To Love and to Honour

by Emilie Loring

  “That seems to be that,” Armstrong breathed a sigh of relief. “Even as a girl Sarah Ann Parker had a tongue sharp as a serpent’s fang. Age hasn’t dulled it. My sister, Alida Barclay, wants to meet you, Mrs. Stewart. She will call, after which we hope you will dine with us.”

  Having observed the social amenities he drew a letter from a long envelope, tried to tilt back in the chair, which refused to tilt, and laid the paper on the glass table.

  “This is from Kenniston Stewart in answer to my letter asking if he would consent to the annulment of the marriage.”

  “Consent? That was a silly question to ask. He wants his freedom as much as I want mine.”

  “Asking his consent is a matter of form to be filed with the records of the case.”

  “Does he say why he didn’t answer my question, shall I sell the oil holdings?”

  “Read the letter aloud. I’d like to hear it.”

  Cindy picked up the sheet of paper, skipped the formal beginning, read:

  I have been away from the base on an assignment, have just received your letter and Mrs. Stewart’s [so he thinks of me as Mrs. Stewart, that’s a laugh] re the sale of our holdings. I am in no position to advise. Fortunately a fellow officer, an engineer and authority on patents who knows something of the country in which our property is located, is returning to the States. I have appointed him my proxy to relieve her of some responsibility. He has a power of attorney, which automatically cancels the one I gave to Mrs. Stewart. He will confer with her and with you. Whatever he advises is my decision. I trust him implicitly.

  As to the annulment, I am all for it. It was a crazy contract I will sign any papers that will annul it, but, I suggest that it wait until after the property is sold — if it is sold. The marriage was cooked up to protect the holdings, I think it should hold, while we own the property. However, I will leave that to the judgment of you and Colonel Bill Damon — Bill, not William — who has been commissioned by me to decide that matter also.

  Yours truly,

  Kenniston Stewart

  “I won’t delay the annulment.” Cindy crushed the letter in her hand. “Who does Ken Stewart think he is? My overlord? Forward the papers he should sign, Mr. Armstrong. If he doesn’t reply wouldn’t it mean, case uncontested? I’ve seen an expression like that in accounts of divorce trials. If he thinks I’ll let this other man decide what I am to do, he has another think coming to him. What is this deputy’s name?” She smoothed out the crumpled sheet. “Colonel Bill Damon. Ever hear of him?”

  “No, I doubt if we do. A man who has been abroad for years won’t bother himself with another chap’s troubles, he’ll have plans of his own. We’ll proceed with the annulment — and the sale of the property. I’m boarding a plane tonight for the oil holdings, be back in a week. You have the power of attorney Stewart sent you. That’s good till this other shows up, if it ever does.”

  “Ken Stewart advised the sale first. If he isn’t sufficiently interested to come home — don’t tell me he couldn’t get leave after all these years if he wanted it — and attend to the matter himself, I will take over. We’ll crack that marriage contract first.”

  “I agree with Stewart. The sale first. You have an excellent offer. If you wait you may lose it. Are you sure you want to sell that valuable property?”

  “Yes. I think you should know that Kenniston Stewart loaned his father and mine the capital — he had inherited his mother’s fortune — with which to lease the land, develop their patents, buy the needed tools, and drill test-wells. As fast as income came in Father would deduct what we needed for living and pay the balance into Ken Stewart’s account. Since he died I have done the same, until now my share is free and clear of indebtedness to him.”

  “You’ve been very wise for one so young, Mrs. Stewart.”

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of owing money. This letter has steeled my decision. The annulment of the marriage first. I won’t wait a minute for that deputy of Ken Stewart’s who may never come. I — What is it, Sary?” she asked of the woman who appeared at the door.

  “There’s a man on the phone who wants to speak to you. Says he’s a friend of your husband, says his name is Bill Damon.”

  Surprise brought Cindy to her feet. She looked inquiringly at Armstrong, before she said crisply:

  “Tell the gentleman that I am too busy to see him now or ever.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WITH a 35 mm. camera containing color film hung from her neck, Cindy paused before she entered the Club bathhouse to change her violet and white checked play-suit for swim clothes. She drew a deep breath of the briny air straight off the ocean. What a day. The sandy beach curved in between two low promontories walled by jagged brown boulders. The white frilled tide flowed and ebbed lazily. Far out beyond a stationary float breakers broke whitely against a reef with a rhythmic Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Life and color everywhere. A balloon man surrounded by near-naked youngsters occupied stage-center, his green and red and yellow spheres bobbing and tugging at their strings against a backdrop of clear blue sky and malachite sea. Children digging. Building. Licking arsenic-green Popsicles. Dogs watching hungrily. Gay umbrellas. Canopied chairs. Figures outstretched on the sand in colorful scraps of clothing staring up at the sky through the black lenses of sunglasses. Man and woman pacing the beach, her multi-colored parasol a moving splash of vivid,color. Gypsy in enormous hat peddling baskets. Stout woman with ankle-length skirt wading. Diminutive black cloud of sandpipers on the wing. Girl in crimson one-piece bathing suit on the step of a pavilion applying lipstick. Flashy man in black-and-white check suit, soft hat drawn low over one eye ogling her. Human interest. They were both facing her. Something familiar about the tough guy. She focused her camera on the couple and snapped it. The man must have heard the click, for he eyed her with a baleful glare.

  Little boys tumbled in and out of the lifeguard’s dory drawn high on the beach. That lifeguard. Jim d’Arcy. His first season here. Bossy creature. Female admiration had gone to his head. He rated admiration. She would hand him that. Tall, slim, straight as an arrow. Lean hips. Brief sky-blue trunks on a perfect body beautifully tanned. With wings on his white cap and at his heels, his right arm raised, his left upholding a caduceus, he would be Giovanni di Bologna’s bronze Mercury come to life.

  She made a little face in his direction. She had had two tilts with him since her arrival. Twice he had followed her in his boat to remind her that swimmers were not allowed beyond the float, as if she hadn’t just realized that she was out of bounds. Of course he had been in the right, but his manner had infuriated her.

  She entered the bathhouse barely avoiding collision with a woman going out. She looked after the as-near-as-nothing-as-the-law-allows clothed figure with its unbecoming rolls of flesh and shook her head. After spending hours on this beach, observing the swim clothes many women wear, no one ever will convince me that my sex is vain, she told herself.

  Her cap matched the string of large turquoise-color porcelain beads at the base of her throat, as in a white sharkskin suit with a brief pleated skirt she ran toward the shore. As she passed the pavilion she heard the girl in the red swim suit say:

  “I’ll try. Give me time —”

  “Shut up,” a low voice warned.

  The black-and-white check man and the girl whose pictures she had snapped were quarreling. Evidently they were pals and she had thought he was being given the come-on, Cindy decided before she waded into the water and struck out for the float.

  “Come back!”

  A man’s shout. That pesky lifeguard again. She wasn’t anywhere near out of bounds. She glanced up at the plane only a trifle less blue than the sky, deafeningly thrumming above her head.

  Another call. What did it mean? She raised her shoulders from the water and looked ahead. A motorboat just beyond the float was making a beeline for her. Was the person at the wheel stark mad? She looked again. There was no one at the wheel. The boat was running amok, was
headed for her with diabolic intent.

  Memories of stories she had heard of swimmers beheaded or rendered footless by a propeller blade, panicked her, paralyzed her arms and legs. She must make the float. Her haven seemed miles ahead in a rough jade-green sea.

  “Steady. Take it easy!”

  The voice rose above the hum of the oncoming motor. An arm seized her and dragged her down, down, down. Instinctively she closed her lips and eyes. It seemed but an instant before she rose to the surface and a breathless voice encouraged:

  “It has gone over us. You can make the float. Only a foot ahead.”

  A huge wave made by the careening boat, a hand on her wrist, and another under her armpit lifted her to the rough boards. She clung to an iron ring. The lifeguard had disappeared. She’d never call him bossy again. Had he gone under? Had he been struck by the propeller while saving her? She flung herself flat and reached down with one hand.

  “This way. This way,” she called. “Grab my arm and I’ll pull you up.”

  A black head appeared. A voice shouted.

  “Get back. I’m all right. Hold on. Another giant swell coming.”

  One hand gripping the iron ring, the other clutching the edge of the float with all her strength, she clung while the water swept over her and knocked the breath from her body. She opened her eyes as a man with her blue cap in one hand pulled himself up beside her; sat back on her heels, shook water from her hair, and looked up into clear gray eyes in a tanned face. The bracelet man.

  “You? I thought it was the lifeguard. Thank heaven you’re safe. If anything had happened to you because you came to my aid —”

  “Forget it. Here’s your cap. O.K?”

  “Yes. Still a trifle jittery. I was frightened. I had visions of appearing in the future with my head tucked under my arm like the headless horseman when in pursuit of Ichabod. Don’t look at me as if you suspected I’d gone haywire. Talking like a house afire helps me relax. It seems painfully inadequate to say ‘Thank you.’ I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

  “Stop imagining gruesome possibilities. The crazy craft is now shooting toward the open sea. Just escaped piling up on the ledge. Out of our lives forever.”

  “How far will it run?”

  “Till the gas gives out.”

  “What do you suppose became of the skipper? Drowned?” She shivered.

  “It is more probable that a new owner, wet behind the ears, started the engine, then stepped out of the boat for something, and the cagey thing shot off on a little joy ride of its own. Why didn’t you turn back when I shouted?”

  “I thought it was the brand-new lifeguard getting bossy. We have had two showdowns. I’ve been bathing on this beach all my life, it’s more fun than going in alone off The Castle shore. I thought the hum I heard was from the plane overhead.”

  “I was the lifeguard, pro tem, while the boy went for his lunch. Ready to go back?”

  “I’ll sit here and sun for a while. Don’t let me keep you.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion, but I like to finish a job I start. You are still shaking.”

  She had hoped he had not noticed her poorly suppressed shivers.

  “It’s a silly reaction I have after fright. I acknowledge I was scared stiff. I couldn’t move. It really doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just the way I’m made.” She kicked the water into foam to emphasize indifference.

  “If you feel that way about it I’ll go. I can see Jim d’Arcy’s white cap. He’s back on the job. I’ll leave you and report to him.” He dived.

  “Don’t —” she snapped her lips together before the word “go” escaped. The thought of being left alone panicked her. Never before had she been afraid of the ocean. Slowly she pulled on the turquoise blue cap. The yellow beach where the tide ruffled whitely seemed miles away. Gould she make it?

  A brown hand with a seal ring gripped the edge of the float. A sleek wet head appeared. A shoulder with an ugly jagged reddish scar followed. White teeth gleamed in a strongly lined bronzed face.

  “How about it? Ready to be good and come along with me?”

  “Am I? Watch me. Just watch me.” She slid into the water.

  He fitted his stroke to hers. They swam toward shore side by side till they could touch the sand with their feet, then waded in. They walked up the beach to the music of “Good Luck and the Same to You” coming from a portable radio.

  “I saw British Tommies marching to that tune just before I left London,” he said. “Better stop a minute. You are still breathless.”

  She sank to the sand beside a colorful plaid beach robe, and pulled off the turquoise blue cap.

  “The stiffening appears to have oozed from my knees temporarily. I’ll sit here till it returns to normal. A million thanks for your help. Don’t feel you must wait for me.”

  “When I go in for a rescue stunt I hang around till I am sure my patient is O.K.” His straight body was as brown as the lifeguard’s, his trunks as blue as the sky. He pulled on the gay beach robe. “As you see, I like exuberant colors. With your permission.” He dropped down beside her.

  “We’re about the only persons left on the beach except d’Arcy and the girl in the red one-piece snuggling up to the man in the loud suit,” he observed.

  “I snapped a picture of them, they seem so out of character on this beach. Later they were quarreling as I passed. They seem to have made it up now. I have the most curious feeling I’ve seen him, the tilt of his hat, before.”

  He laughed.

  “Sure you have. In the movies. That is bad boy Humphrey Bogart’s tilt to the fraction of an inch.” He drew a package of cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket in the beach robe and offered them.

  “Have one?”

  “No, thanks.” She waited until he had blown a smoke ring or two. “Did your Sally like the bracelet?” she inquired.

  “Sally was improvised at the moment to give the hatchet-faced Ella the impression that you and I were old friends. I bought it to send to a homesick woman overseas.”

  “You didn’t fool Ella Crane for a minute. She fancies she’s psychic. She has been owner and head bottle-washer of that shop for years. It is not only a listening post, it is a major clearing station with broadcasting facilities for town gossip. That woman has seen me grow up and never lets me forget the fact.”

  “Then you are grown-up?”

  She liked the way his eyes which could be piercingly keen collaborated with his mouth when he smiled.

  “Certainly I’m grown-up. I have been handling business affairs for three years and not a child prodigy, either. I am a certified accountant.”

  “Fancy that. What’s happened to your hair since yesterday? Your head is covered with short curls.”

  “I had it cut this morning. Fortunately it has a natural wave.” She ran the fingers of her right hand through the wet hair. “It will look more presentable when it dries.”

  “Even wet it has a golden glint. I thought the chatty Ella called you Cinderella. Right?”

  “Right. It is my name, worse luck. Now don’t quip, ‘Has the Prince found your slipper?’ It was amusing the first time I heard it, but it has lost its rapier edge.”

  He threw back his head and laughed a spontaneous laugh of genuine amusement which made one think, “What a bright girl am I.”

  “Good line. Sorry I didn’t think of it first.”

  Stretched out at length, resting on one elbow, he began to scoop, mold and pat the sand till it assumed outlines. Fascinated she watched his long, supple brown fingers add a tiny turret to the structure.

  “As there is no Prince in the offing, another castle for Cinderella,” he explained.

  “It’s a masterpiece. Even to the little windows. Pity the tide will wash it away.”

  “The castle for my Cinderella can’t be washed away. It will be built on a rock.”

  “Are you —” she remembered the jagged scar — “were you an architect before you went into the service?”

&n
bsp; “As an avocation only. I have helped my friends when they made over old houses. Sometimes I help them in other ways, also — I was off to a good start as a consulting engineer when Uncle Sam called me.”

  A quizzical light in the eyes that challenged hers when he said “Sometimes I help them in other ways, also” clanged a warning. She sprang to her feet.

  “You are Bill Damon,” she accused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HE SWEPT the little castle flat and rose.

  “Why should I? You refused to speak to him when he phoned. I couldn’t very well stop and introduce him when that boat was shooting for us, could I?”

  “I still don’t want to talk with you.”

  “That’s just too bad. Because I am in this town to stay and we are likely to meet. Remember I told you that when I started a job I hung on till it was finished?”

  “Are you referring to the job for Kenniston Stewart?”

  “That is one of them.”

  “Why doesn’t he come home and settle the matter himself?”

  “Why are you so bitter against Ken? Is it a defense mechanism? Not in love with him, are you?”

  “In love with him. That’s the funniest thing I ever heard. I’ve never even seen a picture of him — and you may be sure he never has seen one of me. I refused to send it, not that he asked for one, it was his father’s suggestion. Didn’t the chatty Ella tell you the story of my life? I’ll bet she did, pulling out all the stops. I’m the town’s Exhibit A. Haven’t you heard about me from the man whom you are here to represent?”

  “Yes, but I would like your side of it. I want to be absolutely fair. Why did you do it?”

  “Do what? Marry Ken Stewart or start the annulment?”

  “Let’s take first things first. Marry?”

  “At the time it seemed the valid solution of a problem. He and I consented to help his father and mine. Because looking back it seems a cockeyed proceeding doesn’t alter the fact that it appeared to be the only way out then.”