Spice Box

  “I thought you might like to see these,” he said with a flourish. “I was out of town a ways last night and they looked real pretty, so I clumb up the tree and got ’em for you.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, Ronald. They are lovely!” said Martha, her face shining with pleasure. She was pleased as a young girl with flowers from her young man. It had been a long time since anybody had brought her flowers. “Come in. I was just wishing I could see you. And suppose you help me put this branch over our picture first. I’ve got a little bottle that will about fit around that branch, and I can fill it with water and keep the flowers fresh a long time if I watch and keep the bottle filled.”

  “Gosh, that’s an idea, isn’t it?” said the boy. “Wait! I’ll get the stepladder. It’s in the cellar.”

  Martha laughed.

  “I guess you know where my property is better than I do.”

  The boy grinned.

  “Well, I know the cellar all right,” he said.

  So they arranged the bottle behind the picture frame and stuck the branch in the water, at such an angle that it swept out over the ugly wallpaper and made a lovely bright spot of beautiful blossoms, giving a festive air to the whole room.

  Ronald stood back and surveyed the finished work.

  “Some class!” he said. “That picture’s all right! You say that’s a real place?”

  “Yes,” she answered eagerly, “it’s Rome, Italy. I bought a book about those old ruins yesterday, and now I can tell you all about it if you have time to spare pretty soon. I’ve bought two more pictures, too, that I think you will like. They are to be sent up today.”

  “I’ll come,” he said tersely. “It’s about school time. I guess I better beat it.” He turned to hurry away. “So long!” And he was gone.

  After he left, Martha stood for some time looking at the beautiful white blossoms, her heart swelling with a new joy. The boy had taken the trouble to climb a tree to bring her those flowers!

  She spent the morning going over the house and doing away with a number of archives that hurt her esthetic soul, and felt better when the rooms presented a less cluttered appearance.

  “If it wasn’t so small and dark and ugly,” she sighed as she looked around, with Ernestine purring about her feet. “I feel as I can’t breathe, Ernestine, don’t you?”

  “Meow!” said Ernestine fervently.

  “Well, we’ll have to do something,” said Martha aloud. “We might paper the walls with some light paper, perhaps.”

  “Meow!” said Ernestine again, and then—“Meow—but if you should, put in a fireplace!”

  “Why yes, of course,” said Martha. “It would be all to do over again if we papered first. We better wait till we decide. If only we could get rid of some of those partitions and have some space!”

  “Exactly—Meow!” declared the cat.

  Ronald breezed in about five o’clock to see if the furnace man had done his work right. The new pictures had come, and he hung them, and admired them very much apparently, but all he said was, “Some class!”

  Then he said, quite casually, “I might bring a fella down tonight if you’re going to be home.”

  Martha hesitated. Ronald was one thing, but a “fella” was another. Her old prejudice about boys arose and protested to her, but the look in the boy’s face, though enigmatic, was eager, and she said, “Why yes, I’m going to be home.”

  “He’s a arch-iteck fella, just started, and he wants a job bad. He’s all right. You’ll like him.” The boy was off again, leaving her standing with a troubled countenance, looking around on her rooms in a kind of ecstatic consternation.

  An architect! And she couldn’t even make up her mind whether she wanted anything done to the house or not! It seemed too soon after taking possession, anyway, for her to begin to make changes. It seemed hardly decent.

  Yet, if he really did come, there could be no particular harm in asking him a few questions, finding out what such things would cost. Then, if the price was high, that would help her to put the idea out of her head. Thus she reasoned with herself. Yet all day she was aflutter, staring at the walls and thinking how it would look if they were down; trying to fancy a staircase with landings, and a bay window with a seat and geraniums on the window shelf, white muslin curtains! And how would Ernestine regard the advent of a canary in a brass cage? A canary singing while the yellow sunshine played in the now dark hall and parlor, which would be thrown open to the light?

  And what about a big, wide window below the staircase, more toward the front of the house? A window with a single large pane of plate glass and a wide cushion seat below it? With low bookshelves on each side and a bit of a statuary on the top shelf. Her soul suddenly longed for a little head of Joan of Arc she had seen when passing through the art department at the store, a face of uplifting sweetness and purity. Such a face as that in a room would be an inspiration. Perhaps someday she would buy that lovely bit of art just for a centerpiece and inspiration for her home. That would be another story to tell Ronald. She would like to see his eyes when he looked at the holy beauty the artist had put into the eyes of that marble face.

  By seven o’clock she had got herself into such a state that she started at every noise. It almost seemed, too, as if Aunt Abigail and Uncle Jonathan had come in and were sitting on the two opposite big rocking chairs with folded hands and severe brows, as they used to sit and ask her polite questions about herself on the few occasions when she had visited them. It seemed as though they were watching to see what she was going to do to their property now that they had gone where they could no longer control it. She almost decided to call to Ronald over the fence and tell him she was going out that evening and could not see his architect friend. Then she wavered and tried to decide what questions she would ask him if he came.

  No one would have recognized the former composed head of the Underwear Department in the flushed face of Martha Spicer as she opened the front door to Ronald and his friend.

  The architect was young and inoffensive. He bowed deferentially and followed Ronald into the stuffy little parlor, which, in spite of the glowing lamp in the middle of the mahogany table, had the air of continually approaching you to smother you with its surrounding nearness.

  He cast a quick glance around as if to get ready for any questions that might be asked of him. She could see he wanted to please her.

  “You are intending to make alterations in your home?” he asked embarrassedly.

  Martha caught her breath at the bald statement.

  “Well, I am thinking of it,” she said with a reassuring smile at Ronald. She didn’t want to let him down. “I wanted to find out whether what I want would be feasible, and what it would likely cost. It will probably be far beyond my pocketbook, however, and it seems hardly fair for you to take your time to talk about it until I am a little more certain.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said the young man. “I’m glad to take all the time you want, and I’m sure I can do it as cheap for you as anyone else, and do good work. You’ve got a good solid house here to start with. The boy said you wanted to take out some partitions and put in some windows.”

  “Yes,” said Martha, catching her breath as the daring idea was launched into words.

  “I should think it might be done without great expense,” said the young man. “May I look around and see just what partitions there are?”

  So they started on the rounds and Ronald sat back in a big chair and watched and listened. Ernestine came and jumped in his lap, and he sat there tickling her under her chin as she purred contentedly. The voices of the architect and the householder came pleasantly from the dining room, and Ronald studied the pictures over the mantel and dreamed his boy-dreams about the bullfights and lion hunting, glad in the thought that he was serving his two friends by thus bringing them together. He had no doubt but that Miss Spicer would enjoy her house better if it were made over, and he was sure it would help Bill Roberts to take his sick baby to the
shore and pay for his doctor’s bill. It gave him pleasure to help such things on.

  They came back presently into the living room, and the architect got out a pencil and paper and drew a rough sketch of what could be done.

  Martha watched, fascinated, as the windows she had dreamed of and the staircase appeared on paper as if by magic, with here and there a windowseat or china closet tucked in. And then the crowning touch of all, the big stone fireplace, made of rough cobblestones but dignifying the place wonderfully. Did Ernestine understand that, and did she envision a flickering fire for her to sit beside and dream? She uttered a soft “Meow” as she nestled down in Ronald’s lap as though everything was going all right for that fireplace and there was no need to worry any longer. She had “Why worry?” written all over her furry countenance.

  When at last the young man looked up from his figuring and announced the result, Martha caught her breath. Could it be possible that she was actually contemplating spending all that money? And yet, it was less than the probable figure she had set—far less.

  “That’s approximate of course,” he added eagerly. “It could be more or less according to the material you want in it. This is only a rough estimate.”

  “Well, I must think about it of course,” said Martha, looking down to hide her delight that the figures were no higher.

  The builder’s pink countenance fell and paled. He tried to think of something else to say, opened his lips, trembling, but closed them again. He wanted this job mightily. He looked appealingly at Ronald and then down at his pencil, and then began unconsciously to draw another fireplace on the corner of the paper.

  “I might work it out, make an estimate. Perhaps I would find someplace where I could cut it down,” he said. “You see, I’m just getting started. I’d do the work part cheap. It would mean a good deal to me to have the job right now—”

  His voice trembled a little as he cleared his throat.

  “His kid’s been awful sick—” put in Ronald irrelevantly, dropping his own pencil with a clatter and disturbing Ernestine’s repose as he stooped to pick it up.

  With sudden insight Martha saw that to Ronald much depended on his protégés getting the job. Such knowledge a week ago would have been enough to finish the whole matter. She would have suspected that the work would not be well done and she would be cheated. But so great a miracle had the boy’s smile already wrought in her that she immediately became possessed of a desire to please these two and give the job at once without further words. All her long years of business training were scattered to the winds by a simple desire to please a rough, friendly boy. How startling, if she had taken the time to think about it. Instead she was merely impressed by the way the boy’s dark hair tossed itself up over his sunburned brow, and she felt compelled to answer at once.

  “Why, I don’t know. Yes. I guess you might do that. It’s rather sudden, but I guess it will be all right. You may go ahead and make an estimate if you don’t mind.”

  The young man’s face relaxed, and he rose awkwardly, terribly conscious of himself and of how much hung on this deal.

  Ronald stood up gravely and put down the reluctant cat, but there was a look not altogether of satisfaction about his expressive young mouth. Somehow it penetrated to Martha’s consciousness, and her soul responded to its suggestion.

  “I’m sorry your child is ill,” she said pleasantly. “Do you live near here? Is there anything I could do to help in a neighborly way?”

  Ronald’s lips relaxed a trifle.

  “No ma’am, thank you,” said the father, growing pink again. “Johnny’s better now, but I’m pretty anxious to get him and his mother off to the seashore for a few days. The doctor says that’s the thing for him now. And his mother’s pretty well run down nursing him so long. He’s been sick all summer.”

  “Well, that is hard,” said Martha reflectively. And then after a pause and another glance at Ronald, whose eyes averted, she added, “Well, now, if it will help you any with your planning, I think you can just count on this job right away. Begin tomorrow if you like. I really want it done, and I guess I shan’t be happy till I get it. We can talk over the details and get them settled later, but you can count on the job. I guess we can fix the terms all right. I don’t want you to cheat yourself.”

  Then beamed Ronald’s smile, on the averted side of his face first, so no one would see it. But it was too big to stay there, and it spread all across from ear to ear, so he had to reach down and scratch Ernestine’s ear to hide it. Nevertheless, before he left, he lifted adoring eyes to Martha Spicer’s face, and the glory of them was reward enough for her.

  When she at last shut and bolted her front door and turned to meet the accusing eyes of Aunt Abigail and Uncle Jonathan from the shadows of the hall, her heart was so filled with joy over the relief she had given that she didn’t care at all. Just sailed on upstairs, with Ernestine threading her assertive way underfoot, and never thought how reckless and unbusinesslike it was to spend so much money without consideration.

  She was happy as she began preparing for bed, happier than she had been for years. She was happy at the thought of the lovely place she was going to make out of her gloomy little house, but happier than all at the joy she had seen in Ronald’s eyes, and the relief and ecstasy she had seen in the eyes of the anxious young father.

  And then, just as she was beginning to take out her hairpins and arrange her hair for the night, there came a timid ring at the doorbell.

  Chapter 8

  Janice, huddled in the corner of the rapidly moving ambulance, was trying to think her way through. She knew she had taken a big chance; so far she seemed to have gotten from the hospital without suspicion, and now the next thing was to get away from Sam without delay. She had told him he was to take her to catch the express, but was there an express at this hour? She couldn’t remember. He hadn’t demurred, so perhaps he didn’t know, or perhaps there was one. If there was one she must, without question, take it to somewhere. Even if she didn’t have money enough to pay her fare they could put her off somewhere, couldn’t they? And if there wasn’t a train and Sam did as she told him and went back to take Miss Wiley to her train, she could at least sneak off in the darkness and lose herself, and by the time anybody responsible knew about it she could be well hidden somewhere.

  But it was a wild drive, for Sam seemed to have an idea that there wasn’t much time to make her train, and he was making the old ambulance fairly gallop.

  As they neared the Junction she was relieved to hear a whistle in the distance, and then the headlight of an engine came into view. She could dimly see the station just ahead and a few dark figures ranged on the platform, evidently about to board the train. She drew a breath of relief and began to think. How much money did she have with her? Enough to carry her to Boston or Buffalo or somewhere far enough away so Herbert could not trace her? She knew she had two five-dollar bills and some change in her dress pocket, parting gifts that grateful patients had given her, but would that carry her far enough? Yet, she must not spend all she had, or she would have nothing to live on till she found a job.

  The train rushed up to the little Junction station and then on by, and Janice had a moment of fright lest it was not going to stop at all. She clambered down from the ambulance and dashed across the platform, chasing after the last car as it glided by her, going slower now. It was going to stop!

  “Hurry back!” she called to Sam as she went flying down the platform. And then the train came to a halt, and she hastened to climb up the steps of the last car, puffing and panting, all out of breath. She struggled with the door, but it would not open, and to her distress, the conductor shouted “All aboard!” Then the train lurched and began slowly to move. It was too late to get off and run to another car. In horror she gripped the doorknob and struggled with it again, but it would not open. She couldn’t understand it, because there was a light in the car. Surely there must be somebody in there. She began to pound on the glass door and r
attle the knob, to kick against the door, but the train roared on and nothing happened. She was definitely locked out, and the train was going so fast now that the dark world outside seemed to be simply flying by. Well, she had gotten away from the hospital all right. Sam had gone back and would tell how she just made the train. Nobody could very well trace her, for no conductor would remember such a passenger, as she wasn’t inside. But how long could she stand this ride? She could not endure standing up, clinging to the doorknob for very long, for she was trembling already when she got here, both from the shock of seeing Herbert and from her wild run down the platform to the train.

  Carefully she tried to sit down on the top step, but it was a precarious seat, with only a slender handrail just above her head to hold on to and the danger of being thrown off whenever the train went around a swift curve, which seemed to be nearly all the time. They were plunging through the mountains now, and she could feel the depths beneath her even with her eyes shut. She might at any minute be hurled into space. She shook the door and cried out again, but no one could possibly hear in all that din and roar, even if there was anyone there to hear. The wind took her voice and tossed it in fragments from crag to crag, flinging it far into the valley below in weakly mocking sounds.

  On and on they thundered, rocking and tossing. The train was like some wild beast upon whose back she clung, who wanted to rid himself of her. It appeared to plunge and rear and do its fearful best to fling her off.

  It seemed hours that she crouched there, clinging to the metal doorknob, her feet braced on the doorframe, half crouching, half sitting on the cold platform. Until at last the great untamed thing on which she rode suddenly slowed down and came to a dead, lurching stop beside a wooden platform, whose shadowy outlines led to a little station.

  Scarcely believing her dazed senses, she crept stiffly down the steps of her car and tried to hurry along the station platform to climb into the next car before the train started on again. But as if the train had been aware of it and would have none of her, it gave a snort of warning, grinding its wheels menacingly, and started on its way again, leaving the girl trembling, sore, chilled to the bone, and ready to sink down in the dark and die.