Romance Classics

by Peggy Gaddis

  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 throug
h 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.

  Chapter Five

  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.”

  “That’s bad, Betsy. I’m disappointed in you.”

  “He still thinks I’m a child,” she said, sullenly.

  There was gentle, but genuine amusement in the old man’s smile.

  “And why shouldn’t he think that, Betsy? Have you ever behaved in a grown-up manner with him?” he suggested.

  A burning flush crept over Betsy’s face and her eyes dropped, as though he could read their expression.

  “No, of course not,” she stammered, resentfully. “When he went away, I was just a kid. And today — well today, he couldn’t tell the difference!”

  He nodded. “But now he’s home, and that’s a challenge to you, Betsy,” he pointed out. “Are you going to face that challenge with as much courage as he has?”

  She was silent for a while, her hands clenched together in the lap of the cherished pink pique.

  “Can I take Gus to see him?” she asked presently.

  “I don’t know. Can you?”

  Betsy flushed. “I meant — may I?”

  “And I meant — can you?”

  “Sure,” said Betsy. “I get you. You mean, can I take it? Can I walk in on Pete and be gay and nonchalant?”

  “That was what I meant.”

  Betsy stood up, smoothed down the pink pique with a loving hand, and thrust her young chin out belligerently.

  “Sure I can,” she said. “Watch me.”

  She whistled and the two dogs came bounding to her, leaping about her with obvious pleasure. She bent and carressed the older dog, and then she snapped the leather leash on the collar of the younger dog, who gave a little excited yip at this indication that he was about to be taken for a walk.

  “Good luck, Besty,” said the professor.

  “Thanks. I’ll report in the morning.”

  “Do that. I’ll be anxious.”

  Betsy turned with a whirl of the pink pique.

  “You needn’t be. Your pep-talk really got me! I’ll pick up the challenge, and everything will be fine.”

  “Of course.”

  Betsy went away, the dog trotting along beside her, his handsome head erect, on his very best behavior.

  Betsy was glad that she had to walk back to the Marshall place. It was almost a mile from Professor Hartley’s, and the day was unseasonably warm. But she was oblivious to the heat; she didn’t even know that her forehead was wet with perspiration or that the pique dress was getting a trifle limp.

  The door stood open, the screen unlatched. But before she could open the screen door, she saw Mrs. Marshall standing there. Her heart quailed a little at the expression on the woman’s face.

  “Oh, hello,” said Betsy uneasily.

  Mrs. Marshall held open the door, saying, “Come in, Betsy.”

  “I was looking for Pete,” said Betsy. “I’ve brought him a present.”

  She indicated the dog, whose golden eyes were fastened appraisingly on Mrs. Marshall, as if trying to decide whether she was friend or foe.

  “Oh, what a beautiful dog! Peter will love him!” Mrs. Marshall put a hand out experimentally for the dog to sniff it before she touched him.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” Betsy began.

  Mrs. Marshall straightened and her eyes were cold.

  “You should be, Betsy,” she said. “After all the talks we’ve had, after our plans that nothing was to upset Peter — ”

  “I — it sort of hit me all of a heap,” Betsy confessed humbly.

  Mrs. Marshall’s face softened a little.

  “But we have to help him, Betsy, not drown him in a sea of tears and pity.”

  Betsy nodded miserably. “I know. I’ve just been given a good going-over by Professor Hartley. He was plenty tough, so you needn’t bother to add anything to it. He hits hard, but he hits straight.”

  “He’s a wonderful person,” Mrs. Marshall said quietly.

  Betsy managed to raise her eyes to Mrs. Marshall’s. “Could I see Pete, and introduce him to Gus?”

  Mrs. Marshall hesitated. “No tears? No emotional outbursts? Promise?”

  Betsy lifted a finger and crossed her heart, solemnly, like a penitent child.

  Mrs. Marshall smiled. “He’s out in the garden. But, so help me, Betsy,” she added, “if you upset him again, I’ll wring your neck with my bare hands.”

  “I hope you do, Mrs. Marshall,” said Betsy simply.

  Betsy saw, as she came around the house, a tall figure lying in one of the long canvas beach chairs. For a moment she was still, and the dog, puzzled, tugged at the leash and stirred uneasily.

  Betsy made herself go forward, her heels clicking softly on the flagstone path. She saw Peter tense a little and his head go up. The thin face, its cheekbones standing out too prominently, turned toward her, and the sunlight glinted on the dark glasses.

  “Hello?” said Peter, his voice hesitant. Obviously he was not sure who it was, and was a little embarrassed by that fact.

  Betsy made her voice sound gay and casual, as she went forward, saying, “Hello, Pete! It’s swell having you home again.”

  “Betsy!” said Pete. Then he drew back, his jaw setting. “Think you can overcome your repulsion long enough to shake hands with a misfit?”

  Her voice caught in a little sob, but she made herself say, “Don’t be a dope, you dope! I was so glad to see you this morning that the only way I could keep from flinging myself into your arms was to run out on you. After all, a girl’s got to have a little pride.”

  It was not too convincing, but it was the best she could do.

  “And since when has it been a scandalous business for you to fling yourself in my arms, Betsy? After all, you did that when I left — remember? There was quite a gang at the station, too!” Peter’s voice was a trifle on the grim side.

  “Oh, but I’m a big girl now,” Betsy told him airily, her eyes pleading for his
understanding.

  “You’re a long-legged, carrot-topped, big-eyed brat with braces on your teeth — ” began Peter, and some of the tension had gone out of his voice.

  “I am not!” she flashed. “I haven’t got braces on my teeth, and I’m not a carrot-top — ” Suddenly her voice died in her throat, because always Peter would see her, behind the blindness, as just that! Peter couldn’t ever know she had grown up, or that she was no longer a homely kid. “I’m — well, I’m pretty now,” she announced.

  Peter grinned. “Modest aren’t you?” he teased.

  “Well, I have to tell you — otherwise you wouldn’t know,” she defended herself, and rushed on impulsively, “I didn’t send you a picture, Pete. I sort of wanted to burst on you in all my glory.” Her voice stuck again.

  Peter laughed, but there was a faint edge to his voice and Betsy saw that his hand had tightened a little on the chair arm.

  “And then, when I came back, I couldn’t see you. So you had to tell me,” he finished for her.

  “Well,” she protested youthfully, “I am pretty. People think so, anyway! My hair’s not red any more. It’s sort of mahogany-colored; and it curls — remember? And I’ve grown two inches, and I’m nineteen! I’m too old to run around kissing young men who’ve just come back from the war — in public, anyway!”

  “Especially young men who come back all crocked up, eh, Bets?”

  Betsy walked deliberately over to him, framed his face between her small brown hands, unconscious that they were shaking. She tilted his face back a little, bent her head and set her young mouth warmly on his… .

  Peter pushed her away from him, and said bitterly, “Cut! A very nice scene my dear, but I’m not having any! Your lovely sacrifice to a ‘wounded hero’ is appreciated, but declined with thanks!”

  “I love you, Peter,” said Betsy, simply.

  For a moment Peter was still. Then he sprang to his feet and said almost violently, “Cut it, Betsy! Behave yourself! You’ve been to the movies again. You aren’t in love with me. Now run along home and call your boy-friend.”

  Betsy flinched as though he had struck her. As she drew back a step, involuntarily, she brushed against the waiting dog, watching the little scene uneasily, disturbed by the raised voices of this strange man and the girl he, Gus, had come to know as a friend.