “A custom-made job. I ordered it some time ago. It was just delivered this morning. That’s why I was so insistent about lunch. You simply had to be the first person to ride in it.”

  Something in his tone bothered her. He was, she thought, assuming too much. She didn’t know how to answer him. If she displayed too much pleasure in the car, or if she hurt him by ignoring his tacit assumption of her right to an interest in it, she would be wrong either way.

  She compromised by leaning forward to look at the dashboard and to ask for an explanation of all the gadgets. Oliver beamed and explained everything in detail, talking, as he always did to women, as though they needed to be addressed in the simplest terms in order to understand anything.

  He pulled up behind the Claytonville taxi, irritated at having his dashing approach to the inn spoiled. Under the machine-gun fire from the eyes of the rocking chair brigade on the porch, a young woman stepped out of the taxi, a supersmart redhead, in a beautifully cut black linen dress. While the taxi driver helped the doorman to carry in half a dozen assorted suitcases and hatboxes, she stared down the eyes that watched her; then she turned with a graceful, insolent movement and caught sight of the white Chrysler. Her green eyes under slanting brows, carefully darkened, moved from the car to the blond man at the wheel, traveled on to Leslie. She turned her back on them and strolled into the inn.

  “Well,” Leslie exclaimed, “I wonder who the redheaded siren is?”

  “Never saw her in my life,” Oliver answered. He pulled up with a flourish under the big, brilliantly painted sign that showed a red fox in pursuit of a rabbit with shell-pink ears.

  The doorman hurried out. “Yes, sir.”

  “Park it for me,” Oliver said curtly and followed Leslie into the dining room.

  “Afternoon, Miss Blake. Afternoon, sir.”

  The “sir” made Oliver compress his lips. The headwaiter always made a point of addressing his more distinguished patrons by their names. Apparently, even after nine months in Claytonville, Oliver was still regarded as an outsider; or, intolerable supposition, as not sufficiently distinguished to rate the headwaiter’s seal of approval.