The Girl Next Door (Crimson Romance) (8 page)

Molly eyed her sternly. “What do you mean — Marcia’s
supposedly
free?” she demanded.

Anne shrugged. “Oh, all I know is that we were playing bridge at Stacy Allen’s house last week — Marcia and I were partners. And while Jennie Stewart was dealing, she asked, with that poison sweetness of hers, ‘Will Mr. Eldon be joining you here this summer, Mrs. Eldon?’ Of course there was a silence in which you could have heard a pin-feather drop. But Marcia only smiled and said, ‘I sincerely hope not. I’m afraid his wife wouldn’t approve. She’s rather narrow-minded about such things as ex-wives, you see.’”

“Divorced!” breathed Molly.

“Obviously,” answered Anne.

Edith made no comment, and after a moment Anne stirred a little and said pettishly, “Oh, well, I thought it was rather exciting news, after all. We’ve been wondering about her, and why she is a Mrs. without a Mr. around, and now we know.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “And now I’m really worried about Bobbie!”

“You needn’t be,” said Anne. “Bobbie’s got a head on his shoulders, and he’s been around. He’ll see through her, in time.”

“But suppose there’s nothing to see,” said Edith quietly. “After all, we’re a bunch of spiteful, malicious cats. Just because Marcia is a stranger here, and people are beginning to make a fuss over her, could it be that we are jealous?”

“If by ‘people’ you mean all the unattached young men about town — and a few of the older unattached men, like Mr. Pirkle, whose wife died three years ago, and old Mr. Hewett who has never had a wife — then I’m willing to admit ‘people’ are making a fuss over her,” said Molly flatly. “But I haven’t heard the girls or our own friends raving about her.”

“Betsy is devoted to her,” announced Edith.

There was a moment of tension, but almost before they had time to be conscious of it, it was gone.

“Oh, well, Betsy’s a sweetheart, and she’s as friendly as a puppy,” said Molly. “And anyway, Marcia’s not making a play for Betsy’s young man — ”

“But I always thought Betsy was mad about Peter Marshall,” Anne broke in.

Molly gave her a warning glance, but her voice was elaborately casual as she said, ‘‘Now you’re talking nonsense, Anne. You know very well that Betsy and Pete have been pals for years. Betsy’s not in love with anybody.”

“No?” asked Anne, sweetly.

“No!” returned Molly. “Betsy’s not even grown up.”

“Betsy’s nineteen,” Anne pointed out.

“How did my child get mixed up in this?” Edith put a determinedly good-natured end to the argument. “As I remember it, we suggested that we ask Marcia to come over and make up a table of bridge. How we got tangled up in all this gossip, I’m sure I don’t know. Hold everything while I telephone her.”

She went across the grass, and Molly turned to Annie and said in a savage undertone, “Anne Hutchens, if you want that baby of yours to be born before I murder you with my bare hands, you’ll keep that little trap of yours shut about Peter Marshall and Betsy.”

Anne regarded her coolly. “I think Betsy ought to know that Pete is at Marcia Eldon’s place every day, and practically
all
day,” she said. “You and I both know Betsy worships Pete. And I can’t imagine what Marcia means. After all, she is almost twice as old as he is.”

“Whoa there!” ordered Molly. “Peter’s about twenty-four, and Marcia Eldon can’t be more than twenty-eight.”

“Ever see her in the good strong sunlight? She’ll never see thirty-five again.”

“Don’t be an idiot. She’s only two or three years older than Peter, and marriage between people their ages is by no means unusual,” Molly pointed out, without realizing what she was saying. The next moment, her eyes widened and she looked startled.

Anne, watching her, chuckled. “See what I mean?” she drawled.

“But — oh, for Heaven’s sake, Anne — ”

“Molly, you’re so blind,” observed Anne. “We all know Marcia Eldon hasn’t a cent. She deposits fifty dollars in the bank on the first of every month, and before the end of the month she’s having to dip into that reserve fund she opened her account with. Never mind how I know — I
know!
The five hundred is almost gone, and the fifty dollars goes nowhere at all.”

“So what?” demanded Molly.

“So the Marshalls are wealthy. Old Mr. Marshall, Pete’s father, left a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar trust fund for Peter, and Mrs. Marshall is adequately provided for. I
’
d say that Marcia Eldon would be mighty glad to get her hands on the Marshall money — wouldn’t you? And Pete, even if he is blind, is not unattractive. He’s really sweet Gilded with two hundred and fifty thousand, I’d say he would be pretty easy to take.”

For the moment Molly couldn’t think of anything to say. Secretly she was relieved at the thought that Marcia couldn’t possibly have any designs on Bobbie, because the Priors were not wealthy and Bobbie was dependent on his modest salary for a living. It would be two or three years before he could think of getting married… .

Meanwhile, Edith had picked up the telephone and given the number of the house next door, across the lawn and through the unclipped hedge. She waited, and then a man’s voice said, “Hello?”

It was Peter’s voice, and Edith recognized it instantly. She felt a vague sinking of her heart, but she answered him promptly.

“Hello, Peter. Is Mrs. Eldon there? This is Edith Drummond.”

“Oh, how are you, Mrs. Drummond? Just a minute and I’ll call Marcia.”

She heard Peter go away from the telephone, and, after a moment, footsteps coming closer, then a burst of smothered laughter.

“Hello, Mrs. Drummond.” Marcia’s voice was light with laughter — laughter accompanied by Peter’s over some trivial incident, perhaps, that had been amusing only because they had shared it.

“I didn’t know you had company, Mrs. Eldon,” said Edith, and could not keep her voice from sounding formal. “Mrs. Prior and Mrs. Hutchens are here, and we thought you might like to take a hand at bridge.”

“That was sweet of you to think of me, Mrs. Drummond,” said Marcia politely. “But I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to give me a rain-check. There are some people here.”

“Yes, of course — some other time, then.”

After she had put the telephone down, Edith stood for a moment, just staring at it, thinking. Peter had seemed so completely at home. He had answered the telephone; he had shared laughter with Marcia, and the telephone had given no indication of other voices. Yet Marcia had said, “Some people are here.” Edith knew instinctively that there was no one there but Peter, and tried to deny the little stab of pain at her heart. Pain for Betsy, who might be terribly hurt. Betsy was so completely in love with Peter.

She tried to laugh at herself, to scold herself. She had not been happy about Betsy’s love for Peter; from the first, knowing Peter, she had not believed that he returned her love, and Betsy would inevitably be hurt. But now that Peter was obviously in love with Marcia …

She made herself go back to the two women who were waiting in the garden, carrying three bottles of Coca-cola and three glasses and a plate of cookies on a tray, as an excuse for her long absence.

“Is she coming over?” asked Anne, reaching for a cookie.

“No, she’s got guests,” answered Edith.

“Oh,” said Anne, regarding the depths of her glass with elaborate interest “So she has guests? Am I surprised! And of course, Peter Marshall is one of them.”

“I believe so,” said Edith curtly.

Molly glanced at Anne, but refrained from making any comment

The rest of the afternoon moved with a jerkiness that was completely foreign to the three friends, and Edith was secretly relieved when Anne decided it was time to leave. She walked with them to the gate, and stood there in the warm sunlight, watching them until Molly’s car turned from sight.

She didn’t know quite how long she stood there, but at last she heard footsteps coming toward her, and looked up. A tall young man in slacks and a shirt with an open collar, the sleeves turned back to his elbows, came toward her. Beside him paced a beautiful dog. It was, of course, Peter Marshall and the dog, Gus.

“Hello, Peter.” Edith made her voice sound warm and friendly, and was ashamed that she did not feel like that toward Peter at the moment.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Drummond,” said Peter, and paused.

“Your dog’s a beauty, Peter,” said Edith, embarrassed because she could think of nothing less inane to say.

“Oh, Gus is quite a pooch,” answered Peter. “Betsy was a sweetheart to get him for me. I’m afraid she’s a little annoyed with me, though, that I don’t let him drag me about at the end of a wooden harness!”

“I suppose Betsy feels that Gus would be happier if you made use of his training.” Edith was uncomfortably aware that there was a faint edge to her voice.

She saw the taut line about Peter’s mouth, as he said curtly, “It’s not much of a life for a pup, hauling a guy around. I like it better this way, and I’m sure Gus does, too.”

“Well, of course that’s something for you to decide.”

A car slithered to the curb with a screaming of tortured brakes, and Betsy called out eagerly, “Hello, Pete? Want a lift? I’m going your way.”

“Hi, scrap. Sure it won’t take you out of your way?” said Peter. He turned his face toward Betsy, and Edith could have wept at the radiant look in the girl’s eyes. It was a look that laid Betsy’s young heart bare for anyone to see its small secret, which was, in reality, a secret to no one but Peter.

“How could it be?” Betsy was saying now. “I just said I was going your way. Hello Gus — want to ride? He’s a sucker for a car,” she added proudly, as Gus, leaning lightly against Peter’s knees, steered him toward the car.

“Well, stop shoving, darn you!” Peter ordered the dog. “I’m coming.”

But Gus would not get into the car until Peter was settled. Then he leaped in agilely and sat up on his haunches, his pink tongue lolling in delight.

“Don’t be late for supper, Betsy. I’m making strawberry shortcake,” said Edith.

Betsy turned to Peter. “Stay for supper, Pete?” she begged. “Mom makes the best shortcake in the world!”

Peter laughed. “Thanks, I’d like to, only I promised Mother I’d be home for supper. There’s a rumor going the rounds that she’s making shortcake, too. She’d put arsenic in my soup if I failed to show up.”

“Some other time, then, eh, Pete?” said Betsy, and Edith wasn’t quite sure whether she wanted to cry, or to shake Betsy for being so transparent.

“Any time, Peter. We’re always glad to have you,” Edith echoed her daughter’s hospitality.

“Thanks, that’s swell of you,” said Pete.

Betsy put the little car in motion, and Edith went back to the house, her heart heavy within her. To see so clearly the heartbreak toward which Betsy was rushing, and not to be able to lay so much as a feather in her path to check that flight, seemed almost more than she could endure.

Bowling along the road that brief mile to Peter’s home, Betsy wished she could think of some way to prolong the drive. “And yet,” she reflected unhappily, “even if I could think of a way, I wouldn’t dare try it. Pete would only insist on going straight home, and that would be too — too humiliating.” So she put the thought aside, and said, chattily:

“Marcia’s a grand person, isn’t she?”

“Wonderful.” The tone of Peter’s voice made the word a paean of praise. In fact, it was said with such simple conviction, such sincerity, that Betsy blinked a little.

“Look here, pal, you aren’t getting crazy ideas about Marcia, are you?” she demanded.

Pete’s smile faded. “I’m afraid I don’t quite get you,” he said.

“Oh, I mean you aren’t doing anything so ridiculous as imagining you’re in love with Marcia — gosh, that’s a laugh, isn’t it Where in the world do you suppose I ever got such an idea?” she chattered inanely, but her eyes were dark with apprehension.

“Can’t a man admire a grand girl like Marcia without falling in love with her?”

“I don’t know,” said Betsy, her voice shaking a little. “You tell me!”

Peter’s taut young face, the thin-lipped mouth bracketed by two white lines, was turned straight ahead and Betsy saw his hands gripped stoutly about his cane.

“Wouldn’t I be a pretty fool to allow myself to fall in love with
any
woman — let alone one as beautiful and desirable as Marcia Eldon?” Peter’s voice was thick with bitterness.

Betsy was silent for a moment. When she spoke, she tried hard to sound flippant, but didn’t succeed. She only sounded frightened and hurt.

“Allow?
Who ever heard of anybody allowing himself to fall in love, Peter?” she demanded. “I don’t believe anybody really
wants
to fall in love. It’s just one of those things. You go along all peaceful and happy and minding your own business — and then
wham!
There you are — head over heels in misery! And there isn’t one single thing you can do about it!”

Peter was facing her now, as though staring at her behind the dark glasses.

“The Voice of Experience,” he chided her, and tried to match her attempt at flippancy. “You certainly make being in love sound like a wonderful experience.”

“Being in love is ghastly, and I hate it. I wish I could stop. That’s the plain, unadulterated, concentrated devilishness of it — you can’t stop!”

Peter looked startled and sorry. “Betsy, child, you’re all wrong,” he protested. “Being in love is — well, it’s a glorious experience!”

“It’s nothing of the kind!” exclaimed Betsy. “Oh, I know people write gushy songs about the glories of being in love, and they write books and make movies about it. But take it from me, pal, it’s the bunk! That is, of course, unless you have the colossal luck to fall in love with somebody who loves you. Even then I don’t think it would be all gravy.”

She paused a moment, then went on, breathlessly:

“You never know an easy moment. You’re worried, if you’re with him, for fear you’ll do something he won’t like. And if you’re not with him, you’re wondering where he is and afraid maybe he’s finding somebody he likes better than you. You spend hours hovering around your telephone, praying for it to ring. And when it does, nine times out of ten, it’s the wrong number. And then, when you
do
get to be with him, you’re all tongue-tied. You can’t make bright conversation, and you decide that he’s convinced you’re a dope.”