The Girl Next Door (Crimson Romance) (3 page)

“Why, she’s beautiful and very sophisticated looking — ” Edith hesitated.

Molly interrupted, shaking her dark head so that the absurd earrings she wore shook against her cheek.

“I don’t like her, either,” she said. “She’s definitely a menace and I, for one, intend to keep my husband under lock and key while she’s in town.”

The others laughed, knowing Tom Prior’s devotion to his wife and her frank adoration of him.

“I’m so afraid both you and Tom will get pretty tired of that,” said Edith. “She plans to be here a year. She told me so.”

The others looked startled.

Betsy awoke that morning and lay still for a long time, as consciousness began to sweep through her. Something important was going to happen today, an event that might change her whole life. And then, as she came fully awake, the realization crashed upon her.

Pete was coming home today.

Her body tensed beneath the thin covers and her hands tightened into fists. There was a frightened look in her eyes. The day she had dreamed of, and planned for so long, was here. All the happy, ecstatic dreams of seeing Pete, tall and strong and disturbingly attractive, swinging down the train steps and gathering her into his arms, his eyes devouring her… .

“His
eyes!”
she said, half aloud, as she swung out of bed.

Her breath caught on a sob and, for a moment, she put her hands over her own eyes, almost hating them for their clear sight. If only she could give them to Pete!

His train was due at ten o’clock. She got under the shower, towelled herself vigorously, and reached into the closet for the cherished frock she had guarded so jealously for Pete’s homecoming. But even as she touched the crisp pink pique, with the white buttons marching down the front, the little white cupcake of a hat, the brown and white sports pumps, she drew back, and once more her heart was twisted with pain.

She had yearned for the moment when she could stand before Pete, in all the glory of being grown-up, and see the look of delighted surprise in his eyes. His letters had told her that he still thought of her as a long-legged, coltish brat with braces on her teeth and carrot-colored hair. He wouldn’t know that her hair had darkened until now she wore pink and it was vastly becoming. He wouldn’t know that her skin was clear and fresh, faintly tinged with a very becoming tan. Pete wouldn’t know anything about her. And suddenly it seemed to her an unbearable thing that to him she would always be just an awkward, freckle-faced child.

No, it wouldn’t matter to Pete what she wore. Shorts, slacks, a peasant-dirndl such as she wore for every-day around the house, a party frock all white and silver and buoyant above small silver slippers — whatever she wore, however she looked, she would always be to Pete a kid in a gingham play suit… .

Her mother’s voice called up to her:

“Betsy, aren’t you ever coming down for breakfast?”

“Be right with you,” she called back, trying hard to sound gay and casual.

She got into a blue and white print dress left over from last summer. It had faded a bit in the wash, and was one of the cotton dresses she kept for work in the garden, or when she was “playing around” with the gang on pursuits that did not require formal dressing. She brushed her hair back carelessly, made a face at herself in the mirror, and went down the stairs.

George, standing with Edith at the door, was leaving for the office. He grinned at Betsy.

“Hi, chum,” he greeted her. “You look about ten years old.”

She tried to smile at him, muttered something, and went into the dining room. Edith and George exchanged anxious glances.

“Oh, how I’ve dreaded this day!” Edith confessed.

George nodded. “I know. Thank the Lord it’s only twelve hours long. His train gets in at ten?”

“Yes. Mrs. Marshall said he’d rather not be met with a reception committee or anything, that he just wanted to come home as though he’d been away for a short trip. I guess his nerves are pretty well banged up,” said Edith.

“Then the kid won’t be there?” asked George hopefully.

“Nothing short of a broken neck could keep her home.”

George sighed; then he kissed the top of Edith’s head and said, trying hard to be gay, “Well, we’ll have to look on this as a sickness. We pulled her through typhoid, remember? And double whooping cough, and a few less serious childhood ailments. I guess we can see her through this.”

“I hope so,” said Edith, and managed to send him away with a smile.

She watched until he turned to wave to her, and then, the morning ritual complete, she went back to the dining room. Betsy was pushing one of Edith’s nut-brown waffles about on her plate.

“What’s the matter with that waffle?” Edith asked.

“Don’t be a dope. Nothing’s the matter with it. It’s super — same as always,” answered Betsy abstractedly.

“Then eat it, darling, while I fix you another one.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake — ” Betsy caught her breath and paled a little. Secretly, she had always enjoyed the absurd expression which her world accepted simply as a mild expletive, but which, to her, always held a romantic flavor. She avoided her mother’s eyes, and went on, “I’m getting too fat in all the wrong places. Waffles have calories, or something. I’ve got to diet.”

“I never heard such a silly statement. You’re as skinny as a rail. Honey, you make me laugh!”

“Well, go ahead and laugh,” Betsy flared. “But I still don’t have to eat the darned waffle!”

She pushed back her chair and stood up. She muttered something, and was gone, running up the stairs to her room. Edith still sat at the table, her face white and tired.

A little later, as Betsy came downstairs, still wearing the faded blue and white cotton dress, Edith said:

“Aren’t you going to the station to meet Peter?”

“Of course,” returned Betsy curtly.

“You haven’t much time to dress.”

“I
am
dressed. What difference does it make what I wear or how I look?” Betsy burst out. “Pete won’t know the difference.”

And then she was gone, hurrying out through the open door and down the walk before Edith could speak… .

There was always a little group of loafers around the station, as in all small towns where the daily passing of big-city trains is an event Betsy ignored them as she paced the platform, straining her eyes along the track for the first sign of smoke that would herald the approach of the train bringing Peter.

A few minutes before train-time, a neat dark green sedan stopped at the edge of the station yard. Mrs. Marshall, trim and smart in her suit of printed silk, a hat made mostly of white violets perched becomingly on her carefully waved hair, got out. As she came along the platform, she was pulling on white gloves and there was a cluster of white violets pinned to her jacket.

Watching her, Betsy suddenly felt frowsy, in her last summer’s cotton dress, her mahogany colored curls guiltless of a hat, socks and scuffed saddle-shoes on her feet. She flushed as she went to meet Mrs. Marshall, who greeted her affectionately and carefully veiled her look of disapproval.

“Well, Betsy, our long wait is over. Our boy is coming home. Won’t it be grand to see him again?”

“It would be even grander if he could see us,” muttered Betsy, and caught her lower lip hard between her teeth.

“Betsy, you must pull yourself together.” Mrs. Marshall said it quietly, but there was a note of sternness in her voice. “We’ve got to treat Pete exactly as though nothing has happened. We mustn’t break down. He needs our comfort and our cheer — not our tears!”

Betsy tossed her head and said huskily, “Of course — ” But her words were cut off by the sound of a train whistle.

Far up the line, where the railroad tracks seemed to run together, there was smoke, and then the train came rushing in. Betsy clenched her hands tightly, and held her breath. Mrs. Marshall gave her a glance that was almost hostile, and then turned as the train slid to a halt.

Mrs. Marshall walked a few steps away from Betsy, who stood as though rooted to the spot. The conductor swung down and a young man appeared at the top of the steps — a tall young man much thinner than Betsy had been prepared to see. He was still in uniform, with the bars of a lieutenant on his shoulder, and his thin face seemed paler because of the dark glasses that shielded his eyes.

“Hello, there, son!” Mrs. Marshall called out.

Her cry seemed to Betsy to be unbearably gay, but the young man’s face brightened. He seemed unaware of the conductor’s gentle touch that guided him as he stepped down to the platform, and caught his mother in his arms.

“Home at last, Mom. It’s swell to see you!” Peter’s voice rang with such boyish delight that Betsy could scarcely keep back the tears.

They clung together for a long moment. Mrs. Marshall smiled at Peter, though her face was white and taut.

Still clinging to his hand, she said — and Betsy marvelled at her poise — ”There’s someone else here to greet you, darling.”

“Oh, Mom, not a committee!” Peter groaned. “You promised — ”

“A committee of two, darling. Just Betsy and me.” Mrs. Marshall turned to Betsy, a stern command in her eyes.

“Betsy!” Peter grinned and held out his hand. “Betsy, you nice kid! This makes coming home perfect.”

It was then that Betsy disgraced herself, in her own eyes, as well as in Mrs. Marshall’s. She gave a little choked cry of heart break and jerked her hand free of Peter’s. Then she ran blindly along the platform and into the street — away from that tall, white-faced boy with his shadowed, sightless eyes.

Behind her, Mrs. Marshall ground her teeth in anger, as Peter’s face went taut and his jaw clamped hard.

“Sorry — I seem to have upset the kid,” said Peter.

“The car’s over here, dearest,” said Mrs. Marshall, knowing that there was no way in which she could see the hurt that Betsy’s outbreak had caused him. She slipped her hands through his arm and, without seeming to guide him, drew him toward the car.

The station loafers, who had witnessed Betsy’s outburst, shuffled embarrassedly, and several of them called to Peter. Then the station master came out to shake his hand and to say, “Glad to have you back, Pete. The whole town’s mighty proud of you. Don’t reckon they’re gonna forgive you, though, for not letting ‘em meet you with a brass band and a welcoming committee.”

Peter managed a laugh as he shook hands with the man, and answered, “Hate to upset the town, but I’m not quite up to brass bands just yet. Give me a few days to get settled, and we’ll whoop her up.”

“Sure, sure, Pete. I just wanted you to know how everybody feels about you, boy — and that’s mighty proud!” said the station master.

Mrs. Marshall was eternally grateful to him that he made no effort to assist Peter as he climbed into the sedan. She got in behind the wheel and, though her hand shook a little as she switched on the ignition, she was chattering almost hysterically, and the sound of her voice hid the small jangling of the keys.

Peter relaxed as the car started. After a moment he put his hand on hers, and said, “Okay, Mom — thanks! You can cut the act now.”

Mrs. Marshall managed to stifle the sob that rose in her throat, and to say brightly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never put on acts, and you know it. If I’m so glad to see you that I have trouble to keep from exploding, is that so strange?”

“Of course not, pet!” Peter smiled at her. “I know it was a sock in the jaw to see me. I waited as long as I could, so you could get used to the idea of seeing me like this. I knew it would be a bitter blow.”

“Peter Marshall, you talk like a fool! Don’t you suppose I’m tickled silly to see you, with your arms and legs intact? Every mother who saw her son go off to war braced herself for the worst that would possibly happen to him! I’m lucky that you came back at all!”

Peter grinned and relaxed a little.

“Atta girl, Mom!” he said, and Mrs. Marshall breathed a little more easily.

All along the street as she wound her way through the mid-morning traffic, people called to them, waved, and shouted greetings to Peter. Peter smiled and waved back. When they reached the house and his mother had stopped the car at the steps, he grinned and sniffed.

“Boy, oh, boy, it
smells
like home! You’ll never know what it’s like to smell clean, decent odors again — flowers and new-cut grass and freshly plowed fields — ” He broke off to sniff again.

Mrs. Marshall laughed, and refrained from helping him as he got out of the car and, with his stick, probed a little until he got his bearings. He went up the steps aided only by the cane; he swung open the screen door for her; the tip of his cane touched the door sill, and he followed her into the house.

Late that afternoon Betsy took a bus out to Professor Hartley’s cottage. She knew he would be in the garden at the back of the house today, and she went around there. As always, he sat up alertly in his big rustic chair as he heard the sound of her footsteps on the gravel.

“Hello, Betsy, my dear,” he greeted her. “You are all dressed up.”

Betsy stared at him. “But, how did you know that?”

He chuckled, enjoying the surprise in her voice.

“High-heeled slippers make an entirely different sound, on gravel, from that of low-heeled oxfords, my dear,” he reminded her. “Also, there’s a very faint whispering that sounds as though it might be — oh, silk, or perhaps thin starched material — ”

“It’s pale pink pique,” she told him, “and it’s very becoming. I’ve got a hat that looks like a slightly over-sized magnolia — and I look very nice.”

The fact that her gaiety wobbled a little, did not escape the old man.

“And you’ve been crying,” he said.

Betsy caught her breath. “Pete’s home,” she said unsteadily.

The old man nodded, his sightless eyes upon her as though he could read her young face.

“And you broke down and cried when you saw him?” There was gentle censure in his voice.

Her face crumpled and she drew a deep, hard breath. “Yes,” she admitted. “And I’m ashamed. But I couldn’t help it.”