“There’s our chocolate already,” Mrs. Poppy said.
The maid brought in the pot of chocolate, a bowl of whipped cream, and a plate of cakes. Betsy and Mrs. Poppy sat down at the little table by the window. It had stopped snowing now.
Like the hotel dining room, Mrs. Poppy’s parlor looked out on the river. Betsy had never realized before how near the river was. From here she could see it clearly, and the bridge that spanned it, and the high bank rising on the other side covered with its fresh cloak of snow.
“Is the river frozen yet?” asked Betsy.
“It’s mushy,” Mrs. Poppy answered. “It thaws out in the middle of the day, but soon it will freeze for the winter. I hate to have it do that.”
“Why?” Betsy asked.
“I like to look out and see it moving.” After a moment Mrs. Poppy explained. “You see, I know that it’s moving toward St. Paul, and that it joins the Mississippi there and keeps on going down to St. Louis and Memphis and New Orleans.”
Betsy was surprised to hear that. Their own river! In which, beyond the town, they fished and bathed in summer and on which they skated in the winter. She had never thought of it going traveling. She told Mrs. Poppy so.
“It travels!” said Mrs. Poppy. “Like I used to do.”
“You used to be an actress, didn’t you?” asked Betsy.
“Yes. I sang in musical comedy.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I stopped to marry Melborn Poppy and I’ve never regretted it.”
“Do you like living in Deep Valley?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Poppy, but she said it slowly and without conviction. “I’m not acquainted here yet, of course. Living in a hotel you don’t get acquainted easily. You don’t have neighbors.” She added the explanation quickly as though she had made it often to herself.
Betsy looked down at the melting mountain of whipped cream on her chocolate. She had a sudden sure knowledge of an amazing fact. Mrs. Poppy was lonesome. Lonesome in Deep Valley!
“Won’t you have another cake?” Mrs. Poppy asked abruptly, gaily. “There are two frosted in chocolate, and two in pink, and two in vanilla. That means, we must have three apiece.”
“I ate eighteen pancakes once,” said Betsy, taking another cake. She looked out at the river and thought of Mrs. Poppy, an actress, traveling.
“I have an uncle who’s an actor,” she said.
Mrs. Poppy was much interested.
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Keith Warrington. He’s my mother’s brother. He ran away from home because he didn’t like his stepfather and he never came back.”
She told Mrs. Poppy all she knew of Uncle Keith’s story. Mrs. Poppy listened attentively.
“Keith Warrington!” she said. “I’ve never heard of him, although I have many friends in the profession. But do you know, Betsy, that if he’s still an actor he’s very likely to come to Deep Valley some day? Almost all the companies get here one time or another.”
“That would be wonderful!” cried Betsy. “But I don’t believe,” she added thoughtfully, “that he would come to see us. You see, he doesn’t know that Grandpa and Grandma have gone to California.”
“We’ll have to watch the programs. Keith Warrington,” Mrs. Poppy said.
When they had finished their chocolate, Betsy and Mrs. Poppy looked over the magazines on Mrs. Poppy’s table. They were all about the theatre with pictures in them of actors and actresses, and scenes from plays. Maude Adams in The Little Minister. E. H. Sothern in An Enemy to the King. James K. Hackett and Charlotte Walker in The Crisis, the Anna Held who took milk baths, and the matchless Lillian Russell.
Betsy and Mrs. Poppy were having such a good time that they were indignant when the cuckoo clock struck five.
“Oh dear me!” cried Mrs. Poppy. “I must take you to your father’s. And I was going to show you my album, and play the graphophone. You’ll have to come again.
“I know what we’ll do,” she said rapidly. “We’ll have a party, a Christmas party here. You bring your friends Tacy and Tib and Winona. Do you think you could?”
“Of course!” cried Betsy. Her face shone.
“I’ll write a note to your mother,” Mrs. Poppy said. “For one day in Christmas vacation.”
They planned about the party while Betsy took off the fur-lined white slippers and put on her dry stockings and shoes. Mrs. Poppy put on her coat and cap and the two of them hurried out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator.
Betsy liked going down in the elevator, although when it sank downward she seemed to be turned into liquid and flowing upward. She laughed out loud, and Mrs. Poppy said:
“If it weren’t so late, we’d ride up and down two or three times.”
But it was late. Lights had been lighted in the lobby. Outdoors the new snow gleamed in the radiance of Front Street.
Mrs. Poppy sniffed the cold fresh-smelling air.
“Feels like sleighs and sleighbells.”
“Will you put sleighbells on the horseless carriage?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Poppy laughed.
“We’ll be coasting down the Big Hill soon,” Betsy said. “I’m big enough to coast at night, on bobsleds now.”
They talked busily all the way to the shoe store.
At home the story of Betsy’s afternoon created much excitement.
“It was very kind of Mrs. Poppy,” Mrs. Ray said. But there was something doubtful in her voice.
“Think of getting acquainted with a real live actress! Is she nice?” Julia asked.
“Yes,” answered Betsy. “Very nice.”
After a pause she addressed her mother.
“Mamma,” she said. “Why don’t you go down and call on Mrs. Poppy? Take your card case and drive down in the carriage and call, like you do on other ladies.”
“She wouldn’t care to have me, Betsy,” Mrs. Ray said.
“Why not?” asked Betsy.
“Oh, she’s different from us. It’s sweet of her to take such an interest in you children, but she’s different from us really. She’s rich. And she lives in a hotel. And she’s an actress,” Mrs. Ray said.
Betsy remembered the feeling she had had that Mrs. Poppy was lonesome. She wished she could put that feeling into words, but any words, she feared, would sound absurd. She might have mentioned the doll in the rocking chair and Mrs. Poppy’s little girl. But Mrs. Ray jumped up from the supper table and everyone got up. Julia went to the piano and Betsy helped Rena with the dishes. It was her turn.
9
The Pink Stationery
HE FIRST SNOW melted. But the next one stayed on the ground. Another snow came, and another, and another, until everyone lost count. Snow loaded the bare arms of the maples; it lodged in the green crevices of firs; it threw sparkling shawls over the bare brown bushes shivering on Hill Street lawns.
The lawns themselves were billowing drifts, and so were the terraces, and so were the sidewalks. Men and boys came out with shovels to make Indian trails that children might follow to school. Along with the scraping of shovels came the frosty tinkle of sleighbells, as runners replaced wheels on the baker’s wagon, cutters replaced carriages and buggies, and farm wagons creaked into town on runners. To steal a ride on those broad runners, or to hitch a sled thereto, was a delightful practice, shocking to parents.
Skates were sharpened; and down on the river, snow was swept from the ice. Up on Hill Street, in the Kelly front lawn, Paul was busy with a giant snowman. Freddie and Hobbie were building an Ice Palace in which they proposed to spend the winter … eat, sleep and everything, they said. Margaret and the Rivers children got out their small sleds, painted brightly with pictures of flowers, dogs, and horses, and adventured harmlessly down the friendly slope of Hill Street.
Betsy, Tacy, and Tib got out their sleds, too. But with less enthusiasm than in previous years. It was fun to slide on the little sleds, yes; but what about bobsleds? Long, low, reckless, the bobsled
s flew from the top of the Big Hill along a hard-packed frozen track in a thrilling sweep, almost to the slough. What about going out on bobsleds after supper, as Julia and Katie and their friends did?
“Please! You said last year we could.”
“Please! We’re old enough now.”
“Please! All the kids our age stay up and go bobsled riding.”
The same entreaties fell in the yellow Ray cottage and the rambling white Kelly house and the chocolate-colored house where Tib lived. It was a joint attack of exceptional vigor.
Jerry, home for Thanksgiving, helped them. Strange to say, he liked Betsy, Tacy, and Tib in spite of the nickels and dimes they had cost him. He had a fine big bob, and he and his friend Pin were taking Julia and Katie out coasting the night after Thanksgiving night.
“Let the kids come too,” he urged Mrs. Ray. “Gosh, I’ll be careful! There’s a moon and the road is perfect.”
“All right,” said Mrs. Ray. “If you’ll come in early.”
When the other mothers heard that Mrs. Ray had given in, they gave in too.
Margaret watched, big-eyed, as Julia and Betsy put on their multitude of wraps. Mrs. Ray had two fur pieces that she let them wear over their coats. As a finishing touch, over Betsy’s hood and Julia’s Tam o’ Shanter, they wound bright knitted scarves called fascinators. These were stretched over their foreheads, crossed in back and tied around their necks.
Katie and Tacy and Tib arrived, as stiff with clothing as Julia and Betsy were.
“Gosh! Are you girls or mummies?” asked Jerry when he came in with Pin. Pin was called Pin because he was tall and thin. He was an expert on bobsleds.
Mr. and Mrs. Ray and Margaret went to the door to see them off.
“Come in early, so there’ll be time to pop corn,” Mrs. Ray said. If she mentioned popping corn, they always came in early. So she usually mentioned it.
They went out into the icy night.
The wastes of snow on the hill were ghostly in the moonlight. The stars were piercingly bright. They all helped pull the bobsled. It was a long way to the top of the Big Hill.
At the very top, near the Ekstroms’ house, they stood looking out over the snowy roofs, the silent, snow-embedded town.
“It looks like something out of Whittier’s ‘Snowbound,’” Julia said.
Julia could always think of things like that to say.
They took their places on the bob. Jerry at the front with his feet on the steering bar, his knees hunched high and his firm hands grasping the rope that was first wound around his arms and wrists.
The rest sat one behind the other, with arms around the waist of the one in front. Pin waited at the end. “Feet up?”
“Hold tight, everybody.”
“Ready?”
“Ready, go!”
Pin pushed off and leaped to his place.
Down, down, down, they sped. The bob was like an arrow flying an icy path. The stars sang overhead. The cold air slashed their faces. Down, down, down.
Past Betsy’s house. The yellow windows blurred. Past Tacy’s. But now the wind was so cold that their eyes were shut fast. Down, down, down. Block after block. Almost to the slough.
Like slow chords ending a piece of music the bob slackened speed, dragged to a stop.
The run down was worth the climb up, although that was long and cold. As they climbed they made jokes and called out to other coasting parties. The hill was well populated now. Julia and Katie waved to their friend Dorothy. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib saw Tom Slade and Herbert Humphreys. They were pleased to have Tom and Herbert see them out coasting after supper. Passing Tacy’s house, and Betsy’s, they waved to Paul and Margaret in the windows. At last for the second time they topped the Big Hill.
They went down twice, a third time …
On the third trip the bob tipped over. It wasn’t a real accident, just a spill into snow. But when Betsy tried to stand up afterward, her ankle hurt. It was twisted, Jerry decided.
“Sit on the bobsled, Betsy,” he said. “We’ll haul you home.”
Her ankle didn’t hurt much, and Betsy felt important, especially when Jerry began to worry about facing her mother.
“Gosh!” he said. “The next time I ask you to go coasting she’ll tell me to go way back and sit down.”
“No, she won’t,” Julia answered. “She’ll know it wasn’t your fault.”
Julia was right. Mrs. Ray was reassuring when Jerry burst in with his explanations and apologies and Betsy followed, limping, on Pin’s arm.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It isn’t a bobsled party without a spill or two.”
Her tone was cheerful. But her eyes were a little anxious. The truth was, Mrs. Ray didn’t like bobsled parties. None of the mothers did.
After Mr. Ray had bandaged Betsy’s ankle and pronounced it a trifling sprain, Mrs. Ray was as gay as a bird. She was so thankful that nothing worse had happened.
“Come on! Pop your corn,” she said. “There are apples to roast, too.”
Julia and Katie, Jerry and Pin repaired to the kitchen. Laughter rose above the sound of popcorn bouncing in a shaker. Tacy and Tib put apples to roast on the back of the hard-coal heater that sat like a rosy smiling god in a corner of the back parlor.
Betsy sat on the back-parlor sofa with her foot on a pillow. Jerry came in often to see how she felt.
“Gosh, she was a good soldier, Mrs. Ray!” he kept saying.
Betsy felt heroic.
The big pan of fluffy buttered popcorn was brought in and passed. Julia went to the piano, and everybody sang. They sang Navajo and Hiawatha and Bedelia, and Jerry and Julia sang a duet called, “Tell me, pretty maiden.”
Mr. Ray smoked his pipe and looked pleased. He liked people to have a good time at his house.
At last Mrs. Ray played the piano, and Julia and Jerry, Katie and Pin danced a waltz. They pushed back the dining-room table and had a Virginia Reel. Mr. Ray joined in, and so did Tacy, and Tib, and Rena who came in smiling from the kitchen. The blue plates on the plate rail danced, too. Only Betsy could not dance because of her foot. But she had a good time anyway, feeling heroic.
“As soon as I get back to Cox,” Jerry told her when he said good-by, “I’m going to send you a present. What would you like? A postcard album?”
A postcard album! It was just what she had been wanting.
Betsy was out of school for a week, but she didn’t mind very much. It was pleasant to snuggle down in bed when she heard the hard-coal heater being shaken down in the morning. Julia and Margaret had to get up; they hurried into their clothes over the open register that brought heat into their bedroom. Betsy didn’t need to hurry.
She hobbled downstairs late and spent most of the day on the back-parlor sofa. She liked to watch the red flames flickering behind the isinglass windows of the stove. After the postcard album came (for Jerry sent it! It had leather covers and the seal of Cox School on it.) she enjoyed putting in her collection of postcards. Postcards from her grandmother in California and from various uncles and aunts, from her father that time he went to St. Paul and from Tib when she went to visit in Milwaukee.
She had two new books to read for she had been to the library just the Saturday before the bobsled party. Miss Sparrow had picked them out for her. The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley and Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens.
When she grew tired of reading she played paper dolls.
Betsy hardly ever played with her paper dolls any more. Yet she loved them; she didn’t want to throw them away. And when she was sick, or kept indoors for any reason, she got them out and played with them.
At last, however, she grew sick of paper dolls, too.
Her mother was going out that day. She and Margaret were going to the high school to hear Julia sing at the Literary Society program. It was Rena’s afternoon off.
“I’m glad Tacy and Tib always come in after school,” Mrs. Ray said. “You won’t be alone very long.”
She put out
a plate of cookies to be ready for Tacy and Tib, and she and Margaret kissed Betsy and went out. Old Mag, hitched to the cutter, was waiting in front of the house. Mr. Ray had left her there at noon.
Betsy waved from the back-parlor window, and when the cutter had vanished down Hill Street and the sound of the sleighbells had died, she kept on staring out of doors. The street was empty. There was nothing to see but snow glistening in the sunshine.
Betsy stared a long time. Then she hobbled upstairs to her desk and brought down one of those tablets marked “Ray’s Shoe Store. Wear Queen Quality Shoes.”
When Tacy and Tib came in after school, they found her on the sofa, scribbling furiously. Her braids had come loose, her cheeks were red, and there was a smudge on her nose.
“I’m just finishing a story,” she said. “Would you like to hear it?”
“You bet. Swell,” said Tacy and Tib.
“It’ll be done in a jiff.”
Tacy and Tib took off their wraps and stowed them away in the closet. They helped themselves to cookies and sat down in comfortable chairs.
By that time Betsy was ready. She sat up and cleared her throat.
“It’s a very good story,” she said.
She announced the title sonorously.
“Flossie’s Accident.”
Betsy liked to read her stories aloud and she read them like an actress. She made her voice low and thrillingly deep. She made it shake with emotion. She laughed mockingly and sobbed wildly when the occasion required.
And she was right about this story. It was a good one. Tacy soon stopped munching cookies and leaned forward in excitement. Tib cried real tears. She always cried real tears in the most flattering manner when Betsy’s stories were sad.
Flossie’s Accident was very, very sad.
It was about a girl named Flossie who was hurt in a bobsled accident. The accident was something like Betsy’s, but Flossie didn’t look like Betsy. She had long black ringlets, and big black eyes, and a dead white skin with lips as red as blood. She was dressed all in fluffy white fur, white coat and cap, mittens, boots and everything. She was white as a snowdrift and very beautiful.