Читать книгу Crimson Roses (Musaicum Romance Classics) - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 5

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The light had been turned out in the kitchen to save electricity while they ate supper, and Marion Warren did not turn it on when she slipped away from the table with her hands full of dishes. She did not wish to have anyone see the trouble in her face. By the light that came through the open door she scraped the dishes quietly and filled her dish-pans without much noise, that she might hear what her brother was saying.

Tom Warren was a large man with heavy movements and a voice to correspond. His sister had no difficulty in hearing it above the subdued clatter of the dishes.

He had arrived home but an hour before from the trip to Vermont, whither he had gone to look at a farm that was for sale at a low price. The days of his absence had been a time of anxiety for his sister, and of eager expectations for his wife. Jennie was hovering about him now, interrupting him occasionally with a chirp of assent as she helped to clear off the table. She resembled a sparrow whose mate has just brought home a new twig for the nest.

Tom talked on in his large, complacent voice.

He was immense, pleased with his "find." The farm was all and more than it had professed to be. The house was in good repair, the location charming and healthful, the land rich and under a good degree of cultivation, with a convenient market for its produce. He had all but said that he would take it.

"A grand place for the babies to play," he said. " No one will have to stop work to cart them out into the street for the air. No brick walls, no dust, no noise. You and Marion will have nothing to interrupt you from morning till night. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away, and it's two miles to the village. That needn't bother us any; we'll have a car, of course, and when the children get old enough to go to school, Marion here can teach them all they need to know. She's always been crazy to teach. How about that, Marion? " raising his voice unnecessarily. " It isn't every family that has a schoolmarm all ready-made."

But Marion did not answer. The gentle clatter of the spoons in the dish-pan might have drowned his question. He did not stop to see.

The girl in the darkened kitchen caught her breath in a half-sobbing sigh, and the tears came into her eyes; but she kept her peace and went on with her task.

I'm going to see Matthews in the morning," went on Tom joyously. "If he sticks to his offer about buying this house, I'll accept it and bind the bargain for the farm to-morrow. Then how soon do you two ladies think you can get ready to move? If Matthews buys this house, he's likely to want possession at once."

Marion gasped, and drew her hands from the dish-water suddenly. She hesitated for an instant, then appeared like a wraith at the dining-room door, her wet hands clasped, her delicate face looking ghastly white against the dark background of the kitchen.

"Tom! " she said in an agonized voice, " Tom! "

Tom wheeled about his chair and faced her, startled from his contented planning.

"Tom! You're not going to sell this house! The house that Father worked so hard to buy and to pay off the mortgage! Our home! My—my home! Tom, you know what Father said."

The last words were almost a cry of distress.

Tom frowned uneasily. Jennie's face grew red with anger.

"That's just like you, Marion Warren! " she burst out hotly. " Three little children that you profess to love, your own nephews and niece, languishing in the crowded city air, and needing the lovely country and a chance to play on the green grass, and you letting a mere sentimental fancy for a little old house stand in the way of their life, perhaps! "

Jennie's eyes flashed sparks of steel as gray eyes can do sometimes. Marion shrank from their glance, her very soul quivering with their misunderstanding of her.

' O, now, Marion," began Tom's smooth tones, " that's all bosh about Father's slaving to pay for this house. Sentimental bosh," he added, catching at his wife's adjective. "He worked hard, of course. All men with a family do. I work hard myself. But you know perfectly well that Father wouldn't have hung on to this particular house just because he had worked hard to pay for it, if he had a good chance to better himself. It isn't throwing it away to change it into something better, and this is a great opportunity. As for its being your home, why, you'll have a home with us wherever we go; so you needn't get up any such foolish ideas as that. The farm'll be your home as much as this is in three months' time. Don't be a fool."

He said it kindly in his elder-brother way; but Marion's face grew whiter, and she stood looking at him as if she could not believe what he had said.

Her great dark eyes made him uncomfortable. He turned from her, and went to wind the clock.

"Come, hurry up, Jennie," he said with a yawn. "Let's get to sleep. I'm about played out. It's been a hard day, and I must get up early in the morning to catch Matthews before he goes to the store."

Marion dropped silently back into the kitchen, and finished her dishes. Jennie came in presently, and turned on the light with an energetic click, looking suspiciously at the silent figure wringing out the dish-towels; but Marion's face was turned from her, and she could not see whether or not there were traces of tears upon it. Marion hung up the dish-towels on the little rack beside the range and went silently upstairs.

Jennie listened until she heard the door of Marion's room close; then she went back to her husband.

"Do you think she'll make trouble about selling" this house?" she asked anxiously.

"Trouble? Pooh! She'll not make trouble," he said in his complacent voice that always soothed his wife. "She'll have her little cry over giving it up, but she'll be all right in the morning."

"But doesn't she own half of it?" queried the wife sharply. "Hasn't she a right by law to object?"'

"Yes, she owns half of it but she'll never object. Why, she'd give me her head if I told her she ought to," said the husband, laughing.

"She might give you her head," said Jennie with a, toss of her own; "but she's got a terrible will of her own sometimes, and I've an idea she's got it on the brain to go to normal school, yet."

"Nonsense!" said her husband, ponderously. "She's too old! Why, she's almost twenty-three."

"Well, you'll see!"

"Well, you'll see. I guess my sister has some sense! Come let's shut up shop."

Marion locked her bedroom door, and went straight to her white bed, kneeling beside it and burying her face in the pillow.

"O Father, Father," she whispered, "what shall I do? How can I bear it?"

Long after the house was silent she knelt there trying to think. By and by she crept over to her back window, and, sitting in her willow chair, rested her cheek against the window-frame. The spring air stole in and fanned her cheeks, and blew the tendrils of damp hair away from her temples soothingly, like a tender hand.

The Warren home was a pleasant red-brick house with white marble trimmings and marble steps. It was in a nice, respectable neighborhood, with plain, well-to-do neighbors, and neat back yards meeting on a cement-paved alleyway. In a few weeks now these back yards would be carpeted with well-kept turf and borders of gay flowers. Her own crocuses and hyacinths and daffodils that her beloved father had taught her to care for were even now beginning to peep through the earth. Her window had always framed for her a pleasant world of sights and sounds that were comfortable and prosperous. She loved to watch and compare the growing things in the green back yards, or to enjoy their clean white coverings in winter; and she knew every varying phase of cloud or clearness in the bit of sky overhead. She looked up now, a broken moon beamed kindly down between dark, tattered clouds.

Within, the room was a white haven of rest. The simple enamel bed with brass trimmings, the white bureau and wash-stand, the willow chair, the plain muslin curtains, and the gray rugs with pink borders had all been the gift of her loving father. They represented sacrifice and extra night-work after the wearisome day's toil was completed, and some had been acquired under protest of the more practical mother, who felt that the money might have been displayed to better advantage in the parlor.

Marion loved her white room. It seemed an inner shrine to fortify her soul against the trials and disappointments of life. And the bit of window view of flying cloud and neat yards and brick rows was a part of it all. The whole was linked eternally with precious memories of her dear father. And her brother was planning to take them all away! It was appalling!

It was not that she did not appreciate pure air and green grass and unlimited sky. She, more than the rest of the family, had the artist eye to see the beauties of nature. But the change meant to her a giving up of her life-ambitions, a cutting herself off from the great world of education. Ever since her childhood she had longed for a fine education and contact with the world of art and culture. She and her father had planned that she should be a teacher, and to that end she had taken great care with all her studies. Her mother had felt that she had had quite enough of school when she was graduated from the high school, but her father encouraged her to take up the normal course. But five long years of nursing had broken in upon her fondest hopes. She realized that it was rather late for her to think of going back to the normal school and completing her course. Quietly, patiently, she had relinquished the idea. Nevertheless, she had hoped to be able to do something else in the world that would bring her into contact with the things she most longed to see and hear and know. And the city was the only place where she could hope for that.

There were lectures, free libraries, great music, and sometimes exhibitions of wonderful pictures. She felt instinctively that there was still opportunity for her to acquire a certain amount of true education and mental culture; and she knew in her inmost soul that it was not to be found in that Vermont farmhouse, where the days would follow one another in a monotonous succession of homely household duties, enlivened by Jennie's pleasant shallow chatter. Jennie's idea of life was to keep one's house speckless, and then to sit down with her sewing in the afternoon and enjoy it. She could not understand what more Marion wanted.

That might be all very well for Jennie. It would be Jennie's house and Jennie's children. Jennie cared for no more. It was certainly commendable in her. She was a good wife and mother. But Marion, even though she owned a part of the house, could not seem to feel that she really belonged there, since her father's death. It was as though the home had passed into other hands.

Jennie had taken command in the house years ago, when Marion's mother first fell ill, and had always treated Marion as if she were a child who ought to do whatever she was told. There had been nothing else to do at that time, but to put Jennie in command. It had been good of Jennie to be willing to give up her own home and come to help them out. Marion had always recognized that, and tried patiently to do whatever Jennie asked in the ceaseless round of duties, relieving Jennie whenever it had been possible. But now she felt that the time had come when she could no longer go on as an under-servant, stifling the life that was in her for no reason at all. If it had been necessary for Tom's sake, or even for Jennie's or for the children's good, in any way, she would never have faltered. But there was no reason for anyone's sake why it was necessary for her to go on working in her brother's household, almost as if she were a sort of dependent. Half of the property, of course, belonged to her. And Tom had been doing a good business. He had money in the bank aside from what his father had left. If Tom went to farming he would make that pay, too. He was a stirring, successful man. He could afford to hire a servant if Jennie wanted one. And Nannie was old enough to help a good deal. She often cared for the baby when her mother was busy.

Of course, if they had stayed on here at the old home, Marion would have felt that for a time, while the baby was so young, she ought to give all the help she could to Jennie. But Jennie seemed to talk as if this state of things was to go on forever. Marion knew now that it could not. It must not.

When Tom had first heard of the farm in Vermont and began to talk about going to see it, Marion had hoped against hope that the farm would not please him. But now, as she lay awake through the long night and thought it all out, she knew that she had been sure all the time that Tom would want to sell this house and buy that farm. And she knew that back in her consciousness she had been just as sure then as she was now that she was never going to be willing to go to Vermont with them. She felt it would be like being smothered both mentally and spiritually, out in the country away from all opportunities, with no books save the few she owned, no lectures or courses of study open to her, few chance meetings with helpful people, not even a church within walking distance. Marion's church life, quiet and unobtrusive though it had been, was very dear to her, the church of her father and mother, the church of her childhood. The prospect looked utterly -dreary to her. And yet, if she refused, what was she to do? Demand her part of the money and buy another house, a smaller one? And try to keep house all by herself? That would be dreary, lonely, but peaceful perhaps. But Tom would not be able to purchase his farm, unless he had all the money that came from the sale of this house, and Tom would be bitter about it. Jennie would, anyway. Jennie's people lived in New England. She had always longed to go back.

For the first time since her father's death Marion considered seriously the matter of her inheritance.

Tom had said there was no will, and seemed to consider that it meant that they had all things in common. That might be all very well while they remained in the old home, but if they separated what ought she to do about it? Demand her share? Of course her father had intended that she should have her part. Almost his last words had been about the home. Poor Father, he would not have liked Tom to sell the house. He had loved it as much as she did. But surely she had some right in things. What ought she to do about it?

She had willingly signed all the papers Tom had brought to her at the time the estate was settled up, and asked no questions. She had been too sorrowful to care. Tom would, of course, do the right thing. Naturally, Tom would be terribly upset if she asked for money. He wanted to put everything into that farm. Also, he would think that Marion ought to stay with them and be taken care of. She did not like to stand in the way of his desires. Perhaps if she made no trouble about the sale of the house, if she quietly gave up her share he would the more readily agree to her staying in the city. In fact, after her long vigil she began to see clearly that if she could not bring herself to go with the family to the country, it was plainly her duty to give up her share of the property. This was not, of course, according to her father's plan for her, but it seemed the only way without coming to an open clash with Jennie, and hurting her brother irretrievably. If she gave up her claim, surely there was nothing left for Tom to say. She had a right to live her own life and do the things her father had planned for her to do.

Of course, she reflected, it would be a great deal harder to accomplish anything in the way of education without money. She would have to earn her living, and that would leave little time for study. But there would be a way. She was sure there would be a way for her to be independent. It was the only thing possible. It would be equivalent to mental and spiritual death to live her life out with Jennie. They had not a thought in common. She must get out and away and breathe the free air. She must live out some of the longings of her soul or she would die of stagnation. Life was not merely a round of household duties spiced with gossip and blame. Why Tom and Jennie scarcely ever even went to church. Sunday was like every other day to them, a day to get more done. They wondered at her that she cared to waste her time in teaching a Sunday School class, and why she was interested in a church that brought her no social life.

If they had stayed in the dear old home where all her precious memories clung she might have endured it, but since they were going to a strange place it was far better she should leave them. And she was conscience-free, surely, if she gave up her share of the property. If Father had left a will, it would have been different, perhaps, but since he had not done so, it was better to say nothing about it. Just let it all go. There would be some way. She would not ask for a penny.

Marion came down early the next morning and got breakfast. There were dark rings under her eyes and her lips were white; but otherwise she wore the same quiet calm that had been on her face during the patient years of serving her mother and her father.

Jennie eyed her sharply and drew a breath of relief that there was no sign of rebellion on the sweet sad face.

Tom came in with his boisterous good-morning and appeared to have forgotten all about the little outbreak of the night before. He ate his breakfast hastily and hurried off to find Matthews.

Marion washed the breakfast dishes as usual. Jennie was impatient with her that she did not talk. It seemed sullen and ugly of her. Jennie wanted to bubble over about the prospect of the farm, and was annoyed that she could not. She did not understand Marion's attitude of quiet resignation. Jennie had never cared for red brick with marble trimmings. She had lived in a suburb before she was married, and had ideas about a single house and a Dutch hall; but a Vermont farmhouse might have possibilities of spaciousness beyond even a Dutch hall.

Tom came home at noon in high glee. Matthews had paid a hundred dollars down to bind the bargain. He was to pay the remainder in ten days, and wanted possession at the end of the month.

Marion said nothing, but wore a white, pained look as if she had braced herself to receive this blow and would not wince. Jennie and Tom stole furtive glances at her, but made no reference to her words of the evening before.

Marion ate but little lunch and hurried through the dishes afterward. Jennie watched her uncertainly. At last she said:

"Marion, what if you and I take down the curtains and wash them this afternoon. We can't begin too soon to get packed. A month isn't long."

"I'm sorry," said Marion gently, as she washed her hands and hung up her apron, "but I have to go out this afternoon. I'll try to help to-morrow morning."

Then she went up to her room leaving Jennie vexed and mystified and worried. What in the world could Marion have to go out for? Why did she have to be so terribly close mouthed? She was acting very strange indeed, Jennie decided. Maybe she was going to make trouble after all. Tom was always so cocksure about everything. He ought to have had a good talk with his sister and let her get her grouch out of her system. This silent gentleness was dangerous.

She watched behind the parlor curtains and saw Marion signal a trolley going down town, and went back to her work with uneasiness. She wished Tom would come back. He ought to know Marion had gone out.

Half an hour later Marion entered the imposing building of a great trust company down in the city and timidly approached the clerk behind the steel-grated window, frightened at her own temerity, so that her voice fluttered as she asked for the president of the great concern.

"Mr. Radnor is very busy to-day," said the brusque young clerk eyeing her doubtfully, noting her shyness and shabbiness, and growing haughtier. "He has a meeting of the board of directors at three o'clock and it is quarter to three now. I doubt if he can see you this afternoon."

"Oh," said Marion with a quick little movement of her hand to her fluttering throat, "Oh, I won't keep him but a moment. If you would just tell him my name, and ask him if I can see him just for a word—it won't take long."

The clerk hesitated, but wrote down her name and gave it to a messenger, who departed through a great mahogany door into the inner regions. Marion stood palpitating. Now, if he shouldn't be able to see her to-day she would have to come again, and there was so little time! Each day counted for a lot. And when Jennie got started at tearing up the house it would be next to impossible to get away without explaining, and that would be fatal to her intentions. She felt her only chance for success was to keep her plans to herself until they had matured. Tom would surely find some way to frustrate them unless she did.

But suddenly the messenger returned through the heavy door, and nodded to the clerk, who turned with a more respectful look, and informed Marion that Mr. Radnor would see her for a moment if she would be brief.

Now it happened that the president of the trust company, who was also superintendent of Marion's Sunday School, and senior elder in the church to which she belonged, had known and respected Marion's father for a good many years, and was also a kindly soul. So when Marion, fairly frightened out of her senses, to think that she had dared to come into such an august presence, was presently ushered into his inner sanctum, he greeted her with great cordiality and seated her in one of his big leather chairs.

"Good afternoon, Miss Marion," he said beaming pleasantly upon her. He prided himself that he knew the entire Sunday School by name, and never made a mistake, although there were some fifteen hundred on the roll. "I am glad to see you, although I have but a few minutes to spare before a most important meeting. Is there anything that I can do for you? Your father was a man whom I greatly honored, and whose friendship I prized beyond most. He was a man of God if there ever was one."

Marion looked up with a sudden light in her eyes and forgot her fright.

"And he had a great admiration for you, Mr. Radnor," she said shyly. "He once said he would rather ask a favor of you than of any man he knew, because he said you treated a poor man as if he was a prince."

"Well, he was a prince if there ever was one," said the bank president heartily, "and I feel honored that he so honored me. Now, if there is any service I can render his daughter I shall be doubly pleased."

"Well," said Marion, with a sudden return of her embarrassment, "I want to get a position as a saleswoman in a department store. Could you give me a letter of introduction somewhere to someone you know? I think I could be a salesgirl. It seems to me the work would be easy to learn, and I would try with all my ability to do credit to whatever recommendation you feel you can give me."

"Why, surely," beamed Mr. Radnor heartily.

He delighted to do favors to members of his Sunday School, and it happened that this request was one that he was peculiarly able to grant just at that time. One of the chiefs in a great department store was under heavy obligation to him. He felt reasonably sure that anything he asked of the man at that time would be readily granted. Moreover, he was one who delighted to please others, especially when it cost him little trouble. He turned to bis telephone and called up his man.

Marion's cheeks glowed with pleasure as she listened to the one-sided conversation and heard the glowing praise of her father's sterling character and the kindly words about herself. In wonder she listened, and knew the gate of her desire had swung wide at the magic touch of this great man's word.

It was just one minute of three when the bank president hung up the receiver and turned to Marion graciously smiling.

"It is all right, Miss Marion," he said in the same tone he used to announce the annual Sunday School picnic, "you can have a position as soon as you are ready to take it, I think. You'll need to answer a few questions, of course, but they are mere formalities. Mr. Chapman has promised to give you something worth while. You had better go right over and make out the application blanks while it ie fresh in his mind. He said he could see you in half an hour. You are to come to the second-floor office and inquire for Mr. Chapman. Here, I'll give you my card"; and he hastily wrote across the top of his card, "Introducing Miss Marion Warren," and handed it to her.

"Don't think of thanking me. No trouble whatever. I'm only too glad that it was possible for me to do it. It is fortunate that you caught me just at this time as I am usually out of the office before this hour. Now I must go to my appointment. Sorry I can't visit with you a few minutes. I hope you'll have no trouble in securing just what you want at a good salary. He promised me he would do his best for you financially for a start and give you opportunity to rise. Come back if you have any trouble but I don't think you will. Good-afternoon. So glad you came."

It was over, the dreaded interview. Marion stood on the steps of the great building and looked back at it with awe as an employee lazily closed and fastened the great gate of shining steel bars. The massive stone building seemed to tower kindly above her as if it had been a kind of church in which some holy ordinance had been observed, so truly she felt that God had been kind to her and helped her in her need.