Crimson roses

by Grace Livingston Hill

  She stopped in the station restaurant and indulged in a cup of hot tea and a sandwich, looking about upon her new world with interest.

  Over there in the corner were two girls about her own age chummily laughing over the events of the day. Did they care for the great things for which she longed? Or were they trifling life away? From some of their conversation that drifted her way she judged the latter. But anyway, whatever they were, she felt a sudden kinship with them and with all the universe of young independent beings like herself. It was a little touch of the modern reaction that had reached her perhaps after all her years of patient sweet subservience, or perhaps it was only her way

  of choking down the sob that came in her throat when she thought of the dark empty house standing alone, that had been her home for so many precious years, and of the only brother, harsh though he had been, who was speeding toward a new home far away.

  She was such a conscientious child that she had to struggle with herself now that the thing was done, not to reproach herself and feel that after all she had been wrong.

  It was very dark climbing up her little steep stairway. The landlady held a candle and apologized for a broken gas fixture that made the candle necessary. She said the last lodger had broken it off one night in a drunken rage because he ran into it.

  Marion shuddered and escaped into her room which looked weird and desolate with a single gas jet wavering over her paper-wrapped furniture. Her first glance about seemed to warn her that life was not to be all roses yet. She locked her door, remem-bering with horror a possible drunken neighbor in the room next door. Removing her hat and coat she untied the mattress and pillows and placed them on the bed which she had had the expressman set up when he brought it. She got out some blankets and without further ado dropped herself on the bed under the blankets and was soon asleep.

  It was quite late in the morning before she awoke for she had been thoroughly worn out and needed the sleep. There had been no rousing voice of her sister-in-law to waken her, no sense of duties calling, no clatter of the children.

  It was wonderful to just lie still and gradually realize where she was and that no one had a right to call her or demand that she get up till she was ready. This feeling might not last but it was good, for she had been mortally weary, soul and body.

  When she finally did get up and went rummaging in her handbag for her watch to see what time it was, she came upon the envelope so hurriedly thrust there the day before and not thought of since. Tenderly she took it out and smoothed its rumpled surface, and was startled to see written on the outside in her father's neat painstaking hand, " MY

  WILL."

  For a moment she sat looking at the words with an almost frightened feeling. There had been a will then, and Tom had not found it! What should she do with it now? Send it to him? Open it? Or would it be better not to even read it, just destroy it now, since all that had been done with the house was now irrevocable. It would only make Tom feel terribly if he had transgressed any of his father's directions, and it was too late to remedy that. Be-

  sides, it affected no one but herself probably, iot Tom had all there was. Perhaps it might promote more ill feeling between them than there already was. Perhaps she ought to destroy it. Just destroy it without reading it. Perhaps that would be the Christian way.

  She held it in her hand, looking at it, half inclined to feel that perhaps it was something she had no right to have.

  But then, it wouldn't be right to destroy it either. There might be something in it that they didn't know about, something sweet and precious of which she at least would treasure the thought all her life, and surely she had a right to that since she had relinquished all the rest. It could do no possible harm for her to read it if she kept it to herself. Of course she must not let it influence her in any way, nor let her mind dwell upon anything it might have given her. She had given up her inheritance of her own free will. There was no possible reason why the will should make the slightest difference now.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, she pressed back the unsealed flap of the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper which it contained, and read it through.

  The familiar phraseology of the home-made will filled her throat with sobs and her eyes with tears,

  but she read it through to the end. Her father had left the house and all its furnishings, and his savings fund account, amounting to several thousand dollars, entirely to herself. The life insurance money went to Tom. He called her " my dear daughter," and there was a tender sentence in the will appealing to Tom's chivalry to look out for his sister and see that she was enabled to carry out the plan that he had always had in mind for her education.

  She dropped her face on the paper and covered it with kisses and tears. Her precious father! It was like a voice from the other world.

  For a long time she sat there on the dishevelled bed, her slender body shaking with sobs, as this tenderness brought back all the years of his constant care.

  But gradually she grew calmer, and wiping her eyes sat up and read the paper over again, taking in every little detail till it was graven on her mind She was glad she had read it. Glad her father had been so thoughtful for her. It would make no difference, of course. She had chosen her life. She was carrying out the spirit of her father's wishes, though she did not have his protecting care that he had done his best to make sure for her. But not for worlds would she let her brother know about the will. It could only bring him pain. He had bought his

  farm, and she knew him well enough to know that while he might not have approved of his father's " notions " as he called them, he was conscientious enough to have carried them out to the letter and said not a demurring word about it. Jennie would have had her say, of course, and a good deal of it, but Tom would have been magnanimous and beautiful about it. He would have probably given up his his own desire for a farm, too, and stayed in town to live with her that she might 'have her home as her father planned.

  But perhaps it was just as we!^ that things had turned out as they had. Tom had his wish, and she would be able to carry out hers somehow. God would help her. She felt coniideti that she could do it. So she would put away the mil and keep it among her most treasured possession3; and sometimes when she was lonely and desolate she would take it out and read it just to get the comforting feel of her father's voice to hearten her. But she would leave it where Tom never, never could find it to make him feel uncomfortable.

  She bent her head to lay her lips on the signature once more before she slipped the paper back into its envelope, and a whiff of something pleasant and familiar came to her. What was it? Peppermint. How strange. Her father hated peppermint. The

  odor of it made him really ill. It was likely only the smell of the mucilage on the envelope flap, or perhaps some peculiar kind of paper. Some paper had a strange odor. But it seemed queer that her father's will should smell of it: it seemed somehow a desecration. They never used to eat any candy flavored with peppermint when he was there because he disliked the smell of it so. It was just a little idiosyncrasy of his. Not that he objected to other people eating it, but she liad always planned for his comfort not to have the odor of it around when he was in the house. Her mother had been very fond of chocolate peppermints, and so was Jennie. Jennie had made some only a few days before her father died. It had hurt her terribly to think that Jennie would deliberately do what she must know would annoy the patient. Jennie had been eating a piece of the candy when she came into their father's room that day after dinner, and Marion had motioned her away quickly. Jennie laughed. She thought it was nonsense. She said people ought not to be humored in such whims, it spoiled them. She had gone away in a huff. There had been smears of chocolate on her fingers and on her dress. Marion remembered how untidy and disagreeable she had looked. Oh, she must stop thinking such things about Jennie! Mr. Stewart had preached about that, some verse

  from second Peter about " exercising your mind in covetousness." He had said that people exercised
their mind in evil thoughts of other people and that was not the way to add to their faith, virtue, and to virtue, knowledge, and all those other things. She must add to her faith, self-control, and keep from thinking unpleasant thoughts about Jennie. She must pray to be kept from having anything in her heart but love for Jennie.

  She folded the paper and slipped it into the envelope. Something seemed to catch one corner so that it did not go in smoothly, perhaps it was crumpled from being crushed into her bag. She put her finger inside to smooth it out gently, and came in contact with something rough and hard. She looked and a queer cold feeling came in her throat. It was a tiny piece of chocolate and cream peppermint candy, hardened onto the paper. How did it get into that envelope? Her father's envelope! Her father who hated it and never would have touched any. Jennie! The candy she had made and that she was eating when she left the sick room and went downstairs! Oh, it was unthinkable! But how could she help thinking about it?

  There was another thing, how would that will get out of the little strong box where father always kept his papers? He was always so careful. It must

  have fallen down behind the drawer. Of course, he might have laid it in the drawer sometime, and thought he had put it back in the box. Surely that must have been it. But if it had been locked in the box how could Jennie—how could the peppermint? Oh, she must not think about it! She must not get to feeling that Jennie had done this despicable thing! She would hate her if she kept on this way. And hating, the Bible said, was equal to murder in God's eyes. No, she must not think this of Jennie. But how could she help it ? What other explanation could there be? Why had Jennie done it?

  A wave of anger swept over her, so that for the instant she was half ready to take the next train up to Vermont and face her sister-in-law with the will and the evidence of her guilt, and demand her rights.

  But of course she would not do that. If Jennie had been so untrue Tom must not know it. Tom was honest whatever else he might be lacking in. And if he thought Jennie had done this thing, even with the best of intentions, he would be very severe with her. He might lose all his love for her. And she was the mother of his children. Tom must not know what Jennie had done, if she had done it.

  Over and over again she turned the matter, now blaming, now excusing Jennie. Probably Jennie felt that she, Marion, would not suffer. She would have

  no CRIMSON ROSES

  a good home, and all would be well without any financial complications. Mothers looked out for their children in these things, and Jennie was likely to have thought that the will was unfair, that perhaps Marion had influenced her father. Well, perhaps in a way it was not fair to Tom. But her father had always felt that Tom being a man could better look out for himself. Well, whatever it was, of course, she was going to do nothing about it. Of course she was going to have to destroy that will. For now she must not keep it. Tom might find it some day i£ anything happened to her and it would make trouble all around. Trouble for Tom and trouble for Jennie. No, she must live peaceably. And what was a little money ?

  And so, before her courage failed her, she laid her lips tenderly once more upon that will, and then resolutely carried it over to the little wood stove that her landlady had had set up in her room, and struck a match from the box on the little shelf by the chimney. She held the will in the stove until it was burned to a crisp. Then she knelt down by her bed and prayed:

  " Dear Father, help me to keep from thinking about this. Help me not to blame Jennie unjustly, and to be able to forgive her if she did it, and help me never to mention it or make any trouble about it.*'

  Quite simply she arose and put it away forever from her mind as a question that had been settled once for all, and must not be opened again. It was the kind of thing her father had taught her to do, to be what he called *' square " and " Christian." That word Christian in his opinion covered everything that a meek and quiet spirit should have before God, living in this world but not of it. Of course there would be temptations to think hard thoughts of Jennie now and again, but she must resolutely put them from her each time they came and pray for strength. That was the only way to live at peace with all men in this world.

  And so, when she was dressed she tried to turn her thoughts to the new life before her and keep them from straying back to that will.

  Two whole days she had before her, besides the Sabbath, ere she must begin her work in the store. In that time she could get nicely settled and know just how to arrange her daily plans. She arose with a zest for life that the night before she had not dreamed she could feel.

  Her breakfast was a ten-cent box of crackers from the little grocery around the corner and an apple that Nannie had pressed upon her at parting. Nannie more than the other children had cared for her Aunt Marion.

  Scrubbing was the order of the morning, but after everything was clean and shining Marion decided to invest a very little of her precious money in brightening up those ding}^ walls. If she only could find some cheap paper, she could put it on herself. Jennie and she had often done it. Sometimes one could get paper for very little if the pattern was out of fashion. And a very tiny can of paint would freshen up the dirty woodwork. The walls and paint were smok}% and she could not feel comfortable with them that way. With quick resolve she hurried out to the stores, and came back in an hour armed with rolls of paper, a tiny pot of gray paint, a bucket containing ten cents' worth of paste, and a great paste-brush which the paper-hanger had good-naturedly lent her.

  That night saw the dingy walls covered with a pretty creamy paper in simple design. It made a wonderful difference in the room, and the wavering gaslight seemed to give forth twice as much light as before. When she had made up her bed and crept sleepily into it she felt that she had accomplished a great deal. To-morrow she would paint the woodwork and arrange the furniture. Then she w^ould be ready to live.

  The old landlady looked in toward noon, opening cautiously the door in its fresh coat of paint

  Marion was putting down her rugs. On a chair by the window stood a hyacinth in bloom, one that the girl had been nursing all the spring. Its pale pink blossoms gave forth a rich fragrance, not altogether hidden by the clean smell of the paint. Over the footboard of the white bed hung two white muslin curtains ready to be put up when tlie paint was sufficiently dry. The w^hite bureau was arrayed in its dainty appointments, and the china pitcher and bowl were washed and in their places. Near the other window stood the willow rocker and the little writing-desk close by, with its modest array spread out and a small rack of books atop. The old woman looked and looked again.

  ''My land!" she exclaimed in an awed voice, *' I didn't suppose you could make it look like that! It's worth having you up here just to think there's a place like this in the house. I believe it'll kind of rest me to remember it."

  Marion laughed happily, and looked around upon her abiding-place. It was better than she had dared hope, and she rejoiced in it. There might be trials ahead of her, but there would be this quiet, sweet spot away from ever^'thing.

  " I just stopped up to say I'd be pleased to have you take Sunday dinner with me to-morrow if you care to. You ain't barely settled yet, and I don't 8

  suppose you'll mind not going out this first Sunday. It'll be quite a thing to have a pretty young lady like you at my table."

  Marion thanked her, and accepted the invitation, reflecting that she not only had a home, but had already gained a friend in her queer-looking landlady.

  The new life was full of novelty, and Marion entered upon her duties in the store with a zest and energy that would have amazed her scornful family, who were hourly expecting her repentant return to their protection. The ribbons were a constant source of delight to her. She loved to handle them, as she loved all beautiful things; and her shy, accommodating ways made her at once a favorite with her customers.

  This would have brought her enemies among her co-laborers, had she been less humble or less willing to learn.

  When she had her lunch hour, one of t
he girls in the aisle, perhaps sent by the head of the department, Marion was not sure, smiled at her and asked if she would like to go with her to lunch that day.

  She was a girl with closely cropped hair and a flimsy little black satin dress made very short and tight. Marion felt that it was not quite modest, but the girl had a pleasant smile and a hearty voice, and she was really frightened at the idea of making

  her way alone to the lunch room in the store where most of the girls took their noonday meal.

  " Yon don't know the ropes, do ya? " asked the other girl. " I'll putcha wise. You don't wantta order rice pudding, it's the limit, but the cocoanut pie is a humdinger. You order cocoanut pie. You like cocoanut dontcha?"

  " Oh, I like almost anything," laughed Marion to cover her embarrassment. But don't they have anything but desserts? I've got to be economical till I get started. I'm quite on my own, you see."

  " Oh, we're all in that boat, sister. But gimme the pie every time. I havta eat just plain food enough at home. Pie and coffee's what I eat every day. I can't stand soups and slops and I'm sickta death of sanderiges, any kind. Meat ur cheese, ur some kinda grass, it's all the same to me. They stick in my throat. Gimme me pie an' coffee an' I'm O. K."

  " But I should think you'd get sick living on things like that all the time. I haven't been used to it. I'm sure it wouldn't be good for me."

  " Sick ? Me sick ? I should worry. Get off a day then. You're 'lowed a sick day now an' then, you know, an' b'lieve me I get 'em every time. Nothin' coming to me I don't take. It don't pay not to. Ya havta look out for yerself. Nobody else's goin' to look out for ya. Here we are. Now, where