The Frightened Fianc?e

by George Harmon Coxe

  He saw her eyes flick past him and return once more to Mrs. Allenby who said, “Make yourself a drink, Johnnie.” Then he was at the antique stand with its bottles and glasses, hearing voices continue without knowing what was said.

  His hands shook a little as he poured bourbon and then more bourbon. He added ice and water and took a long pull at the drink with his back to the room. His knees were none too steady and there was a throbbing in his head that seemed aggravated by the emptiness inside him. But this time the whisky seemed to steady him and by concentrating on what he wanted to do he was presently able, to face the room and the girl on the sofa.

  It was, he told himself, very simple. All you had to do was remember the unforgivable thing Tracy had done and you could consider the matter dispassionately. When viewed objectively this girl, who sat there rigidly erect in her tailored dress that contrasted so sharply with her dark hair and the bronzed smoothness of her arms and legs, was neither beautiful nor desirable. The trouble was it didn’t work. The ache began all over again, and for the exceedingly fundamental reason that he was still in love with her. Even with all that unnatural stiffness in her face and the haunted look in her eyes as she battled her tormentors she was lovely. He knew this much just as he knew that he wanted to strike back at her in some way, to hurt her as she had hurt him. Because he could not rationalize such impulses he brought her words into focus, admiring in spite of himself the spunk with which she delivered them.

  “I will not bring Roger up here and have you badger him,” she was saying. “And I resent very much”—she glanced at Baldwin—“your prying into his affairs.”

  “Now, now,” said Fanny Allenby.

  “I’m sorry,” Tracy said in deference to her grandmother, “but you might as well hear the rest of it. I can’t see that it matters whether he’s a lawyer, laborer, or a lion tamer, but if it’s all so very objectionable to you”—she hesitated, close to tears now though her chin was still up—“it will be better to get married somewhere else. I considered this my home, at least in the summers, and I thought—”

  “And so it is,” Mrs. Allenby interrupted, her tone blunt but not unkind. “What all this amounts to is that I—we all—feel that you’re making a mistake. But if you’re determined to make it, why then by all means make it right here.”

  “Thank you.” Tracy came to her feet, her voice openly shaking. “Thank you very much. May I go now?” It was a rhetorical question because she was already moving, taking care, it seemed, to keep her eyes straight ahead as she walked quickly from the room.

  “Well,” Frances Erskine commented dryly, “that seems to be that.”

  “Quite,” said her husband in a voice that made Holland look at him for the-first time.

  What he saw was a tall, slender man of thirty or so clad in white doeskins, a linen jacket, and white shoes that looked custom-made. His light-brown hair was wavy and his teeth looked perfect. He had a small blondish mustache, and one eyebrow was higher than the other, giving him a perpetually condescending look. His manner suggested that he was quite aware of his charm, and while Holland admitted the man’s good looks he found him somewhat too elegant for his own taste, like the accented voice which differed from the clearly Bostonian character of Fanny Allenby’s diction in that it seemed British; perhaps, Holland thought, pseudo-British would be more exact.

  “What I mean to say,” Keith Erskine continued, “is that she seems determined to marry the beggar, and maybe it’s because immediately she does so she inherits three hundred thousand dollars.”

  Baldwin’s reply was scornful and uncomplimentary. “Don’t talk like a fool, Keith. Inheritance or no inheritance she could at least marry someone more suitable.”

  “Suitable?” Frances said. “How do you mean, Arthur? You’re not exactly marrying into the four hundred, are you? By the way, where is Nadine?”

  Baldwin flushed and his lips tightened. “Let’s leave Nadine out of this. I know all I need to know about her background and—her first husband. Furthermore I happen to be in love with her.”

  “So is Tracy in love—apparently.”

  “How do you mean?” Fanny Allenby asked sharply.

  Holland gave all his attention to the conversation; he had to because whisky had coated his brain with fuzz, making it necessary to concentrate both mind and vision. He had heard nothing from Tracy about any three-hundred-thousand-dollar inheritance. He agreed with Baldwin that she was not marrying for that reason, otherwise she could have married him, couldn’t she? He asked her first. What did she have against him, anyway?

  He swallowed and blinked his eyes, watching Frances. She had been slouched in the other wing chair, legs crossed to expose a bit of shapely thigh that was as tanned as her calf; now she rose and stalked about restlessly, as though driven by some inner energy that could no longer contain itself. There was a quick and nervous intensity about each movement and gesture, reminding him of a thoroughbred greyhound on a leash.

  “I mean the man is a bore.” She shook out her blond hair and waved the cigarette holder. “A complete and utter bore. He’s been here a week and I’ve given him some time. He can’t play golf or tennis. He doesn’t like to swim and he knows from nothing about sailing. He can’t ride. So I ask you. If Tracy marries him, and I’m quite sure she will, it must be love.”

  She straightened abruptly and held her hand high, pointing one finger at the ceiling like a candidate for alderman on the night before election. “Frances has spoken,” she said, “and having spoken yields the floor.” She dropped her hand and her mantle of burlesque. She smiled. “Good night,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “A comedienne,” Baldwin said, and scowled darkly.

  Mrs. Allenby muttered something under her breath. Holland watched Frances move serenely into the bedroom and on through the alcove. A door closed; Near by someone sighed. It was Keith.

  “I’ve got to push off, too,” he said.

  “Push off?” Fanny Allenby said. “Where?”

  “New York.”

  “You’re driving back tonight? What on earth for?”

  “It’s eleven now. I’ve an appointment in the morning and I don’t like early rising.” He stopped in the door-way. “I’ll be back sometime in the afternoon.”

  Baldwin glanced at the empty glass in his hand with some distaste, put it on the stand. For a moment he seemed about to speak but something changed his mind and he went out of the room, silent and still scowling.

  “I’ll have that nightcap now, Johnnie.”

  Holland roused himself and swallowed the last of his own strong drink.

  “I don’t think you need another,” the woman said.

  “No.”

  “I usually take two of those jiggers. One will be enough tonight—with half a glass of water and no ice.”

  He made the drink as directed, handed it to her.

  “Now sit down. Before you fall down,” she said in her precise accent.

  Holland tried to get his thoughts in order, and in the end thought of a question he wanted to ask. “What did you want me to stay here for?” he said in a voice that sounded thick and faraway. “I can’t do anything about Tracy. I wouldn’t if I could.”

  She sipped her drink and made no attempt to answer him. Instead she said, “Did you know Tracy had been engaged twice before?”

  “No.”

  “The first time to a flyer, though that was quite a while back. Four weeks after they announced their engagement—a week before they were to be married—he crashed, tragically. She was a long time getting over that, but she was young, and finally George Vanning came along.” She paused, settling back in her chair, her eyes on the glass in her hand. “If George was your best friend,” she said presently, “you’re a man of good taste, Johnnie, because he was one of the best. A fine future ahead of him, enough money, good family. Everyone liked him, even Frances who rarely likes anyone very much.”

  “He was all of that,” Holland said quietly.
>
  “And when he was killed I wasn’t sure Tracy would ever get over it. She seemed somehow to blame herself, though there was no reason for her thinking so. She built a shell for herself and crawled inside where no one could reach her. She lost weight, she would not go out socially. I won’t say she wasted away like the heroine does in stories; she didn’t. She had a good job and she applied herself and made it a better one. She earned a good salary as assistant to the president of an advertising agency, she has a small income, and she might just as well have lived in a convent.”

  She put her glass aside and said, “She was cool, reserved, withdrawn. It was so unlike her because Tracy had great warmth and understanding, the kind of girl you knew would make a fine wife and an equally good mother. Stubborn at times, yes, because she has spirit and knew how to have fun. She had a talent for many things—she proved that in school—a talent, it seems, for everything except marriage. I finally persuaded her to see a psychiatrist, but she only went once. She was, she said, quite all right; she had no mental illness and therefore no need of that sort of help. I’m sure she must have thought so, and unless one knew her well she must have acted like any other successful and well-adjusted young businesswoman.”

  She sighed heavily and said, “Then two months ago she was here and we had some Martinis and she told me about a young man she liked. It was the best news I’d had in years and I could see the sparkle come back to her eyes and noticed a hint of her old radiance. When I mentioned marriage she shook her head and said she didn’t think so, but I was satisfied with what I heard. Then that evening when she told us she was engaged—well, it was the thing I’d hoped and prayed for so long that it never occurred to me that I might not like the young man. I took it for granted that he would be—someone like you.”

  Holland’s mind seemed quite clear now. He followed every word closely even though he had to strain to hear distinctly. He did not realize that he was swaying slightly in the chair and that the lights he saw were not all in the room. He had the feeling that the floor was tipping slightly, and as he straightened himself he heard the woman’s voice again.

  “You’ve had a little too much?” It was a question rather than a statement.

  “A little.”

  “You’re not a drinking man.”

  “I—I guess I’m out of practice. It was that last drink.”

  “It always is.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be. I think perhaps it might be just what you needed.” She reached for her cane and he rose to help her, staggering some, but not disgracefully. “Why don’t you toddle off to bed,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll have another talk. And, Johnnie,” she added as he weaved across the room.

  He turned. He steadied himself with difficulty.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m glad you stayed.”

  four

  THE ROOM WAS DARK when John Holland opened his eyes and it was a moment or two before he realized where he was and how he happened to be there. He was conscious first of the heat. It seemed stifling and lay about him in thick, damp waves, leaving his body wet and steaming. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted like the inside of an old felt hat, and yet once his mind began to work it was simple enough to reconstruct what he had done after leaving Mrs. Allenby’s suite.

  He had taken off his jacket and shoes. Apparently that was the limit of his strength and equilibrium, and he had fallen asleep with the rest of his clothes on. Now they felt sodden and sticky, as did the sheet beneath him, so he rolled over and sat up, groaning softly with the effort.

  Not bothering to turn on the light he took off his sweat-soaked shirt and undershirt, draping them on the back of a chair. He stepped out of his trousers, folding them as best he could, removed shorts and socks. The leather strap of his wrist watch was clammy and when he had removed it he walked to the open windows, manipulating the face in cloud-diffused moonlight until he could make out the figures.

  “Two-thirty,” he said under his breath.

  Or was it three-thirty?

  Well, no matter. He was temporarily cool as the perspiration dried on him. He yawned and scratched his head, still looking out at the water while an idea formed slowly in his brain. It was, he told himself, a lovely idea and now he turned back into the darkness and knelt down beside his bag, fumbling through its contents until he found bathing-trunks, slippers, and robe.

  When he was ready he stepped through the French doors to the porch, tiptoeing across the wooden floor to the railing. Here he spread his hands wide and leaned stiff-armed out over the rail to see if there was any way of getting down to the ground. He found that square columns supported the porch, twelve in all, but arranged in pairs with a two-foot space between the pairs. There was, it seemed, a latticework of some kind in this space thickly interwoven by stout, strong-looking vines. Because it looked so much quicker he considered descending this way, but prudence and the thought of awakening the house in case he came a cropper overcame the impulse and he turned back to take the long way round.

  Quietly he opened the door to the second-floor hall, and just as quietly closed it. In the alcove on his right a night light burned feebly, showing the way to the stairs and turning the windows overlooking the court into black mirrors. He started down the wide stairs, still on tiptoe, keeping near the wall and the steel rail on which the chair lift ran. Enough light spilled down the staircase to show him the outlines of the lower hall, and he could see that the wooden doors at the front and back stood open, courting whatever night breeze stirred.

  The screen door at the front was unlatched and he opened it carefully, easing it shut against the pressure of the patented closer. He went across the porch and down the steps. He gained the lawn without making a sound and turned diagonally to his left, away from the blackened outlines of the pier. Overhead the clouds were thick and opaque so that there was hardly any light, yet as his eyes became accustomed to the night he could see strips of sand between the darker outline of the rocks and boulders, and it was toward these that he moved.

  With no idea of swimming but wanting only to slip quietly into the water and float about until he was thoroughly chilled, he walked out on a rocky promontory worn smooth by sand and winter waves and dipping gradually into the water. A falling tide had left the point of this as black and shiny as a whale’s back and he stood a moment wondering if the rock was as slippery as it looked.

  As he hesitated he glanced about, seeing again the two lighthouses and, farther out but in the same general direction, another flashing light, which, from its height, made him think it might be a lightship. He was still watching it and reaching for the sash on his robe when the firecracker went off.

  It was not loud but it was distinct. And since the Fourth of July was more than two weeks past he did not think it was a firecracker. But that is what it sounded like.

  He turned, curious and mildly startled. He wondered if a car had backfired and knew at once that this was not the explanation. For there had been no sound about him save the rippled whisper of tiny waves against the rocks.

  He had heard no car. He heard none now.

  He examined the house as these thoughts passed through his mind. It remained darkly outlined against the sky, the dim light in the upper hall invisible from where he stood. The only break in the darkness came from beyond the trees on the right where the guest house stood, and this illumination had no direct brightness but was more of a reflection from some light that burned beyond.

  A gunshot? Not loud enough—unless it had been fired inside.

  “Okay,” he said to himself. “So what? Take your swim and go back to bed.”

  And he might have done just that if he had not heard a new sound which came softly to him out of the night somewhere ahead, a muted, barely perceptible sound of movement that he could not analyze. It had somehow the rhythmic character of a person running on grass and he stood stock-still now, eyes straining through the darkness.

  There was al
most no light from the sky and yet he saw—or was it his imagination?—a swift-moving shadow darker than the lawn that was gone before he could focus on it. He glanced again at the house, annoyed at his eyes for playing tricks on him, and it was then that he saw the movement on the vine-covered pillars that he had nearly tried himself.

  Someone—dressed all in black it seemed—bulked outward from these vines, swayed, and was vaguely silhouetted against the upper rail. He thought he saw the form move over it to the balcony and then it was gone, lost to view in the thicker shadows under the overhang of the roof.

  He was never quite sure, then or later, how long after that it was before the light went on in the room next to his. Seconds probably, though it seemed longer because he had been standing so still, the unconscious tension holding him there while he listened and forgot to breathe.

  Twice he had peered along the length of the balcony, looking for some small movement of window or curtain that would tell him where the climber had gone. Then there was this pale glow of light that came and went quickly beyond the French windows next to his, like the opening and closing of a shutter.

  But there was no shutter there. Only the windows and full-length screen.

  The light came on again, stronger this time though not direct. He knew why an instant later, for he could see someone moving about and realized that the light he saw came from the adjoining bathroom.

  Normally he might have felt like a Peeping Tom, for the person he tried so hard to see was a woman; now, however, his mind was full of other thoughts, bewildering thoughts mostly that were both startling and curious. He could see her hair and knew that she was bending over; then she straightened, visible at his angle from the waist up, and enough reflected light came through to tell him the hair was colored like old copper.