A PIECE OF HER MIND
"Miss Child, I've been looking for you for months!" were Peter's first
words when he had her to himself.
Instantly she knew what her pose ought to be. Not prim stiffness, not
suspicious maidenly dignity, but just smiling civility, a recognition
of past slight acquaintance. This would do for the beginning. This
must surely show him that the tactics Ena credited him with were
useless here.
"Have you? How nice of you to say so," she braced herself to reply
with gayest indifference. "Well, I've been in this store for--a long
time, migrating from one department to another and learning the
business. I'm quite a fair saleswoman now, I assure you. Are you going
to buy a cloak? Because, if not--this is a busy morning."
"Yes, I'll buy one as a present for my mother," said Peter. "I should
like you to choose her something. I described her to you once, but I
suppose you've forgotten. She's little, and rather plump, and has
beautiful white hair and a rosy complexion. But, Miss Child, I want to
talk to you, not about cloaks, about yourself. I've asked permission,
and they know who I am, and it's all right. I said you and my sister
were friends. That's true, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes!"
"I believed _we_ were friends once. And we were, too. The more I've
thought of it, the surer I've been. Something happened to make you
change your mind about me. I was struck all of a heap at first. I
didn't have the sense to know what to say or do, to try and put myself
back where I had been. I let you go. And I lost you. But I'm not going
to lose you again. You can see how much in earnest I am when I tell
you that I haven't stopped looking for you for one single day after I
realized you wouldn't keep your promise about writing my sister."
"It wasn't a promise," breathed Win. "I--never meant to write to her."
"I thought so!"
"Why should I? It was very kind of Miss Rolls to suggest it, if I
should ever want help. But I didn't want help. All I wanted was to get
on by myself."
"I know you mean me to understand from that, Miss Child, that you
don't think I've any right to force myself on you after you showed me
so plainly you thought me a bounder," said Peter, not mincing his
words or stumbling over them. "But I'm not a bounder. There must be
some way of proving to you that I'm not. That's why I'm here for one
thing, though there's another---"
"What?" Winifred threw in, frightened, and thinking it better to cut
him short in time.
"I want you to meet my mother and let her help you to get some kind of
a position more--more worthy of your talents than this."
Win laughed aloud. "You run down your father's shop?"
"It's not good enough for you."
She flushed, and all her pent-up anger against the House of the Hands
tingled in that flush.
"You say so because I once had the great honour of being an
acquaintance of yours--and your sister's," she hurried breathlessly
on. "For all the rest of the people here, the people you don't know
and don't want to know, you think it good enough--too good,
perhaps--even splendid! It does look so, doesn't it? Magnificent! And
every one of your father's employees so happy--so fortunate to be
earning his wages. They're worms--that doesn't matter to rich men like
you, Mr. Rolls. Unless, perhaps, a girl happens to be pretty--or you
knew her once and remember that she was an individual. Oh, you must
feel I'm very ungrateful for your interest. Maybe you mean to be
kind--about your mother. But give your interest to those who need it.
I don't. I've seen your name in the papers--interviews--things you try
to do for the 'poor.' It's a sort of fad, isn't it--in your set? But
charity begins at home. You could do more by looking into things and
righting wrongs in your father's own shop than anywhere else in the
world."
She stopped, panting a little, her colour coming and going She had not
meant this at first. It was far removed from smiling civility,
this--tirade! But, as Sadie Kirk would say, "He had asked for it."
He was looking at her with his straight, level gaze. He was
astonished, maybe, but not angry. And she did not know whether to be
glad or sorry that she had not been able to rouse him to rage. His
look into her eyes was no longer that of a young man for a young
woman who means much to him. That light had died while the stream of
her words poured out.
For a moment, when she had ceased, they stared at each other in
silence, his face very grave, hers flushed and suggesting a
superficial repentance.
"Forgive me," she plumped two words into the pause, as if pumping air
into a vacuum. "I oughtn't to have said all that. It was rude."
"But true? You think it's true?"
"Yes."
"You have been working here in my father's store for months, and you
say I could do more good by righting the wrongs here than anywhere
else in the world. That sounds pretty serious."
"It is serious. Whether I ought to have spoken or not."
_"I_ tell you, you ought to have spoken. It was--brave of you. That's
the way I always think of you, Miss Child, being brave--whatever
happens. And laughing."
"I don't laugh now."
"Not at other people's troubles--I know. But you would at your own."
"I'm not thinking of my own. To-day of all days!"
He wondered what she meant. His mind flashed swiftly back to last
night and all that had happened. He could have kissed the hem of her
black dress to see her here, safe and vital enough to fling reproaches
at him for his sins--of omission. Yet he must stand coldly discussing
grievances. No, "coldly" was not the word. No word could have been
less appropriate to the boiling emotions under Peter Rolls's grave,
composed manner.
He let the baffling sentence go--a sentence which framed thoughts of
Sadie Kirk.
"I should like to hear from you the specific wrongs you want righted,"
he said. "I know a girl of your sort wouldn't speak vaguely. You _do_
mean something specific."
"Yes--I do."
"Then tell me--now."
"You came to buy a cloak for your mother."
"I didn't come for that, and you know it. I came for you. But you put
a shield between us to keep me off. When you have emptied your heart
of some of these grievances that are making it hot--against me, maybe
you won't have to put me at the same distance. Maybe you'll let me be
your friend again, if I can deserve it."
"I don't want to talk or think of ourselves at all!" she broke out.
"I don't ask you to. All that--and my mother's cloak, too--you needn't
be getting down that box!--can wait. If you won't be my friend, anyhow
show me how to help your friends."
"Oh, if you would do that!" Win cried.
"I will. Give me the chance."
Despite his injunction, she had taken from its neat oak shelf a box of
summer wraps and placed it on the counter behind which she stood. Now,
not knowing what she did, she lifted the cardboard cover and seemed to
peep in at the folds of chiffon and silk.
Peter looked not at the box, but at her pitiful, reddened hands on the
lid. The blood mounted slowly to his temples and he bit his lip. He,
too, was standing, though any one of several green velvet-covered
stools was at his service. He turned away, leaning so much weight on
the bamboo stick he held that it bent and rather surprised him.
Suddenly the scene struck him as very strange, almost unreal--Winifred
Child, his lost dryad, found in his father's store, separated from him
by a dignified barrier of oak and many other things invisible! This
talk going on between them--after last night! The hum of women's
voices in the distance (they kept their distance in this vast
department because he was Peter Rolls, Jr., as all the employees by
this time knew) and the heavy heat and the smell of oak seemed to add
to the unreality of what was going on. Fresias would have helped. But
there was nothing here that suggested help--unless you wanted advice
about a cloak.
Win had been marshalling her ideas like an army hastily assembled to
fight in the dark.
"That is a favour I couldn't refuse to take from you, even if I
would," she said in a low voice, "to help my friends."
"It is no favour. You'll be doing me that."
She went on as if he had not spoken.
"I don't know about any shops in New York except this one--only things
I've heard. Some of the girls I've met here have worked in other
department stores. They say--this is one of the worst. I have to tell
you that--now I've begun. There's no use keeping it back--or you won't
understand how I feel. There are real abuses. The Hands don't break
the laws--that's all. About hours--we close at the right time, but the
salespeople are kept late, often very late, looking over stock. Not
every night for the same people, but several times a week. We have
seats, but we mustn't use them. It would look as if we were lazy--or
business were bad. We 'lend' the management half the time we're
allowed for meals on busy days--and never have it given back. The
meals themselves served in the restaurant--the dreadful
restaurant--seem cheap, but they ought to be cheaper, for they're
almost uneatable. Those of us who can't go out get ptomain poisoning
and appendicitis. I know of cases. Hardly any of us can afford enough
to eat on our salaries. I should think our blood must be almost white!
"But nobody here cares how we live out of business hours, so long as
we're 'smart' and look nice. When we _aren't_ smart--because we're
ill, perhaps--and can't any longer look nice--because we're getting
older or are too tired to care--why, then we have to go; poor,
worn-out machines--fit for the junk shop, not for a department store!
Even here, in Mantles, where we get a commission, the weak ones go to
the wall. We must be like wolves to make anything we can save for a
rainy day. But any girl or man who'll consent to act the spy on
others--_there's_ a way to earn money, lots of it. A few are tempted.
They must degenerate more and more, I think! And there are other
things that drive some of us--the women, I mean--to desperation. But I
can't tell you about them. You must find out for yourself--if you
care."
"If I care!" echoed Peter.
"If you do, why haven't you found out all these things, and more, long
ago?" she almost taunted him, carried away once again by the thought
of those she championed--the "friends" she had not come to in her
story yet.
"Because--my father made it a point that I should keep my hands off
the Hands. That was the way he put it. I must justify myself far
enough to tell you that."
"But--if one's in earnest, need one take no for an answer?"
"I suppose I wasn't in earnest enough. I thought I was. But I couldn't
have been. You're making me see that now."
"I haven't told you half!"
"Then--go on."
"You really wish it?"
"Yes."
"The floorwalkers and others above them have power that gives them the
chance to be horribly unjust and tyrannical if they like. There are
lots of fine ones. But there are cruel and bad ones, too. And then--I
can't tell you what life is like for the under dog! And cheating goes
on that we all see and have to share in--sales of worthless things
advertised to attract women. We get a premium for working off 'dead
stock.' Each department must be made to pay, separately and on its own
account, you see, whatever happens! And that's why each one is its own
sweatshop---"
"I swear to you this isn't my father's fault," involuntarily Peter
broke in. "He's not young any more, you see, and he worked so hard in
his early years that he's not strong enough to keep at it now. Not
since I can remember has he been able to take a personal interest in
the store, except from a distance. He leaves it to others, men he
believes that he can trust. Not coming here himself, he---"
"Why, he comes nearly every day!" Win cried out, then stopped
suddenly at sight of Peter's face.
"I--am sure you're mistaken about that one thing, Miss Child," he
said. "You must have been misinformed. They must have told you some
one else was he---"
The girl was silent, but Peter's eyes held hers, and the look she gave
him told that she was not convinced. "You don't believe me?" he asked.
"I believe you don't know. He does come. It's always been toward the
closing hour when I've seen him. The first time he was pointed out to
me was by a floorwalker on Christmas Eve. I was in the toy department
then. He was with Mr. Croft. How strange you didn't know!"
"If it was father--perhaps I can guess why he didn't want us to find
out. But even now I--well, I shall go home and ask him if he realizes
what is happening here. Somehow I shall help your friends, Miss
Child."
"I haven't told you about them yet," Win said. "It was really one
friend who was in my mind. There may be ever so many others just as
sad as she. But I love her. I can't bear to have her die just because
she's poor and unimportant--except to God. Dr. Marlow thinks she's
curable. Only--the things she needs she can't afford to get, and I
haven't any money left to buy them for her; just my salary, and no
more. There's one thing I can do, though! I'll learn to be a wolf,
like some of the others, and snatch commissions."
"Don't do that!" Peter smiled at her sadly. "I shouldn't like to think
of you turning into a wolf. Your friend is sick---"
"She was told by the doctor yesterday that it was a case of
consumption. I had a letter from her this morning--bidding me
good-bye. You see, she was discharged on the spot, with only a week's
wages."
"Beastly!" exclaimed Peter. "There ought to be some kind of a
convalescent home in connection with this store--or two, rather, one
for contagious sort of things and the other not. I---"
"She wrote in her letter that she'd heard of a place where
consumptives were taken in and treated free," Win went on when he
paused. "But she wouldn't tell me where it was. And Dr. Marlow says
there is nothing of the sort---"
"Oh, he can't have read the newspapers these last few days. It's been
open a week."
"Then _you_ know about it?"
"Yes. You see--it's a sort of--friend of mine who's started the
scheme. The house is not very big yet. But he'll enlarge it if it
makes a success."
"Quite free?"
"Yes. Anybody can come and be examined by the doctor. No case will be
refused while there's room. I--my friend lost his dearest friend years
ago--a boy of his own age then--from consumption. It almost broke his
heart. And he made up his mind that when he grew up and had a little
money of his own, he'd start one of those open-air places in the
country free."
"I believe you're speaking of yourself!" exclaimed Win, her face
lighting. Then Ena Rolls's brother couldn't be all bad!
"Well, I'm in the business, too. This must be the place the girl is
going to. She shall be cured, I promise you. And when she's well she
shall have work in the country to keep her strong and make her happy.
Will that please you?"
"Yes," Win answered. "But--it doesn't please me to feel you're doing
it for that reason."
"I'm not. Only partly, at least. I'm thankful for the chance to help.
And this shan't be all. There'll be other ways. Please don't think too
badly of me, Miss Child. I trusted my father, as he wished. And he
trusts Mr. Croft--too completely, I fear."
Again Win was silent. She had heard things about Peter Rolls, Sr.,
which made her fancy that he was not a man to trust any one but
himself. And she did not yet dare to trust his son. The look was
coming back into his eyes which made her remember that he was a man
like other men. Yet it was hard not to trust him! And because it was
so hard she grew afraid.
"Give me the address of that convalescent home," she broke her own
silence by saying. "I want to write to my friend, Sadie Kirk--and go
to see her--if she's really there. Mr. Rolls, I shall bless you if she
is cured."
Petro had taken out his cardcase and was writing.
"Then, sooner or later, I shall have my blessing," he said quietly.
"Couldn't you give me just a small first instalment of it now?
Couldn't you tell me what changed you toward me on the ship? Had it
anything to do with my family--any gossip you heard?"
"In a way, yes. But I can't possibly tell you. Please don't ask me."
"I won't. But give me some hope that I can live it down. You see, I
can't spare you out of my life. I had you in it only a few days. Yet
those days have made all the difference."
Win stiffened.
"I can't let you talk to me like that," she said almost sharply, if
her creamy voice could be sharp. "I hate it. You'll make me wish--for
my own sake--if it weren't for my friend, I mean--that you hadn't
found me here. I thought--I don't see why I shouldn't say it!--when I
asked for work in your father's store that none of the family would
ever come near the place. I was told they never did. But it wasn't
true. You all come!"
"You mean my father and I?"
"And Miss Rolls, too---"
"She came?"
"Yes, with Lord Raygan, and--and I think you and Lady Eileen were
here, too."
"We were," Peter said. "And so--you were in the store even then?
Nobody told me."
"I hoped they wouldn't."
It was his turn to be silent, understanding Eileen's dream. Raygan
must have talked to her about the girl. But there would have been
nothing to say, if Ena had not said it first. Ena had "explained
things" to Raygan, perhaps--and then---
An old impression came back to Peter. He remembered Ena's protest
against his friendship for a "dressmaker," and her kindness later. He
remembered asking himself on the dock if Ena could have made mischief.
He had put the thought away as treacherous, not once, but many times.
Now he did not put it away. He faced it, and wondered if he could
ever forgive his sister. It seemed at that moment that he never could.
"Will you choose the cloak for Mrs. Rolls?" Win was asking in the
professional tone of the obliging young saleswoman.
"I--er--yes, I suppose so. Which one do you suggest?"
"Any of these would be charming for--the lady you've described. She'd
like it better, I'm sure, if you chose it yourself."
"No, I want you to choose, please. I've already told her about you. If
it hadn't been for her I shouldn't have found you so soon. She advised
me to try the Hands. No matter what you may think of me, there's only
one opinion to have of mother. And you can't object to meeting her.
You choose the cloak and I'll bring her to see you--in it."
Win kept her eyes on the assortment of silk motoring and dust coats
which she had arranged on the broad counter for Mr. Rolls's
inspection. Suddenly a great weight was lifted from her head, as if
kind hands had gently removed a tight helmet.
Would such a man as Ena Rolls had sketched in her shadow portrait of a
brother bring his mother to meet a shop girl whom he fancied? It
seemed not. Yet men of that type were the cleverest, as she already
knew. Maybe he didn't really mean to bring Mrs. Rolls. It would be
easy, from time to time, to postpone her visit. And Win was very
proud. She thought of Ena's annoyance at happening upon her in the
elevator, and how reluctantly Miss Rolls had taken up the cue of
cordiality from Lord Raygan. Oh, it was best--in any case--it was the
only way to keep personalities out of her intercourse with the man who
had once been Mr. Balm of Gilead.
"This silver gray is one of the prettiest of the new wraps," she
glibly advertised her wares.
"Very well, if you like it, I'll marry--I mean, I'll take it. Tell me
how you hurt your hands."
"There's nothing to tell," she put him off again, visibly freezing--an
intellectual feat in such weather. "And--really, as I said before, I
don't care to talk about myself."
Her look, even more than her words, shut Peter up. The cloak saved the
situation during a few frigid seconds. But as a situation it had
become strained. The only hope for the future was to go now. And Peter
went. He went straight back to Sea Gull Manor and to his father.