“You needn’t have come for me, Mother.”
“I was a little afraid of what you might do if you were left to get home alone,” said Edith, and sent the car rushing up the street.
She did not speak again until they were in Betsy’s room upstairs, and then she said, “Betsy, I can’t tell you how shocked I am, or how disappointed I am in you. You’ve done a terrible thing, a disgraceful thing. Do you realize that you might easily have killed Marcia?”
Betsy shivered, but she answered with her usual devastating honesty, “I think maybe I wanted to kill her.”
“Betsy!” Edith gasped. “Oh, what am I going to do with you?”
Betsy tried to grin, but it wasn’t a success. “I guess maybe you’d better give me back to the stork that brought me.” She struggled hard for a flippancy far removed from her real feelings.
George had finished breakfast and gone. Edith, lingering at the table over her second cup of coffee, tensed a little as she heard Betsy’s footsteps in the hall. But she looked up, smiling, as the girl came in. Betsy was looking very young and very lovely in blue linen shorts and halter, the beloved saddle shoes and socks on her sunburned feet.
She greeted Edith with what tried hard to be a gay grin.
Edith pretended to be absorbed in the morning paper, after she had brought Betsy’s breakfast. Then she stole a glance at her daughter’s face and asked lightly, “Well, what is it now?”
Betsy frowned. “Mother, could I go away for a while?” she asked.
“Running away, dear?”
“I guess so,” answered Betsy honestly. “I — well, I told Bo I couldn’t marry him. He was sweet about it, and I felt like a worm.”
“So now you’d like to run out and let him bear the unpleasantness alone.”
Betsy flung up her head and, though the color flamed in her cheeks, she cried out defensively, “Mother, you and Dad have been perfectly swell, but aren’t you two just a little bit to blame? I never had much of a chance to grow up. You never let me make many decisions — important ones. You were anxious to protect me, and I love you for it, and I’m grateful. Only — well, I thought maybe you’d let me go to Atlanta and get a job and make my own living for a while and learn to stand on my own feet. After all, how else can I ever be grown up?”
Edith was appalled, yet she was honest enough to admit there was truth in what Betsy said. She and George had, to the best of their ability, wrapped the child in protecting layers of cotton wool; they had shielded her, perhaps too much.
“But, darling, you haven’t any business training,” she pointed out.
“I can be a salesgirl in a department store, or a five-and-ten. They train girls for that. And I’d be earning my own living and sort of coming to grips with real life.” Betsy’s voice was so eager, her sincerity so obvious, that the absurd little phrase did not sound at all funny. “I’d stay with Aunt Sally. She could tuck me away somewhere in a corner. I’ll sleep on a shelf in the linen closet, if necessary. I’ll pay her board, and live on what was left. I don’t want any allowance from home. I want to support myself and find out what it’s really like to be on my own. Mother,
please!”
In the end, when even George had to give in to her pleading and planning, Betsy departed for Atlanta. While Centerville gossiped, and some people condemned her for the treatment of Bo, others defended her because, they argued, everybody had known all along that Peter Marshall was the man Betsy loved. Bo should have expected nothing better.
Edith, her mouth a thin line, her eyes harassed, returned wedding presents and apologized to friends who had given parties for Betsy — and wished heartily that she, too, could slip out of Centerville and hide somewhere until people had forgotten.
The pretty little house that Bo had prepared for his bride was sold at an excellent profit to a home-hungry family; Anne Gray took up where she had left off with Bo, when Betsy came along, and people nodded and decided that Bo was consoling himself very nicely.
Peter spent many hours with Professor Hartley and, as their friendship grew, it came to mean a great deal to both men. Gradually, Peter became more reconciled to his physical handicap — and more independent, as his and Gus’ understanding deepened.
September passed, with Edith watching eagerly for Betsy’s letters. Betsy had found work in one of the big department stores. She wrote excitedly about her days “in training school” until at last she was allowed “on the floor, to sell.” She loved the city with its crowds and its noise and its color. She had made friends in the store, as well as among Aunt Sally’s boarders, and she was happier than she had dreamed she could be.
Edith tried hard to read between the lines things that might be there: little signs of homesickness; traces of loneliness; of regret. But Betsy’s letters were unfailingly gay, and the brief notes Edith recieved from Aunt Sally reassured her of her daughter’s well-being. Besides, Betsy would surely come home for Thanksgiving — and it was October, now.
The calendar said there were only thirty-one days in October. Frankly, Edith doubted it. She was quite sure that it was twice as long as any month had a right to be. The house seemed terribly big, and it echoed with a silence, ached with emptiness. Where once she had sighed a little with irritation at the incessant sound of footsteps and laughter and youthful voices, where she had sometimes wished that a radio had never been invented, she sat now in a silence that was almost unbearable.
“What wouldn’t I give,” she told herself, “to have Betsy and her crowd back, running through the house, raiding the icebox, kicking back the rugs to dance, the telephone ringing like mad… .”
At such times, when the loneliness seemed almost more than she could bear, she would get out Betsy’s letters and read them again. Then she would tell herself that it was best for Betsy to be away just now, even though it was terribly lonely for her parents.
It was a great disappointment to Edith when Betsy wrote that she could not come home for Thanksgiving. The store would be closed for only one day, Betsy explained; she would spend more of her time on the road than she would be able to spend at home. But she had been promised an extra two days at Christmas, she would come home then. With that, Edith and George had to be content… .
Christmas came at last, just when Edith was convinced it never would. Since Christmas fell on Tuesday, Betsy had managed to get the Monday before as well as the Wednesday after. And so she left Atlanta Sunday morning and was in Centerville shortly after noon.
George and Edith had been pacing the platform for half an hour before the first plume of smoke, announcing the train’s approach, was visible down the line. When the train slid to a halt, and a girl in a smart blue suit, a topcoat swung jauntily about her shoulders, her hair in a very sophisticated upswept arrangement, appeared at the top of the steps, Edith burst into tears.
“Hello, you two! Is this any way to greet the return of the prodigal daughter?” protested Betsy. But she wept a little herself as she clasped her mother close and reached out a hand to her father.
“Oh, Betsy, I’m so glad to see you,” said Edith, smiling through her tears.
“Maybe you think I’m not happy to see you!” Betsy grinned at both of them. “I never realized before what a handsome pair of parents I have!”
They got into the car and drove home, with Betsy chattering like mad; regaling them with gay little tales of her adventures, of her friends, of her work. The house was bright with holly and mistletoe and the lovely greens that are at their best in this mild winter climate. There was also the rich, spicy odor of Edith’s good cooking.
Edith and George smiled at each other as Betsy’s flying feet raced up the stairs. The telephone, as though it had just been waiting for her arrival, burst into clamorous demands for attention. And by dinner time on Sunday night, it was almost as though Betsy hadn’t been gone at all. The house was echoing with laughter and young voices; the radio was going full blast, and somebody was yelling that there was a new Sinatra record — and why didn’t they turn the television off so they could play it on the phonograph.
Once George and Edith might have retired before the clamor, but tonight they loved it George displayed an unexpected ability to jitterbug, and the whole evening was as merry as a traditional Christmas season should be.
They were laughing so hard that nobody heard the doorbell ring. Then the door was opened, letting in a breath of cold air, and a man stood on the threshold — directly beneath a huge spray of mistletoe whose pearl-like berries shimmered in the yellow light.
“Sounds like a swell party,” he called. There was a moment of confusion, followed by a brief silence. Then:
“Pete!” cried Betsy. She ran to him, flung herself in his arms and kissed him joyously.
“Welcome home,” said Peter, and laughed.
Betsy’s face flamed. “Oh, well, if you just
will
stand beneath the mistletoe, you should know what to expect,” she told him. “Up and at him, girls!”
The girls clustered about Peter and the boys complained loudly that they hadn’t been smart enough to take advantage of the mistletoe.
“Is that starting all over again?” George whispered to Edith.
“What ever gave you the impression it had stopped?” murmured Edith.
It was an hour or more before Edith, moving among the guests, assuring herself of their comfort and well-being, discovered that Peter and Betsy were missing. And when she did, she only drew a deep breath and sighed… .
Christmas, in Centerville, is a time of gray skies and “gentle-to-moderate rains,” according to the local weather bureau. Snow is something so rare that when it does appear briefly, the young people are hysterical with excitement; freezes are almost equally as rare. The usual winter-time weather is mild, with occasional bracy, chilly winds.
Tonight, as though in deference to Betsy’s homecoming, was such a night. The moon was old and worn wafer-thin, and its light was pallid, like a thin wash of very old gold. The air was crisp and cold, and Betsy and Peter stood at the end of the walk, leaning on the gate.
Betsy gave a sigh of utter happiness and said, “Maybe Centerville isn’t the most beautiful place in the world. Maybe it isn’t big and important, but you’d have trouble convincing me it isn’t!”
Peter turned his sightless eyes upon her and grinned. “Were you homesick?”
“Let’s not talk about gruesome things.”
They stood for a while in companionable silence, and then Peter said, “I’ve missed you like the dickens, Betsy.”
“Did you, Pete? I missed you, too.”
Once more there was a brief silence, and Peter’s voice was a little husky when he said:
“Betsy, you’re sweet — and so beautiful.”
Betsy stared up at him, caught by astonishment. “Pete!” she gasped. “This is
Betsy
— remember? The long-legged brat with braces on her teeth and carrots in her hair!”
Peter shook his head. “No, that was the Betsy who went to war with me! The kid who was with me every time I had a chance to think. She was the kid I talked to so I wouldn’t go to sleep from sheer exhaustion on night patrols. I used to keep myself awake, when I was so tired that just sitting still was like being drugged.”
“But, Pete, I never realized — ”
“She used to come and talk to me,” he went on, ignoring the interruption. “And well,
that
was the Betsy who was the long-legged, carrot-topped brat. I brought her back home with me. But after I got here, I found there was another Betsy. A new and disturbing Betsy.”
“Disturbing?” she repeated, anxiously.
“Disturbing!” Peter returned it firmly. “A girl whose hair is like old mahogany that has been polished until it’s like satin; with a skin that’s delectable; a Betsy who is beautiful.”
“Peter, who — I mean — ”
“Bo Norris told me,” he answered. “Quite a lad, Bo is. He came to see me a few days after you’d gone to Atlanta. It seems that there was something resting heavily on Bo’s mind. He felt that — well, that complications might easily develop, and that it was his duty to clear them up before they could.”
“Complications?” Betsy repeated.
Peter turned as though to look down at her, and the pale moonlight was reflected for an instant from his dark glasses.
“It seems that Bo was under no delusions about your being in love with him, Betsy. He knew very well that he was catching you on the rebound. When you said ‘yes’ to him the day before Marcia announced her engagement to me, Bo knew then — so he says — that you were not in love with him.”
Betsy stood very still, her hands clenched about the pickets of the gate before her, her face turned away, as though he could see its expression and read there something she was not yet ready to reveal.
After a moment Peter said, “But, of course, Bo could be mistaken. Some very smart people have been.”
“He wasn’t mistaken,” exclaimed Betsy. “But why was it necessary for him to tell you? I’m practically worn out from throwing myself at you. I’ve told you about a million times how much I loved you — only you wouldn’t listen!”
Peter’s arms opened and she was in them. He held her close for a long moment. Then, before he kissed her, he put her a little away from him and looked down at her, as though his heart saw clearly what his eyes could not see.
“Betsy, I haven’t any right to ask you to chain yourself to a man handicapped as I am.” Peter’s voice was grave now, almost solemn. “You’re young and lovely and — ”
“In love with you,” she reminded him.
“Bless you for that,” said Peter. “Only it’s for always, Betsy,” he added, “or not at all. I couldn’t have you for a little while and then, if you found the going too tough, give you up. That I couldn’t take.”
“You’ll never have to. Oh, Pete, can’t you get it through that thick head of yours that I’ve been yours ever since the day I learned to spell ‘differential’ — and long before I ever knew what it meant? Oh, Peter, I forget that you are blind. It only makes me love you more, because you need me more, and there are more things I can do for you. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Can’t you just accept that and stop torturing both of us with questions and answers that don’t really mean anything?”