Читать книгу Crimson Roses (Musaicum Romance Classics) - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 6

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She hurried to the department store, full of tremors. As in a dream, she passed through the ordeal there. She came out a half hour later dazed with the rapidity of the machinery through which she had passed. She went to the waiting-room, and sat down for a minute or two to think it over and steady herself. She dared not go home to her sister-in-law with the strangeness of it all upon her. It seemed queer to her that people passing back and forth in the store did not look at her and see from her eyes that something unusual had happened to her. She was engaged, regularly engaged, as a saleswoman, although it had been strongly impressed upon her that the size of the salary she was receiving was entirely due to the influence of the bank president and that, in the words of the brusque Mr. Chapman, it was "up to her" to get more pay as rapidly as she chose. It was at the ribbon-counter that she was to begin, but perhaps some day she might attain to the book department. Mr. Chapman had intimated that there might be a vacancy there soon, and he would see. Her eyes shone in anticipation. To handle books! To know them as if they were people, acquaintances!

To be among them all day long! What joy that would be!

She sat quietly thinking it over for at least ten minutes, looking around on the great store with its rising galleries and vaulted arches; listening to the heavenly music that came from the organ up in the heights somewhere among those tiers of white and gold pillars. It was her store. She was part of it. In a little while she was to be one of the wheels in the great mechanism that made this institution possible. She would be where she could watch the multitude of passing faces, hear the grand music, and now and then catch passing bits of uplifting conversation. It was wonderful, wonderful! How glad her father would have been! Of course he would have been sorry, grieved, that it must be just as a salesgirl she was to start out in life, and not as a teacher; but that could not be, and she knew he would have been glad of this opportunity for her.

Then, with a little quaking in her heart at the thought of Tom and Jennie and what they would say, she rose hurriedly and wended her way through the store; a little frail figure of a girl, with shining eyes and a flower face, her plain, neat, street suit and black felt hat attracting little attention beside the gaudy spring attire that flaunted itself on every hand.

She had to stand in the trolley car nearly all the way home; far it was after five o'clock, and cross, tired shoppers filled up every seat before the shy girl could reach them. The red had faded from her cheeks by the time she reached home, and Jennie noticed that she looked worn and tired, albeit the glow in the girl's eyes puzzled her.

"Where on earth have you been?" she questioned sharply. "I should think with all there is to do you might have hurried home."

"I have been to see someone," said Marion as she had planned to say. "I came home as soon as I could."

"H'm!" said her sister-in-law significantly. "Well, I've taken down all the curtains and washed them this afternoon, and I'm tired; so you can get supper. You better hurry, for Tom has to go out this evening early."

Without answering, Marion laid aside her hat and coat, and obediently went into the kitchen, tying on her apron as she went. In spite of her she could not get rid of a felling of guilt in the presence of her sister-in-law, but out in the kitchen by herself she felt like singing at thought of the prospect before her. She would not have to take orders from Jennie any more, nor bear her frowns and sharp words. She would be her own mistress. There might be orders in the store, of course there would, but she would have her hours, and her times when she might do as she pleased. Her whole life would not be under unsympathetic surveillance.

But Jennie was not nearly as unconcerned as she tried to appear. She was genuinely worried. Had Marion somehow found that will? Did she suspect that it had been hidden? She longed to go to the old desk and see whether it was still where she had hidden it, but she did not dare lest Marion should see her and suspect something.

"Do you suppose she's been to see a lawyer about whether she's got to sign away her part of the house?" questioned Jennie in a whisper when Tom came home.

"Nonsense! Jennie," exclaimed her husband, "what's got into you? Marion won't make a fuss. She never did in her life. She's a meek little thing. She wouldn't dare. You'll find her as interested in the plans as you are in a few days."

"Well, I'm not so sure," said his wife with set lips. "I shall breathe easier when that deed is signed."

"Fiddlesticks!" said her husband. "You leave Marion to me, and for pity's sake don't talk to her about it. Half the trouble in this world is made by this continual haranguing. Women always have to yammer a lot about everything. It makes a man sick!"

Nevertheless at the dinner table he eyed his sister surreptitiously and seemed anxious to conciliate her. He talked a lot in a loud breezy tone, and tried to make them all laugh. He laughed a great deal himself, and spoke of what nice times they were going to have on the farm. He passed Marion the cake 'twice, instead of eating the last piece himself as he usually did.

"How about it, girls?" he asked jovially as he carefully picked up some crumbs on the tablecloth beside his plate. "Can we get packed up in three weeks?"

"Of course!" said Jennie sharply, not daring to look at Marion.

"How about it, Marion, do you think we can?" asked her brother, as Marion arose to clear off the table.

"Why, I should think so," said Marion coolly as she gathered up a stack of dishes.

She felt as if she were shouting it, and marvelled how willing she was now to have the house sold, if sold it must be, since she had a new life before her. Not that she was at all reconciled to leaving her home, but she had decided that it was the right thing to do to let Tom get his farm, and having decided, she had put it away from her thoughts. She knew the wrench was going to be very great when it came, but she did not feel quite so bitter about it, now that she had a prospect of something besides the desolation of a farm life in Jennie's continual company.

But she did not want her brother to discover her secret yet, so she hurried out of the room lest he suspect something in her acquiescence to his plans. She knew that the traditions of the family made it imperative that she should be taken care of. Tom was old-fashioned. He would not think it right to leave her alone in the city. He would feel he was not doing his duty by her. Tom was determined to do right by her, though his ideas of what were right for her were sometimes out of focus.

She had not yet planned how to carry out the rest of the project, nor how to break the news to her brother that she was not going with him to Vermont. But if he found it out too soon he would surely manage to upset all her plans, and perhaps make it necessary for her to go after all.

But Tom was not of a suspicious nature, and was too conceited to think that his sister would stand out long against him. So he only raised his eyebrow? at his wife with a knowing "See, Jennie?" and began to whistle.

After that the packing went merrily forward, and no one could complain that Marion did not do her share, though all the time her heart was exceedingly sorrowful at leaving her old home.

When Wednesday evening came, Marion hurried through the dishes, and put on her coat and hat. I "Marion, you're never going to prayer meeting to-night after the way you've worked to-day!" exclaimed Jennie disapprovingly. "I think you owe it to us to stay at home and rest, if you won't consider your own feelings. There's more yet to do tomorrow. You ought to stay at home and go to bed."

Marion turned in dismay at this new obstacle to her plans. She had been troubled to seem to dissemble about the prayer meeting, but it was the only way to get a chance to go out and hunt a boarding-place without being questioned, and a whole week was gone already. She looked at her sister-in-law in distress.

"I would rather go, Jennie," she said, and felt as if she were uttering a lie. "You know I am used to going out Wednesday night "

"Well there's such a thing as carrying religion too far and making it ridiculous. You're going away from here soon now, anyway, and it doesn't matter one prayer meeting more or less. From now on I think you'll be plenty busy without prancing off to that church where the folks don't care a straw about you, anyway. Besides, if you have any strength left, I wish you'd stay at home and help me let down Nannie's dress for travelling. She's grown so tall it won't do at all."

Marion stood uncertainly by the door. Was it possible she must stay at home this evening? Just then help arose from an unexpected source.

"Oh, let her go if she wants to, Jennie. She always was a great one for church, and we're going off in the country where she can't get to church often. She might as well take her fill before we leave. As for letting down Nannie's dress, I'd wait till I got there, for she'll have trouble in going on a half-fare ticket if you make her look a day older. Run along, Marion; you've earned your evening. Do as you like with it."

Marion cast a grateful look at her brother, and hurried out into the darkness, still feeling guilty with the knowledge that she was not going to church to-night, yet afraid to say anything lest she should be stopped.

Tom retired behind his paper, while his wife informed him that he made a perfect little goose out of Marion. No wonder she was spoiled. If he was half as good to his wife, he'd have kept his sister at home to help her this evening. She was too tired to put the children to bed.

Whereupon he informed her dryly that Marion was nearly twenty-three years old, and didn't have to do as she was told, in fact, didn't have to live with them at all; so he didn't exactly see the point. After which he folded up his paper and put the children to bed himself, which process mollified his wife somewhat, but also gave him a period in which to reflect on the usefulness of unmarried sisters.

Marion's evening was a fruitless search. She could not find anywhere in the neighborhood a room that was not far beyond her pocketbook. And it began to seem as if boarding houses, at least any that looked at all possible, were only for multimillionaires.

Marion felt that her disappointment was a just reward for staying away from prayer meeting, and she went home more downcast than she had been since her brother announced his intention of selling the house. How could she find a place to live without explaining the whole matter to her brother? Perhaps that would yet be the only way out of her difficulty. But now to her uncertainty was added the fear that there were no places where she could possibly afford to live that would not be intolerable for one reason or another. They were either too hot or too cold, or too unsanitary, or too utterly distasteful in some way, when they were not too expensive. Once in a while she would find one that she thought could be made to do, and then she would discover some terrible drawback, and have to move on to another place. So she came home, a trifle later than she usually came from prayer meeting, and had to meet Jennie's sharp eyes and prying questions about why she was so late.

Two days later, however, Jennie announced her intention of taking the baby and making a flying farewell visit to her sister, who lived in a small town thirty miles away. She would go early Friday morning and return Monday. She felt that the packing was well started and Marion could do a good deal while she was gone. Marion's attitude had been so pleasant and willing that her fears were somewhat set at rest, and she longed to have a little ease herself, for she had worked very hard. She knew, too, that Marion could pretty well be counted on to do the work of two people in her absence, so she went with a mind free to enjoy her holiday.

Marion had agreed to the suggestion readily enough. She knew she could work early and late and still have time free for what she wanted to do for herself, and Jennie's absence seemed really providential. Tom was away all day from breakfast until evening settling up his business affairs, not even coming home to lunch on Friday or Saturday he said, so she was free to do as she pleased.

So Marion hurried through the breakfast dishes and locked the door on the duties Jennie had suggested, and took her way down town to hunt a place to live.

She had several plans. There was a girl who used to be in the same Sunday School class who worked down town, a stenographer or something. She boarded somewhere. She would go and ask her some questions.

But the girl was very busy taking dictation and could not be seen for a long time, and when she did appear she gave very little help. Yes, she boarded not far from her office, but it was rotten board, she said, and not a very pleasant bunch of boarders. She was thinking of making a change herself. Lots of girls took a room and got their meals at restaurants, or did some cooking in their rooms, but she couldn't see that after working all day. She suggested several places where Marion might look for rooms, and Marion finally went away armed with, addresses, much wiser and more anxious.

She longed inexpressibly for a room of her own, no matter how tiny it might be. The idea of a small gas stove appealed to her tremendously. Even without a gas stove she felt sure she could manage her breakfasts, and perhaps an occasional evening meal. Or, if she took a good meal at a restaurant in the middle of the day she might make her evening meal, usually very simple, milk and fruit and crackers or cereal, and that could be managed in her own room of course. She disliked the thought of constant daily contact with other boarders, especially since her talk with this other girl who made it plain what kind of people she had to mingle with in a cheap boarding house. A restaurant was different. One did not have to be so intimate with a crowd as with individuals at the same table.

She went to one of the restaurants the girl had suggested and ordered a glass of milk and some crackers, and while she was eating them studied the menu. It seemed from the card to be quite easy to select a substantial meal for a very small sum if one was careful about counting the cost. If the lack of variety palled she could always try another restaurant.

Before the morning was over she had gone into many dreary little dark halls, and climbed many steep narrow flights of stairs in her search, till she began to feel that nowhere in the wide world was her little refuge to be found at any price which she could hope to pay, and her promised wages which at first had seemed so large began to dwindle. How very little it was going to be able to purchase in the way of comfort for her. Oh, if her father had foreseen this, how troubled he would have been! Perhaps she was doing wrong. Perhaps she ought to go with Tom.

But no, she had her own life to live, and her father would have been just as disappointed to have had her lose the other things of life, which were only to be had if she remained near the city with its music and art and libraries and evening schools. She must have a chance.

Now and then a feeling of a sob came in her throat. It ought not to be so hard for her. She ought to have her part of what her father had left. But she shrank inexpressibly from Tom's look when he told her as he surely would, that she was spoiling all his prospects in life by her silly whims, and that of course, if she wanted her half of the money it would be impossible for him to get the land he wanted, but together they could have a nice home. No, let him have the home and be satisfied. She would take her chance without the money. Then he had nothing for which to blame her.

So she toiled on from apartment house to apartment house, in fruitless search.

About the middle of the afternoon, and just as she was beginning to think with sinking heart that she would have to take a little hall bedroom without heat or give up her plan entirely, she came at last upon a room that seemed to have possibilities.

It was on the third floor back in the saddest of all the sad little houses she visited, and its roof sloped at the sides.

It had no heat, but there were two lovely dormer windows looking toward the river, and the spring was coming on. She need not think of heat. Besides, the sad-faced woman who took lodgers said there was a pipe-hole in the chimney, and she had an old wood-stove that she wouldn't mind putting up in winter if the young lady would bring up her own wood. Seeing the young lady had her own furniture, and wouldn't even require a carpet, she would let her have it very cheap.

Marion joyfully accepted the proposition. The landlady had reluctantly agreed that she might move her things in as soon as was convenient, but the rent was not to begin until the first of the month, which was a little more than a week off.

All the way home the girl was trying to think what would be best to do about moving her things. She knew her brother would make serious objection to her remaining in the city. He might even go so far as to refuse to let her take her things out of the house. Not that he had any right, of course, for the things were her own; but she knew he would use any method to prevent her staying if he took the whim to be obstinate about it. Marion felt she could afford to run no risks now. She must get her furniture moved at once, and then keep her door locked. There was no other way.

As soon as dinner was out of the way she shut herself into her room, and went to work. Tom had gone out again as soon as he finished his dinner, so she was not hindered by anything, and he had not thought to ask her what she had been doing all day. Her eyes were bright with excitement and unshed tears. But she had no time to cry. Tenderly and hurriedly she took down the few pictures and little ornaments, and packed them into the bureau drawers with as many of her other belongings as she could get in. She packed the china wash-bowl and pitcher carefully, wrapping them in an old quilt, and tied newspapers about the white bed and other furniture until the room resembled a ghostly edition of itself.

When all was done, she lay down upon the bare! mattress, her head upon the tied-up pillows, and her raincoat spread over her. She was not sure how she was going to sleep the rest of the nights they stayed in the house, but she was too tired to care. She meant to get her own things into her own little room before her brother and sister-in-law found out anything about it. After they were once safely out of the house she could work with a free mind.

She carried out her purpose the next morning, securing a wagon to take her furniture, and then hurrying in the trolley car to her new quarters to receive her things and see them safely housed. The landlady had had the room swept and the floor wiped up. The spring sunshine was flooding the windows, and all together Marion felt that it was not a bad prospect for a home.

As soon as the furniture was all carried in she locked the door, and sped back to her neglected work. The rest of the day she worked as if her life depended on getting things done, not even stopping to get any luncheon for herself. She had paid the first month's rent and the mover out of her own small hoard, which had been saved from time to time during many years. She had but fifteen dollars left on which to live until she should receive her first week's pay, but she felt confident she could make it do, and she was happy in a way, happier than she had been since the death of her father.

She hurriedly improvised a temporary bed for herself from the old cot used during her father's illness, stored away in the loft. Then, taking care to lock her door, she went at the duties that her sister-in-law had suggested she should do.

It was not until Tuesday morning that Jennie discovered the locked door.