Читать книгу Fair Tomorrow - Emilie Loring - Страница 6

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Pamela absentmindedly returned greetings of villagers as they passed on their way to the store. Terrence, buoyant with the zest of living, his auburn hair glinting red-gold in the late sunlight, dashed by with a basket.

"Got to deliver these—eggs—going to see the plane," he shouted as he passed.

Her thoughts returned to her meeting with Philip Carr. Had she been too friendly? After but five minutes' acquaintance she had practically told him the story of her life. Would she ever learn to be reserved with strangers? If she liked a person at all she was too ready to credit him or her with all the virtues. She must have inherited her Virginia mother's friendliness along with Grandmother Leigh's New England conscience.

What would young Carr's father think of their friendship? He had been Grandmother Leigh's adviser for years. Her husband had willed half of his large estate to his son, Harold, half in trust to his wife, the income to be hers, at her death the principal to revert to their son. He had given no thought to protecting the interests of his grand-children. Immersed in important legal battles as Carr was, he had found time to attend to his elderly client's business.

Her faith and dependence upon the advice of her attorney, the fact that she had appointed him sole executor of her estate, had maddened her son. He had been insultingly antagonistic to Phineas Carr's suggestion that he settle even a small amount of money on his children. That he would provide for them generously had been his mother's hope and prayer. The lawyer had steadfastly continued his duties until the estate was settled. He had turned it over to the heir with a few vitriolic comments which had sent Harold Leigh home white-lipped. The remembrance of her father's version of the interview had kept Pamela from consulting her grandmother's old friend when she needed advice. What would he think when he discovered that his son was friendly with the daughter of the man whom he must heartily dislike!

Mehitable Betts met her on the threshold, a shawl flung over her thin drab hair, was drawn severely down across her high temples.

"Land's sake, Pamela, what you thinking 'bout so hard? Look's though you'd been to a funeral. Thought you'd never come. I just got to see that plane. Everything's ready for tomorrow, so I won't come back. You don't need me. 'Most forgot to tell you, while you were out a girl phoned and asked if Mr. Mallory had reservations here tomorrow. I wa'n't born yesterday. So I told her I didn't know and I wouldn't tell her if I did. The way girls nowadays follow up the boys beats me. Milly Pike, who works down at M's Carr's—Carrs are the only folks in town who keep two hired girls—says that the minute Phil arrives for a week-end, the telephone begins to ring. Must keep her busy trying to find out who's calling. Never have seen anyone beat that girl for curiosity. She finds out things and then she tells anyone who'll listen to her. Fortunate Phil Carr doesn't come much or she'd never get her work done."

"He is at home now. I met him."

"Is he? The village will hear all about it from Milly Pike. He and his father don't jibe. The boy was set on being an architect—always drawing houses in his school-books—they say he planned all the decorating inside when the old house was done over—but the Judge—that's what folks call a lawyer round here—tried to badger him into the law. Didn't succeed. Driving a square peg into a round hole isn't being done so much as it used to be. Phineas Carr thinks his wife is spoiling the boy. I guess she is, too. She'd get the moon for him if he cried for it. M's Carr's a quiet appearing woman but when once she sets her lips there isn't no use trying to budge her. She's rich in her own right which condition helps a female to be independent more'n all the amendments you can cram into the Constitution. I'd better start if I'm going to see that plane."

Pamela's eyes followed her as she hurried away. She did need her. She had planned to have her prepare supper and wash the dishes while she took things easy in preparation for a strenuous day tomorrow. No use trying to stop her. Hitty considered the service she rendered in the light of a favor. She had to handle her with gloves, nice, soft plushy gloves. Who had phoned to inquire about Scott Mallory? Hilda Crane? Her name had not been mentioned between them since Thanksgiving day. He had come to the Inn in the village almost every week-end since. He had held business conferences with her father, had carried her off for drives in his roadster. Week-ends were more than week-ends at the Silver Moon. Fridays and Saturdays were a steady procession of meals. Sunday evenings he took her out for supper and a long drive before he went back to the city.

He had old-fashioned ideas about being at his office early Monday morning. Grandmother Leigh would have liked that, he would have been decidedly "our kind of folks." She had had a theory that one morning hour was worth three of the afternoon for accomplishment. She would have liked everything about him, his tolerance of the opinions of others; his sympathetic understanding which was almost divination; the standards he steadily maintained for his own conduct; his unaffected courtesy; his eyes, most especially his eyes; his smile which warmed one's heart; his good looks and his clothes. Grandmother Leigh had liked men. Once she had said: "You'll never know how drab life can be, Pam, till you live in a house with only women, with no men coming home at night."

As Pamela entered the living room of the old house the burning logs in the fireplace sputtered a welcome. The flickering flames accentuated the sheen of the pine paneling, brought out copper tones in rug, damask hangings, chair and couch coverings. They sent shadows flitting over the bookshelves like ghostly fingers searching for an old time favorite among the volumes, lighted little flares in the Spanish topaz on the neck of the Lady Claire in the portrait above the mantel. From the radio in her father's room came the high, shimmering chords of a violin.

The Babe flung himself to the hearth rug with a boisterous sigh. Pamela opened the white envelopes in her basket. Birthday greetings. She would be twenty-five tomorrow. Dear of her friends to remember her in the rush of their busy lives. College and newspaper days seemed a million or two light years away. She had been on her toes with the zest of living, had laughed away any approach to sentiment; time enough for that when she had made good in her profession. Not for a moment had she expected continuous smooth sailing, exemption from problems and disappointments. She had tried to acquire a fulfillment-may-be-waiting-round-the-next-curve philosophy which would steady her through swift water, she had meant to take the breakers of life on the surf-board of gay courage. Now that each day was a hectic struggle to evade the reaching claw of debt she found it increasingly difficult to practice her creed. The birthday cards were responsible for her depression. Each greeting had set a tiny fibre of memory vibrating. Philip Carr's suggestion that she was caught in a Cape Cod tidepool hadn't helped. Caught! She was tied hand and foot. She couldn't marry. She must take care of her father. What man would shoulder that burden? She wouldn't permit it if one wanted to. Was self-sacrifice always so tragically lacking in allure?

The greeting cards fell in a white drift as she sprang to her feet. "What's the big idea sitting here stiff with fear of the future?" she demanded of the looking-glass girl who frowned at her. "Didn't Scott Mallory lift a crushing load from your shoulders when he took over the liquidation of your father's affairs? Isn't the business of the Silver Moon growing? Can't you be patient?"

The mirrored eyes which gazed steadily back were the velvety richness of black pansies as Pamela answered her own question.

"I hate being patient. I want to get behind and push. Grandmother Leigh used to say:

"'Never pray for patience, Pamela, pray for courage to keep on keeping on, to march straight up to the firing line.' I must crash through the barriers which lack of money conjures in front of me whichever way I turn." She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. "You won't do much crashing if you waste time thinking about your troubles, woman."

She ripped the wrapping from a newspaper and glanced at the headlines. Scott Mallory's picture! What had he done? The printed caption marched in eye-filling type across the head of a column.

SCOTT MALLORY WINS $1,500,000 SUIT AGAINST SOUTH AMERICAN DEALERS. MASTERLY PREPARATION AND CONDUCT OF CASE HAS SET PARTY LEADERS A-TIPTOE. GUBERNATORIAL MATERIAL?

Scott had won! Pamela rejoiced for him. Gubernatorial material! Would he become a politician? He would be an ideal candidate for any office. Fearless, unshakable in his principles but—what would become of his law practice? Hilda Crane would regret now—the thought dragged a comet-like tail of light through her mind. A possible governor! First Lady of the State! Would she let him go? Never. Evidently she had telephoned as soon as she had seen the paper.

Her father's bell! Pamela flung her soft green hat to the couch and ran up the stairs to his room. He was at the window in a wing chair looking at the crimson sky above the sand dunes through which one brilliant star was twinkling. An open letter lay on his shawl-covered knees. A letter from his wife? What was she after now?

"Want me, Father?"

His eyes were dull and clouded as they met hers. He looked as a man might who had received a stunning blow. Pamela had an instant of inexplicable panic.

"I—I've had a letter from Cecile."

She dropped into a low chair beside him. Something in his tone took the stiffness from her knees. She tried to keep her sense of apprehension from showing in her voice.

"How is she getting on? Still in the same show?"

He cleared his throat. "She has had to leave. She is in New York. She isn't very well. She writes that she needs money for hospital care."

Pamela clasped her hands hard to steady them, stared unseeingly at the stain on the wall whose out-line suggested a cat done in the modernist manner. Why should the fact that young Mrs. Leigh had to go to an hospital shake her? Surely it was not affection. She cordially detested the woman even if she was her father's wife. She tried to answer sympathetically, laid her hand over his, cold and supine on his knee.

"Don't worry, Father. Perhaps she thinks that you have money which you are holding out on her? She would better page Mr. Mallory and learn the truth. She has a mother and sister to help her. She has been acting for eight months. Hasn't she saved anything?"

Harold Leigh stared out at the purpling sand dunes. "She's due for an operation, a very delicate operation on her foot. She has had a wonderful chance in a revue offered her, she thinks it will make her reputation. She hasn't signed up yet because she can't walk."

The world crashed about Pamela's ears. A vision of white-clothed surgeons, starched nurses, bare, but expensive hospital rooms, burgeoned. Curious that she didn't feel a prick of sympathy for the patient. Was she contracting hardening of the emotions? Through the turmoil of her senses she heard her own voice mocking:

"Another redskin bit the dust."

"What do you mean by that? Are you quite devoid of sympathy?" Anger accentuated the hook of Harold Leigh's nose.

"I'm sorry. I went goofy with surprise, perhaps a touch of despair, that's all." Pamela's mind cleared to practicalities. "Where is the money coming from to pay the bills? Have you thought that out?"

"Mallory has my securities. He will have to realize on those."

"Securities! Mostly insecurities. It will take those and more to settle your debts—one third yours and two thirds Cecile's."

"The money must go to her instead. I will talk with him. She wants it within forty-eight hours."

Pamela regarded him through narrowed eyes. Within forty-eight hours! A fast worker, Cecile. Why hadn't she told him before? She must have known that the operation was hovering in the offing. Did he still love the woman? Could he after her desertion of him at the moment of his illness? She had married him for his money; when that had taken wing she had hastily departed. Apparently he had not missed her, but perhaps humiliation, heartache, were at the bottom of his irritation. She must be more tender with him, but—where, where was the cash coming from to meet this expense?

"If we can't get money from the securities, you must raise some on this house, Pamela. It is free and clear."

"Mortgage Grandmother Leigh's home to pay Cecile's expenses? Have you forgotten that all my jewels went to settle the hotel and doctor's bills which you two contracted? Mortgage this house? How do you think we would meet the interest? All Terry and I can do now is to squeeze out taxes and insurance." She rose in perturbation. Her father looked up at her with shrewd eyes.

"You've always been jealous of Cecile. She knew it. Used to say that you would separate us if you could."

"Be fair, Father. I've not been so jealous of her as she has been of me. You know that she was speechless with rage when she discovered that Grandmother's jewels came to me, not to you, for your wife."

"You're right, Pamela. I—I would have done more for you and Terry if—what's the use looking back! The money must be procured for Cecile somehow."

"How much?"

He looked at the letter. "She says that she ought to have a thousand dollars, but she will try to get along with eight hundred if she can come here to convalesce. She will be unable to walk for two months."

"Eight hundred!" Pamela giggled. Caught her breath in a sob. Good grief, was she cracking-up? She set her teeth in her lips to steady them.

"What price operations! It is time for your supper. Better not think of the money any more tonight or you won't sleep."

She patted his hand, smoothed his hair before she turned on the light on the table beside him. She ran down the stairs. Hands clenched, she stood in the middle of the fire-lighted living room. Eight hundred dollars! Mortgage the place! Never. Of course, Cecile would have to come to the Silver Moon until she could use her foot. That would save a few hundreds. The Ancient Mariner with the albatross hung round his neck had nothing on Pamela Leigh. Would any man want to marry her? "Marry me, marry my family." She was not enchanting enough to swing that.

"Hi! Pam! I'm sunk!" Terrence dashed into the room. "What do you think's happened now? The duck eggs in the incubator have exploded! Laugh that off!" He patted the head of the dog, who sensing excitement, sprang to his feet. "Keep your breast-strap on, Babe. This isn't your funeral."

"Terry! Those expensive eggs! What have you done wrong?"

"Starting in the poultry business, I guess."

Pamela sank to the couch, dropped her head in her two hands. Her laughter was punctuated with tearing gulps of emotion. Terrence shook her shoulder.

"Cut that out! You'll be having hysterics. Everything's going to be all right! What's so funny about the duck eggs?"

"It isn't the eggs, Terry. It's—it's—life—so tangled, so confused—and Cecile. Her foot is to be operated on, and—and you and I must produce the money for it!"

Terrence went beet-red. "Honest, Pam?"

His sister nodded. "Father just told me. Cecile wants a thousand dollars. She will try to get along with eight hundred if she can come here until she can walk again."

Terrence dropped to the corner of the table desk. "Eight hundred dollars for an operation on her foot! They ought to take off a leg for that. Sure it's only eight hundred? Might just as well have asked for eight thousand. Someone's knocking!"

"Answer, Terry. If it is a patron for the Silver Moon, say that it is closed for the evening. I just couldn't serve anyone tonight."

She listened as Terrence opened the door.

"I wasn't expected until tomorrow, but I have won my case! Couldn't stay in the city another minute. The Cape road tempted me—and—here I am. Where is your sister?"

Scott Mallory! Almost before he had finished speaking he was in the room. He looked from her to Terrence.

"What is the matter? Something gone wrong with the Silver Moon?"

Pamela shook her head. Terrence answered.

"Nothing—much. A prospective addition to the family, that's all."

Mallory's face went white. He caught the girl's hands in a grip which hurt. "Does that mean that you are to be married, Pam?"

She wrenched herself free. All the bitterness of the last months welled to the surface, the futility of plans for herself, the sense of a crushing load to carry, her father's self-absorption, and lately—the deep and insistent demand of her heart for love.

"I married! I hate men! I wouldn't marry an angel from heaven were he to lay his halo at my feet." With which pronunciamento she departed for the kitchen.