The Girl Next Door (Crimson Romance)
Peggy Gaddis
Avon, Massachusetts
“No night so dark but brings the constant sun
With love and power untold … ”
Chapter One
Betsy Drummond sat in the darkest corner of the old carriage house. Outside, a spring morning spread a mantle of beauty over the countryside. Meadows were green and soft with new grass; along the river, yellow-green willows bent over their graceful reflections.
And yet — in the old carriage house, Betsy Drummond shrank back, a black bandage over her eyes.
“This is what it’s like to be blind,” she told herself. “This is what Pete knows. Never to see again! Oh, Pete, darling, I can’t stand it! Not for you, Pete.”
Peter had loved beauty; he had loved to walk through the woods and fields in the spring. He had seen beauty even in bare fields, and had pointed out to Betsy the myriad color tones of the newly turned earth. And now — Peter was blind, hopelessly blind!
Betsy had fought against that knowledge since the morning, such a short while ago, that Peter’s mother had stood before her, gray-faced and white-lipped, and told her the truth.
“We’ve got to help him, Betsy,” Mrs. Marshall had said. “He doesn’t want us to come to the hospital. He wants to come home alone. All we can do is wait till he’s ready to come back to us.”
Betsy shivered. She couldn’t tell Mrs. Marshall that Peter would not be coming home to her — Betsy. Peter wasn’t in love with her, never had been. They’d been pals, and had wrangled amicably. Betsy had tagged his footsteps until sometimes he had chased her home, as he would an annoying puppy.
Ever since she could remember, Betsy had loved Peter Marshall. But he had just grinned at her, called her “Carrot-top,” pulled her pigtails, and teased her. Six years makes a terrific difference in ages when you’re growing up. But Peter was twenty-four now, and Betsy was almost nineteen.
She had written to him faithfully through the long three years he’d been in Vietnam. She had written him daily, but she only mailed one letter a week. The others were put away in a small locked jewel box in the bottom of her bureau, where no one would ever see them. In these letters, she had poured out her young heart, revealing all its small inner secrets. In the letter she had let herself mail each week, she had been the happy-go-lucky youngster he remembered. From the brief, scrawled answers he had sent her, she knew he still thought of her as the leggy, carrot-topped youngster she’d been when he went away.
Peter would never see her now, as she had grown up. Her hair was a rich mahogany-red, the coltish young figure had filled out; the golden-brown eyes were steady and honest, and the small line of freckles that marched across her impertinent little nose were almost hidden by the warm sun-tan that gave her such a healthy, wholesome look.
And soon now he was coming home — blind! She bowed her bandaged head on her knees and wept… .
She was so absorbed in her misery that she did not hear the protesting squeak with which the doors of the carriage house swung open. The warm flood of April sunlight could not penetrate the thick bandage over her eyes. It was not until a voice spoke that she started up so swiftly that her head struck a low beam. Her hands shook as she tore off the bandage.
A woman stood in the doorway, outlined by the sunlight. For a moment, Betsy’s eyes were so blinded that she saw the figure only as a blur.
“Oh — hello,” said the woman, obviously startled. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. I had no idea anyone was here. The place looks as if nobody has been here in a hundred years or so.”
“I — that is — it’s the old Cunningham place,” Betsy stammered. “It’s been closed for years. I live next door.”
Now that her eyes were focused against sunlight, she could see that the woman was attractive. Thick, shining dark hair was tucked into a roll that framed her face. She had large brown eyes, a warm-lipped mouth, and a straight, beautiful nose that made Betsy all the more conscious of the impertinent tilt of her own.
The woman, who was bareheaded, was wearing a smart suit of summer tweed, its jacket flung across her shoulders. The bright yellow sweater, which she wore in lieu of a blouse, seemed to accentuate her dark beauty.
“I’m Marcia Eldon,” she said, and there was still a look of curiosity in her eyes as she took in the small, dejected figure in crumpled blue flannel shorts and white shirt. “I’ve rented the place for a year. I’m going to live here — that is, I suppose it will really be existing, not living.” Her lips curled in a grimace of distaste.
Betsy’s eyes widened. “You’re going to live here — in Centerville?” She repeated.
Marcia Eldon nodded; then her eyes swept the carriage house disparagingly. “I admit I haven’t the faintest idea what you are doing here,” she said, “but please feel free to use the place. I’m sure there’s plenty of room for my car — and you, as well.” She waited for Betsy to explain.
Betsy hesitated, and her face flushed. “Oh,” she muttered unhappily, “I just came in here to — to think something out.”
Marcia laughed and looked about the place, which was thick with dust, hung with cobwebs, and unmistakably a happy-hunting-ground for rats.
“It must have been something that required a lot of concentration,” she drawled. “Or aren’t you afraid of spiders and mice?”
“Of course not.” Betsy turned toward the loose plank at the back, through which she always slipped. “I’ll be seeing you around, I suppose,” she said hurriedly, and pushed back the plank.
“You ridiculous child! Why not go out through the door?” exclaimed Marcia, annoyed.
But Betsy had already slipped through the opening, and was flying across what had once been a vegetable garden, toward the tall hedge.
In her room, Betsy got out of the dusty shorts and the shirt, and her scuffed saddle shoes. She took a shower and dressed in a crisp cotton frock, tied her curls back with a ribbon, and ran down the front steps and out into the street. She was thankful to have escaped her mother, because she felt that she couldn’t bear to talk to her. Mother was so gentle and understanding, but — to Betsy — even the kindest word was like a finger pressing upon an unbearable painful spot.
She chose back lanes and side streets as she hurried across town. Presently she came to a quiet little street that ended on a bluff above the river. Here a small, sturdy cottage sat in a thick grove of pines. Behind it were neat chicken runs, a few fruit trees and a small vegetable garden.
Betsy went up the walk and around the house to where rustic chairs were grouped beneath a giant water oak. Beyond it, a small garden flaunted all the heavily fragrant flowers one could imagine — gardenias, roses, spice-pinks… .
An old man sat in one of the rustic chairs. His white head lifted alertly as Betsy came across the lawn, walking as quietly as she could. Before she reached him, he laughed and said;
“Betsy, my dear, how nice to see you!”
Betsy smiled uncertainly.
“I never get over being surprised that you know who it is, before I so much as open my mouth,” she told him, dropping down in a chair beside him.
The old man’s sightless eyes were turned toward her and his smile was friendly and fond.
“That’s because when one loses the sense of sight, my dear, the other senses are intensified. There are no two people on earth whose footsteps are exactly alike; just as no two voices are identical. You’ve been crying, Betsy,” he added quietly.
There was a hint of reproach in his voice and Betsy’s face crumpled, although she tried hard not to weep.
“I’m sorry, Professor. I — I’ve
tried
— like the dickens.”
He nodded. “I know you have, my dear. It’s very hard. But when Peter comes, you want to be brave and strong, to help him. If he sees you crying — ”
“I won’t let him see me — ” She broke off and set her teeth tight in her lower lip. It wouldn’t be hard to keep Peter from seeing, she reflected, unhappily. He would never see again!
Professor Hartley said, “Don’t you want to see Tamar’s son? He’s developing beautifully.”
“Oh, yes!” Betsy agreed, and some of her pain and misery vanished.
The old man whistled and two dogs came leaping towards him. One was a full-grown German shepherd; the other, a half-grown pup. The grown dog paused at the professor’s knee and his hand reached out and caressed her. The puppy frolicked a moment, but at a word from the man, he came obediently and the thin old hands fitted a harness to his shoulders.
“Try him out, Betsy,” suggested the professor.
She bound a handkerchief over her eyes, put her hand on the curved wooden harness above the dog’s shoulders and he walked her patiently about the garden, skilfully avoiding trees, bushes, any obstacle in their path. Even when she exerted pressure on the harness, the dog could not be forced to walk into any obstruction.
She whipped off the handkerchief, knelt and put her arms about the young dog, fondling him. There were tears in her eyes and in her voice as she talked to him.
“He’s a darling, Professor,” she said. “You’ve been swell to give him to me and to help me train him for Pete.”
“I can only hope he will give Peter the comfort and companionship his mother has given me. Come here, Betsy.”
She released the dog, took off the harness, and went to sit beside the old man.
“You’re growing up, Betsy,” he said gently. “Sorrow makes one adult far more than years. You’re facing up, and I’m proud of you.”
Betsy set her teeth hard. “I’m not the one that needs to be brave,” she said unsteadily. “It’s Pete — ”
“And don’t you think he will be?”
“Oh — of course.”
“Betsy, you must realize one thing.” The professor’s voice was quiet, but there was a ring of conviction in it “There are compensations, even for blindness. Perhaps you never see beauty again — but you can never forget it. A well-loved face grows more beautiful in your memory; it never grows old. Spring never dies; the flowers never fade; the sky is always blue, and the sun bright gold. The things you have once seen are in your memory for always, and they grow more precious with the years. Even if your eyes no longer see, your heart never forgets.”
He paused for a moment, as if recalling pictures out of the past. Then he went on:
“Losing your sight gives you a keener appreciation of the senses left to you. Music seems even more beautiful; voices you’ve loved are clearer; the fragrance of a rose is a keener delight than it ever was when you could both see and smell it. Life, my dear, even without sight, is a glorious adventure. Try always to remember that — won’t you?”
“I’ll try.”
Professor Hartley nodded. “I am deeply grateful that I did not lose my sight until I was well on in years. I have the memory of the things of beauty to store in my mind. Peter has many years of usefulness and happiness ahead.”
“Happiness!” Betsy’s voice scorned the word.
“Yes — happiness,” the old man repeated. “Never forget that, Betsy. It will be hard for Peter, at first; he’s young, unreconciled, bitter. It’s only natural that he should be. He’s going to need cheerful companionship, friendliness — but don’t try to give him more than he is ready to take. Don’t try to make him lean on you. Help him to be self-reliant, to live a normal life.”
“I’ll try,” she repeated.
The old man smiled and patted her hand. “That’s all anybody can do, Betsy,” he told her.
Centerville was a town of about five thousand; peaceful, pleasant, moving slowly in its placid days and nights. The center of a rich farming country, it boasted a small but prosperous textile mill and a few minor industries.
