Uncharted Seas Read online

  UNCHARTED

  SEAS

  Emilie Loring

  First published by Bantam Books, Inc. in 1932

  Copyright © Emilie Loring 1932

  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.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  “Dreams are the source of much of the new thinking, new convictions, new power in the world. They send the adventurous out on uncharted seas, dangerous seas, and it is danger, not security, which develops strength in mind and spirit.”

  CHAPTER I

  “Out fourteen!” announced the operator as he slid open the door of the elevator. He cocked his boyish head in its rakishly tipped, lavishly braided cap at the only other occupant of the car, a girl in a smart raincoat and a close green hat.

  For the fraction of a moment Sandra Duval hesitated. Did every girl when trying for a position for the first time feel shivery, she wondered?

  “Step quick, lady! Step quick!”

  She barely cleared the door before it clanged. She heard the boy snicker as the cage shot up. Had she appeared dazed? Standing alone in the corridor of the huge office building she felt a small and lonely soul in a big, indifferent world.

  “Step quick, lady! Step quick!” she prodded herself.

  The laughter which the repetition of the crisp command brought to her eyes lingered in their dark depths as she opened a door which proclaimed in gold letters to a more or less interested world that Damon and Hoyt were Bankers and Investors. Doors were curious things. One never knew what one might find behind them.

  Directly behind this one a girl sat at a switchboard. Sandra had time only to appreciate her grooming, to rejoice that she, herself, was distinctly soigné before the operator inquired:

  “Appointment? Who’d you want to see?”

  “Mr. Damon. He wrote me to call this morning.”

  “In answer to the ad.?”

  “The ad? No.”

  “My mistake. I thought you’d come about an advertisement he has been running. Ten applicants already this morning and there were twenty yesterday. All the dames in the city who don’t usually answer an ad. An’ most of ’em who do have flocked here. Gee, must be a lot needing work.” The worldly wise eyes of the operator appraised Sandra from head to foot.

  “I’ll ask if the boss is ready for you. Name?”

  “Sandra Duval.”

  The girl did something to a switchboard and spoke into the transmitter. She pulled out a plug.

  “Wait until the present applicant comes out then B.D. will see you.”

  “B.D.?”

  “B. Damon. He’s the man you want, isn’t he? He’s the senior member of the firm. N.H. the junior partner, is away. Here she comes now. Say, I’ll bet she didn’t make the grade.”

  A young, slender woman in black, her close turban pulled down over platinum blonde hair, averted her face quickly as she passed, but not before Sandra had noted her angrily brilliant eyes set in artificial shadows. As she slammed the outer door behind her the operator sniffed.

  “She doesn’t care what she pays for perfume, does she? Noel de Nuit! She cut her own throat when she went into B.D.’s office scented like a sachet. He must have been marked before birth with a hatred of perfume. Gosh, she was mad! I felt as if corked-up TNT had given me the once-over when she looked at me. Treat that dame rough and she’s all set to go off with a bang. Your turn. Second door to the right!”

  What would this friend of her father’s be like, Sandra had just time to wonder before she opened a door in response to a gruff, “Come in!” Through two wide open windows from which dripped a silver fringe of rain, came the drill of riveters, the hum of traffic, the whir of a propeller. On the wall which was not book-lined hung an exceptionally fine engraving of Daniel Webster. A man, tipped back in a swivel chair, was staring at it. His white hair bushed on a massive head; his coat hung loosely on his spare shoulders. He knew that she was there. How long before he would swing around and face her?

  “Why didn’t you turn off the water before you came in?” He waved a long, bony hand toward the downpour.

  “The plumbers are on a strike. Couldn’t get one on the job,” Sandra countered quickly. If all business interviews opened like this, getting a position promised to be a lark.

  He came about with a chuckle. His keen eyes, behind glass islands entirely surrounded by bone rims, seemed to bore into her brain; his skin was ruddy; his mustache, designed on the walrus plan, was white. A slightly older man than her father, she decided. He emitted a sound which might mean anything, and indicated the chair which faced him.

  “Sit down.” He touched a button. A boy whisked in.

  “Close the windows.”

  The hum and stir of the city were shut out. What a relief! “Now I can think. My brain must be hitting on every cylinder if I am to convince this man that I am capable of filling a position,” Sandra told herself.

  “So you are Jim Duval’s daughter! I am deeply touched that with his multitude of friends he sent you to me. His valiant spirit shines in your eyes between those long, sooty lashes so like his. I suppose he told you of the Three Musketeers of Melton?”

  “Scores of times. You were Athos, weren’t you? A boy named Mark Hoyt was Porthos, and …”

  “And the youngest of the bunch, Jimmy Duval, was D’Artagnan. Those were the days! But Jim’s interests took him abroad; in spite of the magic millions he had conjured from the earth, Mark Hoyt died a brokenhearted man; Aramis is a country minister; and I—well, here I am.”

  Sandra wondered if he cleared his voice from habit or if the memory of those youthful loyalties had caught him by the throat.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Sandra?”

  “As I wrote you, I need a position. First, because I must keep so busy that I won’t miss my father; second, because during the last year of his life his investments dwindled. My small income will provide bread but I would like jam with it. I had jam yesterday, I may have jam tomorrow, but I want jam today.”

  “Know your Alice in Wonderland, don’t you? I like that.” He picked up two letters from the desk, one of which she recognized as hers, the other one that her father had written to him. “You’ve had an interesting life traveling about the world. Jim Duval was a gay companion in the old days. He writes that your only fault is a too tender heart, that you’re apt to champion the under-dog. That’s a mistake, Miss Sandra, usually the under-dog is under because he won’t cultivate spiritual and moral muscle.”

  Sandra laughed. “Behold a reformed woman! I have determined that when I take a position I shall be non-partisan, absolutely hard-boiled.”r />
  “Hmp! You look it! Now about work. There is nothing like it to ease heartache and to close the door on problems. Any previous condition of servitude?” His voice creaked, as if somewhat rusty from disuse, but his eyes twinkled. Already Sandra liked him tremendously.

  “No, sir.”

  “What can you do? Office work?”

  “I am not fitted to cope with the hectic skyscraper world yet. I had thought I might make good as a social secretary.”

  “I had the same thought when I wrote you to come this morning.” He pushed a newspaper clipping across the desk. “Read that.”

  WANTED: Social secretary. The position has unusual possibilities and is intended to interest those who usually would not answer an advertisement.

  Sandra nodded approval. “It seems a perfect answer to this maiden’s prayer, doesn’t it?”

  He regarded her from beneath shaggy brows. She was reminded of a bird-of-prey about to pounce on his kill. “You come from New England stock. Depuritanized by your life abroad?”

  “Not wholly. I am still kept awake by my conscience if I indulge in coffee at night.”

  She liked his chuckle. It cheered her as she had not been cheered since she had been left alone.

  “You’ll need a conscience where you are going—if you decide to go.”

  Sandra’s spirit spread wings. Would the decision be left to her?

  “A woman—she’ll never see forty again—wants a secretary, one socially broken, who can attend to her correspondence, welcome her guests, sporting, business, professional—rarely purely social—and help her select her clothes. She goes all over the country exhibiting her horses. She has discovered that the costume of the driver adds to or detracts from the effect of the ensemble. I forgot one important qualification. Do you ride?”

  “I have ridden all my life all kinds and conditions of horses. I hate to talk about myself, but I’m a demon equestrienne.”

  “Hmp! Have a nice sense of humor, haven’t you? That was one of your father’s assets. Ever been about stables? Know anything of the inner circles of turf-dom?”

  “Dad and I had a few friends among the racing set, but I have never seen the inside of a great stable. When I was a child he owned horses. For him there was glamour in the mere word Thoroughbred. He could have told you the height, weight, and speed of every notable horse.”

  “The Musketeers were all tarred with the same brush. Porthos—Mark …” He drummed on the desk with broad-tipped fingers, as if considering how much he would tell her. Reserved triumphed. His eyes came back to her.

  “One more question. Any sentimental entanglements?”

  “No, sir. I have seen so many ex-marrieds in my travels that the contemplation of the holy estate of matrimony leaves me cold.”

  “Those were somewhat the sentiments of the last secretary we sent to Seven Chimneys—that is the name of the place—and I haven’t forgotten what happened to her. The house is in the town—a town largely given over to the Sport of Kings—in which your father and I grew up, but it was built after he left.”

  “Seven Chimneys. Dad never spoke of that, but wasn’t there an old house somewhere which had a ghost and an underground passage?”

  “There was. It belonged to the family of Mark. We boys used to haunt the place hoping to see the wraith. One night we put across a fair imitation, scared a woman almost to death, and got a licking from the caretaker.”

  “Dad used to tell that story with such realistic effect that I could actually feel my hair rise. It would seem a little like going h-home to go to Melton to live.”

  Sandra devoutedly hoped that he had not noticed the quaver in her voice. Nothing valiant about that. Damon went on as if oblivious of her emotion:

  “Melton is not so New Englandish as it was in your father’s time; it is so near the state line that commuting to the metropolis is easy. Mrs. Pat Newsome—ever heard of her?”

  “Newsome? Newsome? The name sounds familiar. Did my father know her?”

  “No. She came to the town long after he left. I am engaging a secretary for her. She hasn’t always had money. She knows the horse business from A to Z, but when it comes to social amenities she falls down. She realizes it. I have told you what she wants socially. Interested to hear the rest?”

  “My mind is on tiptoe with excitement.”

  “I like your enthusiasm. Most of the young women I know hide their feelings, they have ’em all right, I’m all for present-day youth, but they’re not heartwarming. To get back to the job; the salary is two hundred a month and your living. You will be expected to dress as a daughter of the house should, and it is quite a house to dress up to, palatial describes it. As the mistress is addicted to rages—tantrums they were called in my youth, temperament is the polite word now—sometimes they walk out in a bunch, the servants, not the rages.”

  “The job seems to be getting bigger and busier every minute.”

  “It’s big and busy, all right. There is no finer stable in the country. Mrs. Pat shows her own horses in both saddle and harness classes. What do you think about it? You may be sure I wouldn’t let you go—that dates me, doesn’t it—if I thought the environment would hurt you. Could you go today?”

  No one with even a modicum of common sense would doubt the honesty and stability of Mr. Damon; besides, hadn’t her father sent her to him? Sandra rose.

  “Yes, sir. I could start for the Milky Way at a moment’s notice. That is what traveling about the world does for one.”

  “Then I will phone Mrs. Pat—that is the name she is known by; she was Marte Patten before she married the first time—to meet the afternoon train. Only two a day. Your salary will be paid monthly. The cheques will come from this office.” He pushed papers about his desk and cleared his throat.

  “You will find complications at Seven Chimneys which will require tact. Mrs. Newsome is at present encouraging a claimant to her first husband’s estate. She is doing it to spite the heir with whom she has quarreled. Women—some women—are like that. It’s a mess. There’s bound to be trouble. She—I won’t tell you more, better that you should go unprejudiced. You may be able to help. Still want to go?”

  “More than ever. Already my imagination is pulling on its seven league boots. Are you a horse man too?”

  His chuckle was the nicest of the many nice things about him.

  “Not a horse man, Miss Sandra, a gentleman fond of horses. I’m like that chap in the poem:

  “ ‘He could tell you all the horses

  That had run at all the courses

  When they ever held a meeting

  Since the racing year began.’

  Need an advance in salary?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He pushed a typewritten slip across the desk. “There are the directions for getting to Seven Chimneys. You will like it. I’m sure you’ll like it. But another fact you should know before you go: most of the people who knew your father are gone: his old home has been pulled down. You won’t see much social life, not that there isn’t any; there is the usual smart set, hectic young moderns with racing and hunting their paramount interest, with contract and dancing giving the horses a run for their money. The late depression has chastened them slightly but hasn’t changed their interests. The chic women drive superbly, pilot planes, entertain faultlessly, have books, politics, plays at their tongues’ ends, and to their everlasting credit be it said, are devoted mothers and good neighbors, except that—well, just now they are giving Mrs. Newsome the cold shoulder because of their loyalty to some one else.”

  “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Damon, but that makes no difference to me. I am going in a business capacity, not social, even though I am to dress as a daughter of the house should.”

  “Glad you take it that way. I will see you at Seven Chimneys, but come to me for help at any time as you would have gone to your father.”

  Sandra fought a wave of emotion. Her heart, which had been twisted and bruised battling through months
thickly fogged with anxiety, still flinched under the touch of memory. She thought her contracted throat never would release her voice, but it came.

  “Thank you, Mr. Damon.” She blinked back tears and smiled. “I was terribly low in my mind, now I’m tingling with the anticipation of adventure. Know the feeling?”

  “Hmp! That’s your father all over. You and I will be great friends. I forgot to ask, do you drive a car?”

  “Yes, and I have piloted a plane.”

  “Great Scott, you youngsters are modern! The girl I married—and am still living with—you see, some of us stick to the vows we took ‘reverently, discreetly, soberly and in the fear of God’—can’t even now get used to being on the street alone after dark. Different times, different brands of courage. Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you.” Sandra paused at the door. “By the way, what happened to the last secretary you sent to Seven Chimneys?”

  Standing, he leaned slightly forward, his palms on the desk. He reminded her of a grim war lord, dominant, ruthless.

  “She fell in love with young Newsome. Watch your step.”

  CHAPTER II

  Sandra stepped to the platform; the porter dropped her worn and travel-labeled bags, held out his hand for a tip, picked up his stool, and jumped back to the Pullman. The baggage man plumped a saddle beside the luggage and pulled himself up to the rear car as the train picked up speed and with an ear-splitting whistle shot straight for what looked to be an impenetrable wilderness.

  She regarded the parallel lines of shining steel snaking back the way she had come and the small building huddled close to the track. Evidently this was one of the stations which a paternalistic railroad organization dropped into an apparent wilderness for the use of its rich and great patrons.

  How still the world was! She listened. No sound of an approaching automobile. Mr. Damon had assured her that Mrs. Newsome would have one waiting. She couldn’t have made a mistake in the train because there were only two daily, and the conductor had made no comment when he had taken her ticket. Something must have happened to the car.