AStringofBlueBeads
富爾頓·奧斯勒/FultonOursler
PeteRichardwastheloneliestmanintown.OnthedayJeanGraceopenedthedoorofhisshop.It』sasmallshopwhichhadcomedowntohimfromhisgrandfather.Thelittlefrontwindowwasstrewnwithadisarrayofold-fashionedthings:braceletsandlocketswornindaysbeforetheCivilWar,goldringsandsilverboxes,imagesofjadeandivory,porcelainfigurines.Onthiswinter』safternoonachildwasstandingthere,herforeheadagainsttheglass,earnestandenormouseyesstudyingeachtreasureasifshewerelookingforsomethingquitespecial.Finallyshestraightenedupwithasatisfiedairandenteredthestore.
TheshadowyinteriorofPeteRichard』sestablishmentwasevenmoreclutteredthanhisshowwindow.Shelveswerestackedwithjewelcaskets,duelingpistols,clocksandlamps,andthefloorwasheapedwithirons,mandolinsandthingshardtofindanamefor.BehindthecounterstoodPetehimself,amannotmorethanthirtybutwithhairalreadyturninggray.Therewasableakairabouthimashelookedatthesmallcustomerwhoflattenedherunglovedhandsonthecounter.
「Mister,」shebegan,「wouldyoupleaseletmelookatthestringofbluebeadsinthewindow?」Petepartedthedraperiesandliftedoutanecklace.Theturquoisestonesgleamedbrightlyagainstthepallorofhispalmashespreadtheornamentbeforeher.「They』rejustperfect,」saidthechild,entirelytoherself.「Willyouwrapthemupprettyforme,please?」
Petestudiedherwithastonyair.「Areyoubuyingtheseforsomeone?」「They』reformybigsister.Shetakescareofme.Yousee,thiswillbethefirstChristmassinceMotherdied.I』vebeenlookingforthemostwonderfulChristmaspresentformysister.」
「Howmuchmoneydoyouhave?」askedPetewarily.Shehadbeenbusilyuntyingtheknotsinahandkerchiefandnowshepouredoutahandfulofpenniesonthecounter.「Iemptiedmybank.」sheexplainedsimply.
Petelookedatherthoughtfully.Thenhecarefullydrewbackthenecklace.Thepricetagwasvisibletohimbutnottoher.Howcouldhetellher?Thetrustinglookofherblueeyessmotehimlikethepainofanoldwound.「Justaminute,」hesaid,andturnedtowardthebackofthestore.Overhisshoulderhecalled,「What』syourname?」Hewasverybusyaboutsomething.「JeanGrace.」
WhenPetereturnedtowhereJeanGracewaited,apackagelayinhishand,wrappedinscarletpaperandtiedwithabowofgreen.「Thereyouare,」hesaidshortly,「Don』tloseitonthewayhome.」
Shesmiledhappilyoverhershoulderassheranoutthedoor.Throughthewindowhewatchedhergo,whiledesolationfloodedhisthoughts.SomethingaboutJeanGraceandherstringofbeadshadstirredhimtothedepthsofagriefthatwouldnotstayburied.Thechild』shairwaswheatyellow,hereyesseablue,andonceuponatime,notlongbefore,Petehadbeeninlovewithagirlwithhairofthatsameyellowandwitheyesjustasblue.Andtheturquoisenecklacewastohavebeenhers.
Buttherehadcomearainynight-atruckskiddingonaslipperyroad—andthelifewascrushedoutofhisdream.Sincethen,Petehadlivedtoomuchwithhisgriefinsolitude.Hewaspolitelyattentivetocustomers,butafterhourshisworldseemedirrevocablyempty.Hewastryingtoforgetinaself-pityinghazethatdeepeneddaybyday.TheblueeyesofJeanGracejoltedhimintoacuteremembranceofwhathehadlost.Thepainofitmadehimrecoilfromtheexuberanceofholidayshoppers.Duringthenexttendaystradewasbrisk;chatteringwomenswarmedin,fingeringtrinkets,tryingtobargain.Whenthelastcustomerhadgone,lateonChristmasEve,hesighedwithrelief.Itwasoverforanotheryear.ButforPetethenightwasnotquiteover.
Thedooropenedandayoungwomanhurriedin.Withaninexplicablestart,herealizedthatshelookedfamiliar,yethecouldnotrememberwhenorwherehehadseenherbefore.Herhairwasgoldenyellowandherlargeeyeswereblue.Withoutspeaking,shedrewfromherpurseapackagelooselyunwrappedinitsredpaper,abowofgreenribbonwithit.Presentlythestringofbluebeadslaygleamingagainbeforehim.