Romance Classics Page 17

  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.

  Chapter Ten

  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 flippa
nt, 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.”

  “Hey, Bets — hold it up! Where did you ever garner so much profound wisdom? Or is it just crazy talk? You’re too young to know so much!” protested Peter, frowning.

  Betsy looked at him. She could look at him all she liked and she didn’t have to be careful of her expression, of the revelation of her eyes, because Pete, poor darling, couldn’t see her. She blinked back the tears and brought the car to a halt in the driveway of the Marshall home.

  “I’ve had years of experience,” she told Peter after a moment, “I’ve been in love since I was twelve!”

  Peter looked slightly annoyed. “Betsy, Betsy — you’re still playing with dolls!” he scolded. “You’re still just a kid. You don’t know the first thing about love.”

  “Bo Norris thinks I’m grown up enough to marry him, and maybe I will!” she announced with a calmness that surprised her.

  But the look that flashed across Peter’s face was the most cruel blow she had ever received. It was one of acute relief! Peter was glad she was going to marry Bo! She had thought the news would shake him into a realization that he himself was in love with her — and, instead, he had looked relieved!

  “Bo Norris, eh?” he was saying now. “Well, that’s great, Betsy. Bo’s a grand guy! Congratulations. I’ll send you a set of solid silver pickleforks for your wedding present.”

  “And I’ll take good care of them, and send them back to you when you and Marcia get married,” Betsy said through her teeth.

  Instantly the laughter faded from Peter’s face, and it was stern again. His hands tightened on the cane, and his body went rigid.

  “I’m afraid you’ll keep ‘em for life, then, Betsy. For the Lord’s sake, do you suppose I’d ask any woman to share the sort of life I lead?” he burst out savagely.

  “She’d like it — if she loved you.”

  “But Marcia’s not in love with me.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Betsy agreed with perfect sincerity. “But she’ll marry you like a flash if you want her to.”

  Peter was still for a moment, but his expression told her it was only to control his temper. Then he said bitingly, “Marcia has never struck me as the sort of woman to make such a sacrifice for a ‘wounded hero.’” The last two words came with such bitterness that Betsy shrank a little.

  “Well, gosh, who ever said it would be a sacrifice to marry you, Pete, you idiot?” she demanded. “Anyway, Marcia would marry you like a shot. She’s tired of being poor.”

  “That’s enough!” snapped Peter.

  “Well, don’t snap my head off,” Betsy protested, with some heat: “Marcia’s ambitious. She’s — well, she’s glamorous and all that, but she’s practical, too. She hasn’t any money, and she needs a lot of it to go on studying to be a great singer.”

  “And you’re suggesting that she would tie herself to a useless hulk like me, just because my ancestors happened to be thrifty and were kind enough to leave me money? Well, thanks a lot, Betsy. I thought you were a friend of Marcia’s. I never suspected you of being a malicious spiteful little cat!”

  “I’m not! I’m not a cat! I like Marcia. But that doesn’t mean I’m too stupid to understand her,” Betsy raged. “I know how ambitious she is. I’ve heard her say, ‘Nothing is ever going to stand in my way again. I’m a singer, I’m going to be a great singer, and nothing’s going to stop me.’ “

  “And is being ambitious a disgrace?”

  “No, and marrying a man you don’t love, if he will help you to realize your ambition isn’t disgraceful, either, I suppose?”

  Suddenly Peter laughed. It wasn’t a very pleasant laugh, and his face looked tired.

  “Betsy, my sweet,” he said dryly, “we’re a couple of fools. Here we sit arguing and throwing brick-bats at each other, and all because of a woman who would laugh her head off if she so much as suspected I’m in love with her.”

  “Then you are in love with her.”

  Peter nodded. “Now go ahead and laugh.”

  Betsy was still for what seemed like a long, long time. It might have been a matter of moments; it was probably no more than seconds, but it was long enough for her to watch the dearest dream of her life shrivel and die.

  “I’m laughing fit to kill,” she said at last, in a voice so low that Peter could scarcely distinguish the words.

  “You should be, Betsy. It’s very amusing,” he said bitterly. “I thought the day they told me I was hopelessly blind was the worst day of my life. I know now it was only a sort of curtain raiser. To be hopelessly in love is far worse than to be hopelessly blind.”

  Betsy sat very still. Even in this devastating moment of her own life, her first instinct was to help him, to offer comfort. It was a mark of the measure of her love that his happiness seemed more important than hers.

  “It needn’t be a tragedy, Pete, unless you want it to,” she told him. “She will marry you. She’d like to! I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

  Peter turned to her sharply, but before the expression of hope could more than flicker across his face, it was gone. “Don’t, Betsy. Don’t build me up with false hopes. If I thought for a moment that she cared for me — ”

  With her usual devastating honesty, Betsy blurted out, “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think Marcia’s in love with you. I don’t think she’s in love with anybody. I don’t believe she’s capable of loving anybody but herself. I only said she’d marry you, if you wanted her to.”

  Peter’s eyebrows went up a little. “Charming picture, Betsy. You make Marcia sound enchanting.” He fumbled for the catch of the car door, and swung it open.

  Gus, alert since the moment the car had stopped, was already on the sidewalk. As Peter climbed out of the car, Gus pressed against him, and Peter, in a moment of rare annoyance with the dog, said sharply, “Hang it, stop shoving me!”

  “Stop shouting at him!” Betsy blazed. “If you’d give him a chance to do the thing he’s been trained to do — ”

  “I will not be hauled around at the end of a wooden harness by a dog that deserves a better break!”

  “Gus has been trained to be of service to the
one he loves — and that happens to be you! If you weren’t so pig-headed and stubborn, you’d have sense enough to know that love likes to serve.”

  With that parting shot, Betsy sent the car racing off down the street, so blinded by tears that she could scarcely see how to drive.

  “Betsy!” Pete called out. “Wait a minute!”

  He had taken a hasty step toward the sound of the car. That unconsidered step took him off the sidewalk, and he stumbled, just as another car came down the street. With lightning-like speed, Gus leaped forward, sending Pete sprawling, but out of the way of the car.

  Peter put his hand down, and Gus lifted his head to meet it. Peter fondled the big, satiny head, the velvety pointed ears, and felt the powerful neck that he had sworn never to harness; and suddenly he was acutely ashamed. He had failed Gus.

  “Sorry, old man,” he said huskily, and if the dog did not understand the words, he caught the note of affection in Peter’s voice, and quivered with pleasure. “You win,” said Peter. “No, that’s not quite right. You lose, old boy. But maybe that’s the way you’d like it. Betsy said love wants to serve. Well, you shall serve, Gus. I’ll try to make it up to you, some way. You’re still going to have freedom and fun, but I guess from here on out, the two of us will walk in step, huh?”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was late afternoon when Professor Hartley heard Betsy coming across the lawn. It was almost as though his thoughts had evoked her physical presence, and he turned his face toward the sound of her steps, making himself smile warmly.

  “Hello, Betsy, my dear. Come and sit down! I’m so glad to see you,” he said.

  Betsy eyed him with suspicion. “What’s wrong? You’re not holding out on me? You haven’t been ill, or upset or anything, and trying not to let me know?”