To Love and to Honour

by Emilie Loring

  “Something tells me I will need your good wishes. Until seven, Mrs. Barclay.”

  *

  At five minutes before the hour he perched on the rail of the Inn porch looking toward the beach with its lacy capped waves. Was it only a week ago he had rescued Cindy Clinton from that onrushing boat? The memory of her danger set his hair prickling at the roots. It had been a close call.

  The stone house on the dark, rugged promontory that jutted into the ocean was The Castle. The estate had the advantage of bordering also on the channel and the harbor which at the moment was presenting a scene of breath-taking beauty.

  The fiery ball of a setting sun flooded the sky with color. Lights were twinkling on in houses. The horizon, against which a bridge was etched in black, was crimson; shades of red rayed upward; planes of pink melted into fields of vivid green which faded into soft yellow at the upper edge which in turn fused into violet where it met and lost itself in the blue sky. The still water in the harbor reflected each colorful shade and tint, each boat large and small at anchor. Mast tops were tipped with crimson and every bit of brass or chromium on board became a little leaping flame as the boats swung lazily in the outgoing tide. A few rosy cloud fluffs moved slowly across the darkening sky as if to give one brilliant star the right of way. The beauty tightened his throat, twisted his heart, set him wondering if his plan for the future was —

  “Dreaming, Colonel Damon?”

  His self-questioning shattered like a thin glass dropped to the floor, he could almost hear the tinkle. The challenging query brought him to his feet. He had a dim recollection that the Inn hostess had presented him to this redheaded girl in a frock as green as her eyes, with a neckline which must be what was currently known as “plunge.” She was remarkably beautiful and knew it, he concluded.

  “Not dreaming. Feasting on that amazing show of color in and over the harbor.”

  She glanced at the western sky.

  “It is nice.” Her eyes came back to him. “The reflection even reaches this porch. It is turning your white dinner jacket pink. I am Lydia Fane, in case you are scurrying madly in your memory for my name. Don’t apologize. You were introduced to a half dozen of us at once the day you arrived. It would take a master mind to identify each girl.”

  “Why conclude that I am not master minded, Miss Fane?”

  “Then you can smile? That’s a break. You have appeared so grave and stern since your arrival we’ve hardly dared look at you, much less speak. That word ‘arrive’ reminds me, your friend was looking for you a week ago, said he expected to find you here. Apparently he had just come.”

  “One week ago? My friend?”

  “You have an adorable scowl.” Miss Fane was not inclined to subtlety of approach. “He stopped here with Cindy Clinton — my mistake, Stewart — to ask if you had registered."

  “Now I get you. You mean Tom Slade. Great guy. Smart as they come. With whom did you say he came?”

  “With the village Cinderella. You’ll meet up with her and her pseudo romance before you’ve been here long.

  Meanwhile — I was tapped to invite you to join us at Canasta this evening.”

  “Mighty good of you to include me, I like the game, but I can’t make it. I am expecting a friend to dine with me, and here she is,” he added as a light beige roadster stopped at the drive and a beautifully coifed white head appeared at the car window. “If you will excuse me —”

  He was at the roadster door held open by a chauffeur as Alida Barclay stepped out.

  “Here I am, Colonel Damon. Scott, come for me at —”

  “I’ll drive you home, Mrs. Barclay, when you are ready to go.”

  “That will be perfect, Colonel. You needn’t come back, Scott,” she said to the chauffeur. He touched his cap and slid behind the wheel.

  *

  She was the most distinguished looking woman present, he thought as he followed her from the dining room. The sweeping black satin skirt, the regal collar of the long-sleeved jacket of superb white lace over the low-cut bodice, the long pendant earrings and necklace of pearls, her brilliant dark eyes, her short, silky white hair, suggested a portrait by a master artist of an earlier age.

  “What would you like to do? Smoke, of course, I remember that, listen to music, play cards, tune in on video?” he asked.

  “I want to talk, you may remember also that that was one of my favorite diversions. Let’s find a secluded corner on the ocean side from which we can see the moon rise out of the water. I’ll pick up my wrap.”

  Her trailing black satin cape lined with scarlet made a dramatic background for the black and white of her costume as they crossed the brilliantly lighted lobby.

  They were the only occupants on the porch from which could be seen an illimitable stretch of ocean. A faint light where sky and water met heralded the rising moon. Gold stars freckled the indigo dome. The soft breeze that stirred Alida Barclay’s white hair had filched scent from a bed of petunias in its travels. From the house drifted the music of violin, viola, cello and piano.

  “Listen. They are playing Tschaikowsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty Waltz.’ Exquisite, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t wonder you whisper. Combined with the starlight it suggests enchantment, can’t you hear adventure calling? You being you, I’ll bet you can. Comfortable?” He held a lighter to her cigarette, then to his own. “I’m listening. Talk.”

  She laughed.

  “Talk. Just like that.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sure we are alone?”

  “Sure’s shootin’. The blank wall of the house is directly behind us and the whole Atlantic Ocean is in front. Your question has set the air vibrating with mystery. Another secret mission?”

  In the dim light he could see her affirmative nod.

  “You haven’t forgotten my one small success, I see. Intelligence has me listed. When the head of the Customs Department heard that I had a brother here, I was asked to help run down an elusive gang.”

  “In this small place?” His low voice was incredulous.

  “Yes. Luck is on my side. Seth is at home which fact provided a valid reason for my visit. And I can see your presence here as a fortuitous arrangement devised by Fate. Remember the case we cracked together? My one and only?”

  “I do. I am not on that kind of an assignment here, Mrs. Barclay.”

  “Mind telling your old pal why you are here — Ken Stewart?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “MIND!” AS he echoed her word, he threw back his shoulders as if ridding them of a burden. “Good Lord, I’ll be glad to have someone with whom I won’t have to watch my step. Of all places in the world how did you happen to drop into this Maine coast village where for a few weeks I am trying to conceal my identity, Ally Barclay?”

  “Thank goodness you’ve dropped that ‘Mrs.’ I told you, I am following a trail.”

  “I can’t realize that you are still a government agent.”

  “Only in this one case. I have the time, and the higher-ups think I have ability. I’m thrilled to help. Someone must do the work for the country, besides I like it. It’s interesting and exciting. After my war work I’ve found it tame to settle down to the life of a socialite. Why are you here under an assumed name? Are you on secret business or have you deserted from the service?”

  He laughed.

  “No. Officially discharged. I am due in Washington later, after I drop this alias, to receive a citation for ‘exceptional service,’ that’s just to reassure you that you won’t have to turn me in as a deserter. I am here to try to adjust —”

  “Ken Stewart! A matrimonial tangle? I remember now. Seth said you were here to represent the absent husband in a marriage to be annulled.”

  “Sit tight. This will make the terrestrial globe whirl. I am the absent husband — but the lady in the case doesn’t know that.”

  “Whirl is too tame a word. I’m caught up in a twister. Quick, brief me on the situation. I’m sorry, perhaps you’d rather not talk about it.
”

  “I’d like to talk about it, Ally — it may help assuage an unbearable feeling of guilt — after you cross your heart and swear that under no circumstances will you reveal a word of what I tell you.”

  “I swear.” Diamonds on her fingers sparkled in the dim light as she made the sign above her heart. “Enter the moon to witness my promise.”

  Their eyes were on the red orb that inched its way from out the dark ocean as in a low voice he told of the reasons for the marriage by written contract; of his assignment to a job with Death forever stalking or riding at his side; of his determination as time went on and the two fathers died to keep out of the girl’s way until she could claim separation as a cause to annul the marriage. She had been such a sport, she deserved her freedom and quick. To do it before then might wreck the plan it had been made to protect.

  “Why reverse your decision by coming here?”

  “Two months ago I received a letter giving me the devil for side-stepping responsibility and loading it on the shoulders of the girl who had married me to help save my property; that is the gist of the first part, the pen of the writer who signed P.A.S. had been dipped in acid. She or he wasn’t afraid to name names, went on to say that Cinderella Clinton was being pursued by Hal Harding, a rich playboy who already had two ex-wives on his alimony list. If I didn’t care that her health and spirit were being broken by business cares, I ought to be man enough, as her only protector left, to come back and talk turkey to her before she was eaten alive by a wolf. The argument was undebatable, my job there was practically finished. Here I am.”

  “Have you seen Cindy Clinton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she appear as if spirit and health were being broken? If you can laugh like that in answer to the question I judge she isn’t in grave danger. Did you recognize her when you met?”

  “Not the first time. We were in that shop in the village run by —”

  “Ella Crane, known to her intimates as the Public Address System. What a break — for Ella. Did she know who you were?”

  “No. A girl standing beside me advised me about a bracelet I was buying to send to the wife of one of my outfit who was terribly homesick, thought it might cheer her. I mistook her for a teen-ager, her hair was tied at the neck by a broad ribbon, she wore pedal-pushers, a green and white striped blazer, her lovely brown eyes were young, mischievous. Why would I suspect she was Cinderella Clinton? The woman by that name who had sent me long, formal reports and monthly statements, which contained no personal touch except ‘Best wishes’ at the close, had taken definite shape in my imagination as a tall, spare individual, more machine than human, who didn’t hesitate to contract a marriage for business reasons, who had about as much sensitivity as a female robot.”

  “Apparently she had enough of what you call sensitivity to care a lot for that father who was ready to throw her to the wolves.”

  “By wolf do you mean me?”

  “Who else? Is she attractive?”

  “Lovely. I’d say ‘sunny’ is the word to express her personality, plus depth of character. I know that last from her letters, also drive, and combativeness, I learned those traits the day we met the second time. She has a charming voice and a nice sense of humor.” He laughed as he thought of the reference to the “Prince.”

  “The plot thickens. I see, said the blind man. I agree with the writer of that letter. It was your job to take the first plane back to relieve that poor girl of the business responsibility.”

  “You’ve got her wrong, Ally. No one could think of her as ‘poor girl.’ She has too much vitality, charm, poise.” Thoughtfully he blew a few smoke rings.

  “I’m sure I was right not to return. Right? I couldn’t have come home before. I had been assigned to an organization job in the airlift. Do you realize what Operation Vittles accomplished? I bet you don’t. It made 275,000 flights and delivered a total of 2,230,000 tons of food, coal and often emergency supplies in Berlin for the city’s civilians.”

  “I’d forgotten the Herculean task accomplished. How many of the citizens of the good old U. S. remember if they ever knew, do you suppose?”

  “One in a million, perhaps. They ought to remember. Every mother’s son of them should be made to realize that the cost was $500,000 a day and that seventy airmen lost their lives. General Clay had some of the best airmen in the British and American forces supporting him. Mine was a job of terrific responsibility, I made uncounted flights with my men.”

  “Responsibility. Your voice shows the strain as you tell of it. I wonder you are alive. I thought the blockade was formally lifted last July?”

  “It was, but the airlift kept up delivery of supplies as insurance against more blockades. It’s tapering off but the framework will remain. I wish I felt sure it won’t be needed again. All the time I was haunted by a sense of guilt that I was allowing the girl who had married me to carry the load of the oil holdings. I spent hours considering the situation. I argued that if I could go back and we didn’t live together, as of course we wouldn’t have — she would have been outraged at the suggestion — the persons against whom the marriage had been planned as a defense might try to invalidate it.”

  “Isn’t that argument still good? If you are so sure you were right why come now?”

  “The ‘playboy’ menace bothered me. I could come now. I thought I explained that.”

  “Really you came because of a letter probably written by a village crackpot — initials don’t save it from being anonymous — or maybe, by a girl who wants to be the playboy’s number three wife herself.”

  “Could be. Don’t think I didn’t weigh both of those possibilities. Having made up my mind to come I moved with speed. My service record entitled me to extra consideration. I collected back pay. Flew to this country. Bought a car. Spent several weeks at the oil holdings under my own name; arranged the terms of sale; had a day in New York to stock up on civilian clothes and start inquiries about a certain person; arrived in this village after the third anniversary of the marriage had passed; that fact will give Cinderella Clinton an uncontestable case of desertion or separation, whichever it is.”

  “All this under the name of Bill Damon. How could you get away with it?”

  “No, no, you misunderstand. I adopted the alias for this town only. I wrote to your brother that my friend Colonel Bill Damon would arrive as my deputy. My plan was running along on oiled wheels, till you appeared there had been no hitch.”

  “How ungallant to refer to me as a hitch.” He smiled in sympathy with her gay laugh. “Seriously, Ken, I think you have started on a dead-end street. How are you getting on with Cindy Clinton? — my mistake, Stewart?”

  “We had made a fair start on the friendship road when Slade appeared. Then something roused her antagonism again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, she had resented the fact that Ken Stewart had sent me instead of coming himself to settle the business and other matters.”

  “Other matters refers to the annulment, I assume. How about this Hal Harding menace?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Certainly I know him. He’s a lot younger than I, but he was the rich little boy who went to prep school while the rest of the youngsters his age went to High. He came here summers and made love to each of the girls in turn. He’s a charmer. What are you planning to do about him?”

  “I haven’t taken up that matter yet with the present object of his affections. Give me time. This is my third day here. I was away a week.”

  “Will you let her go?”

  “Let who go?”

  “Don’t bite. You know perfectly well that I am referring to your wife.”

  “I haven’t a wife, really. If you mean Cinderella Clinton, of course I shall let her go. Let her go? That’s a joke, I couldn’t hold her to that written contract if I wanted to, which I assure you I don’t.”

  “Ken Stewart, you exasperate me. You were always the most unimpressionable man. You never w
ent off your head as other patients did about the lovely aides in the English hospital. I was so much older than you that your indifference didn’t touch me. I used to wonder if you had left a girl behind you.”

  He clasped his hands behind his head and tipped back the chair against the wall of the house.

  “No, sometimes I wondered myself why I didn’t fall for the lovelies. Must have been because all my jobs have been dangerous. Death kept his reminding hand on my shoulder, which fact made me realize that girls and women had no place in my life.”

  “Now that is over, no reason why you shouldn’t go off the deep end and soon.”

  “Not until this annulment goes through. Technically I am a benedict.”

  “Suppose you fall in love with this girl, who I deduce from your description is adorable?”

  “I face the possibility as one of the hazards of my present life, Mrs. Barclay.”

  “Gone dramatic on me, haven’t you? I caught your grin, even in this dim light, it was in your voice, too. Watch your step, Bill Damon, pro tem, or you may wake up to the fact that you have lost something you would give your life to keep. Somebody said, sounds like the immortal William S., ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’”

  “It was Marlowe. Shakespeare quoted it in As You Like It. You see, I salvaged something from my college course.”

  He brought his chair down on all fours and leaned toward her.

  “Ally, the followers of the Prophet have a proverb, ‘Leave the future to Allah, and pitch a tent for today.’ My tent is pitched.” He held a lighter to her cigarette then to his. “Period. Let’s drop my affairs and get on to yours. What secret mission brought you to this village? Why is my presence here, I quote, a fortuitous arrangement devised by Fate?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then up at the dark sky.

  “The face of the Man in the Moon is so clear I feel as if he were bending an ear to listen.”

  “Forget him. No one can hear. Go on with your story.”