Fair Tomorrow

by Emilie Loring

  “Neither there nor anywhere else. Father sends his letters to Miss Cecile Mortimer — that was her maiden name. When I inadvertently picked up an envelope he had so addressed, he explained elaborately that she had more chances professionally if she were known as Miss. I can’t make him out. Part of the time I think him numb from the shock of the loss of his fortune and his wife. At other times when I enter his room I surprise a swift look of cunning in his eyes. I have the curious feeling that he is concealing something. Yet, what would he have to conceal? He hasn’t been in business for years, can’t be complications of that sort. I wonder what he will say to Philip Carr’s real estate proposition. Coming from that source he will probably turn his thumbs down hard.”

  “That summer-cottage idea is good. I think you’d better do it.”

  “Where would I get the money, Scott?”

  “I know someone from whom you could borrow a building loan.”

  “Not you!”

  “Don’t be so shocked. Not I. It would mean putting up a part of your property as security.”

  “Suppose I have to borrow on that for Cecile.”

  “You will not borrow on it for Cecile. Get that straight, Pamela.”

  “I wish I might feel as sure as you sound. Once I would have forged ahead, had the farmer’s cottage moved before you could say ‘Hands up!’ Now, I stop to consider the risk. That is what this last year has done to me. The nightmare of those pursuing creditors lingers in the offing like a thick fog threatening to roll up and envelop me again the moment I depart from my pay-as-I-go policy.”

  “This is a different proposition. The element of risk is inseparable from any business enterprise, but there is such a thing as open-eyed risks. If one never embarked on a project for fear it might turn out a failure, one never would get far. Have you a plan of your land?”

  “Yes, a blueprint. In the safe in my room. Grandmother had the plan made. She was born with business sense, she wasn’t one of the average whose intelligence you scorn.”

  “Something tells me that you resent my conclusions. Let me have the blueprint tonight. I will go over the land tomorrow, then we’ll get down to cases. I’m sold on the idea of making over that cottage. If it is to be done it should be started at once. No bookings for Sunday?”

  “No. I am hanging on by the teeth but I have managed so far to resist the lure of profitable patrons on that day. Grandmother was a pillar of the church. I can’t give money so I play the organ. Trying to live up to her standards is the least I can do to show my appreciation of what she did for me. Besides, if I didn’t go to church, Terry wouldn’t.”

  “Isn’t there something in the Bible about the Faithful Steward? To return to real estate. Trust me enough not to commit yourself to Carr about moving the cottage until you hear from me?”

  “Would that be fair when it was his suggestion and we think we may put it through?”

  “We will make that up to him later. There are reasons why the fact that you are considering borrowing should not leak out until the title has been looked up and the mortgage is nailed.”

  “Oh, you lawyers! Always laying a smokescreen of caution. You think that Father would oppose it. He would. Anything which Terry or I might suggest.”

  He concentrated upon passing a line of trucks which were chugging along like prehistoric monsters. When once more the road stretched clear and shining and black ahead he said gravely:

  “Perhaps we should be more charitable to your father. Irritability is often the last resort of the defeated. His wife’s desertion must have cut deep.”

  “I realize that, Scott — though there are moments when I wonder if it was not a relief. Every morning I wake with the determination to be patient, tender with him, tenderness is so different from kindness, but by noon my endurance is worn to a frazzle. What right has one person to take the joy out of life for everyone else in the house? He is not the only member of the family who has been disappointed.”

  “Do you hate your life here so much?”

  “I don’t hate it at all, but, Philip Carr was right when he said I was caught in a tidepool.”

  “Darn Philip Carr!”

  The soft, succinct exclamation was death to conversation. Withdrawn and silent, Mallory brought his roadster to a stop at the door of the old Leigh homestead, followed Pamela into the living room. From the radio above came the sound of strings and wood instruments in the music of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. It served as a faintly harmonious background for the charm and light and color of the old room.

  Terrence looked up from a book on the table desk. His red hair, shot through and through with gold in the lamplight, had been furrowed by his fingers till it stood on end. His fine eyes so like Pamela’s were black from concentration, his handsome face was flushed. He stretched long arms, clasped his hands behind his head, balanced his chair on its hind legs at a breath-snatching angle.

  “Miss Crane phoned you, Mr. Scott.”

  “Here?”

  “Yep. Said your office told her you could be reached at the village Inn. Nothing doing there so she tried the Silver Moon. She wants you to call her house tonight. Important. She said to tell you that Belle was in difficulties again. Suppose you know who Belle is? Sounds like a horse or cow to me.”

  “Belle is her sister. A rich woman who spends her income before she gets it and is everlastingly being sued by creditors.”

  “God have mercy on her soul,” sympathized Pamela fervently.

  Mallory laughed. “Don’t pity her. She brings it all on herself.”

  Terrence scooped up his school books, yawned prodigiously. “And so to bed. Everything’s locked up, Pam, but the front door and Father. He pulled his usual line about being neglected, but, he managed to eat a square meal.”

  “Thanks lots for looking after him, Terry. I am all rested and refreshed for the big day tomorrow.”

  “I’ll say you are; I could light a cigarette at your eyes, they shine so. Good-night, Mr. Scott. Good-night, Pam.” His whistle, musical, muted, drifted back from the stairs.

  Mallory laid his hands on Pamela’s shoulders. “Take off your coat.” She slipped out of the soft camel’s hair garment. As she curled up in a corner of the couch she asked:

  “Isn’t it time now to advise me what to do about the eight hundred dollars for Cecile?”

  He backed up to the fire. “I will talk with your father about that tomorrow morning.”

  “He may be furious that I have told you.”

  “Why? He has retained me as his attorney. As I intimated before, the client who withholds information from his legal adviser is just naturally looking for trouble. Will you get the plan of the land?” She started for the door. “Just a minute. Think you can find the address of the stamp firm with which your father corresponds?”

  She paused on the threshold. “I believe you have contracted a touch of stamp fever, from hearing about his small collection. I’ve heard that it is as contagious as any of the other children’s diseases, the longer and harder the search for a treasure the more acute the attack. Look out, little boy, or you will be having measles next.”

  She smiled to herself. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Scott Mallory being interested in stamps; he would be more likely to collect books, or fine prints. She hummed as she snapped on the electricity in the room which had been her grandmother’s and now was hers. For some inexplicable reason she felt absurdly light-hearted and young. Getting out of the rut of daily living had done the trick. She must beware of mental staleness. From now on she would try to slip away from the Silver Moon more often. Better to have fewer patrons and keep her viewpoint normal.

  Even her room took on fresh charm. The four-poster with its snowy canopy and valance, the hooked rugs with their impossible roses and less possible fruits, the white Staffordshire dogs on the mantel with their red ears and tails, had occupied the same places as far back as she could remember.

  The little safe against the wall had been a more recent acquis
ition. On her knees before it Pamela twisted the knob till the door swung open. As she pulled out the plan for the land an envelope fell to the floor. She didn’t remember putting it in. She looked at the name in the upper left-hand corner.

  “Brown of Boston.”

  That was all. It was addressed to her father. He had asked the combination of the safe explaining that he had an important paper he wanted to keep there.

  Brown of Boston. What was that curious sound? Someone choking? She looked up. Her father was braced against the doorcase. His face was ashen. In his lounge robe he looked gaunt and abnormally tall. His lips trembled, his voice shook as he demanded:

  “What are you doing with my papers?”

  Chapter VI

  Pamela regarded him with honest incredulity. “Your papers! I came for the plan of the land and this envelope fell out.” She remembered Scott Mallory’s warning to say nothing about the cottage proposition. “If I am to borrow money on the place I must have something to show the extent of the property.”

  She sensed his relief. “That’s all right. Saw you with the envelope in your hand, thought you might be — might be watching my correspondence. I will take that letter.”

  Still on her knees Pamela handed it to him. “If it is important enough to put in the safe once, shouldn’t it be kept there? However, that is your business.” She closed the door and rose.

  “Where are you taking that plan?”

  “Downstairs to Mr. Mallory.”

  “How long has he been here? Why didn’t he talk with me?”

  “He is to be at the Inn until Sunday night. He said he would see you tomorrow.”

  “Did you tell him about Cecile?”

  “Of course. I must have someone to advise me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “About raising money? He asked to see the plan.”

  “Hum! Well, he should have conferred with me.” Harold Leigh shuffled toward his room, the heels of his worn slippers flapping. His daughter watched him out of sight. He had been brought to the Cape in an ambulance in June. For months he had not left his room. Now he was walking about. He must be much stronger. However, nothing made him quite so furious as to be told that he looked better.

  Mallory stamped out his cigarette as Pamela entered the living room, pulled a wing chair nearer the fire, now a bed of red coals stabbed through and through with flashes of flame. The Babe flopped a languid tail in greeting before he relapsed into noisy slumber.

  “Sit here.” As the girl sank into the comfortable depths he pushed a stool under her feet. “That better? Did I break it?” he demanded in consternation as it shed a foot.

  “No. It isn’t a break. It’s a habit.” She leaned back and looked at him with solemn eyes. “I adore my old furniture, Scott, but it is always going maimed. When I achieve my best-seller I will live in an apartment — I am sold on the penthouse idea — furnished in the contemporary manner — Salon des Artistes Décorateurs — lots of color, simple lines, sharp contrasts of dark and light. Perhaps a black mirror-top table in the dining room to repeat the gleam of silver and the sparkle of glass. A silver wall, eggshell lacquer, somewhere. — That’s my dream.”

  “And mine is to own a summer home on Cape Cod. A house with a black-banded white chimney, a picket fence and an old-fashioned garden.” His voice, which had sent little curleyques spiraling along Pamela’s arteries, was back to normal as he asked: “Where were we when the casualty occurred? I remember. Did you get that plan?”

  He settled himself in the Hong Kong wicker chair which had been brought from the Orient in one of great-grandfather Leigh’s ships. Pamela held out the roll of blueprint. He thrust it into his pocket.

  “I will examine that later. I heard you talking with your father. Hope that you didn’t bother him with my request for the name of the stamp concern.”

  “I forgot it. When I opened the safe, an envelope addressed to him with ‘Brown of Boston’ in one corner — just that, nothing more — fell out. While I held it, speculating about a person who could be of sufficient importance to print his name like that, he appeared. I felt that he suspected me of undue interest in his correspondence, though he didn’t accuse me of it. He cooled down when I told him that I was there for the plan.”

  “Did you tell him why I wanted it?”

  “Hadn’t you warned me not breathe a word of the remodeled cottage proposition? Would I dare disobey my legal adviser?”

  “Good child. ‘Brown of Boston.’ Seems to me I’ve heard that combination before. I won’t keep you up any longer. I will see your father in the morning. I’ll be here at nine o’clock tomorrow evening to take you for a drive.”

  “We are to have a tremendous day. I shall probably be so tired that I’ll go to sleep with my head against your shoulder.”

  He bent over her. “All right with me. Ever think how temptingly sweet you are, Pam?” The roughness of his voice startled her. He straightened abruptly. “Don’t get up. Goodnight.”

  Pamela sat curled in the big chair long after he had gone, eyes on the dying fire, his disturbing voice echoing through her consciousness, the feel of his hands still warm upon her shoulders. She heard Terrence close his door and bang open his window. The house stilled. A board squeaked in the stairs as if a light foot had pressed it. The coppery tints in the room gleamed in the soft light. The Hong Kong chair creaked as if relaxing strained muscles after holding a man’s weight. A dried vine tapped eerily at the window. Pamela jumped to her feet. What price air-castles! The Babe whined and twitched in his sleep. She tenderly pulled his ears.

  “Wake up, old boy. Dreaming of that dog you almost knocked out today?” Today! Was it only this afternoon that she and Philip Carr had separated the fighting dogs? In her concern over Cecile’s demand she had completely forgotten the poor little rich boy until he telephoned. She would be willing to wager that he wasn’t bad at all, village gossip spread like the downy contents of a pillow flung on the air. No one ever took time to chase the feathers and put them back. Had she been wise to accept the invitation for supper before she knew whether the head of the house would welcome or resent her presence? Perhaps Phineas Carr would forget that she was her father’s child and remember only that she was his old client’s dearly loved granddaughter. She would adore seeing the inside of his home. She had heard that it was a treasure-house of priceless antiques.

  There would be nothing more charming than the portrait of the Lady Claire. She looked up at the picture above the mantel flanked by carved Sheraton candlesticks with tall tapers. Chestnut hair piled high on a haughty head, eyes the velvety brown of pansies, magnolia tinted shoulders and throat, their delicacy accentuated by a necklace of Spanish topaz set in medallions of intricately carved gold. Long matching earrings hung from the shell-like ears, bracelets girdled the arm, a massive ring was on the patrician hand which held a soft yellow rose at the point of the low-cut brown bodice.

  Pamela sighed enviously. She could picture herself in that set of topaz. She would be twenty-five tomorrow! The birthday upon which she would have received the legacy from her mother, had there been any legacy left to receive. Twenty-five! A quarter of a century!

  She set the brass screen before the smoldering fire, snapped out the lights. From the threshold she looked back at the dear, familiar room. Through the interstices in the plant window she could see the lawn. Snowing! Flakes as big as half dollars were drifting down casually. And she had thought that spring had come. Just as she had thought her anxiety about the debts was over when Scott Mallory had offered to stand between. Now, along came this demand for money from Cecile.

  Suppose Cecile were bluffing? Pamela was brushing her hair before the triple mirror on her chintz-hung dressing table when the thought came to her. Suppose the second Mrs. Leigh were trying to get money for a different project? It had been done. The face reflected went quite white. Had Scott thought of that? She reached for the telephone. An extension set in her room was the one luxury she allowed herself,
it saved countless minutes and miles of steps. She would pass her suspicion, more of a hope, on to him at once. Her hand dropped to her lap. No. He might at this very moment be talking to Miss Crane. He was attorney for her sister. How old was the irresponsible Belle? Did he still care for the soulless Hilda? He never mentioned her. He had gone darkly red at the little gibe about his love-life; there had been a biding-my-time glint in his eyes, but he had let it pass.

  “Ever think how temptingly sweet you are, Pam?” She must forget the shaken question. He had probably said the same thing to other girls. Hadn’t he brought Hilda Crane to the Silver Moon for a Thanksgiving dinner for two? A man didn’t do that sort of thing unless he was quite mad about a girl. What possible difference could it make to her whom Scott Mallory loved or did not love? She must not let herself care for him. It would be tragically easy. Hadn’t she a father to support? Suppose Cecile were telling the truth and had to be cared for at the Silver Moon to save money?

  She brought the brush down on the waves of her already satiny hair with a force which started tears of pain. She admonished the girl in the mirror.

  “That’s crossing a bridge before you come to it, my dear.”

  A breeze blew in cold and clear as she raised the window softly that she might not disturb her father. What a night. A light snow covered fields, powdered trees. Moonlight transformed the sand dunes into silver domes. Fair tomorrow. How still the world was. Not a creature stirring — not a creature — but a long purple shadow at the entrance of the drive by the mail-box. Curious, she never had noticed that before. It was walking! Coming up the path stealthily. A burglar after the old silver?

  Unmindful of the frosty wind fluttering the delicate pink crepe of her pajamas, she knelt by the window. How slowly the person came. Kept stopping as if for breath. Was he shrouded in a shawl? Now he was at the steps. Would she better call Terry? Was that the front door opening? Excitement tightened her throat. She stole to the threshold of her room. Listened. The old house quivered with cautious sounds, its aged joints creaked. Someone coming up the stairs! Coming heavily, with labored breathing. The hall was kept dimly lighted in case the invalid rang in the night. Whoever it was was making a clumsy attempt at caution. The banister groaned as if a heavy weight had lunged against it. Each stair squeaked a protest. Almost at the top! Pamela opened her door an inch wider. Peered out. Closed it soundlessly. Her father!