George Lockwood considered it his duty to take a hand in the fashioning of his daughter’s future, for in spite of her recent maturing experience, she was not capable of originating forthright action in her own interest. And time was a-wasting. Without her father’s delicate intercession she could be overlooked, left unmarried and childless at thirty, and hardening into the kind of woman who attended symphony concerts by herself and had lovers who turned out to be repetitions of her trackwalker. There was in her enough of her mother to make just such undramatic tragedy possible; Agnes had had the makings of an old maid, and might well have been happier, or less unhappy, if she had remained a virgin. Tina, half Lockwood, had by nature an equipment of passion that had already given her some trouble and could continue to give her more. With a slight shock George Lockwood discovered that he had been unconsciously finding resemblances between Tina and Marian Strademyer. They were, of course, completely unalike, he reassured himself. Completely. And he proceeded to stack up all the evidence to prove how different Tina was from Marian. But having done so, he returned to his original discovery, and the rediscovery was not shocking; it was alarming. He loved Tina, now more than ever before, and the potential danger of her destruction by a man like Pen Lockwood became the cause for action that was all he needed. If a Pen Lockwood could murder a Marian Strademyer, a successor to Tina’s trackwalker could murder Tina. And even if her destruction were not accomplished by a bullet, it could be done with the same finality by rejection and neglect. He wanted, by God, more out of life for her than that.
He signed the Cape Cod lease, had his signature witnessed by one of the maids, and put it in the mail pouch that Andrew took to the Swedish Haven postoffice every afternoon. For the first time in months he felt good.
TWO
HE had never thought of Tina as beautiful. Perhaps the women who held those uncomfortable poses for Charles Dana Gibson were beautiful. Elsie Ferguson was beautiful. One of the English duchesses was probably beautiful. One evening Marian Strademyer, standing perfectly still and nude and watching the water filling a bathtub, was very nearly beautiful. But beautiful women generally were fragile and remote and unexciting. They were, in a word, dull. In another word, inanimate. After a week at the Cape Cod house Tina was not beautiful, but she was lovely. The seaside sun had bleached her hair, her skin was brown. She was lovely, she was handsome, and if he had not retained his prejudice against the word he would have called her beautiful because it signified the superlative degree.
The moment had come for summoning Preston Hibbard, and a great deal depended on how it was done, but this was the sort of maneuvering at which George Lockwood excelled. He had respect for the mind of Preston Hibbard, which made the task of outwitting him more pleasurable. “If it would be convenient for you to come down next Wednesday,” he wrote Hibbard, “we could have a swim and lunch. That would leave us the afternoon for our business. You would then have ample time for the drive back to Boston before dark. I promise you we will not be interrupted as my wife and daughter plan to spend the day in Edgartown.”
He had, of course, arranged the absence of Geraldine and Tina. “I would appreciate it if you ladies would make yourselves scarce next Wednesday,” he told them. “There’s a young fellow coming down from Boston to talk about Pen’s estate. It’s going to take all day, going over Pen’s stocks and bonds and all the rest of it. He’ll be here for lunch, and I think I can probably get rid of him by four o’clock.”
“We might go up to Boston for the day,” said Geraldine.
“You might do that, or you could run over to the Vineyard,” said George. “The Vineyard’s much closer, and it’s a pleasant boatride. All I care about is getting through with this chore.”
“Who is this horror that you don’t want us to see?” said Tina.
“He isn’t a horror. His name is Preston Hibbard and he’s the acting bursar at St. Bartholomew’s. But this won’t be a social visit.”
“I know Preston Hibbard. He went to school with Bing,” said Tina. “I say I know him. Actually I’ve only met him.”
“I met him too. He came to Swedish Haven,” said Geraldine. “Don’t you think it’d be nice to ask him to spend the night?”
“No,” said George. “I want to keep this on a businesslike basis, and I’m sure he does too.”
“Let’s go to Nantucket,” said Tina. “I’ve never been there.”
“All right. I know some people there,” said Geraldine. “I’ll look up boats, and we can plan to be back late in the afternoon.”
Preston Hibbard arrived in his Dodge coupe half an hour after Tina and Geraldine departed for Woods Hole and the Vineyard-Nantucket boat. “My wife was sorry to’ve missed seeing you again,” said George. “But I explained to her that you’re a very busy man.”
“Sorry to’ve missed her, and your daughter,” said Hibbard.
“How was your ride down? You’ve probably taken it many times.”
“Quite a few times. I know every foot of the way.”
“Then you must be ready for a dip,” said George. “Did you bring your bathing suit?”
“Yes I did,” said Hibbard. “And I know where to change.”
“You’ve been to this house before?”
“I have. Elias White is a friend of my father’s, but not of mine particularly. We came down here one time when we were small boys, my brother and I. Henry, my brother, accidentally set fire to the tool shed, and we were never asked back again.”
“So that’s why Mr. White won’t rent to families with small children,” said George.
“That was nearly twenty years ago, but Elias still barely nods to Henry and me. I’m sure he wasn’t a bit surprised when Henry turned out to be a bohemian. Coming events cast their shadow, and so forth.”
“Well, let’s get into our bathing togs,” said George.
There was more muscle to Preston Hibbard than George Lockwood had been aware of. He had good shoulders and chest and biceps, and well-developed thighs and calves. “You’re in good condition for a man in a sedentary occupation,” said George.
“I do setting-up exercises,” said Hibbard. “Fifteen minutes a day. I’ve always liked gym work. The horizontal bar. The rings. The horse. Trapeze.”
“Oh, really? That’s interesting.”
“Oh, it’s very dull unless you care about it, but it’s good discipline. Occasionally I work out with the gym teacher at St. Bartholomew’s. He’s really good. A German.”