Crimson Mountain (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill
my own car, and all my other affairs."
"Yes?" Pilgrim said with a little tinge of his habitual gravity edging his grin. "But not when there’s a gentleman near to help. At least I hope I can count as a gentleman."
She gave him a swift questioning look. Had she somehow hurt him? "Oh—why, of course," she said heartily. "I don’t think I ever saw one with more courtesy. You’ve been perfectly marvelous. But I certainly am ashamed to have taken advantage of your courtesy all this time. And I mustn’t do it any longer. If you’ll just take me back to that garage, we’ll call it a day and—you can go on your way." Her voice trembled the least little bit as she said it, and she cast a frightened look up at him, trying to smile calmly.
He read all that in his one glance at her face, and his own took on a tenderer light. "Say, now, look here! Why can’t you give up that ‘perfectly marvelous’ way of looking at this thing and just for the time being pretend that we are old friends? I’ll promise you I’ll never take advantage of you afterward on account of it."
She gave him a quick almost indignant look. "Of course not!" she said definitely. "Even though we’re practically strangers, I would know that as well as if I had known you for years."
"Thank you," he said pleasantly. "But you forget. We’re not strangers. Not even practically. We are old friends, at least for the convenience of the day. Childhood friends, or if you prefer, school friends. We might compromise on that, although I do look a little old to have been a contemporary of yours in school."
"I don’t think you do," said Laurel quickly. "When people are grown up, no one stops to count the years between them. And it’s a woman’s business to keep young-looking of course, especially if she has to earn her living." She gave him a merry little twinkle and pushed her hair back from her forehead.
"Oh, by the way," said Pilgrim, "how did you make out?"
"Why, I made out very well when they finally got around to me," she said. "They must have been somewhat peeved that I wasn’t there at the beginning of the session, or else that’s their usual way of keeping applicants on nettles until they have had opportunity to study them carefully. At any rate, after they had given me a chair, they practically ignored me until they had canvassed a number of unimportant matters, like what they were going to do with one named Jimmy, and whether they should give up a certain kind of soap for cleaning that they have bought for years, in favor of a new kind that claims to do the work more cheaply, and whether they should allow any students to help in the cafeteria or require the matron in charge to do all the work. But after due time had passed and all the questions of the universe had been settled, they put me through a rigid questionnaire and then hired me. I am to begin Monday."
"That’s good, if that’s what you really want," said the young man, looking at her as if he would search out her real feelings in the matter.
"Well, I do," said the girl thoughtfully and not very cheerfully. "I’m not so strong on Carrollton, but if I don’t get started somewhere, I’ll never get anywhere. But what did the man say about my car? Have you telephoned?"
"Yes. It was generator trouble as I thought, and in consequence a blown fuse. He says he can’t possibly get it fixed for you before sometime to-morrow morning. How is that going to affect your plans? Have you a place to stay here all night, or would you like me to drive you to the city?"
"Oh, I couldn’t possibly let you do that," she said in dismay. "I’ll have to find a place to stay. Eventually I’m staying of course. But I’m not sure where yet. Didn’t there used to be a hotel in Carrollton?"
"Yes, but it’s not a very possible solution for you," said Pilgrim. "It’s rather tough. It isn’t a place your father would have wanted you to stay. But there must be some tourist place. We’ll see."
"I know," said Laurel. "There used to be a dear lady who lived not far from our old home, in a little cottage. Perhaps she would rent me a room. At least she would take me in for the night until I can have a chance to look around for the right place for the winter. That is, if she is still living. I haven’t heard anything about her for years. She is Mrs. Browning. Did you know her?"
"Did she have a crippled daughter, and did she live in that little white cottage on Maple Street with the ivy all over the porch and red geraniums growing along the walk?"
"Why yes, that’s the place! Did you know her?"
"No, I didn’t exactly know her, but I used to carry eggs and chickens down to her from Hunsicker’s farm when I was a kid. She was a nice, smiling lady and sometimes gave me a dime over price."
"Yes, she was like that. Well, I’ll try her. Perhaps I could telephone her from the garage."
"Yes, that would be a good idea," said the young man with a sudden dismayed feeling that he was about to lose contact with this girl who had seemed for a few minutes as if she belonged to him.
So when they reached the garage, Phil Pilgrim went with Mark to look at the car, and Laurel went to the telephone. But Laurel came back a few minutes later with dismay in her face.
"She’s gone out west to live with her married daughter," she said. "Her crippled daughter died, and she was all alone. She’s been gone a couple of years."
"Say, that’s tough luck!" said Pilgrim. "But don’t worry. We’ll find something. Mark, how about Mrs. Topham? Is she still keeping boarders? Not that she’s so hot as a cook," he explained to Laurel, "but she’s good and respectable."
"No," said Mark, flinging down the big wrench with which he was working and picking up another tool. "Mrs. Topham? was taken to a hospital two months ago, and her married daughter doesn’t take boarders. But if the lady wants a good place, whyn’t ya take her ta the new tearoom? It’s over on Houston Road, and they have swell meals there. They’ve got a few rooms, too, I hear, an’ I think the lady would like it there."
"Thank you," said Laurel. "That sounds good to me."
"All right," said Pilgrim. "Let’s go and investigate. Are there any things in your car you want to take along, in case you find a place to stay, Miss Sheridan?"
"Oh yes, my little overnight bag. It’s in the back of the car. The small key in the case fits it."
Pilgrim unlocked the compartment and brought out the bag.
"Now," he said to the garage man, "Mark, how about that generator? You said Chester couldn’t get one in Granby. Have you telephoned the city about it yet?"
"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 to-night. 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