Fair Tomorrow

by Emilie Loring

  “You don’t impress me as being tenderhearted. There is a frozen quality in your voice which makes me a little afraid of you.”

  “Ever had your feet so cold at a football game that you wished they would hurry up and get numb so they would stop hurting? I am hoping that my heart will freeze so that it will stop feeling. Being a house-owner seems to be just one repair after another. Terry reported this morning that the roof of the farmer’s cottage — which you remember — was leaking like a sieve. I wish the building would consume itself before the taxes consume it.” She went on lightly: “Forget the sobbie. Don’t think that I dislike my business venture — perhaps adventure; I love contact with people, even if I do hate having them wandering all over the house and patronizing, ‘Nice little place!’ Feeding them is just one problem after another.”

  “Are you the cook?”

  “I am. At this stage of the enterprise I can’t afford to have even one guest find anything wrong.”

  “You don’t care a little bit about yourself, do you?”

  “Crazy about Pamela Leigh,” she attested gaily. “Oh, there’s your mother! I met her once years ago but she probably does not remember me.”

  A woman in a smart gray gown was waiting at the gate. Her hair was surprisingly white in contrast to her youthful skin. Her eyes were as brown, as eager as her son’s. She held out her hand.

  “Miss Leigh, I am so glad to see you again. I have been wondering how soon I might run up to call. I wanted Phil to meet you but apparently he has accomplished that pleasure without my help. Won’t you come in for tea?”

  Had the son wirelessed that suggestion to his mother? “Thank you, but I must hurry home. We have a full day tomorrow. Has Terry brought the eggs you ordered? When I left he was in the poultry house mumbling incantations over the hens. With that utter disregard of the timely so characteristic of the species, they have gone on strike just as you have opened your house.”

  “You don’t mean that you run a poultry farm as well as the Silver Moon?”

  “The poultry is my brother’s enterprise, Mr. Carr. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he runs it. At present it is running him — ragged. However, as we have adopted for our coat of arms two green frogs, a milkpail rampant, with Kick Frog! Kick! illumined on a silver field, we should worry.”

  The blaze of admiration in his eyes brought warm color to her face. The drone of a plane overhead almost drowned his boyish wheedle. “Mother, ask the little girl if your little boy may play with her.”

  Mrs. Carr regarded him with smiling adoration. “Phil’s unprecedented shyness takes my breath. May he call? I should be happy to have you friends.”

  “I would love to have him come after business hours, but you are witness to my warning, I am dull company at the end of the day.”

  “I’ll risk that. Do you good to go for an airing in my roadster. I’m a safe non-skid driver warranted steady at the wheel. Here comes the omnipresent Milly! Wouldn’t you know it? The fairies who presided at that girl’s advent into this old world scrimped on her chin and spread themselves on her bump of curiosity. How can you stand her snooping, Mother?”

  “Because she is an excellent waitress, prefers to remain near her brother, and while she spends every cent she can get on clothes she hasn’t the city urge. What is it, Milly?”

  The girl in a pink linen frock with dainty white collar and cuffs and apron, who had run down the path, was slightly breathless. Her pale blue eyes were interrogation points as they shifted from face to face, her mouth was a trifle pinched, her light hair waved close to her head, her skin suggested the tint and texture of a magnolia blossom. If she had a trifle more chin and a suggestion of soul in her make-up, she would be beautiful, Pamela decided. She took an instant dislike to her. Untrustworthy. Philip Carr was right. She had prying eyes.

  “Mr. Phil! Long distance call.”

  “Must be my client.” He chuckled. “Why are our offices crowded?”

  Mrs. Carr’s eyes were starry. “Phil! Have you a client? Did you get the theatre contract?”

  Her son reddened, laughed. “Mother! Why reveal the humiliating fact that this is my first?” He pointed his question by a glance at the maid who with jaw slightly dropped was staring at him. “See you tonight, Miss Leigh,” he called back as he started for the house.

  “M’s Carr, please may I go down to the field to see the airplane? I’ve never seen one close,” pleaded Milly Pike.

  “Run along, but be here in ample time to serve dinner.”

  The girl raced away. The street, which had seemed under the spell of an afternoon siesta, suddenly came alive. Men and women boiled out of houses to hurry in the direction of the field.

  Pamela’s fingers tightened on the Babe’s leash. “I’d better get back to the Silver Moon. There were no reservations for the afternoon so I left Hitty Betts in charge while I ran away for an hour. She won’t be able to resist the lure of that plane.”

  Mrs. Carr’s eyes were luminous. “My dear, you will never know until you have a son of your own how glad I am that Phil met you. It was tactless of me to betray the fact that he has not been overworked. He took up architecture against his father’s wishes — my husband wanted him to be a lawyer — and studied abroad. Now he has opened an office in New York. Too much leisure is a menace to any man. I don’t like the young people with whom he has associated since he came from Europe, their idea of twentieth century liberation seems to be to acquire habits which shackle them with steel. Not but what they are decent enough,” she hastened to assure loyally, “but they don’t bring out the best in Philip. You will.” With which declaration of faith she turned away.

  Chapter IV

  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 grandchildren. 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 schoolbooks — 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 weekends 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 outline 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 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.”