Читать книгу Invitation to Live - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 4

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It was a serious occasion and Barbara’s eyes were misty, but she couldn’t help smiling when she heard the concluding article of her great-grandmother’s will.

Even Mr. Leighton himself, though he did not alter the prudential tone with which he had done appropriate honor to this lengthy instrument, grinned dryly while reading the final paragraph.

‘And it is my further request that at eleven A.M., on the first Lord’s Day subsequent to her graduation from college, the said Barbara Breckenridge shall present herself, unaccompanied, at divine services in Trinity Cathedral, Chicago.’

Resuming his gravity, Mr. Leighton folded the impressive document, pocketed his pince-nez, and said, ‘I wish to extend my congratulations, Miss Barbara, upon your very valuable legacy.’

Barbara accepted the distinguished old attorney’s felicitation with a little nod and an inarticulate murmur of thanks. She had made no pretense of being surprised to find herself the heiress to approximately half a million, for there never had been any secret about Grandma’s intentions in this matter.

The vivacious and expensively gowned Alicia Grayson, Barbara’s mother, beamed happily on her lucky child. Though Alicia had been bequeathed a mere fifty thousand by her grandmother, she wasn’t jealous; for Peter Grayson was immensely wealthy and Alicia had all the money that was good for her. And perhaps a little more.

‘But how quaint!’ she remarked. ‘How very odd—Grandma sending you to church—in her will!’

‘You may have noted,’ observed Mr. Leighton, ‘that this final provision is in the nature of a recommendation rather than a requirement. If Miss Breckenridge should find it inconvenient——’

‘No, no,’ interposed Barbara. ‘I’ll do it. It’s little enough, after all she has done for me.’

‘Of course, dear, that changes our plans for your house-party,’ Alicia reminded her—‘but I daresay that can be arranged. We’ll have to notify everybody that it’s postponed a week.’

‘Thought you were sailing for France on the twenty-fifth,’ said Barbara.

‘So we are, but you can have your house-party without me. You can ask Aunt Marcia to come and chaperon you.’ Alicia laughed. ‘Fancy your going all the way from New York to Chicago—to attend church! Grandma certainly was a queer old darling. Did you ever know anyone just like her, Mr. Leighton? Brimful of the funniest little notions.’

Mr. Leighton made a small basket of his interlaced fingers, gazed into it reminiscently, and replied, ‘Madame Breckenridge did occasionally express some unique ideas—but they usually made sense. Now—take this one, for example. It is not as strange as it seems. You may recall, Mrs. Grayson, that about two years ago your grandmother spent several months in the home of your Aunt Victoria in Chicago. While there, she was a regular attendant at the Cathedral services, and was deeply impressed by the wisdom of Dean Harcourt. And it occurred to her that Miss Barbara, at the close of her college days, might be greatly benefited by one of these inspiring talks.’

‘Oh, I agree that the request is not unreasonable,’ said Alicia, ‘and Barbara should by all means comply with it for Grandma’s sake, though it is a bit of a nuisance that it had to come at this particular time. Perhaps some other Sunday would do as well. And what assurance did Grandma have, six months ago, that this Dean Harcourt would be in town—and in his pulpit—on the—what is it?—twentieth of June?’

‘Dean Harcourt is a cripple, Mrs. Grayson,’ explained Mr. Leighton, patiently. ‘He does not travel. He is invariably in his church on Sundays. I think Madame Breckenridge felt quite safe in her forecast that the Dean would be on hand.’

‘But——’ pursued Alicia, in a puzzled voice, ‘having gone that far in planning some good advice for Barbara, why didn’t the precious old dear notify Dean Harcourt of his opportunity to recondition this young flibbertigibbet?’ She patted Barbara’s hand and smiled fondly into her eyes.

‘Motherrr!’ scoffed Barbara. ‘How silly! Grandma wouldn’t have dared to suggest such a thing. Imagine—asking a clergyman to single out some person in church—and go for him! Grandma was brave, but she would never have had the nerve to do that!’

‘Well,’ drawled Mr. Leighton, ‘she did; for I helped her compose the letter. It was done the same day she added this last paragraph to her will.’

Barbara’s blue eyes widened.

‘Do you mean to say that I’m expected to sit there in church and have this man preach at me—as if I were the only one present?’

Mr. Leighton said he supposed that was one way of putting it, and there was quite a little pause before Barbara found her voice again. She glanced up anxiously at her mother, and said, ‘Of all things!’

‘Perhaps there won’t be many there,’ consoled Alicia. ‘I don’t believe you’d be so dreadfully self-conscious, darling. Likely there will be just a handful of people—scattered about—in a big church.’ She turned to Mr. Leighton, who had drawn a little smile. ‘That’s the way it would be, don’t you think, Mr. Leighton? Barbara could sit quite apart from anyone else. How many people will be there?’

‘Probably about two thousand,’ he replied casually. ‘The Dean is quite a popular preacher, it seems.’

‘Two thousand! Holy Saints!’ Alicia stared into her daughter’s incredulous face. ‘Your great-grandmamma certainly did arrange something nice for your moral improvement. Dreadful! Well—I’ll go with you, darling, and hold your hand. And we’ll ask Aunt Vic to come with us.’

Mr. Leighton slowly shook his head.

‘Sorry, Mrs. Grayson, but she is instructed to go alone.... And now, Miss Barbara, may I venture to inquire whether you confidently intend to do this? For I am expected to notify Dean Harcourt of your decision.’

‘You may write him,’ muttered Barbara, mechanically, ‘that I’ll be there. And if he wants to identify me—in the audience—tell him I’m the one that looks scared.’

And she was scared, too. The Breckenridges were not a church-going family. Barbara’s father, who had died when she was twelve, was a lovable and generous man, considerate in his treatment of the people who worked with him and for him, and wisely known for his philanthropies, but he was an agnostic, as his father had been.

Peter Grayson, Barbara’s stepfather, was an excellent fellow, but all the days of the week were alike, except that there was usually a little more social activity in his house on Sundays. And if Alicia thought about the church at all, it was in connection with weddings, christenings, funerals—and the Easter parade. They owned an expensive pew in a fashionable church, but the ushers felt quite safe in seating strangers in it.

Barbara had arrived in Chicago late Saturday afternoon. Aunt Vic had not been notified of her coming. It was much better to stop at a North Side hotel and say nothing to anyone about her presence in the city. She had her return reservation on the Limited for three o’clock Sunday afternoon. It was a shabby way to use Aunt Vic, but Alicia had agreed that this plan would obviate a lot of explaining. Vic would make a joke of it, and probably tell everybody.

As the hour drew near, Barbara’s nervousness increased. She had risen early and dressed with care—in unrelieved black crêpe. It seemed a suitable costume. And she wore a small black veil which, fortunately, was modish at the moment. There wasn’t a scrap of color on her, or in her cheeks either, as she set forth on foot for the Cathedral.

Mr. Leighton’s disquieting prediction about the size of the crowd was correct. While still a full block away, Barbara could see them pouring out of private cars, taxis, and busses, and streaming across the park, hurrying up the broad stone steps, and funneling through the great Gothic doors—hundreds upon hundreds of people massing to hear poor, defenseless little Barbara Breckenridge learn what was good for her frightened soul.

Wouldn’t it be dreadful if this Dean Harcourt had announced, a week ago, ‘Next Sunday we will have with us a young lady who hasn’t been inside a church—except once, as a bridesmaid—since she was christened. I have promised one of her relatives that I will preach a sermon directly to her. All the rest of you will be welcome, of course.’ ... Oh—he couldn’t have done a thing like that! It wouldn’t be fair! But maybe he had! Barbara’s knees were trembling, and her steps grew slower and shorter as she joined the throng. Nobody had paid any attention to her yet, but they probably would—the people seated with her—when they saw her agitation.

The organ—hidden away some place high up—was playing softly. Almost everybody seemed to know where he was going and needed no direction. Barbara hesitated and an usher beckoned to her. She followed him, hoping he would seat her in one of the rear pews, but he kept going on and on—and on. It did not occur to her that the black ensemble, mistaken for mourning, was entitling her to special consideration. Her steps lagged, but the usher stood waiting for her at the third pew, almost directly beneath the massive pulpit. She took the only unoccupied space beside an elderly couple. The old lady leaned forward and gave Barbara a sympathetic little smile that startled her. The smile seemed to say, ‘Well—you’re here—poor child. But don’t worry too much about it. We’re all your friends.’

Then everybody stood up and the choir came down the broad central aisle, singing. And when the choir had filed into its place in the chancel, two young clergymen assisted an older one to a tall-backed chair. Barbara remembered that Dean Harcourt was a cripple. She was fascinated by his face. It was seamed and crisscrossed with lines that told of much pain endured, but there was an expression of serene strength such as she had never seen before. The people beside her tried for a while to help her find the places in the book, but presently gave it up. Barbara sat and knelt and stood when the others did so, but didn’t take her eyes off Dean Harcourt’s face. Her heart had calmed down to normal. She wasn’t frightened now. Indeed she was glad when the people put the little black books back in the racks and it seemed to be time for the sermon.

As soon as the Dean began to speak, Barbara knew that all her fears had been groundless. Apparently he had decided not to preach to her, after all. The very first sentence made that clear enough.

‘I shall be talking to you today,’ he said, ‘about the special privileges of the poor.’ Barbara felt that she was going to be interested in this unusual topic; for she had never suspected that poor people had any privileges at all. That was why they were pitied: they had no privileges. They couldn’t go to college, couldn’t have nice things in their houses, couldn’t have pretty and seasonable clothes, couldn’t travel, couldn’t entertain—and, consequently, couldn’t hope to have many friends. It was too bad.

‘The most valuable possession,’ Dean Harcourt was saying, ‘is sincere friendship, and only the poor can be certain that they are loved for what they are—and not for what they own.’ This idea had never occurred to Barbara before, and she didn’t take much stock in it now. There was Patricia, for example. Patricia didn’t love her because she was well-to-do. Patricia would be her loyal friend if she lost every cent she had.

‘I am not saying,’ continued the Dean, ‘that the rich have no friends, or that because a man is wealthy his value to others is estimated by what he can do for them materially. Plenty of rich men and women have friends whose sincerity is beyond all question, especially if they have come by their wealth through personal effort, after having been poor enough to be sure of the loyal comradeship of those whom they had known and cherished before they became so prosperous. I suppose it is only the people who have always been rich, who have inherited large wealth, who will never be sure, who will never know whether they are loved—for themselves alone.’

Probably some kind of socialist, reflected Barbara. What are people with money supposed to do in order to find out whether they are liked? Give it all away, maybe?

‘Of course,’ the Dean went on, ‘if the rich man has a friend, who is known to be on comradely terms with a few poor men, this might help him determine the value of that friendship. He could say to himself, “Smith’s friends aren’t selected on a basis of their possessions. Perhaps he likes me, and would like me if I owned nothing.” ’

That sounded fairly sensible, and Barbara found herself calling the roll. Patricia Foster, her room-mate in college, certainly liked poor people. That is, she certainly had nothing against them, though it wasn’t likely she knew very many; not as chums, anyway. This was a disturbing thought. Would Patricia have anything to do with her if Barbara were poor? For a while she didn’t hear what the Dean was saying, being occupied with her own dismaying meditations. She went through the list of her closest associates—both boys and girls. There wasn’t one of the lot who—so far as she knew—had friends without money. And that went for Barbara, too.

Oh, of course, she had tried to be kind and generous with the girls in the beauty shops and the saleswomen in the stores; and, naturally, the servants at home. But there wasn’t one of them who could be called a friend.

‘The poor inevitably miss a great deal of the pleasure enjoyed by the rich,’ the Dean was saying, ‘but the greatest of all satisfactions is theirs for the asking. It is to be feared that sometimes, in their wishing they had more money, they do not appreciate this one supreme joy that the rich cannot know; cannot command; cannot buy—for it is not on sale.’

Barbara began wishing she hadn’t come. From now on, she said to herself, she would probably doubt the sincerity of every friend she had. What right did she have to believe that Dick Morton—or Pinkie Powell—had any genuine interest in her? The suspicion began to be annoying! Perhaps Tim Wainwright was interested only in her financial support of his players when he invited her to come this summer and join his colony at Provincetown. Maybe she had been fooling herself when she accepted compliments. Maybe she hadn’t a bit of charm—apart from her pretty clothes! And now she had this to worry about. It wasn’t very nice of Dean Harcourt—to hand her this fret.

She didn’t hear much of the rest of it, and presently it was done. There was some more praying and singing, while Barbara told herself that once she was out again in the sunshine she would forget about it. For it was nothing but a precious lot of nonsense.

But the sunshine didn’t help very much. Barbara thought she would stroll leisurely up the boulevard to the Drake, but she found herself walking very fast, her steps keeping pace with her thoughts.

The luncheon menu looked inviting, but she had no appetite. She was terribly lonesome. She bought a few current magazines and carried them to her room, absently turned the pages, gave up trying to read, and held her diamond-studded wrist-watch—graduation gift—to her ear, thinking it might have stopped. It was only one-forty-five, much too early to go to the station. That long railroad trip would be a bore. She looked for quite a while at her own reflection in the mirror, wondering whether she was pretty. Many people had said she was—but how was one to know? She had never been so thoroughly upset in her life. Dick was always telling her she had lovely hair. Well—if it was—that could be accounted for by the expensive care it had. Suppose she was too poor to patronize these experts? Suppose she had to curl her own hair, or put up with a cheap permanent at rare intervals? Then—how pretty would it be?

Suddenly a new idea gripped her. Dean Harcourt had got her into this dreadful dither; and, being responsible for it, perhaps he was the right person to consult about a solution. She certainly couldn’t go on this way! It was quarter after two now. If she was going back to New York on the Limited, it was time to pack.

Barbara wasn’t sure whether churches had telephones, but she looked in the book and Trinity Cathedral was there; there three times. One was for the verger, one for the Parish House, one for the Dean’s Residence. She tried that one. A man with a high-pitched voice and a pronounced British accent said this was Mr. Talbot.

‘Are you Dean Harcourt’s butler, perhaps?’ inquired Barbara.

‘No, Miss. I am just one of the curates.’ There was a perceptible trace of amusement in the tone. ‘Would you like to convey a message to Dean Harcourt?’

‘I don’t suppose I could speak to him.’

‘Not now, Miss. He is resting.’

‘Does he ever talk to people—privately?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed, Miss——’

‘Miss Breckenridge.’

‘Ah! You are Miss Barbara Breckenridge. The Dean said that if you called up, I was to request you to come here at four-thirty for tea. Will this be convenient?’ After a lengthy silence, he said, ‘May I tell Dean Harcourt to expect you?’

‘But’—stammered Barbara—‘he doesn’t know me.’

‘Oh—that’s quite all right,’ shrilled Mr. Talbot. ‘He will, you know. You come right along.’

‘Very well,’ said Barbara, uncertainly. So—he had been expecting her to call him up, had he? So—he mighty well knew he had played the deuce with her peace. Well—it wasn’t a very polite thing to do. She wished she had gone to her train. There was still time. But she had promised. She would have to keep her engagement—for Grandma’s sake. It was a pity that Grandma couldn’t have stopped doing absurd things when she died.

The Talbot person let her in, and without asking for her name preceded her down a long hall and opened the door to a large library. The Dean was seated on the other side of a huge mahogany desk. Talbot disappeared and Barbara walked slowly across the room.

Dean Harcourt pointed to a massive churchly-looking chair and she sat down tentatively on the edge of it. Neither had spoken, so far. Barbara wasn’t sure whose turn it was. Perhaps he would know—and do something about it.

‘Dear me!’ sighed the Dean. ‘College graduates keep getting younger and younger. When I graduated, they were quite elderly—and they were wise and serious.’

‘I know I’m not very wise, sir,’ admitted Barbara, ‘but I’m awfully serious.’

‘Just now, you mean,’ said the Dean. ‘Wouldn’t you like to take off your hat? Put it there in the closet, so you won’t-look quite so temporary.’ He pushed a buzzer. ‘Do you like tea?’

‘Oh, so-so,’ replied Barbara, from the little dressing-room where she had paused before the glass to pat her hair. ‘I’m not passionate about it.’ It was very easy to talk to this man.

‘Cinnamon toast, maybe? Or would you rather have scones? We have both.’

‘Both, then,’ said Barbara, lounging in the chair that was three sizes too big for her. ‘I’m hungry. I ate no lunch.

That,’ she added, reproachfully, ‘was your fault.’

‘I know,’ confessed the Dean, ‘and I didn’t enjoy doing it. In fact, I too lost my appetite. It’s just coming back now. Let’s have a couple of poached eggs: what do you say?’

‘It’s a good thought,’ agreed Barbara.

There was a tap on the door and a tall woman, well past middle age, evidently the housekeeper, came into the room.

‘Mrs. Crandall,’ said the Dean, ‘my guest is Miss Breckenridge.’ They took this for an introduction, and smiled at each other. ‘We find ourselves in need of a little more nourishment than you usually provide at this hour. We have had a hard day and we are both hungry.’

‘Lamb chops?’ asked Mrs. Crandall.

‘Lamb chops?’ inquired the Dean of his guest.

‘Lamb chops,’ said Barbara.

‘And anything else that is promptly available, Mrs. Crandall,’ added the Dean. ‘You’re agreed, Miss Breckenridge?’

‘Yes—everything else. Thank you.’ They all grinned a little at that, and Mrs. Crandall retired.

‘Honestly—this is the first time I’ve felt like myself for days, Dean Harcourt,’ confided Barbara. ‘I’ve had this dreadful duty hanging over me—Grandma ordering me out here to listen to a sermon. It nearly lost me my mind. I was so frightened today. And then you told me—right before all those thousands and millions of people—that I couldn’t ever know whether I had one real friend in the whole world.’

‘Well——’ said the Dean, consolingly, ‘you have at least one.’

‘Meaning you—maybe; for my Grandma’s sake?’

‘For your own sake. You’re very good stuff.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘Because you’re here,’ said the Dean, gently.

‘You thought I would come; didn’t you?’

‘I hoped you might. If you had not, I fear I should have spent a sleepless night. You see, Barbara, I had only one chance at you. I had to make the medicine pretty strong. And if you had gone back home, angry and sore, it would have meant that——’

‘—that I couldn’t take it,’ assisted Barbara, when he hesitated.

‘Either that, or it would have meant that I had bungled my job. It was a rather ticklish experiment.’

A great bell high up in the Cathedral tower slowly tolled five, each stroke followed by vibrations that shook the air as if some living spirit filled the room. Then—after a pause—the carillon in the tower resonantly boomed the tune of a stately hymn. They sat in silence, with meditative eyes, until it was finished.

‘What was that?’ asked Barbara, her voice seeming very small after the surge of sound.

‘We call it Trinity’s theme-song,’ explained Dean Harcourt. ‘Every afternoon at five, for many years, it has been played; in all weathers, in peace time and war time. It is very stirring; don’t you think?’

Barbara nodded soberly. ‘There are words to it?’ she asked.

‘Yes. It begins, “Oh, God, Our Help in Ages Past; Our Hope for Years to Come.” It has quite a steadying effect, and is useful especially to people in trouble.’

‘Makes one feel awfully insignificant; doesn’t it?’ reflected Barbara.

‘At least it makes one’s trifling little personal worries seem insignificant,’ agreed the Dean.

‘It must be wonderful to live in this atmosphere,’ said Barbara, dreamily. ‘Why, those bells were just like a hard storm that swept the air clean of dust—and germs—and——’

‘And anxieties. The bells hammer at your heart with a loud challenge, too.’ The Dean’s voice had deepened impressively.

‘I think I know what you mean,’ said Barbara, softly.

‘If you’re being pounded full of the Help of Ages Past—and the Hope of Years to Come—you can’t remember how inconvenient it was for you to postpone the house-party at Hyannis.’

‘Very well spoken, my dear,’ smiled the Dean. ‘You are making nice progress. If the Help and the Hope seem bigger than the house-party, that’s a pretty good start.... Well—here comes our tea.’

‘This is a high tea, wouldn’t you say?’ observed Barbara, rising to let her big chair be moved. ‘Am I to come around on your side, Dean Harcourt?’

After Mrs. Crandall and the maid had disposed the assortment of dishes on the desk before them, and had closed the door, the Dean bowed his head and Barbara closed her eyes. They suddenly stung and flooded.

‘Gracious Lord,’ invoked the Dean, ‘be Thou our Guest. Amen.’ He raised his head, smiled paternally into Barbara’s swimming eyes, and began serving her plate. There was something very mysterious about this vasty room and its churchly appointments. Perhaps one’s consciousness that it was part of this big, solemn Cathedral may have had a great deal to do with it. Dean Harcourt had confidently called in another Guest, and you had a queer feeling that the invitation had been accepted. Barbara ventured to express the thought, her voice sounding a bit husky.

‘But you aren’t afraid, are you?’ The Dean searched her eyes.

‘Not while you’re here,’ she replied. ‘But—I wouldn’t stay five minutes in this room alone—not for five thousand dollars.’

‘Nor would I,’ said the Dean—‘on such terms.... But—leaving the high wages out of it—you wouldn’t be frightened. Funny thing about that.... One never feels alone in here.’

‘You mean—it’s always here?’ whispered Barbara.

‘You mustn’t say “it,” ’ admonished the Dean. ‘There’s nothing an “it” can do.... Now—you see if you can’t destroy those lamb chops while they’re hot.’ He took up his silver and began setting her an example. ‘And then we will talk some more about this new sensation of yours. Nothing to worry about. You’re just coming alive, that’s all; and you’re a bit bewildered.... Remember about Galatea, Barbara? It must have been an odd feeling—that first empowering, warming heart-beat when she was changed from an ivory statue and stepped down from her cold pedestal.’

‘I expect Pygmalion was surprised, too,’ rejoined Barbara, with a sly little smile.

‘And delighted!’ agreed the Dean. ‘Seeing statues come to life is a sight that never loses its novelty for the sculptor.’

‘I suppose many have come alive—right here—in this room,’ murmured Barbara.

‘Yes—my dear.’ Dean Harcourt’s pain-scarred eyes were reminiscent. ‘And some of them have gone out to bring other statues to life. Every Galatea wants to become a sculptor—just to show gratitude for her own release.... You know, Barbara, that is the greatest achievement and the highest joy possible in human experience—making things come to life.... We will talk about that, presently.’

‘And we haven’t talked at all about what I came here to ask you, Dean Harcourt. I wanted you to tell me how I could find out whether I had any sincere friends; and, if not, how I could make some. And—you said, this morning, that the greatest joy in human experience was devoted friendship—and now you say it’s making things come to life.’ Barbara had put down her fork and was facing the Dean with earnest eyes. He smiled indulgently and nodded his head quickly.

‘It’s all the same thing,’ he said. ‘Inviting people to come alive, and making them your devoted friends for life—it’s all the same thing.’

There was quite a little interval of silence before Barbara said, confidingly, ‘Is that why I feel that you are the best friend I ever had in the world, Dean Harcourt? ... For I really do!’

‘Of course.... Won’t you have another scone?’

‘But—I know I can’t ever do—for anyone else—what you are doing for me,’ said Barbara, pensively.

‘Well—that remains to be seen.’

The tea things had been removed and Barbara was back in the big chair, with her legs folded under her, waiting for Dean Harcourt to resume their conversation. There was a faint sound of distant music.

‘Listen!’ She held up an outspread hand. ‘They’re singing—in the Cathedral.’

‘Vespers,’ explained the Dean.

‘Don’t you have to go?’ asked Barbara, anxiously shaking her head. ‘I haven’t detained you?’

‘No, Barbara. They are all competently served, in there. Mr. Talbot is seeing to it.’

‘But you usually attend?’

‘If there is nothing more important to do—yes.’

Barbara involuntarily drew a quick little intake of breath, and felt suddenly weighted with a solemn responsibility. What was happening to her was of more importance than the service in the Cathedral. She felt she should do something about it; make some sacrifice.

‘You must see many, many people, Dean Harcourt,’ she said, ‘who need things to relieve their worries. I should be glad to give some money to be used that way—by the Cathedral.’

‘That’s a very generous thought, Barbara. Donations of money can always be put to good use,’ rejoined the Dean, absently. ‘Now—let us get back to your little problem—and see what can be done about it. Whenever anyone starts out to bring some cold, useless thing to life—whether it be a block of ivory or an undeveloped personality—one chooses one’s tools. But no tools are effective unless they are employed by loving hands. Pygmalion’s apparent tools were his mallet and chisel, but they were used with immeasurable patience, devotion, and personal sacrifice. I don’t believe that Pygmalion could have made Galatea come alive by writing a check in favor of the Athens Institute of Fine Arts.’

So—that started them off toward a lengthy talk on the ways and means whereby Miss Barbara Breckenridge might make some friends—for herself alone—preferably by an honest demonstration of her interest in their welfare.

‘How would it be, Dean Harcourt,’ wondered Barbara, suddenly brightening, ‘if I went out some place all alone, where nobody knew me? Wouldn’t that be fun?’ Her eyes sparkled.

‘Getting ready to do it might be fun,’ observed the Dean, cautiously. ‘Everyone likes the idea of doing a bit of masquerading. That part of it would be quite amusing. But the task of finding out what you want to know is pretty serious business and might take a long time. It would be unfortunate if you went into such an adventure and presently gave it up as a wild-goose chase.’

‘You don’t want me to try it?’ doubted Barbara, disappointedly.

‘I did not say that,’ responded the Dean. ‘But I hope you will consider the cost and avoid disillusionment. Your idea, I think, is to go out alone, perhaps under another name, and live among a different type of people than those who may have valued you chiefly for your inheritance. You think you would like to try living among the poor. Now, this isn’t as easy as it sounds.’ Dean Harcourt leaned forward, folded his arms, rested his elbows on the desk, and continued in a tone of reminiscence. ‘There is a tradition that the poor constitute a simple-hearted, grateful, take-it-as-it-comes section of humanity, and you may have a notion that all you need do, to win their loyal friendship, is to show yourself attentive to their pressing needs. This is a false assumption. You will find that the ugliness of greed, jealousy, duplicity, and downright cruelty hasn’t bunched up much in any one class of society. Poverty doesn’t, of necessity, make anyone kind or good or grateful. There’s a lot of wear and tear on the nerves of the poor that the well-to-do know nothing about. To win friends among them, you will have to live with them, share their work, their discomforts, their anxieties. I am not saying it isn’t worth what it may cost, but you should go into it with your eyes open.’

There was a very quiet moment after the Dean had finished his lengthy speech, and through that silence they heard the melody of a hymn. Dean Harcourt reclined in his chair, closed his eyes, and softly recited the words as they were being sung. Barbara’s eyes were intent on his lips.

‘I was not ever thus—nor prayed that Thou—shouldst lead me on.... I loved to choose—and see my path; but now—lead Thou me on.’

After a long minute the distant music died away. Barbara slowly came to her feet, went to the little dressing-room, reappeared with her hat and coat on, and walked toward the desk.

‘I mean to try it,’ she said, steadily.

‘You are a brave girl, Barbara,’ declared the Dean. ‘But I think it might be more prudent if you deferred your decision until tomorrow. Sleep on it. As you have noticed, the atmosphere of this place is saturated with a mystical element. Costly braveries and tragic martyrdoms make a strong appeal here. The symbols of many stirring legends are leaded into these Gothic windows, carved into the furniture, woven into the tapestries, and carried on the wings of ancient songs. You are under this spell. Reserve your decision, my dear, until you can confirm it in the sunlight and in the racket of traffic.’

‘But isn’t that what these inspiring things are for’—asked Barbara—‘to challenge people into making decisions?’

The Dean shook his head.

‘We’ve had far too much of that,’ he declared, almost sternly. ‘Decisions impulsively arrived at on occasions of emotional stampede are not worth very much in broad daylight.’

‘Then what are they for?’ asked Barbara, reasonably enough, she thought.

Dean Harcourt smiled into the artless eyes.

‘They’re to buck you up,’ he said, ‘after you’ve got yourself into it.... Run along, now. If you take this other door and follow the hallway, it will bring you out into the Cathedral—in a transept where your arrival will not be conspicuous. You can slip in there quietly—just in time for the benediction. I think you might like that.’

‘I’d much rather you did it,’ said Barbara, softly.

‘Very well ... Come here.’

She went around the big desk and stood at Dean Harcourt’s side, tugging off her little straw toque. He signed to her to kneel by his chair and laid his hand on her bowed head. It was a tender moment and the Dean’s voice was very gentle as he said, ‘The Lord bless and keep you, dear child. Amen.’

Barbara knew they wouldn’t worry about her at home. On receipt of her telegram saying she had decided to remain for a few days, her busy mother would assume that she was visiting Aunt Vic. And she would be glad, for Aunt Vic was a lonesome old thing in spite of her mileage and gallant display of autumnal colors.

It had been a wakeful night, but by no means an unpleasant one. Once she had made up her mind, there were many practical details to consider. Presently her mother would be sailing for Europe. Communication, for a few weeks, would be slowed up. She would not be expected to give a precise account of herself until September, at the earliest. That was fortunate. It would save a great deal of explaining. At eight, Barbara breakfasted in her room with a road-map spread open on the table. She had decided to take to the open country. Everybody she had read about, who had attempted a social experiment, invariably went slumming in town, got a job in a stuffy factory, lived in a dirty kennel, and came back at length to write sour pieces for discontented magazines. Nothing was farther from her thought than a sociological excursion of that sort. She was going out to look for sincere friendship. If the people who might be disposed to like her were healthy, happy, and clean, there could be no serious objection to that.

At ten o’clock, Barbara was down in the basement of the biggest department store, outfitting herself for the adventure. Having arrived early, she was not required to buck the line for meager gains and engage in fierce scrimmages at congested crossings, but there was already a good deal of confusion and clatter. The sales-girls, however, with an emotional control resembling apathy, quietly defied the place to drive them crazy.

‘Three ninety-nine,’ remarked the sales-girl, indifferently, when Barbara pointed to the pink gingham. ‘Reduced from four fifty,’ she added, without warmth. ‘Sale on them, today. Very good merchandise. Bargain. How big is she?’ She held the top of the dress level with her own shapely shoulders.

‘It’s the right size,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s for me, you know.’

The sulky eyes cleared a little and were almost pretty. ‘You don’t want that rag,’ she said, scornfully. ‘The nice ginghams are on the fourth floor. You’d look a sight!’

‘I expect so,’ agreed Barbara, with a little sigh. ‘But this is just what I need. And I’ll take the blue one, too, please.... Now, where do I go to find a cute little straw hat for about seventy-five cents?’

‘Say,’ drawled the girl, ‘wouldn’t that be a cute little hat? What is this—a hay-ride? Hick stuff?’ She seemed to be getting the idea now, and grinned understandingly. Her mouth didn’t seem quite so hard.

‘Something like that,’ admitted Barbara, casually. ‘And I must find a cheap suitcase. I don’t suppose you could go along with me, and show me where things are——’

‘No—I couldn’t.’ The nicely modeled brows were raised a little, indicating that her customer’s request was out of order. The tony young lady, who clearly wasn’t in the habit of shopping in the basement, ought to know that weekly wages depended on amount of sales. It certainly took a lot of crust to ask a girl to leave her post and go trotting about just to accommodate some helpless Flossie.

‘Sorry,’ said Barbara, contritely, realizing the situation. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.’

The girl turned to a fellow-clerk and, after a brief conference, came around from behind the counter, giving Barbara a faint wisp of a smile.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll go with you.’ It was quite a pleasant voice, if it wanted to be.

Barbara murmured an embarrassed protest to which the girl, with the athletic figure much like her own, made no reply as she led the way to a dreadful clutter of cheap luggage.

‘There’s a nice little model,’ scoffed Barbara’s guide. ‘That slate-colored one. Dollar sixty-four. But don’t leave it out in the rain.... The lady,’ she announced, ‘wants an inexpensive suitcase.... No—not that one. The hasps are no good. She wants one that will hold together till she gets out of the store.’

The tour was full of interest, the shopping guide making no bones about defending her client. Barbara followed along, feeling about six years old, while they dickered for cotton stockings and serviceable shoes—‘Your pretty feet will be surprised,’ the girl had muttered while the shoeclerk was loosening the laces.

‘You won’t be wanting any cheap underthings, I suppose,’ wondered the girl, adding, ‘We don’t call it lingerie, down here. It’s just underthings—and it’s a good thing they’re under, where nobody can see ’em, for they’re dreadful.’

Barbara considered this suggestion for a moment and replied, ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ She hoped she wasn’t overlooking anything. One could easily give oneself away if some article of attire was inconsistent. So—they found the ‘underthings’; and, having agreed that the whole outfit was now complete, returned to the spot where they had started.

‘Perhaps I should get some cheap beads,’ remarked Barbara. ‘I am used to wearing these, and—I’m afraid they’ll not be—appropriate.’

‘I’ll say they wouldn’t,’ muttered the girl, ‘not with this rummy kit you’ve gathered up. There are some nice ones today for fifty-nine cents. Just like these.’ She fingered her own beads with a slim, well-kept hand.

‘Good! I’ll get some,’ said Barbara. ‘They are really quite pretty.’ Instantly she regretted having said that. She hadn’t meant it to sound patronizing—but it did.

‘Oh, yeah?’ growled the girl. ‘Quite pretty. I’ll trade with you.’

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ said Barbara, recklessly. Something warned her that she was committing an imprudence but she was already into it. Raising both hands to the back of her neck, she fumbled at the diamond clasp. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take them—and wear them—until I come back.... And I’ll wear yours.’

The sales-girl’s eyes suddenly sobered and retreated. ‘Say, sister,’ she snarled, ‘if you’re in a mess, that’s just too bad, but don’t think I’m sap enough to let you frame me.’ She leaned forward, while a slow flush of embarrassment crept up Barbara’s cheeks, and muttered, ‘Don’t look so scared. I won’t tell. It’s none of my business.... But I don’t see why you had to pick on me! I’ve done you no harm.’

There was no suitable explanation at hand. When Barbara tried to speak her mouth was dry.

‘It was—I was—terribly thoughtless,’ she stammered, her heart pounding hard. ‘It’s just that I can’t wear my beads—for some time—and I thought you might enjoy them. Better than having them locked up, somewhere.’

‘Yeah—or having you locked up somewhere,’ assisted the girl, savagely.

Barbara shook her head, helplessly, almost on the point of tears, and said, thickly, ‘I’m sorry you have misunderstood. I know what you suspect—but—it isn’t so.’

The girl searched Barbara’s face critically.

‘Say—you don’t look a bit crooked,’ she announced in a tone of perplexity, ‘but—what the hell are you up to?’

Barbara looked steadily into the inquiring eyes, and thought fast. A nice predicament, indeed! Starting out bravely in quest of friends, and finding yourself—within an hour—about to slink out of a shop, under suspicion of theft. Well—you couldn’t let it stand this way.

‘If you will have lunch with me, today, in some quiet place where we can talk, I’ll tell you,’ she said, companionably. Her self-assurance slightly restored, Barbara ventured to smile.

‘Very well,’ decided the girl. ‘I’ll take a chance. I go out at twelve-forty-five. You meet me here. My name is Sally—in case you have to inquire. What’s yours?’

Barbara hesitated for only a split second, but it was too long. Sally’s mouth tipped up on one end, knowingly.

‘You don’t want to wear your beads, and now you don’t want to wear your name. What would you like to have me think about you?’

‘My name is Barbara.’

‘Yeah—I notice there’s a B on your handbag. But why were you stalling? You’re making this pretty hard, you know.’

‘I’ll tell you all about it, Sally,’ confided Barbara.

‘All right—and the story’d better be good. I’ll take those beads now.’ Sally held out her hand. ‘If you come back, you may have them. If you don’t’—she deepened one of her dimples, not very prettily, and tossed her head in the direction of the frock-coated department manager—‘I’ll turn them over to that monkey with the long tail and the big, bright eyes.’

Barbara chuckled a little, partly from amusement, partly from relief. She had never met anyone like Sally before. Sally, she thought, was pretty hard-boiled, but probably worth knowing.

‘And here,’ went on Sally, in a tone of elaborate sarcasm, as she unfastened her own beads, ‘is my valuable jewelry, which you may take with you—as security.’ Her eyes were cold blue steel as she touched off this bitter drollery.

Barbara soberly took the beads, ignoring the sour jest, and deliberately put them on, Sally’s eyes following her hands with interest.

‘Thank you, Sally,’ she said, softly. ‘I shall like wearing them.’ She smiled. ‘They’re still warm. Perhaps you’ll find that mine are, too. May I fasten them for you? It’s a funny sort of clasp.’ They were very close together now, the even black fringe on Sally’s forehead brushing Barbara’s shoulder as she bent forward. Waiting until the beads had been adjusted, she straightened, smiled, unfastened them—and put them into her well-worn handbag.

‘I mustn’t wear them now,’ she explained. ‘People would ask questions.’

Barbara picked up the impossible suitcase. They both giggled.

‘Leave it here,’ suggested Sally. ‘You can’t go down the street looking like a boob.’

‘I want to put it in my car,’ said Barbara.

‘Where is it?’ Sally inquired.

‘Haven’t got it yet,’ admitted Barbara. ‘I’m going out to buy one now.’

‘Huh! Just like that!’ said Sally. ‘Going out to buy a car—between now and lunch time.’

‘Why not?’ It shouldn’t take long. A little roadster. Second-hand one, maybe.’

‘Okay,’ capitulated Sally, shaking her head. ‘I thought I knew all the answers—but I see I don’t.... Anyhow,’ she added, with determination, ‘you can’t go out of here with that thing; for I won’t let you!’

Barbara gave in with a meek little ‘Very well,’ and turned to leave.

‘Good-bye, Sally—until twelve-forty-five.’

‘Bye, Barbara,’ said Sally. ‘Be seeing you. Maybe. I hope.’

It was not an easy story to tell, and Sally didn’t offer much help; just sat there in her corner of the cramped little booth and listened with an absurdly vacuous expression of bewilderment, occasionally mumbling through the delicious creamed shrimps such unencouraging comments as ‘Well—for the lova Mike!... Whatcha know!... Well—for cryin’ out loud!... I’ll be a dirty dawg!’

These fragmentary observations, Barbara felt, were not ejected from the depth of Sally’s mind. They were the small coin of conversation in her social circle, no doubt, and so long as they conveyed her general attitude these picturesque tidbits of speech were as serviceable as any other kind of talk.

One thing had to be said for Sally, without hesitation: she was smart. She wasn’t much of a stylist in her manner of speaking, but she knew how to wear her inexpensive clothes with distinction. She had the figure to do it; walked with an effortless grace, with no defensive swagger, no affection, no self-consciousness. Barbara had no occasion to feel apologetic on behalf of her pretty guest’s manners or appearance. Of course, Sally’s uncouth slang gave her away, but this was probably a superficial accomplishment that might be easily rubbed off if anyone should go to the bother of taking the attractive girl in hand. Any really capable sculptor could chip away the few defacing adherences and encrustations that kept Sally from being admirable. Her cheap lingo, for example; or was it so cheap? It might be costing her as much as twenty-five dollars a week to talk like an alley-rat. She might get a good job if she mended her speech.

‘Um-hum,’ umhummed Sally, when Barbara launched upon her queer experience at the Cathedral. ‘I’ve heard of him. He’s the crippled preacher. Gosh—I wouldn’t go up there and talk with him like that—not for a hundred dollars!’ Aware that this was mere boasting, she hastened to retract the extravagance. ‘Oh, yes, I would, too,’ she confessed with a childish shrug. ‘There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for a hundred dollars.’

So—there you were, reflected Barbara; Sally’s heart crying out for money to buy the pretty things she wanted, while she herself was trying to escape from her money long enough to discover what sort of person she really was—without it. She was tempted to say as much to Sally, in response to the startling candor of her recent declaration, but felt the time wasn’t ripe for it, and continued with her strange narrative.

‘I think you’re very silly, Barbara, if you ask me,’ observed Sally, upon arrival at the narrow bottom of her tall parfait glass. ‘Why—anybody would like you! Even I like you—without knowing you—and there’s almost no one that I really care for.’

‘Your family, of course,’ interposed Barbara, not quite satisfied with having said that, for it sounded a bit smug, she feared.

‘My family—pooh!’ muttered Sally, with frank disgust. ‘If I hadn’t had a family draped around my neck, maybe I could have gone to school longer.’

‘To college—you mean?’

‘Well—business school, anyway. I’m sick of what I’m doing. I could stay there till I’m a hundred, without a raise. No future in it.’

‘Ever think of marriage?’ risked Barbara.

‘Yeah—and what I think of it wouldn’t go through the mail! No, siree! Got enough people to look after now without taking on some lazy lizard for a husband.’ Sally’s passionate outburst hinted that there might have been some such motion before the house.

‘But you like him, anyway, I think,’ inferred Barbara, ‘or you wouldn’t care whether he was a lizard or a lion.’

‘Yeah—I guess so,’ admitted Sally, sullenly. ‘Wish I could go away.’

‘To do what?’ inquired Barbara.

‘If I told you, you’d think I was crazy.’ She glanced at her cheap wrist-watch on the worn leather strap. ‘Well—it’s time for the dumbbell to get back to the gymnasium. Gosh—how I hate it!... And you—running away from a ritzy house-party! Boy!—if that was me! Say—I wouldn’t be climbing into any rusty old jalopy—to go out into the sticks and look for somebody to like me. If that isn’t the wackiest thing that ever happened, I must have missed some bad ones.’ She got out her compact, made herself a new mouth with amazing dexterity, and returned her tackle to the shabby handbag, which she closed with a decisive snap. ‘Thanks for the nice lunch, Barbara,’ she said, graciously. ‘You’re coming with me, aren’t you, to get your pretties? I wonder if we’ll ever see each other again?’

‘Of course,’ said Barbara. ‘We have a great deal more to talk about. I was hoping we might have dinner together, this evening.’

‘You’ve done enough,’ said Sally, shaking her head.

‘Very well,’ nodded Barbara, disappointedly. ‘If you don’t care to, I won’t urge you.’

‘But—gosh—Barbara!’ protested Sally, impulsively. ‘I thought you were just doing it—you know—to show me a good time. I didn’t suppose you really wanted me to. I’d love it!’

It was nearly midnight when Sally, head in the clouds, left the hotel to go home, after giving Barbara a bear hug at the door of the elevator.

After a leisurely dinner, they had gone up to Barbara’s room. For a couple of hours there had been a serious discussion of ways and means for a little liberation in Sally’s life. Adroitly manipulating the conversation, Barbara tried to discover what it was that Sally so passionately—but so hopelessly—wanted to do with herself. ‘You’d think I was goofy,’ repeated Sally. So—they had got back on firmer ground and talked about a course in stenography and bookkeeping. If Sally thought that such training would help her to a better position, it could be easily arranged. At that juncture, Sally’s pride staged a brief fight. Then there were tears—and smiles—and exclamations of joy.

Barbara’s emotions had never been put through so many paces as during the past thirty-eight hours. Sally, sensing that a little relief was in order, suggested that Barbara try on the new outfit and see how she looked.

‘No—you put it on,’ said Barbara. ‘I’ll get a better idea of how I’m going to look, that way.’

‘Okay,’ agreed Sally, enthusiastically, tugging her dress over her head. ‘This,’ she declared, archly, ‘is going to be good—and I don’t mean mebbe.’

It was not only good it was superb! It was theater! For a little while, Barbara saw only the utterly devastating ludicrousness of the performance, and then it began to dawn on her that she was witnessing a really great show.

Cocking the gallant little hat at a rakish tilt, and swinging the pink gingham skirt from undulating hips—with a hand outspread against her sinuous ribs and her elbow preceding her at a defiant angle, Sally strode up and down before the cheval glass, chewing an enormous wad of imaginary gum. Without the trace of a smile, she regarded herself approvingly in the mirror.

Barbara, sprawled on the bed, watching the ridiculous pantomime, laughed until her side hurt. But Sally was quite unmoved by this appreciation; stood before the tall glass, soberly loving herself, experimenting with fresh postures and new grimaces, poking a fingertip into her cheek to dislodge the fictitious gum, seductively thrusting forward a shoulder, mincingly retreating a few steps and advancing again with an enticing smirk. Barbara sat up—and stared.

Entirely disregarding her audience, Sally shouldered and hipped herself across to the vanity table, sat down, and became immediately transfigured into an incredible primness. Barbara, watching the image in the mirror, was amazed to see the complete change in Sally’s face as she pushed up the black fringe off her forehead and settled the hat squarely on the severely disciplined head. Then she rose, and walked toward the door with all the dignity of a Victorian duchess. As an exhibition of impoverished but unlicked nobility, Sally’s cold, self-possessed hauteur was almost unbelievably perfect.

‘Wonderful!’ murmured Barbara, soberly. ‘Absolutely marvelous! Sally! How do you do it?’

Sally walked toward the bed where Barbara sat, leaning back on her hands, and stood before her. Looking her squarely in the eyes, and without the faintest suspicion of humor, she said, ‘Marie, we will wear the blue gown instead.’ Barbara grinned and swallowed dryly, wanting to play up, but hardly knowing what was expected of her. ‘Well?’ Sally’s brows lifted imperiously. ‘What are you waiting for?’... Then—instantly—she tugged off the hat, tossed it into a chair, shook her bangs down, smiled companionably, and tumbled down on the bed beside Barbara. After a moment of silence she murmured, deep in her throat, ‘That’s what I want to do.’

‘And it’s what you ought to do,’ agreed Barbara, with conviction. After a considerable pause, during which her thoughts were busy, she added, ‘I think I can help you.’

‘Barbara!’ Sally raised up on one elbow, wide-eyed. ‘Could you?’

At that, Barbara began thinking aloud. Tim had asked her to join his dramatic workshop in Provincetown during July and August. Her present plans would prevent that. Why shouldn’t Sally go in her place? Tim would gladly consent to take her if Barbara insisted.

‘I shall write to Juliet, my maid, to send you my summer clothes,’ Barbara went on, half to herself, ‘for I’ll not be needing them, and you may as well have them.’

Sally burrowed her face into the crook of Barbara’s arm, and gave a childish little sob.

‘You are to plan on that, dear,’ continued Barbara. ‘I’ll see you through. I’ll love doing it.’

When Sally had gone, Barbara went to her desk and began a night letter to Tim. It was difficult to compose. Her real reason for not returning to the Cape for the summer defied any sensible explanation. No reason at all would be ever so much better than the real one. Of course, Tim would simply have to consent to Sally’s coming. Barbara’s promise to help subsidize the expenses of the Playhouse gave weight to her suggestions, no matter how unexpected and bewildering they might be.

When the telegram was finished, and Barbara re-read it, she had an entertaining vision of Tim’s squinted-up face, upon receipt of it, and the probable nature of his incredulous remarks. But the message was the best she could do, so she phoned down for a boy to come and get it.

Then she began slowly undressing, her thoughts busy with the stirring events of the past two days. Life had suddenly become a very important affair. She previewed an imaginary picture of the house-party that wasn’t going to take place in the big old summer home at Hyannis, and dismissed it with a shrug and a flick of the fingers. She had never been so completely happy before. Sally’s friendship was the most exciting sensation she had ever experienced.

In the face of this new heart-warming bond, what she was planning to do seemed unnecessary, inexcusable, silly. What was the good of it? She hadn’t quite realized what an idiotic thing it was until she had sat down to tell Tim. Confidential as they had been, she couldn’t tell Tim; not so he would understand.

Seated at the open window, in her pajamas and dressing-gown, Barbara tried to recapitulate. She needed, she felt, to reorganize her thoughts a little. If she was getting ready to do something that was so wacky she couldn’t confide it to one of her closest friends, maybe her plan should be overhauled.

She didn’t have to drive away tomorrow in that battered little teapot; didn’t have to lose herself in the hinterland, hunting for friends who might love her in spite of the dowdy clothes. Her friends were genuine enough. Tim; for instance. Of course—Tim needed her support of his pet project. You couldn’t be too sure about the sincerity of Tim’s devotion.

But’—take Sally!

Barbara’s brows contracted a little. What would Sally’s affection amount to, if she hadn’t been promised a chance to do what she had always wanted to do? How much of Sally’s sweet tenderness was sheer gratitude? Was Sally loving her for herself—or for what she was going to get? How could one know?

She went to sleep, at last, with a troubled heart. The adventure she had planned seemed now to be more urgent than before. She knew she would never be happy again, until she had made this experiment.

At eight-thirty she was wakened by the arrival of a telegram from Tim.

OF COURSE WE WILL TAKE SALLY. SEND HER ON. BUT WHAT IS THIS BIG MYSTERY? WHERE ARE YOU GOING AND WHAT FOR? STAND BY FOR TELEPHONE CALL AT NOON. VERY ANXIOUS ABOUT YOU.

The threat of this telephone conversation was a troublesome thought, the prospect of talking with Tim about her plans seeming much more disturbing than the dilemma of composing a telegram. Sally’s arrival, at ten, cleared away this difficulty.

‘That’s easy enough,’ said Sally. ‘You don’t have to be here at noon.’

‘Yes—but what will he think?’

Sally dismissed this problem with an overhand gesture.

‘Why should you care what he thinks? He’s not your nurse.’

Sally did have the most efficient techniques for disposing of anxieties. Barbara felt that this accomplishment must have been achieved only by long practice. ‘What they don’t know,’ according to one of Sally’s favorite maxims, ‘won’t hurt ’em.’

Not quite satisfied that this was the proper way to treat Tim, but yielding to the seasoned advice she had received, Barbara went down town with Sally and accompanied her to the store, where she collected her wages to date, and notified Mr. Wood that she was leaving. Barbara, standing a little way apart, could not help hearing this conversation. Mr. Wood was gracious enough, but inquisitive.

‘Are you,’ he asked, ‘taking a position in some other store?’

‘No, Mr. Wood.’ Sally’s tone was decently respectful, but it hinted at a recent convalescence from tonsillitis. Barbara turned her face away and grinned, wishing she had the brass to watch Mr. Wood’s expression. ‘I’ve had an offer,’ continued Sally, ‘to join a company of players in Provincetown.’

‘You don’t tell me!’ said Mr. Wood, sincerely amazed. ‘I didn’t know you’d ever done any acting.’

‘I haven’t—very much,’ confessed Sally, modestly. ‘But now I’ve a chance to—and I want to try.’

‘Can’t blame you, I’m sure. And I wish you luck.’ Mr. Wood followed along, as Sally turned away.

‘Meet my friend, Miss—Miss Brown,’ said Sally. ‘This is Mr. Wood, Barbara.’ They bowed and smiled briefly.

‘Miss Brown’s responsible for my going east,’ explained Sally.

‘Are you an actress?’ inquired Mr. Wood, deferentially.

‘Just an amateur,’ deprecated Barbara.

Mr. Wood’s eyes shifted rather reluctantly to his departing sales-girl.

‘Whenever you are in town, Sally, drop in and see us. I don’t imagine you will ever be looking for a job again—in a store’—he chuckled a little over the absurdity of what he was saying—‘but if you should, we’ll try to find a place for you.’

Sally thanked him prettily. It pleased Barbara that she didn’t turn up her nose at this friendly remark. After all, reflected Barbara, as they threaded their way through the crowded aisles, Sally did possess something like an inherent refinement.

‘My gosh!’ said Sally, as they reached the outer air. ‘I never realized how awful that place stinks.’

‘Smells,’ corrected Barbara, incorrectly.

Returning to the hotel, and having had luncheon, they reorganized their equipment. With many misgivings—for Barbara looked a different person in her new rig—Sally assisted in this metamorphosis of her generous friend. At Barbara’s insistence, she packed the modish clothes in the expensive bags with the understanding that she was to keep them and use them as her own.

Then they went to the hotel garage. Nobody there seemed to take much interest in Barbara’s appearance which comported nicely with her battered roadster. The well-dressed Sally and her impressive luggage, on the other hand, excited curiosity and attention. The bell-hop fluttered about her, eager to be of service. When the bags were stowed away in the back deck, Barbara tipped him a dollar. As they drove out, the boy stared at them with eyes squinted and mouth slightly ajar. They noted his perplexity and laughed.

Not much was said on the way to Sally’s home—a dingy, fourth-rate apartment house in a noisy, untidy street a few blocks south of the Loop. There Sally disembarked, and good-byes were said.

‘You’ll write, then,’ repeated Sally. ‘Soon as you get there.’

‘Tell me everything,’ said Barbara. ‘And tell them nothing.’

Slogging along through lumbersome traffic in the dank shadow of the shrieking elevated railroad, Barbara eventually escaped into the sunlight, made better time to the Boulevard, and drove north to the Cathedral, parking the old rattler in front of the Dean’s Mansion. Mr. Talbot, to whom she had telephoned in the morning, opened the door and greeted her with a slightly confused smile of recognition. It was apparent that the absent-minded curate was unable to define his perplexity, but equally evident that something had happened to their lovely client since her last visit. Having stared at her, myopically, until her own face reflected Mr. Talbot’s anxiety, he thought to put Barbara at her ease by telling her it was a beautiful morning, though it was now a quarter past three.

‘I must look dreadful,’ reflected Barbara, ‘to have frightened the poor lamb, that way.’

Yes, he said, Dean Harcourt was expecting her, and she should go in, at once. Preceding her to the library, he opened the door and departed. Barbara went in and took the big chair where she had sat in conference for several hours, only the day before yesterday. It seemed much longer ago. A lot of things had happened.

The Dean put down his pen, polished his glasses, and smiled.

‘Pretty hat, Barbara,’ he observed, dryly.

‘A dollar.’ She lifted it off, preciously.

‘They overcharged you.... Well—are you off now?’

‘Yes. Have you time to hear what I’ve been doing?’

‘I haven’t time for anything else,’ said the Dean. ‘And please don’t hurry.’

With this encouragement, Barbara curled up in the ponderous chair and gave a full report of Sally. When at last she had come to the end of it, Dean Harcourt sat for a while quietly tapping one open hand with the back of the other, deep in thought.

‘So—you’re going to put her on the stage,’ he said. Barbara nodded, and said she hoped and believed that Sally had it in her.

‘I suppose you have carefully considered that you’re going to be responsible for whatever may happen to her in this new life with which she is unacquainted,’ warned the Dean, soberly. ‘When you chop people out of the ivory, and invite them to come to life, it’s your duty to see that they make the most of it.’

‘Do you feel that way toward me?’ asked Barbara, just above a whisper. ‘For you brought me to life, you know.’

‘Yes—I feel that way toward you, and now I shall be feeling a measure of responsibility for Sally, too. You see, my dear, there’s no end to the obligation resting upon a creator.’ The crisscross lines encircling the Dean’s eyes deepened. ‘Bringing people out into larger opportunities is not a mere hobby that may be regarded lightly; taken up and put down; played with, for an hour, and tossed aside. Pygmalion mustn’t say to the inexperienced Galatea, after his last chisel-stroke and her first heart-beat, “There you are, my young friend. Run along—and have yourself a good time. I’ve a date to go fishing.” ’

‘You mean—that if Sally’—Barbara’s eyes were full of anxiety—‘if Sally should get into trouble, it will be my fault?’

‘Not your fault, perhaps, but unquestionably your responsibility. This thing you are doing—and the other things you are likely to be doing—glorious things—noble things—are very serious. It is dangerous business to tinker with other people’s lives. Even when you think you are doing them an immense favor, it is dangerous.’

‘Perhaps it might have been better for Sally,’ murmured Barbara, ‘if I had left her where she was.’

‘No,’ declared the Dean. ‘I don’t mean that. You have done a fine thing for Sally. But now the new Sally is your property to insure and defend. And if—sometime—she encounters a problem too big for her to solve, in the life to which you invited her, you dare not say, with a sigh of dismissal, that you thought you were doing the right thing; and it’s too bad; for she really had a lot of natural talent; but that’s the way it goes when you try to help anybody—and you’ll bid four no-trump.’

Barbara winced.

‘I’m laying this on, dear girl, with a pretty heavy hand; but I want you to avoid the mistake that many people make when, on impulse, they decide to wave a wand and order a carriage for Cinderella. You’ve made a new creature of Sally. Keep it in mind that you have not been dressing a doll. Oh—I see a plenty of this sort of thing. Lady Bountiful has a notoriously short memory.’

‘I know,’ agreed Barbara. ‘I’ve seen it happen. I never thought much about it before.’

‘There’s a great exultation,’ said the Dean, ‘rewarding an act of such stunning and unexpected generosity that the recipient is introduced to a new way of life. To see that this high benefit is conserved may turn out to be pretty tiresome business.’

Barbara nodded slowly and remarked that it gave you quite a little thrill when Fido licked your hand, in gratitude for the candy: but you’re willing that Celeste should have the thrill of washing him.

‘Barbara,’ said the Dean, warningly, ‘you’re maturing fast. That piece of cynicism was worthy of a woman of fifty.’

‘One of our professors—a sour old curmudgeon—said one day, “If the Social Agencies kept track of their clients with the zeal of the Tail-Waggers Association, there wouldn’t be so many boys in jail.” ’ Barbara rose, went to the Dean’s side, and took his hands in both of hers. ‘I’m going now,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very good to me.’

‘You’ll write?’

‘Promptly! Everything! Pages and reams!’

‘Decided on a name?’

‘Brown—Barbara Brown.’

‘Does Sally know all about your plans?’

Barbara nodded.

‘And I trust her fully,’ she added. ‘I took the liberty of asking her to come and talk with you before she leaves.’

‘Will she?’

‘I’m not sure. She didn’t promise. Perhaps she might if you invited her. Would you?’ Barbara’s eyes entreated.

‘No; that’s not the way,’ objected the Dean. ‘She will come, I think.’

‘Because I asked her?’

‘That’s a good enough reason.’

Barbara walked to the door, opened it, and said good-bye with her lips only. The Dean regarded her with a tender smile, and her eyes suddenly swam. He shook his head, still smiling; and Barbara, dashing the tears out of her eyes, smiled, too.

‘Barbara!’ called the Dean, as the door was closing behind her. She turned a pensive face toward him, inquiringly.

‘As hats go,’ he said, comfortingly, ‘I’ve seen worse.’

When two weeks had passed with no word from Barbara, and the Dean was beginning to be anxious about her, a bulky letter arrived postmarked at Axton, Nebraska. He made haste to read it.

Dear Dean Harcourt (wrote Barbara): On my way west I saw an advertisement in the Omaha Bee asking for help with the wheat harvest on a big farm. ‘High-school graduate only,’ it said. That interested me. I had no notion of applying for that kind of work, but it seemed to me that if they employed many men surely there would have to be a lot of people to feed them.

Mr. Wendell is a tall, tanned, kind, shrewd, not very talkative man of forty, who could be made up to pass for Lincoln if he had a short beard and a long, black coat in need of pressing. He is a graduate of an agricultural college. There are a thousand acres in wheat and two hundred in pasture for the dairy. I asked him how many cows and he spent some time making a mental count. Then he shook his head and grinned and said, ‘Too many.’ The cows are Guernseys. I asked him if the Guernsey was the finest make of cattle and he said, ‘Yes—if that’s the kind you happen to own.’

Everybody calls Mrs. Wendell Midge. I think they must have begun calling her that a long time ago. She plays the accordion skilfully; says she wishes her arms were a little longer. She also is a graduate Aggie. She doesn’t talk about Gershwin or John Dewey but knows more chemistry than I do, and speaks chummily of the characters in a dozen contemporary novels that I haven’t bothered to read. The Wendells have no children. This is fortunate for the nine girls who work here in the kitchen and dining-room; for they get a lot of mothering that Midge wouldn’t have time to give them if she had a few moppets of her own.

The girls are all from Nebraska towns; all high-school graduates of this year’s class. Andy Wendell employs a new cast of waiters each season. Midge says, ‘We always get them fresh from school, but don’t want them too fresh.’ As the only college graduate, and a little older, I am directing the dining-room service. My position has the flavor of a cabinet office, where the Secretary of the Navy doesn’t actually need to know a cruiser from a catboat.

We are quite a large family; twelve men from the dairy farm, twenty in the wheat; at present an additional dozen helping with harvest. Most of the men are in their twenties and thirties; all high-school alumni but five foremen who are Ag School graduates. There are five or six older men; one keeps books. Andy Wendell says that’s the chief trouble on a good many farms: they never know what they’ve got or what they can afford to buy; pay $130 for a new reaper to cut a crop worth $150. So—old Mr. Blosser keeps the books, draws the pay-checks, watches the markets. We have a nice little printing-press, and get out our own promotion bulletins, for we sell a lot of dairy products done up in flossy packaging. (Haven’t I learned a great deal in a short time? We have a patter of our own, same as any other trade.) Andy Wendell dislikes the word ‘stuff.’ Some farmers call every product ‘stuff’—chickens are ‘stuff,’ turkeys, alfalfa, no matter what; to them it’s all ‘stuff.’ Andy says ‘stuff’ has been discarded by everybody but the out-and-out hicks. I mention this to show that we are stylists, in good and regular standing.

The venerable Mr. MacLeod is our printer. He always preaches Sunday mornings at the church in Axton, and almost everybody goes. Preaching is part of Mr. MacLeod’s duty as an employee of Andy Wendell. Andy says churches mostly cost too much; have to do so much talking about money there’s no time left to talk about religion; says Mr. MacLeod keeps them all sweet—no matter what their creed—because his Scotch burr makes it all sound simple and honest. I said, ‘Does Mr. MacLeod preach the old-time religion?’ And Andy said, ‘Hellyes!—good old Mac believes that Jonah swallowed the ark—or whatever that story was. And so do I, when he rumbles it in his throat.’ I like Mr. Wendell very much.

There are no rules and regulations for our conduct. Midge says if they had rules they would have to enforce them, which would be a time-wasting nuisance, and keep everybody at loggerheads. ‘No,’ says Midge, ‘we just let their own common sense tell them how to behave themselves. Once in a while somebody runs out of bounds, and Andy pays him off and quietly scoots him away when nobody’s looking.... Andy,’ adds Midge, ‘is a great believer in human frailty.’ I think this is funny; don’t you? Midge says, ‘Andy Wendell wouldn’t give a nickel a dozen for people who had to be managed like a lot of grade-school kids. Andy’s a little more lenient, that way, than I am,’ Midge admitted. Then she lowered her voice and confided, ‘Couple of years ago, I had to spank a girl. Pretty nearly tired us both out. I won’t do that any more. My hand was hot and swollen for a week.’ ... ‘How did the girl feel?’ I couldn’t help asking, and Midge said she guessed the girl was quite a bit annoyed by it.

We have several rather tepid little romances in progress. It’s amusing to see how they are developing. But apparently it has to be undertaken craftily. If a girl shows special attention to the young fellow who has been caught winking at her, she has to be careful about bringing him an outsize dessert, or a low humming begins to gather volume around the busy table; a tune I had never heard before, but seems familiar to everybody else here. The text of the song—which they do not actually sing, aware that the melody will be sufficient—runs, ‘Oh you must be a lover of the landlady’s daughter or you won’t get the biggest piece of pie.’ When the tune is hummed, with all eyes intent upon the dessert, and every fork active, and every face innocent, it takes a lot of brass for a girl to continue her campaign. (Does this bore you to death, dear Dean?)

I think I may truthfully say they like me here. At least they are kind and warm-hearted and tell me their little secrets. I feel dreadfully old. Saturday afternoons almost everyone goes down to Axton, our nearest town of any size. Population 850. Andy Wendell says it’s plenty big enough. ‘Try to make a city of Axton,’ drawls Andy, ‘and pretty soon you’ve got to have waterworks, and higher taxes; and soon as the taxes are big enough to tempt office-seekers, then you’ve got a lot of lazy bums and cheap grafters running your town.’ I haven’t heard anyone offer a comment about Andy that wasn’t enthusiastically loyal and friendly, but I fear he is a bit of a martinet. He is Axton’s best customer, and I think he has a good deal to say about things. I don’t know: I’m just guessing. Midge told me a couple of men from some wacky little sect came to Axton, last summer, and wanted to organize a church; and they were advised to see Andy about it. They told Andy, when he asked them what sort of religion they taught, that they had had ‘a second blessing.’ He asked them what they worked at, between church services, and they said they’d been on Relief. And—according to Midge—Andy drawled, ‘Well—instead of having two blessings—and expecting the government to furnish the food, I think it’s better doctrine to have just one blessing over victuals that you’ve earned.’ Isn’t Andy funny? You’d like him, I think. He is very much like you. I mean—you never know what he’s going to say next.

I went to town, last Saturday evening, with three of the girls. My car is not roomy, but it held us all. I offered to treat them to ice cream. There were ten-cent dishes and five-cent cones. They all took cones because I hadn’t been working long enough to accumulate any money. I thought that was rather sweet of them; don’t you?

Will you have time to write me a wee letter, telling me how you are, dear Dean? Of course, you’ve seen the news in the papers about what’s happened to Sally! Isn’t that the oddest thing you ever heard of? Just fancy!—Sally in Hollywood!

Love and Gratitude,

Barbara Brown

And am I brown? You ought to see me!