Romance Classics (20 page)

“I suppose things were pretty bad out there in Vietnam,” he said quietly.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a picnic,” returned Peter.

“No, I imagine not. I suppose, if a handful of you Yanks had been suddenly faced with an overwhelming number of the enemy, you’d have fought it out to the last man, rather than surrender?”

“Good grief,
yes!”
Peter all but exploded

“Yet when you come home, and the odds seem overwhelmingly against you?” suggested the older man, but he did not finish the sentence.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite get you, sir.” Peter’s voice was a little strained, as though with the effort to control his temper.

“I suppose I am — well, I suppose I sound offensive.” Professor Hartley spoke with a disarming gentleness that robbed his words of any possible sting. “It’s just that I’ve travelled a long, long way down the road you’ve just begun, my boy. It’s probably presumptuous of me to offer you any counsel, yet I’d feel I had failed you — and Betsy, as well — if I didn’t”

“What’s Betsy got to do with my problems?” Peter cut in.

“Nothing, I suppose, except that she is very fond of you and deeply concerned about your happiness. Since it was through Betsy that I first knew anything about you, I suppose it’s quite natural that I should associate you together. What I meant to say was that it’s a long, dark, lonely road, my boy. Yet if you face it with courage and strength, it need not be lonely. Love is — well, love is like a light that can open up even the darkness in which you and I are destined to travel.”

“No, thanks.”

The old man sighed.

“How well I know how you feel — and how it brings back my own past,” he said after a moment. “Of course, my position was different in many ways. I was poor. I had been blinded in a chemical experiment in the school laboratory, so there was none of the glory that surrounds a war hero.”

Peter’s lips twisted derisively. “We’ll skip the war hero stuff, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“Of course. I know you would feel that way. I had no such feeling. I mean, there was no excuse for me to feel that I had been anything but inexcusably careless, and deeply grateful that I had been alone when I was making the experiment, so that I, alone, suffered the consequences,” the older man went on, and now there was a fainly bitter twist to his mouth. “I learned too late that when fooling with dangerous chemicals, one must keep one’s mind on the chemicals, and not go moon-gazing after even the most beautiful of women. But it was spring, and I was reasonably certain that she was not entirely indifferent to me.”

“You were in love?” asked Peter, momentarily forgetting his own bitterness. Then he added, “Afterwards, of course, she threw you over. That’s usually the case.”

“She did nothing of the kind,” the old man said sharply. “She came to me, putting aside her pride and her dignity, and begged me to marry her. But I was too stiff-necked. I had too much pride to be a burden even to the woman who loved me, as I loved her. You see, I was so sure that my helplessness
would
be a burden to her; I hadn’t learned yet that love asks, more than anything else, to be needed — and used. Love wants to serve.”

He heard Peter’s little movement of protest, and waited tensely for his voice. But Peter made no comment.

“Of course,” Professor Hartley went on, after a moment, “I suppose if I’d had enough money to support us both, I’d have gone through with it. But I knew she’d have to work to earn enough for us to live on. And to see her saddled with a husband who would be more helpless than a baby — well, I just couldn’t take it. I hadn’t learned, you see, that being blind doesn’t necessarily mean being helpless.”

He paused, as if waiting for Peter to speak, but the young man still remained silent, so he continued:

“For the first five years of my blindness I played the part of a coward. I even tried to destroy myself. All that helped me to keep sane was a friend. He took care of me, shared his small earnings with me. And when he died, I found he had left me this cottage with two acres of land and a little annuity. It was the death of my friend that proved to me that my disability was a challenge, and that I had to face up to it. After a friend had sacrificed so much to me — ”

“But at least you hadn’t sacrificed the woman you loved,” said Peter.

“No, but it wasn’t until years later that I realized it wouldn’t have been a sacrifice,” said the old man. “It wouldn’t be a sacrifice for the woman who loves you, Peter. At least there would not be the economic problem. You could still have a rich, full life, children — ”

“No, thanks!”

The professor made a little gesture of futility. “Forgive me, Peter,” he said. “I know I’ve seemed presumptuous. Forgive an old man’s concern.”

“Sure. It’s all right, sir, thanks,” said Peter hurriedly, because he had heard the sound of Betsy’s footsteps on the flagged path.

She was carrying a laden tray. There were three tall glasses of iced tea, tangy with fresh mint, and a platter of little cakes. As she put the tray down on the table, she looked anxiously from one to the other, and said:

“All right, gentlemen, your favorite tipple! And some cakes I swiped from Esther this morning. Mother’s having a bridge-fight this afternoon, and Esther made some grand-looking stuff, I thought we might as well have some of the party!”

With her coining, the tension left the two men. Betsy was gay and amusing, and they followed her every movement with sightless eyes. But when she saw a warm, friendly grin on Peter’s face she had hard work not to burst into happy tears.

When at last they rose to go, and Betsy whistled to Gus, Peter said to their host, “Thanks for everything, sir. I’d like to come again, if I may.”

“I hope you will, my boy, as often as you can endure the company of an old man! You will be more than welcome.”

As he followed Betsy to the car and felt his way to the seat, Peter said, “You’ve got some nice friends, chick. The professor’s tops.”

“He’s a darling,” said Betsy simply. “I adore him.”

“And he loves you,” said Peter.

There were little flags of color in her cheeks, but she managed to say in a casual voice, “Sure. Love begets love. Didn’t you know that? He’d have to love me, because I love him. It always works out like that — or didn’t you know?”

She all but held her breath for his answer. She fixed her eyes on his face, causing the car to wobble a little as she failed to give it proper attention. But Peter was thinking, and for the moment unconscious of the car’s swerve.

“‘Love begets love’ eh?” he repeated. “Where’d you read that, Betsy?”

Betsy caught the note of tension in his voice, and her heart did a crazy little upward surge. “Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere. Anyway, it’s a universal fact, recognized by — oh, by people like Freud, and such,” she answered him with unconvincing airiness.

Peter was sitting with his sightless eyes turned straight ahead, his hands clenched on the top of his cane.

“So?” he said at last. “You mean if you love someone very deeply, with all your heart, that someone will, given time, learn to love you?”

Betsy’s eyes were shining. But above the tumult in her heart she said with forced gaiety:

“But of course. Any dope knows
that!”

Peter turned his head, as though looking down at her, and suddenly he grinned. “You’re very convincing, pet,” he told her. “But it seems to me I’ve heard differently.”

Betsy laughed, shakily. “Oh, well, you believe what you believe, and I’ll believe what I believe, and we can still be friends — being the broad-minded type!” she answered.

Peter laughed, and when Betsy let him out at his house a little later, she could tell by the way he smiled that he was happier than he had been when they set out.

That evening after dinner, when George had left for his weekly lodge meeting, Edith and Betsy were alone in the living room. There was a far-away look in Betsy’s eyes, and Edith waited for some clue to her daughter’s secret thoughts. But when Betsy was ready to confide, she would — and not a moment before.

“Mum,” she said presently, and Edith’s heart warmed at the old childhood term, “do you think it’s true that if you love somebody — well, pretty terribly — that somebody sort of
has
to love you in return?”

Edith’s eyes widened and then she dropped them to her sewing.

“Well, in a way, I suppose it’s true,” she admitted. “It’s natural enough. If you love a person, you naturally show him your best and most attractive self. You work at the job of winning his love. And I suppose if you work at anything long enough and hard enough, you get what you’re after.”

Betsy was watching her, listening intently, and there was something in her golden-brown eyes that stabbed at her mother’s heart

“It’s Peter, I suppose?” Edith asked, impulsively.

Betsy’s eyebrows went up a little and she seemed to retreat But she answered promptly, “Of course. Who else? It’s always been Pete and it always will be!”

“But darling, Pete’s
blind.
Surely, you must realize — ” Edith stopped, halted by the look on her daughter’s face.

“And that only makes me love him all the more. Because I can help him and take care of him — and do things for him,” Betsy said quietly.

“I know, darling — but Pete’s not in love with you.” Edith’s voice shook a little.

“I know that, Mother.” Betsy’s face seemed drained of all color. “He’s not in love with me
now.
But if I work very hard, and do everything I can to make him realize I’m all grown up and everything — ”

Edith waited, not daring to speak, lest she say the wrong thing. This business of being a parent was complicated, she told herself. It was hard to stand aside and watch the daughter you adored rush headlong into a furnace. But if the child wouldn’t let you help …

“Do you suppose if I let somebody give me a terrific rush and get myself engaged, that would make Pete realize I’m grown up?” suggested Betsy. “I mean, if I were engaged to somebody else, then he’d know I’m old enough to be married.”

“Betsy Drummond! Are you out of your mind?” raged Edith. “Of all the shameless — ”

“Bo Norris wouldn’t mind being engaged to me,” Betsy said coolly.

“Any man would mind being used in such a shameless, cruel way.” Edith was appalled at the revelation of Betsy’s deviousness. “Why, poor Bo has been mad about you for years. He’d all but lose his mind if he thought you’d give him a kind word, let alone promise to marry him.”

“Then why shouldn’t I let him have a little fun? At least, if Pete thought I was going to marry Bo, he might decide he didn’t want to lose me himself.’’

Edith was aghast. “Betsy, I honestly believe you mean that,” she whispered.

Betsy’s head went up. “There’s very little I wouldn’t do to get Pete,” she acknowledged.

Edith drew a deep breath and pricked herself with her forgotten needle, and realized that she was shaking. “Well, this is one thing you’re not going to do, Betsy. I won’t permit it!”

Betsy said nothing, but with eyes cool and almost inimical, she gave her mother a look that said more plainly than words, “Oh. And how are you going to stop me?”

“You just make one play for poor Bo and, so help me, I’ll tell him the truth.”

Betsy regarded her for a moment, and then she said coolly, “Okay, then. I guess that’s out. I’ll have to think of something else.”

She went back to her book as calmly as though nothing had happened. Edith, trying to go back to her sewing, found her eyes blurred by tears and her hands shaking so that she dared not continue.

She was appalled at the revelation Betsy had made — Betsy, her beloved child, on whose kindliness and generosity she had always banked. Here was Betsy callously proposing to get herself engaged to one man simply to convince another man that she was old enough for marriage! Suddenly Edith had the unhappy conviction that this girl who sat across from her was a stranger — and a stranger of whom she was a little frightened. She was secretly glad when, a little later, Betsy yawned and said good night.

Edith sat on alone, until she heard the door close at the top of the stairs. Then she put her face in her hands and burst into tears.

She was startled when she heard George’s footsteps and looked up at the clock to see that it was eleven-thirty. George came in, looking pleased and relaxed.

Several days after Betsy’s suggestion that she become engaged to Bo Norris, Edith, Molly Prior and Anne Hutchens were sitting in Edith’s garden. It was a pleasant place, with the shade of the friendly old trees, and with the white-painted garden furniture.

“How about calling Marcia and having a game?” suggested Molly.

“Maybe she’s getting too young in her ideas to want to play about with us,” said Anne, her eyes malicious.

“I’m not so sure I like that,” Molly said frankly.

“Just what part of my innocent remark upsets you most, darling?” cooed Anne.

“None of it, pet,” answered Molly. “I meant that I’m not too crazy about our kids gathering at the feet of Marcia Eldon. Bobbie’s been going around mooning lately, and I’ve got my fingers crossed. For a while I was sure he was going to marry Anne Gray, and I was glad. She’s exactly the sort of girl I’d select for a daughter-in-law. But all of a sudden, Bobbie stopped seeing her, and he hangs around Marcia Eldon until I could scream.”

“I’d say she is pretty potent stuff for unsophisticated kids like yours,” announced Anne. “But the thing that throws me is that Peter Marshall seems to be practically living there these days.”

“Anne!” Edith cried sharply.

“What have I said
now?”
asked Anne.

Molly answered. “Since you’ve become a lady-in-waiting darling, your tongue has grown much too sharp, don’t you think?”

Anne pulled herself almost erect in the long garden chair, and her blue eyes were wide, her expression much too innocent to be convincing.

“Don’t be absurd, Molly! All I said was that Peter is at Marcia Eldon’s from dawn until midnight. It’s quite true, and I don’t see why anybody should get excited about it! After all, Peter’s free and twenty-one; and Marcia is free — supposedly — and more than twenty-one. So what if they do see a lot of each other?”