The headwaiter gave them a choice window table that looked out on a small pond behind the inn with weeping willows around its rim. The willows had already changed from their spring yellow to a delicate green.
“Another few days like this, Miss Blake, and we’ll be serving out on the lawn. Mark my words.”
When they had ordered, Leslie half expected Oliver to force the conversation into personal channels, as he had been increasingly inclined to do during the past month. Instead, he was unusually silent, plunged into thoughts that, to judge by his expression, were unpleasant. She realized that he was forcing himself to respond to her light chatter about golf and the coming tennis championship matches and Jane Williams’s new swimming pool at Web Rock.
“It sounds like a gay season,” he said as she came to the end of her light-hearted comments.
“Yes,” she agreed, “only—”
“Only—what?” He had put aside, for the time being, the troublesome problem he had been dealing with. He gave her the warm intimate smile that had made half the girls in Claytonville fall in love with him and won the enthusiastic support of all the older women.
“Only I don’t want to spend the summer just playing,” she admitted. “I’d like to do something that, well, that mattered at least a little bit.”
“Such as?”
“For one thing, I’m going back to sculpting. I haven’t touched it for nearly a year.”
He paid the check, ostentatiously added too large a tip, and pulled back her chair before the waiter could reach it. He took her arm as they went through the lobby and out to the waiting Chrysler. There was an intangible air of proprietorship in his manner.
The doorman said, “Sir, that’s a brand-new car but I noticed, though there’s only a few miles on it—”
Oliver stared him down and got back under the wheel. Leslie was reminded irresistibly of the Shakespeare character: “And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.”
“You still have an hour before your date with Logan. Shall we take a little run and try it out?”
“As long as we get back in time. I don’t like to be late for appointments.”
“Promptness is the courtesy of kings,” he quoted. “Is that what you mean?” Before she could speak he added resentfully, “There is something about the Clayton name and everyone associated with it; they all develop the kingly manner.”
“That’s just plain silly, Oliver!” Leslie protested angrily.
“Is it?” For a moment his face had a sullen cast. Then he smiled at her. “My mistake.”
They left the village behind and Oliver chose a winding, tree-lined road along which the car purred smoothly.
“Leslie,” he said without warning, “I’m in love with you, and I want you to marry me. You’re everything I want in a wife, beautiful and sweet and charming. Everything I want. Dignity and breeding. More than I,” there was a fractional pause, “than I ever expected to find. And I could make you happy. I know I could.”
“Oh, Oliver,” she exclaimed in distress, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean this to happen.”
There was amusement in his good-looking face. “I did.”
“I—I like you enormously.” (That’s not really true, she thought; I feel uneasy when I’m with you.) “But I couldn’t marry you. I’m not in love with you.”
To her surprise he gave her a confident smile. “Honey, you don’t know anything about it. I’ve looked over my competition here, of course. With the exception of Paul Logan, there’s no man near your own age who could interest you in the least. A run-of-the-mill lot. You deserve something better.”
Leslie struggled not to laugh. Of all the conceit!
He went on with smooth assurance, “I’ll teach you to love me. We’ll have a good life.”
“What do you mean, a good life?”
“What everyone means,” he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. Then he smiled confidently again. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t eventually be top man in the Company. I’ve got what it takes, more than—” He stopped, then went on more carefully “I’ve thought of buying that parcel of land that lies beyond your father’s house and building on it. Something, perhaps, along the lines of Web Rock. A real attention-getter. Then, some day, we’ll be able to combine the two properties and have a really impressive estate.”
“You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?”
He did not hear the warning in her voice. “Of course I have. No man can build a career haphazardly. He plans it, step by step.”
“Including his wife?” Leslie asked with dangerous demureness.
“Including—” He checked himself abruptly. Then he stopped the car, reached for her. “Leslie, my darling.”
She held him away from her, her hands pressing hard against his chest. “No, Oliver! Please don’t.”
He laughed, tried to draw her close to him in spite of her resistance. His eyes fell on the dashboard. He straightened up with a start, releasing her.
“The good-for-nothing—that jerk at the garage—I’ll have his job for this!”
Staggered by the sudden change in his voice, Leslie stammered, “Wh-what’s wrong?”
“Look at that gauge! In the red. A brand-new car and they didn’t even service it properly. No oil! No telling what harm has been done to the motor!”
He saw her expression of distaste and tried to conceal his rage, since he could not control it. He drew a long breath, forced a laugh, and managed to say more calmly, “Well, here we sit until we can get help. I won’t take a chance on driving as much as one more foot.” He slipped an arm around her. “Let’s look at the bright side. I’ve got you to myself. I’m going to prove that you—like me—more than you think you do.” He repeated triumphantly, “I’ve got you.” His arms tightened.
A noisy motorcycle came around the curve and Oliver touched his horn. “Hey, there,” he shouted, waving his hand.
The motorcycle slowed. Stopped. The rider pushed up his goggles and Leslie looked into deep-set gray eyes. She groped for the handle of the door, almost unconsciously, her heart like a songbird launching itself on the air.
“Need any help?” said a deep, pleasant voice. “Oh, it’s you, Harrison.”
“Hello, Shaw. Yes, I need help. The da—the stupid fool who delivered this car didn’t put in any oil. Call the Standard Company and tell them to send a tow truck. This car isn’t going a single foot until the motor has been checked. Oh, and send the taxi out for us.”
The easy, arrogant authority with which he issued his orders, the dictatorial voice, brought soft color to the girl’s face and defiant sparks to her eyes. She opened the door and got out.
“Where are you going?” Harrison demanded.
“I have an engagement at the Country Club,” she reminded him, the words stumbling over each other in her haste, “and I’ll be terribly late if I wait for the taxi. It’s probably meeting the afternoon train now and may take another hour before it can get here.”
“I want to talk to you.” Harrison leaned across the seat but Leslie had already closed the door.
She looked at the stranger on the motorcycle. “Do you suppose—could you take me—at least partway—to the Country Club in your sidecar?”
“Of course. Hop in.”
Shaw waited until the girl was seated and then flipped his hand casually at the blond man who smoldered behind the wheel of the motionless white car. It might have been merely a gesture of farewell but there was an undercurrent of mockery. In a series of noisy explosions the motorcycle moved off.
4
Sitting in the sidecar, Leslie looked up shyly at the driver. With the heavy goggles covering his eyes again there was only the firm chin, the mouth with its bitter lines, to show what manner of man he was. Oliver had known him but he must be a stranger in Claytonville. In a village of that size it was impossible that she would not have noticed him before.
Leslie was so intent on the silent man, so absorbed, that she paid no atte
ntion to the road beyond being aware that the man whom Oliver had called Shaw was going very slowly. Then he gave a sharp exclamation as he caught sight of four deer preparing to leap a fence onto the road, and the motorcycle rocketed around a corner of the dusty highway with a speed which sent the sidecar into the air and draped the passenger over the driver’s shoulder.
He slowed, stopped. She clung to him, her soft cheek pressed against his hair. Gently he released her, settled her in the sidecar. His face was dead white.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said with an odd breathlessness.
“That was inexcusable of me. I’m not used to this thing yet. I didn’t realize it would—are you sure you aren’t hurt?”
She smiled at him. “Perfectly sure.”
“Still trust me to get you to the Country Club in one piece?”
“I’ll trust you,” she said gravely.
“That’s—more than I deserve. But thank you.” The motorcycle moved off again. It was difficult to talk above the noise of the motor. He laughed. “The signs mean something.” He stopped beside a gate with the sign: “Cattle crossing.” Across the road came a herd of cows headed toward the milking barn, prodded by a barefoot boy of about twelve in blue jeans and a red shirt, a broad straw hat on his head. In the sudden quiet Leslie heard the rustling of leaves and the song of a bird.
“What a beautiful world,” she said unsteadily, her eyes fixed on the glistening water of a pool whose blue reflected the sky. Now that he had removed the goggles she found it hard to look at him.
“Miss Blake,” he began abruptly.
She looked at him then in surprise. “You know who I am?”
“I saw a photograph of you yesterday on your father’s desk. I am Donald Shaw, a new chemist at the Company.”
“Oh, of course. He was speaking of you this morning. I hope you’ll like it here.”
He turned to face her. “Tell me, Miss Blake, when we—met—in Grand Central Station the other day, did you mistake me for a friend of yours?”
She was aware of the blood that flushed her cheeks and pounded in her veins. “No, I mistook you for a man I have never seen in my life. A man named Douglas Clayton. This village was named for his great-great-grandfather. The textile company was his. He was the only one left of his family, except for my father who was a distant cousin. He died in Korea.”
Her throat closed for a moment. Her eyelashes sparkled. She wiped away the tears. “He died gloriously to save his company. You must have heard of him. There was so much written about him by men whose lives he had saved by his sacrifice. Everything we have we owe to him because my father inherited his house, his business, his money, everything he had.”
She was silent for a moment and the man watched the play of expression on her face. He did not make any comment.
“Well,” she said, drawing a long breath, “a statue may be erected to him here in Claytonville, if I can do it well enough. I didn’t know what he looked like, so I asked the girl he had been engaged to marry, but she said that if she still had any pictures of him they must be stuck away somewhere in an old trunk. I went into New York to see an army documentary film that showed the—the magnificent thing he did.”
She was silent for a long time, living over that experience. Then the brown eyes lifted to his and she gave him a wavering smile.
“It certainly takes me long enough to get at the point,” she said with an attempt at gaiety. “Anyhow, I went with my best friend, Doris Brooke, whose sister was Douglas Clayton’s fiancée. She remembered him very clearly and we were thinking of him, of course, and then, at the station, the way you stood, the way you ran your fingers through your hair, Doris said it was like Doug. And then—” Her voice trailed off, her brown eyes stared insistently at a forsythia bush as though she had never seen one before. She did not look up.
“But you sounded—glad,” Donald Shaw said. “Don’t you realize that if I really had been this fellow Clayton, you and your father might be in an awkward position in regard to the inheritance?”
The brown eyes blazed with sudden anger. “Do you think,” she sputtered, “for one single moment we’d rather have that than have him safely home?”
Steady gray eyes looked deep into indignant brown ones, warmed, and a smile transformed his face. It was like—like a candle being lighted in her heart. What’s happened to me, she wondered in alarm. I don’t know this man. There is something about him, the grimness, the bitterness in his face, that means something terrible has happened to him. And yet—
Shaw glanced at his watch. “I’m making you late for your appointment, as well as delaying Harrison. He won’t like that.”
“You’ll be in the same department, won’t you?”
“In his department, as I understand it. Great friend of yours?”
The comment was casual but Leslie was aware that Shaw must have seen Oliver’s arms around her, her hands holding him off. “The people who work for the firm are all very friendly,” she said, “and Mr. Harrison seems to be quite popular. He has gone ahead unusually fast.”
“A man on his way,” Shaw commented without any inflection in his voice.
“That’s what my father feels. And especially my stepmother.”
“If he can maintain a car like that, he’s doing all right.”
“Oh, he has some money of his own, I believe.” Leslie hesitated. “If you are going to work together, you ought to have an opportunity to be better acquainted. Every Sunday evening at seven we give a buffet supper for people from the Company. Won’t you join us tomorrow evening, Mr. Shaw?”
“Thank you. With great pleasure.” The last of the cattle had crossed the road and the motorcycle roared off. Neither of them attempted to speak again until he had turned into the driveway leading to the Country Club. Before he could dismount to help her, Paul Logan came running down the steps from the veranda.
“Leslie! I’ve been worried. What happened? An accident?”
“Paul, I want you and Mr. Shaw to know each other. Paul Logan. Mr. Shaw has joined the Company as an experimental chemist.”
The two men shook hands, the slim man with the light brown hair, a pleasant face and cheerful smile, with something incurably boyish about it. As usual he was smoothly turned out, in contrast to the older man, who was casually dressed in shabby slacks and pullover, and whose face would be strikingly handsome if it were not so stern.
“Mr. Shaw,” Leslie went on, the dimple flashing, “has just rescued me.”
“Accident?” Paul repeated sharply.
“No.” In spite of herself, Leslie gave a soft gurgle of laughter. “It’s a shame to laugh but it was funny. Oliver Harrison has a brand-new Chrysler, custom-made, and he is so proud of it. But the garage forgot to put in any oil before it was delivered.”
“You break my heart,” Paul said with great pleasure. “I’d love to see Harrison the Great sitting behind the wheel of a car that can’t run. In fact, I wouldn’t mind seeing him under the wheels of a car that could.”
“Paul!”
“Mark my words, Beautiful, that guy is so slick he’s bound to skid one of these days and I only hope I’ll be there to see it. Thanks a lot, Shaw, for lifesaving my gal for me.” He caught her hand. “Come on. I give you exactly two minutes to change those shoes.”
They ran laughing toward the clubhouse. At the door Leslie paused to turn and wave. Shaw lifted his hand in salute and the motorcycle roared back to the road.
* * *
Leslie and Paul sat at one of the small tables on the lawn under a huge, brightly colored umbrella. They were both flushed and laughing. The waiter set tall, frosted glasses before them, gin and tonic for Paul, plain tonic for Leslie.
“I think you do it on purpose,” he accused her.
“Do what?”
“Keep me laughing. To throw me off my game. You can’t make me believe you won honestly.”
She made a face at him. “Poor loser,” she jeered.
> His expression changed. He leaned across the table, covered one of her slim hands with his broader one.
“Beautiful, let’s get married this summer. I’m crazy about you. There’s no one I have more fun with. Say yes, Sweetie. We’d have a good life, together. A swell life.”
That was what Oliver had said. A good life.
“What do you mean—a good life?” she asked.
“One wonderful day after another,” he said eagerly. “I’m not a rich man, just the thirty thousand a year my aunt left me. But think what we could crowd into our lives: travel, cruises, Florida in winter or the Riviera or even those African safaris that are supposed to give people status. If that matters. Dancing, bridge, swimming, golf, tennis, sailing. All the year round. A holiday three hundred and sixty-five days a year. And you, lovely and sweet and gay, to share all the laughs.”
He added more seriously, “All your beauty and sweetness. More than I deserve, I know; more than any man deserves.”
She left her hand in his and smiled while she shook her head.
“Why not? Don’t you like me at all?”
“More than that. I’m very fond of you. But—”
“But?”
“I’m the wrong girl for you, Paul dear. You are tuning in on the wrong wavelength. I’m much too—sobersides for you. I couldn’t live a life that was all vacation. I like fun, but not all the time, not just fun as a goal. It would never satisfy me, so I would never satisfy you.”
She drew her hand away gently. “You need a girl like—well, like Doris Brooke. She could give you what you are looking for and you—”
“Doris? The Babbling Brooke? Why compared with you—”
“Wait, Paul,” Leslie said hastily, “don’t say anything unkind about Doris.”
“I wasn’t going to be unkind. She’s cute as a button and lots of fun. For my money she’s twice as attractive as Jane, for all Jane’s beauty. But—”
“She likes you, Paul,” Leslie said softly. “She likes you very, very much.”
A Candle in Her Heart Page 4
