A Miller waiting in a shop! No! It was too much!
“I won’t do it!” Benedicta thought, angry tears in her eyes. “I’ll leave
his horrible, vulgar shop! I never want to see him again! So this is
what he calls something worth doing! In a year he’ll pay back Mr.
Wilkinson and be standing on his own feet--”
Somehow the phrase arrested her. Standing on his own feet! Working
honestly and faithfully and happily, proud of his work, confident of
success, looking forward, instead of back--standing on his own feet!
Benedicta was at the door, with her hand on the latch, but she could not
open it. It was as if a crowd of new ideas were holding it fast, keeping
her in there. This bright, neat little place, where something was done,
instead of remembered--this thing that was being built up, instead of
falling into ruins--what had she ever had in her life one-half so fine?
After all, wasn’t it an adventure, wasn’t it a worthy thing to do, to
stand on his own feet?
The door was pushed open then, and the next instant the daughter of the
Millers was confronted by a customer. Suddenly a strange new desire came
over her--a desire to do something, instead of just being herself, a
fierce determination to make even the smallest sort of individual
effort.
In an instant, Benedicta knew all sorts of things she wasn’t aware of
knowing. She understood the arrangement of the stock. She knew how to
talk to this strange man. She was calm, reasonable, efficient. He
wavered, and said he didn’t think he would take anything that morning;
and she persuaded him! She made a sale!
She wrapped up the book and took the money for it. She kept the coins in
her hand and stared at them. The shop was an entirely different place.
The whole world was changed. She walked thoughtfully about, she saw
improvements that could be made.
“Got it!” cried Dumall boyishly.
“Got what?” asked Benedicta, turning with a slight, preoccupied frown.
“The agency. I’m sorry I had to leave you, Benedicta. I ought to have
some sort of assistant, but that’ll have to wait. Now, then, dear girl,
let’s go out to lunch!”
“And leave the shop?” she inquired.
“I’ll close it for an hour. I often do, you know. No one’s likely to
come in.”
“Some one did come in, just now,” said Benedicta, “and bought a book.”
She handed him the money. “So you see,” she went on quite sternly, “if
there’d been no one here--”
“But I have to. We’ll only be gone--”
“I’ll stay here while you have lunch.”
“But, Benedicta!” he objected. “I want to be with you. Never mind the
shop!”
“Francis, I’m ashamed of you!” said she. “The shop shan’t be left alone.
I--I love it!”
“Love the _shop_?” he asked. “Is that all?”
“Well, anyhow--I’d like to help you, Francis,” she murmured. “I’d be
glad to come every day until--until you don’t need me any more.”
Young Dumall looked at her.
“I don’t think you know what you’re undertaking, Benedicta,” he said.
“If you’re going to come until I don’t need you, it’s a life job!”
“Do run along and get your lunch!” replied Benedicta, dignified in spite
of very flushed cheeks. “I--I believe a job was just what I always
wanted, Francis!”
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
FEBRUARY, 1924
Vol. LXXXI NUMBER 1