Like a frail, crushed lily, Janice lay in a white bed at the hospital and made little response to the treatment given her. It was as if she had gone too far into the world of whiteness and shadows to return.
Meanwhile, back in the house from which she had fled, the drink-crazed man had searched in vain to find her. In a puzzled anger he at last pieced together a story. He told the servants and the few neighbors who came to inquire, that his sister-in-law had gone on a visit to the far west with a relative, and it might be some time before she returned. Then he hastily closed his house, offered it for sale, and went his way into a far country.
Some ten days later there appeared in the local papers of the region near the Martins’ estate a brief account of the young woman who had been found near the cemetery gateway on the night of the blizzard, but not one of all the host of friends who loved Janice and her dead sister recognized her from the brief description given. A lovely girl attired in thin white and a sumptuous velvet cloak trimmed with fur. The Janice they knew would never have tramped the drifts on the road to the cemetery in a blizzard. It never occurred to anyone that the young woman who had been found and was lying near death’s door in a nearby hospital could be Janice Whitmore. She would write to them, of course, as soon as she rallied from the death of her beloved sister. This other girl was probably some poor dancer from a cabaret—a sinner, or perhaps sinned against, and in a desperate situation trying to end her life. “What a pity!” they said and thought no more about it. So days went on, and only the young doctor who had found her, and was slowly bringing her back to life again, had any interest in her.
Her brother-in-law had no thought of her, not even of wonder as to what had become of the helpless young girl who had been left in his power and had escaped him. His only fear was that Janice had gone to a distant cousin who was a famous lawyer and knew all about the financial affairs of the two sisters. He did not wish to get under the keen eyes of that lawyer, nor listen to his questioning about the estate, for Janice was scarcely of age yet, and this cousin had been an executor of the sisters’ inheritance. He did not care to have that cousin know how he had tampered with the estate and how greatly it had diminished under his hand.
The wondering servants in his household had shaken their heads and whispered, mindful of the loud voice and the way the master thundered orders to the girl; mindful of the unwelcome embraces at the foot of the stairs, the wild fright in the girl’s eyes. What had he done to her? Had she gone out alone in that storm, and what had happened to her?
Furtively they searched the house, even down to the cellar, every cranny where she might have hidden. But they were dismissed and far away before any news came out about the girl that was found.
Later, when Dr. Sterling communicated more at length with Mrs. Martin, she employed detectives and did her interested best to find out who the mysterious girl could have been, but nothing ever came of it.
And the girl lay white and listless in her hospital bed, unconscious of what went on about her, utterly forgetful of all the recent happenings, coming out of chill cold and going into a burning fever, buried in the oblivion of delirium, opening her white lips only to moan in low, helpless quiet when the cool hand of the doctor was laid on her hot forehead. Once or twice she opened her eyes and looked up at him with a frightened glance, fearful, questioning, and then slowly her eyelids dropped and closed over the troubled eyes, as if satisfied. She drew a soft little sigh and seemed to rest more quietly. It strangely touched the young doctor, as if somehow she was depending upon him, as if in some mysterious way she understood that he had saved her from death in the storm.
Yet if she had any memory of what had brought her to this pass, in the midst of her delirium and fever, he could not tell. She was very ill of course. Pneumonia had taken possession of her, and there seemed to be no strength in her to resist the disease. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps death would be a sweet release to her from things worse than death. Of course, he did not know anything about her, had no means of even guessing, save from the sweet, sad droop of the lovely lips.
Yet more and more he longed to save her, to bring her back to life and see her smile once, to know that he had been able to lift the shadow from the pitiful, tired young face.
As a young doctor, he should not let himself be interested in this way in a patient. Interest like that was apt to cloud his mind and blunt his decisions. And this girl was nothing to him. Yet whenever he said that to himself he kept seeing her so white and still lying in that snow, sinking into a quick death, and his heart reached out and longed to help her. When the disease itself was practically conquered, there was the great weakness to deal with, the utter listlessness and apathy.
Sometimes, when her nurse was busy elsewhere, he would come and sit beside her for a few minutes and study the sweet, quiet face. Now and again he would take the little inert hand in his and hold it gently, and once he fancied that the fingers nestled to his, but perhaps that was mere imagination.
Once as he sat thus he bowed his head and murmured almost inaudibly, “Oh God, You know what this is. Grant me knowledge to help.”
And when he looked at her again her eyes were open, just for an instant. She seemed to be studying him with a question in her glance, and when he smiled at her there came a faint semblance of a smile to her lips. But then her eyes closed and the smile was gone.
Howard Sterling was not a praying man, and he couldn’t understand why he had uttered that sudden unpremeditated petition, but somehow he felt after that smile that God had heard and answered in a way. Afterward he told himself he was a fool to make so much of this incident of the girl and he ought to get away from it and let somebody else take up her case. Perhaps it would be a good thing for him to take a few days off and make that promised visit to Rose, get his mind off the hospital and everything connected with it. Rose would be off him for life if he didn’t do something about keeping his promise.
But somehow he couldn’t go. He kept putting it off again and again for various little reasons, until one night he told himself that he really didn’t want to go until he saw a decided improvement in this girl. That would make Rose furious if she knew it, but it was true nevertheless, and of course it was true that he ought not to be so obsessed with the case of an unknown, mysterious girl.
But it would soon be spring. The snow was gone, and in places the trees were beginning to take on a semblance of greenness. If the girl could get out into the open and breathe the springtime in the air, it would certainly give her new life. Perhaps he might even venture to take her out riding someday when she was stronger, and try to coax from her a little of her story. It did seem as if after all this time they ought to somehow be finding her people. If she were strong enough he might take her to the place where he found her, and perhaps that would bring back memories. But no, that would not do, for the utter sorrow and abandonment of her whole attitude showed that she must have sustained some great shock or she would not be in this condition.
But the days went by, and little by little Janice came slowly back to life again.
Chapter 3
Martha Spicer lived a little over a hundred and fifty miles from Enderby where the hospital was located.
For twenty-seven years she had served, first as saleswoman and then as buyer for women’s underwear and stockings, in a large department store. That she had been successful was proved by her rapid rise, and the deference that was paid to her by floorwalkers, salespeople, and other store officials. But that her temper had suffered through the various trials of her position was apparent in the lines of impatience and discontent written on brow and lips, marring a face that would otherwise have been attractive.
She was not an unpleasant-looking woman. Her features were regular and finely cut, her skin was clear and smooth, her hair abundant and becomingly gray, though too severely arranged. She was always immaculately neat, though severely plain. Her lips had that firm set that gave one the impression she thought it was wrong to
look pretty. Poor thing! She had been so severely tried by the little snips of salesgirls whose thoughts were on the arrangement of their hair and the height of the heels on their shining pumps, that perhaps one could hardly blame her. But there was about Miss Spicer’s eyes a kind of fire that danced now and then through the hardness she had cultivated, and made one feel that very many years ago, before she had been obliged to look out for herself and be discreet and responsible, she might have had a lot of mischief in her, and perhaps been almost beautiful.
But if there had been mischief and merriment in Martha Spicer, it had long ago retired meekly into the background. If someone had boldly told her that she had been starved for years for a little bit of real fun, she would have looked at them aghast and put on her most biting glance, the one she kept for customers who brought back the silk stockings they had purchased, declaring that they already had runs in them when they were sent up.
Martha Spicer had been thrown upon her own resources since she was eighteen, and the world at first had been most unkind to her. There had been the death of her father and mother, the utter loss of all the property—what little there had been, for her girlhood life had been spent in poverty from her earliest remembrance. Then the man to whom she had turned proved inadequate and she found herself sending him away to another girl, bitterness and defiance in her own heart. It was about that time she began to earn the title of “Spice Box” in the store, and in more modified ways it had stuck to her through the years.
But she had kept to herself, been independent and diligent, always within the bounds of refinement, neatness, and conventionality. She had lived her dull round of monotony now for twenty-seven years.
She had an aunt and uncle, her only near relatives, a somber couple, who kept up a semblance of being in touch with her, though she never taxed their companionship to any extent. Twice a year she had visited them, Aunt Abigail and Uncle Jonathan, always with some small gifts from the store, such as handkerchiefs, neckties, and collars. And they on their part had brought out the best preserves for supper and commended her for her diligence and prudence. Then they had gone their separate ways again until the time for the next semiannual visit was due.
They had suggested years ago that she might live with them and pay her board, but she dreaded the very thought of living with them. They had not wanted her, she was sure, and she did not want them. They lived far from her department store. And they seemed satisfied with her decision and had never asked her again. Perhaps they dreaded any change in the routine of their lives as much she dreaded to come into theirs.
And then suddenly they both died, Aunt Abigail outliving Uncle Jonathan by only a few months.
It was a great surprise to Martha Spicer after her aunt’s funeral to have the lawyer tell her that the house and quite a substantial bank account, besides some modest thousands in good securities, had been left to her. It had never occurred to her that there would be anything left, or that if there were that she would get it. But she was the only living relative, and there was no will, so there was simply no one else to inherit it. Perhaps the old couple, in spite of scripture, had hoped to find some way of taking their worldly possessions with them. But however that was, Martha Spicer, after twenty-seven years of hard work, suddenly found herself independent, a woman of leisure.
She had never thought about inheriting money. Certainly not from her uncle and aunt, and of course there was no one else. Uncle Jonathan had always talked about the house as if it were mortgaged up to its full value and they were just about ready to walk into the poor house. And if she had known that there was any money, she would have expected Uncle Jonathan to leave it to a hospital where it could work for him in the next world as good works. He was a sanctimonious old man, as well as very ungenerous. So when Martha was told that the old house with its worn furnishings and a substantial bank account belonged to her, she was almost stunned. It did not seem right somehow to take it and do what she pleased with it. It was somehow like taking unfair advantage of Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Abigail.
But after a little bit it began to seem like having heaven open suddenly and let down some of its gold paving for her use. She had saved, of course, out of her earnings, and had put away enough to keep her frugally in her old age. But to be able to stop work and live in her own house like any “woman of means” almost took her breath away. She was not quite sure even yet that she ought to accept it. Yet here it was, and the lawyers and the judge said it was hers.
She even questioned at first whether she wouldn’t continue on at the store, and just rent the house. Get a better boarding place perhaps and broaden out her life, go to a lecture now and then, maybe give something to missions. That ought to please the dead relatives. But after thinking it over carefully she came to the conclusion one night, why should she? She had always said she hated the store. Of course, she had done her work thoroughly and conscientiously, but she had never loved it the way some of the workers did. She had always longed for leisure to read, to lie down and rest her tired, sad heart, nurse her disappointments, and get a little comfort for the bitter ache that had been with her so long. She wanted to get a little beauty out of life before it was too late. To take the joy of living that she had always supposed was there for those who had the time to search for it.
And so one day she went grimly to the store manager and offered her resignation. It eased her heart a little that he demurred and offered her more salary if she would reconsider, saying some very nice things about the work she had done with them, but she had made her decision and she was not one to change for a mere matter of a little more salary, especially now that she had inherited a tidy sum that would make her quite comfortable. So she agreed to stay long enough to train the one who was to take her place, and then one morning in early spring she packed her sparse belongings, paid her board bill, and went on the trolley car to her new home.
But somehow when she arrived it did not give her the thrill she had expected. The house looked gloomy and desolate, and more than once during that first week while she was cleaning and putting the house in livable order, she found herself longing to get back to the cheerful store with its throngs of people coming and going. This house was lonely. She had never thought of it in that way before, but now that she was here alone, even considering all the drawbacks of a third-rate boardinghouse, it wasn’t as pleasant as she had expected.
Of course, there was plenty to be done in a house that had been closed for several weeks, and as it was work that she was not accustomed to doing she found it very tiring, so that by the end of that first week she was tired enough to go to bed early and get up late Sunday morning, trying to luxuriate in the fact that she did not need to hurry to get anywhere. Although the realization didn’t seem as alluring as she had expected it would.
She got herself a nice dinner, a bit of beefsteak and a roasted potato, a few strawberries, telling her well-drilled conscience that it was not an extravagance, for the tiny box would last two days at least, and even if it was extravagant she had a right to it. Hadn’t she gone without in plenty of ways all these years? And she was able to pay for an extravagance now and then, anyway.
She ate her dinner slowly, savoring every mouthful, fighting off that empty, desolate feeling as she realized that there was no one in the whole world who would be likely to look her up, or care where she was. Glad to be free, of course, from some of the disagreeable fellow boarders she had lived with, yet sorrowful because the new life didn’t blossom with new interests. Next week she would likely go to church when she had time to look over the churches in that vicinity and decide where she wanted to go, but just today she would stay at home and have a taste of really resting, and knowing what a leisurely Sabbath was like.
So at last Martha Spicer sat down in Aunt Abigail’s patchwork-cushioned rocking chair by the window, in her own house on Sunday afternoon, and took up Uncle Jonathan’s religious paper to read a little. The subscription hadn’t run out yet, and she somehow felt she ought
to use it up. It didn’t look very interesting, but she hadn’t anything else just at hand that she wanted to read, so she began at the beginning and read conscientiously on through, determined to give her full attention to whatever came. Perhaps she would so be able to understand her uncle a little better.
At her feet sat Aunt Abigail’s cat, Ernestine, amply wrapped in ancient fur. Her green eyes squinted retrospectively contentedly, like a time-worn hand organ. So she had sat at the feet of Aunt Abigail since kittenhood, a portly, well-conducted cat whose follies, if ever she had any, were all in the past. She had not yet discovered that the careful bowl of milk and the ample dish of meat on which she had been lavishly fed were given from duty now, and not from love.
For Ernestine, to her new mistress, now represented that church missionary society or that needy hospital to which Uncle Jonathan would surely have left his money if he had time to realize that he was so soon to be called away from this earth and would therefore not need the money any longer himself.
The house that Martha Spicer had inherited was in a plain, quiet neighborhood, in a narrow, unattractive street with rows of other brick houses all alike, all having gray stone steps, and there was plenty of children always noisily abroad.
The house was in the middle of the block with a narrow alley running on its left side. The steps gave immediately upon the brick pavement in front. There were two front windows, and many of the householders had adopted the fashion, started by one of them perhaps, of having blue paper shades at the windows. They were of various tints, having from indigo to robin’s-egg blue. Framed in the grimy red brick of the walls, the effect was anything but pleasing to the trained taste of Martha Spicer, for even though her work was mainly among stockings and underwear, she had enjoyed all the beautiful things in the great store and knew when things matched and when colors jarred. So, as she sat at her front window and looked across at her only view, her heart was not pleased.