Bethel Merriday

She had youthfully imagined that at the end they would all sing 'Auld Lang Syne', or else that all the feuds of Tony and Zed and Jeff against Andy would break out in unconcealed brawling, now that school was over. But everybody packed mechanically, as on an ordinary night. Doc Keezer could be heard calmly arguing that Raymond Massey had played Shakespeare, and the Tony who had always planned to have a three-day drunk when the run was over was gurgling bottled orangeade in his dressing-room.

Mr. Andrew Deacon was responsible for transporting all of them back to New York. As far as Chicago they would occupy the Pullman which, since St. Louis, had been their home. It would be hitched on an eastbound train that left Pike City just after midnight, so there was no time for parties, for regrets, and they hastened direct from theatre to train.

Bethel saw that Andy was innocent of baggage. 'Where is your stuff?' she wondered. Then he admitted it:

'I'm not going with you to New York. I'll follow in a few days, but I have to stay here in Pike City, and, uh, finish up some bills and things. I'll come soon, and then we'll talk about our next theatrical venture, kitten.'

This story he told to half a dozen. They all accepted it; they were busy admiring the bunch of roses for each of the women that he had conjured out of Pike City. Mahala said that they must dine together next week. But Bethel noted that Andy got out of the Pullman, still on a siding, needlessly early, and as he stood on the cinder-lined ground looking up at it, there was a youthful desperation about him . . . It would not be impossible that, left alone here, in a spasm of loneliness and depression and humiliation, he might--

She busied herself with quietly moving her bags one by one to the farther vestibule platform of the Pullman; then, in the darkness, lifting them down to the ground and carrying them to the station platform. She rejoined the bustling, home-going exiles in the Pullman; she talked of the beauties of New York, but as the Pullman was attached to the train, she slipped out to the vestibule again.

She looked back, perhaps for the last time, at her beloved family: kind Doc and Mabel, already playing pinochle, handsome old Hugh Challis and--

She could not endure looking long at him, but her whole vision was flooded with the sight of Zed Wintergeist as he wedged himself in a seat between piles of books. His shoulders were relaxing, strong shoulders on which she would never rest her forehead. If she was to go, if for loyalty she was to give up Zed, it must be quickly.

She scuttled down from the vestibule to the platform, on the dark side of the train, just before the porter closed the vestibule doors.

When the train moved away, with Andy running beside it and waving . . . and crying . . . she was watching from the station waiting-room.

Andy tramped away, up Main Street. She left her bags with the friendly night operator at the station and followed him.

He entered Pete's Lunch--one of the scores of Pete's Lunches they had known since New York. He sat at the end of a long marble-topped table and ordered a hamburger and coffee . . . Two nights ago she had been taken back to the memory of dressing for A Doll's House; now, in the spiral of life, she was taken back seven years further, to Caryl McDermid and Elsie Krall at a beanery table in Sladesbury.

She sat two chairs away from him; she ordered coffee in a half-whisper. Andy did not see her for two minutes. Then he raised his head, stared at her, dropped his eyes, looked at her again yes, a 'double take', right out of farce technique--and said, as inevitably he must say, 'What are you doing here? Did the train stop?'

'No. I did. I was worried about you.'

'I couldn't stand seeing any of them again, except you, and I didn't see how I could detach you from the others. I'm glad you did the detaching.'

'What are you going to do, Andy?'

'Before I finish this hamburger sandwich, I'm going to decide whether I'll take my estimable place in Uncle Alex Pilchard's bank, or start writing to the theatre managers--the real managers!--for a job. And I suppose that decision will govern the rest of my life.'

'But aren't you broke? You shouldn't have bought us roses. And listen, Andy, if you are broke--please let me!--I've saved up a little--'

'Darling! I can wire home for enough to get back to New York--though as my faithful secretary you know that's all I can get, now!'

'But you'll come back to the stage.'

'You bet I will!'

With one of the complete changes she had often seen in Andy, he was suddenly confident.

'And I won't just go on acting, either. I'll be producing again, in a couple of years. Maybe as early as this year, I'll have a summer theatre again--and not with Roscoe Valentine--I don't like the way he gyps the students. I know where I can get one for almost nothing. And I have plans: A big Shaw festival in summer, like the musical festival at Stockbridge! A New York stock company! I can do it now. I've learned my lesson on this tour. Better casting and stricter discipline. Oh, a thousand things I want to do. . . .'

He raved on, while Bethel was glad to hear the youth in his assured voice. He ended abruptly with:

'And that's why I want you to marry me, kitten!'

'Eh?'

'Sort of funny, isn't it!--proposing to you at Pete's Lunch, in Pike City, Kansas, with the counterman trying to hear what we're saying! But it wasn't till I thought you'd gone off on the train and I was left flat that I realized how for months I've depended on your affection and loyalty and good sense--and your eyes--always such a gay light in them. Oh, my Beth, I do long to:

'seize     On the white wonder of dear--Bethel's--hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips.'

He was holding her hand so tenderly, his smile was so expectant, that only by compulsion could she make herself speak:

'Andy, you don't love me the least bit--really love--just all out--nothing held back.'

'Why of course I do!'

'No.'

'But anyway, Beth, you love me a little?'

'I don't think so. You're my dearest friend, but you don't make me into any kind of a glorious fool!'

At that moment Zed Wintergeist walked into the lunchroom and came up to them, observing without any punctuation:

'It's a damn good thing that train stops at a junction two miles out I managed to get a fellow to drive me here he stung me five dollars to drive me here the dirty hound Bethel come here and stop this nonsense you know we love each other and stop this nonsense hello Andy.'

Andy spoke. Bethel didn't hear too much of it because her face was against Zed's coat, which seemed to have grown enormous and enveloping. But the end of Andy's oration, presented with reason and a good deal of manly indignation, was:

'. . . I've stood a lot of impertinence from you, Zed, but when it comes to your trying to rush my girl off her feet by your backwoods tactics, I'm--I'm not going to stand it!'

Zed answered cheerfully, 'Sorry, old man, I really am, but this seems to have been settled for us.'

'Will you kindly sit down and give me a chance to talk?'

'Okay. I'm hungry.'

Zed casually dropped her into a chair, yanked out a chair for himself, ordered Western sandwiches all around, and commanded Andy, 'Shoot!'

But it was at Bethel that Andy scolded:

'I can understand your being fascinated by Zed. But he'll make you horribly unhappy. He'll be cruel. And he'll never be true to you.'

Zed cried, with none of his mockery, 'That's a lie! I will be true to her. I've grown up that much, these last few weeks. Beth, please believe that!'