around talking and then we went to a motel. We registered as Mr. and Mrs. Don Saxby, but don’t worry. We stayed up all the time, talking. It was my idea, anyway. It seemed the best way to make you realize there was nothing you could do about it.” Ala still had her hand on my arm, still blissfully assuming we were allies, but her eyes never faltered from their challenge of Connie’s face. “Don feels as bad about it as I do. And we finally agreed what to do. We decided I should come back right away and explain it all to you and to Chuck. Don hopes just as much as I do that you’ll be sensible and let us be married in a civilized way. But I warn you. If you’re not, there’s nothing you can do. I’m of age. Besides, George is as much of a parent as you—more because he’s a real uncle—and he isn’t going to stand in our way…”
“Wait a minute—” I began.
But Connie interrupted. “Since you and George seem suddenly so close, has he had time to tell you, among other items, what your Uncle Mal found out about Mr. Saxby? Do you know that last spring Don Saxby tried to elope with the eighteen-year-old daughter of some rich people in Toronto?”
I’d expected that to throw Ala, but she merely laughed.
“That!” she said. “A neurotic little girl who was crazy about him, who tried to trick him into running off with her. You think Don didn’t tell me about that?”
“So he told you, did he?” said Connie. “Did he also tell you that he was only using the girl to get money out of the parents, that he let the father buy him off with ten thousand dollars?”
Ala glared defiantly. “That’s a lie.”
“Do you want to call your Uncle Mal? He’ll tell you whether it’s a lie or not.”
“Uncle Mal! You think I’d pay any attention to him or any of his stuffy old cronies, doddering around, spreading malicious gossip?”
“That’s enough, Ala,” I said. “It looks as if it’s true.”
She spun around to me, the defiance ready for me, too. “How do you know whether it’s true or not? Have you called these friends of Uncle Mal’s? Or the people with the crazy daughter?”
“No, I haven’t, but…”
“My God, you too!” She turned back to Connie, her eyes gleaming savagely. “I might have known you’d cook up something phony like this. You and the Rysons.”
“Ala!” I said. “Stop that.”
She turned back to me. “And you—you’re just as bad as Connie after all. If you knew how ridiculous you both look standing there like characters with a ruined daughter out of True Confessions. All right. I did my best. I was prepared to come back, to get down on my knees, if need be, and grovel over what a fool I’ve been about poor Chuck. But if this is the way you’re going to act, if you’re going to make up stinking lies about Don—okay, fine. I’ve had enough. God knows, I’ve been having enough for years.”
Without looking at either of us, she swept past us and up the stairs.
I started after her.
“No,” said Connie. “You’ve done enough damage as it is.” The front doorbell rang. I was so close to it that I jumped. I turned and opened the door.
Chuck came in. He looked haggard and disheveled, so utterly unlike the up-and-coming young banker that for a moment I hardly recognized him.
“She’s come back, hasn’t she?” he said. “I saw her. I’ve been waiting across the street in a doorway since six.”
FIVE
The way he looked reminded me of something. Then I remembered. His mother had looked at us like that, wild-eyed and remote, when Connie and I had visited her at the sanitarium just before one of her more violent attacks. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“She’s just gone upstairs,” said Connie.
“Can I go to her?”
“She’s in quite a state, Chuck. I don’t know…”
“Whether she’ll see me? Why wouldn’t she see me? She’s engaged to me, isn’t she?”
“But…”
“Okay, Chuck,” I said. “Why don’t you try?”
Connie
“Wait a minute—” I began.
But Connie interrupted. “Since you and George seem suddenly so close, has he had time to tell you, among other items, what your Uncle Mal found out about Mr. Saxby? Do you know that last spring Don Saxby tried to elope with the eighteen-year-old daughter of some rich people in Toronto?”
I’d expected that to throw Ala, but she merely laughed.
“That!” she said. “A neurotic little girl who was crazy about him, who tried to trick him into running off with her. You think Don didn’t tell me about that?”
“So he told you, did he?” said Connie. “Did he also tell you that he was only using the girl to get money out of the parents, that he let the father buy him off with ten thousand dollars?”
Ala glared defiantly. “That’s a lie.”
“Do you want to call your Uncle Mal? He’ll tell you whether it’s a lie or not.”
“Uncle Mal! You think I’d pay any attention to him or any of his stuffy old cronies, doddering around, spreading malicious gossip?”
“That’s enough, Ala,” I said. “It looks as if it’s true.”
She spun around to me, the defiance ready for me, too. “How do you know whether it’s true or not? Have you called these friends of Uncle Mal’s? Or the people with the crazy daughter?”
“No, I haven’t, but…”
“My God, you too!” She turned back to Connie, her eyes gleaming savagely. “I might have known you’d cook up something phony like this. You and the Rysons.”
“Ala!” I said. “Stop that.”
She turned back to me. “And you—you’re just as bad as Connie after all. If you knew how ridiculous you both look standing there like characters with a ruined daughter out of True Confessions. All right. I did my best. I was prepared to come back, to get down on my knees, if need be, and grovel over what a fool I’ve been about poor Chuck. But if this is the way you’re going to act, if you’re going to make up stinking lies about Don—okay, fine. I’ve had enough. God knows, I’ve been having enough for years.”
Without looking at either of us, she swept past us and up the stairs.
I started after her.
“No,” said Connie. “You’ve done enough damage as it is.” The front doorbell rang. I was so close to it that I jumped. I turned and opened the door.
Chuck came in. He looked haggard and disheveled, so utterly unlike the up-and-coming young banker that for a moment I hardly recognized him.
“She’s come back, hasn’t she?” he said. “I saw her. I’ve been waiting across the street in a doorway since six.”
FIVE
The way he looked reminded me of something. Then I remembered. His mother had looked at us like that, wild-eyed and remote, when Connie and I had visited her at the sanitarium just before one of her more violent attacks. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“She’s just gone upstairs,” said Connie.
“Can I go to her?”
“She’s in quite a state, Chuck. I don’t know…”
“Whether she’ll see me? Why wouldn’t she see me? She’s engaged to me, isn’t she?”
“But…”
“Okay, Chuck,” I said. “Why don’t you try?”
Connie