The Mystery Novels of Mignon G. Eberhart Volume One: House of Storm, Postmark Murder, and Call After Midnight

The Mystery Novels of Mignon G. Eberhart Volume One

House of Storm, Postmark Murder, and Call After Midnight

Mignon G. Eberhart

CONTENTS

HOUSE OF STORM

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

POSTMARK MURDER

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

House of Storm

1

AGAIN THE HOUSE WAS listening and the passive patient strength of its audience lapped into the room, surrounded her, flooded between her and the letter she was writing. Nonie put down her pen and listened too; surely this time there would be some betraying creak or rustle, some evidence of human ears.

It was about three o’clock of a hot, tropical afternoon, with the trade winds blowing across the island, rattling the palm trees and whispering among the wide rustling leaves of the bananas; the sun poured down, the great hurricane shutters were closed against the heat and light. It was the siesta hour, so everyone else in the house was drowsing, yielding to heat and custom. At such times, Nonie had already discovered, when human alertness and authority were in abeyance, the island, the tropics, the sun, the lush green growth, the murmur of the sea came into possession, reclaiming their own.

The house itself, however, seemed never unaware, never quite subservient to the people within, or the tropics without; it always watched, and listened.

Or so it seemed to Nonie now, and had seemed so during almost the entire three weeks of her stay within it—ever since, in fact, she had come to the green and lovely island, in the middle of the blue and purple Caribbean—Beadon Island, which was now to be her home.

It was sheer fancy, the uneasiness of a child in a strange place, to feel that the house—well, listened. Put like that, it was not only childish, it was absurd and more than a little unfair to Roy and to Aurelia; Royal Beadon, who was to be her husband, Aurelia Beadon, who was to be her sister, both of whom had come so promptly to her aid when she needed help, who had welcomed her so warmly and kindly to their home. Her home soon, Roy had said, for always.

So she would conquer that formless uneasiness. She would not rise and go to the door, certain of finding someone outside, something besides the long narrow corridor and the open dim doorways of other rooms, unused for the most part and shuttered, so only the pale counterpanes, the dark glimmer of old mahogany bed posts, the dim light patches of rugs and pillows outlined themselves vaguely among the shadows.

Actually the house was very quiet. There were sounds but they were identifiable sounds to which now she was accustomed. Always, there was the sound of the sea; she was never quite unaware of that. On clear days the winds blew, rattling the stiff Spanish bayonets and the palms and the bamboos, stirring the glossy thickets of mangroves, waving the uncut cane pieces like prairie grass. The central sugar mill for the island lay on the other side of Middle Road plantation, which adjoined Roy’s plantation; on a quiet day there was the distant hum and stamp of machinery. And just at that instant, waking from its own dreamy inertia, a bugle bird set up its clear little trumpet from somewhere in the garden.

The shutters had been closed before noon so the room in which Nonie sat was shadowy and she had turned on the green-shaded table lamp on her writing table so there was a pool of light around her and upon the white note paper. The house, the long, weatherbeaten, shuttered and verandaed white house, with its great high-ceilinged rooms, its windows overlooking sea and sand and deep blue mountains; its French carpets and Victorian mahogany and Spanish-tiled floors, its portraits of Beadons in stock collars and black broadcloth and velvet and great gilt frames; its aged odors of old wood and stone, of sea air and moist burgeoning earth, of furniture and lavender and cooking and, at that season, a faint smell of raw, boiling sugar. … The whole house lay still and tranquil with soft greenish gloom within and the bright afternoon sun without.

So there was nobody listening.

Consequently there was nothing to be afraid of.

She turned back to her letter and then thought—afraid? Afraid of what?

Afraid of nothing, of course; it was an absurd word even to enter her thoughts. Strangeness was one thing; fear was another and fear was for nightmares. Fear was not for blue and golden seas, for a green and lovely island, for the home that even now enfolded her, for the care and protection, the peace and love and kindness that surrounded her. Fear especially was not for the new life upon which already, in a very real sense, she was launched like a voyage of good omen, well begun.

The palms outside the shuttered window, outside the balcony, clashed together; the small green slats which were set in narrow panels within the heavy, folding shutters had been turned open so a breath of air stirred through the shadowy room. Outside in the garden the bugle bird sang again. Nonie went back to her letter.

" … and of course the whole island is given over mainly to sugar plantations. There are only a few landowners; the Beadon place, of course, Middle Road adjoining it (that is owned by the Shaws), and one or two others. It’s a very small island on the map but it seems larger, naturally, when you live on it. There’s a tiny village, called Beadon Rock, and all through the island there are little clusters of cottages where the laborers and field hands and their families live; colored people who have lived on the island for generations. The cottages are pretty, very neat with their flowers and vines. None of the house servants lives in the house; it is the custom here. But every plantation has its cluster of cottages; here at Beadon Gates they are on the other side of a big acreage of sugar cane—what is called a cane piece, still, although Roy says it’s an old-fashioned term.

Roy’s place as you know is called Beadon Gates and is very beautiful; or rather I should say was very beautiful. During the war, of course, not much was done and the tropics seem to take over very quickly; Roy says the machinery is all but obsolete, but that’s because of the war and the difficulty of replacing it. And nothing lasts long in the tropics; even in the short time since I came I can see that there is something devastating and destructive about the climate and the sea air.

She paused. How to explain to anyone, let alone Aunt Nona, whose world was bounded by limits which were defined and well-accustomed, the indefinable quality of strength of the tropics, the way everything grew hungrily as if vines and trees and tangled shrubbery were joined in a secret pact to take over all man-made obstructions? The lush, rapid green growth, the warm moist air, the fine salt spray that could, on occasion, cover everything, all of it seemed stealthily banded to resist such things as houses and walls. So iron hinges grew rusty and would not clean, brass corroded and would not brighten, mirrors were blotted with misty shadows that would not rub off; so wood rotted unperceived, and machinery fell into mysterious disrepair overnight; so shutters began to sag and wooden doors warped and drawers would not open and slight damp patches furtively distempered the plaster.

She had been struck with a sense of that quiet and stealthy power the day she arrived, with her first glimpse of Beadon Gates plantation and the big, rambling, yet stately Beadon house. She had already seen pictures of the place. Roy had had them. Her father, who had known the house years ago, had held the pictures in his unsteady fingers, and looked at them approvingly. Had he then guessed, with the prescience of approaching death, that it was to be a safe and happy harbor for the daughter he knew then he was going to leave? The house was gracious and gracefully proportioned, tropical amidst its gardens and vines, its shuttered French windows and wide veranda. The photographs had not shown an intangible look, not so much of age, to which the house was well entitled, but of desuetude. Which, of course, was wrong; except for his occasional visits to New York, it had always been Roy’s home and Aurelia’s.

And to be sure, it was only when one lived at the plantation that one began to see those small obstinate marks, not of neglect—no one could have more pride in their home than Roy and Aurelia Beadon—but of, well, of heat and wind and rain and rust … of, in brief, the tropics.

She must get on with her letter; she must, indeed, get to the real reason for writing that letter which was not to tell Aunt Nona about Beadon Island, but that she, Nonie, was going to live there for the rest of her life. That almost by the time Aunt Nona, in California, received the letter Nonie would be Mrs. Royal Beadon. She took up her pen again, wrote …

And now, darling, I have a surprise for you. Roy and I are going to be married, and paused.

Perhaps it would not be such a surprise! She remembered Aunt Nona’s telegram: Urge you accept invitation Beadon Island Best possible thing for you just now would be long visit Caribbean Do appreciate Roy’s kindness Give him my greetings and gratitude all he has done for us this sad time Your affectionate Aunt.

Aunt Nona was of the age and generation which made matches for its young. Sick herself, unable to make the long journey across the continent to be with her brother-in-law at the time of his illness and death, and to give Nonie the support and comfort of her kinswoman’s presence, had she nevertheless done what she could to bring about just such a solution? Urge you accept invitation Beadon Island.

Nonie smiled, thinking of the gentle, kindly and implacably conventional little aunt she saw so seldom and loved so much. No, it would not surprise Aunt Nona who had already, almost in so many words, given this marriage her blessing.

The marriage? Her marriage. On Wednesday.

The room seemed suddenly too shadowy; closed in and breathless; she rose abruptly and went to the window where she unlatched the heavy shutters, and opened one half, folding it back upon itself, and then the other, latching each into place. They, like the house, had been originally built to withstand winds and sand, hurricanes and sun. The faded green paint came off in soft green smudges on her hands. Air and light poured into the room.

A shallow balcony was outside, with purple bougainvillaea twining luxuriously around its coral rock balustrade. The sea lay on the other side of the house. Roy’s room faced that way with its wide windows opening upon the sun deck which was the first-floor veranda roof, and Aurelia’s lay at the end of the corridor, also overlooking the sea. Nonie’s room was the largest guest room and from its balcony there was a view of green lawns and scarlet hibiscus and yellow cannas, and the winding white driveway that led out of sight between thick green hedges toward the entrance gates. Beyond the near-by greens there was a glimpse of misty blue hills and beyond them, on the horizon, a rim of hazy light marking the meeting of sky and sea.

The light and air dispelled the shut-in feeling of the room. She stood for a moment, looking out over the blue hills and green valleys and thinking of her unfinished letter. Phrases went through her mind—perhaps it will not be such a surprise, darling; perhaps you guessed it all along. Perhaps you had this very plan in your dear little, tight little, practical little Victorian mind; long visit Caribbean, indeed. A long visit to the Beadons, you meant, you darling; long enough for a marriage to come of it; but it didn’t need a long visit, dear little aunt!

It happened on the boat coming down from New York; he asked me then to marry him and I said, yes. I said yes; and I am a lucky girl. Roy is everything anybody would want in a husband; he’s handsome and gallant, he’s worldly and intelligent and dignified and sophisticated all at once. He’s got plenty of money, so mine doesn’t make any difference; it only means that because he was my father’s friend I know him better, I feel more faith and trust in him, I think my father would have wanted me to be his wife. The island is beautiful and so is the house. Aurelia has been kindness itself; she’s kept house for her brother always and she says she’ll continue to do so if I want her to, but only if I want her to. They have given me the warmest welcome, the kindliest and most sympathetic refuge a girl in grief and loneliness ever had. So this is to be my home, darling; and you needn’t worry about your orphaned niece ever, because Aurelia and Roy are so good to me. And Roy and I are to be married next Wednesday.

Well, she couldn’t say all that.

She’d say only that it was to be a quiet wedding, of course, so soon after her father’s death; but there was no reason to wait; so Roy said and he was right. And it was a sensible, rational kind of marriage. They were the best of friends; Roy loved Beadon Gates and Beadon Island and she would soon grow to love it too. How could anyone not love so beautiful a place!

She went across to the balustrade and stood for a moment, leaning against it, her hands on the cool coral rock, looking out over Beadon Island.

The central mill was going. A wisp of smoke from it hovered over the Shaw place, Middle Road. A long two miles by road, which was winding and irregular, it was a short mile, perhaps, across the tree tops; so short that she could smell the bubbling liquid sugar in the vats, blended with the half-sweet, half-acid odor of molasses and rum and trash, the waste stacks of cane pulp. For three months out of the year they had told her the sweetish smell lay in a sort of a cloud upon the island, suggesting caramels, suggesting some sort of fermentation, suggesting nothing but itself. It was not unpleasant; it meant the central mill, which all the island used, was going. Beadon Island was small; with the exception of its banana crops, its subsistence and life, as well as the air it breathed, was sugar.

She’d go back now into her room and finish her letter.

It was a large room with a green-tiled floor and high ceiling. The great pearwood armoire almost touched the ceiling; the bed had an enormous canopy from which mosquito netting fell like the garment of a rather limp and unfashionable wraith. But the long chairs, the tables, even her writing table were wicker and looked light and airy. She sat down at the table but again as she began to write a multitude of things she wanted to say crowded into her mind. Aurelia has sent for my trousseau; my wedding dress has come and been fitted; it’s white with lace and a pink hat. I’m going to see the lawyer about business things, my will and all that, soon; to say it’s a pink hat and white dress doesn’t give you the faintest smallest picture of how elegant either of them is. The dress has a long full skirt and a tight basque-like top and the hat is just silk roses or something and lots of pale pink tulle and really delectable, darling, and I’ll wear Mother’s pearls. I’ve sent to the lawyers for them. They ought to be here by now. I hope they are not lost, and I didn’t write sooner because life has been so full and, besides, I knew you’d approve. But I wish you could be here.

She bent over the white note paper and wrote.

Or perhaps it will not be such a surprise; perhaps you knew all along that this would happen. Since you can’t come anyway and there was no reason to wait we decided to be married very soon—next Wednesday, in fact.

Next Wednesday. Next Wednesday, and this was Saturday. Again a wave of incredulity touched her; she bent quickly over the paper and went on:

It will be a small wedding, of course; as I told you there are not many people here—the Vicar and his wife, the doctor, that’s Dr. Riordan who sees to everybody; Lydia Bassett …

She paused, staring at the white paper, seeing Lydia; thinking, that’s Mrs. Bassett; she’s a widow; she’s an old friend of Roy’s and Aurelia’s; she comes to the house often; she’s very beautiful with her triangular face and red mouth and coppery hair and vigorous graceful body; she doesn’t like me; she didn’t like me from the first; but she’s very polite; too polite. Lydia Bassett.

She wrote: The Shaws will be there, too. That is, Miss Hermione Shaw, who owns and operates Middle Road plantation adjoining Roy’s plantation, and her nephew, Jim Shaw.

She hesitated again, and added slowly: It’s a small group of neighbors and friends; they dine together, play bridge together; there are two other plantations on the island but the owners of one are in England and the other is run by a trust with a resident factor. Oh, yes, and Major Fenby will be there; he is Hermione’s factor, a retired army officer and a dear; and the magistrate who lives in the village, Seabury Jenkins. And of course the house servants, who all seem pleased, and Roy’s overseer, Smithson. And perhaps the bank manager and his wife; I don’t know them. Darling, this just about comprises our island society! But I like it and so would you; and it is a sensible marriage. …

She had thought of some other words to describe that marriage. What were they? Oh, yes, she wrote … a rational marriage, we are the best of friends. So we’ll be very happy. She sat back and looked at what she had written.

So we’ll be very happy.

On that small lovely green island with a handful of neighbors and friends—Lydia and the doctor and the Shaws, Hermione with the small pale face, and Jim.

Again she rose with an abrupt motion, pushing her chair back from the table, leaving the letter with its black firm characters which looked final somehow, as if the deed had already been done, as if the marriage were already set in its course, as, in fact, it was—next Wednesday, she thought. Next Wednesday—and again crossed the room. She took up a cigarette and lighted it and went out again onto the balcony.

A rational, sensible marriage—the best of friends. Well, that made a marriage, didn’t it? And hadn’t she been happy with Roy and Aurelia there at Beadon Gates? And wasn’t she going to be happy and cared for for the rest of her life?

Except … A thought touched her lightly, brushed past her as if it were a bird and had wings, as if it were a humming bird, darting away and yet leaving a sharp and vivid memory of its passing. Did she really want to be happy that way?

Well, that was nonsense too; that was silly; that was a flight of the most arrant and erratic fancy; as purposeless, as willful as, indeed, the flight of a bird.

She’d think no more of that.

And someone was coming.

From the balcony she could see a part of the driveway that lead, winding between tall hedges, to the big, square coral-rock gates which gave Beadon Gates its name. Now briefly through a space in the hedges she saw a man walking rapidly along. A man with a steady swing in his walk, a steady poise to his solid shoulders; his face from there was blunt-looking and foreshortened and brown; his hair was black and, as usual, looked plastered down with water, yet stuck up crisply, like rather curly wings, wherever it could; it was Jim Shaw and he carried a traveling bag and a raincoat and instead of his usual sport shirt and balloon-cloth shorts, wore a gray city suit. He did not see her; he disappeared behind a great clump of bamboos; but she could hear the quick hard crunch of his feet on the myriad tiny white shells which made the driveway.

Jim! Where was he going?

Obviously, wherever he was going he was coming there, to the house, first, and Roy was out somewhere on the plantation and Aurelia was asleep. Nonie returned quickly to her room and put down her cigarette. She stopped for an instant to look at herself in the mirror over the dressing table, and picked up her brush—the gold-backed brush with the tiny monogram in brilliants that her father had given her long ago.

Her hair was dark brown and she wore it in rather short soft curls which she brushed up away from her temples; the sea air and the gentle humidity of the tropics made it softer and, somehow, darker. She looked at her face rather scrutinizingly; just a face, of course. … Blue eyes that were rather good, she’d always thought, candidly, dark blue with black eyelashes; regular features, nothing wrong with her face, nothing particularly beautiful about it, either. She put down the brush and picked up lipstick and leaned nearer the mirror.

Just an ordinary face.

Except all at once it was extraordinary.

She stopped, struck with that unusualness. What exactly was different? The same face she’d always seen in a mirror; the same nose, same shape, same chin, same. … Well, there was something different about her eyes. Something different about her mouth, too. Something very strangely different.

After a long moment, she finished putting scarlet lipstick on that singularly different mouth and slowly, almost gravely, put down the tiny silver tube.

She couldn’t, indeed she wouldn’t analyze that difference in her face; but she did know that Roy Beadon’s bride ought not to look like that, just then. Because Jim Shaw was there; because she had seen him come; because she was going down now to meet him.

A happy marriage—that was what her marriage to Roy was to be.

Again a thought touched her like the fan of tiny wings against her cheek. Was that the kind of happiness she wanted? She waited another moment and then turned, a slim swift figure in her white shirt, white slacks and red moccasins, as red as her lips, and went downstairs.

Jim Shaw was waiting on the veranda.

2

IT WAS A WIDE veranda running almost the length of the house, gracious and hospitable with its deep wicker chairs and tables, its bright cushions, its grass rugs, its great jars of yellow and green croton leaves and, beyond the railing, the blue sea.

Actually of course there was a slope of lawn down from the house, a strip of coral rock and sand, and great thickets of mangroves, even a boathouse and a small pier, between the house and the sea, but always when Nonie walked out of the wide door from the hall and onto the veranda the sea seemed to leap at her. It was so broad, so blue, so glittering with light that it seemed to encompass all creation as it did in very fact the island. Then she saw Jim. He had set his bag down on a chair and dropped his coat over it and was wiping his face with his handkerchief; he heard her at the door and turned quickly.

Nonie!

Seen from there, on a level, or rather looking up, for he was as tall as Roy, his face was angular and determined and, just then, white under the sun tan. His gray eyes were light as agates and looked very unlike Jim. She went to him quickly. Jim, what’s wrong?

The hard bright look in his eyes was anger. I’m leaving, Nonie.

Leaving!

I’ve had it out with Hermione. I want to get to Cienfuegos and catch the night plane for Miami and New York.

When are you coming back?

I’m not coming back. His mouth closed tight and hard.

Not like Jim, she thought again. What had Hermione Shaw done? She said rather helplessly: Sit down, Jim. Will you have a drink? I’ll ring for Jebe.

No, thanks. I only want to see Roy before I leave. And—you, of course.

Sit down then. I’ll send for Roy.

All right. Thanks. He dropped into one of the deep wicker chairs, stretched out his long legs, and reached for a cigarette. His eyes were as gray and dark as the sea in a storm.

Did you walk from Middle Road?

He nodded and got out of the chair again to offer her a cigarette. I’ll tell Jebe to find Roy.

Thanks, he said again as she went to the door and the bell inside it. But Roy was in the village, Jebe told her, his straw slippers flapping, from the dining room.

When will he be back? Mr. Shaw is here.

Jebe wasn’t sure. She went back to the veranda.

I’ll wait, Jim said. I want to tell him.

He was smoking with an effect of calm but his eyes were still hard and cold with anger.

She went to the enormous cane hassock beside him. Jim, can you tell me? What happened?

He looked at her. Hermione is my Aunt. And if I don’t get out of here, I’ll kill her.

Jim!

His eyes softened a little, although the muscles around his jaw were hard and tight.

He leaned over and put his hand lightly on her arm. Don’t look so worried, Nonie. It was in the cards. I’ll get away from here and forget the whole thing.

She didn’t speak for an instant, and for an absurd reason, and that was a sudden strong awareness of his hand upon her own.

He moved his hand so suddenly he almost jerked it back, away from her. And mysteriously she seemed to know that his swift move toward an ash tray, pulling it near him, as if the ash tray were all at once the most important thing in his consciousness, was assumed.

But she couldn’t have known that, she thought in confusion. A wave of embarrassment made her heart quicken; her face felt hot and pink; and she felt like a schoolgirl. She, Nonie Hovenden—so soon to be Mrs. Royal Beadon, dignified and settled. Mrs. Royal Beadon. Next Wednesday. She linked her hands around her white-clad knee, and could still feel the touch of that brown hand so near her.

Jim said suddenly: I’ve got several things to forget. It’s just as well I’m leaving.

He wasn’t looking at her now; he was staring at the ash tray. A long wave rolled in along the rocks below and slowly, sighing, washed out again. Nonie opened her lips to say something, anything, that was cool and collected, impersonal and friendly, and said instead, as irresistibly as the sighing of the wave: What? What have you to forget, Jim? He glanced at her quickly, a question in his eyes. I don’t think you meant to ask that. I might tell you. No, she hadn’t meant to ask that. And she was behaving like a schoolgirl, silly and flirtatious and awkward. She looked down at her hands and started to speak and there was nothing to say, and Jim said: The wedding’s on Wednesday, isn’t it? Roy’s lucky.

Another long wave washed in against the rocks and slowly out, so even if she had said anything perhaps Jim wouldn’t have heard it. But he went on, speaking rather quickly: You’re lucky, too. Roy’s a good guy. He’s certainly been a good friend to me! I’ve been here almost a year, you know, waiting for Hermione to do something definite about the plantation and me. She looked up at him then and he was looking out to sea, so she suddenly felt more at ease, as if she could talk. She said: Something definite? I thought that she was going to turn over the management of the plantation to you.

The hard, icy look came back. I thought so, too. I’ve always loved the place and she knows it. It’s home and I was born to be a planter. I love the place. And Hermione knows it!

But then—but why …?

That’s where she’s got me, Jim said tersely. That’s her hold.

Her hold!

He turned to look at her directly. You don’t know Hermione, do you? He didn’t wait for a reply but went on quickly. I do know her, so I didn’t expect her to be different. I knew the chance I was taking when I came to Middle Road.

I thought she was going to give up the active management; I thought that’s why she wanted you to come. Roy said she needs you. He says she’s not getting the most out of the plantation.

Roy’s right. At least I think so. I’m not pretending to know the business; but I can’t hang around any longer doing nothing, learning nothing. Hands tied by Hermione at every turn. I’ve been here for a year; in another year I’d know less than I do now. In another year she’d have me licked so completely I couldn’t leave! I’d be a sort of errand boy, a pensioner on her bounty, her tall nephew sitting around waiting for her to die. I couldn’t call my soul my own. And I’d deserve it. No. I’m going now, while I can.

But you don’t want to leave, Jim. It’s your home; it will belong to you.

He smoked for a moment, his eyes narrowed; then he said more quietly, without the icy note of anger, I hate to go, of course. I am inexperienced, but I can see what could be made of Middle Road. Roy would help me; we thought we’d join forces, a real partnership, using the same equipment, using modern methods, getting more cane land under cultivation. Things have changed since my father bought Middle Road. It’s no longer a hand-to-mouth, three-boys-and-a-mule-and-a-wagon project. I’d be green at it, of course, but I’d learn. Roy knows the whole set-up; and it’s something I wanted like hell to do. I want to be a planter. I—there’s a satisfaction about making the soil yield; something deep and real and—I can’t explain it, but that’s what I wanted to do. And I loved Middle Road. But I have to save my own soul, too. I can’t come back as long as Hermione is there, and by the time the property comes to me it will be too late. So I’ve got to forget it.

He looked at her quickly, and added: I’m beefing plenty. But that’s that. I’ll say no more. … I’m sorry I’ll not be at the wedding Wednesday.

Why had she thought that his look was direct and candid. It was, instead, remote, guarded, as if a veil had come down between them. Suddenly the very air between them was formal and strained. She said, and her voice sounded stiff and strained and unfriendly: I’m sorry, too.

But she wasn’t sorry. She was glad; she was glad he wouldn’t be sitting there watching her in her white dress and pink hat and pearls becoming Roy’s wife. Forever and ever. If any man can show just cause why this man and this woman should not be joined in the bond of holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace. That wasn’t exactly the way the ceremony went; that was what it meant. And there would be just cause sitting back there in one of the pews, his brown angular face without expression, his arms folded, his eyes exactly as they were now, and all at once with the most devastating clearness and truth, she knew it.

And she was glad and thankful that he wouldn’t be there.

The force of that thankfulness was as unexpected and as strong as one of the waves of the sea below them, and like a wave it swept her up off the hassock, across to the table, her back turned to Jim.

What was she thinking about! What fantastic thing had happened! Her hands went out to the table edge and she looked at them with consternation, for they were trembling. Jim was going away; he was going to leave the island; he was never going to come back so long as Hermione was alive and managed Middle Road. And she, Nonie Hovenden, so soon to be Nonie Beadon, was thankful. Therefore her heart must not pound like that in her throat.

Jim was moving; she heard the wicker chair creak; he was coming toward her and she heard his footsteps, slow, a little indecisive, behind her; she sensed his nearness.

A car came rapidly up the driveway, stopped just out of sight of the veranda and Jim said: That’s Roy.

That hadn’t been what he was going to say; and he hadn’t intended, she thought, to move merely to another chair and lean there against it.

Yes, she said. Yes, that must be Roy. Her voice was as flat and taut as a violin string but it wasn’t tuned right; it was all out of tune, in fact, all wrong and Jim knew it.

He was looking at her and she wouldn’t look at him. And still, oddly, she could see every feature, every line and hollow and shadow of his face. She wouldn’t look at him and she held her breath as if that would help. Then Roy was running up the steps at the end of the veranda that led down to the shell-covered, little oval below, where he had parked his car.

Suddenly, as if she were hurrying from danger, she moved across the veranda to meet him. Roy, who was going to be her husband.

Royal Beadon of Beadon Island looked exactly as if he had been born to be exactly that; which, of course, in a very real sense was true. His father had lived all his life on Beadon Island; the island had taken its name from his grandfather, the first Royal Beadon to come out from England and settle there within sight of the blue and golden Caribbean.

He was a tall man, with big bones, well-fleshed, and a dignity and force of bearing which was both perfectly sincere and imposing. At fifty-odd his hair was iron gray and he wore gold-framed eyeglasses. There was still about him an air of leashed strength, as if he might fight wars or sail ships or shoot lions. In fact, of course, he had spent most of his life running the plantation, living on the island which he loved.

Nonie’s father had been one of Roy’s closest friends; he was older than Roy but not much older; they had met long ago, when Nonie was a child at school and her father, in one of a lavish succession of yachts anchored off Beadon Island to take refuge from a storm, had stayed to become Roy Beadon’s guest and friend.

And now, she, Nonie, was taking refuge from a storm, in much the same way, except her storm was one of grief and loneliness and her refuge was Roy’s home for the rest of her life.

Something like guilt, something like compunction and sorrow touched her with quick fingers. She went to Roy and linked her arm through his, as if reassuring herself by the gesture and its implied closeness; Roy’s wife, next Wednesday.

But the island grapevine was swift; Roy must have heard already about Jim and Hermione, for he looked at her so blankly that she had an instant’s impression that he didn’t see her at all, and he was obviously both troubled and angry. He’d been for the mail, he put a stack of magazines and letters down on the table, and said to Jim: I hoped you’d be here.

You’ve heard then!

I met Dick Fenby. Hermione told him.

It had to come sooner or later.

Roy tossed his green-lined sun helmet onto a chair and sat down and looked at Jim, frowning deeply, his face both angry and perplexed.

But I won’t, thought Nonie. I won’t look at Jim. He’s standing there, outlined against the blue sea, looking younger, somehow, as he always does when he’s with Roy, and very tall and brown with head lifted, and his gray eyes very steady and I’ll not look at him. She sat down again near Roy, linking her hands together around her knee. This time Wednesday there would be a ring on one of those hands. There was indeed, already a ring, a sapphire set with diamonds, an old ring which had belonged to Roy’s mother and then to Aurelia. It was too large for her hand and the weight of the stone slid the ring so the deep-blue stone, as blue and as deep-looking as the sea, pressed into her finger. She turned it and Roy said slowly: So you’re leaving.

I have to, Roy. I thought you might take me over to Elbow in the motor boat. I can get the mail boat there and the night plane for Cienfuegos.

Roy thought for a moment. Well, perhaps you’re right to go. Hermy’s not treated you as she ought to have done, and as she promised to do.

That’s in the past, said Jim. The only thing I can do is wash it out.

Why are you leaving tonight, though?

Oh, that. It’s what precipitated the thing. A job.

Job? For you? Where?

My old job. In New York. I can have it back again—probably—if I get there fast enough. The guy that took it on when I left to come down here has left; the firm cabled me this morning. I’ve known, especially lately, that I’d have to have an understanding with Hermy. This gave me the chance.

Roy nodded thoughtfully. I’ve seen it coming. What did she say?

The white hard line came back around Jim’s mouth. Roy, I can’t stay at Middle Road!

Roy looked out across the sea and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Do you want to leave Beadon Island, Jim? There was a little silence. Nonie would not look up; she turned the ring on her finger, around and around.

Yes, I think it’s best, and again his voice was distant and guarded and unlike himself.

There was another long pause; the slow crash of the waves seemed to have a fateful quality in their slow and regular rhythm. Jim was going, of course; he’d probably never come back to Beadon Island. … At least it would be so long that it might as well be never. She’d be Mrs. Royal Beadon for years and years before Jim came back. Before probably she saw him again.

So she’d forget the momentary, strange fancy that had seemed to hover in the air between them that hot, tropical afternoon with the glittering blue sea washing in and out and the bugle bird calling in the garden.

Roy said slowly: Perhaps you’re right.

I’ve got to have a job, Roy. I can’t sit around, supported by a woman.

There was an edge in his words that made them sound like a quotation. Roy said sharply: Did Hermione say that? She promised to give you a job when she asked you to come.

Jim said in a kind of burst: I didn’t want Dick’s job. He’s a good factor when Hermione lets him alone. Or he used to be, and still could be. I wouldn’t expect or ask for responsibility until I knew something about planting. I realize I’m inexperienced. But I had to have a job! Something clear and definite.

I know, Roy said. Hermione—well, she’d make another Dick Fenby of you. Yes, you’d better go. What about money? She’d never give you plane fare. Have you got any at all? I can see you haven’t. … Here. …

All right. Thanks. I was going to ask you for a loan.

Roy laughed. Nonie twisted her ring and would still not look up and knew that Roy was getting out his billfold; knew he was extracting notes from it. That ought to be enough.

It’s more than enough, two hundred. Thanks, Roy.

Hermy keeps you right down to bedrock in the matter of cash, doesn’t she?

I’ll be all right as soon as I get to New York.

It’s lucky for you she can’t touch the trust fund! Now then, we’ll have to get you to Elbow. Roy turned his arm to look at the watch strapped on his brown, strong wrist. He gave a start. You’ll have to get under way in a hurry, Jim. The mail boat leaves at four; there’s barely time to run over to Elbow. And I, well, now let me see what I can do.

Oh, look here, Roy, you’re busy. You needn’t take me. Somebody else can go along and bring the boat back. I don’t want you to …

Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right. I only had to do some telephoning about a shipment of sugar. I can do it tomorrow …

Nonie said, twisting her ring, I’ll take Jim to Elbow.

3

IT WAS SAID AND she could not retract it; and Roy at once agreed. She knew the motor boat and had driven it often; it was a straight course to Elbow Beach, and a short one with no rocks, no shoals, nothing to trap even an inexperienced boatman, as she was not. But why had she offered? Why had she not let well enough alone? Why had a voice—her voice—spoken up without her intention or knowledge?

Roy said: Good. Jebe can go with you if you want him; but it’s not necessary. You know the boat and you know the course, all right. How’s that, Jim?

But before Jim could answer, before Roy had stopped speaking, really, a car came slithering rapidly along the driveway. It stopped, still out of sight, with a squeak of brakes. A car door banged and Jim said: It’s Hermy!

Nonie glanced at him then. His eyes were like gray ice. Roy said: I think you’re right, Jim. Sounds like her. Look here! He sat up abruptly. Don’t tell her I gave you plane fare.

She’ll know I got it somewhere.

She won’t know I gave it to you. I have to live on this island!

Jim gave a short laugh that wasn’t a laugh. All right.

Roy rose and stared across the veranda. Hermy! We thought it might be you.

Hermione Shaw was walking up the steps.

In view of her shell-spattering, brake squealing arrival, her appearance was startlingly composed and quiet, but then Hermione was always composed and quiet and very certain of herself.

The certainty and composure, and the remains of a rather feverish fine-drawn beauty had been Nonie’s main impression of Hermione Shaw. She looked at her now with deeper attentiveness, seeing in the revealing light of what Roy had said and what Jim had said, the fine sharp lines in Hermione’s camelia-white skin, the cruelly aquiline nose, the thin yet smiling mouth. Her dark hair was parted sleekly in the middle and rolled into a black smooth knot at the back of her neck; not a hair was out of place. Her eyes were a very light, cold gray, so bright and sharp that they seemed to see everything. She wore dark-red lipstick and dark-red varnish on her unexpectedly square and blunt fingernails. Somehow in that land of baking sunshine Hermione’s face and hands remained white; her figure was that of a young girl. It was indeed difficult to see why she was not still beautiful; yet there was a curious look of wasting in her face, as if some inward fire burned, consuming the quality of beauty and leaving only its shell.

Perhaps that fire, too, accounted for a kind of avid, hungry look in her mouth and eyes. She said however, smoothly, with a smile: Hello, Roy—Nonie. I thought I might find you here, Jim.

She wore a gray linen dress, miraculously sleek and neat, and high-heeled, lizard-skin pumps. She was too thin so the veins showed on her hands as she came nearer and the throb of a pulse beat hard under the paper-white skin along her temple. Roy said something about a chair, a drink, the heat, and, smiling, she interrupted: Thank you, Roy. You must know why I came. I hope you’ve persuaded Jim not to do anything on an impulse.

Roy looked hot and uncomfortable. Jim said: I’ve got to get back to New York, if that’s what you mean, Hermione.

There was no change in Hermione’s white, thin face; only the pulse along her temple seemed to throb harder. She said, still smiling, shaking her head gently: Youth is so impatient. Please think a little, Jim. What will you do if the job doesn’t work out?

It will, Jim said shortly.

Her eyebrows were as neat and shining as her hair; they lifted a little. You were not satisfied with it before you came to Middle Road. That’s why you came here.

I came to Middle Road because … began Jim angrily and then checked himself. You know why I came!

Her eyes were like gray jewels. Were you going to say because I asked you to come? I did, of course. I thought you’d be happy here. I’m sorry—sorrier than I can possibly say, to discover that you are bored and discontented. I realize that it must seem dull to you. A sugar plantation is only a sugar plantation. Middle Road is like every other; I’m sorry you have tired of it but …

Jim, very white, burst out: I’m not tired of Middle Road. I love Middle Road … and again stopped as if he didn’t dare let himself say more—or as if he would not give her the satisfaction of showing how words cut.

She saw it, though. Her fixed smile did not change but her eyes seemed brighter and rather pleased. Then why leave, Jim? You have nothing to worry you here. I don’t begrudge you money, not in the least. You are my nephew—I’m delighted to give you all I can. The plantation is there and you can be of help to me. I’m sure you can be of help, said Hermione in the soothing, indulgent voice she would have used in order to coax a child. Just as soon as you get accustomed to the plantation there’ll be all sorts of things you can help us with.

Jim picked up his bag and looked at Roy. I’d better be getting along.

Hermione’s smile did not change or flicker, yet it seemed suddenly an adamant and ruthless line, not a smile at all. But what about money? Oh, I see. Roy gave it to you! She did not so much as glance at Roy, but Roy got out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Hermione said, suddenly coaxing: Now, Jim dear, I am making no complaints. I don’t object to supporting you. You can help me with—oh, with errands, all sorts of things. You play a very good bridge game. But really you mustn’t behave like a child in a tantrum. What will Roy think of you? What will Nonie think of you?

Roy said suddenly: Lay off, Hermione …

And Jim said, with those agate hard eyes blazing from his white face very distinctly, very deliberately: If I don’t leave, Hermione, I’ll kill you.

Hermione laughed. Roy said quickly: You’d better go, Jim. Nonie, my dear, are you sure you’ll be all right? I can manage to take him, you know, if …

I’ll be all right, Roy. I know the boat …. How quickly again she spoke; how certainly as if she had planned it! And, again, once the words were spoken, she could not retract. She, and Jim with his bag and coat, and Roy were hurrying across the veranda, down the steps.

Jim did not look back at Hermione and she stood still and unruffled with the red smile on her face as if it had been painted there.

Roy put his hand on Jim’s arm. We’ll have to hurry.

They went quickly down the path, without speaking. Yet the three of them were sharply aware of that slender, elegant figure above them on the veranda—of the greedy fire and frustration behind the smiling, once-beautiful face.

Roy led the way along the graveled path with its hedges of yellow and green croton plants; at the end of the path a narrow flight of steps went down to the pier, and the motor boat, a small utility cruiser, was lying alongside, rocking gently in the wash of the waves.

There’s plenty of gas, said Roy. In with you. I’ll cast off.

Jim dropped his bag and coat into the boat and turned to Roy, pulling at his hand. Thank you, Roy. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’m sorry things have turned out this way.

Well, well! Hermy’s the way she is; can’t be helped. You’ll have to hurry to make the mail boat. Good luck …

The two men shook hands briefly. Jim got down into the boat and put up his hands toward Nonie, but Roy, holding her strongly, helped her down into the boat, cast a quick and weatherwise glance over the placid water and sky, nodded reassuringly, and smiled down at her.

Okay? he said, and she settled into the seat and said: Okay.

Jim started the engine with a loud roar of the exhaust which brought Hermione to the veranda railing to watch.

Roy cast off and tossed the line into the boat behind them, and waved. The rhythm of the motor steadied, Jim turned the wheel slowly and they were headed away from Beadon Island. The sea was blue and gold, glittering with light; the sky clear blue above and clear pink toward the west.

Nonie glanced back and already the island seemed smaller. The cove below the house was a cup of blue, the house seemed higher than it actually was; the pinkish, coral rock walls and breakwater, the mangrove thickets, the slope of green lawn above, all stood out with extraordinary clarity like objects in a painted scene.

Roy was going up toward the house. Hermione’s slim figure was moving rather quickly but still arrogantly across the veranda to meet him. One of the windows of the house was open; a window at the end, above the veranda, probably in Aurelia’s room with its great Victorian chests and marble-topped tables. And the huge wardrobe where, now, a white dress, a wedding dress hung, in waiting.

Wednesday—how many hours away? And Jim would not be there; and she was thankful for that. Why had she volunteered to go with him to Elbow Beach? Why had she insisted? Why hadn’t she, instead, stayed with Roy at Beadon Gates? Her home; so soon, her home!

She looked back at the house and wondered briefly if Aurelia was sitting in the gloom beyond the window watching them, and looked along toward the west, past the drifting smoke that hovered over the mill, past massed green rocks and sand to the point where the tiny village of Beadon Rock, a clutch of white roofs and trees and a spire or two seemed to grow out of the coral rock and the wind-beaten palms.

One of those spires marked the church, small and white, its oaken altar rail worn and satiny from age.

Spray flashed higher in wide glittering arcs on either side as the boat turned in a long curve; Nonie brushed the fine cool moisture from her face and tied her hair more tightly. They came parallel with the village and the pier, and the single street running along behind a flat, long row of warehouses. Well, said Jim, abruptly, that’s good-bye to Beadon Island.

She looked at him quickly; the deadly white look of anger had left his face but he was still shaken with it; his voice sounded tired and rough; his mouth was tight.

Sometime you’ll come back.

He shook his head. No. Not for a long time. Probably never.

But you are Hermione’s only relative. If anything happened to her …

Eventually he’d have to come back to manage Middle Road—he’d live on the island, a neighbor and friend of Royal Beadon’s.

He was shaking his head again. No. By that time it’ll be too late for me to make the plantation my job and my life. The time for me to become a planter is now. No—this is the end of Middle Road for me.

But that was why she asked you to come! It isn’t fair to treat you like this.

Oh, well. That’s in the past. I ought not to have let her get under my skin like that. Of course it’s true, everything she said. I haven’t any money. I haven’t a cent. And everything is hers as long as she lives.

But it’s your right. …

No. Actually and legally, it isn’t. And she did far more for me than she’d have to do; there were no strings on the property, the way it was left. She wasn’t obliged to do a thing. But she sent me to school, paid for everything up to the time I went into the Navy. When I came out I got a job. I’m an engineer; it was in a contractor’s office. It’s what I’m going back to and damned glad of the chance. Give me a cigarette, will you, Nonie? There are some in the pocket of my coat.

She got up on her knees on the slippery leather cushion, steadying herself with one hand on Jim’s shoulder. The boat lurched a little as it headed into a wave and she swayed. Jim caught her. Steady …

Thanks. She clutched quickly at the back of the seat, aware—too strongly aware again of his nearness, of the strength of the arm that caught and steadied her, of the brown hard cheek so near her own. Holding to the seat she fumbled into the pocket of his top coat. There was something heavy and sagging, too heavy to be a package of cigarettes. Her fingers touched metal and she cried: Why, Jim, there’s a gun!

It’s mine. Try the other pocket.

She pulled the coat around, swaying again with the boat; everybody on the island probably had a gun. The touch of the metal had been startling merely because it was there, because it was cold and unexpected. She found the cigarettes and slid back into the seat again. She lighted a cigarette and he took it without looking at her, his fingers steady and brown.

Thanks. It’s funny what a woman like Hermione can do to people. She—well, that’s beside the point. Dick can’t help himself now but I can; I’m no worse off than I was a year ago. In fact I’m damned lucky. I’ll have my profession and a job.

And you’ll never come back to Beadon Island, thought Nonie, with a contradictory feeling of desolation. A moment ago she had dreaded his return; now she thought: you’ll never come back to Middle Road plantation. You’ll forget the island, and you’ll forget everyone here. You’ll forget me—except that I’ll be your friend’s wife.

She must not let such thoughts enter her mind; she must not let them take shape in the silence between them! She must talk, say anything, but talk!

Spray flashed in the sun and the motor thudded through the waves, and Nonie thought, in spite of herself, as if she were two people and one of them had spoken warningly: You must remember this always. You must remember the cool sting of spray on your cheek, the way your hair whips, the sound of the motor. Jim’s hands on the wheel and his face against the glittering bright waves, brown and hard, and frowning a little; the way he puts the cigarette in his mouth and his lips close around it; the way he is looking straight ahead. You must remember all of it—all of it.

She said rather desperately, snatching at something which would build up words as a barrier against thoughts: I’m new to the island; things that everybody knows I don’t know. I know that Hermione is your father’s sister and that she has the use of a trust fund and Middle Road. But that’s all.

Jim replied promptly, almost eagerly, indeed, and with a loquaciousness that was not like him. Did he, too, welcome words? She listened, and tried to hear only Jim’s words and nothing spoken in her mind or in her heart. It’s simple, Jim said. One of those things that ought never happen in a family and so often do. I suppose because any family is built on mutual trust. You always feel that when it comes right down to cases you can trust any member of your family to see to any other member of your family. That’s what my grandfather thought. He made two marriages, you see. Hermione was the child of the first marriage; my father was of the second. He died when I was a child. Hermione was the logical person to see to my mother and me. My mother was a delicate, feminine little thing ….She died during the war; I was in the South Pacific. I didn’t know it until three weeks afterward.

She was listening now, wanting to hear, wanting to know. What had his life been—what had he thought and felt?

How little time there was! So much to ask, so much to know and they would never meet again, like that.

He said suddenly terse: "Well, my grandfather’s money was put into a trust.