“Whoa! Back up! Let go, Milly! You’re twisting the steerer!” The chalky-faced girl shrieked as the car described a circle on two wheels and with demoniac intent rushed uproariously for the porch again. Pamela emerged from a trance of amazement.
“Shut off the engine, Eddie! Shut off your engine!”
“Now, whoever let that half-baked idiot get a license!” rasped Mehitable Betts as the flivver veered, gouged up the gravel in an about-face turn and with a backfire which would have been no mean accomplishment for a baby Big Bertha, bucked convulsively and shed its forward wheels. Man and girl catapulted through space where once had been a windshield. “There, he’s stopped it.” “Stopped it! I’ll say he has.” Pamela’s voice was choked with laughter as she ran toward the car. “You are not hurt are you, Milly?” she asked, as the girl, with hat smashed over one eye, crawled from the wreck. Miss Pike cast a murderous glare at her brother as she restored her headgear to its usual coquettish angle.
“’Tisn’t Eddie’s fault that I’m not. He paid ten dollars for that flivver —”
“And got cheated at that,” interrupted Mehitable Betts grimly as she tried to restore the splintered trellis to place. “What you doing riding round in racing cars this time a-day, Milly Pike?”
Milly wrinkled her nose at gaunt Miss Betts’ sarcasm before she turned to Pamela.
“I came for the eggs, Miss Leigh. Eddie offered to bring me to save time. It isn’t his fault I’m not doing time in a hospital. Is Terrence anywhere around?”
“Terrence!”
With Pamela’s echo of the name came the memory of her distrust of the girl, so pretty, so vital, so — cheap.
“I will get the eggs for you, Milly. My brother is at school.”
Eddie Pike looked up from the wreck he had been studying to scowl at his sister.
“Don’t you go chasing after Terry, Milly. Terry’s a fine boy. Shan’t stand for you hangin’ round him like you’ve been hangin’ round Phil Carr lately.”
Chapter XIII
After all, this morning Eddie Pike had not accused Phil Carr of “hanging round” Milly, it was just the reverse, Pamela comforted herself as she curled up in a corner of the couch in the living room. Light from the floor lamp brought out the splashy pattern in the pale green Chinese damask of her frock, illumined the pile of magazines on the stand beside her. She was through work early tonight. She would have three whole hours in which to read.
The fire snapped companionably. The Babe, stretched at length on the hearth-rug, cocked one ear as a vine brushed against the window-pane, like tapping fingers begging for entrance. From the radio upstairs thundered the music of one of the stormier symphonies. Its sweep, its strength, its passion, set Pamela’s pulses throbbing like muted drums; made her feel like a small and lonely soul battling a tempest of emotion. She tried to shake off the effect as she absentmindedly turned the pages of a magazine, her eyes on the copper and blue flames. Of course what Philip Carr did was nothing to her, but she liked him. It would be unbearable if he were to mess up his life for a silly girl like Milly Pike. His mother was away. Would he be furious were she to speak to him about it? What business was it of hers what he did? He was a man grown. He had been wonderfully helpful about the cottage, sympathetically understanding of her turmoil of mind in regard to the lawsuit. His father had been right; he was more artistic than practical. She had made a mistake when she took his advice about the tenant. Commonsense should have told her that a woman who refused to sign a lease would be irresponsible. What would Scott say? Song sparrows, robins, redwing blackbirds, meadow larks and purple linnets had appeared since he had been at the Silver Moon. Last night she had heard a hermit thrush. The arrival of the birds would have recorded the passing of the weeks even had she forgotten. Was he still furiously angry? She had had a few clean-cut business letters from him, that was all. She had not answered them; they had not called for a reply.
A car sweeping up the drive? Scott? Of course not. It would be Phil in his creamy yellow roadster. He was coming to report on his check-up of the cottage.
She heard a step on the porch, ran to the front door and opened it. “How is our talented boy archi — Scott!”
Mallory stepped by her into the hall. He dropped coat and hat on the settle. As he waited for her to precede him into the living room his face was curiously colorless, his eyes inscrutable. He said lightly:
“Sorry to disappoint you. I take it you expected Carr.”
Pamela returned to the couch corner. A safe and sane refuge in time of trouble. The symphony above crashed in a stupendous finale; the music was like fingers pressing hard at her throat. Mallory backed up to the fire. His height and sternness caught at her breath. The deep lines between his nose and the corners of his mouth had not been there before. She struggled for nonchalance as she asked:
“When did you return from your coast to coast trip?”
“Just back.”
“Was it successful?” She felt as if she were editing a question and answer column.
“Yes.”
Silence, unbridgeable silence, rising, rising like a Chinese wall between them. What did one say, what could one say to a man who had left one furiously angry?
“Did you — you find people stirred up over the political situation?”
“Not especially. The country is still fundamentally sound,” Mallory assured curtly.
She had reached the end of that line. What next? Stupid of her to be so dumb. Had he lost interest in her or was his attitude merely a carefully thought-out defense mechanism? Pamela crashed blindly through the wall of reserve.
“Don’t be so wooden! Why did you come if you have nothing to say?”
He became absorbed in lighting a cigarette. “I have been asking myself why I came ever since you greeted me at the door, thinking I was Carr.”
She caught her lips between her teeth to steady them as memory seared like lightning. Hilda Crane had arrived at the Inn today. Scott was here for the first time in weeks! A coincidence? Not likely. She forced her voice to lightness.
“Phil was to check up on the cottage and report that everything was as per contract before I made the last payment. Our Tenant — Terry and I speak of her with a capital T — moves in tomorrow.”
“Really!”
Nothing wooden about him now, his eyes were alight with interest, his smile was heart-warming. Pamela felt as if she had been transported into a patch of sunlight. “That’s great. Who is it?”
“Mrs. Isabelle Stevens.”
The muscles of his face hardened, his eyes narrowed. Did Mallory of Mallory & Carter look like that when cross-examining a witness? No wonder he won cases.
“Not Mrs. Isabelle Stevens of New York? Hilda Crane’s sister?”
She nodded. His change of expression had done things to her voice.
“Where did you get hold of her?”
“She wrote to me. Why do you ask so many questions? Philip Carr had her looked up. She is impeccable socially. Has heaps of money and — a charming sister.”
He regarded her steadily. “I suppose young Carr drew your lease or did his father — your present legal adviser — attend to it?”
It had come! She might have known that it would. “I — I — haven’t any lease.” That break in her voice was equivalent to an admission of guilt, Pamela realized furiously.
“What!”
Mallory caught her by the shoulders, drew her to her feet. He administered a shake, too slight to be actionable, but unmistakably a shake.
“Don’t tell me, Pam, that you have let your cottage to that woman without any legal hold on her.”
She met his blazing eyes defiantly. “Why do you call her ‘that woman’? She has money, she has social standing. You don’t for a moment believe that she will back out at the eleventh hour and leave me financially in the lurch, do you?”
“That’s just what I believe! Don’t get me wrong. She isn’t planning to do it now. She is a woman who spends her i
ncome a year, sometimes two, ahead; she is always in arrears. She gets by because she is so wealthy that dealers lift the price to pay them for waiting for their money. There are worse but also less exasperating women. You can’t afford to let your house to a person like that. You’ve got to meet your interest.”
“Phil said —”
“I don’t care what Carr said. We’ve got to get that woman out of the cottage before the renting season is over or make her pay in advance.”
“We!” He was still interested. Pamela caught the lapel of his coat.
“Scott, I’m terribly sorry to have been so unbusinesslike. Way down deep, I knew that I ought to have a lease, but, I was so eager to rent the cottage. The prospect of six months’ tenancy went straight to my head — we had figured on three, four at the most — I planned to make a payment on the mortgage.”
His eyes smiled warmly into the troubled depths of hers. With gentle fingers he brushed back a strand of her hair which had escaped from the smooth wave to stray over her forehead. He reassured:
“Don’t worry. I’ll straighten it out.”
“Phil said —”
Mallory’s eyes hardened. He moved abruptly to the fireplace. “If you mention Carr’s name again I’ll beat him up for letting you in for this mess. He ought to have known better. Why didn’t you consult his father?”
“He is doing enough for me.”
“Terribly afraid that someone will help you, aren’t you? I —”
Voices on the porch. Whom had Phil brought with him, Pamela had time only to wonder, before the front door swung open.
“Oh, Pam! Here’s the sister of the Tenant! Wants to ask you some questions about the cottage. She is here to get things started. How are you, Mallory? When did you get back?”
“Scott!” Hilda Crane paused effectively on the threshold. Her blonde hair was exquisitely dressed; her reddened lips were parted in an ecstatic smile; her eyes were deeply, darkly purple; a wrap of ivory satin only partially covered an azure frock.
“Scott!” In a little rush she was across the room, both hands clasped about his arm, the sophisticate gone ingenue. “It is wonderful to see you. You were marvelous to come the moment I arrived. Did Miss Cryder give you my message that Belle had taken the Leigh cottage?”
A steel hand closed ruthlessly over Pamela’s heart. Had he known when he came tonight that Hilda Crane’s sister was her tenant? He was an excellent actor. How she hated men.
“I have not been to the office since my return. Drove straight here from New York. What lured Belle to this Sleepy Hollow? She won’t find many card players here.”
Miss Crane smoothed his sleeve. He freed his arm and poked the fire. She pouted:
“You don’t seem a bit thrilled at my coup, Scott. Belle is planning to have you with us every moment you can spare. In spite of the fact that you have ground the money for some long due bills out of her, she adores you. She will have her cronies coming and going. The doctor recommended a quiet summer and I thought of this place.”
“When does she come?”
“Tomorrow. She is motoring from New York. You look worn to the bone. Have you been working terribly hard?”
He put his hand to his face. “I’ve driven over three hundred and sixty miles today. I’m dusty. I want to see Belle the moment she arrives.” He turned to Pamela. “Is your father still up? I would like to talk with him.”
“I think so. I will find out.”
Pamela was thankful for an excuse to escape from the charged atmosphere. Philip Carr had been patently seething with resentment at Scott Mallory’s curt greeting. She herself had been unbearably hurt at Hilda Crane’s monopoly of Scott.
Her father, who was reading, frowned at the interruption as she entered the room. “Now, what is it?”
“Mr. Mallory wants to talk with you.”
“What is he after?”
“He didn’t say. Perhaps to persuade you to produce more antiques.”
It was an aimless answer, a shot in the dark, one of those things one flings out when one is in a mental turmoil, for the sake of something to say. Pamela was totally unprepared for its effect. Her father’s face turned livid.
“What do you mean, ‘more antiques’?” She shrugged. “Nothing, absolutely nothing. It was a fool remark. Will you see Mr. Mallory?”
“Tell him to come up.”
Had Scott heard his loud voice? He was half way up the stairs when she met him. He caught her hand.
“What was he saying to you?”
Before she could answer, Philip Carr appeared at the newel post in the hall below.
“Come on, Pam. The younger set is going to the speakies in the village. We’ll leave the old duffers to talk business.”
With a muttered imprecation Mallory dropped her hand. He took the stairs two at a time. Pamela lingered.
“You look a hundred per cent better, Mr. Leigh,” she heard him say before he closed the door.
“That was a bad start. Father will be furious that anyone considers him physically improved,” she thought before she joined Philip Carr. Hilda Crane was standing beside him. She said playfully:
“Go on, you two children. I will wait for Scott to take me home.”
Had she waited, Pamela wondered the next morning. When she had returned from the village the house had been quiet, no sound except the weird stirring of an old board or two. There was a scrap of pale blue chiffon on the living room couch. The handkerchief gave out a faint scent of Nuit de Noel as she picked it up.
As she prepared grapefruit for breakfast she tried to shut out the picture of the man in front of the fire with the blonde girl clinging to his arm. She would much better consider what she should do about her unreliable tenant. It seemed incredible that a woman of wealth would be unable to pay the comparatively small rent of that cottage. If she didn’t —
“What are you exclaiming ‘ooch’ for at this time in the morning,” demanded Terrence from the foot of the stairs. “What’s gone wrong now in this vale of tears?”
Should she tell him what Scott had said about the Tenant? Why worry him?
“Did I groan? Must have bubbled up from my subconscious where I park that maddening old alienation suit. Take the grapefruit into the dining room, Terry. I will bring the coffee and muffins.”
The green and red parrot executed a clog on his gilded perch as she entered.
“Look who’s here!”
Pamela laughed. “Not so much to look at, Mephisto. Who do you think called last night, Terry?”
The youth’s eyes met in a sharp frown. “Not Milly Pike?”
“Milly Pike! Of course not. Why did you think of her?”
Terrence’s ears were unbecomingly red. “She’s been racing up for eggs about every other day. Who came?”
“Miss Crane with Philip Carr. I wonder where they met — somewhere socially of course, he knows people in all the large cities. Ostensibly she came to inquire about details of the cottage — she forgot her questions when she saw Scott Mallory.”
“Did he come? When did he get back?”
“Yesterday. Terry, I didn’t intend to tell you, but, I’ve got to talk with some — I —”
“Hold on a minute before you confide the mistakes of your young life. Car coming up the drive.” He dashed to the window. “I’m getting so rural I just have to see the pass. It’s old Scott in that black and red roadster. Gee, how it shines!”
Why had Scott come this morning, Pamela wondered, as she saw him step from his car. He had the best taste in clothes of any man she knew. His gray suit, with a blue shirt and tie were immensely becoming. Last night he had seemed travel-fagged and worn. This morning his face was unlined, his skin was as fresh as a boy’s. His eyes and mouth flashed into a smile as he saw Terrence at the window. The youth had the door open before he reached it.
“Come in, Mr. Scott. We’re at breakfast. Join us? It’s great to have you back.”
Mallory flung his arm about Terrence’s sho
ulder as they entered the room together. His eyes as they met Pamela’s had the no-surrender glint she had come to know and dread. “Unflinching,” was the word her father had used.
“I have breakfasted, thanks. Pam, I have some documents for you to sign.”
“Documents!”
Terrence looked from one to the other. “Like me to do a fade-out, Mr. Scott?”
“No. I will give you a real estate lesson.” He took two papers from his pocket. “These are the leases for the cottage, Pam. Read them. Are they correct as to time and price?”
Pamela blinked several times before she came to the place for the signature. He still was interested enough in her to care. She looked up.
“Quite right. Don’t think I’m so stupid as not to have tried for a lease, Scott. She just wouldn’t agree to one, that’s all.”
He held out his pen. “Sign. Witness her signature, Terry.” He waited for the ink to dry. Folded the papers and slipped them into his breast pocket.
“Mrs. Isabelle Stevens will sign these, hand over a cheque to cover advance payment, or she won’t get into the house. She will find me parked on the front steps when she arrives. I have had dealings with her before.” He caught Pamela’s hands close in his. “For a hard-boiled business woman you need someone to look after you more than anyone I know.”
Terrence coughed. Mallory laughed. “Sorry, Terry! It shan’t happen again — at present. Good morning. I’m off to hold-up the Tenant on her porch.” He paused on the threshold.
“When I come back I will have a cheque for you, or a cottage for you to rent. Guess which, Miss Pamela Leigh.”
Chapter XIV
Sunset in Fairyland, the Silver Moon in the lap of May, apple trees like gigantic pinky pom-pons. Lilacs: yellowy whites, purples, dusty maroons and rosy orchids bordering the picket fence; yellow-throated vireos, flitting through them, twittering as they flew; somewhere in the orchard a thrush singing his heart away.
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