The Girl Next Door (Crimson Romance) (11 page)

“Oh, I’m going, but not until I’ve said what I’ve come to say. And that is, Peter is completely mad about you, and you can do anything you want with him. I’m hoping you are decent enough to give him an even break. Or is that asking too much? When you’ve used up his money and you’ve got where you want to go, don’t kick him out, will you? Unless, by then, he’s had enough of you and has learned what you’re really like.”

“You are unforgivable.”

“What the heck do I care about your forgiving me? Nothing you could do to me could hurt me. But if you hurt Peter — ” Betsy’s voice broke off in a little sob.

“There’s nothing you can do, Betsy, and I’d much rather you’d run along home now, if you don’t mind. Peter has asked me to marry him.”

Betsy nodded. “Of course. I knew he would, the minute he was sure he could give you the things you want. It’s just that I thought maybe, if I tried to make you understand what a grand person he is, you might be a little more kind to him. But I suppose I’m just wasting time. You couldn’t give a thought to anybody but yourself, ever!”

She turned and went out, blinded by tears.

Mrs. Marshall gave a tea for Marcia, and her friends rallied around, so it was a pleasant social affair. Afterwards, at Peter’s and his mother’s insistence, Marcia stayed on for dinner. It was while Peter was feeding Gus that the two women had a few moments alone.

Mrs. Marshall had planned for these few moments and had braced herself for them. She and Marcia were in the sun parlor, with its windows wide open to the late afternoon sunlight.

“I thought,” Mrs. Marshall said presently, “that we might look over the house and select the rooms you and Peter would like as a suite. I’ll have the remodeling and redecorating done while you are on your honeymoon.”

Marcia, who had been concealing her restless boredom all afternoon, looked up sharply.

“You mean you expect us to live
here?”

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Marshall said hesitantly. “I didn’t think you’d want to go on living in the Cunningham place. And, while the housing shortage is not particularly acute in Centerville, I don’t know of any available houses.”

“Peter and I are going to live in New York, where I can go on with my studies. Naturally.”

“Oh. I thought perhaps you were giving up your career.”

“That’s not likely,” returned Marcia. “Not after I’ve come this far.”

“But won’t it be very difficult for you to make up for this lost year?”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Marcia assured her. “We are going to New York on our honeymoon. There are specialists I can see there. Perhaps I’ve gained enough in the months I’ve put in here so that I won’t have to lose a whole year. I shall work day and night, twenty-four hours a day, if necessary, to catch up.”

“I understand.” Mrs. Marshall said it quietly, but she saw with devastating clarity all the motives behind Marcia’s engagement to Peter. She had glimpsed them, of course, from the first, but she had tried to deny them. Peter was such a grand person surely Marcia could love him for himself, not for what he could do for her. Surely, oh, surely, cried her heart, her boy deserved better than this. It was shameful that his love should be used simply as a stepping-stone by an ambitious, mercenary woman.

She made herself smile at Marcia. “Of course it’s only natural you should prefer to live in New York,” she said as pleasantly as she could. “But I hope you’ll visit me occasionally. It’s going to be lonely without Peter.”

“Of course we will. I shall be terribly busy, but there’s no reason why Peter shouldn’t run down often.”

Peter came back then, and there was no further chance for conversation between the two women; not for the sort of conversation Mrs. Marshall felt was so vitally necessary, and yet from which she shrank with something approaching terror… .

With two weddings coming so close together — Bo and Betsy had settled on a date two weeks later than the one chosen by Marcia and Peter — Centerville was in a dither. Despite the August heat, there were many parties; showers for both brides; luncheons, teas, dinners, dances. The two couples were thrown together almost constantly, since the parties were given by the same group, and everything was very gay.

Edith watched Betsy during this hectic period, an increasing fear in her heart. Outwardly Betsy was gay, breathlessly happy, chattering like mad, racing through the house like a strong wind; dashing in to change clothes, or hurrying out for some appointment. But she kept her mother at arm’s length with a skill that would have done credit to a woman many years older.

Bo went around in a happy daze. Edith, watching him, felt impelled to offer advice — and acted on it before her more sober thought could check her.

On the evening when Betsy was dressing for the dinner dance that Mr. and Mrs. Norris were giving for their prospective daughter-in-law, Bo arrived early. He was wearing his new tuxedo, his immaculate linen, and his hair was wetly plastered down. In an hour, or less, his hair would dry and spring into the hated curls that defied anything but the sternest of wet brushes, which only added to Bo’s disarmingly boyish manner.

“Bo,” said Edith impulsively, “there’s something I feel you ought to know.”

Bo’s radiance dimmed a little. “You mean that I’m sort of — well, second-choice with Betsy, Aunt Edith?” he asked, like the little boy who had called her that since childhood.

“You know — ?”

Bo’s smile was wry now. There was nothing radiant about it. “About Pete Marshall? Sure. I’ve known all along. But Betsy is willing to marry me, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make her happy. If Pete is married and out of town, maybe I’ll get my innings later on.”

There were tears in her eyes, but Edith smiled at him. “You’re a dear, Bo. But I can’t feel it’s quite fair to you. I mean — well, after all — ” She stopped, realizing that she had almost added, “You deserve something better than being caught on the rebound.”

Bo had guessed what she meant, and his grin deepened a little. “Look, Aunt Edith,” he said, “I’ve been in love with Betsy since we were kids. The time she let me carry her books home from school was a big moment for me. It didn’t matter a bit that I knew Peter had chased her home from tagging after him, and that she was just using me to try to make him sore. You see, I didn’t have a lot of pride where Betsy was concerned. And I haven’t been able to acquire much, since then.”

He was silent for a moment; then he added, “Don’t worry about me, Aunt Edith, and don’t worry about Betsy. I’ll take care of her and do my level best to make her happy.”

Edith sniffed, because she didn’t want to break down and weep in front of him. “You young idiot,” she exclaimed. “I’m not in the least worried about your making her happy. I just hope she will make you happy.”

Betsy was in the doorway, a slim young flower in a frock of pale blue tulle that billowed about her high-heeled silver sandals. There was an odd look in her eyes, but she said gaily to Bo:

“Sorry I had to keep you waiting so long, darling, but I know Mother has been entertaining you. Shall we go?”

The expression in Bo’s eyes, as he sprang to his feet, was one of complete adoration. As he went out in the hall to open the door, Betsy lingered a moment to say:

“Thanks, Mother, for being so loyal. I appreciate it.”

Edith flushed beneath the sting in Betsy’s words, but she answered defensively, “You’re not in love with him, dear.”

“Good night, Mother. Don’t wait up. I may be pretty late.”

And over Betsy’s head, Bo smiled and said again, “Don’t worry, Aunt Edith. I’ll take good care of her.”

“I’m sure you will,” returned Edith, and the door closed behind them.

On the day following the engagement to Peter, Marcia had written Lucy Cunningham the news. She had not written hastily nor carelessly. She had torn up half a dozen letters before she managed one to her satisfaction. She knew Lucy so well! And after she had mailed the letter, she had waited anxiously for an answer. But as the days sped by and the date she and Peter had chosen for their wedding came closer and closer, she began to fear that she had not been as clever as she had thought.

It was a morning just four days before the wedding date when Lucy’s answer came.

Marcia dropped the letter in her lap and sat very still for a while, trying to control the shaking of her hands. Lucy had come through handsomely! Marcia knew that if she had gone to Lucy frankly and asked for a loan large enough to take care of her training, she would have refused it. Lucy liked the feeling of being very generous — and she could be at times. But it had to be at her own impulse. She could never be coerced, or even cajoled. She alternated fits of generosity with fits of extreme parsimony. There were times when she was fond of the world, and generous to a degree, but there were other times when she announced bitterly that she hadn’t a real friend, and that people hung about her only because they had designs on her money. And at such times, her big luxurious apartment, or any one of the many country places she maintained, was not a pleasant place.

Marcia looked down at the letter and drew in a deep breath. Lucy had at last done the thing she had hoped for, and had not dared ask. Lucy had established a fund for her musical training! And now she, Marcia, was free.

She would have to tell Peter the truth, of course, and that wasn’t going to be easy. But there was a hard little core of honesty in her, surprising, perhaps, to those who knew her best. She would not lie to Peter nor pretend. She had a liking for neat finishes; there must be no loose ends dangling. Peter loved her — she was honestly sorry that she must hurt him. But the kindest thing, in the long run, would be the brutal thing now. She would tell him straight out, frankly and flatly, that she no longer needed him and that she would not even consider marrying him.

Marcia was in her room, packing, when she heard the tap of Peter’s cane on the veranda. She went down the stairs as he stepped into the hall, and he turned swiftly toward her. She saw his face light up with a smile, as he released Gus and let him go outdoors.

“Hello, darling!” he said, moving to take her into his arms.

Marcia evaded him easily. “Let’s go into the living room, Peter,” she suggested.

“Fine with me,” Peter spoke lightly, but there was a hint of anxiety in his face, because her tones had been slightly strained.

“What I have to say is not going to be pleasant, but I hope you won’t mind too much,” said Marcia. Before he could answer, she added, “I’ve changed my mind, Peter. I can’t marry you.”

He stood very still, a foot or two away from her, and she saw his face grow taut.

“Of course not, Marcia,” he said presently. “I think I knew that from the first. But I was fool enough to let myself hope. It’s because I’m blind, of course.”

“No, Peter, it’s not that.” Marcia tried to sound convincing. “It’s that — well, I had a letter from Lucy Cunningham this morning. She wants me to spend the winter with her in Mexico. She has established a fund that will guarantee my musical training — ”

“And you don’t need me any more,” Peter finished.

“If that’s the way you want to put it.”

“There’s no other way to put it.”

“I’m sorry, of course,” she said stiffly.

“You needn’t be. It’s only what I should have expected.”

“Well, after all, you said yourself, when you asked me to marry you, that you didn’t expect me to be in love with you,” she reminded him.

“But you insisted you were.”

“I tried.”

“Thanks. I don’t appreciate that very much, somehow,” he cut in. “I’m delighted to know that you are going to be taken care of, and I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

He turned, and felt with the tip of his cane for the way to the door. Outside, in the hot morning sunlight, he whistled for Gus, who came leaping to his side. Peter snapped the wooden harness into place and he and Gus set out.

• • •

Professor Hartley turned his head, listening intently, as he caught the sound of an approaching footstep. A moment later, he said eagerly:

“Peter — good morning! This is a pleasant surprise!”

“Thanks, sir.”

Peter dropped into a chair, released Gus, and lit a cigarette.

“Something’s wrong, Peter,” said Professor Hartley.

Peter’s mouth tightened a little and he hesitated. Then:

“I’m not sure about it, Professor. Maybe something’s been wrong, but now it’s right. I’ve been walking and doing a lot of thinking. I seem to be able to think straight this morning for the first time in a long time. Marcia,” he added, “has broken our engagement.”

“I — I scarcely know what to say, Peter.”