Seated on the step of the porch Pamela clasped her hands softly in her lap. Heavenly music. She might not hearMt again this year; it was time for the singer to fly north. She drew a deep breath of air freighted with the perfume of lilacs. She looked from the riot of blossoms to her frock, shaded yellow, orange and flame like the breast of an oriole, to the sparks in the synthetic topaz in her bracelet. Her heart spread plumy wings. That streak of blue through the orchard, the mellow green of the lawn, the lemon and rose of the afterglow, the lights like misty opals in the village, the heathery tinge of distant cranberry bogs, the gold of the star just above the horizon, the ultramarine sea, the silver of the dunes, set her pulses thrumming, set her very soul afire. Curious how deeply color moved her.
She gently stroked the Babe’s head as he snuggled his nose against her knee. His eyes closed spasmodically; his body sagged as he succumbed to sleep; he braced, relaxed, braced again. The girl’s dreamy gaze was on the purplish column of smoke which spiraled from the cottage chimney. A fire-worshipper with no need to economize on wood, was the Tenant. Was Mrs. Belle Stevens paying her bills in the village? Over a month now since the day Scott Mallory had returned from the cottage to the Silver Moon with a signed lease and a cheque for advance payment on the rent. His eyes and voice had been grim as he advised:
“The next time you rent property consult a lawyer, not an architect.”
He had left her staring unseeingly down at the slip of paper vainly trying to think of a reply which would be sufficiently appreciative without sounding as if she were a penitent, prostrate at his feet.
She had not seen him since. From Hilda Crane and her sister, who had discovered a contract affinity in Harold Leigh, she heard that he had been frequently at the Inn in the village, that business had taken him often to New York City.
Had she known that it was Hilda Crane’s sister who was hiring the cottage, that she would have the girl whom she thoroughly disliked and distrusted, for a neighbor all summer, would she have leased it to her? Silly question. Of course she would. One didn’t permit one’s emotions to nuzzle opportunity aside when one had interest and taxes to meet. Besides, the Tenant was a lavish patron of the Silver Moon. Forewarned by Scott, she had firmly, if smilingly, refused credit at Mrs. Stevens’ first visit, had explained that she had to conduct her business on a cash basis. The wealthy, but financially skiddy, widow had graciously complied with her terms and had come again and again. Now that Scott had stopped coming, what difference did it make where he went? Each morning when she awoke her first thought was:
“Was I right or have I needlessly sacrificed a friend?”
Right or wrong, Phineas Carr would appear in court for her. The trust and confidence she had had in him when he was her grandmother’s adviser, had returned, strengthened twofold during the interviews in which he had instructed her as to her part in the trial. Counsel for the prosecution would present the plaintiffs case first, it was up to the defense to shoot holes through it, he had explained. Leigh vs. Leigh was marked for next week, he had told her this morning. Occasionally, like an echoing step a long way off, would come the remembrance of her impression that somehow, in some way he would change the pattern of her life.
A soft light stole over the apple trees — those beautiful trees on which blossomed the promise of next year’s taxes — a light all pink, yellow, amethyst and silver, delicate as malines, colorful as a fairy rainbow, a radiant wash of gold on the tops, flickering, unearthly shadows below.
The letter crushed in her free hand recaptured Pamela’s attention. If Scott had not come he had written. The contents pertained to her father’s finances to be sure, but he had not forgotten the troublesome Leighs. She spread out the sheets. As she read she could hear the vibrant tones of his voice, see his amused eyes, feel his hand settling the fur about her shoulders. Heartwarming to be near him even in spirit.
No word about the suit — perhaps already he approved the wisdom of her decision — no word except about business until the end. He wrote:
Your father may be interested to know that I attended a stamp auction in New York week before last. Not to buy for myself, in the interest of a client. The place would have provided you with material for an article. Atmosphere to burn. Seats arranged like those in a small theatre, a few prospective bidders scattered about absorbed in catalogues. A black velvet stand illumined by a skillful arrangement of lights. The auctioneer in the shadow, his face a ghostly blur. He seemed indifferent, but he caught every signal almost before it was given. Was it uncanny intuition or years of practice? The room filled for the great smash in the lot. It was an English, 10 shilling, King Edward stamp overprinted I.R. Official. Sold for two thousand dollars! Tell your father about it. Probably he knows all the royalties in the stamp world and won’t be surprised. I’ll confess that the value of that small square of paper rocked my mind. Suppose I had dedicated my career to collecting instead of to law? I might have been a millionaire by this time.
Sincerely yours,
SCOTT MALLORY.
“Sincerely yours.” The stereotyped phrase hurt Pamela even as she assured herself that she had deliberately cut off any chance of a warmer ending. He thought Philip Carr’s money would be a lure for her. Better for him to think so. She tucked the letter inside her frock as she gazed across a strip of darkening water to purple blurs which were the sand dunes crouching beneath scooting clouds. Did living up to one’s convictions always take the joy out of life?
The auction room would have provided her with material, he had written. Would she ever, ever write again? She bit her lips till she flinched. Quitter! Hadn’t she figured that making good as a writer wasn’t such a different proposition from making good in matrimony? Both professions were a matter of sportsmanship, of keeping on keeping on in the face of discouragement, of continually giving one’s best, and trying, everlastingly trying, to make it better.
A night-hawk shrilled overhead. Eerie sound. From the poultry house came the creak of closing doors. A cloud of swallows fluttered above the barn, darting and soaring like a troop of miniature black witches astride their broomsticks. Terrence’s voice rose in the words of Holman Day’s verse which he had set to music.
“‘Now when the milkman got to town
And opened the can, there lay
The fool frog drowned; but hale and sound.
The kicker he hopped away.’”
Did he keep the legend of the kicking frog always in mind to bolster up his morale? The dog lost his balance as Pamela sprang to her feet; he regarded her with reproachful eyes. She patted his head.
“I’m sorry, Babe. The thought that Cecile might be the ‘kicker’ who hopped away, upset my repose of manner and incidentally yours.”
Was that a streak of pink in the orchard? Milly Pike again? She was making daily appearances on the place, ostensibly for eggs; perhaps she really was curious to see the patrons of the Silver Moon, they would supply her with talking-points for some time. Was Terrence the attraction? Pamela’s heart stopped. He would be, he must be immune to anyone so blatantly cheap. Would he? Must he? Who would have thought that fastidious Harold Leigh would have fallen for a woman like Cecile Mortimer?
“Hi Pam!”
She waved in answer to her brother’s shout. Her eyes were tender as she crossed the lawn to meet him, the dog close at her heels. How good looking he was! He radiated a sort of mischievous gusto, as if life were an amusing show in which he was cast for the part of comedian. The open collar of his madras shirt set off the fair perfection of his throat which would not tan. Out of school hours he should be enjoying the carefree life to which a seventeen year old boy was entitled; instead he worked on the place early and late, occasionally squeezing in a set of tennis. He no longer waited on table except in a rush. The Academy boys were thrilled to take his place and tips.
Terrence grinned at his sister. “Did you see Milly Pike beating it for the orchard?”
“Then it was Milly?”
“Unl
ess it was her astral personality. If so, it is as pink as those gingham dresses she wears.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“Sure. Said she came for eggs.”
“Did you give them to her?”
“I did.” His lips twisted in his adorable one-sided smile. “The Carrs will have jaundice eating so many eggs, if they don’t watch out. Want to know what I think? She’s a spy.”
“A spy! For whom?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Pamela teased, “You have been overindulging in talkies, Terry.”
“Perhaps I have — but — that case Leigh vs. Leigh is coming on, isn’t it? The second Mrs. Leigh may want to know how many people come here, may want to get a line on what we are making. Lately Milly has been sidling up to Father, talking to him when he has been on the porch.”
“To Father! Do you mean that she may have been asking questions about the case? Terry, he wouldn’t be so simple as to tell that girl anything, he would snap her head off for impertinence first — but, Mr. Carr warned me not to let him talk with anyone. What a muddle. Weren’t there enough complications without having Milly Pike cross our lifelines? She only comes when you are here. I thought — I was afraid —”
“That she hung round here to see me!” Terrence’s face crimsoned with amazed resentment. “The female mind sure moves in a mysterious way its wonders to perform! Thought you had more sense, Pam, even if you have an imagination which works overtime. Whatever she comes for, the next time will be the last.” He chuckled. Pamela caught his arm.
“Terry! You won’t hurt her?”
“I won’t hurt her.” He grinned as at an amusing thought before he demanded, obviously to switch her train of thought, “Why the evening get-up? Special company?”
“Have you forgotten that the Tenant and Miss Crane are coming to play cards with Father? For the third time in the last ten days he has discarded his lounging robe and is attired like a man and a gentleman in blue serge. He doesn’t look in the least like an invalid. Play with them, will you? They don’t really want me. Card playing is not my metier. I have no card sense.”
“You have but you don’t want to play, do you?”
“No, I don’t. In New York I never had time, there were so many thrilling things to do and see when I wasn’t at work.”
“Picking up the little plot germs, I suppose.” Terrence’s voice dripped mystery as he added, “You don’t have to go to the city to get them. This place is squirming with ’em.”
Pamela’s eyes sparkled with laughter. “Folks is sayin’! You are excited over that spy hunch, aren’t you? Hurry and change. Father doesn’t like to be kept waiting for his game. I am going to the orchard for one spray of blossoms for the bronze jar in the hall. Japanese effect. I will be back before the guests arrive.”
Terrence sighed resignation. “If I’ve got to play, I’ve got to, I suppose, though I have plenty of studying to do. I’ll change as soon as I’ve shut the Babe into the barn. I’ll leave the door open a crack so he’ll see and hear but can’t break out.”
“See and hear what, Terry?”
“Go on, giggle; you think that’s another hunch, don’t you, Miss Pamela Leigh? It isn’t. Someone or ones tried to break into the poultry houses last night.”
Concern shadowed Pamela’s eyes. “Really! You would better tie the Babe if you mean only to frighten the would-be raiders. Remember his rush at Cecile. He would tear a trespasser to pieces if he caught him.”
Terrence grinned. “Chicken thieves would sure be his meat. Come on, Babe.”
Pamela’s mind was on the card players as she opened a gate in the picket fence. She had a little more card sense than she had acknowledged to Terry, but her playing set her father’s always quivering nerves on edge. He had rallied to the stimulus of his contract-avid neighbors. She had doubted her ears the first time he had asked her to put studs and links into a shirt to wear with his blue clothes. He must be better, much better physically, though he never admitted it. Was the day approaching when she would be free, when she would look back upon the Silver Moon experiment with a tolerant smile, when her present feverish determination to keep out of the quagmire of debt would seem fantastically exaggerated?
Petals dropped as softly as snow-flakes as she entered a fragrant lane between gnarled tree trunks. Shadows wrapped her round. They seemed to fill the world, as they lengthened, darkened in the windless hush. Milly had disappeared among the trees. She looked down the blossom-bordered grass path. Her heart stood still. Was it — it was, Philip Carr standing with Milly Pike under an arch of pink and white branches. Was he arguing with her? No, his attitude was more that of a suppliant. Phil and cheap Milly! Unbearable! They looked up. Had she broadcast her concern? The girl slipped away, wove like a pink ribbon through the distant orchard, and vanished. After an instant of hesitation, Philip Carr approached slowly. What should she say? Nothing, unless, he referred to his meeting with Milly Pike.
Even in the dim light she could see him redden to his ears as he looked at her. But, his eyes met hers steadily, honestly. He, stoop to clandestine meetings with his mother’s maid? Where had the odious suspicion come from? Eddie Pike’s suggestion and her plot-complex, of course. If ever again she had time to harness the last to her typewriter it ought to make her fortune. How could she have been so unjust to a man she liked so much? Yet — he had seemed to be pleading fervently.
“Greetings, Miss Pamela Leigh.” The jauntiness of Philip Carr’s voice was somewhat strained; beneath the lightness she sensed an undercurrent of excitement. “Came up tonight to talk over a plan for a second cottage. Now that we have one leased and bringing home the bacon, we’d better get another started. You’re a knockout in that gown, you flitted into the orchard like an oriole.”
It was evident that he intended to ignore the tableau he and Milly had presented in the blossom-scented lane. In that case she must not refer to it, Pamela decided. Her insouciance matched his as she approved:
“Nice of you to come, Phil, but I can’t talk cottage tonight. We have guests. Want to do something for me?”
The arm he slipped under hers twitched as if his nerves were jangling. Was Milly responsible for the turbulence of his body and spirit? It showed in his voice, in his eyes. Was Philip Carr shaken by conflicting passions; was he struggling to prove himself more than the mere puppet of physical attraction? She sensed an implication she didn’t understand as he repeated:
“Do something for you! That’s why I’m here. If you don’t know how I feel about you —” He cleared his voice, steadied it to ask, “What do you want me to do?”
“Take a hand at contract and let Terrence get to his studies.” Pamela intended to clear the air of sentiment by her practical tone. She succeeded as thoroughly as a brisk wind clears the atmosphere of fog. His grip on her arm relaxed. She explained lightly:
“I am a total loss at cards. Miss Crane will have a much better evening if you are her partner; she is politely bored with Terry though he plays a fine game.”
“What is she doing in this tidepool, Pam? After Scott Mallory? The man who introduced me to her a couple of months ago at a dance, said that Mallory was her shadow when he first came back from South America, then apparently the affair was off. Now that he is in the public eye — the politicians are after him hot-foot — she wants him back, I’ll bet. Understand he did some week-ending here for a while. Don’t have to tell you that though, do I? Perhaps she got her sister to hire your cottage that she might spy —”
“Spy! Good grief. Have you picked up the spy germ too?”
“What do you mean, ‘too’?”
His face reddened, his usually lazy brown eyes glowed. He was startled, undoubtedly startled. Why? If she told him of Terrence’s suspicion of Milly Pike he might think that she was doing it because she had seen him with the girl in the orchard; it might complicate the plot more. Whatever Power was mixing lifelines was getting on extremely well without help fr
om her.
“Did I say ‘too’? My mistake. Miss Crane is wasting her time if she is expecting to meet Scott Mallory here. He never comes to the Silver Moon now that Father’s affairs are straightening out. Be a dear and devote yourself to the snappy Hilda, will you?”
“Take me for a sheik?”
The protest was denatured; his voice held a hint of cocksureness; his lips widened in a pleased smile. The all-conquering male! As they stepped into the open from the dim, weird beauty of the orchard, Pamela encouraged gaily:
“Not a sheik but the very king-ripple on the wave of romance, Phil. You —”
Her voice trailed to a thin whisper as a man stepped from the purple shadow of a lilac bush. Scott Mallory! Why had he come? He was unpredictable. If he had to come, why appear as she was patting Philip Carr’s hand? Silly habit she had of patting the hand of anyone whom she happened to like at the moment. As she met Mallory’s turbulent eyes a typhoon of emotion caught her, swirled her along while mentally she clutched frantically for a hold on something. Into her confusion broke Philip Carr’s voice.
“See who’s here! And you said he never came. Mallory will take Terry’s place at the card table, Pam. You and I will go joyriding.”
“Sorry!” Scott’s curt regret slid down Pamela’s spine like a cube of ice. “I can’t take anyone’s place. I want to talk with Miss Leigh — alone, Carr. Business, important business of — her father’s.”
Chapter XV
One impish eye of the half-moon glimmered through a fluff of cloud as if gloating over the holes it was making, over the strange light it was casting on the faces of the girl and the two men. Philip Carr’s mouth was set in a stubborn line, his hands were thrust hard into his pockets.
“What’s the big idea high-hatting me, Mallory?”
Pamela could appreciate his mother’s sensations when spiritually she stepped between father and son. A “buffer” Hitty had called her. She placated hastily:
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