The Girl Next Door (Crimson Romance) (6 page)

She slid her hand through his arm and steered him into the living room, saying, “I think you know everybody here — Pauline Semmes, Anne Gray, Bobbie Prior, and Steve Ellis.”

Betsy held her breath, her eyes on Peter’s face, ready to read the first flicker of an expression that would show her he hated coming face to face with people. Instead, she saw his face light up with a smile. She heard the warmth of his voice and saw the firmness with which he shook hands with the two men.

“I hear you’ve been to a war, fella!” said Bobbie cheerfully, and there was nothing in his voice to indicate the pity revealed in his eyes. “What was it like?”

Pete grinned. “Oh, not much fun. I’ve enjoyed other things more.”

“So I can imagine,” said Bobbie. “Tough luck, fella!”

“Oh, it could have been worse. At least I got back,” said Peter, and Betsy felt tears dropping in her heart.

“Well, it wasn’t much fun where I was, either,” said Steve. Although his voice rang a little with a false gaiety, it was apparent that Peter was not too critical. “Of course, with the wound I got — ”

“You were hit?” asked Pete.

Bobbie chuckled. “Don’t start handing Steve any Purple Hearts. He tripped over his gun at maneuvers and broke his foot! He fought the battle of a military hospital. The only engagements he ever got tangled up in were with the pretty nurses!”

“Pay him no mind. The guy’s jealous because he wasn’t as smart as I was,” said Steve, grinning.

“Have you ever seen this living room, Peter?” asked Marcia.

“No — they tell me it’s something out of this world,” answered Peter. Betsy, still watching him, thought she saw a tautness about his mouth.

“Well, it really should be seen to be believed,” Marcia assured him, lightly casual. “But I’ll do my best to describe it. Shall we go around?”

Deftly, she led him on a circuit of the room, describing each article they passed. Betsy, with a little catch at her heart, realized that Marcia was really mapping the room for Peter, so that he could steer his way about it, unaided, after this one circuit

Mrs. Marshall, also watching them, whispered to Betsy, “She’s a lovely person, isn’t she?”

“She’s grand,” returned Betsy.

Throughout the simple but excellent dinner, Betsy was conscious of Marcia’s unobstrusive manner of protecting Peter from any feeling of discomfort or embarrassment. Again she heard Peter laugh. She heard him talking with animation and humor to Bobbie and Steve and realized that they were trading experiences. The girls chimed in, with light laughter, because the stories related were amusing and care-free.

The whole evening was illuminating to Betsy. When Peter and Mrs. Marshall took their departure, the others following close behind, Betsy lingered to say, “Thanks, Marcia. You’re swell!”

Marcia, emptying ash-trays and tidying the big ugly room looked at her, puzzled.

“That’s sweet of you, dear,” she said. “But is there any reason for the orchid?”

“Of course. You know there is. You were wonderful to Peter. He had fun. He — he
laughed!”
Betsy blinked back the tears.

“Why shouldn’t he? After all, he’s by no means the only man blinded in Vietnam, and he is very fortunate in having enough money not to have to earn a living. I suppose the Marshalls are very rich, aren’t they?”

Betsy paused to think that over. Funny, but she had never stopped to consider whether or not the Marshalls were rich. Of course, they had the finest home in town; but after all, Centerville was a small town. Mrs. Marshall dressed smartly but conservatively; there seemed to be plenty of money.

“Well, yes, I suppose they are,” she said at last “It’s funny, but I’d never thought much about it”

Marcia was lightly derisive. “Oh, well, you probably wouldn’t notice it, since your family has plenty,” she answered carelessly. “I just thought Peter was very fortunate.”

“I guess he is,” Betsy admitted, though she didn’t think so in her heart. Fortunate — when he was blind? When he would never again see the beauty he loved?

“You are very much in love with him, aren’t you?”

Betsy frowned. “You’ve heard of the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, so that everybody in the world knew who it belonged to? Well, her name is Betsy Drummond.”

Marcia hesitated, and after a moment she said, “Betsy, don’t you think you’d be much happier if you got over Peter, and found yourself another beau?”

“Got over Pete? Well, good grief, don’t you suppose I would if I could? Do you think I
like
being in love with a man who can never know I’m anything but a long-legged, freckle-faced brat? Don’t you suppose I’d rather find myself someone who could look at me and know I’m grown-up?” Betsy blurted out, struggling to hold back the tears. “But you can’t turn love on and off like you would a water-faucet. I wish you could. Good night, Marcia, and thanks for the nice evening.”

And she fled before the ignominious tears that threatened her.

For a while Marcia stood quite still, staring at the door through which Betsy had gone, her eyes inscrutable. Finally, she shrugged, and went about turning off the lights and making the house ready for the night… .

After that Thursday night Peter began to appear among his friends. It was as though, having braced himself and plunged into contact with other people, he found it easier to face them. It seemed, too, that the young people of Centerville had discovered Marcia and the strange charm that enveloped the old Cunningham house. Almost every evening there was a group on the old-fashioned veranda, behind the fragrant curtain of honeysuckle and clemantis. Usually Betsy was one of that group, and very often Peter was, too.

At first Mrs. Marshall would bring Peter in the family car, and then go on to spend an hour or two with some of her friends before returning to pick him up. After a while, Peter began to walk to and from the old Cunningham place. Betsy’s heart always ached as she saw him come along the weed-grown drive, the tip of his stick cautiously feeling its way ahead of him, as though it led him.

The first time she saw him come up the drive, she couldn’t restrain herself from springing to her feet and running to meet him, guiding him to the steps. But the feel of his arm, rigid with protest against the hand she slipped through it, struck at her like a blow. And she knew that once again she had hurt and hindered him, when she had wanted so passionately to help. She had stood back, dismayed, as Peter walked up the steps past her to seat himself beside Marcia in the old canvas swing. After that, she made herself sit still, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She wouldn’t help him; she wouldn’t spring to his aid, she told herself, not even if he stumbled and fell. She wouldn’t — because he didn’t want her to!

But the knowledge that Peter did not want her help, any more than he wanted her love, was a blinding pain in her.

She talked it all out to Professor Hartley, because he alone, of all the people she knew, understood. He listened, and his old face was touched with pity, but he knew that he could do nothing for her.

“It isn’t so much that he resents your trying to guide him, Betsy,” he told her one afternoon as they sat in his garden. “It’s that — well, a blind man learns to walk, to find his way about, by counting the steps. When Peter sets out from his place to the Cunningham house, he knows exactly how many steps it takes to reach the drive; how many steps from the street to the porch; how many steps to climb to the porch and to reach his favorite chair.”

“Which, of course, is always the swing where Marcia holds court,” said Betsy.

Professor Hartley turned his sightless eyes toward her, but she was too absorbed in her own unhappy thoughts to realize that he was suddenly tense.

“He goes instinctively to sit beside Mrs. Eldon?” he asked, after a moment

“Sure. Oh, she understands him, I guess, and that makes him grateful.” Betsy tried hard to make her meaning clear. “She’s a pretty swell person. Of course she’s not in love with him, and I don’t suppose she’d care a lot if he stumbled or fell!”

Professor Hartley was silent for a while, and then he said, “Could you bring Peter to see me, Betsy? I’d like very much to see what he’s like.”

“I could bring him, of course. He’d be glad to come. He wants to thank you for Gus. He’s been wanting to come, but up until the night Marcia gave that dinner party, he’s been sort of shy about meeting people.”

“He’s fond of Gus?” asked the professor.

“Oh, sure. He’s crazy about Gus. But he won’t let Gus help him. He won’t let
anybody
help him,” Betsy burst out. “He says Gus is much too good a dog to spend his life hauling some ‘big lug’ around. That’s the way he expressed it”

The professor nodded. “Well, suppose you bring him out, Betsy, any time at all. I’m always at home. He sounds quite a person.”

So Betsy took Peter to see Professor Hartley. As always the two little words — ”to see” — hurt her. As she and Peter walked across the lawn to where the old man sat beneath his favorite oak, Gus bounded ahead, overcome with delight at being back in a familiar, loved place. Tamar came to meet him, and the two dogs scampered off together.

The professor shook hands with Peter and the two men, both sightless, faced each other, as if by some miracle they could see with a clarity forbidden to physical eyes.

“It’s good to see you, Peter,” said the older man.

“Thank you, sir. It’s good to see you,” said Peter. “I’ve wanted to thank you for Gus.”

“Don’t thank me, Peter. Gus is Betsy’s gift to you. She trained him herself. I hope he is justifying that training by being very helpful to you?”

Peter’s jaw tightened a little. “Oh, I manage to get about without using Gus as a guide. Thanks to the fellows at the Rehabilitation Center, I learned to get along very well. If only people would let me alone! I know exactly where I’m going and how many steps it takes to get there — if only somebody doesn’t make me lose count. Then I’m really lost.”

Betsy paled a little, but knew that if she kept still they would not be aware of her tension. When she was sure she could manage her voice she said:

“May I make tea, Professor — or coffee?”

The old man turned to her, smiling. “That would be very nice, my dear,” he said, sensing her need for escape. “But you must promise to put everything back exactly in its own spot when you’ve finished.”

“I learned that a long time ago,” Betsy told him, and fled.

As she went she heard him saying to Peter, “Every piece of furniture in my house is fastened to the floor. And everything in the kitchen has its own spot and must be put back there when not in use. It’s the only way I can be sure of getting around, or of cooking the thing I happen to want to cook.”

When the screen door had banged shut behind Betsy, he said, “She’s a wonderful little person, isn’t she?”

“Betsy? Oh, Betsy’s a swell kid — a little like an over-enthusiastic puppy that insists on climbing up your trousers, even if his paws are muddy!” Peter spoke lightly, and his companion could catch no undertone in his voice to indicate that he meant more or less than what he was saying.

“But now that she’s not a kid any more, now that she’s quite grown up — ”

“Oh, Betsy’s not grown up. Far from it!” protested Peter. “Well, of course, I suppose she
has
grown up to a certain extent; but I’m afraid she’ll always be an infant to me — the way she was when I saw her last.”

“Yes, of course. That’s inevitable.”

For a moment the two men were silent. Before them the lawn was a velvety green; the sunlight, which lay over it in a golden wash, was broken here and there by the shadows beneath the ancient trees. In the perennial garden, bees hummed drowsily. The afternoon was too hot for bird-song, though an occasional sparrow, startled perhaps by some prowling cat, made short, sharp sounds of anger.

Both men sensed the loveliness that they could not see: the warmth of the sun; the cool, faint breeze that stirred the trees to mysterious murmurings; the protesting birds; the bees’ drowsy humming. All were sights locked tightly in their memories, to be sounds from now on; sights that would never grow less beautiful, less poignant with the march of the years; memories that would deepen and grow more beautiful.

The older man stirred and cleared his throat. He turned his sightless eyes upon Peter and asked curiously:

“What had you planned to come home to, Peter, if things had gone differently?”

Peter’s jaw hardened, and there was, for a moment, a taut, white line about his mouth.

“Oh, the usual thing, I suppose. A job I liked; perhaps a wife and children. What does any fellow my age plan?”

“What sort of job?” probed the professor, careful that there could be no hint of idle curiosity in his voice.

Peter gave a short, little laugh. “I was studying to be an architect. One of the few things no man denied his eyesight could ever hope to be.”

“That’s too bad. But at least you can fulfill the rest of your dream.”

Peter’s head jerked around. “You mean I can still hope to marry, have children? Good Lord, man, are you insane?” he snapped. “Do you think I’d saddle any woman with the burden of a helpless husband?”

“You’re not helpless, Peter, unless you want it that way.”

Peter was on his feet now. His host sensed the swift, angry movement.

“Helpless to give any normal woman the kind of life she’s entitled to,” Peter said shortly. “No, thanks, Professor Hartley. I couldn’t do that to any woman.”

“But if she loved you?”

“If she loved me, that would be all the more reason why I couldn’t,” said Peter through his teeth.

“You’re taking a very narrow view, my boy.”

“Sorry, sir. I can’t agree with you.”

There was a taut silence, the slight creak of the wicker chair as Peter sat down again. The older man searched his mind for something he could say that might help the boy beside him. He knew how desperately Peter needed the help he was too proud and too stubborn — and too young — to ask for. When he spoke at last, it was on a subject far removed from what they had been discussing.

“I suppose things were pretty bad out there in Vietnam,” he said quietly.