Fair Tomorrow

by Emilie Loring

  She leaned against the wall, breathless from surprise. He had been to the mail-box. Why the secrecy? The R.F.D. man picked up the mail as he went by at six o’clock in the morning. Had he sent a letter? To Cecile? Of course. To assure her that the money for hospital expenses would be forthcoming? Perhaps this was not his first surreptitious midnight trip. Perhaps Tinker, the postman, left letters for him. As boys, the two had fished the surrounding ponds together. She remembered Hitty Betts’ comment, “Folks is sayin’ he’d be a sight better if you didn’t coddle him.”

  Ooch! It was cold. Shivering, she snapped off the light. “I’ll investigate in the morning before Tinker comes,” she told herself as she snuggled down under the bedclothes. “I wouldn’t care about Father’s mail ordinarily but when mortgaging this house is at stake it is time someone knew what was going on.”

  Tinker had come and gone when she awoke. She had an instant of self-castigation for oversleeping before the day’s activities swept her into their vortex. When Scott Mallory came at nine in the evening she demurred against going out in the roadster.

  “I am all in. I should be a dumb companion. Now that the rush is over, my mind feels as cramped as a stowaway in an airplane.”

  “Come for an hour, Pam. It will rest you to get away from the house and your problems.”

  At the word “problems” the memory of her father’s midnight pilgrimage shot to the surface. “I had forgotten. I’ll go. I have something curious to tell you.”

  For the first half hour she drifted in a Nirvana of relaxation. Mallory drove slowly. A dusky amethyst veil, vague as her own thoughts, blurred the horizon. Little white clouds chased one another across the deep Ionian-blue sky like a flock of woolly sheep. From a field came the distant clank of a cow bell, the drowsy purl of running water on its leisurely way to the sea. Lights on the highway blinked like nocturnal owls caught in a glare of searchlight. A line of red, Cyclopean eyes was dimming into the salty gloom of the night. Pair after pair of green yellow orbs approached, “whooshed” by and were gone. Rested, refreshed, she straightened in the seat.

  “Anything the matter with my shoulder?”

  She looked up, startled out of her preoccupation. Mallory was smiling. She remembered.

  “Nothing doing in shoulders tonight. You were right about coming out. It has rested me. I am all made over. I have much to tell you.”

  “Shoot.”

  To the accompaniment of the soft purr of the engine she told him of her father’s trip to the mail-box. “I didn’t know that he had been downstairs for months. It gives me a plot for a story, MIDNIGHT MAIL MYSTERY.”

  “You miss your writing, don’t you?”

  “Frightfully — when I have time.”

  “Cheer’o! All of these problems and disappointments are providing material for later work. You can put more emotional color into the portrayal of an episode, deepen it and broaden it, if you have experienced its meaning even to a slight degree. Cold comfort but it is true. To return to your father. You can think of no one to whom he would write surreptitiously except his wife?”

  “No one. But why surreptitiously to her? I never have commented on his letters.”

  “Has she ever before proposed coming back to him here?”

  “Only once that I know of. He read me part of a letter in which she wrote that she was not well, that the doctor said that she should be where she could relax and be waited on for a month or two.”

  “What answer did you make?”

  “What answer could I make but one? She had left us high and dry when Terry and I didn’t know which way to turn. We had just started the Silver Moon enterprise. It took every moment and every cent we could scrape together to keep things going. Waited on! Had I thought that Father really wanted her here I would have managed to take her in somehow, but, he didn’t. He said she would tire him. I told him to tell her that she must find some other place in which to rest. She has a mother and sister.”

  “Did he?”

  “I suppose so, he never mentioned the subject again. Oh, I didn’t leave it all to him. I wrote and told her what I thought of her desertion, told her I wouldn’t have her in my house, that I was sure he would be happier, get well faster without her.”

  “Good Heavens!”

  Pamela stared up at the man at the wheel. His profile looked cameo clear in the dusk.

  “What did you say?”

  “Did I say anything? Did you keep a copy of that letter?”

  “A copy? I didn’t even keep it in the house a minute after it was written for fear I wouldn’t send it. I am apt to compose a red-hot masterpiece, think it over until my fury has cooled, then tear it up. I meant that to go while it sizzled.” A troubled note crept into her voice. “Perhaps had she come this foot trouble wouldn’t have developed. But — but — I don’t believe there is anything the matter with her! I believe it is a touch for money. I almost phoned you last night when that blinding suspicion flashed into my mind.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I thought probably you were telephoning Miss Crane.”

  She met his direct gray eyes, eyes that saw much, much beneath the surface of things she was sure. Had the miracle of mindreading come to pass? Did he know what she was thinking, know that she was wishing that a polite, gentlemanly typhoon would catch up Hilda Crane and swirl her into matrimony?

  “We’d better talk over the Cecile and cottage business now,” he announced with a curtness which confirmed Pamela in her suspicion that he was a mind-reader. “I shall not be here next week-end.”

  “Not coming!” She was hotly aware that the words wailed.

  “Why should I? You will be at the Carrs’, won’t you?”

  “But only for supper, Sunday. Did you talk with Father about the money for Cecile?”

  “Yes. I will hold off the creditors and give her some of the cash from the securities I’ve sold — if she is telling the truth.”

  “Then you doubt her too?”

  His smile almost drew her head to his shoulder. “In the language of Hitty Betts, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’”

  Chapter VII

  Pamela squeezed a few drops from the almost juiceless half of a lemon on the fluted layers of the plump oyster in the half-shell. She shut her eyes in gastronomic ecstasy as the cool, salty morsel, not without some difficulty slid down her throat.

  “That was luscious, Cap’n Crockett.”

  The small eyes in the short man’s face which was weather seasoned to the color and consistency of the dark boards of the walls of the shack behind him, twinkled in their setting of fine lines. “Kinder reckon that one was big enough for you. You’re always sayin’ the bigger the better, Miss Pam-ee-lia.”

  “If it had been one millionth of an inch larger or fatter or juicier it wouldn’t have slipped down.”

  “Have another?”

  Pamela looked from the rough shell into which he was about to thrust a short dull blade, to the pile with purplish eyes dotting their mother-of-pearl linings, on the board before her. She shook her head, and wiped her hands on the handkerchief she pulled from the pocket of the green jacket of her sports suit.

  “I’d love it but I have had ten now. Why is it oysters never taste so good as they do here?”

  Cap’n Iry Crockett dried his brawny, hairy-backed hands on his blue denim apron. “’Cause they’re right out of the water. How many you takin’ in bulk today?”

  “A bushel.”

  “Guess trade’s hummin’.”

  He lifted a rake, its iron tines curved in a semicircle, from a hook on the wall, caught up a burlap bag. Pamela followed him into a dusky compartment, sat on a box while he scooped oysters from dark depths. The place smelled of brine and seaweed.

  “Yes. Business is growing. Not long now before I stop serving oysters. Why don’t people eat them in the months without an r, Cap’n Iry?”

  He shook a rake full of rough shells into the burlap bag which Pamela held open. “They spawn in M
ay and June round these parts — they’re right prolific — an’ they’re not so good eatin’. There, guess that’s a bushel. Sure ’twill be enough? Beats all how you know how much of things to lay in.”

  “I don’t, always, but most of our patrons order ahead, then after school Terry can hop into the old fliv and get shell fish in a few minutes. It isn’t as if I served meats and steaks.”

  Back in the outer room he tied up the bag. Pamela paid him. “I’ll lug this to the car for you.”

  She followed him from the floating shack, across the swinging bridge that rose and fell with a tide which reflected the clear blue of the sky, to the sandy road. He lifted the dripping bag into the shabby flivver.

  “Those ought to last you for a while. They tell me the Inn’s fillin’ up early this spring.”

  “I am glad of that, it will mean a hungry horde for the Silver Moon. People like a change of eats even if the table is good.” The sunlight struck a metal disc partially concealed by the strap of his overalls. “What’s the decoration, Cap’n Iry? Been made the High Ruler of something or other? If you have, make the Town Fathers give you a decent road here.”

  He touched the badge with a gnarled brown finger. “That? That means I’m deputy sheriff.”

  A flash-back of the man in a yellow truck waiting to seize her antique furniture set Pamela’s heart thumping uncomfortably before she remembered that the creditor-haunted days were over, thanks to Scott Mallory. They were unless he had had to take money due on bills to send to Cecile. She was aware of Cap’n Crockett’s thoughtful regard. He must wonder why she was sitting staring at the wheel. She started the car, nodded to him.

  “Thanks, Cap’n Iry. See you soon. Bye-bye!”

  The Inn truck passed laden with trunks, a score of them, sets of smart luggage, smooth tweed hatboxes and suitcases. The season was beginning early. That meant business for the Silver Moon. She must engage someone to wait on table. It was getting to be more than Terry could do alone. Perhaps one or two of the Academy boys would be glad to earn extra money. She liked to deal with boys better than with girls. She drew a long breath of the salty air. Glorious day.

  Highty, the postmaster, lumbered down the steps as she neared the brick office. He waved a letter. She drew up to the curb.

  “Special delivery for you, Miss Pamela. Guess whoever sent it didn’t stop to think that you live more’n a mile from the post-office. I was hoping some of your folks or neighbors would be going by to take it up to the house.”

  His second chin quivered; his small eyes, sunk in pouches, twitched nervously. His spotted waistcoat, which never had been even a collateral of his baggy trousers, displayed an imposing array of fountain pens. He looked at the letter before he lingeringly relinquished it.

  “Never’ve seen that writing before in your mail.”

  Pamela tucked the envelope into her pocket. Neither had she. She started the car. Above the protesting groan of the engine she suggested:

  “Better not try to follow my mail, Mr. Highty. I’m always getting letters in regard to reservations.”

  His chin quivered over a flagged question, his mouth hung open, he blinked furiously as after a preparatory lurch or two the car started. Pamela had a curious feeling that the letter in her pocket was not from a prospective client. It broadcast magnetic currents. In sudden determination she turned down the rough lane which led to the shore, her shore. She had heard nothing more from Scott Mallory about raising the money with which to move and make over the farmer’s cottage; neither had she heard from Philip Carr. Why should she? She was to have supper at his mother’s house Sunday night. He would tell her his plan then. Much more satisfactory to talk it over than to write.

  She stopped the flivver. Her spirit quickened to the beauty of the sparkling water, only a degree bluer than the cloudless sky above. Gulls sunned themselves on the silver dunes, which were beginning to show tufts of coarse grass; two marsh hawks sailed above them. Far off on the horizon floated a faint haze of smoke which meant a steamship Europe bound. A great cloud, gilt-edged, sailed along like a proud ship. Cranberry bogs showed faintly green. This shore was an ideal location for summer cottages.

  She pulled the letter from her pocket, frowned over the post-mark. New York. Couldn’t be from Scott, he lived in Boston. A man’s writing. Perhaps it was from Philip Carr. Club stationery. She tore open the envelope and looked at the signature. Scott Mallory! What was he doing in New York and why write to her? She pulled off her close hat, settled back in the seat. The salty breeze ruffled her hair as she read.

  NEW YORK CITY

  Dear Pam —

  You were right in your suspicion. The operation yarn was a hold-up for money. I wasn’t satisfied myself so came over here at once to investigate. Invited a man named Latimer who was in my class in college, and is now making a name for himself on the stage, to dine with me at the Club. Thought he might know your stepmother and I would get a line on her from him. Over smokes I asked him if he had met a girl in his profession named Cecile Mortimer. He said:

  “Curious you should ask that. She’s all but engaged for a show in which I’m cast. Never’ve seen her but hear that she’s one of those pink and blonde perils — and some little plunger in the market. I am asked to meet her tonight.”

  It wasn’t difficult to extract an invitation to go along. It was to be a party, I discovered, where half the guests were unknown to the hostess and were likely to remain so. I went. I met Cecile Mortimer, “the second Mrs. Leigh.” She is beautiful. I recognized what you meant about her clothes. Her gown was smart but crushed. We danced together several times. Each time I waited for her to stop because of a troublesome foot. Not so much as a fraction of a flinch. It was a noisy party, an exceedingly wet party. Young ex-marrieds, ex-marrieds not so young. Wild women, lit ladies by the giggling score; swashbuckling gents, even if they were arrayed in the latest word in dinner clothes, they were swashbucklers just the same. She grew talkative but made no mention of her past. I asked her no questions — I had found out the one thing I wanted to know — neither of her two feet required surgical attention — had they, she couldn’t have danced so incessantly. I don’t drink. Perhaps because of that I sensed her suspicion. Her animation waned. Her eyes smoldered, “sullen, broody.” There was a tempest brewing, I felt it in the air. When Latimer swayed up and suggested — you see, I’m giving you all the sordid details — “Want a divorce or two put through, Miss Mortimer? Now’s your chance, darling. One of the brightest lights of the Massachusetts Bar is at the present moment eating out of your hand.”

  “Massachusetts Bar!”

  Her repetition was a whisper. I remembered what you had said about her hair-trigger mind. She sprang to her feet, caught Latimer’s arm, repeated:

  “Massachusetts Bar?”

  “Sure. Boston. You know Boston. The place where the censors come from. That’s good —”

  Cecile Mortimer was not interested in his wisecracks. Her face blanched, her eyes narrowed to pin-points. She said under her breath:

  “How could I have been such a fool.” She caught Latimer’s arm. “I had begun to suspect that your friend didn’t belong at this party. You are an actor as well as a lawyer, Mr. Mallory; you are showing just the right amount of incredulity — you’re good, but not good enough.”

  She walked away. I left without saying good-night to the hostess whom I had not met. That was an hour ago. Ever since, Latimer’s words, “and some little plunger in the market,” have been milling round in my mind. Where does the money come from with which she plays the stock market? I am writing to you at once that one burden may be speedily lifted from your shoulders — no money will be needed for an operation — would that I could dispose of others so easily. I have written you in detail first because I want you to know all that happens, second because it seems to bring me near you, as if I were talking to you.

  Better say nothing of all this to your father. I will be down on Saturday. Have secured the loan on your land. We c
an push ahead on the cottage. Will be off again before your party at the Carrs’.

  Sincerely,

  SCOTT MALLORY.

  “Sincerely.” Pamela made a little face at the word. New England granite. As an antidote she re-read — “It seems to bring me near you, as if I were talking to you.” That had some warmth.

  She admonished herself sharply. Ungrateful person, sitting here criticizing Scott when she should be giving loud thanks that there was no need of raising eight hundred dollars. How had Cecile dared! She must think the Leigh family an easy mark. Why not? Hadn’t they allowed her to walk away with everything cashable at the time of her husband’s breakdown? Where was she getting money to invest? How like her to jump to the conclusion that Scott Mallory was shadowing her to make certain that her claim was valid.

  It wasn’t, glory be! What would she try next? Perhaps even now she was preparing another coup. How could she think that there was money to be had from the Leighs? The raw grinding of gears as she started the flivver was an outlet for Pamela’s emotions. She was still pondering the question as she drove up to the kitchen door.

  Mehitable Betts hurried out, thinner, gaunter, drabber than ever. “Get the oysters, Pam? Seem’s though the whole world’s gone crazy ’bout your oyster chowder. Three parties, four each, phoned for supper tonight.” She picked up the still dripping burlap as if it were a five cent bag of popcorn and carried it into the kitchen. Mentally calculating a problem in liquid measure, Pamela followed.

  “Three fours — twelve — fourteen —”

  “For the land’s sake, what you mumbling ’bout?” Miss Betts emptied the oysters into a pan, perched on a green enamel stool, jerked her spectacles in place, inserted a dull blade into a tightly clamped shell, with unbelievable economy of motion.