Part 27 (1/2)

For five weeks the ”Art Emporium” was closed, and in that time the face of the world had changed for Marietta. She realized the change when she came downstairs and opened the shop again. It was impossible to feel that life was restored to its old basis. There was a change too in her, which was patent to the most casual observer. It was, indeed, a very wan and thin Marietta that at last came forward to meet her customers; her eyes looked alarmingly big, and though nothing could disturb the pose of the beautiful head, there was a droop in the figure, that betokened bodily and mental exhaustion.

A good many customers came in to make Easter purchases,--for the following Sunday was Easter,--and many others to inquire for Jim. As the old, familiar life began to rea.s.sert itself, as she began to feel at home again in the old, accustomed surroundings, her mind recurred, in a half-dazed way, to her speculation. She did not herself know much about it, for Dayton had never sent her her certificate. Probably he had come with it when the shop was closed. She supposed she must be too tired to have much courage; that must be why her heart sank at the thought of what she had done. She was sitting by the work-table, her head in her hands, pondering dully. At the sound of the shop-bell she looked up, mechanically, and saw Inches coming in.

”Good morning, Mrs. Jim,” he said. ”How's your husband?”

”Jim's better, thank you,” she replied, and the sound of her own confident words dispelled the clouds.

Inches looked at her narrowly, and then he began pulling the ears of a mounted fox-skin that was lying on the counter, as he remarked casually: ”Hope you got rid of your 'H. O. P.' in time.”

”In time?” she asked. ”In time? What do you mean?”

”Why, before they closed down. You sold out, I hope?”

There was a sudden catch in her breath.

”Yes, I sold out some time ago.”

”Glad of that,” he declared, with very evident relief, suddenly losing interest in the fox's ears. Inches had none of Dayton's prejudices in regard to woman's ”sphere,” but he was none the less rejoiced to know that this particular woman, with the tired-looking eyes, had not ”got hurt,” as he would have put it.

”It's been a bad business all round,” he went on, waxing confidential as he was p.r.o.ne to do. ”Why, I knew a man that bought twenty thousand shares at a dollar-ten three weeks ago, just before she closed down, and he's never had the sand to sell.”

”What could he get to-day?” Marietta asked. Her voice sounded in her ears strange and far away.

”Well, I don't know. I was offered some at six cents, but I don't know anybody that wants it.”

Marietta's throat felt parched and dry, and now there was a singing in her ears; but she gave no outward sign.

”Pretty hard on some folks,” she remarked.

”I should say so!”

There was a din in her ears all that afternoon, which was perhaps a fortunate circ.u.mstance, for it shut out all possibility of thought. It was not until night came that the din stopped, and her brain became clear again,--cruelly, pitilessly clear.

Deep into the night she lay awake tormenting herself with figures. How hideous, how intolerable they were! They pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed in her brain in the uncompromising search-light of conscience, like malicious, mouthing imps. They were her debts and losses, they stood for disgrace and penury, they menaced the very foundation of her life and happiness.

Doubtless the man who had put many thousands into the ”Horn of Plenty,”

and had lacked the ”sand” to sell, would have wondered greatly that a fellow-creature should be suffering agony on account of a few hundred dollars. Yet he, in his keenest pang of disappointment, knew nothing whatever of the awful word ”ruin”; while Marietta, staring up into the darkness, was getting that lesson by heart.

The town-clock striking three seemed to pierce her consciousness and relieve the strain. She wished the sofa she was lying upon were not so hard and narrow; perhaps if she were more comfortable she might be able to sleep, and then, in the morning, she might see light. Of course there was light, somewhere, if she could only find it; but who ever found the light, lying on a hard sofa, in pitchy darkness? Perhaps if she were to get up and move about things would seem less intolerable. And with the mere thought of action the tired frame relaxed, the straining eyes were sealed with sleep, the curtain of unconsciousness had fallen upon the troubled stage of her mind.

And when, at dawn, Jim opened frightened eyes, and struggled with a terrible oppression to speak her name, Marietta was still sleeping profoundly.

”Etta!” he gasped. ”O, Etta!”

And Marietta heard the whispered name, and thrusting out her hands, as if to tear away a physical bond, broke through the torpor that possessed her, and stood upon her feet. She staggered, white and trembling, to Jim's bedside, and there, in the faint light, she saw that he was dying.

”Etta, Etta,” he whispered, ”I want you!”

She sank upon her knees beside him, but the hand she folded in her own was already lifeless.