“The first night there, I was out with the fellow I’d come to see, a nice chap from Georgia. Reb and I ran into Jean and another girl. Reb knew them and introduced me. Of course I started to take off my hat, but then I noticed what a wow Jean was, and I kept it on.”
“I wondered why,” said Jean, her throaty chuckle tumbling out again.
“Reb had an auto, and we all went for a ride. That was fine. I could keep my hat on. But when we stopped at an ice cream parlor I simply had to take it off.”
“And I thought…” Jean’s voice sank to a calamitous whisper. “I thought, ‘The guy’s bald-headed!’”
She and Cab both burst into laughter.
“He was cute,” Jean insisted. “Bald head and all. And when he went back to Minnesota he sent me one of those boxes of chocolates a yard long.”
“I had to work fast,” Cab explained. “She was going off to Boston to study elocution.”
“He liked my family,” Jean said, winking.
“You bet I did!” Cab grew solemn. “Especially her mother. And my mother used to say to me, ‘Caleb, when you go to pick out a wife, look at her mother!’”
“And did you?” Betsy asked breathlessly.
Cab rubbed his head. “Well, I didn’t have much time to look at her very hard. I was too busy looking at Jean.”
And they went off into laughter again.
She’s just the one for him! Betsy thought.
“Say, Betsy,” Cab said, “wasn’t it swell that we got married the same day? Let’s celebrate our anniversary together some time. You two come down to our little house in Deep Valley. Jean likes Deep Valley, and of course I love it, but I wish there were more of the old Crowd around.”
At the word Crowd, Betsy dashed to the telephone. And when Tib learned who was sitting in the Willard living room, she said just what Betsy had hoped she would say.
“Oh, bring them to the dance! Please do! Rick would want them.”
So Betsy went back to report a Crowd party that night.
“It’s your chance, Cab, to introduce Jean to everyone.”
“Who’s giving it?” Cab asked.
“Oh, a New York millionaire who’s in love with Tib.”
Jean hooked her arm in Cab’s. “I hope,” she said, “he’s as nice as my struggling young business man.”
“Not struggling to get away from you, angel!”
For some reason this light-hearted exchange made Betsy feel blue.
She felt blue driving out to Christmas Lake, although the Hutchinsons had picked them up and there was more joyful excitement over Cab and Jean. These welcome visitors enlivened the party, too, but Betsy felt bluer and bluer through the whole superlative affair.
As usual, in a smart restaurant Mr. Bagshaw was at his gleaming best. As usual, he had secured a table next to the dance floor, the waiters were hypnotized by his regal air, and the orchestra leader hurried over to pay his respects. There were boutonnieres for the men, as well as orchids for the ladies. There was a mesh bag even for the unexpected Jean.
Betsy was glad of the new chiffon, for everyone wore something special. Tacy’s black and white striped taffeta, with white blouse and black bolero jacket, brought out her autumn coloring. Carney’s cool marquisette had the simplicity she loved. Tib had thrown together a yellow silk marvel. Below a tight vestee, dozens of tiny ruffles raced down to her ankles.
“I painted the slippers to match,” she confided, extending a tiny foot.
Although Mr. Bagshaw was usually so polite, he did not dance with anyone but Tib. When she danced with someone else, he watched. He pulled out the leather cigarette case, passed it absently, and selected a cigarette, hardly removing his eyes from those whirling yellow ruffles.
“He’ll propose tonight. I feel it in my bones,” Tacy whispered glumly.
And sure enough, when the orchestra rested and the Crowd moved out to the broad piazza, he asked Tib to walk down to the lake. He very pointedly did not suggest that anyone else come along, although the lake shimmered under a full August moon. He and Tib strolled off through a warm darkness filled with the flashings of fireflies. They disappeared down rustic stairs leading to the water.
Betsy and Tacy sat close together for comfort. Tacy burst out: “I had the fun of marrying for love!”
“So did I!” said Betsy. “I should say I did!”
“So did Jean.”
Jean joined them. She asked in a mirthful whisper, “Who is he? He freezes my bones.”
The orchestra began to play “Araby” and the Crowd went back to the dance floor…except for the two who had gone down to the lake.
The orchestra played “You’re Here, and I’m Here, so What Do We Care?” But Tib wasn’t there, and Betsy and Tacy found that they cared terribly. Why had it seemed such a fine idea for Tib to marry a New York millionaire?
The orchestra played “Pack Up Your Troubles,” and for the first time that summer Betsy and Tacy felt they really had a trouble to pack. Tib and Mr. Bagshaw returned. His face was inscrutable, as always. Tib had been crying. She had powdered; she was smiling; but she had been crying. Betsy and Tacy looked at each other with stricken eyes.
Why had she been crying? Because she had turned him down? Tib was very tender-hearted. Or because she was going to New York to live in lonely grandeur?
The evening ended without any chance for intimate conversation. The dressing room was crowded with chattering women.
Mr. Bagshaw bent over their hands with his customary urbanity. Tib’s farewells were a little subdued, and they drove off in the big impressive car.
The Kerrs followed. Sam and Carney delivered Cab and Jean to their hotel, then dropped the Willards off at their apartment. And when Joe and Betsy went in, they found a special delivery letter in their mailbox.
12
A Letter from Aunt Ruth
THE LETTER WAS FROM Aunt Ruth. Joe tore it open as they went upstairs, and inside the apartment Betsy dropped into a rocker and waited. Her cheeks, above the chiffon dress, were still flushed from the party.
Joe sat down in his blue chair and read aloud. The letter was short but its impact was powerful. Aunt Ruth had sold Willard’s Emporium to Homer. He had been married, and he and his wife were going to live in the rooms above the store. He had bought the furniture.
“I feel all upset,” Aunt Ruth wrote. “Selling out was hard on me, and I don’t know what to do next. I wish I could come and stay with you folks.”
That was all, except “Your loving Aunt.”
Joe put the letter down and looked at Betsy, his eyes troubled.
“We’ll have to let her come,” he said.
“Why—why—how can we?” Betsy faltered. He couldn’t know what he was saying. Let her come? Let anyone invade their Paradise? “We—haven’t room for her,” she added lamely, choosing the least important of the many objections hammering at her heart.
“We’ll have to find room,” Joe said. “That isn’t what bothers me. It’s asking so much of you, Betsy, that makes me feel bad. But I can’t say no. It isn’t as though she wanted to live with us indefinitely. She probably just wants a chance to make some plans. And I’m the only relative she has—around here, I mean.”
“You’re not exactly a relative,” Betsy said in a choked voice. “You were Uncle Alvin’s nephew.”
“She didn’t think about that when they let me come to live with them.”
But Joe, Betsy thought rebelliously, had paid his own way. He had worked in the store, and after he was ready for high school, he had moved to Deep Valley and supported himself.
Joe read her thoughts. “I know I always helped around the place. But just the way their own son would have done. In Deep Valley I worked, of course, but I spent Sundays and holidays out at Butternut Center. And Aunt Ruth never let me go back without a basket full of apples, or cookies, or a fruit cake. I sent my mending to her—laundry, too, sometimes. And often when she wrote to me she’d stick in a dollar bill. Now she’s feel
ing lost and wants to be with family for a while. I can’t refuse her, Betsy.”
Betsy gazed around the little honeymoon apartment. It looked sweeter than it had ever looked before. The glow of lamplight rested on the old chairs, the books, her grandfather’s table. The elm tree beyond the bay window was swallowed up in the night, but she could feel it out there.
“Our lease is up next month. That’s a good thing. We can rent a place with more room. Betsy!” Joe looked up, and his voice took on a new note. “We’ve saved some money. Maybe we could make a down payment on a house? Pay for it like rent?”
Betsy heard the lift in his voice. She wanted to reply with warmth, with enthusiasm, but she couldn’t seem to do it. She couldn’t bring herself to speak at all.
Joe pushed both hands over a worried forehead. “Oh, we can’t afford it, I guess! I wish I’d get another raise,” he said in a discouraged tone.
Betsy couldn’t stand that. She got up and crossed the room and kissed him. But she kissed him quickly and went to hang up her coat.
“You’re earning plenty,” she said. “And I think we have enough for a down payment. We have over five hundred dollars. If we have to pay more by the month than we’re paying Mrs. Hilton, we can add what we’re putting in the savings now. I can juggle the budget.”
But Joe knew that her brisk cheerfulness was false. He followed her out to the foyer and put his arms around her.
“Thank you, Betsy,” he said. He sounded humble.
They did not talk any more but got ready for bed quickly. Usually, after a party, Betsy hated to undress. It was as sad as dismantling a Christmas tree, she would say, admiring herself in the mirror from all angles, and when she had taken off her dress, she would pull the pins out of her hair slowly, and shake it around her shoulders and pose until Joe came, laughing, to stop her.
Tonight she took off the new dress promptly and was soon in bed.
She lay in Joe’s arms a few minutes and then he went to sleep, but Betsy could not sleep. She felt overwhelmed. It wasn’t that she minded buying a house, living more cheaply, giving up luxuries…none of that mattered at all. Besides, she was confident Joe’s salary would rise to any need. What she minded was giving up their delicious privacy, the fun of it being just the two of them, keeping house all alone. She wouldn’t mind giving it up for a baby, but for anything else she would.
“Why couldn’t it have been a baby?” she asked, and a few tears dripped into her pillow.
But she remembered the eagerness in Joe’s voice when he had mentioned buying a house, and how she had quenched it. She remembered his humble, “Thank you, Betsy.” He had thanked her just for accepting his decision; he knew as well as she did that she had done it grudgingly.
It was the best I could manage, Betsy thought, still crying a little. But next morning at breakfast she tried harder.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Hilton today that we won’t be renewing,” she said, brightly casual. “Will you write Aunt Ruth, or shall I?”
“I’ll write from the office,” Joe replied. “And maybe you’ll have time to call some real estate men?”
“As soon as I get the family officially welcomed.” The Rays were arriving from California. “I’m taking them a cake.”
“It will be fine to see them.”
Joe was brightly casual, too. But he was unhappy. Betsy could see it in his eyes and in the way—after he had kissed her good-by—he squared his shoulders, and ran downstairs, and went swinging out into the street.
She washed and wiped the dishes and hung the tea towels to dry. She made the cake and it turned out well, and she ran the carpet sweeper up and down, pausing, as usual, to look out into the elm. She looked for a long time.
I love that tree, Betsy thought. Last night’s tears came back and ran slowly down her cheeks. She went to the bathroom and washed them off, and powdered.
The telephone rang, and it was Joe.
“You all right, Betsy?”
“Why, of course! Almost ready to start for the train.”
“I just thought I’d like to talk with you,” he said. There was a pause. “I’ve written to Aunt Ruth.”
“That’s good. And don’t worry, dear.” She tried to put the proper reassurance into her voice but she knew she hadn’t succeeded.
“I love you, Betsy,” Joe said softly.
“I love you, too.”
After she put down the receiver, she cried some more.
Tacy telephoned, wanting to know whether Betsy had heard from Tib. Betsy didn’t tell the news about Aunt Ruth. Tacy would have been a good one to tell. She was unfailingly tactful. But she would be sorry, and Betsy didn’t want to be pitied.
She didn’t tell her family, although it was comforting to see them. Mr. Ray’s smiling face was tanned by the California sun.
“And look at my freckles!” Mrs. Ray cried. Her red hair curled beneath a broad-brimmed hat. “I bought this hat, and wore gloves, and carried an umbrella all summer. But look at me!”
“And look at me!” laughed Margaret. Margaret did, indeed, have a new sprinkle on her nose. And that wasn’t the only way she had changed. She had a new shy sparkle.
“Boy cousins!” Mrs. Ray whispered, walking toward the taxi. “Two of them, just her age. They teased her and flirted with her and tore her dignity to tatters.”
Louisa was waiting on the Ray front steps.
“Bogie!” she shouted and catapulted into Margaret’s hug. They rushed to find Anna, who had returned the day before—and Kismet. The goldfish were back above the bookcase and Kismet stood with a paw on either side of the bowl looking contentedly downward.
Margaret and Louisa disappeared, but Betsy and her parents sat on the back porch and drank coffee and ate Betsy’s cake. She had felt a little foolish, bringing it, because of Anna, but it seemed the sort of gesture a married daughter should make. They talked and talked and Betsy almost forgot Aunt Ruth in the news of her grandmother, and the two Expositions.
When she said that she had to go home and start dinner, Mrs. Ray telephoned Joe.
“Anna has peaches for a short-cake.”
“Lady, I’ll be there!”
He came in, smiling broadly, although he gave Betsy an anxious look when he kissed her. And after the short-cake, presents were brought out. The Willards were given a pottery hanging basket.
“For flowers and vines,” Mrs. Ray explained. “I thought it would be pretty in your bay window.”
“It would be lovely anywhere,” Betsy said.
Joe reached for her hand. “I guess Betsy hasn’t told you. We’re thinking of buying a house.”
“You’re giving up that darling apartment?” Mrs. Ray exclaimed.
“We need more room. No…” He grinned. “It’s not a baby! My Aunt Ruth wants to come and stay with us a while.”
“She’s sold the store and feels lonesome,” Betsy explained, striving for a natural tone.
She knew, without looking at her parents, what their reactions to the news would be. Mrs. Ray would think it was too bad, although she would not say so, and she would agree that Betsy should do whatever her husband thought best. Mr. Ray would approve. Sure enough, he spoke heartily.
“That’s a mighty kind thing for you kids to do.”
Walking home, Joe said, “Your father took me out on the porch, while you were telling your mother about Bagshaw’s party. He wanted to loan us money enough for our down payment. It was grand of him, but I’d rather not borrow. How about you?”
“I wouldn’t like to either,” Betsy said. “Saving out a couple of hundred dollars for the extra furniture we’ll need, we could still pay down three hundred dollars.”
But when they started house hunting, they found that three hundred dollars was considered very meager.
They met discouragement everywhere, but at least Tib’s news was good.
“Why, of course, I turned him down!” she said. It was on the telephone. “Did you think for a moment that I wouldn’t? He’s very ni
ce, and I liked him, and I adored his car, but marry him! Lieber Gott!”
“Better luck next time,” Betsy joked to Tacy, passing on the news of their failure. They were immeasurably relieved.
Joe was amused, and he and Betsy discussed Mr. Bagshaw’s exit at some length. Any fresh topic seemed welcome these days. There was a strange new feeling in the Willard apartment.
Betsy couldn’t quite understand it. They were loving to each other, as always. Both of them made an unusual effort to be entertaining. Perhaps that was what made the strangeness? Or perhaps it was just because they weren’t happy? But the feeling grew like a thickening fog.
Betsy went house hunting every day, alone and with real estate agents. But she had no success. On any house that pleased her, the owner wanted more than three hundred dollars down.
“Maybe we’ll have to rent after all,” Joe said.
He never suggested holding Aunt Ruth off, and Betsy did not even hint at such a solution, but in her reveries the prospect of Aunt Ruth grew darker and darker.
She would have to be included in all their parties, and she wouldn’t fit in at all. She wouldn’t have any interest in their friends, or they in her. She would sit around and listen to Joe and Betsy talk. What about their little private jokes, the tender intimacies they were in the habit of exchanging as they cooked or washed dishes or sat together in the evenings? Even the reading aloud would not have the same flavor, with Aunt Ruth listening, too.
The grimmer her thoughts were, the harder Betsy tried to find a house. Getting tired over that search eased her conscience a little. And her conscience hurt sharply. It was almost terrible that it should be so hard to reconcile herself to Joe’s wishes.
I wouldn’t have believed it! she thought.
She said her prayers fiercely, and Saturday night she decided that church would help, so next morning she slipped out of bed early. Joe roused up but she whispered, “Go back to sleep. I’m going to church.”
He murmured, “Say a prayer for me, honey.”
“I will. I always do.”
It had turned cold in the night. Flowers were frozen, there was hoarfrost on the lawns. Betsy had always loved this early service, partly because it took her out into such a fresh and empty world. But this morning she only wanted to get to church.