Betsy Was a Junior and Betsy and Joe (13 page)

When they parted there, she was rewarded. She gave Dave her hand and said, “I had a very nice time.” He didn't answer but he held her hand firmly, and his fascinating, unexpected smile flickered across his face.

“So did I. I'll take you to the next dance,” he announced.

“Oh—will you?” Betsy cried joyfully. The absurdity of her response didn't dawn on her until she was telling Tib after the boys had left. Then they went off into peals of laughter.

“Oh—will you?” Betsy mimicked, dropping to her knees, lifting her arms beseechingly.

“Betsy! You
dumm kopf
! You are very lucky that he wants to take you again.”

School next day was given over to skylarking. Boys were waving mistletoe; the blackboards were decorated with cartoons, slams and jokes. Assembly included a Christmas tree, with Mr. Gaston acting as Santa Claus. One after another various students were called to the platform to receive joke presents.

Suddenly Betsy heard her name. “Will Miss Betsy Warrington Ray Humphreys Markham Edwards Brandish Hunt and so forth please come forward?” She had started down the aisle with the first name. A new one thundered out with every step she took. She reached the platform covered with blushes while the assembly room roared with laughter.

Mr. Gaston, grinning broadly, held a curling iron.

“This,” he read loudly, “is to curl the bang now growing on your lily-white, intellectual brow.”

Betsy accepted it to hilarious applause.

She acted plagued, of course, and ran down from the platform, ducking her head. But she was really thoroughly pleased. She must be that most desirable object, a “popular” girl. “Popular” with boys, of course.

Before she dropped off to sleep that night, she relived the whole scene, smiling in the darkness.

“It was awfully silly,” she thought. “But I'm glad Joe Willard heard that rigamarole of names. It showed him that I wasn't just sitting around home thinking about him.”

T
HE CURLING IRON WASN'T
the only joke present Betsy received that year. There were always joke presents in the Rays' Christmas stockings. Every year Mrs. Ray received an onion, tastefully wrapped, with a card from one Henry Tucker, who had once been her beau. The writing always looked like Mr. Ray's. Julia's old beaus sent onions, too, and Mr. Ray was
often presented with a worn-out boot or shoe from Helmus Hanson, who ran the rival shoe store. Anna got chunks of coal from Charlie. Empty salmon cans from Washington, old bones from Abie bulged in Margaret's black-ribbed stockings.

This gave a flavor to Christmas morning quite different from Christmas Eve which was solemn and beautiful. By firelight and Christmas-tree light the family sang the old familiar carols. Betsy read from Dickens'
A Christmas Carol
, Margaret recited “'Twas the Night before Christmas,” and Julia, grave and reverent, read the story of Jesus' birth out of the book of Luke.

When this was over, they turned out the lights and filled one another's stockings with smothered giggles which anticipated next morning's fun. “Now you all stay in bed until the house is warm,” Mr. Ray always said.

In the morning he shook down the furnace, and heat came up through the registers along with the smell of sausages and coffee. After he had kindled a fire in the grate and Anna had set breakfast on the table to be consumed at will, the gong summoned the rest of the family. Each one rushed to the chair which held his stocking.

Theoretically each one unwrapped a gift in turn but it didn't work out that way. Mr. Ray always forgot to
open his; he cared more about watching other people open theirs and sat with crossed legs, smiling benevolently, or moved about, gathering up the discarded paper and ribbons, folding what was usable and burning what wasn't. He handed out the larger boxes which were piled under the Christmas tree and kept going to the table to replenish breakfast plates.

“Have another cup of coffee, Jule. Eat another sausage, Betsy. It won't hurt you.”

Everyone else snatched at his own gifts, exclaiming and squealing. Julia and Betsy received combing jackets, the latest fad. Lacy and beribboned, they hung on one's bedpost when not in use. Julia raved over a new blue bathrobe. Margaret clasped a teddy bear and
Mary Ware, the Little Colonel's Chum
. Betsy had her eyes on a big oblong box, wrapped in red and green tissue, which lay under the Christmas tree. It was just the right size to hold furs.

Sure enough, when her father reached that box, he brought it to Betsy. She tried to restrain her smile as she untied the ribbons.

“Now what can this be?” she kept saying, never doubting that it was her longed-for set of furs.

She lifted off the cover and found another box inside.

“This is a joke present!” she cried, but she didn't really think so. The second box, she noted hopefully, was plenty big enough for furs.

The second box, however, yielded a third one and the third, a fourth. The boxes were getting too small for furs now, except for a muff, perhaps. This one might hold a muff….

But it didn't. It held a tissue-wrapped package, and that held another, and another.

“Stars in the sky!” Anna kept shouting, throwing her arms up and down.

Betsy, tearing off papers, hid her disappointment under laughter. The family watched her, laughing, too. Margaret watched from her father's knee, one arm around his neck. At the very end Betsy found a ring box.

“You're going to find an elegant ring, lovey,” Anna interjected breathlessly. But the box held only a paper. Betsy unfolded it and read, in her father's printing, “HUNT.”

“Hunt? Hunt? Dave Hunt?”

“We knew you'd think that,” shrieked Margaret, her little freckled face blazing with excitement.

Her father was chuckling so hard that his stomach shook. “I don't see any ‘Dave' on that paper. You've got Dave Hunt on the brain.”

“But it says ‘Hunt.'”

“Yes, ‘Hunt.' Need a dictionary?”

Betsy jumped up, scattering the multitude of boxes. She was off like a flash, running upstairs and down, flinging open drawers and closets. Down in the
vegetable bin she found a big box, the size of the first one.

Clutching it joyfully, she raced back to the fire and while the family crowded about, she lifted out a set of furs. They were fluffy blue fox, a neck piece, a muff, even a fur hat with a
chou
of green velvet on the side.

“Papa! Mamma!” She rushed about kissing, then ran to the music-room mirror.

She wore them to church later. She went with Julia, who was singing in the choir during Christmas vacation, and with Tony who had unexpectedly expressed a wish to go. The sidewalks were covered with a thin powdering of frost and the snowbanks seemed to have been sprinkled with diamonds.

Tony held an elbow of either girl. He was wearing a new overcoat, and his red Christmas tie looked well with his black eyes.

Betsy smoothed down her boa, reached up to stroke her hat, snuggled her face into the muff.

“Now, now, Miss Ray! Forget those furs and think about church.”

“I am thinking about church. I'm thinking how nice I look in my new furs going to church. I just love Christmas!” Betsy added, sliding along the frosty walk.

“So do I,” said Julia, “especially at our house. It's shocking how some people manage Christmas—tell each other ahead of time about their presents—no
surprises, no suspense, no drama. Papa and Mamma put such a thrill in it.”

“Why, I never thought it was Papa and Mamma,” said Betsy, sounding puzzled.

“I appreciate our home more since I've been away,” said Julia.

“I appreciate the Ray house myself,” Tony remarked. “You may notice that I honor it with my presence now and then.”

“In spite of the fact,” said Betsy, “that you're quite indifferent to the daughters.”

“Oh, quite! Quite!”

She grabbed him. “You'll go into that snowdrift. You and your Christmas tie!”

Laughing his deep laugh Tony struggled with her.

“Children, behave!” Julia said.

The church was filled with a spicy fragrance; the altar was luminously white. From her place in the choir Betsy watched Tony fumbling at the pages of the prayer book, hesitantly kneeling and rising. She heard his rich, deep voice in the hymns.

“I just love Tony,” she thought to herself.

The text of the sermon came from that chapter in the book of Luke which Julia had read aloud last night—“…
because there was no room for them in the Inn
.”

Rev. Mr. Lewis said that the text was symbolical of Jesus' short life on earth and of the attitude of
Christians. He was ever asking for admission into their lives—their business, social and private lives—but he could not remain where there was graft in business, envy and hatred in society or sin in people's hearts. These things crowded him out.

“I'll never forget that sermon,” remarked Julia, walking home.

“I liked it, too,” Betsy said.

“Our lives can hold just so much. If they're filled with one thing, they can't be filled with another. We ought to do a lot of thinking about what we want to fill them with.”

“See here!” said Tony, “I've heard one sermon today.” But he didn't mind Julia's preaching; his black eyes were soft.

Betsy thought about it again after dinner, walking down to Miss Cobb's with a present for Leonard. Okto Delta had crowded a good many things out of her winter—reading, friends like Hazel Smith, telling stories to Margaret, even the early service at church she had always loved so much.

“It hasn't hurt my music lessons, nor my work for Miss Fowler. I wrote the best essay in class on The Elizabethan Age.”

But she felt dissatisfied, and resolved to make a long list of resolutions when the new year arrived.

By New Year's, however, she had forgotten her
resolution to make resolutions. The holidays struck Deep Valley like a snowball, exploding with soft glitter in all directions. There were family dinners, visits to country relatives, parties for young and old.

Mr. and Mrs. Ray were always on the go, and Julia had a new “college man” down from the cities. He, too, brought Betsy a fraternity pennant. His fraternity was a different one from Roger Tate's.

Roger's successor was one Pat McFadden, a tall, resplendent Irishman with thick black hair, blue-grey eyes and a flattering tongue.

“He used to go with Norma—you know, that stunning blonde Epsilon Iota. And with lots of other girls. I took him away from half the co-eds on the campus,” Julia told Betsy.

Betsy could well believe it. She and Tib were so infatuated that Julia was almost obliged to plot to get rid of them as she had when they were children. Even Tacy liked him—perhaps because he was Irish.

“Top of the morning,” she would greet him, her blue eyes sparkling. They talked to each other in brogue.

One reason Tacy liked him was that he was a singer. He had a fine baritone voice. The Rays asked him to sing for everyone who dropped in, and the more people who dropped in the better he liked it. He usually sang the Toreador song from
Carmen
.

Carmen
had been given in Minneapolis, and Pat and Julia had heard it together. They were enthralled by it but Mr. Ray grew tired of the Toreador song.

“I'll take your beau anytime, Betsy. Silent Dave is good enough for me.”

The Okto Deltas had a whirl of parties, all written up in the
Deep Valley Sun
. There was an Okto Delta tree at Alice's, and Betsy acquired a fine supply of neckbows, back combs, pin cushions, hair receivers.

The Okto Deltas and eight boys drove to St. John in the Blue Jay, a big bob sleigh with hay in the bottom. The night was cold, the snowy landscape ghostly, but the stars had a living brightness in the rich purple sky. Betsy sat next to Dave, tucked under a buffalo robe. Sticks of lemon candy, each stuck into half a lemon, were distributed among the riders. They blew horns, sang in harmony, hopped out of the sleigh and ran alongside, throwing snowballs and even washing faces. Sleighbells jingled and the horses' hoofs rang, and there was an oyster stew at the end of their journey.

Next came the Okto Delta progressive dinner. This was for girls only and each course was served in a different home. It was exhilarating to troop from house to house in the biting cold.

They went to Winona's for the appetizer. With the fruit cup each one received a favor. They went to
the Rays' for the fish course; to the Kellys' for turkey; to the Mullers' for salad.

For place cards Tib made cartoons of the girls; Betsy was shown in the new red princesse dress and out of her mouth in a balloon came “David Copperfield.” At Irma's, where there was black and orange icing on the cakes, the place cards were slams again. “Silence is golden,” Betsy's said. After dinner coffee was served at Carney's, along with apples, nuts and candy. Nut meats had been removed from the walnuts and mottoes were sealed inside. Betsy's said:

“Silence is more eloquent than words.”

“The boys were almost crazy,” Betsy wrote to Herbert, her Confidential Friend, “because they couldn't make out what kind of a party it was, nor whose house it was at, nor anything. Their royal highnesses were offended to think we could have any fun without them.”

Perhaps the progressive dinner turned the trick. At any rate the boys decided to get up a fraternity.

They decided at a spirited party attended by the Okto Deltas in the clubhouse above Lloyd's garage. The eight couples played five hundred and the boys cooked supper in chafing-dishes. They became the Omega Deltas. (The girls thought they knew what the name meant.) There was only one fly in the ointment of general rejoicing. Tony refused to join.

“I tell you I don't like the things. They leave too many people out. I know a fellow who was left out at the U, a swell guy, too, and he was cut up about it. Do you know what they call the ones who don't join? ‘Barbs,' ‘barbarians.'”

Betsy was indignant. “We don't call the girls who aren't Okto Deltas ‘barbs,'” she said. But she had a brief unpleasant memory of Hazel Smith at the St. John game. Okto Delta
wasn't
popular in high school, although so many of its members were.

Betsy did not like to recall this conversation, and she didn't like the fact that the fraternity-sorority business would probably force Tony out of the Crowd. Parties from now on would be for the Okto and Omega Deltas, of course. It was too bad of Tony, she thought.

On the last night of vacation Julia's crowd had a dance. Pat had brought along a dress suit and Julia wore black with a bright red rose at the V of the neck. Mr. Ray didn't like it very well; black was considered daring for girls. But Julia looked lovely, her skin transparently white against the dark silk.

They didn't go to Heinz's after the dance but came home, where Betsy's Crowd had just come in from coasting. They all raided the ice box, and Pat sang the Toreador song. (Fortunately Mr. Ray could sleep through anything.) When the gathering broke up the
girls went to Betsy's room, which Julia was sharing during Pat's visit.

“Wasn't Pat in glorious voice?” asked Julia, striking a Carmenlike pose before the mirror.

“Glorious! I'm crazy about Pat.”

“He wants me to wear his fraternity pin.”

“Are you going to?”

“Maybe. It would certainly impress the Epsilon Iotas. Not that they need impressing!” She took her hand off her hip and dropped down on the bed. “What I'd really like,” she said earnestly, “is to go to Germany next year with Fraulein von Blatz. She's going back to Berlin and taking a few pupils with her. Wouldn't it be wonderful if I could go?”

“Perhaps Papa would let you.”

“I'm not going to ask him. He's said he wants me to go through college and I've agreed to do it. He's even promised to stake me to some study abroad later on, although he doesn't really want me to be an opera singer. Papa's so good to us, Bettina! No, I'll stick to my part of the bargain, but it's hard.”