The Girl Next Door (Crimson Romance) Page 3

  “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 through 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 lo
oking 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.

  “Oh,” said Betsy, bitterly humiliated yet anxious to get things back on a friendly basis, “I almost forgot. I brought you a present”

  She led Gus over to stand beside Peter.

  “Thanks — ” Peter began roughly, but when he felt the warmth of the dog’s body against his leg, put down an investigating hand. “Good gosh, a dog!” he said, as Gus sniffed his hand doubtfully.

  “And he’s beautiful, Pete. He’s a German shepherd, and so intelligent he really ought to have a college degree. Professor Hartley trained him for you — like the Seeing Eye dogs, you know!”

  Peter withdrew his hand from the dog’s head, his face white and set.

  “Oh, a Seeing Eye dog, eh? Where’s the tin cup and lead pencils?” he asked. “Or must I supply those myself?”

  Betsy stood quite still in front of him, looking at him with wide, hurt eyes.

  “You don’t like Gus?” she whispered. “Oh, Pete, he’s beautiful. And he’s been yours since the day he was born. Professor Hartley thought you’d like him.”

  The pain and humiliation in her tone cut straight at Peter, and he said, “Cut the tears, Betsy. Sure, he’s a swell dog. We’ll have fun together. Thanks a lot.”

  “I’ll take him away.”

  “Don’t, Betsy.”

  Her young head was high. “He’s much too nice a dog to be left somewhere where people don’t want him,” she announced hotly. “He loves me, and I’ll take him home with me!”

  “I’m sorry, Betsy.” The anger was gone from Peter’s voice now, and there was a trace of compunction there. “I’ll be glad to have him. I’ve always wanted a good dog. Gus and I will have a swell time together. Thanks a million!”

  Betsy hesitated. It was hard to tell what a man was really thinking unless you could see his eyes. But it seemed incredible that Peter could not want Gus.

  “Here’s his leash.” She put the leather loop in Peter’s hand. “Of course, he’s got a wooden harness, too. That fastens to his collar, and you hold it when you walk with him, so he can guide you.”

  Once more bitterness twisted Peter’s face. “Sure, I know. And then the dog puts in the rest of his life keeping a useless hulk from dashing his brains out at street crossings and the like. A heck of a life for a dog — just because a guy can’t get around by himself.”

  “I’m sorry, Peter. I thought you’d like him. I knew if you really wanted a Seeing Eye dog, you could go to Morristown, and they’d give you one and help you train him — and it would only cost you a dollar, because you’re a service man. Only — well, I s
ort of thought that if it was one that somebody liked you well enough to raise and train for you — ”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eight months old.”

  “How long has the training been going on?”

  “Five months and six days.”

  “Since the day Mom knew about me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry, Betsy. I blew up, I guess. You and the professor are tops. I’m grateful, honestly, and I’ll take good care of Gus.”

  “He’ll want to take care of you,” she pointed out. “That’s his job. That’s what he’s been trained for.”

  “Well, I guess if that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll have to have,” said Peter, and the iron band that had enclosed Betsy’s heart loosened a little.

  She dared not trust herself to stay longer for the tears were crowding close. So she knelt beside the uneasy dog, put her arms about him, and said, “Be a good egg, Gus, and look after him — hear?”

  Before Peter could speak she was on her feet again, saying, “I’ve got to scoot for home now, or the folks will have a searching party out for me. ‘Bye, Pete.”

  The dog moved to follow her, but she said, “Back, Gus! You stay here.”

  Gus whimpered a little, but dropped obediently to the grass beside Peter, and watched her go, with mournful, anxious eyes.

  When the last click of her footsteps had gone, Peter dropped down into his chair. He put out his hand, feeling, until it encountered the dog’s rough coat.

  “Never mind, old boy,” he said. “We both know you’d be a darned sight happier with her, but we can’t go on kicking a kid in the teeth. You’re her gift to me, and it would break her heart if we didn’t make the best of it. But don’t worry, old timer. You’re going to be a dog, and not just a work-horse for a guy who’s going to find his way around without your help! You can chase squirrels, and cats and have yourself a time! So take it easy, pal.”

  Gus kept his eyes fixed longingly in the direction Betsy had taken.

  Chapter Six

  Marcia Eldon had been accepted by Edith’s friends, who were the town’s most representative women. Accepted politely, if not too cordially. There were reservations on both sides. Marcia accepted their hospitality politely; they extended it cautiously. But after the first few occasions on which she had been — as they all knew, though no one admitted it publicly — on trial, the other women relaxed a little.