To anyone more self-centered than Harriet, it might perhaps have occurred that Mrs. Mayhew had dispensed with her cook at the precise moment she knew she had a prospective companion in the bag. But this idea did not occur to Harriet and, to tell the truth, she would have rejected it, if it had. For she was certain Mrs. Mayhew *s mind didn't work that way. The facts were as she had stated. Her dislike of her cook's disposition had suddenly outweighed her appreciation of her cooking and she had dispensed with her, regardless of consequences. ^
What did occur to Harriet was something quite different and she voiced it immediately.
"You mean to say that, for the most of last week, that child Priscilla was the only person here with you at night?"
" Until Lindsay came down on Sunday—yes."
"Oh, dear!"
Harriet's distress and disapproval seemed to amuse Mrs. Mayhew.
"My dear child, I assure you I was not in the least nervous."
"Not nervous—no. I can't imagine your being nervous of anything," Harriet said soberly, which drew a not dis-
f leased smile from her employer. "But... well, anyway, 'm glad I have come."
"Since you are kind enough to put it that way, I am very glad, too," Mrs. Mayhew informed her dryly but not unkindly. "Now you don't need to treat me as a feeble old creature, in imminent danger of sudden death just because I have arthritis and find it difficult to move about, you know."
" Of course not," Harriet said hastily.
"In point of fact," stated Mrs. Mayhew, ignoring the interruption, "I am little more than sixty. And, except for being troubled by arthritis, I frequently feel less."
Harriet laughed. "I'm glad. That makes it much more interesting for me, you know."
Before Mrs. Mayhew could comment on this, her son came back into the room and, almost immediately afterward, Priscilla carefully wheeled in a tea cart.
"Has my mamma explained to you the tragedy of the vanished cook?" inquired Lindsay gravely, as he handed Harriet a plate of bread and butter.
"Well I've heard that she departed in haste," Harriet smiled.
"And that mamma is now repenting at leisure?"
"Lin, I have no regrets whatever," interjected Mrs. Mayhew with energy.
"You also, darling, have no cook," her son reminded her regretfully.
"N-no." Just for a moment Mrs. Mayhew's positive air wavered, and she glanced at Harriet with an air that was extraordinarily reqiiniscent of a naughty child wondering what the chances were of being extricated from a dilemma.
With amused comprehension, Harriet realized this was the first of the occasions when it was at any rate hoped that she would take on household duties "as and when required."
She rose to the occasion—not with any idea of creating a good impression, but because she immediately wanted to come to tne old lady's assistance.
"I can cook quite well," she volunteered modestly. "Would you like me to see what I can do for the time being?"
"Well—" Mrs. Mayhew tried to look as though this idea had not previously occurred to her "—if you really feel like taking it on...."
"Of course." Harriet, who had done all the cooking in her own home and enjoyed it, showed no hesitation. "As soon as tea is over, I'll go and have a talk with Priscilla and see how kitchen matters stand. I daresay it will have to be a rather simple supper tonight. But later on I'll arrange the meals as you like and, if you prefer dinner at night, I think I can handle it all right."
Mrs. Mayhew said no more than "Thank you." But the glance she exchanged with her son was full of satisfaction. A satisfaction which, somehow, both amused and touched Harriet.
"How about shopping?" Harriet inquired, in her most business like manner. "I suppose most of that is done in Barndale?"
"Yes."
"And there is a bus service of sorts, I think you said?" She turned to Lindsay Mayhew.
"Yes. But my fiancee, who lives quite near, goes in several times a week, and I'm sure she will be glad to give you a lift most times. We're used to arranging these things to suit each other in this rather remote spot, you know."
"Oh, that will be a marvelous help."
"Here is Dilys, I think," remarked Mrs. Mayhew, as there was the sound of a car drawing up outside. And although her manner was perfectly cordial, Harriet—who was, though she did not know it, surprisingly quick at sensing overtone in a voice—thought she detected a certain lack ofenthusiasm in the way Mrs. Mayhew announced her future daughter-in-law's arrival.
A moment or two later, an extremely striking-looking girl came into the room. Tall, slim, and impeccably groomed, she had that unusual and very attractive combination of smooth fair hair and pale olive skin. That, and the fact that the bones of her head and face were really beautiful, gave her a curious likeness to a classic bronze, or a head on a coin.
But the charm and vivacity of her manner dispelled that impression the first moment she spoke.
She kissed her fiance carelessly and Mrs. Mayhew affectionately. And, when she was introduced to Harriet, she smiled in the most friendly way, and shook hands with a good, firm clasp, which seemed to express warmth and sincerity.
"I'm so glad you've come," she exclaimed. "I hated the idea of Mrs. Mayhew having only Priscilla when Lin went back to town."
"Considering how little I minded the arrangement, I think you were worrying yourself unduly, Dilys, retorted Mrs. Mayhew, a trifle caustically.
Dilys, however, merely smiled pleasantly, and Harriet had the impression that she was good-temperedly determined to ienore anything that might lead to the slightest friction with her fiance's mother.
Her attitude toward Lindsay himself was casual but affectionate, which, Harriet decided, was probably characteristic of her. She would be entirely unsentimental in all her reactions, but that did not argue any shallowness of
feeling. And, on the whole, she seemed an ideal choice for anyone as cool and firm and unemotional as Lindsay Mayhew.
Certainly they made a very handsome couple, and seemed on sufficiently matter-of-fact terms for Harriet to decide that they had probably been engaged some time. Indeed, part of Dilys*s cordiality toward herself might well be due to the fact that she saw, in a suitable companion for Mrs. Mayhew, the likelihood of a shortened engagement and an early marriage.
"Brent didn't come with you?*' Lindsay said.
"No. But he's coming for me later." Dilys turned to Harriet and cordially included her in this part of the conversation, too. "Brent is my brother. We live near— about half a mile farther on along the main road. I expect you'll be seeing quite a lot of us both. We can usually drive you into town when you want to go, if you give us an hour or two's notice. There aren't many days when either of us isn't going ia."
"Thank you. That's very kind of you."
Harriet smiled gratefully, and was surprised to hear that Lindsay's voice was undoubtedly curt, as he said, "I had already told Miss Denby that you would probably be able to do that for her." And the "you" in this case was emphatically in the singular.
He doesn *t care about brother Brent, reflected Harriet, who_^ was rather enjoying herself, gathering impressions about this new and undoubtedly interesting group of people.
Then Dilys turned back to Lindsay and said: "Now tell me about everything that's happened since I las| saw you." And, feeling that this was the moment when she might most tactfully slip away for her consultation with Priscilla, Harriet took herself off to the kitchen regions.
These, she found, were large and rather old-fashioned, but extremely comfortable. Priscilla was seated at the table with her back to a big open fire, a paperback novel propped up against the teapot, and a large slice of bread and treacle suspended halfway Jpetween her plate and her mouth. Her intake of sweet-stuff—both mental and material—was, Harriet judged, on a large scale, and, when she raised her eyes to take in Harriet's presence, they wore a slightly glazed
expression, which might have been due to too much treacle or too much romance.
"No, that's all right, Priscilla. Finish your tea. Only, Miss Penrose came in and I thought it was a good chance to come and have a talk with you about things.' Harriet took a chair and sat down on the other side of the table.
"Did he come, too?" inquired Priscilla, sucking in her breath a little. "Mr. Penrose, I mean."
"No. But I believe he is looking in later."
"He's a lovely man," Priscilla volunteered.
"Is he?" Harriet said. But, though she felt some curiosity to know what comprised a lovely man, she refrained from pursuing the subject further.
In Priscilla, she found, she would have an admirable kitchen ally. Her "mum," as she described her parent, had evidently passed on to her a great deal of useful information, on which she was prepared to act with energy and enthusiasm, and Harriet decided that she would have little trouble in coping with the domestic side of Fourways, as long as Priscilla and her mum were willing to help her.
Having made a rapid survey of supplies, Harriet made a few inquiries of Priscilla about the type of meal in favor with her employers, and decided on her simple plan of campaign for that evening. Then she thought it was perhaps time she returned to the sitting room.
As she reached the hall once more, she realized that another voice had been added to the conversation in the front room. A pleasant, lazy masculine voice, which might well belong to Priscilla's idea of a lovely man.
And when she entered the room, she saw that Brent Penrose's appearance matched his voice. There was a strong facial resemblance between him and his sister. The same sort of almost statuesque beauty of feature and startling coloring. But whereas Dilys had eyes of clear, uncompromising hazel, her brother's were what could only be described as velvety. Large, dark brown, and almost extravagantly long lashed, they would, Harriet reflected rather amusedly, have been worth a fortune to any aspiring film
actor. But, as they were turned fully upon her with an air of lazy attention, she decided perversely that she did not much like Brent Penrose.
Introductions were made, and Brent returned to his conversation with Lindsay, which Harriet's entry had interrupted.
He did so with a half-challenging air that suggested that he amusedly enjoyed discussing the subjects that others avoided, and, at his first words, Harriet understood why Brent had seemed smilingly expansive and Lindsay frowningly aloof
"So Roddy is still making an ass of himself?"
Brent's tone was genial, and he seemed unaware—or uncaring—of the fact that both the Mayhews stiffened slightly. Even his sister give him an exasperated glance.
Anyone in Roddy's state of health is an ass if he insists on racketing about," Lindsay returned curtly. "He knows, as well as we do, that only rest and guiet will put him right."
"In theory—yes." Brent smiled indulgently. "But Roddy has some special inducement for staying in London, hasn t he?"
Lindsay made no immediate reply. But Brent^as not to be done out of his idea of amusement, and he pursued the point.
"Isn't there a girl concerned? Someone he thinks the rest of you would disapprove of? "
"Oh, Brent!" It was his sister who spoke, with unusual impatience, "There isn't anything really definite about that. I doubt if there is anyone in particular. Probably he's just indulging a stupid urge for a gayer life than his head will stand after all he has been through."
Harriet had withdrawn unobtrusively from the group and stood looking out of the window, hoping that her effort to hide considerable embarrassement would be interpreted merely as a tactful desire not to intrude on a family discussion.
It was Mrs. Mayhew who answered Dilys—slowly and rather reluctantly.
"I'm afraid it is more than that, Dilys. Roddy admitted as much to Lin."
"Admitted?" Dilys repeated the word quite sharply. "What did he admit?"
"Oh, simply that there was some girl," Lindsay replied impatiently. "For some reason which he completely refuses to explain, he is certain we would disapprove. Of course, neither mother nor I would do anything so ridiculous and Victorian as 'disapprove.' Roddy must know that. But he said something about being sure we should feel bound to interfere. I suppose that means there is something specially undesirable about her. And certainly, if she is his reason for remaining in London and living the way he is, she is undesirable in that sense."
"But you don't know anything else about her?" Dilys^'s tone was casual, but Harriet had the impression that she very much wanted that question answered.
"Well-I've seen her." '
"You've5^e/2her?"
Dilys spoke sharply again, and Harriet—who had turned to watch the group once more—thought there was something tense about her.
"Yes. She brought Roddy home on that last evening I was in town. The Saturday evening."
It was Harriet who went tense that time.
"She brought him home?" Dilys sounded oddly incredulous. "To your apartment, you mean?"
Lindsay nodded. "He'd had one of his giddy turns, when it takes only one cocktail to throw him right off balance. I suppose he wasn't particularly amusing in that mood, so she brought him home."
"And what was she like?" Dilys inquired curiously.
Harriet held her breath. She hoped no one would notice that she had become quite pale.
"Well, I didn't really take in much about her, Dilys." Lindsay passed his hand over his hair, with a gesture of annoyed perplexity. "I didn't realize her significance at the time. Medium height. Dark hair. Aggressive manner. That was really all I noticed''
Illogically enough, what Harriet most wanted to tell him, in that moment, was that she had not been in the least aggressive. That, on the contrary, it was he who had been rude and arrogant.
But the next turn the conversation took removed any desire she might have had to say anything.
"How did you know she was the girl, then?" Dilys wanted to know.
"Oh, Roddy said so,** Lindsay explained. "He actually volunteered that bit of information after she had gone. But he refused to give her name, or any other single detail about her."
CHAPTER THREE
"He said so? Roddy said that the girl who brought him home was the girl he is keen on?''
It was Dilys who spoke, but in a tone of such unexplained astonishment that, for a moment, Harriet almost thought she herself must have voiced her stupefaction.
"Yes. Why not?" Lindsay sounded faintly impatient" again. "This girl, or another. Her actual identity doesn't really matter, I suppose. It might as well be this girl as any, Dilys. Is there anything specially surprising about that?*'
"Oh . . . " Dilys was casual once more, and her unnatural degree of surprise seemed to have evaporated. "I just thought it was queer of Roddy to admit she was the girl. Since he seems to want to be mysterious about the whole business, I mean."
Lindsay shrugged.
"Perhaps Lindsay third degreed him," Brent suggested, with amiable malice.
"Naturally I did no such thing," Lindsay retorted shortly. "But in any case, need we discuss the matter further? Roddy's affairs are his own, after all."
"Except when his big brother feels moved to make them his," amended Brent provocatively.
But although Lindsay pressed his lips together at this, he refused to be drawn into further discussion. And presently Dilys stood up and said it was time that she and Brent were going.
When goodbyes had been, said and the visitors had departed, Harriet turned very willingly to her new duties. And, since the unfamiliarity of a fresh routine engaged all her attention, she had little time to consider the peculiar
events of the evening until she was alone in her room that night.
The latter half of the evening was undoubtedly a mild success for her. Mrs. Mayhew was pleased by the willingness and apparent ease with whicn Harriet handled the domestic affai
rs of Fourways, and she had not hesitated to say so.
Even Lindsay had smiled and commented on the excellence of the meal she had provided. Indeed, if—most fortunately, as it now appeared—he had failed to notice much about her the first time he had seen her, he made up for it now by looking on her with a distinct degree of interest and approval.
The contrast between this and his first reactions would have amused Harriet if she had not been so puzzled and uneasy. But, in view of that extraordinary assertion of Roddy's, she could no longer take the events of Saturday evening lightly. Harriet sat on the side of her bed, absently brushing her hair, and tried to arrive at some reasonable explanation.
What had possessed Roddy to invest her, a complete stranger, with the identity of some girl who was apparently causing his family both anxiety and annoyance? Muddled though he had been, he had certainly not mistaken her for anyone else. Which meant that his statement to his brother must have been a deliberate deception. Had he been drawing suspicion away from the real culprit? Or had he simply decided to say something—anything—that would forestall any other questions that might be asked him?
On the whole, that seemed the most likely explanation. But, whatever his reasons for doing such a thing, the result for her was equally embarrassing and damaging. There was no question now of her making a casual reference to her earlier meeting with Lindsay, and hoping to pass it off with an amused explanation of his mistake. The girl who had brought Roddy home that night was firmly identified and ticketed—in Lindsay's mind, at any rate—as silly, undesirable, and perhaps even harmful.
This final conclusion was most unwelcome. And, even though it provided the only cloud on Harriet's first-night reflections, it was one which could not be ignored—either then or during the days that followed.
. Continually, Harriet found the uneasy recollection coming between her and the pleasant, easy relationship which, she felt sure, she would otherwise have established with Lindsay Mayhew. Seeing him now at close quarters, she admitted to herself that she would probably have liked him very much but for that previous unfortunate encounter. His flashes of half-cynical humor—so like his mother's—amused and attracted her, and contrasted admirably with his usually rather grave and serious attitude to life.
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