To Love and to Honour

by Emilie Loring

  As Cindy entered the hall a radioed voice was singing:

  “I want to go where you are —”

  The song ceased abruptly. Sarah Ann Parker appeared at the door of the old kitchen.

  “Isn’t Mr. Damon comin’ in to have dinner with you? Thought perhaps he would to talk over your case comin’ up tomorrow. Is he plannin’ to be there?”

  “He isn’t supposed to be present. This is an uncontested case, remember. I’d like my dinner in the patio, Sary.”

  She went slowly up the stairs with a curious let-down feeling. “Why shouldn’t he go off on business tomorrow?” she demanded of the girl who faced her in the long mirror of her room. This annulment is nothing in his life. He didn’t answer when I said, “You may be married.” Probably he is. She pulled off the coral orange velvet hat, unfastened the corsage of matching sweet peas, and brushed her hand across her eyes to clear them of tears.

  “I want to go where you are —”

  The voice rose from below. Sarah had switched on the radio.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THERE WAS a gray-haired man in a black robe seated at a desk in the County Courthouse. On the wall above his head spread the Stars and Stripes. The sight of the flag stiffened Cindy’s knees. Time she stopped feeling as if she were committing a crime. Perhaps after today the turmoil of her spirit would settle down. Perhaps in time the written contract marriage would seem as remote as if it had happened in a dream. The Judge’s shaggy brows drew together in an appraising frown as the keen eyes under them met hers. Armstrong beside her inflated and deflated his cheeks.

  “Mrs. Cinderella Clinton Stewart, Your Honor. Judge Shelton, Mrs. Stewart.”

  The man at the desk rose, reached across to offer his hand and smiled.

  “I don’t need an introduction to little Cindy Clinton. I used to see you when I played chess with your father before he became a celebrated inventor and I hung out my shingle for the law. We thought we were world-beaters. Sit here.” He indicated a chair beside the desk. “Ready, Counselor.” His voice had changed from friendliness to gravity as befitted the business before him.

  She watched Armstrong step forward and spread papers on the desk without really seeing him. For one instant the friendliness of His Honor tempted her to ask if he approved of this annulment. That was a cockeyed thought. What difference would his opinion make? Kenniston Stewart’s life and hers were to be considered.

  Wasn’t the defendant — he wasn’t a defendant, he was a non-contestant — clamoring for his freedom.

  Another perfect day. A breeze drifting in through an open window brought the faint scent of autumn. Was that silly wasp crawling up the screen and sliding down trying to escape into the outside world? Did each living creature who came into this room in the Courthouse want out?

  “Have you no respect for the inviolability of a contract?” Bill Damon had asked. Why hadn’t he asked that question of his friend before he crossed the ocean with the declared intention of freeing him from that same contract? Now she was being irrational. Why should he try to influence either of the parties involved?

  “You are quite sure you want this marriage by written contract annulled, Cinderella?”

  The dark eyes peering at her over the rims of the Judge’s spectacles were as grave as his voice. He was questioning her as he might a daughter; his was the role of a friendly adviser, not that of the strong arm of the law.

  “Yes, Your Honor.'”

  “I understand you never have seen Kenniston Stewart.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  More questions, more answers. Why did he repeat questions the answers to which he knew from her lawyer’s presentation of the case? It seemed as if she had been sitting beside the desk for hours. The breeze had wandered away. The amethyst cotton frock with the stem of a blush-pink dahlia drawn through the belt began to feel wilted. At the last minute she had pulled on a soft hat for fear that if she appeared in the Judge’s chambers without her head covered she might be fined for contempt of court.

  “That’s all, Cinderella Clinton.” She rose as he came from behind the desk with hand extended.

  “Is that really my name again?”

  “It is. Counselor Armstrong will file all necessary papers and send duplicates to Kenniston Stewart. You are as free as if you never had signed that contract. Legally your marriage is held not to have existed. Consider yourself a single girl. You may marry again as soon as you like.”

  “Marry! No. No. You understand, don’t you, Judge Shelton, that I didn’t ask for this annulment because I was in love with anyone, anyone on earth.”

  “I understand, Cinderella. If I had had doubts the blazing sincerity of your eyes and voice would have convinced me. I had that in mind when I granted the annulment quickly, that and the fact that you sought your freedom in your actual domicile. So many seek a court in another state to hasten a divorce in violation of the laws of their own state. Each state retains the power to regulate marriage and divorce. You were well advised.”

  She was thinking of his words as she stepped into her ancient jalopy in the Courthouse parking space. Sounded like an oft-rehearsed little speech to be delivered after each divorce.

  Now what? Thank heaven there was no indication she would be rendered hors de combat by sleep at this milestone in her life as she had been when the responsibility of the oil holdings had been lifted from her shoulders. What a curious experience! Lucky she had been with Bill Damon who understood. Sary had relayed his explanation. It had been so believable that her fright had been assuaged. He hadn’t mentioned it yesterday while they were together. Was it really business that had called him to Portland this afternoon or had he wanted to side-step the hearing?

  One! Two! Three! Four!

  A village clock intoned the hour. Only four o’clock. How quickly the marriage had been terminated that had taken such an interminable time and endless correspondence to contract. “Legally your marriage is held not to have existed. Consider yourself a single girl,” Judge Shelton had said. Why think of the past? From this minute she was free to go forward. Where?

  Too early to go home. Sary would be lying in wait to pounce with questions, to ply her with tea and toast as if she needed solace after a harrowing experience. On the contrary, it had been heart-warming, the Judge had been so friendly.

  Why sit here deliberating? She would drive to the shop where she had left the films to be blown up. She hadn’t dared leave them with Ella Crane, who would have third-degreed her to find out why she wanted them enlarged, who the man and girl were.

  “Hey, Cindy! Is it all over? Are you free? Now we can go places.”

  Hal Harding’s eager voice hailed her. Hal Harding’s hand was on the windshield. Hal Harding’s light blue eyes were sparkling with triumph.

  “Not today. Move away, Hal. I don’t want company.” With a snort the jalopy leaped forward.

  “You’ll have company. I never give up w-h-a-t I w-a-n-t.”

  His shout of angry warning with its hint of threat drifted into a murmur as she gave the car all it had, which wasn’t so much, until she reached the highway. She slowed down. Glanced out the rear window. He was not following. Perhaps he realized how ridiculous he appeared standing in the Courthouse parking lot shouting after a departing car.

  An hour later she drove the jalopy into the garage at The Castle. It was a modern miracle that she had made the trip without a crack-up. All the way to the city and back she had relived the experiences of the last three years with Hal Harding’s “You’ll have company. I never give up what I want,” an obbligato accompaniment. The annulment hearing had been like a hand writing finis at the bottom of a page. Now she would leave the past behind and begin a brand-new chapter.

  She stole into the house, successfully dodged Sarah Ann Parker, showered, changed to a sleeveless aqua organdy and fastened a pink Perfection rose to her shoulder. But when she sat down at the glass table in the patio, where a crystal plate piled with rosy balls of ice
d watermelon awaited her, Sarah swooped like an owl which had been watching for its rabbit prey.

  She continued to hover after she served a delicately roasted squab chicken, a flaky baked potato, outsize peas of a sweet and melting tenderness, a fluffy roll, and currant jelly red as a mammoth pigeon-blood ruby.

  “Who was the Judge?” she inquired as she filled a hollow-stem glass with a fruit juice combination sparkling as champagne, cold as a mountain spring.

  “Shelton? The Federal Judge? He’s a wise man, an’ an awful nice one. Want to know somethin’? He was terribly in love with Ally Armstrong when they was young. Suddenly she went off an’ married Lord Barclay, folks never knew what happened. He’s an old bach, has a fine family place — up Portland way.” She added Roquefort cheese dressing to slices of chilled avocado and sections of pink grapefruit on pale green lettuce.

  “He told you he played chess with your father? Sure he played with him. 1 remember him coming to this house.

  “You seem surprised he was friendly. Why not? That’s the way a Judge should be to folks who bring their troubles to court, not scare ’em to death.

  “Did he lambast that Kenniston Stewart for not being here to appear before him?”

  The question accompanied the serving of an individual baked Alaska, its meringue a delicate brown above vanilla ice cream.

  “He didn’t? Want to know somethin’? If I’d been that judge I’d have said a scorching thing or two.” And on and on until the ring of the telephone called her away.

  One thing to plan to start a new life and another to accomplish the feat, Cindy decided later in the old kitchen with the pumpkin-yellow walls she used as a workroom. She drew ledger and account book from the drawer of a flat mahogany desk, the only modern piece of furniture among priceless antiques, and laid them on top.

  Hands clasped behind her head she leaned back in the swivel chair. Nice room. The mulberry borders and black centers of the Canova platter, tea and dinner plates on the shelves of the open cupboard were in charming contrast to the walls. They made an effective bit of color.

  Allah be praised, Sary wouldn’t follow her here. The Woman at Work sign hung on the knob outside the door and even she, whom nothing fazed, would Stop! Look! Listen! when she saw that.

  The sight of the books she had laid on the desk in preparation for the evening’s work induced a slight attack of nausea. Was it possible that after the final tax return was finished she would be out of the oil business forever? Out of work, too. Then what would she do?

  Something definite. Something worth while. I will decide what I want most, plan for it and go after it with all there is in me. Bill Damon has the right idea. I want to be an honored citizen who counts in the welfare of the nation. I harangued Hal Harding as to the responsibility of wealth. Now it is up to me to prove I can practice what I preach.

  She glanced at the six silver tennis trophy cups on the high shelf above the old oven. She had worked to win those. She had been up against amateurs who later had ranked among the best players in the country. The dated, autographed golf balls in the glass case on the wall she had won putting.

  Yesterday she had invited Mrs. Drew to use The Castle green. The more she had thought of the woman since the call the less she liked her. Something artificial about her, might be her hair, undoubtedly it had been bleached, perhaps once it had been the color of her almost black eyes. She was pretty — in a way — but prissy. The word described her manner perfectly.

  Was she really the silent partner in a big cosmetic company? Did that explain her need of a “secretary”? Or was the man Laurence Lloyd there for a different reason? In spite of her snap at him she was a little afraid of him.

  Why had Alida Barclay pressed her fingers against the wall in the Rockledge living room? She jumped when I entered as if she had been caught stealing sheep. Her explanation that she was considering having a wall in her New York apartment done in bleached maple was a phony. Mrs. Drew was so sure she had seen or met her before, uneasily sure. Why? Ally had planned a dinner for her. Would she entertain the woman if she thought she was an undesirable person in the community?

  I’d better stop speculating about my neighbors and tackle the accounting, but the neighbors are a heap more interesting, she admitted. As she reached for the ledger she saw the large envelope which contained the blown-up film she had dropped to the desk when she came home. She drew out the print. Tipped back in the swivel chair and studied it.

  Nice composition for an amateur. “Gal, you’re good,” she congratulated herself. The enlargement had been well done. The faces were recognizable, the girl was the maid who had served tea yesterday at Rockledge, her swim costume had come out a brilliant red. The green tie worn by the man and each black and white check of his suit stood out against the turquoise of the sky and the ultramarine ocean. A successful example of color photography even if she said it who shouldn’t.

  She held the print under the desk light. In spite of the low drawn hat brim each feature of his face was clear cut. Tough, as she had expected. He looked like a person who would ogle a strange girl at the beach. The bad-man tilt of his hat reminded her of someone, not Bogart —

  Her heart took off to her throat and as suddenly grounded. It was like the hat of the person who had slipped out the rear door of the hall at The Castle the day she had met the bracelet man at Ella Crane’s shop. She had thought him a product of imagination then, now she knew he had been real. Why had he been in her house? Why had he sneaked —

  What was that? The print she held fell to the floor as she sprang to her feet. Something was scratching at the outside of the priceless old painted shade she had drawn over the open window so the light of the room would not disclose the fact that she was within. A signal? Who was it? Tom Slade wouldn’t intrude after she had told him she wanted to be alone. The sound again. “You’ll have company.” Hal Harding’s threat echoed through her memory. He was as unpredictable as he was persistent.

  “I’ll show him — and how,” she declared under her breath and snapped up the shade with a force that sent it quivering on its roller.

  “Sarah Ann Parker wouldn’t let me in,” explained a low voice from the gloom outside. “I had to see you.” A leg slid over the window sill. A man swung into the room. He reached to the tassel, pulled down the shade, and turned.

  “I have an important message to deliver,” declared Bill Damon.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A MESSAGE? From whom? What did he mean? Apprehensive of a crisis she backed away.

  “Of what are you afraid?” He was smiling as he laid a large round white paper-covered box on the desk. “I’m off to Washington tomorrow. Before I go I have a commission to carry out for Ken Stewart. I am considering the most tactful approach to the subject.”

  The desk stopped her retreat. A wave of color swept over her neck and face to her hair.

  “He didn’t dare tell you to — to —” Fury choked her voice.

  “To kiss you good-by? What an imagination you have. Certainly not. Besides, when I kiss a girl I don’t post a notice.” The laughter in his eyes set even her ears burning.

  “Sit down, please. How can I talk to you when you appear to be figuring the distance to the door? What’s this on the floor?” He picked up the enlarged print.

  She explained, added:

  “Remember the morning we sat on the beach and I told you the tilt of the man’s hat was familiar? You laughed and declared it was the Humphrey Bogart tilt to the fraction of an inch. I am sure now where I saw it.”

  “Where?”

  She told of entering the hall the afternoon after she had met him in Ella Crane’s shop, of seeing the silhouette of a man at the other end, of his quick exit.

  “Sure you saw someone?”

  “I am now, then I thought it was an imagination hangover from last summer when this place swarmed with motion-picture smugglers and their hidden treasure.”

  He studied the print.

  “Sure this is t
he same guy?”

  “I wouldn’t go into court and swear it was he, with only the tilt of his hat as evidence, but the girl in the red swim suit who was with him at the beach was the maid who opened the door at Rockledge yesterday.”

  “That’s interesting. She dropped in while I was talking to Sary in the kitchen the day we signed the oil property deeds. Came to borrow eggs, she said. May I take this for twenty-four hours?”

  “Keep it. I don’t want it.”

  “We have detoured from the assignment which brought me here,” he reminded as he slipped the print into the pocket of his bluish-gray coat. “Is it all over but the shouting?”

  “If you mean the annulment, it is,” she succumbed to an impelling need to confide in someone, “but, curiously enough, I don’t feel like shouting. I thought when I was free my spirit would soar on silver wings, instead of that, I can’t seem to get it off the ground. Believe it or not, I feel as if I had lost something.”

  “It seems to me you had everything to gain. What had you to lose?”

  “Perhaps it is the name. I always loved ‘Mrs. Kenniston Stewart.’”

  “Cindy —”

  “I don’t need your shocked voice to remind me that I’m a mass of contradiction. I don’t understand myself.”

  “Cindy —” He cleared his voice. “Please sit down.” As she sat on the very edge of the swivel chair he perched on a corner of the flat desk. He drew an oblong violet velvet case from an inside pocket of his coat.

  “Ken hopes you will accept this as a slight token of appreciation of all you have done for him. Don’t draw back and stare as if you thought the thing would explode. Open it. O.K., if you won’t, I will.” He pressed a spring. The cover of the case flew up. She clasped her hands tight in thrilled surprise.