Betsy Was a Junior and Betsy and Joe (24 page)

That had been the hit of their freshman year. From the sophomore year they sang:

They sang last year's “Howdy Cy, Morning Cy,” and finished in style with the duet from “The Red Mill”:

They had sung it many times beside the piano at the Ray house. Their timing was perfect, and their voices blended warmly. Someone sitting in darkness on the distant point applauded.

“Say,” Tony exclaimed. “We're pretty good. Broadway doesn't know what it's missing!”

“Yes,” Betsy agreed, “you and I make a good team.”

Tony didn't answer, and her words lingered in the air as words do sometimes, taking on undue significance by reason of the fact that they are left suspended. He picked up the oars and started rowing toward the lights of the Inn, gleaming through the trees.

The next afternoon, when Betsy and her mother were rocking and mending on the porch of the little cottage, Mrs. Ray said suddenly, “Betsy! I think Tony
is getting a little…well…sweet on you.”

“Heavens, no!” said Betsy, startled. “Tony is just like a brother.”

“He used to be,” said Mrs. Ray. “But…I have intuitions sometimes where my children are concerned. I think Tony's feeling toward you is changing. I don't like it.”

“Why don't you like it?” asked Betsy. “Why wouldn't you like it, if it were true, I mean? Lots of boys have had crushes on me and you never minded.”

Mrs. Ray answered slowly, “We're all so fond of Tony.”

“Of course!” cried Betsy. “Papa likes him better than any boy that comes to the house. In fact, we all do. So what's wrong?” Her mother didn't reply and Betsy added, “I suppose you don't like those freight-hopping trips to Minneapolis? I don't myself. Maybe I can talk him out of them.”

“How do you feel about Tony, Betsy?” asked Mrs. Ray. “You aren't…serious…are you?”

“Heavens, no!” said Betsy again, and felt suddenly very old. Her mother's tone was the searching one Betsy had heard her use with Julia. It seemed strange to think that she was old enough so that her mother worried about one of her crushes being serious.

“I haven't a crush on Tony or on anyone else,” she said, but she felt herself blushing and jumped up
hurriedly, pretending to have lost her thimble. She had thought suddenly about Joe Willard's letters, how she looked forward to them, how hard she worked over her answers. She hoped that her mother would not extend her questioning to Joe.

Happily, perhaps deliberately, she didn't.

“Betsy,” said Mrs. Ray briskly, when her daughter had shaken her skirts and sat down. “What do you think of the new, long-sleeved tucked waists? Would you like one to go with your suit?”

“Yes,” answered Betsy, “I think I would.”

B
ETSY ALWAYS LOVED
the late summer return from Murmuring Lake to the house on the corner of High Street and Plum. Mr. Ray had always mowed the lawn. He had clipped the hydrangeas and bridal wreath and set the sprinkler going. Anna, the hired girl, had usually come back a few days earlier, so the house was aired and clean. But it never looked like
home until Mrs. Ray had scattered books and magazines about, and the girls had cut flowers for the vases.

This year there was no Julia to run to the piano, but Betsy unlocked it and dashed off a few scales just to let the neighbors know that the Rays were back.

The piano had photographs of Julia at all ages ranged along the top. It stood in a light, square hall which Julia had grandly named the music room. To the right, a golden oak staircase curved upward. To the left, an archway led into the parlor, a warm, friendly room, with crisp lace curtains, sofa pillows, pictures and books, a green-shaded lamp, and a brass bowl holding a palm.

The dining room was just behind. It was papered in a dark, fruity pattern above a well-filled plate rail. A gold-fringed lamp hung by a chain over the center of the table. There was a fireplace in one corner, a gong in another, and a fine display of cut glass and hand-painted china on the sideboard. A swinging door led to the pantry and Anna's kitchen.

Anna had already started baking cookies, wearing a broad, pleased smile. Margaret was smiling, too, as she wandered through the house with Washington, the cat, in her arms.

Washington and his companion, Lincoln, the Spitz dog, had spent the summer on Anna's brother's farm.
Abe Lincoln had been excited by the return. He had run around barking sharply, jumping upon forbidden chairs. Washington had relaxed on his favorite pillow with a supercilious air. But he had started purring when Margaret picked him up.

Betsy began joyfully to telephone. It was fun getting back to the Crowd. Carney, who had been graduated from high school in June, was busy getting ready for Vassar.

“Mother and I are going up to the Cities to buy my clothes,” she said.

“What joy! When?”

“Tomorrow. So let's go riding tonight. We'll pick up the bunch.”

Tacy suggested an afternoon picnic.

“All right. I'll bring my Kodak. And I'll stop by for Tib.”

“I'll 'phone her you're coming so that she can have a lunch packed.”

“Do. The Mullers are such good providers. What's the state of the Kelly larder?”

“Oh,” said Tacy, “fair. I'll put some cocoa in the pail.” They had a special, battered, smoke-blackened pail in which they always made cocoa on their picnics.

Walking toward Hill Street, Betsy thought how long she and Tacy had been having picnics.

“It's thirteen years now since we met each other at
my fifth birthday party. And we started picnicking the very first summer.”

There was nothing like a picnic! she reflected. If you were happy, it made you happier. If you were unhappy, it blew your troubles away.

Passing Lincoln Park, she arrived at Tib's chocolate-colored house. When she and Tacy were children, they had thought this a mansion, and its ornate style had indeed been the height of elegance. It had a wide porch, a tower, numerous bay windows, and a pane of ruby glass over the front door.

Tib had seemed like a story-book princess, and she seemed so still, Betsy thought, when Tib came running over the green lawn. She was slender and swaying, above ankle-length skirts which fluttered as she ran. Her clothes were fragile, lace-trimmed, and beribboned. Her blond hair, bleached by the sun to a straw tint, was dressed in little puffs which were held in place by a wide band tied around her head. This band was the very newest fashion.

“
Liebchen!
I'm so glad you're back!” She hugged Betsy warmly. “I've been making such a lunch! Deviled eggs,
Kartoffel Salat, Leber Wurst….
”

“You're the most deceptive character,” Betsy interrupted. “You look as though you lived on butterfly wings and you talk about
Leber Wurst.
”

They went inside, where Betsy greeted Mrs. Muller
and Tib's brothers, Fred and Hobbie. Mrs. Muller was blond and stocky; Fred was blond and slender; Hobbie, blond and dimpled. Betsy went into the kitchen to speak to Matilda, the hired girl.

Tib brought out a bulging basket. Betsy picked up her own basket and the Kodak, and they started for Hill Street.

Tacy, smiling radiantly, met them in the vacant lot. She looked tall, approaching. She was, in fact, taller than Betsy. Her auburn hair was wound about her head in coronet braids, not so fashionable as pompadours or puffs, but very well suited to Tacy. She had large blue eyes which could brim with laughter one minute, and the next be wistful or shy. Real Irish eyes, Mrs. Ray often said.

“Tacy,” said Betsy. “Do you know that you're getting awfully pretty?”

“I was thinking that, too,” cried Tib. “Why, an artist would like to paint your picture the way you look right now!”

“I'll snap it after we get up on the hill,” said Betsy.

“
Be Gorrah!
” cried Tacy. “It's a
foine
picture they'll be taking of the Colleen from Hill Street.”

Tacy affected an Irish brogue when she felt especially silly. She and Betsy loved to act silly, and Tib laughed at all their jokes, which made her a gratifying third.

The Kelly house at the end of Hill Street had seemed big to Betsy once because it was so much bigger than the yellow cottage across the street in which she had grown up. But looking at it now, low and rambling, its white paint fading under the reddening vines, Betsy realized that it was somewhat small for the big family it had to house.

She had always loved the merry crowded house. Warmth and comfort enveloped her whenever she entered the door. All the Kellys loved her; they petted and teased her as though she were still a little girl.

Today only Mrs. Kelly was at home. A large, gentle woman with a tender mouth like Tacy's, she sat with her mountain of darning in the window of the dining room. This big bow window was the heart of the house. Here Mr. Kelly sat in the evening with his newspaper, here on Sunday he played his violin. Here Betsy and Tacy used to cut out paper dolls, looking up at the overhanging hills.

The Kelly house had few of the so-called modern improvements. It was lighted by lamps, there was a pump in the dooryard. But the views from the windows would have graced a castle.

“Mrs. Kelly,” Betsy said, when she had kissed her, “I never realized when I was little that your house had such lovely views.”

“I've heard Papa say that he bought the house for
the views,” Mrs. Kelly replied.

“Well, I'm certainly glad he bought it,” said Tacy. “What if we hadn't moved to Hill Street? What if we still lived in Mazomanie, Wisconsin? Why, Betsy, we might not even know each other!”

“
I
lived in Wisconsin,” Tib observed. “You might have known me, anyway.”

“And I suppose you wouldn't have missed me at all!” cried Betsy. “Listen to them, Mrs. Kelly! Heartless creatures! Practically plotting to get rid of me.”

Mrs. Kelly laughed indulgently.

Tacy brought out the pail and Tib said it was too hot for cocoa, but Betsy and Tacy shouted her down.

“No respect for tradition.”

“We always have cocoa.”

Laughing and wrangling, they started up the steep road behind Betsy's old house, the road which had once seemed the longest, most adventuresome in the world. There had been just one white house on the Big Hill in those days. Now there were several modern cottages. Change had not yet touched The Secret Lane, however. This ran along the summit, a twin row of thickly leaved beech trees.

Beyond it, they came out suddenly on a wide, bright view. The hilltop overlooked a valley so capacious that it seemed empty, although it held scattered farms and a huddle of small houses known as Little
Syria. In the distance, the river wandered.

“Of all the places we used to play when we were children, I love this the most,” Betsy said.

They stretched out on the hillside, a slanting coppery sea of goldenrod. A vireo far above them sang continuously and monotonously, like a dull woman talking.

Betsy, Tacy, and Tib began to talk. They talked about their summers—Milwaukee, Mazomanie, and Murmuring Lake. They talked about being seniors. They talked about boys. At least, Betsy and Tib talked about boys. Boys didn't interest Tacy.

However, she volunteered the information that a famous athlete named Ralph Maddox was coming to high school this fall. She had heard her brothers say so. He was coming from St. John, where he had been the star of the football team.

“I hope we can get him for the Zets,” she said.

“You want him for the Zets? I'll make a note of it. Just leave it to me,” said Tib, patting her yellow hair.

Betsy told them she had been corresponding with Joe Willard.

“How did that happen?” asked Tib.

“How did it happen? He wrote to me, of course. You don't think I'd write to him first, do you?”

“Do you think you'll be going with him this year?”

“No idea,” said Betsy. She had announced last year
that she was going to do just that, and then he had gone with Phyllis Brandish! She wasn't going to tempt fate again.

“There's a Joseph Willard who writes for the Minneapolis
Tribune
,” Tacy remarked.

“May be related. Do you think so, Betsy?”

“Um hum,” answered Betsy, feeling uncomfortable. She wasn't accustomed to keeping secrets from Tacy and Tib. She jumped up. “Let's get some pictures. Maybe we ought to start the fire first. Background for your portrait, Tacy.”

They gathered dry wood and made a fire which poured smoky fragrance into the air. While Tacy adjusted the pail, Tib spread a red cloth and set out the contents of the baskets.

Betsy focused her camera. “Get set now!”

Tacy jumped up and put one hand behind her head, the other on her hip.

“No! No!” cried Betsy. “You're not Carmen. You're the Irish Colleen. Remember?”

“Be jabbers, that's right!” said Tacy, and put both hands on her waist, arms akimbo.

Tib pushed her down. Tacy's long red braids came loose. Around her face little tendrils of hair curled like vines. She looked up at Betsy, her eyes full of laughter, the skirts of her sailor suit cascading about her. Betsy snapped.

“Tacy Kelly at her silliest!” she said.

She snapped Tib on a rock, holding out her skirts. Tacy snapped Betsy tilting the jug of lemonade. Tib snapped Betsy and Tacy feeding each other sandwiches.

When the film was used up, they collapsed in laughter.

“Gosh, how silly!”

“Does us good. We're getting too darned serious.”

“We're getting too darned old. Gee, seniors this fall!”

“Let's eat. We have to get back early, you know. Carney's taking us riding.”

Carney, informed by telephone of Betsy's whereabouts, picked her up at the Kellys'. Tacy and Tib piled into the Sibley auto, too, and they went in search of the rest of the Crowd…the feminine portion of it. This group continued the same in character—lively, exuberant, loyal—although its personnel changed from year to year.

Carney, this fall, was going out of it. The Crowd would miss Carney, with her twinkling eyes. Her side lawn was a gathering place; her automobile dedicated to the Crowd.

Hazel Smith was just coming into the group. She was a plain, freckle-faced girl, mirthful and breezy.

Alice Morrison was tall, with rosy cheeks and thick blond hair. She was quiet, but no one in the Crowd
enjoyed fun more wholeheartedly than Alice.

Winona Root was tall, dark, and debonaire. She had magic in her fingers at the piano.

Irma Biscay was rounded and alluring. She was a sweet-tempered, merry girl, but the attraction she held for the opposite sex kept her from being very popular with girls. She had not yet returned from her vacation, and the Crowd, cruising along the shadowy streets, discussed the source of this attraction. Betsy, whose hair was straight, laid it to her curly hair. Tib, who was tiny, felt sure it was her lovely figure.

“It's her form,” Tib asserted vehemently. “Her form is like that Miss Anna Held's who takes the milk baths.”

Alice suggested that Irma's success might spring from the fact that Mrs. Biscay was such a good cook. But Betsy scoffed at that.

“Look at Anna! The boys come to our cookie jar as though they owned it. Yet I don't slay everyone. Irma makes me think of the Lorelei. You know, Tib, in that German song. Let one of our beaus see much of Irma and…good-by! He's gone, just as though he had been dashed against a rock.”

Tib started to sing.

“
Ich weiss nicht was sol es bedeuten….
” And the rest joined in, making up English words. The Crowd loved to sing, rolling through the night in Carney's auto. Winona started “I Wonder Who's Kissing Her
Now” and they were singing this with enthusiasm when the auto broke down. (They seldom took a ride anywhere without the auto breaking down.) Fortunately they were near the Rays', and the girls pushed the machine to Betsy's door, singing at the tops of their voices.

They found an indignant group on the porch. Tony was there, sprawled in the hammock, and Dennis Farisy, who looked like a cherub but was not at all cherubic, and Cab Edwards, who had once been Dennie's inseparable companion…but Cab seemed older and more mature since he had started work at the family furniture store.

“What do you mean, not being around tonight?” he shouted now, indignantly.

“We were just going home, and it would have served you right,” yelled Dennie.

“We wouldn't have stayed five minutes more,” drawled Tony, swinging luxuriously.

Winona ran up the steps and dumped him out of the hammock. They started tusseling. Everybody went inside and Winona sat down at the piano. They made fudge. They stood around the piano and sang. They rolled up the rugs and danced.