He laid money on the table. “Sorry, I forgot it. The dinner was perfect. My secretary, Jane Cryder, selected your answer to my advertisement from among fifty others. None of my friends are old-fashioned enough — perhaps New England enough — to serve the kind of dinner I remembered. I wanted to spend the day on the Cape. I craved a whiff of the country in which I was born, wanted to come back to it, if only for a day, with a fresh appreciation of what it had meant to me as a boy. Miss Cryder selected your reply because she loved your name, Pamela Leigh. Isn’t that like a woman’s reasoning? I will admit that in this case it was intuition. Suppose I talk with your father about those bills while you are having your dinner?”
“Will you? The hounding creditors are such a nightmare.” The eagerness departed from her eyes and voice. “But, we have no money with which to pay a lawyer.”
“I haven’t earned a fee yet. After all, you don’t know anything about me. Why should you trust me? That’s merely a rhetorical question. I hope you will. Here is my card. Put a Bertillon expert on my fingerprints, if you wish.”
Pamela looked down at the bit of pasteboard in her hand, up at the gray eyes watching her.
“I trust you without the expert.”
“Thank you.”
Gaunt Mehitable Betts with a plate in each hand kicked open the swing door. The parrot broke into a wheezy chuckle. “Look who’s here!” he croaked sardonically.
Pamela hastily averted the tirade she knew would follow. The woman and bird were ancient enemies.
“Hitty, will you show Mr. Mallory to Father’s room?”
Miss Betts set down the plates with a bang. “Sure I’ll show him up. Like’s not he’ll show him down, quick, but he looks as if he could stand it.”
Her father had not shown Scott Mallory down, Pamela rejoiced, as an half hour later she arranged the table silver in the drawer of the maple lowboy. She could hear the rumble of voices overhead. Terrence poked his red head into the room.
“The plot germs came back all right, didn’t they? Saw the roadster beating it this way just as I was shooting through the village. Mr. Mallory’ll lose his train if he doesn’t get a hustle on. Just asked me to take him to the station. I’ll say that the girl had nerve to go off in his sporty roadster. He gave Hitty and me each a fat tip. I returned mine. Hurt like the dickens to let it go but I wouldn’t take money from him when he has offered to help Father. But Hitty — boy! When she realized what she had in her hand — Miss Betts lugged out pail and brush, flopped to her knees and began scrubbing the kitchen floor. Listen to her hymn of praise.” From the other side of the door rose a rough voice hoarse from disuse.
“‘Praise God from whom all blessings flow Praise Him all creatures here below Praise Him above ye —’” the song cracked and rattled into a gurgle.
“Poor Hitty. Life hasn’t handed her many tips. You’d better remind Mr. Mallory of the time.”
Eyes on the shifting color values of sea and shore Pamela stood at the window. A far off white sail flashed against the dusky horizon like a bit of mother-of-pearl. Beyond the orchard stretched a forest of scrub oaks and stunted pines through which at intervals white birches gleamed like swaying ghosts. Rose tints in the blueness of the sky deepened to claret. What a day! Scott Mallory appearing like a modern dragon-slayer at the exact dramatic moment. The relief, the inexpressible relief of knowing that there was someone of whom she could ask advice. Should she allow him to help when she couldn’t pay him? The same old obstacle bobbed up to confront her at every step. Money! Money! Money! She turned as Mallory entered. Terrence hovered impatiently in the background.
“Your father has authorized me to represent him. I have a list of his securities — somewhat of a misnomer — and debts. I hope to pull enough out of the lot to settle up, stop this nightmare, as you call it. If a creditor appears or phones refer him to me.”
“We haven’t any money to pay —”
“Don’t think of that. Let me help.” On a breath of laughter he suggested, “I’ll collect my bill in chowders. How’s that?”
“Ready to go now, Scott?” From the hall threshold Hilda Crane asked the question. Her pleading violet eyes seemed too big for her small face, her painted mouth too red. “Did you think I had run away? I wouldn’t leave you. Been poking round the antique shops in the village waiting for you to finish your important business.” Her voice was honeyed.
Her tone, her pouting lips, her provocative eyes, set off little fiery pinwheels in Pamela’s mind. Giving an imitation of the charming girl of the steamer, was she?
Scott Mallory’s voice was as grim as his lips. “My business is finished, Hilda. You have ruined this day, and by rights you should be sent home by train, but, when I start out on a party with a girl I see it through. Go on.”
She hesitated.
“Goo’-bye! Goo’-bye!” croaked the red and green parrot testily.
Terrence camouflaged a chuckle in a racking cough. “Sorry! Have these attacks occasionally.” He patted his sister’s arm before he left the room. His song drifted back.
“‘The fool frog sank in the swashing tank
As the farmer bumped to town.
But the smart frog flew like a tug-boat screw,
And he swore he’d not go down.’”
Pamela choked back a nervous giggle as she sensed his reminder to her. Hilda flung her a furious glance before she sauntered into the hall.
Mallory caught Pamela’s hands in his. “I’m coming back — tomorrow. Dinner for two.”
Aware that Miss Crane was observing them, Pamela explained gaily: “Second-day party, we call it on the Cape. Like warmed-over turkey?”
“Mad about it.”
“Then come. There are dozens of questions I want to ask you about Father’s business.”
He spread the burned fingers gently on his palm, looked down into her gallantly smiling eyes.
“Sweet child!” He cleared his voice. “When I have answered them I have one or two to ask you.”
“Scott!”
“Coming Hilda.”
Chapter III
With a growl like the distant rumble of thunder the Belgian police dog in his smart breast-strap sprang at his double standing near the curb of the sidewalk before the post-office in the village. The challenged one laid back his ears, snarled, bared his teeth invitingly. Pamela Leigh’s dark eyes dilated with concern even as she caught the challenger by the collar, tried to drag him back.
“Stop it, Babe!”
“Drop him! Good God, drop him!” shouted a man who was leaping down the steps of the brick building three at a time. The girl had a confused sense of brown hair, blazing eyes, brown skin, curiously blanched, a mustache like a third eyebrow, impeccable sports clothes, the faint, far drone of a plane beating like a rhythmic pulse in the air, before she tightened her hold. She twisted the leather collar, choked the aggressor back upon his haunches. The man snatched at the tail of the other Belgian, yanked him away. He deftly caught the dog’s collar, face ashen, demanded:
“Don’t you know better than to mix up in a scrap like this?” He turned at a shout behind him, glared at the man in an army coat belted with a rope who was running toward them. “This dog yours, Eddie Pike? Grab him. What the devil do you mean by letting a fighter like this loose?”
The breathless, unshaven man, with a mouth designed on codfish lines, caught his charge by an upright ear, glanced apologetically at the girl who still clutched the collar of the challenger.
“Sorry, Miss Pamela.” He scowled at his accuser. “Why shouldn’t I let him loose? ’Twant him started the trouble. There ain’t no law ’gainst exercising dogs here, are there? Come along, Bozo.”
He snapped on a leash. With a rumble and a savage glare in the direction of his adversary Bozo obediently started off at his keeper’s heels.
Now that the late unpleasantness was over Pamela’s knees wobbled treacherously, her heart pounded deafeningly. Under pretense of adjusting the Babe’s breast-strap
she dropped to the steps. A vision of the picture the contending factions had presented set her a-quiver with nervous laughter. The man protested with a hint of arrogance:
“What’s the joke? Can’t see the comedy in taking a chance on getting chewed to pulp.”
Pamela made a valiant effort at control, explained in a voice still shredded with mirth: “When you grabbed that horrid dog’s tail — I thought — I thought even as I choked the Babe — sup-suppose it sh-should come off? After that your technique was su-superb.” The sentence ended in a spasmodic gurgle.
“Pull yourself together. I don’t wonder you were frightened. You’ll have hysterics if you don’t watch your step.”
“I never had hysterics in my life.” Indignation brought Pamela to her feet. She met his concerned eyes defiantly, even as she admitted to herself that she had been frightened, she never had been in the ring at a dog-fight before.
“Beg pardon for yelling at you when I butted in on the little party, but your recklessness frightened me stiff.”
“But not dumb.”
He laughed. She liked his laugh.
“I’m sorry. May I get your mail?”
She looked from him to the dog who had dropped to the sidewalk, whose throat rumbled as with a retreating thunder-shower.
“If you will. The Babe is as popular in the post-office as an ice-storm in an orange-grove. The R.F.D. man collects from the box at our gate in the early morning as he passes. Delivers at noon. We come for the afternoon mail. Box 52. I’m Pamela Leigh.” Did he look startled as he turned away or was it merely her imagination?
She sank to the steps. The vicious line-up of the two dogs had left her limp as a de-sawdusted doll. Catch her bringing the Babe to the village again. Babe! Anything but. Soon after that memorable Thanksgiving dinner for two, Scott Mallory had asked them to board the dog. He had tried to keep him in his apartment, much to the detriment of the furniture which he had a playful habit of chewing, and the indignation of neighboring tenants. Who was the man who had come to her rescue? A native son home for the weekend? He was about twenty-eight. Nothing so young in males had crossed her path since she had come in June to live in Grandmother Leigh’s house.
Perfect afternoon. Lavender-winged gulls soared and dove above the sand dunes which were patched with the shadows of drifting snowy clouds. The out-going tide pitilessly exposed their sea-weedy, tin-can strewn gums; trailed fringes of white foam as it ebbed in curling amber-green waves. Beyond stretched an indigo sea, amethystine where it met the horizon. The sun dropped behind the highest dune, splashed the sky above with lovely color. Pamela felt its beauty like a tangible thing. Crimson, lemon, green, orange, fluffs of mauve, scarfs of rose. Lavish splendor! The afterglow tinted the roofs of the sedate old houses which bordered the main street, gilded the black bands on their white chimneys, transformed windows into molten sheets of brass and copper. Columns of smoke from wood fires spiraled and spread. The air was soft, salty, with an indefinable hint of spring. Pamela filled her lungs with it. This wasn’t much like a February afternoon in New York City. One couldn’t go about coatless in a green jersey frock there, at this time of year.
She watched the villagers trickling out of the post-office. She knew them all. One couldn’t live in an old house which one had inherited in a Cape Cod town without being the object of speculation, the cynosure of every eye when one appeared in public, especially when every living inhabitant above ground — and perhaps some under — knew of the creditors who had hovered like vultures to collect the bills which her father and his wife had lavishly contracted before the crash.
Had hovered! Since the day Scott Mallory had offered to help straighten out the mess, she had not heard from one. Had he in some miraculous way managed to quiet them? Whatever had happened it was a respite for her. She no longer suffered the nausea of apprehension and humiliation when she answered door or telephone bell.
The man who had barged into the dogfight approached with a handful of white envelopes and newspapers.
“Looks as if you would be submerged in a greeting-card blizzard.”
She dropped the mail into a basket woven of gay colors. “Thanks lots. Tomorrow will be my birthday. Everyone I ever knew has sent a greeting this year. I suspect that as they posted them my friends sighed.
“‘Poor Pam! Marooned on Cape Cod.’ Come Babe.”
The dog rose leisurely, stretched one hind leg after another, yawned, wagged his tail.
“Mind if I walk with you? Our house is at the foot of the hill. I am Philip Carr.”
Philip Carr! Son of Grandmother Leigh’s legal adviser with whom her father had quarreled furiously! Quarreled because the lawyer had urgently advised him to carry out his mother’s expressed wish, that he settle a sum of money on each of his children. Had the senior Carr had a premonition of what was to happen, had he lacked faith in Harold Leigh’s judgment? Whichever it was, it was a pity he hadn’t won out.
Philip Carr, about whom the townspeople conjectured, romanced, gossiped and whispered not too kindly! Several years before, his father had restored the house of his paternal great-grandfather for use a few months of the year. “Spoiled, terrible spoiled and a born lady-killer,” Hitty Betts had described the son. He seemed more like a grown-up boy out of tune with the world, whose brown eyes sparked defiance, whose full red lips below the slight mustache curved in a suggestion of contempt. In spite of what she had heard in disparagement, she liked him.
“Well? Does my request require so much wrinkled-brow consideration? Say no, if you don’t care for what you’ve heard about me. Our neighbors here are a sturdy little band of knockers. They’ve told you probably that I spend most of my time about theatres. I do. Not because I’m crazy about actors as people, but because I want to design stage-settings. You may feel that we have not been properly introduced. Have I made a social blunder? Perhaps I should not have spoken to you until a third party had shouted above the growls and barks of the contending factions: ‘Miss Leigh, allow me to present Mr. Carr.’”
She ignored the bitterness of his voice. “Introduced! Don’t be silly! I have no aversion to theatres — I’m mad about them — or actors” — “except one actress,” she added under her breath.
She saw the color steal to his hair, caught the instant’s unsteadiness of his boyish mouth. Evidently he had been hurt. Nothing in the world was more cruel than small-town gossip. Often she had seen Mehitable Betts clamp her lips, before she opened them to preface a bit of scandal with:
“Folks is sayin’ —”
Philip Carr shifted step to suit hers. “How long have you had that scrapper?”
“He isn’t a scrapper. Usually he is beautifully mannered. He’s just temperamental like some humans. You can’t be expected to like every dog you meet, can you, Babe?” She patted the head of the Belgian who was walking sedately beside her. “He doubtless had an attack of indigestion and took it out on someone else — as do the majority of his sex.”
“Not a high opinion of mortal man, have you?”
“You have guessed it. We are taking care of the Babe — we, means Terrence, my brother, and me — for our legal adviser.” The last phrase induced a sense of financial solidity.
They approached a big Colonial house in a setting of spruce hedges. Pamela caught a glimpse of an old-fashioned garden in the rear tucked in for the winter. She approved enthusiastically:
“You have the loveliest home in the village. We are all so glad to have it open again.”
“All right to have it open if you are not expected to live in it. Father and Mother hurried home from Europe to be sure the cold frames were started so that plants for the garden would go in early. So they say. I suspect that he is pawing the ground in his eagerness to get back into court. He says that he is through with legal battling, but he never will be so long as he finds a case which interests him. It’s in his blood. Did you meet my people before they went across?”
“No. I haven’t seen your father since he and
my father clashed over the settlement of Grandmother Leigh’s estate.”
“Montague and Capulet stuff?” His smile was boyish. “That wouldn’t make any difference to Mother if she liked you and she will. How did anything so vivid as you get caught in this Cape Cod tidepool? This is my third visit since the house was opened. I can’t stand it more than twenty-four hours at a time.”
Pamela remembered Hitty Betts’ comment on the son and heir of the town’s plutocrats. “Folks is sayin’, that Phil Carr will bring the gray hair of his parents in sorrow to the grave. He goes with a fast lot of young folks, movie and theatre crowd mostly.”
Of course, the natives would think him on the moral toboggan slide if his ideas of propriety differed from theirs. Their views on matters theatrical were strictly seventeenth century, Puritan. She met his friendliness with a swift explanation of her presence in the “tidepool.” Added gaily:
“Seeing more immediate returns from cooking than from writing I turned Grandmother Leigh’s old home into the Silver Moon Chowder House. Silver Moon because of the roses with mother-of-pearl petals and golden hearts which climb over the walls in June. Making money feeding people is stodgily pre-Lindbergh, isn’t it? Since that epoch-making flight, girls are going in for all sorts of aviation angles, radio announcing, business management, banking, posing for commercial photographs, anything which isn’t tarred with domesticity. I had to make money at home.”
“It’s sporting of you. I know your place. Used to go there with Father. While he conferred with your grandmother, the farmer’s wife filled me up with milk and cookies in her cottage. Do you make the Silver Moon pay serving only chowders?”
“The point is well taken. As I’m not an Alice Foote McDougal yet, while I’m building up the business I give patrons what they ask for. Someone phoned for a reservation for six tomorrow and ordered young pig. Ever seen a young pig ready for roasting? Rear view it looks so like a plump fair-skinned baby that I salted it with my tears, figuratively speaking. I will sidestep and make Mehitable Betts put it into the oven.” She was aware of his cynical regard.
Fair Tomorrow Page 3
