Unexpected Night

CHAPTER ONE A Pale Young Man-2

“Curious that his people should allow it,” said Gamadge.

“They don’t cross him,” said the Colonel. “They do as he pleases. He should have been brought up to obey orders.”

“Now, Father, it’s easy to say that, but it has been a dreadful problem for poor Eleanor; my sister-in-law, Mr. Gamadge—she’s his guardian; his parents are dead. My brother was appointed guardian to both the children, and then he died, and now Eleanor looks after them.”

“Two children, are there?”

“Oh, yes. Brother and sister.”

“Alma doesn’t count—yet,” said young Barclay, smiling a little.

“Of course she counts, Freddy! What a thing to say!”

“You’ll have to tell Gamadge all about it, Mum; he looks interested.”

Gamadge was glad that he had given that impression. He said: “There’s a story, is there?”

“A very interesting story, Mr. Gamadge. A very peculiar story. My nephew Amberley will be twenty-one years old to-morrow, and he will come into nearly a million dollars.”

“Whew!”

“If he lives,” said young Barclay. He consulted his watch, and added: “Sixty-eight minutes to go. I should say he’d make it.”

“Freddy!”

“Well, Mum, we’re all pretty well used to the situation by this time. Matter of fact, he may live for years.”

“It is an interesting situation, though,” said Gamadge. “May I ask what would have happened to the million if he hadn’t lived?”

“That’s what makes it so interesting,” said young Barclay, in a dry tone. “Every cent of it would go to some French connections that none of us has ever laid eyes on.”

An ancient grievance was smouldering in Mrs. Barclay’s eye. She said crossly: “I still think that will could have been broken. I said at the time that it could have been broken. I begged and implored Mr. Ormville—that’s our lawyer, Mr. Gamadge—I begged him——”

The Colonel spoke rather impatiently: “Ormville knows what can and can’t be done, Lulu. The will was all right.”

“It was iniquitous! My oldest sister, Mr. Gamadge, was eccentric; I still think that she had become irresponsible.”

“Mum was ready and willing to shoot her into a lunatic asylum, weren’t you, poor old Mum?” laughed Fred Barclay.

“I certainly should have done something about it if I had known; but we didn’t know, unfortunately, Mr. Gamadge… until she died. You see, she had married a Frenchman, and she had lived in France for years. She had become very peculiar even before she died. She didn’t care for any of us any more—her own relations!—except my brother, Amberley’s father. He took the child over there to see her, and she immediately took a fancy to the child. It amounted to infatuation.”

“And you took this child over to see her, and she took anything but a fancy to me,” laughed Fred Barclay.

Mrs. Barclay ignored him. “Amberley has stayed with her several times. She took him to specialists. She gave him a huge allowance. And when she died, she left a will leaving him all her money—if he should live to be twenty-one years old. If he didn’t, it was to go to her husband’s French relations.”

“I see,” said Gamadge. “It was her husband’s money, was it?”

“Oh, yes; he was a very rich man. Some of them are, you know—they make it in Indo-China, or somewhere. I thought him very vulgar.”

“Not at all,” growled the Colonel. “Good sort of fellow.”

“You should see his relations, Harrison! You never met them, but I did. Freddy is wrong when he says none of us has ever laid eyes on them. I did, years ago.”

“Mother has met everybody, at one time or another,” said young Barclay, shuffling the cards.

“But they weren’t anybody, Fred. Well, that’s how it is, Mr. Gamadge. Can you imagine the strain it has all been for poor Eleanor Cowden, my sister-in-law?”

Fred Barclay burst out laughing. “You’re a caution, Mum. No wonder the lot of you have turned poor old Amby into a cynic.”

“You know perfectly what I mean, dear, and it is very wrong of you to take that attitude. We are all devoted to Amberley, Mr. Gamadge. His illness has been a great anxiety to us all. Of course it has warped him a little; it would be a miracle if it hadn’t. But everybody tells me that Mr. Sanderson—that’s his tutor, Mr. Gamadge—has done wonders for the child’s morale.”

“He plays the deuce with mine, though.” Young Barclay tilted his chair back against the wall. “Makes me tired. ‘Doesn’t your sister need a change of air after her cold? Have some consideration for your dear aunt.’ That sort of thing.”

“Mr. Sanderson is not at all like that, Freddy. If it were not for him, Amberley would be spoiled—utterly spoiled. He was beginning to think of nothing and nobody but himself. I was surprised and delighted when you told me about his making that will.”

“Another source of strain,” said Fred Barclay, glancing at Gamadge. “He can’t make a will until tomorrow, of course; but he’s got one all written out and ready to sign.”

“Three witnesses are required in this state, dear; don’t forget that,” begged Mrs. Barclay.

“Perhaps Gamadge will oblige; and you and Dad. The rest of the family are beneficiaries,” said her son. “There’s only one shadow to mar the rosy prospect, Mum; he’s sure to have left a slice—and a big one—to Arthur Atwood.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Barclay.

The Colonel drummed on the table. “I don’t want to hear a word more about this,” he said, angrily. “It’s repulsive.”

“But, dear,” protested his wife, “we all know that Arthur Atwood is perfectly horrible.”

“Arthur Atwood,” explained Fred Barclay, for Gamadge’s benefit, “is the son of Mother’s next most eccentric sister. So there you have the whole family; and we might as well include poor old Alma, insignificant as she seems, because if Amberley dies intestate she’ll get all his money; unless he manages to give it away first. I shouldn’t be surprised if he did. He’s dying to get his hands on the principal. You can understand that he hasn’t been able to raise a cent on his expectations.”

“Of course not. Too bad a life,” said Gamadge.

“No insurance, no borrowing, no anything. He’s had this big allowance, though, and we’ve all been battening on it.”

“Generous with it, is he?”

“In his own way.”

“Haven’t his aunt and his sister any money of their own?”

“Not much—have they, Dad?”

“None of us has had much since 1929.” The Colonel got up. “I believe I hear the car.”

Mrs. Barclay arose, and hastily followed her husband out on the porch. Young Barclay strolled after them. The open door let in a gush of damp air. Gamadge, whose interest in the arrivals had been considerably aroused, listened to the slamming of car doors, the chorus of greeting, the noise of many footsteps on gravel and then on wood. A crowd surged into the room.

“You must all be chilled to the bone. Come in, come in and get warm,” trumpeted the Colonel. “Hot or cold drinks—all ready.” He disappeared into the pantry.

Mrs. Barclay advanced, her arm in that of a tall, slender figure, beautifully dressed; her son followed more slowly, his arm about the shoulders of a smaller, slighter young man, beside whom a light-haired youth in a raincoat hovered anxiously. A dark girl brought up the rear of the procession. She stood for a moment or two in the doorway, and then closed the door and went over to a window. As she leaned there, looking out at the opaque curtain of mist beyond, Gamadge thought that she seemed neglected, unhappy and forlorn. She was rather casually dressed in a dark-blue flannel skirt, a rose-coloured blouse, and a leather coat. She wore no hat. Her dark hair, cut very short, lay as smoothly as a cap on her small head.

Young Barclay and the man in the raincoat had shepherded their charge to the fire, and were relieving him of his heavy tweed ulster, his white silk scarf, and his fine Ecuadorian Panama. Mrs. Barclay seized Gamadge’s arm.

“Mr. Gamadge, I should like to introduce you to my sister-in-law, Mrs. Cowden. Eleanor, this is Mr. Gamadge, a friend of Fred’s.”

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Cowden, smiling. Gamadge saw that Mrs. Barclay had been right—Mrs. Cowden could smile and be civil, but she was indeed suffering from strain.

“How do you do?” he said. “You must be tired.”

“We all are, a little.”

“And this,” said Mrs. Barclay, still gripping Gamadge’s arm, and drawing him towards the fire, “this is my nephew. Dear Amberley. And Mr. Sanderson, who takes such good care of him.”

The sudden modulation of her tone from affection to condescension might well have cut an oversensitive person like a knife; but Mr. Sanderson seemed to be philosophical; his thin, good-looking face registered nothing but polite good humour. He had turned from his charge, and was steering in the direction of Miss Cowden and the window. Mrs. Barclay said:

“Oh—there is dear Alma. I want you to meet Alma, Mr. Gamadge. I didn’t see you, dear. This is Mr. Gamadge.”

Alma Cowden nodded.

“Are you comfortable, Amby? Getting warm?” Mrs. Barclay dropped Gamadge’s arm, and returned to the fireplace. “Fred, where is Amby’s cocoa?”

Fred went into the pantry, and Gamadge went up to the young man who stood in front of the hearth. He had been prepared for symptoms of serious illness, but nothing could have prepared him for the skim-milk translucence of the face that smiled up at him. Its dark eyes looked like onyx against that pallor.

“Are you an old-timer here, Mr. Gamadge?” he asked.

“I think I may say so. I’ve been coming every summer for years.”

“This is my first trip. Have you ever been up to a place called Seal Cove?”

“I’ve missed that.”

“They tell me it’s quite a short trip—just a few miles beyond Oakport. I have a cousin up there, this summer; he’s helping to run a summer theatre.”

“Interesting job.”

“It opens to-morrow night. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Do you go to summer theatres much?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, not unless somebody hauls me. I must admit I like winter ones best.”

The boy laughed, gaily. “This one is going to be better than most. They’ve got a manager that used to be with the Abbey Theatre—you know. I’ve met him. He’s crazy about the Irish drama. Do you like the Irish drama, Mr. Gamadge?”

“Hang it all,” said Gamadge, “I seem to be a complete blight, this evening. I don’t care so very much about it, to be perfectly frank; but then, I haven’t read all of it, or seen much of it. Perhaps I haven’t given it a chance.”

“Why don’t you come up and try it at Seal Cove?” Young Cowden’s face assumed a gleeful and impish expression. “I have an interest in drumming up audiences, you know. I’m…”

He had pulled off a pair of thick chamois gloves, and was twisting them into a rope. As his cousin appeared with a tray, he shoved them into a pocket, and produced a truly magnificent cigarette case. It was thin, made of platinum, and initialled in gold. “I won’t offer you a cigarette,” he said; “I only smoke those awful things without any tobacco in them.”

“Without any nicotine, you mean, you young ass.” Fred Barclay put the tray down on a stand, and poured out a cup. “Have some of this stuff, Alma?”

Alma Cowden, followed by Sanderson, came up to them.

“Don’t look so cross,” said her brother.

“I’m not cross.”

“Cross as a bear all day. Isn’t that so, Hugh?”

“Stop badgering your sister, and give me one of those gaspers of yours. I rather like them.”

“I don’t.” Miss Cowden, ignoring young Barclay’s proffered case, fished a crumpled package of cigarettes from her pocket. Sanderson gave her a light. He, too, was a little threadbare; his Harris tweeds had seen better days. In fact, of all the men in the room, the sick boy alone looked, and unconsciously behaved, like a rich man. “The heir,” Gamadge reflected, “and his poor relations. It leaps to the eye.”

Colonel Barclay, tray in hand, pushed at the swing door with his foot. Gamadge went over, relieved him of his burden, and set it on the bridge table. This had been drawn up beside the couch where Mrs. Barclay sat in deep conversation with her sister-in-law.

“Family reunion,” thought Gamadge. “I ought to go. A short drink, and I’m off.” He helped the colonel to mix highballs, while the two ladies chatted, practically in his ear:

“Of course it is dreadful to have to let him do these things, Lulu; but he must be kept happy.”

“I should have thought, though, that if this attack at Portsmouth was so serious——”

“All his attacks are serious. We got a room for him, and Hugh Sanderson got him to bed; but he would get up and come on to-night. All he can think of is this wretched summer theatre. It opens tomorrow night, and he is determined to be on hand.”

“Because those Atwoods are there!”

“And a little girl called Baker. He adores it all.”

“He never would have got into it if it hadn’t been for the Atwoods.”

“I tried my best to break up the intimacy; he’s been cross with me ever since. But that studio of theirs in New York was so bad for him—the smoke, and the crowds, and the excitement. Poor child, he hasn’t had much fun, of course. You don’t know what a strain it’s all been, these last years. Oh, thank you, Mr. Gamadge. That looks just right.”

She took the glass from him, and sat back against the cushions to enjoy it. Gamadge, mixing Mrs. Barclay’s drink, glanced at her with admiration. Fine bones, fine skin, level eyebrows over hazel eyes, beautiful figure, beautiful, simple clothes. She must be in her late forties, but with that physique she would always be good-looking. The rippling brown hair that showed under one side of her small hat had no grey in it, but he would swear it wasn’t dyed. Just one of those lucky people that couldn’t grow old.

Colonel Barclay came up, and drew a chair to Mrs. Cowden’s side. “Sit down, Gamadge,” he said, patting the back of another one.

“No, thank you, Colonel. I’ll just swallow this, and then I must go.”

“Can we give you a lift to the hotel?” asked Mrs. Cowden. “If you don’t mind a lot of things falling all over your feet, there’s plenty of room.”

“Thank you very much, I have my small bus.”

He finished his whisky, shook hands with her and with his host and hostess, and crossed the room. Miss Cowden had again retired to the window, and Mr. Sanderson had again joined her there. Lieutenant Barclay was handing a paper to Amberley Cowden, who said, as he shoved it into a pocket: “What do you think?”

“Fine. But you’ll live to bury the lot of us.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Too bad Aunt El is in such a deuce of a hurry; you could have stayed here till the zero hour, and got it off your mind.” He turned, as Gamadge came up. “Going, old man? I was just telling young Amberley that the state of Maine requires three witnesses to a will.”

“Uncle and Aunt Lu and Mr. Gamadge could have signed; that’s so. Well, to-morrow will do. Can’t you wait and go up with us, Mr. Gamadge?”

“I have a little car outside. Good night, Mr. Cowden.”

“Next time you see me, I’ll be twenty-one.”

“That so?”

“Yes. Goes by standard time.” He consulted his watch. “It’s only ten past eleven, really.” He shook hands with Gamadge, who went over to the pair by the window. This time they were both contemplating the curtain of mist. When he spoke, they turned. Sanderson shook hands, amiably; but she did not at first seem to remember who Gamadge was, or why he was there. Her short, smooth dark hair, brushed straight back from her forehead, gave her a melancholy, Pierrot look, and her dark eyes met his with a brooding gaze.

“Good night, Miss Cowden.”

“Good night.”

He went out, turning up his collar; found his way across the yard to the road; stood for a moment admiring the big Cowden car, and then climbed into the modest coupé behind it, and drove off through the mist.