Crimson roses

by Grace Livingston Hill

  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 hef 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 canne 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 ev^'rything. 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 throu
gh 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 hali

  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. Mjcrion 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 som.e holy ordinance had been observed, so truly she felt that God had been kind to her and helped her in her need.

  CHAPTER IV

  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! 6^

  CRIMSON ROSES ^j

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

  She sat qui<?tly 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 eveni
ng 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.