The bell rang again.
They sat in the dark.
Six more times the bell rang.
“Let’s not answer,” they both said. Startled again, they looked at each other, gasping.
They stared across the room into each other’s eyes.
“It can’t be anyone important.”
“No one important. They’d want to talk. And we’re tired, aren’t we?”
“Pretty,” she said.
The bell rang.
There was a tinkle as Mr. Alexander took another spoonful of peppermint syrup. His wife drank some water and a white pill.
The bell rang a final, hard, time.
“I’ll just peek,” he said, “out of the front window.”
He left his wife and went to look. And there, on the front porch, his back turned, going down the steps was Samuel Spaulding. Mr. Alexander couldn’t remember his face.
Mrs. Alexander was in the other front room, looking out of a window, secretly. She saw a Thimble Club woman walking along the street now, turning in at the sidewalk, coming up just as the man who had rung the bell, was coming down. They met. Their voices murmured out there in the calm spring night.
The two strangers glanced up at the dark house together, discussing it.
Suddenly, the two strangers laughed.
They gazed at the dim house once more. Then the man and the woman walked down the sidewalk and away together, along the street, under the moonlit trees, laughing and shaking their heads and talking until they were out of sight.
Back in the living room Mr. Alexander found his wife had put out a small washtub of warm water in which, mutually, they might soak their feet. She had also brought in an extra bottle of arnica. He heard her washing her hands. When she returned from the bath, her hands and face smelled of soap instead of spring verbena.
They sat soaking their feet.
“I think we better turn in these tickets we bought for that play Saturday night,” he said, “and the tickets for that benefit next week. You never can tell.”
“All right,” she said.
The spring afternoon seemed like a million years ago.
“I wonder who that was at the door,” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, reaching for the peppermint oil. He swallowed some. “Game of blackjack, missus?”
She settled back in her chair with the faintest wriggle of her body.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said.
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY
IT SEEMED THERE was never a time when someone did not say, “There was the Rose of Sharon, there was the lilies of the valley.” “She walked like a princess. She could walk across the sands by the lake and the smallest breeze would blow the footprints away, she made so little mark in passing.” The voices moved with the calendar through his life. “Have you ever put your head down in a bed of mint-leaves in May?” “In the middle of the hottest summer night you ever knew, have you felt the curtains blow out into your room, cool and white, suddenly. And the first rain falling on the hot night roof over your head?” They went all around and over and about the beautiful lady, trying to describe what it was about her. “It’s like trying to tell you what red looks like, or blue, with your eyes shut.” But they never gave up trying.
“She couldn’t have been as beautiful as all that,” cried George Gray. “Show us a picture of her!”
“That’s fifty years ago,” they said. “I suppose if you search around town you’ll find one, but it’s doubtful. She died young. It seems the whole town turned out for her, she was only nineteen and unmarried, when she died. I think everyone was in love with the girl, she was that special.”