A String of Blue Beads
富尔顿·奥斯勒 / Fulton Oursler
Pete Richard was the loneliest man in town. On the day Jean Grace opened the door of his shop. It’s a small shop which had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things: bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War, gold rings and silver boxes, images of jade and ivory, porcelain figurines. On this winter’s afternoon a child was standing there, her forehead against the glass, earnest and enormous eyes studying each treasure as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.
The shadowy interior of Pete Richard’s establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets, dueling pistols, clocks and lamps, and the floor was heaped with irons, mandolins and things hard to find a name for. Behind the counter stood Pete himself, a man not more than thirty but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.
“Mister,” she began, “would you please let me look at the string of blue beads in the window?” Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her. “They’re just perfect,” said the child, entirely to herself. “Will you wrap them up pretty for me, please?”
Pete studied her with a stony air. “Are you buying these for someone?” “They’re for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see, this will be the first Christmas since Mother died. I’ve been looking for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister.”
“How much money do you have?” asked Pete warily. She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter. “I emptied my bank.” she explained simply.
Pete looked at her thoughtfully. Then he carefully drew back the necklace. The price tag was visible to him but not to her. How could he tell her? The trusting look of her blue eyes smote him like the pain of an old wound. “Just a minute,” he said, and turned toward the back of the store. Over his shoulder he called, “What’s your name?” He was very busy about something. “Jean Grace.”
When Pete returned to where Jean Grace waited, a package lay in his hand, wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a bow of green. “There you are,” he said shortly, “Don’t lose it on the way home.”
She smiled happily over her shoulder as she ran out the door. Through the window he watched her go, while desolation flooded his thoughts. Something about Jean Grace and her string of beads had stirred him to the depths of a grief that would not stay buried. The child’s hair was wheat yellow, her eyes sea blue, and once upon a time, not long before, Pete had been in love with a girl with hair of that same yellow and with eyes just as blue. And the turquoise necklace was to have been hers.
But there had come a rainy night-a truck skidding on a slippery road—and the life was crushed out of his dream. Since then, Pete had lived too much with his grief in solitude. He was politely attentive to customers, but after hours his world seemed irrevocably empty. He was trying to forget in a self-pitying haze that deepened day by day. The blue eyes of Jean Grace jolted him into acute remembrance of what he had lost. The pain of it made him recoil from the exuberance of holiday shoppers. During the next ten days trade was brisk; chattering women swarmed in, fingering trinkets, trying to bargain. When the last customer had gone, late on Christmas Eve, he sighed with relief. It was over for another year. But for Pete the night was not quite over.
The door opened and a young woman hurried in. With an inexplicable start, he realized that she looked familiar, yet he could not remember when or where he had seen her before. Her hair was golden yellow and her large eyes were blue. Without speaking, she drew from her purse a package loosely unwrapped in its red paper, a bow of green ribbon with it. Presently the string of blue beads lay gleaming again before him.
