Lighted Windows, page 1
LIGHTED WINDOWS
Emilie Loring
First published by Bantam Books, Inc. in 1930
Copyright © Emilie Loring 1930
This edition published in 2020 by Lume Books
30 Great Guildford Street,
Borough, SE1 0HS
The right of Emilie Loring to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Dedication
To the readers of my stories
who, by spoken or written word,
have recognized beneath the
magic glamour of romance and adventure
the clear flame of my belief
that the beautiful things of life
are as real as the ugly things of life,
that gay courage may
turn threatened defeat into victory,
that hitching one’s wagon
to the star of achievement will lift one
high above the quicksands of discouragement
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
I
Fifth Avenue. In that quiet hour before dawn when for a trifling interval the city dozes, it never sleeps. The gleaming asphalt, blanched to silvery whiteness by arc lights, stretched ahead illimitably between looming skyscrapers, phantoms of concrete and steel, brick and glass, shadowy and unreal as the backdrop in a pantomime. In the middle of its polished surface, like a dark isle in a glistening ribbon of river, rested a slipper. Black, satin, buckled with brilliants which caught the light and threw it back transmuted into a thousand colorful sparks. A slipper of parts, unquestionably.
Bruce Harcourt stopped short in his long stride to regard it incredulously. How had it come there? He looked up and down the broad deserted avenue before he salvaged it. A spot of red light was dimming eastward.
Back on the sidewalk he turned the bit of satin over and over in his hand. It was warm. The feel of it sent a curious glow through his veins. It must quite recently have covered a slender foot. Dropped from the now distant automobile? He remembered the gay party of men and girls who had been leaving the hotel as he came out. Why hadn’t the owner stopped to pick it up? The hundred eyes of the rhinestone buckle blinked at him with a what’s-the-answer challenge in their shallow depths.
He thrust the disturbing bit of foot-gear into his top-coat pocket, gravely regarded the glittering avenue before he entered the Club door. Twenty-four hours more of this and he would be on his way to the wilderness. In his room he set the slipper upon the dresser. From the depths of an easy chair he contemplated it as he smoked his pipe. Too late, too early in the day to go to bed. It seemed such a waste of time to sleep in New York. Soon he would be seeing only forests, glaciers, fields of snow, rails, steam-shovels and the paraphernalia of engineering.
He was not sorry to go back. His college classmates who had given the dinner for him tonight wouldn’t believe it, though. They had treated him with the considerate attention due one about to be exiled. It was exile in a way yet—how the dickens could that slipper have been dropped in the middle of the Avenue? The girl who had lost it—its slenderness proclaimed it a girl’s possession—would have known had she dropped it from her foot. What was she like? Dark? Fair? Hard? Tender?
Tender! Harcourt shrugged and refilled his pipe. From his observation they didn’t make them tender any more. He was thirty-five. Since his sophomore days he hadn’t seen a girl who had touched his heart with flame. An intangible presence had seemed to stand between him and love. He was ashamed to acknowledge it even to himself, but it was there. A psychoanalyst would doubtless diagnose it as the subconscious guarding his profession, for he certainly couldn’t take a wife into the wilds of Alaska railroad building. He had been given a corking chance to make a name for himself in his profession of engineering, but it meant cutting out romance. From what he had heard of the marital experiences of some of the men who had dined him so royally, he wasn’t missing much.
He sat speculating about the slipper and its owner till dawn stole over the roofs he could see from his window. Rainbow colors, violet, indigo, lemon, melted into blue in the eastern sky. Outlines sharpened. The mists of the city fled. The lights in the room paled to ineffectual blurs. Creaking noises in the hall outside. Faint bells in the distance. From the streets ten stories below rose the murmur of a waking city.
Morning and his last day in New York. He stretched his long, lean body. His last day in New York and a full one. Before he left on the midnight train he had to keep innumerable business appointments, confirm orders for materials, and hire a secretary. His brows, a shade darker than his hair, met over his clear gray eyes, the clean lines of his mouth tightened. Why couldn’t Tubby Grant have found one for himself on the coast?
Returned from his shower he regarded the slipper on the dresser. What should he do with it? He turned it over in his hand. The eyes of the buckle winked at him, brilliantly but colorlessly now that the lights were out. It was a gem of a buckle. A buckle of value. He knew that, because he had bought several pairs for his sister who had a buckle complex. Would the owner advertise? He’d take a look at the evening paper. Perhaps he would have a chance to return it before he left. The interview might put a decided kick into his last evening. The slipper suggested adventure. He had fought off all invitations. He hadn’t known at what time he would finish the business of a full day.
The following eight hours proved more crowded and the search for a secretary more futile than he had imagined. The mere mention of the word Alaska set the prospects he interviewed into shivering refusal.
“Tubby’ll have to get one for himself on the coast,” he concluded as he opened the door of his room at the Club. As he snapped on the light the eyes of the buckle on the dresser flashed into prismatic glitter.
“Good Lord, I’d forgotten you!” he exclaimed aloud, in surprised response to its almost human appeal. “Let’s see if we can find your owner.”
He shook out the evening paper, located the Lost and Found column and ran his finger down the list. “Here it is!” He read the advertisement through twice.
LOST. Monday evening on Fifth Avenue, black satin slipper with rhinestone buckle. Reward, if returned at once to J. Trent, 0001 Madison Avenue.
J. Trent. J. Trent. He had heard that combination before. He turned the name over and over in his mind. Click! It slipped into place. Janice Trent! Billy Trent’s sister “Jan.” He remembered her as a leggy child of twelve when he had spent his last college vacation before the war at the Trents’ country place. She had exasperated her brother and himself by tagging after them on fishing expeditions. She had been particularly annoying when sitting on the veranda steps personifying furious rebellion as they shot off in the roadster to pay tribute to neighborhood girls. Funny little thing, naturally timid, always forcing herself to be brave. She had inspired a protective tenderness. His eyes shadowed with regret. Darn shame that he and Billy, who had meant so much to one another, had drifted apart. He had gone to Trent’s office at once upon his arrival in New York, only to learn that he was out of town.
He stared unseeingly at the advertisement. Last night at the dinner when he had regretted Billy’s absence, Silsbee, the class gossip, had confided.
“Trent’s a little gob of gloom these days. Can’t blame him. His father played the market, lost practically everything he had and passed out. His sister Janice is to be married in a week. Marrying a multi who’s got a way with the ladies. The two are at a prenuptial blowout in this very hotel now. Confidentially, Billy heard that Paxton—that’s the prospective bridegroom’s name—had been making whoopee in an adjacent city and he has gone to investigate. Gosh, how do these sheiks get away with it!”
Harcourt looked at his watch. He would change for the trip—no, he wouldn’t, he would dress for dinner; no knowing what adventure might be lurking round the next corner. Doubtless, there were a dozen J. Trents in the city, but if the owner of the slipper proved to be Janice he would persuade her to play round with him until his train left. Silsbee had said last night that she was being entertained in the same hotel; he had seen a gay party leaving only a few moments before he picked up the slipper. Those parts of the puzzle fitted perfectly.
An hour later, in answer to his ring, a trim maid admitted him to the Madison Avenue house, a slice of old-time aristocracy sandwiched between new-time shops. He gave his errand, not his name. As he waited in the cheerless reception room, where pictures leaned dejectedly against the walls, where chairs were shrouded in ghostly covers, and furniture was crated, he heard the murmur of voices in a room beyond, the imperative ring of a telephone. Someone answered. Harcourt looked at his watch impatiently. Would J. Trent keep him waiting while she gossiped? He couldn’t help hearing the frost-tinged voice.
“No.… It was unpardonable.… I shall not see you.… Don’t come.… I h
The receiver clicked on the hook. Could that have been a prospective bride speaking, Harcourt wondered. Her voice had given him the creeps. Of course there could be two J. Trents in the City of New York, but—
“You have my slipper?”
He curiously regarded the girl on the threshold. Little Janice Trent grown up. The same boyish croak in her voice that he remembered. Who would have thought that the angular child would develop into beauty? Her glinting brown hair waved softly close to her boyish head. The ardent curves of her lips showed vividly red against her pallor. He was vaguely conscious of a beige frock, the yellow of topaz at her throat.
“If this is yours.”
The long, gold-tipped lashes flew up. Her eyes were the color of bronze pansies, slightly beaten by the rain of recent tears, he surmised. Incredulity, amazement, certainty followed one another in her voice.
“Why! Why, you are Bruce Harcourt!”
Impulsively she extended her hands. The satin slipper dropped to the floor as he caught them.
“Then you haven’t forgotten me?”
“Forgotten you! How could I? Remember how I ragged you and Billy and how furious you boys were when I appeared—how I sulked when you drove off to the Country Club? I was ready to scratch out the eyes of any girl you looked at. However, no matter how obdurate my brother remained, you always relented, and said, ‘What’s the difference? Let her come along, Billy!’ Remember how I clutched your hand when we went through the woods? ‘Might see a bear!’ was my bugaboo. I shed cloud-bursts of tears when you returned to college. And to think that it should be you who picked up my slipper. Where did you find it?”
She was eager, radiant. Her fingers seemed to cling to his. His hold tightened.
“Winking and blinking in the middle of Fifth Avenue before dawn this morning. I have been consumed with curiosity to know how it came there.”
A flame of color tinged her face. She freed her hands.
“I started to get out of a roadster. I had opened the door, put one foot out to jump when—”
“Reckless child! Go on, when?”
“When I—I changed my mind.” He had the sense as of a door closing between them. “It’s wonderful to see you. I had been told you were in Alaska.”
“Have been for years. I’m starting back tonight.”
“Tonight! What a shame that Billy is away. You will stay and dine with me, won’t you? This house is a mess. We’ve sold it and are clearing it, but we still have a cook.”
“I have a better suggestion. Dine with me—unless—I was told last night that you were about to be married. Perhaps you are not free.”
“I am free to do as I like.” The color which the surprise at his identity had brought to her face faded. “I’d love to go, only let it be some quiet place where we can talk.”
“Anywhere you say. You know New York better than I.”
She had selected an hotel up town where the decorations, the music, the perfection of the service sank into one’s consciousness as softly as the foot into the thick pile of the velvet carpet.
Was this really little Jan Trent facing him across a small, seductively lighted table in the shadow of a spreading palm? She had changed to an evening frock, something lacy and brown, shot through and through with gold. Long, old-fashioned garnet earrings winked countless ruby eyes as they caught the light, six inches or more of the same blinking stones girdled one bare arm. A richly furred, gleaming wrap was over the back of her chair. Harcourt tried to picture the radiant, fragrant beauty of her opposite him at one of the rough tables in the crude log cabin, called the Waffle Shop, at the outfit’s headquarters in Alaska. The vision wouldn’t materialize.
They talked of her family, the loss of her mother and father, of Billy, of the enormous growth of the city, of the changes in it, in the fashion of plays, of books, of clothes since he was last in New York.
As the gray-haired waiter set the coffee on the table and withdrew to a discreet distance, Harcourt suggested:
“We still have time for part of a show. I don’t leave until midnight.”
“I would rather sit here and talk.”
“Suits me. Will you smoke?”
She shook her head. Elbow on the table, dimpled chin in one hand, she drew hieroglyphics on the cloth with a rosy-nailed finger.
“No. My fiancé so admires the accomplishment in his friends, that I wonder he chose a girl so pre-war in her tastes and habits as I.”
“And you have promised to marry a man of whom you can speak so contemptuously?”
In the room beyond a violin swept into the music of Scharwenka’s Polish Dance, with a swing and fire which set Bruce Harcourt’s pulses thrumming to its tempo. She folded her hands—ringless, he noted in surprise—lightly on the table, as she answered his question with another.
“Ever met Ned Paxton?”
“No.”
“Then you wouldn’t understand. He has attracted me unbelievably, while something deep within me protested, ‘You know that you don’t trust him.’ Moth and candle stuff, I suppose. He has hurt my heart and my pride, yet when he smiled and explained, I would dope my intelligence—instinct, rather—forgive him and remember his good qualities. He has them. Old people adore him, children like him—but he doesn’t get on with dogs. Why am I telling you all this, I wonder?”
He answered the troubled sweetness of her eyes, her mouth, so proud, so unhappy, more than her words.
“Because you’ve reached the point where you’ve got to talk. You used to tell me everything when we went fishing together. Remember?”
“I remember what a pest I was. All that was needed to make me stick like a leech was to have you say:
“ ‘You can’t do it. It’s too hard for a girl.’ That settled it. I would put it through or perish in the attempt. I was conscious of my fear complex, though I didn’t know enough to call it that. It wasn’t fear really, it was imagination plus, which made a specialty of screening disaster. I’ve fought it all my life but it still gets me for an instant at times. Let’s not talk any more about Jan Trent, I’m fed up with her and her problems. How did you happen to go to Alaska—to me it seems the jumping-off place of the universe—you, who Billy claimed were a blown-in-the-glass New Englander?”
“That blown-in-the-glass New England stuff was the answer. I was too darn conservative. I realized that when I came from overseas. Any nurseryman will tell you that young trees grow more sturdy by being transplanted. It was a wrench to tear away from old ties and old customs, but I’ve never been sorry. The break made me world-minded.”
“Does that mean that you’re completely depuritanized?”
He laughed. “Not wholly—myself—but I have a greater sympathy for the other fellow’s point of view.”
“Tell me about Alaska. It sounds so bracing and crisp and clean.”
Harcourt lighted another cigarette. “I wish that it always conveyed that impression. I’ve fought and died trying to get a secretary for our outfit. I’ll bet I’ve interviewed fifty of them, short and tall, lean and fat. The mere name of the country sets an applicant’s teeth to chattering.”
“I should think there’d be dozens of girls crazy to go.”
“Girls! What would we do with a girl in our outfit? We go hundreds of miles into the interior. Ours is no coast cinch. I’m after a man.”
“You should have seen the fighting line of your mouth when you echoed “Girls!”
He put his hand to his face as though to relax the muscles. “One acquires a fighting line to one’s mouth when bridge-building in Alaska.”
“Are there no women there?”
“Of course, wonderful women in the cities, cultured, chic, keenly conversant with world conditions; others on remote farms, nuggets of gold, if rough ones; but not in our business. That is not quite true. There are three: Millicent Hale, wife of the chief engineer of the department to which I’m attached, and the Samp sisters.”
“Samp! What a curious name. What do they do?”
Her eyes were alight with interest, color had come back to her face. Harcourt was subconsciously aware of an orchestral accompaniment; languorous rhythm, jewels of sound, no measure really begun, no measure really finished for him, just murmurous harmony with a hint of passion running through it all which set an eager pain tugging at his heart, a poignant yearning stirring in his soul.
