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CRIMSON ROSES
CRIMSON ROSES
CHAPTER I
The) room was very still except for the ticking of the little clock, which stood on the table in the hall and seemed to Marion Warren to be tolling out the seconds one by one.
She sat by her father's bedside, where she had been all day, only rising to give him his medicine, or to tiptoe into the hall to answer some question of her sister-in-law's, or to speak to the doctor before he went out.
The doctor had been there three times since morning. He had come in the last time without being sent for. Marion felt sure that he knew the end was not far off although he had not definitely said so. As she looked at the gray shadows in the beloved face her own heart told her that her dear father had not much longer now to stay.
She would not call him back if she could to the suffering he had endured for the last two years. She knew he desired to be through with it. He had often spoken about how good it would be to feel that the suffering was all over. Yet she had hoped
against hope that he might be cured and given back to her. She had nursed him so gladly, and loved her task, even when sometimes her head ached and her back ached and her slender arms ached, and her flesh fairly cried out for rest. Her father was almost her idol. He and she had always understood one another and had had the same dreams and ambitions. He had encouraged her in taking more time for reading and study than her more practical mother had thought wise. He had talked with her of life and what we were put on this earth to do. He had hunted out books to please and interest her. She had read aloud to him for hours at a time, and they had discussed what she read. And after her mother died he had been both mother and father to her. How was she going to live without her father?
She had known, of course, since he was first taken ill, that there was a possibility that he might not get well. But he had been so cheery and hopeful always, never complaining, never taking it as a foregone conclusion that he was out of active life forever, and always saying at night:
" Well, daughter, I feel a little better to-night, I think. Perhaps the doctor will let me sit up in the morning. Wouldn't that be great? "
Yet he had also Hved and talked as if he might always be going to heaven to-morrow. Once he had said:
" Well, I'm satisfied to live to be a very old man, if the Lord wills, or to go right now whenever He calls."
These memories went pacing before the thoughts of the girl like weird shadows as she sat waiting in the darkened room, watching the dear white face. She had had no sleep since the night before last when her father had grown suddenly so very much worse. At intervals she wondered whether she were not perhaps a little light-headed now.
Marion's brother Tom was sitting at the foot of the bed by the open hall door. He had been sitting there for an hour and a half. Occasionally he cleared his throat with a rasping sound. She knew he must be suffering of course, yet somehow she felt that she alone was the one that was being bereaved. Tom was older, and was not what he called '* sentimental." He had never understood the deep attachment between Marion and her father. He sometimes had called it partiality, but the girl always knew her father had not been partial. He loved Tom deeply. Yet he had never been able to make a friend and comrade of his practical, cheery, and somewhat
impatient son. The son never had time to read and talk with his father. He had always had some scheme on hand, to which he must rush off. He w^as like his bustling, practical mother, who even in her last illness had kept the details of the house and neighborhood in mind and sent others on continual errands to see this and that carried out as she planned. It was just a difference in temperament, perhaps. Marion wondered idly if Tom was thinking now how he might have made his father happier by being with him more. Tom loved their father, of course.
But Tom sat silently, dutifully, and now and then changed his position, or cleared his throat. He seemed so self-possessed.
Marion was glad that he sat there. She would not have liked to have the responsibility alone. Tom had always been kind when it occurred to him. It did not always occur to him.
Jennie was there too, Tom's wife. She did not sit down but hovered in and out. Marion wished she would either go or stay. It somehow seemed like an interruption to have her so uneasy. It was just another thing to bear to hear her soft slipping around in felt slippers, calling Tom to the door to ask about some matter of household need, asking in that sepulchral whisper if there had been any
change yet. Marion shuddered inwardly. It seemed somehow as if Jennie would be eager for the change to come. As if there were no sacredness to her in their father's dying. Yet that father had been exceedingly kind to Jennie. He had always treated her as if she were his own.
It was during one of these visits of Jennie to the sickroom that there seemed to come a change over the shadows on the white face. Jennie had breathed a syllable emphasizing it as it came, as some people w^ill always make vocal a self-evident fact. Marion wanted to cry out: " Oh, keep still, won't you, please!'' but she held her lips closed tight and drew a deeper breath, trying to pray for strength.
The doctor was coming in. They could hear the street door open and close softly. The latch had been left off that he might come in when he wished. Marion looked up with relief. Ah! The doctor! Now, if there was anything to do, it would be done
The doctor noted the change instantly. Marion could understand by the grave look on his face that it was serious business. He stepped silently to the bedside, and laid practised fingers on the wasted wrist.
It was at that moment that the pale lips moved, and the eyelids opened, and her father looked at her..
Her hands were in his cold one instantly, and she thought she felt a faint pressure of the frail fingers.
" Bye, little girl! " he said faintly, '' I have to leave you! " The eyelids closed, and she thought that he was gone, but he roused again and spoke in a clearer voice:
" You'll have your home here, Tom will see to
all that. He'll understand " The voice trailed
off into silence.
Tom roused himself huskily and tried to speak, as if he were talking to one very far away:
" S'all right, Dad. I'll look after Marion. Don't you worry."
The sick man smiled.
" Of course! " he gasped, his breath nearly gone, " Good-bye! " His eyes searched the room.
*' Jennie too, and the children ! "
But Jennie had slipped away, suddenly.
Perhaps she was gone to her room to cry. Perhaps Jennie was fond of Father in her way after all, thought Marion.
But Jennie had not gone to cry. Jennie was stealing stealthily down the stairs, slipping like a wraith into the little den that had belonged to her father-in-law, where his big roll-top desk stood and his old desk chair, the walls lined with books. She closed
the door carefully, snapped on the Hght and pulled down the shade, then looked furtively around. It was not the first time that Jennie had visited that room.
Since her father-in-law had been ill, and Marion closely held in his service, she had managed to make herself thoroughly familiar with every corner of the house. She was not going in search of something. She knew exactly what she was after.
She took out a key from her pocket and went over to the desk. The key had been in her pocket for a week. She had found it while putting away things in her father-in-law's closet. It had been on a key ring with other keys. She had taken it off of the ring one day when Marion was downstairs preparing some food for the invalid, while he was asleep.
Jennie opened the right-hand lower drawer of the desk and moved some account books over. Then she took out a tin box from the ba
ck end of the drawer. She fitted the key into the lock and opened the box. Breathlessly she turned over the neat envelopes carefully labelled " Deed of the House," " Tax Receipts,'' " Water Tax," and the like, till she came to the envelope labelled " My Will."
Jennie took this out, quickly put the rest back, locked the box, returned it to the drawer from which
she had taken it, replaced the books, and closed the drawer. Then she picked up the envelope and held it in her hand for an instant, an almost frightened look in her eyes, as if she were weighing the possibilities of what she was about to do. She did not open the envelope and read the will for she had already done that a week ago. Every word and syllable of the neatly written document was graven on her soul, and she had spent nights of waking, going over and over the brief paragraphs indignantly. The old man had no right to make a difference in his children. He had no right to leave the house entirely to Marion. If there were no will —that is, if no will were found, why the law would divide the property. Tom would look after Marion, of course, in any case. But Tom should have the right to decide things. He should not be hampered with a girl's whims. She could not see that what she was about to do was in any way wrong. No harm would come to her sister-in-law. In any case she would be cared for. It would simply smooth out things for Tom. And it was perfectly right.
Having shut her thin lips firmly over this decision she opened the upper right-hand drawer, pulled it entirely out, and laid it on the desk. Then she reached far in and laid the envelope containing the
will carefully at the back of the opening, replacing the drawer and shutting it firmly again, even turning the key which was in the lock.
Having done this, she snapped out the light and groped her way to the door, unlocking it and stealing back into the hall. She listened an instant and then glided up the stairs as silently as she had come down, a nervous satisfaction in her face.
She appeared in the doorway an instant too late to hear the last kindly word from her father-in-law. The doctor had raised his head from bending over to watch, and Marion was turning away with her hands to her throat and a look of exalted sorrow on her face. Marion was so queer! Why didn't she cry? Jennie began to cry. It was hardly decent not to cry, Jennie thought. And Marion pretended to think so much of her father! Probably, though, she was worn out and really glad it was over. It was perfectly natural for a girl not to enjoy taking care of an old sick man for so long. Two years! It had been two years since Father took sick! Well it was over, thank goodness, at last! Jennie buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed gently. Marion wished again that she would keep still. These last minutes, and the precious spirit just taken its flight! It seemed a desecration!
The doctor and Tom were talking in low tones in the hall now, and Marion turned back for one last precious look. But even that look had to be interrupted by Jennie, who came with an air of doing her duty and stood at the other side of the bed.
" Poor old soul! He's at rest at last! " she said with a sniff and a dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. "And you, Marion, you haven't any call to blame yourself for anything. You certainly have been faithful! " This by way of offering sympathy.
It was piously said, but somehow the unwonted praise from her sister-in-law grated on her just now. It was as if she were putting it in to exonerate herself as well.
" Oh, please, please keep still! " shouted Marion's soul silently. But Marion's lips answered nothing. She still wore that exalted look. After all, what did anything like this matter now? Let Jennie voice her meaningless patter. She need not pay attention. She was trying to follow the flight of the dear spirit who had gone from her. She had not yet faced the life without him that was to be hers now that he was gone. She still had the feeling upon her that for his sake she must be brave and quiet. She must not desecrate the place by even a tear.
All through the trying days that followed until
the worn-out body was laid to rest beside the partner of his youth in the peaceful cemetery outside the city, Marion had to endure the constant attentions of her sister-in-law. Jennie w^as always bringing her a cup of tea, and begging her to lie down. Jennie wanted to know if she wouldn't like her to come into her room and sleep lest she would be lonely. Jennie slapped the children for making a noise and told them their Aunt Marion didn't feel well. Jennie became almost effusive in her vigilance until after the funeral was over. Marion was glad beyond words to be allowed at last to go to her own room alone and lock the door. To be alone with her sorrow seemed the greatest luxury that could now be given her.
And while she knelt beside her bed in the room that had been hers during her father's illness because it was next to his, and she could leave the door open and listen for his call in the night, her brother Tom was down in the den going over his father's papers.
Tom was a big pleasant-faced man with an easygoing nature. He would not for the world hurt anybody, much less his own sister. He intended with all his heart to take care of her all her life if that was her need and her desire. He had not a
thought otherwise. Yet when he began the search ft
among those papers of his father it could not be denied that he hoped that matters were so left that he would have full charge of the property without any complications. He had certain plans in the back of his head that an untrammelled will would greatly facilitate. He and Jennie had often talked about these plans, and Jennie had urged him to speak to his father about it some day while there was time. But Tom did not like to seem interested; and, too, there was something about his father, perhaps a kind of dignity that he did not understand, that made Tom embarrassed at the thought of broaching the subject of money. So Tom had never said a word to his father about the property.
Once or twice Tom's father had dropped a word to the effect that if anything happened to him, Tom was to look after his sister, and Tom had always agreed, but there had never been anything definite spoken regarding the house, or what money was left, or even the life insurance. And Tom had never broken through the silence.
During that last afternoon when he had sat in the sickroom, tilted back against the wall in the shadows, clearing his throat now and then, he had been thinking about this. He had been wondering if
for all their sakes he ought not to try and rouse his father and find out just what he had done, how he had left things. But Marion had stayed so close to the bedside, and somehow he could not bring himself to speak about it with Marion there. There was something about Marion's attitude that forbade any such thing.
But after his father had spoken to them about the house and about Marion, and said that he would understand, Tom had been uneasy. Perhaps after all his father had complicated things by putting Marion into the will in such a way that he w^ould have continually to ask her advice and get her to sign papers and be always consulting her. He hoped against hope that his father had not been so foolish. Poor father! He had always been so visionary. That was the word Tom could remember hearing his mother call his father, visionary. She had said once that if father hadn't been so visionary they might all have been rich by this time, and Tom had decided then and there that he would profit by his father's mistakes and not be visionary.
But although Tom was a little worried, and thought about it quite often, he would not open the desk nor try to find out anything about matters
until his father was laid to rest. It did not seem fitting and right. Tom had his own ideas of what was the decent thing to do.
He waited until his sister had gone to her room and had had time to get to sleep, too, before he went to the den. It wasn't in the least necessary for Marion to have to worry about business. She was a woman. To his way of thinking women should not be bothered about business affairs, they only complicated matters. He always tried to make Jennie understand that, too. Sometimes he talked things over with her, of course, as she was his wife, but when it came to the actual business he felt that he was the head of the family.
So he had told Jennie to go to bed, as he had som
e papers to look over and might not go up for an hour or so yet, and he betook himself to the father's desk, armed with his father's keys.
But Jennie was not so easily put off as Tom thought. Jennie crept to her bed with an anxious heart. She had put the little key back on the bunch with the other keys and felt that no one in the world would ever find out that she had had it, but yet she could not sleep. She could not help lying there and listening for Tom.
CRIMSON ROSES ax
Jennie did not feel that she had done anything actually wrong. Of course not, her queer little conscience told her briskly. Why, she might easily have destroyed that will and nobody been any the wiser. But Jennie felt most virtuous that she had not. Of course she would not do a thing like that! It would have been a crime in a way, even though its destruction was a good thing for all concerned. But to put it away carefully was another thing. The will was there. It was like giving Providence one more chance to save the day. If anything ever came up to make it necessary it could be found of course. Why worry about it? It was safely and innocently lying where there was little likelihood of its ever being found, at least not till long after everything had been satisfactorily settled. And Marion wouldn't make a fuss after a thing was done anyway. Suppose, for instance, Tom sold the old house and put the money into another one out in the country. Jennie loved the country. But Marion was queer sometimes. She took strong attachments and one of them was this old house. She might make a lot of trouble when Tom tried to sell it. 'A she owned it outright, as that will made ber do. It was perfect idiocy for Father ever lo have done that anyway.
It wasn't right for a man to make a distinction between his children, and when he did it he ought to be overruled.
So Jennie lay awake two hours until Tom came to bed, wondering, anxious, and beginning to be really troubled about what she had done. Suppose Tom should somehow find it out! She would never hear the last of it. Tom was so almost overconsci-entious Well—but of course he wouldn't find it out!
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