The Heart Remembers (14 page)

“How do you dare—”
It was scarcely more than a breath.

“And because you would not accept the plain fact that no other woman except my mother existed for him and that he looked upon you merely as a nuisance, you had to make him suffer. You had then, as you have still, an arrogant pride that never forgives. And to know that you Selena Durand, had been rejected by a man so poor your family could have bought and sold him a hundred times was an unbearable thing. You had to avenge what seemed to you an unforgivable insult: that he was not willing to desert his wife and child and accept you. So you planned and plotted. You wrote him a note ordering him to meet you at a certain place late at night; threatening, if he did not, to create a scandal that
would rock the town, disgrace his wife and child.”

Selena was scarlet, half frantic with helpless fury and a growing terror that looked nakedly out of her staring eyes. She could not manage speech, and after a moment, Shelley went on slowly, remorselessly.

“My mother knew, of course, of your wicked and shameless pursuit of my father. But because she was so sure of my father's love, and her faith in him was so perfect, she felt only pity for you.”

“Pity! She dared pity me!”

The thin, harsh sound of Selena's voice was like tearing cloth. Shelley could not possibly have used a word that would have cut more deeply. The knowledge that a woman as poor and as unimportant as Selena considered Callie Newton should feel pity for her, Selena Durand, was like scalding acid to Selena's arrogant self-esteem.

“My father was annoyed and angry when the note came. He didn't in the least fear for himself the effect of any scandal you could stir up, but he had to think of Mother and of me. He knew that if you carried out your threat to accuse him publicly of being your lover—that
was
your threat, wasn't it?—the scandal would boomerang against you and you, too, would be ruined. But he knew how stubborn and self-willed you were and that you might easily slip over the edge of self-restraint in your reasonless fury against him and against Mother.”

“I have never heard anything so completely wild, so fantastic, so insulting,” panted Selena, shaking as with a chill, looking somehow shrunken and older. Her eyes were blazing with the light of battle, but back of the wild anger a thing that could have been fear peeped out, too.

“It's no use, Miss Durand; I know the whole story,” said Shelley quietly. “It's quite true that I can't prove it—at least not yet. It would be just as hard today, or even harder, to make people believe
that you could do so evil a thing: let a man go to prison for something he did not do, simply because you wanted him and couldn't have him.”

She could see Selena pull herself together, as though she wrapped Shelley's admission of a lack of proof like a warm cloak about her shivering body. Color came slowly back to her face and she drew a deep, hard breath.

“No, of course. That's quite true. It couldn't have been proved then, or Hastings or Callie would have offered the proof. Nor can it be proved now, because it is the most arrant nonsense. If there had been a shred of proof, Hastings would have saved himself.”

“I know,” admitted Shelley quietly. “If he had the smallest proof. But to accuse a woman in your position, without proof, would have added to the disgrace for his wife and child. You had been very, very careful—hadn't you, Miss Durand?—that there was no tangible proof, or at least you
thought
you had.”

So still she scarcely seemed to breath, Selena sat huddled in her chair, her eyes wide and sick with growing terror. There was a desperation in her haggard face that, to Shelley, was unneeded proof of the ugly story her mother had told her before she had been old enough really to understand.

“What—what do you mean?” stammered Selena faintly.

“The note you sent my father, demanding that he meet you, or else! Did you think he would destroy that, Miss Durand? You slipped up badly there.”

Selena shrank back as from a blow.

“You have found that note?” she whispered.

“Then you do admit you wrote one?”

Selena caught her breath and stiffened.

“I admit nothing—you're trying to trick me.”

“There
was
such a note, and it was never destroyed.”

Selena's breathing was hard and uneven. Her eyes
on the girl were frantic, and Shelley waited, steeling herself against pity that would have weakened her just at the moment when she needed so much to be hard.

“I'll give you any amount of money for that note,” said Selena faintly.

“I don't have it.”

There was a stunned moment in which Selena almost ceased to breathe, and then as understanding swept over her, hope began to glow once more in her desperate eyes. Hope, held back by incredulity.

“You don't have it?”

“But I am convinced that it exists, and that it is somewhere in this place or in the house. I am going to have some remodeling done, now that a thorough cleaning of both the shop and the house hasn't turned it up. It was not among my mother's papers when she died, nor in my father's possession. Mother told me that when Father showed her the note, they debated about whether it should be destroyed, for neither of them was willing to have it fall into someone else's hand. But Mother was frightened of you and so they kept it. And it was put away very carefully, and then everything happened so fast that when Mother tried to find it, to use in Father's defense, it was gone.”

Selena drew a deep, life-giving breath.

“It never existed.”

“Oh, yes it did, Miss Durand, and sooner or later, I shall find it. For if someone else had already found it, it would have come out. But it's never been found so it must still be here. And rest assured, I shall find it if I have to take the place apart piece by piece, with my bare hands.”

“It never existed, I tell you.”

“Now that you know I don't have it, you can deny that it was ever written,” said Shelley slowly. “But you and I both know, don't we, Miss Durand? And
whether I ever find it or not, you will never know another peaceful moment. I'm sorry about that, truly. But after all, you didn't worry much about Mother and Father having any peaceful moments, did you?”

Selena was on her feet now, drawn to her full height, her face terrible in its helpless fury.

“If there never was such a note, since I could not possibly have been interested in a man like your father,” she said through her teeth, “why should I be upset? And I warn you that if I ever so much as hear a single word of your fantastic accusation, I shall see that you are adequately punished. I still have money and influence enough to assure you of that punishment.”

“I'm sure you have, Miss Durand. I shall make no accusations publicly until I have proof.”

Selena hesitated as though she would answer that. Then she turned and strode out of the office and down the walk, her shoulders very erect. When she had swung herself into the saddle with an agility that surprised Shelley, and the sound of hoofbeats had died away, Shelley dropped back into her chair and put her shaking hands over her face.

Ever since the day she had arrived in Harbour Pines she had known that that moment must come. From the night of the dinner-party when she had thoughtlessly tossed her father's pet name for her into the conversation and had seen the white, startled look on Selena's face, she had known that her secret was a secret no longer from Selena Durand and that sooner or later she and Selena must have a showdown. And now that it had come, she had a feeling of deep relief that in some measure eased the discomfort of that unpleasant scene.

She had told Selena the simple truth and Selena's reaction had been all the proof Shelley had needed that there
had
been such a note. Callie and Hastings had almost destroyed it; Hastings had left it for Callie
to decide. And at the last moment, with some premonition of trouble to come, Callie had thrust the note into a little jewel box in her dressing table drawer. An unsafe place of course, and one she had meant to improve on when time offered. But events had moved swiftly, and when she had gone to the jewel box, to get the note and give it to Hastings' lawyer—it was gone.

Who had taken it they could never guess. Without it, Hastings' lawyer had felt they had a better chance simply to try to defend Hastings from the simple charge of robbery, without trying to implicate a woman in Selena's position. Without the note, they would not have been believed and it would only have alienated badly needed sympathy for Hastings to have made the unsupported charge.

The way things stood, the lawyer had pointed out, it was simply a charge that a man beset by business difficulties had been tempted beyond his strength by the easy accessibility of a large sum of money, admittedly inadequately guarded. On the other hand, to claim that he had been pursued and “framed” by a woman like Selena Durand, that he had gone out to meet her because she had threatened him, and to be unable to offer the smallest vestige of proof, would only be to add a sordid note to an already painful situation. It would seem to cheapen Hastings' love for his wife and child and add even more to their disgrace.

Bewildered, bedeviled, frantic, Callie had finally yielded, albeit bitterly, unwillingly. And when the jury had brought in the verdict which had been a foregone conclusion from the first, she had gone to pieces. She had been ill for a long time; she had gone to stay with relatives, taking her child with her.

Harbour Pines had all but forgotten; Callie had always remembered. And she had laid the burden on her child, that she should come back to Harbour
Pines and clear her father's memory.

At first, cleaning the little house and, later, the office, Shelley had hopefully examined every soiled, yellowing scrap of paper, until at last she had almost come to believe that the note had never existed. Yet a million things could have happened to it, she kept telling herself. But today, Selena's reaction to her mention of the note had proved beyond any doubt that it
had
been written and received and somehow vanished. With people coming in and out of the little house, in the friendly, neighborly fashion of small towns when trouble strikes, the scrap of paper could have vanished a thousand times over. But only into the keeping of someone loyal to Selena, or under some bond to her. Otherwise, it would have shown up during the trial, since its significance would have been apparent to even the dullest person.

Shelley knew now that once there had been a paper. But the hopelessness of recovering it after all these years sent her deep into gloom and hopelessness. However, never, never would she let Selena know that she was anything but quietly confident that the note would be found.

From their first meeting, Marian had been interested in Philip. That was quite natural, since Philip at his best was possessed of undeniable charm. He was well-educated, even brilliant. And Marian found him amusing, stimulating, interesting.

Shelley had not told Marian of Philip's weakness. She had been reluctant to, and had felt that on her first weekend at Harbour Pines, Marian would see for herself. But that afternoon, when the week's edition had been “put to bed” and Philip was free to yield to his “black devils,” he was just getting into his shabby coat when Marian came down from the house.

“Come on, wage-slaves, scrub the ink offen your paws, and get a-goin'. Dinner's ready. Only it's pretty silly to call it dinner, on account of it's really a superb country supper,” she announced gaily.

Shelley all but held her breath and watched Philip covertly. There was a hint of stubbornness about his
mouth, but Marian was so gay and so matter of fact that he hesitated.

“Turnip-greens, whipped with just the smallest smidgin of sugar,” Marian told them cheerfully. “And cooked, of course, as is only right and proper, with a bit of ham-hock. And there are black-eyed peas, and corn-bread that melts in your mouth, and tall, foaming glasses of buttermilk, and a hot apple pie with ‘rat-trap' cheese. Do I hear any takers?”

Outside, the sky was overcast with a nor'easter; it was one of the very unusual but occasional bleak April days of that sheltered clime, when the wind that sang through the pines had a mournful, desolate sound.

Shelley waited for Philip to answer, and after a moment he said uncomfortably, “Thanks, it's kind of you, but—er—”

“If you dare to stand there, with your bare face hanging out, and tell me you prefer the sort of ptomaine specials they serve up at the Tavern, Philip me lad, I'll probably smack you down, on account of I'm a very swell cook and I resent such comparisons!” Marian told him firmly, and slipped her hand through his arm. “I've been worrying about you. You're much too thin, and who would wonder, eating at that vile Tavern? So let's have no more nonsense. Supper is ready and waiting and we don't want it to get cold, do we?”

Philip flung Shelley a pleading glance, but she hardened herself against his plea, and said quickly, “She's right, Philip. After the poor girl's knocked herself out slaving over a hot stove all afternoon, just to feed us, we can't let her down, now can we? Can't you postpone your date?”

“I—ah—suppose I might.” Philip was frankly unwilling.

Marian eyed him severely.

“If there's anything that gladdens a hostess'
heart,” she observed dryly, “it's to have her dinner invitation accepted with such wild, overwhelming enthusiasm. One would think I was inviting you to a Borgia poison-party—or don't you like old-fashioned ‘vittles' that are guaranteed to grow hair on your chest?”

Philip laughed. “It was the shock,” he apologized handsomely, “of being offered such food. Fit for the gods, though most of the gods weren't fit for it, I suppose. Madam, your alluring invitation is accepted with humble gratitude and hungry joy.”