To Love and to Honour

by Emilie Loring

  “You always play fair, Thomas. You are the very nicest person I know.”

  “Are you playing fair when you declare in that passionately convincing voice that I am the nicest person you know? Forget it. I’m not beefing. I’ve settled down to a prolonged attack on what you think is your invincible heart. I’m one darn lucky guy to be putting on the act with you, but, I’m not kidding myself that I am the Prince — yet, Cinderella.”

  She couldn’t declare that he was, better say nothing, let silence answer for her. She liked him immensely but never had felt the force of attraction that had drawn her to Bill Damon the afternoon in Ella’s shop, which had increased in power ever since in spite of her indignation when she discovered he was Ken Stewart’s deputy. She hadn’t had the courage before to acknowledge it or probe into her heart.

  “Perhaps Damon wasn’t after a costume.” Tom Slade’s voice interrupted her self-examination. “He had a big man with him who looked like a movie plainclothes guy.”

  A plain-clothes guy. Since she had stepped into Tom’s car she hadn’t given a thought to the mystery at The Castle. Had Bill Damon’s insistence that she attend the masquerade been his way of getting her off the place while he installed a detective? Suppose the dick — if the man who had been in the shop with him were a dick-decided to investigate the secret staircase from the top?

  “What’s on the little mind, lovely? You muttered, ‘Horrors!’ as if something had frightened the daylights out of you.”

  “I thought — that roadster was heading straight for us.”

  “Oh, yeah? That isn’t the truth and you know it.”

  She couldn’t agree that it wasn’t the truth, couldn’t tell him that a vision of the plain-clothes man pitching down the secret staircase to the accompaniment of the clatter of copper frying pan and silver cups, had stopped her breath for a minute. Again silence appeared to be golden.

  “Perfect night, isn’t it, Thomas? There is still a tinge of rose color in the west from the sunset, and so many stars the sky appears gold-plated. Those must be the Perseids darting through the skies trailing fiery stardust. It is the season for them.”

  “I can’t concentrate on the stars, my thoughts are on my feet and what they will do to our act. Here we are. Every light in the Inn is on.”

  “I’m thrilled to the marrow. This masquerade was Lyd Fane’s idea, I’ll hand it to her for planning something exciting. Now that we are approaching the scene of our triumph —”

  “Jupiter, I hope it will prove a triumph. I’m getting the jitters.”

  “Think defeat and you invite defeat, Brother Slade. Think success and you invite success. We’ll be the sensation of the evening. One thing upon which we may count, there will be no audience participation in our act.”

  “You have something there, gal. Here we are at the rear door of the Inn. Our surreptitious entrance, our progress from this point on has been greased with folding money. Slip on your mask. I’ll put on mine later. I’ve arranged to leave our coats in the dressing room off the stage of the ballroom.”

  “I’ll take the car, Mr. Slade.”

  The sepulchral whisper oozed from the shadow of a shrub. It sent icy prickles slithering along Cindy’s veins. Suppose the act laid an egg? Lyd Fane would be jubilant and Tom never would forgive her for making him ridiculous. She caught his arm.

  “Suppose — suppose we’re a flop, Thomas. Wouldn’t we look silly —” A vision of what could happen choked off her whisper.

  “Come on, not getting scared, are you? Think defeat and you invite defeat, Sister Clinton.” He chuckled. “Atta gal. Step on it or we’ll be seen. Sure you’ve brought your skates?”

  She nodded. Her voice wouldn’t come.

  “Roger! When we get to the dressing room I’ll put them on for you.”

  Minutes later — it seemed hours — boots on with roller skates attached she had brought concealed in her coat pockets — she stood hand in hand with Tom inside a door beside the stage which opened into the ballroom. The band was playing a polka. She tried to relax, glanced at her partner through the slits in her mask. He was trim and slender in a crimson jersey and black satin knee pants. Where had he found a costume so suitable? He looked like a French-Canadian ice skater.

  The music muted to a wooing croon, softly seductive. Their cue — almost. She swallowed her heart which had zoomed to her throat.

  “Tom! My knees have turned to jelly.”

  “This is the heck of a time to turn to jelly.” he whispered hoarsely, and administered a shattering slap on her shoulder which rocked her on her skates. “Brace up.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen —” the voice of the band leader was sonorously impressive — “the management has provided a surprise for you. It presents the famous French-Canadian roller skate champions, the de Barcos!”

  “Ready? Let’s go.”

  An ear-splitting fanfare. A bar of “The Beautiful Blue Danube.” The door before Cindy and Tom Slade opened as if by magic. “The de Barcos” skated into the hall in perfect timing.

  A thunder of applause followed their entrance, died down till there was no sound but the nostalgic instrumentation of strings and brass, flutes and piccolos, a piano carrying the melody, the sound of rollers on the waxed floor.

  Round the hall they went, arms crossed, hands together, separated, and united. Twice they executed waltz turns before they backed toward the exit. At the door Tom Slade lifted Cindy’s hand to his lips. They made a sweeping obeisance and disappeared. A storm of applause, shouts of “Encore! Encore!” followed them.

  “They want us back. Shall we go?”

  “No.” Cindy refused breathlessly. “Why tempt Fate? We’ll take a bow and fade away with laurel still crowning our brows.

  “We put it across, Thomas,” she exulted as in the dressing room he knelt to remove her skates. “I was threatened with heart failure when you squeezed my hand to signal the first waltz turn.”

  “Your heart condition wasn’t a patch on mine. One false step, one obstruction, even so much as a bobby pin on that waxed floor and our act would have switched into an uproarious slapstick comedy. I’ll bet I aged ten years in that trip around the hall.” He pulled off her skates and put on the high-heeled red satin slippers.

  “There you are. All set? Slip out into the crowd through this door. I’ll make my entrance from the other side of the stage. Leave the white fur coat here with your raglan, you’ll die in it when you dance. You were a knockout, Cindy. You’ll be bombarded with compliments. Don’t let them turn your head — away from me. En avant, Madame de Barco.”

  A tall chef in white from turban to gloves and shoes was standing near the door as Cindy entered the hall.

  “Voulez-vous me faire le plaisir, Madame?” The low voice was unrecognizable.

  “Je suis enchantée, Monsieur.” she whispered.

  As he put his arm around her she glanced up. A small blond mustache outlined his upper lip, the slits in the black satin mask which covered his nose were so narrow that only a glint showed through. The “secretary” at Rockledge wore a mustache like that. Whoever he was he waltzed like a dream to the music of “Stardust.” Halfway round the hall a monk tagged his shoulder authoritatively. They stopped. Her partner raised her gloved hand to his lips.

  “Je reviendrai, Madame,” he murmured and was gone. Her eyes followed him till he was lost in the maze of dancers.

  To the music of “St. Louis Blues” from peasant to pirate she went. Men in the uniform of the army, air, the marines cut in — she hadn’t realized there were so many ex-fighters in the town or among the summer people, apparently there were guests from other places. Each man complimented her on her performance, some in whispers, some in a gutteral mutter, two in a high falsetto, all voices too well disguised to be recognizable.

  A woman in a costume made entirely of newssheets of the county paper from low-cut bodice to plaited skirt, with black earrings matching necklace and bracelets, carried a bundle of papers under her right
arm as she flitted from dancer to dancer apparently whispering news. A mysterious person. The tall chef appeared fascinated by her. Each time he danced with her a clown cut in.

  Undine, in a wave-green sequinned confection dripping with seaweeds and strings of exquisite pink shells, was Lyd Fane, undoubtedly. No wonder she had suggested a Bal Masqué with that sensational costume up her sleeve. A catty thought, Cindy reproached herself, and turned her attention to what appeared to be a college president in black cap and gown who had cut in on a Red Cross ambulance driver. For a bulky person he was extremely light on his feet.

  The clown touched his arm. It was the second time he had cut in on her dance. Red patches highlighted the cheekbones of his chalked face; an enormous mouth had been painted in the same brilliant color; a dab on the end of his nose and on his chin was black as the satin of his mask; his white peaked cap, the rest of his costume was the typical pantaloons and blouse of the circus. The glint of eyes between the slits in his mask sent icy prickles down her spine. Memory broadcast Sary’s voice:

  “Get a lot of folks together with their faces covered up an’ how do you know who you’re dancing with? A crook might slip in an’ hold you up.”

  Were his eyes fixed on her pearls or was it her hectic imagination working overtime? She gave a little sigh of relief when he was edged out by Prince Charming resplendent in sky-blue doublet and hose, a white satin cape swinging from one shoulder, and a beret with sweeping blue plume. He had cut in so often she was sure he was Hal Harding, the elaborate costume was right up his street.

  A Marquise in pale pink satin, with three diamond stars sparkling on a black velvet band in her white hair, now dancing with the college president, was Mrs. Barclay, she was sure. She —

  The tall chef laid a commanding hand on the shoulder of the Prince who muttered a protest which sounded more like a threat but gave way. The musicians were giving with saxophonic emphasis a Jerome Kern medley when she saw the clown weaving in and out among the dancers toward her.

  “Quick. Let’s dodge that clown coming this way,” she whispered at the risk of betraying her identity. “He has cut in twice before. I — I don’t like him.”

  A bell struck a resounding note. The music broke oft in the middle of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.'” The dancers stopped. The lights went out.

  “At the stroke of twelve unmask.”

  The band leader's voice reflected the tension that had stiffened each person in the room.

  Two! Three! Four! Five!

  Cindy’s nerves tingled as the bell tolled on.

  Eleven!

  “You are adorable in that skating costume — Cinderella,” whispered the chef.

  Bill Damon, she had time to think before the bell struck.

  Twelve!

  Lights up. Masks off. Excited laughter. Shouted names. “I knew you all the time,” in chorus. Cindy looked up into the laughing eyes of the man beside her. No mustache, only a faint red line where the falsie had been pulled off. He held the high turban in his left hand.

  “I warned you I would recognize you,” he reminded.

  She had the curious feeling that another person, shadowy, unreal stood at his shoulder. She shook her head as if to clear her eyes, brushed her hand across them. Had excitement doubled her vision?

  A bellhop in maroon livery with the yellow envelope of a telegram in his hand appeared in the large doorway. He cleared his throat as if from nervousness. All eyes turned toward him. Voices and laughter ceased. The air was heavy with suspense, as if each person present feared bad news. He entered the hall.

  “Paging — Colonel Kenniston Stewart,” he called.

  “Paging Colonel Kenniston Stewart.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE MAN beside Cindy gritted a furious expletive between his teeth. His hands clenched before he signaled to the paging boy who ran across the room in answer, his footsteps echoing in the still ballroom.

  “I’ll take it. I am Kenniston Stewart.” He accepted the yellow envelope and tore it open — glanced at the enclosure, crushed it in his hands.

  A seismic shock rippled through Cindy’s body. She remembered her inexplicable doubt that day on the beach as to this man’s identity.

  “Are you Ken Stewart?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Can you take it, Cinderella? You will when you look at the faces of Harding and the Fane girl who pulled this stunt. They are coming to gloat.”

  The trumpeter sounded the army mess call, “Come and get it! Come and get it!” and the laughing, colorful motley crowd, pirates and peasants, servicemen, dancing girls and chevaliers, monks and nuns made a concerted move toward the supper room.

  The malicious triumph which glinted in the eyes of Undine, in her wave-green costume, was duplicated in the sardonic grin of the prince in his light blue doublet and hose as they approached. Cindy considered the merits of a mad dash to the exit and The Castle and abandoned it. Why give that poisonous Lyd and Hal the satisfaction of knowing she was panicked? From the supper room drifted the music of an accordion playing the melody of a Spanish fandango. Someone was adding a castanet accompaniment. The ballroom was empty except for the two men, the woman in green and the girl in her scarlet skating costume.

  “What do you think of our H bomb, Cinderella?” Lydia mocked. She looked up and challenged, “You are Kenniston Stewart, aren’t you? You won’t deny it, will you?”

  Cindy wondered that his laugh could be so light when the lines between his nose and mouth looked as if drawn in India ink.

  “Deny it? My dear woman, why should I? You’ve only beaten me to the news by a few moments. I intended to cast off my alias when we went in to supper. It has served its purpose. I figured it would add one more dramatic touch to this gala evening.”

  “You planned to reveal your secret to the ex-Mrs. Stewart first, I assume?” Hal Harding jibed.

  Cindy checked the spasmodic upward jerk of the arm of the chef by slipping her hand under it and holding tight. She produced what she hoped was a tormenting smile.

  “Sorry to spoil the little joke, Hal, that you and Lyd have been working on for days I understand — even secrets get around — but ‘the ex-Mrs. Stewart’ has known the gentleman’s identity since the day of his arrival.” She looked up at the man beside her with a flicker of amused understanding, of mutual comprehension, then back with a smile and shrug of toleration to Harding and the girl.

  “The way your reflexes take that statement is uproariously funny. Now that that’s nicely settled, I suggest supper — and as if to pick up his cue here comes my skating partner to escort me to the buffet.”

  When Slade reached them she transferred her hand unhurriedly to his arm.

  “I began to think you had forsaken me, Tommy, thought you never would come and I, literally starving.” She took a step forward, turned, and looked over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be seeing you — Ken. To make this the perfect end of a perfect evening, you and I should be presented with an Oscar for our gay-deceiver act. By their expressions I’ll say we fooled ’em to the hilt. En avant, Monsieur de Barco.”

  She shook Slade’s arm as they crossed to the door.

  “For Pete’s sake, stop looking as if I had delivered a right to your jaw, Thomas. I — I — can’t take —”

  “Come out, Cindy. You mustn’t cry here. What the devil is it all about?”

  He pushed her ahead of him through a doorway, arm under hers, drew her to a shadowy corner at the end of the long porch. He pulled forward a wicker chair.

  “Sit here, lovely.”

  “I — I — can’t. I’d rather perch on the railing. I shan’t cry — again.” She brushed off two big tears that had spilled from her eyes to her cheeks. “I’m — I’m beginning to boil.”

  “Boil or cry, suit yourself so long as you tell me what it’s all about.” He leaned against an upright pillar facing her, watched her face as he shielded the light from a match he applied to a cigarette. “I came up in time to hear you call B
ill Damon ‘Ken.’ That name must have packed a wallop. I’ve never seen a bronzed face turn so white as his. Take it from there, Cindy. You owe me that.”

  Through the open window drifted the mellow voice of the band leader singing to the accompaniment of a piano.

  “Night and Day. Night and Day.”

  “The pink light on the horizon must be the battered old moon rising to see the dawn come up like thunder.” She contributed the gem of observation in an attempt at casual conversation.

  “I don’t give a lead nickel at the present moment for the moon or the dawn, lovely. Play fair. Is the man who has been living at the Inn as Bill Damon, Kenniston Stewart?”

  “That’s his story.”

  “Cut out flippancy. Get down to cases.” Never before had Tom Slade been curt with her. “Why did he crack through with the truth tonight? I slipped out while the clock was striking and missed the showdown. I had a hunch I’d better check on my car the boy drove off.”

  “Is it safe, Tom?”

  “Sure. There have been so many automobile thefts on this shore during the last month I got the jitters. It is locked tight as I left itJn the parking place in front of the Inn with dozens of models including two Town and Country convertibles like mine. I thought I had the one and only in this part of the country. I’ve given you time, Cindy, to pull yourself together, now I want the truth from A to Z about this Damon-Stewart mix-up.”

  “I don’t know the truth. You’ll have to page the dual-personality himself for that.”

  “Didn’t he offer you an explanation?”

  “I don’t need one. Use your imagination, Thomas. He had to come to the United States to get his fortune out of the oil holdings. When he arrived in this town the marriage contract still was valid. Undoubtedly he figured that if I knew who he was I would burst into sobs on his shoulder and beg him not to desert me.”

  “You are unfair to him, Cinderella. Perhaps he came here to get to know you because of the business interests you and he had in common, to be friends with you. Be honest, he wouldn’t have had the smidgin of a chance had he appeared as himself, Ken Stewart, would he? As to letting that annulment go through, I’m with him every step of the way. What man wants to hold a woman to a written-contract marriage?”