She stood amazed for a minute and read the names on the cans and packages and bags. Flour and sugar and cornmeal, hominy, rice, oatmeal, and a sack of buckwheat. Tins of crackers and biscuits and cakes, glass jars and tin cans of fruits and jellies and vegetables. Baking powder, cocoa, chocolate, even some boxes of shredded coconut. Bars of chocolate, cans of coffee, boxes of tea, salt and codfish and kippered herring. She could hardly think of anything that she could possibly make that did not have its ingredients all there before her. How had Chester managed it? But of course he had put it into the hands of some clerk to select the things. Poor Chester. He didn’t realize how expensive that would be. She ought to have given the order and asked prices carefully, now that they were going to be poor. Well, she would hoard the delicacies and deal them out little by little, making them last a long time so that more would not have to be purchased again soon.
It was almost pleasant to get back to the kitchen lore of her early married days. She was hampered a little by not understanding the wood range and constantly forgetting to poke wood down its voluminous throat, which it seemed to devour in a second and die down in another if she did not poke it in again. It was also bewildering to have to use iron pots and pans instead of her nice smooth aluminum, which she doted on at home. But a further search revealed the fact that Hannah had even managed to put in a few of those—saucepans of different sizes and some of the cake and pie pans. That would make things easier.
Just as she had selected the materials for the meal she was planning and turned to leave the pantry, she heard Chester’s voice outside the window as he slid the big shovel into the top wall of the drift that covered the pantry window and came into contact with Chris’s shovel on the other side of the drift.
“Hello, kid!” called Chester. “That you already? Good work! Having a good time?”
“I’ll tell the world!” shouted back Chris happily.
She paused and watched through the window. She could just see both their faces through the top pane where the light stole down inside the big drift in a jagged line. They were working away on either side of the drift a foot apart, and the snow was giving way before them. It was hard work, too. She knew they had to carry some of it back ten or twelve feet through the narrow passage they had made to get to an open space where they might deposit it.
When she turned back to the kitchen again there came the girls’ ringing laughter, Betty the loudest of them all. She and Jane had formed a partnership, pelting John and Doris with snowballs in return for those they had thrown while the girls were shoveling.
Who would have believed that the Betty of yesterday could be this cheerful creature, playing like a child in the snow!
John had started a snowman out in an open space where the wind had blown the ground almost bare. He was rolling a great ball almost as tall as himself, and now the girls stopped snowballing and helped. When they got it as large as they could roll, they made another smaller one and put it on the top of the first for a head. Jane tore some blue woolen balls from the knit cap she was wearing and stuck them in for eyes. Betty fashioned a nose from snow and found a bit of red ribbon in her pocket that she applied like lipstick. They made arms and put mittens on for hands, and Jane took off her cap and scarf and put them on him, and then they all stood back and shouted for Dad and Mother and Chris to come and see. Altogether it was a wonderful morning, and a great deal of work got itself done.
Hungry as wolves they came in when Eleanor rang the big farm dinner bell, all talking at once, all eager to tell Mother how much each had shoveled.
It appeared they were nearly down to the road that led to the little log house at the turn. When they got there, they would be in touch with the world again and could arrange for milk to be left at the gate each morning and the mail and the daily paper to be brought up. But why care, after all? The load of fretfulness and anxiety to get back to the world seemed to have dropped from every shoulder.
“And Daddy,” said Betty, forgetting her recent affectation of calling him by his first name. “Is that really a lake down behind the house, and is it truly frozen over, or is it only a mirage? It looks like a sheet of silver in the sun.”
“Why, yes, certainly, haven’t I mentioned the lake?” asked Chester composedly, helping himself to baked beans—real bean-hole beans from a can that Eleanor had doctored with molasses and seasoning and butter and browned again in the oven. “Yes, that lake is always great. We boys used to spend every afternoon there until dark when we didn’t have chores to do. And sometimes when it was moonlight—”
“Oh–h–h–h–h–hhh!” chorused the excited young people. “Could we?”
“We could!” said Chester happily, watching the play of pleasure on Betty’s beautiful little face.
Oh, Chester was glad now he had come. He knew he was glad. He felt his prayer was being answered.
“Did you know that Mums brought our skates?” announced Betty with the air of conferring a great secret. “Yes, sir, all of them,” she said as Chris turned an eager questioning face. “I wonder how long it will be before we can get down there?” continued Betty. “It looks miles deep in snow.”
“Ah, but there’s a path if you only know the way. We’ll have to do a pretty bit of shoveling, and it may be a day or two before we get around to the lake, but we’ll get there,” promised Chester.
They all slept like logs that night, going to bed at half past eight. Not even Betty made a protest. But she went to the window of Chris’s room before she went to her own, and looked out on the luminous valley with its one clear little streak of moonlight from a tiny thread of a new moon, and caught her breath again at the loveliness. Strange, unreal world of beauty. It seemed as if it was all a dream. What a splendid place for a house party. If it wasn’t for that old business going bad she would ask Chester to let her invite the whole class up for Christmas week, and they could give a dance, and maybe invite some of the people around the neighborhood if there were any people worthwhile. What a mess that Chester should have failed! She never thought a thing like that could happen to her, to be the daughter of a poor man and have to live on a farm!
And so in spite of the silver sheen in the valley and the heap of skates in the woodshed and the little thread of a new moon hanging over the frozen lake, Betty went to bed with an evil spirit attending and a grudge against her father growing again in her heart. Also she longed for a cigarette, feverishly, wildly as she lay down on the old cord bed that creaked and groaned even with her light weight. A cigarette! If she could have just one. Here it was two whole days since she had had a smoke, and she hadn’t been that long without one for over two years! It was fierce! Perfectly poi—But at that stage Betty fell asleep, for shoveling snow does not tend to make one wakeful.
It took two days to get shoveled down to the lake, because there was so much else to do that they couldn’t work at it constantly. It was maddening to have to come in and wash dishes and carry wood. But finally the last step in the steep hill was cut and a path shoveled out on the ice to meet the windswept silver, and they all raced up to the house to get their skates.
Mother was making doughnuts, and there was a great platter full of the hot delicious circles, freshly powdered with sugar, standing on the table. Good cheer fairly exuded from every face as they stood around eating as many as they pleased with not a word of objection from Eleanor. She would have to mix up more dough, but after all, why not let them enjoy them while they were hot? The cold air and exercise would help to digest them, and they would likely stay out till all hours now that the ice was ready.
So they ate till they could eat no more then shouldered their skates and flew down to the ice.
The sun was just sinking behind the farthest mountain as they came out of the house. It looked like a ball of fire opal against the golden glitter of the departing day. Long ruby rays slithered over the crusty snow. Fine brown pencilings of birch trees made pictures against the distance.
“It looks just like a Chri
stmas card!” said Jane. “Look, Betty!” And Betty, pausing on the top of the hill to finish her last bite of doughnut, felt something like a faint thrill of appreciation for the grandeur spread out before her. Then she whirled down to the ice and, putting on her skates, glided away into the sunset filled with the joy of living, a child on wings flitting over the fairy dazzle of glass as lightly as a bird. Just a happy child, all her tantrums and half-developed passions held at bay by the pure animal joy of flying along on the ice.
The next day a letter came from Dudley Weston and two other letters from Betty’s best girlfriends. Betty was a woman again, with all her pride of self-will, all her arrogance and fury at being kept in prison when the world she had left behind her, her world, was swinging on with dizzying whirl without her.
Betty locked herself in her bedroom to read her letters, though everybody but her father and mother were down on the ice, and even they were in conference behind closed doors over some letters they had received.
Thorny, old girl, it began,
I call it pretty lousy of your old man to step in and disconnect you the way he did up at the Tav. I must say I think he owes me several apologies, knocking me stiff right out of the blue that way. If he hadn’t been your dad I’d have knocked him cold for that, and next time I’ll do more than that if you know what I mean. Better warn him!
But anyway, what’s the little old idea doing the vanishing act? I called up your house twice yesterday and got nowhere. Gyp Magilkey says she thinks it’s some parent stuff, that your dad was mad as a hatter up at the high dance, but I told her you wouldn’t stand for anybody monkeying with your rights.
Still, if the old man has got you pinned and you can’t help yourself, me for the rescue! How’d you like to get married? We might try the companionate way, it seems to be the latest now—or just go off, that’s really less trouble and lots are doing it, though it isn’t quite so new. Probably companionate would make less kick; it’s more formal, you know.
But say, we could get away with it in vacation and nobody the wiser, and then sometime if anybody makes a kick about anything, or we want to pull something, we could spring it on ‘em. Whaddaya say? Mebbe I could get Gyp and Sam to come along. They’d do for witnesses. But you must let me know. Make it snappy. I’ll have to make arrangements. We could make a getaway after school the Friday before Christmas. Gwen has a house party and all of us are going, of course, and nobody would miss us till we were off for good.
I can’t seem to find out where you’ve gone. Everybody is vague. You send directions, and I’ll meet you where you say, and when; only don’t keep me waiting and spoil the game. Better wire if you accept.
Yours to get drunk, Dud
P.S. The play went rotten. They put Sue Rounds in your place, but I kicked and now Gwen’s going to get it, but no worries if you wire O.K. I shan’t be there to see. Here’s hoping, and MAKE IT SNAPPY!
Chapter 15
Mary Magilkey, otherwise Gipsy, had given more gossip:
Betts, you little beast! You’re the limit!
Here I give up a perfectly good date to spend the night with you and help you fix up that faun costume so your mother wouldn’t find out, and when I get to your house there’s nobody but that ugly old woman, and she says she doesn’t know when you’ll return. She won’t even say where you’ve gone, but I’m sending this through the post office. Of course they’ll forward it to you if you’re really away for long.
But say, you certainly did one dirty trick leaving before rehearsal. It certainly was a scream. I thought I’d pass out. Sue Rounds volunteered to take your part, said she knew it all. You know she’s a wow for learning everybody’s part. She’s dying to get into a play sometime, and she’s just hanging around ready for any little old chance like you handed out to her. But oh, boy! If you could have seen her flirt with Dud! He glared at her like a jazz pirate and she rolled her eyes and got in that line, you know—“Oh, my dearest love! You have come back to me at last!” I nearly died! And Lois snickered right out and Miss House shut her lips hard and shook her head severely at her. But Sue went right on with her mushy speech. I thought Dud was going to knock her down, but he caught sight of Housey’s face and grabbed her round the waist like a bag of beans and said, “Come, let’s get out of here where we can talk!” and he sounded just like the chief of police come to arrest her. Honest, we all simply screamed and went into spasms, and Dud put out his foot and tripped Sue, and she fell flat! It was great! Housey finally dismissed the rehearsal and said there “wouldn’t be any play at all if this happened again,” etc., you know, like she always does when she’s mad. But afterward I heard Dud asking Gwen Phillips to take the part if you didn’t come back. He said he’d make it right with Housey. He’d threaten not to act himself. So you’d better get a move on you, Betts. You don’t want Gwen to nail him, and she will! I could see she was flattered when he asked her to take the star part with him. You can’t trust any man, Betts. Out of sight is out of mind. But perhaps you don’t care. Of course, Gwen is giving a house party in vacation and all that, but perhaps you know. She is going to have a big dance at Shillingsworth’s, too, and Dud’ll probably drive her to that if you don’t get back. But perhaps you’ve already had your invitation.
And oh, yes, Fran’s uncle has let her ask the class to a trip on his yacht during Christmas week. You’d better get back. I’m having a couple of new casual things made just for the occasion. And Estelle has a new dress her aunt brought her from Paris. She calls it a “frock” but it looks like a patchwork quilt and hangs something fearful on her!
Now, darling, write me at once and tell me what you want me to say when Gertie Gates gets to prying about where you’ve gone and why; and whether it is true that your dad thrashed Dud Weston and told him never to come near you again; and whether you and Dud have really had a fuss; and all that. You know Gertie. Besides I’m dying of anxiety about you. I shall pass out absolutely if I don’t hear by Wednesday. And precious, one word of advice, don’t let your parents put anything over on you! You’re almost of age and have a right to do as you please! They did, of course!
Passionately,
Gyp
Frances Allison’s letter was brief and to the point:
Betts, old thing:
This is just to let you know that there’s a new man in our class. He came the day after you left, and he’s simply stunning! But he belongs to me, so hands off. He’s taken me out twice in his car, and it’s a humdinger. He lives in the old Foster place and his uncle is T.Y. Pettingill, the real estate man. They have simply scads of money, and he’s awfully generous. I think he would make a wonderful class president, in case Willie Boyer doesn’t get well enough to come back this year. We really ought to have somebody who looks the part, don’t you think?
And Betts! He has a cousin coming at Christmas, a college man. I’ve seen his picture, and he’s almost as good looking. If it’s really true as Gertie Gates is telling round that you and Dud are angry with each other I’ll introduce you to him first and give him the high sign. So you better hurry home.
Your adoring Fran
Betty read these effusions through and then turned back to Dudley Weston’s, reading it again with thoughtful brows. Gone was the childlike look and the glow of the morning, gone the far view of distant mountains and sunsets and the vivid joy of skimming over perfect ice. Betty was back in her high school days, as if there had been no interval. Her heart burned hot with pride of possession, possession of her man—or what she was pleased to call a man. A flame of jealousy shot through her heart at the thought of Gwen Phillips and her house party. Dud used to go with Gwen down in the eighth grade. She should not get him back again!
Nor was Betty averse to attracting the new man from college, especially if he was good looking. It was just as well for Dudley Weston to see that he wasn’t the only one that admired her.
All the same Dudley had been fairly upright. Hadn’t he asked her to marry him? And that really was as much as
he could be expected to do after her father had knocked him down. Yes, quite decent, suggesting a companionate marriage or any old thing she chose!
Betty narrowed her eyes and stared unseeing off at the mountains out of her window, trying to decide which she would prefer of the three.
It would be thrilling just to go off. She had always dreamed of that, albeit fearsomely. Some fragment of antiquity, perhaps, still lingered in her blood. One couldn’t quite get away from one’s stuffy ancestors, and even the psychologists admitted that a certain percentage of your character was inheritance, though not nearly as much as they used to think. The rest was environment, and of course if one had the courage to make one’s environment what one wished, why one could be anything—almost anything in the universe!
Betty’s heart swelled within her, and she rose, her head uplifted and her soul full of aspiring thoughts. What if she should go off with Dud? Just go off! Still, that was old stuff of course as Dud had said. People had been doing it for centuries. Of course companionate marriage was newer, and nobody in Briardale had tried it yet. It really sounded a lot better than just going off and made it easier to change around providing things didn’t go so smoothly. As for getting married, real downright, respectable getting married, of course every girl had that in the back of her mind as she grew up, veil stuff and white satin and orange blossoms. But one couldn’t have that and a thrill, too, and really nowadays most people would choose the thrill. There really wasn’t much you could get a kick out of in a wedding after all. There simply weren’t any new combinations of colors for bridesmaids unless one dared have them garbed in black velvet with big white horsehair hats trimmed in something severe, perhaps a tail of monkey fur—just one, like a tassel hanging down over one shoulder and drawn through the hat in a pinched fold!
The Prodigal Girl Page 15