Carney's House Party and Winona's Pony Cart

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  They picnicked…abundantly. Potato salad, baked beans, sliced veal loaf, Bonnie’s deviled eggs, sandwiches, watermelon pickles, coffee, lemonade, and Carney’s magnificent cake. After supper some of the boys smoked while the girls cleared and repacked the baskets. Jerry and Bobbie threw horse shoes.

  Dennie and Winona wandered off alone to investigate the creek. After making its two leaps it proceeded peacefully toward the Minnesota. Dennie and Winona threw sticks and watched them sail away; they threw again, and this time they followed the sticks and disappeared.

  It would have been natural, Carney thought, for her and Larry to go off by themselves. But they didn’t. Neither of them seemed to have any wish to do so.

  There was a gorgeous sunset which covered half the sky. The Crowd went back to the baseball diamond to find an open view. The boys spread blankets—Larry sat down next to Carney—and they watched the afterglow fade and the stars come out.

  They sang, of course.

  “Come Josephine in my flying machine,

  Going up she goes, up she goes,

  Balance yourself like a bird on a beam,

  In the air she goes, up she goes…”

  “I’ve seen an aeroplane,” Betsy announced at the end. “I saw one in California.”

  Tom had seen them, too, and so had Larry.

  “I’d like to fly in one,” he said.

  “So would I,” said Winona. “I’d like to fly over the ocean.”

  “Someone will some day, I suppose.”

  “Someone will fly around the world.”

  “You can get around the world now in forty-one days and eight hours,” Jerry announced.

  “That ought to be fast enough for anyone,” Bonnie declared.

  They sang “Down by the Old Mill Stream” and “I’d Like to Live in Loveland.” They sang songs of the University, of Carleton, of Stanford, of Vassar. The boys were very proficient now in the one about Matthew Vassar’s ale.

  It will be nice, Carney thought, to sing these songs at Vassar and remember the Crowd singing them here.

  Maybe Isobel’s visit had been a good idea. The house party had tied the East and Middle West together. Come to think of it, Larry tied in the West, too.

  He sat next to Carney on the blanket, singing heartily.

  13

  Rarebit for Bonnie

  BRISK AS THE PACE OF life was, it quickened after Larry came. He would be in Deep Valley for only two weeks and a day. And at the end of his visit, the house party, too, would end. Bonnie and Betsy would return to the Twin Cities. Isobel would go on to another house party in Swampscott, Massachusetts.

  Sam had spoken for the final evening.

  “We want you out to Murmuring Lake for a dance. It will be on Saturday so the whole Crowd can come. Maybe,” he added, addressing Betsy, “that Willard guy would come?”

  “Sam!” cried Betsy. She stood very still while color rushed up into her face.

  “That settles it! He’ll come,” said Sam. He turned to Carney. “She likes the guy.”

  Carney was very pleased, although the radiance on Betsy’s face almost embarrassed her. It would be grand to have Joe Willard come down from Minneapolis for the dance. And a dance in the fabulous Hutchinson house would be a perfect finale not only for the house party but for Larry’s visit.

  In the meantime there was a rage for sightseeing. Isobel seemed to have a passion for everything midwestern. They drove her to the site of the valley’s first white settlement, to the abandoned Indian Reservation, to colleges and churches, flour mills and quarries.

  Larry and Bonnie wanted to see all the places they remembered. Betsy did, too. Living in Minneapolis now, she was sentimental about Deep Valley. She made the girls take a picnic up on the hill where she and Tacy had played as children—the Big Hill, she called it. She urged them to go to Page Park where the Crowd used to picnic in the old days.

  With Carney, Bonnie, or Cab she often walked up to the high school, closed now for the summer. She walked around it, looking dreamily up at the windows, the brick turret.

  “No kids,” she said to Carney, “ever had more fun going through high school than we did.”

  She went to the public library and called on the librarian. She went to the Opera House and gazed at the out-of-date posters on the billboards in front. She invited the girls to lunch at the Melborn Hotel.

  “Isobel simply has to see the Melborn.”

  “I’ve seen the Waldorf Astoria, you know.”

  “It can’t compare,” Betsy said grandly.

  She commanded white gloves, and the girls pushed through the swinging doors of the Melborn in supreme elegance, wearing their suits and their very best hats—wastebasket, peachbasket, dishpan hats. Loftily they inspected the red leather chairs in the lobby, climbed the broad, carpeted, grand staircase, past Winged Victory on the landing, and seated themselves in the dining room, two stories high, which overlooked the river.

  “Oh,” said Betsy, taking up the menu, “how I wish that Tacy and Tib were here!”

  They talked old times furiously, until Isobel interrupted. “I’ll never get over not having grown up in Deep Valley.”

  “You’d better come back often,” Carney said. She was surprised at her words for she didn’t say things she didn’t mean. She must really want Isobel to come again.

  Betsy told them about Minneapolis. The Deep Valley girls went to the Twin Cities often, but they seldom ranged beyond the theatres and shops. Betsy described the chain of lakes which ran through the residential district, encircled by boulevards and joined by canals, so that you could paddle a canoe from one to another.

  “It’s like living in Venice,” she declared.

  That was just like Betsy, Carney thought. She made everything seem romantic. Her hazel eyes shone; she waved a white hand, bearing a jade and silver ring, to illustrate the canoe’s venturesome course.

  “Heavens!” cried Isobel. “I must stop and see this Minneapolis on my way back to New York.”

  “Come and visit us,” said Betsy.

  “That sounds like a Ray,” said Bonnie, laughing. “How are your father and mother, Betsy?”

  They were just the same, Betsy said. Her father still made sandwiches on Sunday night. Her mother still played her two tunes, a waltz and a two-step, when company wished to dance. Julia had gone back to Germany where she was studying singing. Margaret would soon be entering high school.

  “Does she like Minneapolis?”

  “Yes,” Betsy said, doubtfully. “Of course, she’s never gotten over losing Washington.”

  “Who was Washington?” Isobel wanted to know.

  Betsy settled herself for a story. “Our cat. We Rays had a very distinguished cat and dog, Washington and Lincoln. They moved with the family to Minneapolis—in the baggage car, of course. Abie got along fine but Washington didn’t like it, and shortly after we were settled in the new house he disappeared.

  “We never found him, but what do you suppose? The people who bought our house here in Deep Valley say that he appeared one day, looking terribly forlorn. He took one last long look around and disappeared.”

  “How could they be sure it was Washington?” Carney asked skeptically.

  “Washington,” Betsy answered with conviction, “was unmistakable.”

  “He was just an ordinary gray and white cat.”

  “Ordinary!” said Betsy. “Ordinary! Don’t you let Margaret hear you say that.”

  Bonnie told them about St. Paul, the capital, where her father had a pastorate.

  “St. Paul and Minneapolis are supposed to hate each other but they have a bond now in Betsy and me.”

  They spoke about the Kellys. Bonnie and Betsy were going to Katie’s wedding in August. Tacy wasn’t planning to be married until she finished her course in public school music.

  “What about you and Joe?” asked Carney.

  “It’s an old story about Joe and me,” answered Betsy. She looked mischievous. “What about you and
Larry?”

  Carney chuckled. She burst out suddenly, “We’re having fun.”

  And that was exactly what they were doing together—having fun. At parties, she had noticed, people tried to leave them alone. They watched them surreptitiously with an interest they could not conceal, because Larry was supposed to have come back from California to propose. But he wasn’t, as a matter of fact, anywhere near proposing. They weren’t much better acquainted than they had been when he took both her hands out in front of the house the day of his arrival.

  But Carney was floating on a cloud of content. He was here and she liked him. Her father and mother liked him. His good looks, modesty, and charm had captivated everyone.

  Carney wished sometimes, with a touch of irritation, that Sam Hutchinson were more like Larry. Sam wasn’t at his best these days. He not only went about unshaven and untidy, but he had lost his good nature. His manner was often surly, almost rude.

  “Something has come over him,” Carney thought. “He acts jealous. Maybe he doesn’t like our teasing Isobel about Howard Sedgwick.”

  Howard was certainly devotion itself. Isobel had a letter every day. She was reticent about him, of course. Isobel would always rather keep a secret than give one away. But she didn’t seem to mind the teasing.

  It cut through Carney’s happiness, somehow, when she saw Sam scowling or glum. Sometimes she left Larry with Bonnie or Betsy and sought him out. But he was even ruder with her than he was with other people.

  “What are you doing Sunday night?” she asked him, the evening after Betsy’s luncheon. “Dad is making a rarebit for Bonnie, and Dad’s rarebits are famous. He only makes them on special occasions and for very special people.”

  “Is church involved?” Sam asked.

  “Why, we girls are going to Chapel with him first. You can come just for the rarebit, if you like. But church wouldn’t hurt you,” Carney added.

  Sam was bitter. “I ought to shave! I ought to get a regular job! And now I ought to go to church!”

  “I told you you could come just for the rarebit.”

  “Is it good?”

  “Not always. But there’s so much suspense about how it will turn out.”

  “Good Lord! I can’t miss that.” Sam began to grin. “The battle of the rarebit! The awful suspense of not knowing how it will turn out! Will it be grainy? Will it be rubbery? Hold my hand, girl! An ice bag, please!”

  Carney laughed. “If you come, you have to shave.”

  “For the battle of the rarebit I’ll even shave. But I won’t,” Sam added, “go to church.”

  Mr. Sibley’s great interest, along with the bank and his family, was his church. He was an elder at the big Presbyterian Church on Broad Street. He taught a Sunday School class there, and for almost ten years he had been Sunday School superintendent at the little Mission Chapel which met every Sunday afternoon.

  Many years ago his mother had given a lot for the building. The Mission services were being held then in the warehouse of an old knitting mill. Interested citizens had given materials. Will Sibley was only a boy but he had helped to rear the small frame structure. Now it had a membership of almost one hundred.

  Bonnie was interested in the Chapel. She remembered it from the time of her father’s pastorate in Deep Valley. She had suggested that the girls might like to go out for a meeting.

  Mr. Sibley was delighted. “We’ll all go to church and Sunday School and Chapel, and that night I’ll make your rarebit,” he said, ingenuously assuming that this stiff religious program would be a treat for them all.

  But he was popular with the house party guests. They fell in with the plans.

  Larry, although an Episcopalian, announced that he was coming to Chapel, too. So did Tom, and several of the other boys. To her surprise Carney was aware of a feeling of annoyance. Their decision to come put Sam in such a bad light. But when, after church and Sunday School and the usual Sunday dinner of chicken and ice cream, the Crowd piled into automobiles and started for North Deep Valley she could not help being gratified by the glow on her father’s face.

  The small Chapel was filled with children to whom the visit of the house party—already famous in Deep Valley—was a momentous event. The guests joined heartily in the congregational singing. They were devout when her father prayed, attentive when he spoke. He was so handsome, grave, sincere; Carney was proud of him.

  Mr. Sibley asked Bonnie to make a speech and she did so happily, mentioning the new organ, promising to tell her father about the large attendance.

  “Bonnie ought to marry a minister,” Betsy whispered to Carney.

  The boys attended Mr. Sibley’s class for men, and the girls swelled the members of Grandmother Sibley’s class for girls. Carney liked the golden text.

  “What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?”

  “I believe,” she thought, “that’s my favorite verse from the Bible. I can’t get romantic about religion, like Betsy, going off to early church alone. It’s nice to think that God will be satisfied with me if I just do the best I can.”

  When they started home, everyone was happy and hungry.

  “Now for Bonnie’s rarebit,” Mr. Sibley said. “I certainly hope it turns out.”

  Carney repeated this remark to Sam when he arrived. But he only grimaced. He wasn’t in a mood for foolishness today.

  Mr. Sibley tied on a big white apron which aroused general laughter. But Sam didn’t laugh. He looked cynical.

  Mr. Sibley began to dice the cheese, saying he was glad it was creamy. You need a creamy cheese to make good rarebit, he explained. If the cheese was stringy it made the rarebit rubbery. Everyone listened respectfully except Sam who went to the parlor and played “Chopsticks” on the piano.

  “Dad puts everyone to work,” Carney said loud enough for Sam to hear. But he made no move. Larry offered to beat the eggs. Cab measured and mixed the mustard, salt, and pepper. Hunter scalded the milk. Sam suggested to Bobbie that they bring up Snow White’s cage.

  Mr. Sibley lighted the spirit lamp under the chafing dish. He mashed the cheese and stirred like mad while Larry, Cab, and Hunter poured in beaten eggs, the condiments, the milk. The house party watched admiringly; everyone was having fun. But Sam and Bobbie were busy with the mice. They had opened the cage and Snow White and her progeny were scampering about the parlors.

  Mr. Sibley didn’t notice the distraction but Mrs. Sibley frowned. Standing daintily erect, she called them to the table. Sam and Bobbie, however, had to catch the mice. At last Sam took the cage to the basement. Bobbie danced about, paying no attention to his mother’s request that he sit down.

  “Will,” Mrs. Sibley appealed to her husband, “you tend to him.”

  Bobbie didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Well, I think I’ll sit down now,” he announced with elaborate carelessness, in a tone loud enough for his father to hear.

  It was too bad, Carney thought desperately, that Sam couldn’t be so easily handled. He sat down in silence. The rarebit was delicious but he didn’t praise it. He was surly and withdrawn.

  Larry, on the other hand, was at his most engaging. He claimed that the skill with which he had beaten the eggs was responsible for the rarebit’s success. He praised Mr. Sibley by implication, and Mrs. Sibley said proudly, “You ought to taste the corn cake he bakes when we go on a picnic.”

  “It’s swell!” shouted Jerry and Bobbie.

  Larry inquired about the corn cake. He listened attentively while Mr. Sibley described the oven he used. It was a reflector oven.

  “You let the fire die down and then you put the oven on the ground beside it. I bake the corn cake in an ordinary tin.”

  Bonnie beamed. “I remember your corn cake from when I was a little girl, Mr. Sibley.”

  “If it was as good as this rarebit…” Isobel said, and Betsy chimed in.

  Sam drummed on the table, looking bored.

  The te
lephone rang and Olga came to the dining room door.

  “It’s a long distance call,” she announced.

  “Betsy!” the girls cried teasingly, for Joe Willard telephoned from Minneapolis every Sunday night.

  Betsy blushed and jumped up, but Olga cut in. “No. It’s for Miss Porteous. It’s a call from New York.”

  Silence struck the table, for the same thought came to everyone. A call from such a distance must mean illness or trouble. Isobel seemed less perturbed than the rest; yet she was unsmiling.

  The telephone was in the hall adjoining the dining room. Everyone was quiet. But almost at once Isobel’s tone made it clear that there was no need to worry.

  “Howard!” she cried, pleasure ringing in her voice. “How very nice!” After a moment she said, “Oh, I adore it!” And then, at intervals, softly: “Yes. I do.” “Of course I do.” “Yes, I really do.”

  It sounded as though she were assuring Howard that she missed him…or loved him….

  Carney’s glance fell on Hunter. He was looking at his plate and crumbling crackers.

  She looked at Sam. He was playing absently with the rarebit on his fork.

  Isobel shut down the receiver at last.

  “It was nothing,” she said, coming back to the table. “Just a friend who wanted to know how I liked the Middle West.”

  “The Middle West!” There was a chorus of jeers.

  “You expect us to believe that?” asked Bonnie.

  “A likely story!” said Betsy.

  “Really,” said Isobel, “I swear it. That’s what he called for, to see how I liked the Middle West.”

  “Was it Howard?” asked Sam, although he must have known that it was Howard…if he had been listening.

  “Yes,” she answered. “It was Howard. And now, Mr. Sibley, could I have a little more of that divine rarebit?”

  14

  Roses for Carney

  “WITHOUT DOUBT,” said Betsy, inspecting the chart on which Carney listed their engagements, “we’re the most popular young buds of the season.”

  “I never knew anything like it,” said Bonnie. “I don’t know how I’m going to settle down to ordinary living again.”