by Gwen Bristow
Her exasperation rose in her again. Kester had evidently paid for nothing until he had to. The presents he had given her, the dresses he had bought Cornelia, were all unpaid for; and she shivered with anger when she found Bob Purcell’s bill for his attendance upon her at her delivery three months ago. Eleanor thrust that into her coat pocket. Thank heaven she had some money, her income from the Tonelli Fruit Lines. Nine hundred dollars of that lay in the bank. She had been putting it up to buy a car of her own, but that was out of the question now. She would pay this bill herself tomorrow—no, today. It was nearly dawn.
To think that Kester had neglected such an obligation made her sick with shame. But she promised herself fiercely that nothing at Ardeith would be neglected again. Whatever her talents might or might not be, she had a good head for business. She had not majored in mathematics at Barnard for nothing.
With grim resolution she pulled open another drawer and rummaged for more bills. As she found one, and then others, Eleanor felt her wrath turning to fear. With all these to be paid besides the accumulated mortgages on Ardeith, the possible total of Kester’s indebtedness began to assume terrifying proportions. Tucked in the back of the drawer was a white cardboard box. Eleanor lifted the lid, and started at the sight of envelopes addressed to Kester in her own handwriting. They were the letters she had written him before their marriage, kept here together with a handkerchief and a silk vanity case she must have dropped one evening, and several other trifles nobody but a fond lover would have thought precious, the only objects in the desk he had thought to store carefully away. A wave of affection swept over her, smothering her anger, and she dropped her head, pushing her cold fingers back through her hair; she loved him, she could not help it, and it was easy to understand why everybody else who knew him loved him too. He was the most lovable person she had ever known, although, by all the standards of righteousness, he was not worth a picayune.
Eleanor put the box back in its place. She took the unpaid bills upstairs with her and filed them in a pigeonhole in her desk. Though her fingers were so cold she could hardly hold the pen she wrote a check for Bob Purcell and put it with his statement into an envelope and addressed and stamped it. When she stood up and turned out her desk-lamp it was six o’clock in the morning, and she was trembling with fatigue.
Then at last she went to bed and fell asleep, waking only when Dilcy, the baby’s nurse, brought Cornelia to her, and going to sleep again at once. It was nearly noon when she was roused by hearing Kester’s voice in the hall outside. He was talking to Dilcy.
“It’s gorgeous weather, Dilcy—cold, but the sun will do her good. Take her outdoors. Is Miss Eleanor still asleep?”
Eleanor could hear Dilcy protesting, with the conviction of mammies that cold air meant disaster to their darlings, and she heard Kester insisting again. Raising herself on her elbow, she called him.
He put his head in. “Hello! So you finally woke up. Such hours!”
Kester looked well, and he grinned upon her as though their last night’s quarrel had never occurred. As he came in Eleanor pulled the bellcord for coffee and lay down again, thinking how disheveled she must look beside Kester’s fresh wellbeing. He came in and sat on the bedstep. “Did you go to bed late?” he asked her.
She nodded.
“Mad with me?” he inquired smiling.
She nodded again.
“I was mad with you too. But I’m not any more.” He took her hand in his. “Not if you’re sorry you yelled at me.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and she turned her head and kissed his hand as it held hers. She smiled a little. “I can’t be angry with you very long. You’re a goose and I love you better than anything else on earth.”
“I love you too,” said Kester.
They did not say anything more until after Bessie from the kitchen had brought a tray with Eleanor’s coffee. Eleanor sat up in bed, and as she drank it she began to feel better.
“Kester,” she said, “I’m not in a fury now, or screaming. Let’s talk about those debts.”
“All right.” He grinned. “I’m a worthless, trifling no-’count white man, and I know it, so let’s start from there.”
He was like a little boy confessing a fault with such endearing remorse that his mother had not the heart to punish him. But Eleanor sobered quickly. “We must go down to New Orleans right away,” she went on. “Who is it we see at the bank?”
“Mr. Robichaux.”
“—And find out just what we owe and what the terms are. Then we must somehow make him grant us a little time so we can start paying.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Kester. “It’s going to be tough. But Eleanor,” he continued earnestly, “I don’t think it’s hopeless. There’s no use saying it is until we know. I’ll go to New Orleans—”
“I’m going with you.”
“You can if you want to, but it’s not necessary.”
“I’d rather,” said Eleanor. “I’m going to help you clear it up, and I want to know just where we are.”
“All right,” he agreed.
Eleanor poured another cup of coffee and they went on planning. A new feeling of intimacy began to grow between them as they talked over the battle that lay ahead. Kester was no fool once his attention was roused, and now that the result of his carelessness had been brought home to him he was eager to fight. Eleanor started to push back the bedclothes. “I shan’t wait for a fire to be made in here. I’ll get dressed and pack a grip. There’s a train for New Orleans at three.”
“But we can’t go today!” exclaimed Kester.
“Why not?” she asked in astonishment.
Kester reminded her they had an appointment for dinner. Didn’t she remember that there was a display of automobiles in town today?—and two weeks ago they had promised Neal Sheramy to have dinner with him at Silverwood and go with him later to try out the cars. To Eleanor’s irritated protests Kester was unshakable. They had promised. Clara Sheramy was expecting them for dinner at two o’clock and had promised to have softshell crabs because Kester was so fond of them, and anyway he wanted to drive the new cars. Neal was considering getting an electric car for Clara, as she was so frail and driving out into the fresh air would be good for her. And Kester reminded Eleanor that he knew all about automobiles—he had been the first man in town to drive one, when they were considered horrid playthings meant to frighten horses—and besides, it was not necessary to dash off to New Orleans today. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Eleanor sighed in annoyance. “Phone and tell Neal Sheramy we can’t come. This is important, Kester!”
“But there’s no harm in going to New Orleans tomorrow instead of today!” he persisted.
“Why can’t Neal choose his own car? He’s not halfwitted.”
“Why do you have to be in such a hurry? I promised to have dinner at Silverwood and I’m going to.”
“I’m not,” said Eleanor flatly.
Kester obviously did not believe she meant it. To his mind an engagement for dinner was sacred; more sacred, Eleanor thought when he had left her and she sat up with her hands clasped around her knees, than an engagement to repay borrowed money. She got up and dressed and began to pack her clothes and Cornelia’s. While she was on her knees fastening the grips Kester returned and stood in the doorway.
“So you’re really going to New Orleans today?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to tell the Sheramys?”
“Tell them I was called away on business.”
“Do you want them to think you’re a Hottentot?”
“Why should they?”
“If it’s your father’s affair he could be attending to it, if it’s the plantation I could be.”
“If you won’t I’ve got to.”
“I will. I told you I would. Tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“You’re taking Cornelia with you?”
“Certainly. I can’t wean her in five minutes.”
His hands in his coat pockets, Kester leaned against the side of the doorway and watched her fasten the buckle of the last strap. “Have you ever been spanked,” he said, “and locked in a dark closet till you acknowledged you couldn’t run the world?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, getting up from the floor. “I’m doing this for you! It’s your home!”
“I’ve been minding my business,” he told her.
“Yes, and look where it got you,” Eleanor snapped. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”
“Where in heaven’s name did you get that voice?” he asked, with the same ominous quietness he had used toward her last night.
“I didn’t mean to shout. But I’ve got to go to New Orleans today; I ought to.”
Kester lifted his eyebrows reproachfully. “Too much strength of character is a disagreeable trait, Eleanor,” he remarked.
“You needn’t worry.”
“I don’t. Not at all. Do exactly as you please.” He started out, and turned around to say, “By the way, we’ve always stayed at the St. Charles.”
He closed the door behind him. Eleanor stood still, hating herself. Hideous remarks were coming out of her unbidden, like the toads that dropped from the naughty girl’s lips in the fairy tale; but how much more dreadful the girl’s punishment would have been, she reflected bitterly, if the toads had fallen only in the presence of the one she loved best. Why did she talk to Kester so? Did she resent him because she was powerless to stop adoring him? She did not know, but she would go this minute and beg his forgiveness. She would even yield and go to Silverwood with him to prove how sorry she was.
But his room was empty, and as she started downstairs to look for him she heard the front door closing. Hurrying to the window overlooking the lawn from the front of the upper hall, Eleanor saw Kester driving down the avenue. He was driving much too fast for safety, and she felt a tremor of fright for him through her regret that it was too late for her to apologize. Taking from under her belt the little watch Kester had given her as a Christmas present she saw that it was half past twelve. Early to be starting for a two o’clock dinner at a plantation that could be reached by car in twenty minutes. She lowered her head, feeling hurt and conquered, and returned listlessly to her room to finish getting ready for the train. Perhaps it was better that now she had to go to New Orleans, but she wondered why it was that she could do anything to prove her love for Kester except be tactful enough to make him convinced of it.
At a quarter of two she shut the door of her room and rang up Silverwood from her bedside phone.
Clara Sheramy answered. Eleanor made her excuses for not coming to dinner. It was very important, she said, that she go to New Orleans at once. She was leaving at three. Clara was very regretful. Clara’s voice was as delicate as her appearance. I can talk like that, Eleanor reminded herself while she listened, when I’m not mad; oh please God, help me to keep my temper! “May I speak to Kester, please?” she said into the phone.
“Why yes, of course,” said Clara. “I’ll call him. He’s in the parlor having a cocktail with Neal.”
A moment later Kester’s voice came over the wire.
“Kester,” said Eleanor, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I talked to you like that. I won’t again.”
Kester replied without rancor. Either time or the cocktail had smoothed his disposition. “See that you don’t.”
“I really won’t, darling. But I didn’t sleep much last night, and I’m nervous as an alley cat.”
“It’s quite all right,” he said as though he meant it.
“Kester, can anybody hear you talking?”
“No.”
“Then tell me you love me.”
“I love you enormously. Do you think I’d put up with you if I didn’t?”
“I don’t suppose you would.”
Hurriedly, so as not to keep him too long, she told him she had tried to tell him all this before he left. “But you were on your way,” she ended, “so I went on and got ready to go to New Orleans.”
“Somebody has won a doubtful victory,” Kester said dryly. “But as soon as I start dissecting my feelings I stop enjoying them. Run along.”
She took the afternoon train for New Orleans, Dilcy sitting opposite her with Cornelia. Dilcy was in a state of grim disapproval. She had worked for the ladies of Ardeith many years, and she had never before observed one of them leaving her husband to stay at a hotel unprotected.
2
In no mood to be a guest of either her family or Kester’s, Eleanor registered at the St. Charles. She telephoned Mr. Robichaux, who gave her an appointment the next afternoon.
A night’s sleep made her feel strong again, so in the morning she went to her father’s office. Her brother Vance, a year younger than herself and a promising neophyte engineer, sprang up as she came in, to ask what she was doing in town. Eleanor said she wanted to see Fred. Dad was in his private office dictating, Vance said, and he detained her to give her the news. Lena Tonelli was engaged to be married, Florence was getting mighty pretty and kept the house in an uproar with her beaus coming and going, the Atchafalaya River was acting up worse than ever this year—that was a mean, nasty river if there ever was one. In spite of her low spirits Eleanor found herself listening with interest. Named for the foreman who had given Fred his first job, Vance had like herself drawn in knowledge of the Louisiana rivers from his birth. While he talked she remembered wistfully how she and Vance and Florence used to play coon-can and seven-up in the levee camps, and built little levees of their own by using tin cans for scoops. By the time he was nine and she ten they could build perfect miniature levees, complete with borrow-pit and berme and batture, the slopes graded by the aid of a tape measure from their mother’s mending basket, and Florence, who was only seven then, was compelled to run their errands, her pigtails bobbing as she scampered about doing what she was told. Now Vance was an engineer and Florence a young lady, and she herself tired with her suddenly acquired knowledge that life provided nothing perfect. At length she said she had to see her father. Vance opened the door of Fred’s private office and stuck his head in. “Dad, Eleanor’s here.”
Fred was sitting at his desk, scowling over a blue and pink diagram of a steam-grader. He sprang up when she came in.
“Why Eleanor! When did you get to town?”
She glanced at his secretary. “I’d like to see you alone, dad.”
Fred made a movement of his thumb toward the door to the outer office. “Run along, Miss Loring.” As the secretary and Vance went out he looked back at Eleanor. “Sit down, honey.”
“I haven’t much time to sit down,” Eleanor said brusquely. “Dad, will you let me have my stock in the fruit lines?”
“Oh.” Fred sat down again and folded his hands on the diagram of the steam-grader. He gave her a long look up and down. Their eyes met. Fred said, “No, I will not.”
Eleanor felt a stab that was almost like physical pain. With no more words between them she knew he had given it to her because he did not trust Kester, and that was why he had tied it up so she could spend nothing but the income. She had between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars a year, which would be enough to keep her and her child from destitution.
“All right,” said Eleanor. “If you won’t you won’t, and I know there’s no use arguing. I’ll go now.”
“Not yet.” Fred reached across the desk and took her hand in his. He gave her another intent look. “Honey,” he said, “if you’re having money trouble, why don’t you tell me about it?”
“It’s no use,” Eleanor returned. “I can manage.”
“How?” asked Fred.
“It’s none of your business,” she said sho
rtly.
“Sourtheastern Exchange Bank?” Fred asked cannily. “Charlie Robichaux?”
“How did you know?”
He gave her a smile. “I’m not exactly stupid. That bank runs half those wornout plantations up the river.” Fred got up and came around the desk. “Why don’t you tell me about it, Eleanor?”
“No,” she said.
“All right, honey,” said Fred. “I guess you’re grown up.” After a moment he asked, “Baby, do you want me to sign my name on something? Would that be a help?”
Eleanor shivered. Fred was not a rich man, but he had never owed a penny he had not paid. His integrity was beyond question. If he signed his name, that was enough for any bank in town. She had never thought before about how hard such a reputation was to win and how precious it was to keep.
She answered sharply to cover the fact that her voice might easily have trembled. “Dad, I wouldn’t let you do that for a million dollars. If you don’t understand there’s nothing I can tell you.”
“I understand, Eleanor,” said Fred simply.
“Yes, dad, I’m your daughter,” she said, and then she dropped into the chair he had drawn up for her and put her head down on the desk, resting it on her arm. She did not cry. But she had undertaken this interview first because she had known it was going to be the most difficult, and so it was; she felt naked and ashamed before her father’s eyes. He put his arm around her shoulders, and Eleanor thought how much easier this would be to stand if he had been angry and had told her she could go ahead and take her punishment for not having listened to him. She wished she had not come to Fred; she might have known he would not yield to her request, but it had been her only chance to get her hands on some negotiable property at once and she had reached for it with a sense of desperation. When at last she lifted her head, making herself look into his eyes again, Fred said only,
“The folks’ll feel mighty sad if they don’t get a chance to see you while you’re here. Let me ring Molly and say you’ll be up for dinner this evening?”