From the Car Behind
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor M. Ingram
Chapter 4: Isabel
Isabel, in the clinging knitted coat that displayed every attractive line of her athletic figure, her cheeks reddened by triumph and the salt wind, her gray eyes lifted in challenging coquetry, was a sufficiently pleasant sight to dispel mere vexation. And Gerard had no right to feel more than annoyance at a disappointment of which she supposedly knew nothing.
“I ran away with you because I didn’t want to ride home with Corrie,” she confided, when the last button-hole was achieved. “You don’t mind—much?”
“I am overwhelmed by the honor,” Gerard assured. He was neither surly enough to refuse the light play to which she invited him, nor anchorite enough to be insensible to the flattery of being sought. “But how did Prince Corrie offend his sovereign lady?”
“Oh, that would be telling! You know, we are not engaged.”
“Not yet?”
“Not at all. And the last time we were out alone together, he—he asked me to see if the oil was running through that little cup on the dash.”
“And then?”
They were in the car now, Gerard behind the steering-wheel. Isabel leaned down to touch her fingers to the dash, turning her vivid-hued, consciously alluring face across her shoulder to the companion so close beside her, the auburn curls tumbled about her forehead and her mouth tempting as a small scarlet fruit.
“And then, we were like this when—guess what Corrie did?”
It was not in the least difficult to guess what the enamoured Corrie had done. But Gerard shook his head, schooling his mirthful eyes.
“I could not, possibly, Miss Rose. I am very dull.”
“Well, what would you have done?”
“I? I should have shut both eyes and recalled St. Francis’ rules of deportment.”
Isabel straightened herself, leaning back and folding her hands in her lap.
“That’s what Corrie did not do,” she stated. “So I will not ride with him. It was bad taste.”
“I imagine Corrie found the taste most pleasant.”
“Oh!”
“Have I guessed wrong?”
“You said that you were dull, Mr. Gerard.”
“Then the guess is wrong. Poor Corrie!”
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
“You think a great deal about Corrie.”
“Yes. We are friends,” Gerard quietly answered.
She was clever enough to recognize the bar he set to flirtation with the woman loved by the man he gave that name, and she regarded the obstacle as a challenge. She was not sufficiently old or fine to realize that such bars are not crossed by such men. If Gerard had loved her or believed she might love him, he must have left his friend’s house; as Corrie would have left Gerard’s in like case. As a matter of fact, Gerard was perfectly aware of the immunity of both parties and that Isabel was merely seeking temporary diversion—experimenting with the possibilities of her own heady youth.
A forking of the road supplied a new subject for discussion.
“Turn to the left,” Isabel directed, sitting erect.
Surprised, Gerard checked the machine.
“We did not come that way, Miss Rose.”
“Of course not; you came by the long route, past the Goodwin farm. This is a better road.”
“Better?”
She followed his gaze down the vista of slippery, rut-grooved mud, and colored.
“A shorter road, then,” she amended petulantly. “I am sure I don’t care—go the long way if you wish. The storm is blowing back again, but I can stand the rain.”
Gerard hastily turned into the wretched travesty of a road.
“I beg your pardon; I only wondered if you were quite certain of the route,” he apologized.
There ensued a period of silence. The little car slipped and wallowed through sliding mud and yellow puddles.
“I hope you do not drive here, yourself,” Gerard observed.
“Do you think I should be afraid?”
“I think you might have serious trouble. There is a deep ditch on either side, while the road is both narrow and slippery.”
“I can drive anywhere. Ask Corrie.”
“I suspect he is a biassed judge. But I should not have believed he would let you drive here.”
“He——I never did except in dry weather. I knew you would not mind any road and could drive in anything, so it did not matter.”
“Please consider the compliment more than appreciated, mademoiselle,” Gerard smiled. “There is going to be a splash when we strike that puddle ahead; had you not better draw in your frock?”
She caught her white serge skirts around her and shrank nearer to her companion with a gurgle of dismayed laughter.
“Let me get in the middle. Uh, what a muddy swamp! Oh—my face!”
In fact, the water had splashed as the car struck the pool where a rain-swollen brook had overflowed the road. As Gerard turned to the girl, she lifted a face sprinkled with drops which she strove to remove with her handkerchief.
“Is it off?” she questioned. “Please look carefully. All off?”
He was obliged to scrutinize the handsome countenance offered for inspection at close range.
“A trifle of mud, still,” he admitted.
“Where? Here?”
“No—more to the left. Beneath the eye—the other eye.”
“This place?”
“Not quite.”
It was incredible, the length of time that small spot evaded Isabel’s questing handkerchief, and the futility of Gerard’s directions. He was obliged to halt the car, at last.
“A little higher—not so much. There! No, not so low.”
With a gesture of mock despair, she gave him the fragrant square of linen.
“Wipe it off,” she requested resignedly. “I can’t motor all over Long Island with a dirty face. There is no one in sight for miles; wipe it off and never tell.”
“I am very clumsy,” he demurred.
“Well, it can’t be helped.”
Gerard might have echoed the exclamation. But he accepted the handkerchief and deftly, if with inward embarrassment, removed the stain from the ruddy cheek presented.
“It can’t be off, Mr. Gerard?”
“Pardon, it is gone.”
“You hardly touched it,” doubtingly.
“If you could see——” he began in defense of his work.
“Look once more.”
He obeyed, impersonally and coolly.
“Nothing, indeed,” he asserted.
She glanced up at him through her long lashes, and flung herself back in her seat.
“Thank you. Shall we go on?”
The operation and the drive that preceded it had occupied considerable time. It was an hour since the party had separated at the yacht club’s pier. The brief interval of comparative clearness had given place to dark skies across which the capricious wind herded masses of gray cloud. And presently several drops of rain fell and trickled down the wind-shield of the car.
“Hurry,” Isabel urged, sitting up with renewed animation. “It is going to pour.”
“The little machine isn’t capable of much hurrying on this road,” Gerard regretted. “She hasn’t any speed, of course. How far have we left to go?”
“A long way, seven or eight miles. We haven’t passed the country club, yet.”
“But Corrie drove over in an hour!”
“With his big car, yes,” she retorted. “Perhaps this was not the best way, after all. But it would take longer to go back, now, than to keep on.”
This was obvious. There was nothing to do except force the skidding, panting automobile to maintain its best gait.
They were destined to lose that race. As they came opposite a low brick building set amidst rolling green slopes and stretches of flag-dotted turf, the storm overtook them.
“Up the driveway,” Isabel cried. “We can just make it. This is the country club—we’ll ‘phone home where we are staying.”
Gerard sent the car up the wide gravelled path. An attendant was waiting to receive them, another assumed charge of the automobile, and Isabel’s escort found himself standing beside her on the veranda with rather confused ideas of how the affair had been accomplished.
“Koma says there is no one else here,” she informed him. “We have all the place to ourselves. How it rains!”
It certainly was raining, raining violently and steadily, a gray downpour from a gray sky. She paused to look before continuing.
“I’ll ‘phone to Flavia, first of all. I can see we are going to have a long wait. Koma will get us the best luncheon he knows how. Aren’t you hungry? I am. Come in.”
Gerard uttered some reply. He was profoundly vexed at his situation, without being able to blame himself for it or to fix any actual fault upon Isabel. She had already turned away to enter the hall, and presently he heard the tinkle of the telephone bell, followed by her high-pitched voice.
“One one seven? Martin, I want Miss Rose. Yes, it is I. Oh!——We’re at the country club, Corrie. No, we didn’t get lost; we just chose that road ... Not a bit, it was good sport. We’re having luncheon together, here, and then I suppose we will play billiards until the rain stops. Tell Flavia not to worry; we’ll get home by dinner-time, and we’re enjoying ourselves ... Not wet, just splashed. Mr. Gerard spoiled a handkerchief drying me, that’s all the damage. Good-by.”
She reappeared on the threshold, complacently satisfied. She had removed her hood and veils, shaken her ruddy hair into becoming disorder, and knew herself at her best.
“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” she demanded.
“Certainly,” Gerard responded, without enthusiasm.
“Why not come in, then? Which do you like most to commence a luncheon——Blue Points or little clams? Corrie and I quarrel over that every time we are out together. He is as obstinate as, as—Corrie!”
“Clams,” said he, at a venture. He had a vague recollection of seeing Corrie dismiss oysters with scorn, and he felt viciously contrary.
“Why, so do I,” agreed Isabel winningly. “Let us order some.”
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