“She was in a mighty han’some sedan stuck near the oyster shack. A real natty man come to my door and asked if I would take a lady up to the Leigh place.
“‘But I haven’t got nothin’ but an open fliv,’ says I. ‘Just cruise along nor’-east, an’ glimpse up toward the hill an’ you’ll see the house, find it yourself,’ I told him. ‘My car’s stuck. Haven’t you a slicker you can lend her?’ says he. ‘She’s my client, she’s got to get there. I’ll have this thing tinkered an’ you can bring her back to the Inn.’
“I didn’t want to do it but he pestered me so I fetched the slicker and sou’wester an’ brought her along. She was pleasant-speakin’. Asked me a lot about you an’ the old Leigh place. I gave your family a great setting out, Miss Pam-ee-lia. Told her that the Leighs had been the first family here since the place was settled, that they was awful proud of their record, never’d been a breath of scandal or a charge of dishonest dealin’ against one of them in all the years they’d lived here. I forgot for a minute your father owed a lot of money folks couldn’t collect. Guess I bragged some. Told her your grandma left you most a peck of di’monds, that she’d refused a fortune for her land. I wasn’t goin’ to let her think ’cause you run one of those new fangled eatin’-places that you wasn’t just as good as any city folks as might come here. She seemed terrible interested. Said she thought that this might be a pretty place when the sun shone, she might like to spend the summer here, she hadn’t been very well.”
Consternation slashed a zig-zag course through Pamela’s mind. Evidently the “real natty man” was Cecile’s attorney. They had been on their way to the Silver Moon. Why? In all good faith Cap’n Iry had set forth the value of the Leigh property. His reference to the “peck of diamonds” must have been a flick on the raw; Cecile had been wild to have them. Would she take advantage of the information? Try to get more money? Hadn’t Scott said that it might occur to her as a lucrative possibility?
Pamela was aware of the oysterman’s dropped jaw as she flashed past him. She dashed into the house. Stopped at the living room door. No one there. No sound but the snap of the fire. Voices in her father’s room! His bell. Why should she answer it? Why should she be dragged into a row? The bell again, an irritated protracted ring. With a little grimace of distaste she slowly mounted the stairs.
Cecile, the color high in her fair skin, her green eyes sullen, her small rouged mouth unbecomingly twisted, turned as Pamela entered the room.
“I told Harold that you set the dog on me. He laughed. Was it his plan as well as yours to keep me out?”
Pamela looked at her father standing behind the arm-chair, his hands gripping its back. He raised warning brows. What did he mean by that wireless? Her anger flared as she looked at the woman who had married him and deserted him at the first sign of adversity. She struggled to keep her voice coolly amused.
“Don’t be an idiot, Cecile. Of course I didn’t set the dog on you. Think I’m looking for more trouble? Just why are you here?”
“Why am I here! My attorney brought me.”
“Where is he?” Harold Leigh’s waxen face lost the bit of color it had acquired from the surprise of his wife’s arrival.
“His car is stuck in your beastly, wet Cape Cod sand. We missed the main road and landed at an oyster shack. I came to demand an allowance from you, Harold.”
“An allowance! That is almost funny, Cecile. You know that I have nothing left.” “Then where did that money come from you sent me?”
He set a little back-fire. “You lied to get it, lied about the operation, didn’t you?”
Cecile blazed. “So, that lawyer was sent by you! I knew it!”
“Lawyer?” The surprise in her father’s voice closed Pamela’s lips. She had been about to defend him. He had not known that Scott Mallory went to New York to check up on Cecile. He may have suspected who the “friend” was who had reported back, but he had asked no questions. She would better say nothing.
“You’re good, but not good enough, Harold. It didn’t take me long to realize that your Mr. Mallory was there to shadow me. He was as out of place in that party as Galahad in a speakeasy. As for the lie — as you call it — nothing hackneyed about that. I might have claimed that an appendix was clamoring for removal, or high blood pressure. The foot operation was much more original.” Her flippant voice hardened. “I was advised to make the test. I knew that you and your daughter had money cached somewhere. I suspected that you would sacrifice your last treasure rather than have me here for a few weeks. Now I know it.”
Pamela noticed in her father’s eyes the furtive look which had puzzled her before. “My last treasure! I have nothing left except a few lame ducks I picked up in the stock market.”
“I’m not so sure. If you did not send Mallory —”
“Send Mallory! Would I have sent you that money had I doubted your word? The Leigh women don’t lie, Cecile.”
“Oh, don’t they! You and your family! I was glad of the excuse to break away when you were ill. It wasn’t all lack of money. I was fed-up with your talk of what your ancestors had done. You! You sitting back and spending what they had made and never trying to make more. You, one of those millions of the living who are already dead! You don’t know the first letter of the word ambition!”
Her voice lashed. Harold Leigh winced. Pamela’s love for him flamed as a gray coal blazes into red light when blown upon. She tucked her hand under his arm, comforted as she had when a little girl:
“Never mind, Dad, never mind!”
His clammy fingers clutched hers as he answered his wife. “Didn’t try to make more! My God, when I did try what happened?”
“You crashed, you being you. I suspect now that you didn’t crash. I know that you and your daughter have money. I shan’t sue for a divorce, I should cut myself off from inheriting my share of your property. I don’t want to marry again, not a chance. I have been advised that I am entitled to an allowance. I came to talk with you amicably. As usual Pamela steps between us. I suspect that the loss of fortune was your way of getting rid of me, Harold. I —”
“Would I give up the work I love, come here and run a chowder house if we had anything?” Pamela interrupted stormily. “You are crazy!”
Cecile recovered her voice with the convulsive swallow of one whose determination to riot and revel in an orgy of tirade had been blocked suddenly.
“Really! Before you came upstairs your father had confirmed what he had already written, that you had persuaded him that I was not necessary in his life. The old man who brought me here told me that the Leighs had been the first family since the place was settled, that they were ‘awful proud,’ never had had a breath of scandal. I’ll show them! I will start proceedings for an allowance, but before that —” With a nice sense of theatric values she paused on the threshold to hurl her bomb — “I will drag you into court, Miss Leigh!”
She was out of the room before the smoke of battle had cleared sufficiently for Pamela to sense the threat. Drag her into court? Why? She would make her tell before she left.
She flew down the stairs. The yellow slicker was crackling out of the front doorway. She followed. Stopped on the porch. Philip Carr was smiling at Cecile as he shook hands.
“Hulloa! Thought you hated the country. What are you doing here?”
She shrugged. “Merely calling upon my husband.”
His surprise was funny if one could see anything funny in this outrageous situation, Pamela thought. He demanded:
“Do you mean that you are Harold Leigh’s wife? The wife who deserted him? I didn’t even know that you had been married.”
Cecile’s lips whitened and tightened.
“That needn’t make any difference in our — friendship, need it?”
Carr put his hands hard into his pockets. “Sorry, but it will. Miss Leigh is my friend and — my client. I don’t care for the way you ditched her and your husband when they were in trouble. A poor sport! I’ve heard about it from m
y father. That’s that.”
He spoke to Pamela standing rigid on the top step. “I came to confirm measurements of the cottage. I’ll get them now. See you tonight.”
Cecile followed him with her eyes. Said acidly: “In love with you, isn’t he? You have a fatal charm, haven’t you? I pulled every wire I could to meet Philip Carr. He is backing a revue, and now he has turned me down for you. Believe me, you’ll need his friendship before I get through! Au revoir!”
Pamela tried to protest, but her throat contracted, shut off her voice. She watched her stepmother as she picked her way along the wet stepping-stones. Retort after scathing retort flamed in her mind. Why hadn’t she thought of them in time to hurl them at Cecile. Why hadn’t she told her that she had met Philip Carr but once before? A lot of help, these after-the-fight flashes of invective. She watched Cap’n Crockett’s shabby flivver chug down the drive to the accompaniment of a lugubrious horn, till it was but a drab blotch in a gray curtain of rain.
Her father’s bell rang as she entered the house. Darn! Her conception of Hades was a place where one would be sentenced to forever answer the imperative tinkle of a bell, she told herself, as she went slowly up the stairs, reluctance in every step. When she reached his room he was leaning back in his chair, his brows wrinkled thoughtfully.
“Has she gone?” His voice was agitated.
“Yes.”
“Even in that slicker she was beautiful, wasn’t she? I had forgotten. I’ve been living in a haze.” He brushed his hand across his eyes.
Pamela regarded him incredulously. How could he see anything lovely in a woman who had slashed at him as had Cecile? Should she tell him that his wife was trying for a revue which Philip Carr was backing? Better not. The name of Carr was anathema to him. She hadn’t told him of the plan to move the cottage yet. Besides, Cecile might be lying. She disagreed passionately:
“Beautiful! Not to me. Cecile won’t seem so to you when she begins proceedings for an allowance.”
He picked up a newspaper. “What can she get? I have no money. Mallory will stand between and handle the matter for me.”
“You wouldn’t ask him to do more for nothing?”
“Why not? Lawyers, like doctors, do a certain amount of work for which they are not paid. You’d better get in touch with him, better tell him of Cecile’s threat to you before you worry about me.” He looked up from his paper to add significantly:
“You own this place. You have more to lose than I have.”
Chapter IX
Pamela caught a reassuring glimpse of her amber-frocked self in the great gold-framed mirror in the hall of the Carr house. Her hair was still black. After the fright the Babe had given her this morning it ought to be streaked with white. Suppose the dog had bitten Cecile! But, he hadn’t. What a coincidence that she should have been trying for an engagement in the revue in which Philip Carr was interested. But it wasn’t coincidence. She had admitted that she had pulled every possible wire to meet him. A maze of crossing life-lines; would it ever straighten out? For what cause would the second Mrs. Leigh hale her stepdaughter into court? But, of course, that had been merely an angry threat. Suppose she did? More annoyance for Scott Mallory on her account? Never. Why had she let him step into her life that first day? Let him? How could she help it? His smile and eyes had gone so straight and deep into her heart, his voice had been so steadying, his mouth so clean, his eyes so clear, and she had been so hungry for a nice man to talk to. Suppose Cecile did sue her? What could she get? Forget it! Wasn’t this a party? She would much better spend thought on the brand of greeting she would receive from her senior host. She met Philip Carr’s eyes in the mirror. Laughed.
“Not too bad.”
“Look swell to me. By the way, better not mention the fact that I know your stepmother. I’ll explain why later,” he added in a low voice before he led the way through the hall.
Pamela paused on a threshold. What a room! The walls were of cypress to a height of six feet, warmly brown, paneled like an ancient vessel’s cabin. Behind glass panels reposed the most comprehensive, rare collection of books on ships and shipping to be found in the country, she had heard. The plaster above was tinted blue, the blue of the sky on a windy day at sea. Ship models on the shelves which topped the book-cases were arranged with a nice attention to artistic and chronological relativity. There were ships of wood, metal, bone, ivory, glass. There were ships with bellying sails, ships with guns, ships rich with decoration. There were man-o’-war models, whaling models, models of Chinese and Japanese junks, of Spanish and Dutch ships, of Greek coasting vessels, of Viking galleons. There were models of ships which had helped make American history. There was the clipper ship Flying Cloud, nearby, the packet Massachusetts. Ships pendant from the ceiling held cunningly concealed bulbs in their hulks the light from which shone softly down through glass bottoms. A tall Willard clock in the corner, topped by three brass balls which reflected the fire-light, showed on its face a scudding barque about to dip below the horizon.
After the involuntary pause Pamela stepped forward to greet her hostess whose delicacy might have materialized from a fan of the Louis the Fourteenth period. Her gown was a blend of violet and flesh color, the latter no more delicate than her rose-petal skin. Her hair, white and soft as the silk of a Scotch thistle, was arranged to show the charming contour of her head. Her eyes were lovely, but, for all her apparent sweetness her mouth had a stubborn line when in repose. The value of her string of pearls would have reinstated a deposed ruler in the king business, supposing, of course, his subjects wished him reinstated. Her hand clung to the girl’s.
“This marvelous room stampeded my manners, Mrs. Carr. I’m sorry!”
“You will win my husband’s heart if you like his ships. Miss Leigh. Phin!”
There was a note of appeal in her voice. Was she afraid of him, Pamela wondered. She had met women before who handled their soul-mates as if they were high explosives. Must be wearing to live with a man of whom one was afraid. The tall one looking into the fire turned. Since the settlement of her grandmother’s estate she had seen Phineas Carr in the distance only, his long arms, swinging as he strode, giving the effect of a walking-beam. Her eyes met his. Her heart broke into a quickstep. She had a flashing premonition that this man would ineradicably change her future. That silly plot-construction stuff again! She would better get it out of her system, it dramatized even the most commonplace events of life for her. There was power in his black eyes, inflexibility in his stern mouth. His thick hair, streaked black, white and gray, had the lustre of smoked pearl. His arm seemed abnormally long as he extended his hand.
“Glad to see you here, Miss Leigh. I admired your grandmother. She was a wonderful woman. Hope you have inherited her grit and her sunshiny philosophy. It was always, ‘Fair tomorrow’, with her. Hers was not a shallow optimism but a deep and abiding faith in the ultimate victory of the dragon-slayer.”
His gruff voice was kind, his smile whimsical. He was not holding her responsible for her father’s sins of omission or commission — whichever they were. Thank heaven! Pamela sensed the relaxation of his wife and son. What had they expected? Was he a martinet? The villagers spoke of him with mingled awe and affection. “A hard man but a just one, the Judge.”
If the dining room was an example of Philip Carr’s taste she was all for it, she told herself, as he drew out a chair for her at the beautifully appointed table. It was in dark and light burgundy shades with dark rose and light rose, vivid thrusts of gold, mauve and tender green. Rose brocade on the seats of the mellow wood chairs; rose brocade at the windows, across one of which were shelves holding up pink Opaline against the light; vases; bottles; curious flagons with touches of gilt in their rims. A rich burgundy carpet covered the floor. Mirrors on opposite sides of the room amplified the proportions, gave back the rose and burgundy tints, gave back also the pale amber of her gown which was like a shaft of sunlight. The house had an up-to-the-minute atmosphere. She loved it.
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She was conscious of tension throughout the delicious supper — a compote of fruit, sea-food newburg on crisps of toast which made her wish she might keep on eating forever — a hot-house tomato salad, ice-cool, to accompany it — fluffy rolls and fresh unsalted butter — a baked Alaska which was a perfect thing of its kind — served by pink-frocked Milly Pike.
Mrs. Carr and her son kept the conversation-puck within bounds. Perfect teamwork between them. Was it because of the presence of the maid with her over-developed bump of curiosity or were they afraid of an outburst from the stern, silent man at the head of the table? It was abundantly evident by the way he looked at his wife that he adored her; it was equally apparent that he disliked — no, that wasn’t the word — distrusted Philip. Once when discussion evidently neared thin ice, the mother swept it to safety again. Pamela caught a sardonic gleam in the senior Carr’s eyes. He was aware of her tactics, indubitably.
It was a relief after supper to escape to Philip’s work-room. He swept a pile of drawings from a small drafting-table and placed a chair in front of it.
“Sit here, Miss Leigh.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Gosh! This place is a mess. It isn’t Mother’s fault, really, I turn the key on it when I go away.”
The room was large and exceedingly dusty. Tall rolls of paper, cardboard and tracing-cloth there were, a corner full; portfolios, a fat and bulging collection; paints, crayons, brushes, squares, triangles, scales, by the battered score; a desk crowded with ruling pens and inks in bewildering variety. On the wall, drawings in frames, plans thumbtacked; bits from colorful gardens; a drypoint or two; the fragment of a peristyle; gateways; antique facades; a water-color of marvelous Taj-Mahal. A guitar lay on the window-seat.
Pamela’s eyes returned from their voyage of observation. “I believe that you really work — or — is this clutter for artistic effect?”
He took her seriously. “Of course I work. I’m doing some stage settings for a revue. To nail the chance I had to help back the show. That’s how I ran into your — Cecile Mortimer. Mother knows what I’m doing — Mother always understands — but we don’t want Father to hear of it until I’ve made good. He wouldn’t see it at all. Get me? That’s the reason I warned you in the hall. This is my play-room. I fool with plans when I come home. I’ve worked like a dog this last week in New York that I might have something to show you.”
Fair Tomorrow Page 9
