Which thought brought the dimple into Carney’s pink cheek. She ran ahead to crank the machine.
“See here!” called Sam. “I’ll do that. Don’t spoil your pretty pink dress. I like pink,” he added. “It’s my favorite color.”
“Good!” thought Carney, still dimpling. “I’ll tell Isobel to wear pink all the time.”
But she didn’t speak as she relinquished the crank. She climbed into the car and took the wheel, still smiling.
“Baby hippo!” she thought, longing to tell Isobel who, looking her loveliest, watched admiringly the large young man’s performance at the crank.
6
Bonnie
ISOBEL DIDN’T THINK the “baby hippo” line was funny.
“He isn’t a bit like a baby hippo. He’s quite distinguished.”
“Distinguished!” snorted Carney, as she backed the automobile into the dusty road and started back along the lake. “He’s too fat and he needs a shave. He’s been needing a shave for a week.”
“Oh, but he has an air,” Isobel insisted.
“Did you think so when you thought he was a stable boy?”
“I never thought he was a stable boy.”
“What?” cried Carney almost running over a chicken in her surprise.
Isobel was nonchalant. “Of course, I knew all along that he was Sam Hutchinson. He had a sort of…savoir faire…”
“So that’s why you were so nice to him!” interrupted Carney.
Isobel flushed, and laughed. “Is that a polite thing to say? I’m always nice to servants.”
“Yes, but not that nice,” said Carney, laughing, too. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just admire your perspicacity, or intuition, or whatever it is. You Easterners! East is east and west is west, all right.”
“And in the west,” said Isobel, good humoredly, “you can’t tell a Sam Hutchinson from a stable boy. Well, wait till you see him shaved!”
But he wasn’t shaved when the Locomobile drove up in front of the Sibley house next day.
The girls saw it from an upper window, a huge black open car with the top collapsed at the back. They saw Sam hop out and swing up the porch steps, looking as unkempt as before, overflowing a faded checked shirt, greasy trousers and the hunting boots.
“What an outfit for calling!” said Carney, running to answer the bell.
But when she opened the door she forgave him. His eyes were crinkled with friendliness, and they were so extremely blue! His smile was winning, even through a stubble of beard.
“I have to drive out to Medelia. Thought you gals might like to go along. Miss Porteous told me she was here to look over Minnesota.”
“He does like Isobel,” Carney thought joyfully. Nothing could be more fortunate. The success of Isobel’s visit was almost assured.
“Like a ride?” she called to Isobel, who was sauntering down the stairs.
“I’d love it,” Isobel said warmly.
Hunter had emerged from the back parlor to see what was going on. Sam turned to him. “Wouldn’t you like to come, too? Drive the Loco?”
Hunter’s face broke into smiles. “Gee, yes!” he cried.
Now that was a nice thing for Sam Hutchinson to do, Carney thought, as she went to tell her mother of their plans. And Sam was as good as his word. After the car had climbed out of the valley, Hunter was allowed to drive.
“I’ll sit with Hunter,” Carney said brusquely, which for her was subtle maneuvering. She changed to the front seat while Isobel sat in the back with Sam.
Isobel seemed to enjoy the look at southern Minnesota. They bowled along a country road under a cloudless sky. Sam pointed out the lacy corn, the rippling wheat, the fat cows in meadows full of clover.
“Isn’t this better than Broadway and Forty-second? Honestly, now!”
In Medelia, a tiny town with dooryards full of hollyhocks and children, he drove to the main street and parked.
“I have to go to the mill. Hunter,” he said, “you take the girls into the Candy Kitchen. See that Isobel orders a banana split.” Isobel! They had progressed. “It’s part of her education in Middle Westania.”
The two girls and Hunter went into the Candy Kitchen, which smelled richly of chocolate. They were just attacking the banana splits when Sam came in, greeted the attendant heartily, and ordered one, too. They consumed the giant concoctions with riotous laughter. When they rose, Sam called to the boy, “Charge it, Joe! Put it on the book.”
Carney turned to him, puzzled. “Haven’t you any money with you, Sam?”
“Not a cent!”
“Hunter can pay.”
“Of course not. I invited you in.”
“But the boy doesn’t even know who you are!”
“Gosh! Everybody knows me.”
“But you didn’t ask what this costs,” protested Carney. “When the bill comes in, you won’t know whether it’s right or wrong.”
“I’ll never see it.”
Carney began to feel irritated. “It’s ridiculous to charge such a small amount,” she said bluntly.
“It isn’t a bit ridiculous. It saves nerve strain. I never carry money,” said Sam, and to prove it he pulled his pockets inside out.
“What does it matter, Carney?” asked Isobel, laughing.
“It’s just so silly!” said Carney, and Sam turned to grin at her through his stubble of beard.
Back in the Locomobile, they stopped at a livery stable, transformed into a garage, and Sam told the boy to fill the tank with gasoline.
“Charge it, Joe. Put it on the book,” he said, winking at Carney.
Perhaps, Carney thought, he felt at home in Medelia because of his father’s business interests. He wouldn’t behave like this in another town. But on the way back they drove through a village where boxes of strawberries were displayed in front of the general store. Sam stopped.
“Half a dozen boxes,” he called, without asking the price, and when the clerk brought the berries he said, “Charge them, Joe. Put it on the book.” He didn’t even give his name.
Carney gave him a withering glance. “Why six boxes?” she asked pointedly. “Your family isn’t that big.”
“Mom can use two. And I thought your mother might like a couple.”
“And the last two?” asked Carney, weakening.
“Oh, half a dozen is such a nice round figure. And Hunt and I will eat them, driving home.”
Carney was soon to learn that Sam had told the truth when he said that he never carried money. The son of the richest man in southern Minnesota, the crown prince, the heir apparent, he conducted himself accordingly. He and the big black Locomobile were known in every hamlet.
Isobel seemed really impressed. He hadn’t gone East to college. In fact, his college had begun and ended with a year at the U. But he had traveled almost as much as she had; they discussed Europe and Long Island.
“It’s astonishing,” she confided to Carney, “to run into someone like that out here in the Middle West.”
Carney didn’t want to discourage this interest. Privately, she couldn’t understand romantic feeling about anyone so burly and untidy. She hoped Larry would be like her father who was always spruce and well groomed, never seen without a tie.
Isobel was interested, too, in Bonnie.
“Are the Andrews French?” she asked.
“No. English. American now.”
“What was the family doing in Paris?”
“Dr. Andrews was connected with the American church there.”
“Isn’t it a pretty far jump to Minnesota?”
“Oh, he lived here before, of course.”
“How did he happen to come in the first place?” Isobel persisted.
Carney twinkled. “Just chose the nicest part of the U.S. to settle in.”
“But he left it and went back to Paris,” said Isobel, twinkling, too.
“And he’s coming back, you notice.”
“Not to Deep Valley.”
“No. To St.
Paul. But it’s still Minnesota.” And both girls laughed. They paused for breath, then Isobel continued, “Do they have money?” Isobel was always asking whether people had money.
“Yes. Mrs. Andrews’ father made it in horseshoe nails. Bonnie and I used to howl about that.” Carney smiled reminiscently. “Bonnie’s awfully full of fun.”
“You may find her very different.”
“Paris won’t change Bonnie.”
“Paris changes anybody.”
“It won’t change Bonnie,” Carney insisted stubbornly. And as soon as Bonnie had stepped off the train, Carney saw that she was right.
Of course, like the rest of them Bonnie was four years older. But she was still short and cozily round. Her dark red toque and traveling suit were made of rich materials but they had the old-fashioned look Bonnie’s clothes always had…they didn’t look a bit like Paris. Her blond hair was as smooth as always, her blue eyes as mirthful and as calm.
The Crowd—what was left of it—was at the depot. It was the first time Isobel had met them. Tom was there in his West Point uniform; slender, aristocratic Lloyd; jovial Dennie; likable Cab; Winona and blond Alice Morrison.
“How wonderful to see the old Crowd!” Bonnie cried, going from one to another.
“Bonnie, this is Isobel, my roommate from Vassar.”
They shook hands, Isobel smiling, Bonnie beaming with friendliness.
Back at Broad Street, all the Sibleys were waiting on the porch. Bonnie kissed Mrs. Sibley.
“Do you still have the doughnut jar?”
“I certainly have. Especially filled for your arrival.”
“And do you still make rarebits?” Bonnie smiled up at tall Mr. Sibley.
“I’ll make one for you, Bonnie, while you’re here.”
The whole family, except Bobbie, remembered her with love. To him she was only another “bluing” prospect.
“Would you like a bottle of bluing, miss? I’m trying to earn a baseball suit.”
“Bobbie!” said Carney, stamping her foot. He grinned, unabashed.
“Of course I want a bottle,” said Bonnie, her laughter flowing.
Just as it always had, Bonnie’s laughter flowed through every conversation. And her hands, Carney noticed at the table, were the same—small, plump and very soft, covered with rings.
There was a gala supper, and as they left the table, Isobel gave Carney a push.
“Now you and Bonnie go take a walk. I know you have a million things to talk about. Hunter will take care of me; won’t you, Hunter?”
“Glad to,” said Hunter, eyes sparkling.
“You’re going to make Ellen aw—fully mad!” sang Carney. But she felt a surge of gratitude. It would be wonderful to have Bonnie to herself.
Arms entwined, they went out of the house and strolled down Broad Street. Although there was still pink sunset in the sky, it was growing dark under the trees. Men were watering shadowy lawns, and voices came out of dim, vine-covered porches.
“Is it nice to be back?”
“Wonderful! I wish you were coming to the U.”
“Well, Betsy is going to be there.”
“That will help. Tell me, has she seen the Humphreys?”
“Yes! Herbert’s been giving her a terrific rush. Remember when he was in love with you?”
“It’s one of my most treasured memories!” Bonnie gave her little rolling laugh. “Where’s Tony Mark-ham? You wrote me he had gone on the stage.”
“He’s in The Chocolate Soldier, on the road. Just a small part, but a good one.”
“Where are Irma and Tib?”
“Vacationing.”
“And the Kellys?”
“They’ve moved to Minneapolis. Katie’s getting married this summer. And Tacy is engaged to that Harry Kerr I wrote you about.”
“Engaged!” cried Bonnie. “One of our Crowd engaged!”
They were silent a moment.
“What does Betsy say about Larry?”
“She says he’s nice. I wrote and asked her a lot of questions about him but she’s been slow answering. Bonnie, I wish I could see Larry.”
“I know.” Bonnie was sympathetic. “He’s standing between you and…anyone you could get serious about. Is there anyone in particular, Carney?”
“No. Is there with you?”
“No,” said Bonnie. “I’m in love but only with love. I want to get married, of course, have my home, start a family.”
“Same with me,” said Carney. “I don’t want any career.” She thought for a moment about her piano and what Herr Lang had said. But she didn’t repeat it. It still rankled in a sore place in her heart.
The next day was Sunday. Mr. Sibley and his sons pressed their suits and shined their shoes, but Carney didn’t feel embarrassed as she had expected to when Isobel observed the homely habit. Bonnie kept saying, with fond laughter, that they had always done it. At the breakfast table they discussed the Sunday School lesson and Bonnie—straight from Paris—entered into the discussion. She had studied the lesson, coming down on the train.
Afterward they assembled for church. Absentminded Jerry ran up and down stairs again and again before he was ready…first for his handkerchief, then for his dime, then for his lesson book, and then for his hat.
“He hasn’t changed a bit,” Bonnie remarked.
The family drove, but the three girls walked, dressed in their best and feeling formal. Carney wore her white serge suit and a white wastebasket hat, faced with brown shirred silk.
“Your hat is lovely,” Bonnie observed.
“Winkie’s mother helped me buy it in New York. It cost eight seventy-five.”
“Heavens!” said Bonnie. “Mine only cost ten francs. That’s about…two dollars.”
She didn’t say it as another girl might have said it, in a bragging way. Bonnie didn’t drag in French phrases or references to Paris. She didn’t need to, Carney thought, as they walked down Broad Street to the tall white stone church. Bonnie wasn’t in the least conceited, but she had a calm unconscious confidence.
At Sunday School she was asked to speak, and she stood up and talked, not brilliantly, but effortlessly and sincerely. She remembered the names of parishioners, old and young, who clustered about her after church.
Isobel, Carney saw, was puzzled by her. She said she adored her, but that didn’t, of course, mean that she did. However, Carney felt sure she would in time. You couldn’t help loving Bonnie.
Again Sam Hutchinson dropped by in the Locomobile, still unshaven, bulky, in loose, careless clothes.
“Isn’t he like a baby hippo?” Carney whispered to Bonnie. The three girls piled into the car along with Hunter and Lloyd and Tom who happened to be present.
On this ride the Locomobile sputtered, balked, and stopped. Hunter telephoned from a farm house and two mechanics arrived on bicycles. They tinkered while the party sang in the grass by the roadside. When the car started chugging again, Sam borrowed some silver from Lloyd. He pressed it into the mechanic’s greasy hands and climbed behind the wheel.
“Charge it, Joe. Put it on the book.”
The next day he bought Bonnie a box of candy. He took a fancy to a tie in a shop window and bought six. It was always the same. “Charge it, Joe. Put it on the book.”
Carney was horrified. Naturally thrifty, she had been trained from childhood in a businesslike handling of money.
“It’s wrong of you not to carry money.”
“Not one of the Ten Commandments mentions carrying money.”
“But why don’t you?”
“I’ve told you. I hate to.”
She looked at him scornfully. “I suppose you hate shaving, too.”
“How did you guess it?”
She burst into laughter, and Sam looked at her triumphantly, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks and dimpled chin.
“Well,” Carney said, “you’ll have to start shaving soon. We’re having a whole raft of parties. There’s a masquerade at our house tomorrow nig
ht.”
“A masquerade? I’ll let my beard grow and come as a pirate.”
“All you would need to do right now is tie on a red sash,” Carney jeered.
She scolded him freely, but she liked him. She liked his kindness, his honesty, his hatred of form, his love of fun.
“That baby hippo is all right,” she confided to Bonnie.
“He’s going to add a lot to the house party,” Bonnie agreed.
That began formally with a most informal masquerade.
7
The Masquerade
THE MASQUERADE HAD BEEN Mrs. Sibley’s idea. She had almost insisted upon one.
“What’s got into you?” Carney joked her. “It doesn’t seem in character for you to want a masquerade.”
“I don’t see why not.” Mrs. Sibley’s eyes sparkled. “Don’t you remember how I used to dress you children up for Hallowe’en? The sheets and pillow cases? Tell your guests to wear masks,” she added. “It will be fun to mystify Isobel.”
Isobel was mystified in more ways than one. At masquerades in East Hampton, costumes were planned well in advance. They were elaborate and expensive. Here nothing was done until the morning of the party. No one could have been more forehanded than Carney, but part of the fun was extemporizing costumes. Accompanied by Hunter, Jerry, and Bobbie, the girls climbed to the attic.
The attic was hot, and smelled of sun-warmed timber, but it held ample material for disguise. Both grandmothers kept their treasures here because the third floor was so big. There were trunks full of ancient finery. Discarded clothing hung on hooks along one wall, with costumes Carney and her brothers had worn at school festivities.
“It’s too bad Miss Salmon isn’t here,” Carney remarked to Isobel.
“Who is Miss Salmon?” Bonnie wanted to know.
“Our history teacher, the most stimulating person at Vassar. She’s strong for local history,” Isobel explained. “In one exam this spring we were asked to tell what historical records could be found in our own back yards.”
“Well, you can certainly find the history of the Sibley and Hunter families in this attic. And it’s pretty much the history of the Middle West,” Carney said, looking around.
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