“Sure thing,” said Mark importantly. “Yes, they have it, and they’re putting it on the five ten train for me. If all goes well, you’ll have your car the first thing in the morning, lady, or at least before noon, unless something more turns up. But I’ve looked the car all over, and I don’t see anything else the matter.”
“Well, that will be all right, I guess, but I’ll have to telephone again, I’m afraid, Mr. Pilgrim.” She turned apologetically to Phil. “I had an engagement this evening that I forgot all about, and I’ll have to call it off. I won’t be a minute, if you don’t mind waiting.”
Phil Pilgrim stood just outside the window that sheltered the telephone, and he couldn’t help hearing the conversation.
“Hello, is that you, Adrian? Yes, this is Laurel. Why, I’m sorry, Adrian, I can’t go with you tonight. I had a little car trouble and have to wait for repairs. No, nothing serious. Something went wrong with the generator, and I had to wait for the parts to come. What? You’ll come after me? No indeed, Adrian. I couldn’t think of letting you do that. It’s much too far for you to make it and get back in time for your other guests, and it would throw all your plans out. I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but it isn’t anything I could help. Of course I should have telephoned you sooner, but I didn’t know till just now that I won’t be able to get my car before morning. No, it’s quite impossible, Adrian. . . . Oh yes, I’ll be all right. I have friends here. I’m sorry to disappoint you. When? Why yes, I may be able to see you Saturday evening if you should happen to be around. That is, I think I’ll be at home then, but I can’t be sure. I could telephone if I get back. Sorry, Adrian, but I know You’ll understand how it is. Good-bye!”
Laurel came out of the little glass room with a smile. She wasn’t feeling badly at missing her date! Or was she? Maybe she was smiling at hearing a beloved voice. How could he tell? Pilgrim wished he hadn’t overheard the conversation. He wished this hadn’t happened just now. Somehow it dimmed the pleasure that he had been anticipating in the small expedition on which they were about to embark. Of course she would have men friends. She had been going somewhere with one of them tonight.
But Laurel got into the Pilgrim car quite happily. Her friend Adrian had evidently not been happy over the canceling of their engagement and had been quite insistent that he would come after her, but she reflected contentedly that she had got away with the interview without telling him just where she was or giving him any clue to find her. And now he couldn’t possibly trace her and come after her even if he tried.
And he probably would try. Adrian Faber was that way. He always tried everything there was to try to carry out his point.
To tell the truth, she had come away from the city in haste and without leaving details of her whereabouts partly because she had felt it was essential that she should be by herself and think a few things through to their finish without the influence of any of her friends to distract her attention, especially the insistent friends who would go to the length of trying to make her marry them to prevent her going away. And she was not at all sure that she wanted to marry anyone. At least not now.
Also the events of the afternoon had put a new phase on life and made her feel that there was much to be understood and settled before she was ready to consider marriage with anybody.
So Laurel came back to the examination of her car with a lighter heart, having rid herself of an obligation that had troubled her more or less all day, because she had literally dreaded this evening’s engagement and had had only half an intention of returning in time to keep it, anyway.
“Well, it all depends on whether the new part comes down on the five ten train or not,” said Pilgrim as she came toward him smiling.
“Yes?” Laurel. “And—if the part doesn’t come, then what?”
“Well, we’ll wait till the train comes in, and if it isn’t on the train, somebody is driving after it. Don’t worry. I think we’ll manage it somehow.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t!” said Laurel with instant trouble in her eyes. “You’ve done so much already. You can’t drive sixty-five miles after a part for my car! I’ve practically used up half a day of your precious leave, and I simply won’t accept any more services. There must be someone I could pay to go after it. Or, wait! I could go back to the city on the train myself. There is an evening train. I looked up trains before I ventured over here, because I didn’t want to put myself permanently where there wouldn’t be good train service anytime I needed it. Then I could leave my car here till it was finished and return on the train or the early morning bus. Now please don’t worry anymore.”
“Oh no. I won’t worry. I’m only a stranger you picked up, and I don’t have to do a thing more for you of course. So now, lady, how about our running around to look over that tearoom, just in case? I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry as the dickens, and I don’t see that eating a little snack together would injure the reputation of a schoolteacher in Carrollton, even if we are ‘practically strangers.’ What do you say? We’ve got time enough before that train gets in. But of course, if you’re not hungry, you could sit in my car while I go in and eat. I picked up a magazine and an evening paper when I was at the drugstore. I wouldn’t mind if you read them, just in case you aren’t hungry.”
There was a kind of a hurt grin on his pleasant mouth, and she gave him an understanding smile.
“But I am hungry,” she said eagerly. “I’m simply starving! Let’s go!” She climbed into his car again, and they drove away together.
“Now, look here,” said Pilgrim as they swung around the first corner, “there’s just one condition I’d like to make. Please don’t let’s have any more plaudits for that little act of picking you up and swinging you over my head—!”
“Little act!” sniffed Laurel. “Over the heads of those angry frightened cattle, you mean,” said the girl. “I don’t think I can ever thank you enough—”
“But listen! I’m fed up on that I don’t want to hear any more about it. Any decent man would have done the same thing and not expect to be made a hero forever after, so please don’t! If you honestly want to thank me, just be a little kind and friendly to a poor soldier home on leave for a few hours with no one to go and see. Let’s eat dinner together as if we always had been friends and were just having a nice time together. Could you do that? I won’t ever take advantage of it. Honest I won’t!”
She turned and looked squarely at him. “Of course you won’t,” she said. “Don’t you know I trust you? And yes, of course, I’ll be delighted to have dinner with you. Then we can really get acquainted. It will be much less awkward that way. ‘Old-school-friends’ stuff, you know.” She gave him a dazzling smile and settled back comfortably in the rattly old jalopy.
He looked at her wistfully. How game she was! How great if she really were his friend, not just pretending for the time being. But he had better make the most of it. He wouldn’t have so very many pleasant times to remember when he was on his way to war.
“Thanks a lot,” he said with a deep undertone of feeling. “That’s swell of you! Well, here’s the tearoom. Neat little place, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, it’s very attractive. I think we’re going to have a nice time, don’t you? It’s going to be fun, soldier boy!”
He looked down admiringly at her. She seemed almost like a little girl, out on a real picnic, and something in his warm gaze stirred her heart deeply and brought a rich color into her cheeks. It made him think of the dash of crimson on the mountain.
He helped her out of the car, and together they walked up to the door.
“It’s all like a picture here,” she said with a graceful caressing motion of her arm toward the flower borders of the walk, brilliant scarlet and golden autumn flowers, dashing flames of salvia, coordinated sharply, backed by gorgeous marigolds of all shades, deep maroon velvet dahlias, and tawny groups of chrysanthemums merging into pools of creamy white ones. “Isn’t it lovely?”
They lingered tog
ether looking at them, like any other young man and maiden on their way to take dinner, and for the moment both forgot that they were strangers but a brief space before.
Inside, the tables were inviting, with a few autumn roses on each, bright pretty china, and spotless linen. Phil Pilgrim seated her as courteously as any of her other young men friends would have done. It seemed all most amazing when she thought of it, only Laurel was enjoying herself too much to think of it. She had a sense of well-being, and she didn’t want to spoil it by any questions of formality. There certainly was nothing wrong in what she was doing. She did know who he was; she had seen him as a child. That he had been working hard then in common denim overalls troubled her not at all. she had plenty of friends whose brothers were taking any positions, or “jobs,” as they preferred to call them, that they could get and were glad enough to get them. Why should she distinguish between them because this young man’s relatives had been poor and he had had to work hard from early childhood? Certainly he was to be honored that he had come so far with so little help.
A waitress was by their side at once, naming a long list of interesting appetizers.
“Oyster soup, oh, that sounds good!” said Laurel. “Yes, I’ll take oyster soup!”
And when it came, there was no oyster in sight, but a smooth broth of rich, warm, tempting smell and taste, with crisp crackers of odd shapes.
An attractive tray of exotic salads of quaint fashioning and colors.
Raspberry aspic jelly on a pale lettuce leaf with a dab of whipped cream; orange fritters, crisp brown with delicious orange sauce.
“But you know this is quite an extraordinary menu for a little country town,” said Laurel suddenly with an amazed glance toward her companion. “Is this on the regular highway? Does it attract tourists?”
“It sure does,” said Pilgrim, deciding on stuffed roast lamb for the meat course. “I never came here before, but it isn’t hard to take, is it? Or to look at either.”
“I should say not,” said Laurel. “My, I’m glad I came here. And in such delightful company, too! A real soldier. I am honored.”
Their warm looks met and lingered, and a pleasant joy throbbed across the table.
“We’re having fun!” twinkled Laurel with another little-girl smile.
And the light from a lost childhood he had never had answered from the young man’s eyes.
When the meal was concluded, they recalled pleasant memories of a high school both had shared, till the long yellow afternoon sunshine warned them that the evening was on its way. Phil Pilgrim sat back in his chair and grew serious.
“Now,” said he, “what are we going to do next? In half an hour, it will be time for that train to arrive at the station, and then we shall know whether you can have your car in the morning or not. Are we ready to spring into action as soon as we have that knowledge, or are there things we ought to be doing? Suppose you go and interview that woman at the desk about a possible room for yourself in case you decide to stay. And then on the way back to the garage, I’ve thought of a couple of alternatives we might consider.”
So Laurel went to the desk and Phil stood by the door looking out, a gravely pleasant expression in his eyes. He was well aware that there were days coming when he would have to pay for these few hours of unexpected happiness by deadly loneliness. Loneliness that would perhaps wear into his heart and life forever. Yet he was glad to have had this day in spite of all possibilities.
Chapter 4
Adrian Faber was good-looking and wealthy. He had a fortune in his own right and not too many relatives to meddle with his affairs. he was brilliant and accomplished and owned a townhouse; a country house; a great, wide, long mansion up in the woods where he could house the whole hunting club on occasion; a yacht; a seashore cottage, sometimes called a “mansion”; and a car that was the envy of all his friends. He was young enough to be most interesting, pleasant, and full of delightful plans for having a good time.
On that particular Friday evening, he had planned an elaborate party to be held up in the woods at his hunt club, fifty miles away from the city, and in the opposite direction from Carrollton where Laurel, with a stalled car, was waiting. Laurel knew these bare facts, but she did not know as yet that Adrian had been planning to make her guest of honor, and that if his plans for driving her up to the hunt club worked out, there might be an announcement to make during the evening.
Therefore Adrian Faber was much put out at Laurel’s message.
Of course Laurel had not been aware that she was to be driving up to the party alone with Adrian. She had supposed there would be a crowd, and therefore just one guest would not be missed. Anyway, he had plenty of time now to supply her place with a substitute before they started.
But Adrian Faber set his handsome mouth haughtily. He didn’t at all like it that Laurel had let him down and spoiled his plans. Of course there was always Genevieve, but he was above fed up with her. Though—if there was no one else. It was true she might have other plans, but he was reasonably sure she would cancel anything to go to the hunt club with him. She adored the hunt club, and he really hadn’t been seeing much of her lately.
There was another young man, Royal Turner, who would be at that party that Laurel was missing. He was good-looking, too, in a merry kind of a way; reckless, black eyes and a little sharp black mustache. Laurel didn’t admire the mustache but could probably persuade him to give it up if she wanted to. He had been very attentive and had taken her places whenever she would go, plays and dances and wild rides. He was a reckless driver, and Laurel was sometimes a little afraid when she went with him. And he was always insisting that she should have a drink. Laurel didn’t drink. She had been brought up with an aversion to it. Her father and mother had been against it, and they had inculcated strong reasons into her mind why it was never the right thing to do. Laurel knew and realized dangers in drink that other young people seemed to ignore. And if she had not been taught these things, she had seen enough of the effect that drinking had on the young people she met in their crowd to make her hate it. Not even Adrian, with his quiet, reasonable persuasiveness that a little temperate drinking was necessary in company in order to be polite, had been able to move her to yield. Sometimes she felt that none of these young people were true friends, and it was in a reaction from all her social life that she had suddenly driven away to Carrollton to see about the school vacancy she had heard of through an old Carrollton schoolmate who was teaching in the city.
There were half a dozen other young men who had been attentive to Laurel while she had been staying with her cousins in the city trying to think her way through and plan a future for herself. They were not all of this high-class, wealthy type. There were a couple of young writers, newspaper men, really bright and interesting, Tom Rainey and Bruce Winter. Tom had recently returned from abroad, where he had been a special correspondent in the war zone, and he had a mysterious air that was most intriguing. He had dark hair and a way of seeming awfully important while still quite casual. Laurel was never sure whether she liked him a lot or whether she felt he was not quite sincere. Bruce Winter, on the other hand, had red hair, intense gray eyes, an almost rugged face, and a mouth that seemed inexorable when it was set in a firm, thin line under eyes that took on a stormy look. These two men were always in the same company, though not particularly friendly. Sometimes Laurel had an idea that one of them was shadowing the other, although she couldn’t be sure which was the shadowed. But they were both friends of hers, and both seemed to enjoy her company. They would likely be at that party this evening, and Tom at least would be drinking a great many cocktails. It seemed such a pity, for in many ways he was very attractive.
Then there was a young theological student who had often come to her cousins’ house. He had several times asked her to go with him to hear some fine music. Chatham Brower was his name. He was brilliant, but she wasn’t at all convinced that he was a Christian in spite of his ministerial intentions. She had a fancy that
his recent interest in things theological might have been to escape the draft. But of course that was an unworthy thought. She had no real reason to doubt him. And he was good company. He had invited her to attend a lecture that evening, but she had declined on account of this previous engagement. He wasn’t so good-looking, but he was supposed to be intellectual, and he had told her she was a good conversationalist.
Laurel, as she stood at the desk waiting for the attention of the proprietress of the tearoom, remembered all those possibilities for the evening and wondered at herself for being so content to have them wiped out of the picture and to be stalled here with a comparative stranger whom she dimly remembered as a boy in the past. With the vision of all these city friends of hers in her mind, she turned and glanced back to where Phil Pilgrim stood near their table with such a strong, dependable, fine, yet wistful look on his nice face. Handsome? Yes, but those other fellows were, too, yet not one of them looked better to her than the young man who had that afternoon saved her life. And she acknowledged to herself that she was reluctant to cut short this new companionship of the day that might never come her way again.
Then the woman who had been telephoning hung up the receiver and turned toward her.
“Rooms? Yes, we ordinarily have rooms. But it just happens there is a wedding in town tonight and our rooms are all taken for the night. Tomorrow I think we shall have rooms. Could you wait until tomorrow?”
Laurel shook her head.
“I’m sorry. I need a room tonight. You don’t know of any place nearby that I could get?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” said the woman. “We hired every room in the neighborhood to accommodate the people from the wedding.”
Laurel went back to Phil.
“Nothing tonight on account of a wedding.”
“Well, that’s that!” said Pilgrim thoughtfully. “But I guess there’ll be some other way. Come on, we’ll go and see about your car.
CRIMSON MOUNTAIN Page 4
