Benedicta awoke to a rainy morning, but it was not the sort of rain that
had hitherto fallen upon the earth. It was sweet, fresh, exhilarating.
The sound of it drumming on the roof was as gay as martial music.
All the old wearisome things were gone out of her life, and the new ones
had scarcely begun. She felt wonderfully free and spirited, like a
person on a journey who has got as far as the railway station--who is
definitely away from home, but still in familiar country.
She was thinking of nothing but Francis Dumall, the knight, the
adventurer, the man determined to do something worth doing. She could
imagine nothing in the modern world quite splendid enough for him to do.
It was brave to be an aviator, but it wasn’t important enough. A
statesman? Not picturesque enough. A writer? Not sufficiently active or
daring.
“But he’ll have thought of something,” she reflected. “I know he has his
life all planned. I wonder why I didn’t ask him about that, instead of
about--other things. It’s because I’m frivolous and silly!”
Even that didn’t depress her. She was so full of hope and courage this
morning that it seemed the simplest thing in the world to acquire wisdom
at once. She intended to buy and read a new book this very day, so that
she might talk about it to the incomparable Francis in the evening; and
this not from any desire to show off, or to impress him, but simply from
an honest and touching wish to follow him, to go at his pace, to prove
her sympathy with his aims.
She had never bought a book in her life. It had been difficult
enough--impossible, at times--to buy the barest necessities; and what
they did get was usually procured on credit in mysterious ways by Mr.
Miller.
Money of her own was a thing unknown to Benedicta. Nevertheless, she
went in the calmest way and asked her father for a little. Mr. Miller
was equally calm when he gave her all he had. Indeed, he forgot the
present moment, and felt himself one of the old Millers making a lavish
gift to a daughter whose hand was sought by a scion of the Dumalls.
It didn’t matter that she went rattling off in her little car along
muddy roads. She couldn’t have been lovelier in a coach with footmen.
The rain blew against her face and made it beautifully rosy. Her dark
hair became a little loosened under her wide hat.
When she sprang out, and went into the butcher’s, he was astounded by
this new aspect of the high and mighty Miss Miller. To tell the truth,
he felt more respect and admiration for her happy youth than he had ever
felt for her Millerness.
“Mr. Schultz,” she said eagerly, “can you tell me where there’s a book
shop?”
Mr. Schultz had an educated son who bought books. He told her that for
the first time in many years there was now a book shop in Elderfield,
and a good one, too, just behind the post office.
“It’s--” he began, but she thanked him, and hurried off.
It was a trim, attractive little shop, with a striped awning, and in the
window were displayed books as fresh and tempting as the first
delectable fruits in spring. No bookworm was Benedicta, however. She
pulled up the little car smartly, jumped out, and entered the shop with
a brisk and resolute air.
“Have you a copy of--” she began, addressing the young man who came
forward.
Then she stopped short with a gasp. It was Francis Dumall!
“Benedicta!” he cried. “This is the best thing that ever happened; I
never thought of seeing you on a rainy day like this! Benedicta! How
especially pretty you look!”
“But--” she faltered. “But I didn’t know--I didn’t think--you never told
me you were here in a place like this!”
“Didn’t I?” he answered, with an air of triumph. “Well, take a good look
at it, Benedicta! It’s my own!”
“Your--shop? _You_ have a _shop_?”
He mistook her horror for incredulous admiration.
“Fact!” he said. “Mr. Wilkinson set me up six months ago, and I’m doing
even better than I expected. I tell you, Benedicta, I’m really making
the people here sit up and take notice that there are such things as
books in this world. A fellow told me the other day that I was doing
splendid missionary work. Why, look here, Benedicta--”
And he went on, showing her things, explaining, taking up books and
opening them, and never noticing her frozen silence.
A customer came in. He sold her the book she wanted, and another which
she hadn’t wanted before. A Dumall waiting on customers! A shopkeeper!
That was what Benedicta’s knight, her splendid adventurer, was
doing--selling books and wrapping them up!
When they were alone again, he sat down on the edge of the table and
took both her hands.
“You see, darling, beautiful girl, in a year’s time, even if I don’t do
better than I’m doing now, I’ll have paid back Wilkinson, and I’ll be
standing on my own feet. _Then_ I’ll be able--”
Benedicta tried to draw away her hands, tried to find words for the
anger and bitter disappointment within her; but before she had uttered a
syllable, the door opened again and a man entered.
“Dumall,” he said, politely ignoring the flushed Benedicta, “I wish
you’d come over to the station with me and see that fellow from Cowan’s.
He’s waiting for the up train, but he’d like to see you about that Bijou
line of cards.”
Young Dumall turned to Benedicta with such a pleased expression.
“You won’t be afraid to look after the shop for a quarter of an hour,
will you?” he asked earnestly. “You needn’t try to sell anything. If any
one comes in, show those new books, you know--and keep them talking
until I get back.”
Before she had time to refuse, he had hurried away on his errand.