Winnie Childs by C. N. Williamson

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"Mother!" he said in a low, tense voice. "_What_ told you?"

"Why--just bein' your mother, I guess. I was wonderin'---"

"Wondering what?"

"Whether some day you'd say something."

"I wanted to. I wanted to talk to you about--about it all. But I was
afraid it might make you sad. I like to think of you always happy,
dearest. And I couldn't bear to be the one to chase away your smile I
love so much."

"It's thinking of you helps me to smile, Petie," said his mother,
reverting to the pet name of his childhood as she stroked his smooth,
black hair. "If 'twasn't for knowing I've got you--and your loving
me--I do believe I could never smile."

"You're not unhappy?" Peter cried out, startled. It would be a
dreadful pain to know that the placid reserve of this sweet, loved
woman meant unhappiness.

"Not while I have _you_. But---"

"You must go on, dear. Tell me what you feel. We're here together, all
alone in the night, talking out our hearts. It seems as if it was
meant to be--my finding you waiting here."

"I guess maybe it _was_, Petie. Something kind of said to me, 'You
wait up for him. He wants you.' And I--why, I always want you, boy."

"Darling! We've got each other fast."

"Thanks be, dear! My! You don't know the times I've sneaked in and set
in this room when you was away. And even now, if you're go'n' to be
out pretty late, I bring in my work 'most always when your pa's out. I
generally slip back to my room before you come in, because I know you
think I oughtn't to be sittin' up. You mightn't just understand that
'twas because this is my only real home."

"Your only real home? Why, Mother!"

"The rest of the house is so big--and so _awful_ new-fashioned and
grand. Not like me a bit," she apologized meekly--but not with the
flurried meekness of her apologies to Peter senior. "Here you've saved
all my dear old things I had in the days before everything was big. I
never _can_ get used to it, and I never will now. It's the bigness, I
guess, that's seemed--somehow--to take your pa and Ena away from
me--long ago. But I've got you. And you let me come here. So I am
happy. I'm a real happy woman, Petie. And I want you to be happy the
way you used to be--or some better way, not all restless like you are
now. I guess if there was some one you loved different from me you
wouldn't make a new life for yourself without a little place in it for
mother, would you--just a weenty little place I could come and live in
sometimes for a while?"

"I'd want you in it always," said Peter. He leaned up and wound his
arms around the plump, formless waist in the neat dressing-gown. "So
would _she_--if there were a she. I hate the 'bigness,' too--the kind
of false, smart bigness that you mean. We'll have a little house--she
and you and I. For your room will be there, and you'll be in it
whenever father'll spare you. But I'm running away in what I used to
call my 'dreamobile!' I haven't found her yet. That is, I found her
once and lost her again. I'm looking for her now. Mother, do you know
what a _'leitmotif'_ is?"

"No, dear, indeed I don't. I'm afraid I don't know many of the things
I---"

"There's no reason why you should know this. In Wagner's operas, which
I don't understand, perhaps, but which I love with thrills in my
spine--and that's a _kind_ of understanding--whenever a character
comes on the stage he or she always is followed by a certain strain of
music--music that expresses character, and seems even to describe a
person. Well, wallflower perfume might be your _leitmotif_. Can't you
_hear_ perfume? I can. Just as you can seem to see music--wonderful,
changing colours. The wallflower scent's all around us now. It's you.
But through it I imagine another perfume. It's here, too. It's been
with me for months. Because I've got to feel it's her spirit, her
_leitmotif_. The perfume of fresias. Do you know it?"

"I thought maybe she liked it," mother said calmly.

"What put that idea in your darling head?"

"Why, because you've been havin' fresias planted in the garden--and in
your room--as long as they lasted through the spring. You'd never
thought of 'em before as I know of."

"You witch! You notice everything. Who'd believe it, you're so quiet?"

"Of course I notice things about you. I wouldn't be fit to be your
mother if I didn't. Now, do you feel like tellin' me things about
her?"

"I'm longing to," said Peter.

They forgot it was late at night. He told her everything, beginning at
the moment when he had plunged through the dryad door and going on to
the moment when he had lost, not only the girl, but her friendship,
though he said nothing of the Moon dress or the shut-up house. Even
then he did not stop.

"I must have done something inadvertently," he went on, "to make her
stop liking me all of a sudden. For she did like me at first. There
was no flirting or anything silly about it. I felt there was a reason
for her changing, and ever since, every day and every night, I've been
trying to make out what it could have been. I've thought the idea
might come to me. But it never has. That's partly why I'm so anxious
to find her--to make her explain. I was too taken aback, too--sort of
stunned--to go about it the right way when she changed to me at the
last minute there on the dock. Once I could understand, why, I might
start with her again at the beginning and work up. It would give me a
chance--the chance I once thought I had, you know--to try to make her
care. Maybe it would be no use. Maybe I'm not the kind she could ever
like that way, even if things hadn't gone wrong. But--but, Mother,
it's been just agony to think that all this time she's hated me
through some beastly misunderstanding which might easily have been
cleared up."

"My poor boy!" the kind voice soothed him. "I guess that's the worst
pain of all. I knew there was something hurting you, but I didn't
know 'twas as hard a hurt as this. But 'twill come right. I feel it
will--if she's really the right girl."

"She's the only girl!" exclaimed Peter. "You'd love her, and she'd
adore you."

"Tell me just what she looks like," commanded mother, shutting her
eyes to see the picture better.

Peter excelled himself in his description of Winifred Child. "Nobody
ever even dreamed of another girl who looked or talked or acted a bit
like her," he raved. "She's so original!"

"Why, but that's just what somebody _did_!" mother cried, throwing off
the cloak of her placidity. "Lady Eileen."

"Lady Eileen did what?"

"Dreamed about such a girl. It must have been a real interesting
dream, because she couldn't get it out of her head and told me all
about it. She saw a tall, dark girl, with wonderful eyes and a
fascinating mouth and graceful sort of ways like you've been telling
me about. Hearing Lady Eileen talk was almost like seeing a
photograph. In the dream you were in love with the girl--English she
was, too, like the real one--and ransacking New York for her, while
all the time she---"

"Yes--yes, dear! All the time she---"

"Lady Eileen said particularly I was to tell you about her dream and
let you know she wanted you to hear it, because it seemed kind of
dramatic and made her almost superstitious, it was so real every way.
But she made me promise I wouldn't say a _word_ unless you spoke first
about such a girl as she dreamed of--and told me you loved her and
wanted to find her again. If _I_ began, it would spoil the romance,
and there wouldn't be anything in it. That was how Lady Eileen felt."

Peter listened, but his spirit had rushed on past these explanations.
Lady Eileen had chosen this method of leaving a message for him. It
was a strange method, and he did not understand why she had not
herself told him of the dream. But she was a kind and clever girl, a
true friend. There must have been a good motive for the delay. Loyal
himself, he believed in her loyalty and was grateful. But he could not
stop to think of her now.

"Where did Lady Eileen see my dryad girl--in the dream?" he asked.

"At father's place," said mother simply. "At the Hands."

CHAPTER XXIV

THINGS EXPLODING

Lily Leavitt did not come back to Mantles next morning. She sent no
word, asked no leave for illness--and the rule at the Hands was
discharge for such an omission. If she appeared again her place would
be filled--unless she had a strong enough "pull" to keep it open.

Win, who arrived promptly, as usual (just as if last night's adventure
had been a black dream) heard the other girls talking about Lily. She
listened and said nothing; had no opinion when asked what she thought.
But not a soul pitied Miss Leavitt. The general idea seemed to be that
she was one "who knew which side her bread was buttered." She would
not be stopping away without notice unless she had done better for
herself. Probably she had secretly married one of those swell beaus
she was always boasting about!

Win, pale and absent-minded (but that might be the heat), was giving
the finishing touches to a cloaked group of figurines when a letter
was brought to her by a messenger boy. It was not yet time for Peter
Rolls's doors to open to the world, but the girl had to finish her
task before reading the note. A glance at the envelope showed Sadie's
handwriting, and as Sadie ought at that moment to have been making
the toilets of dolls upstairs, Win realized that something unexpected
must have happened.

Perhaps Sadie was ill and wanted her to explain to the management. She
must make short shrift with the figurines and be ready to help Sadie
before strenuous life began.

Five minutes later five headless ladies in perfectly draped wraps were
showing off their finery to the best advantage, and their tiring maid
was standing as still as they, an open letter in her hand.

"What's the matter?" asked a pretty, snub-nosed girl who laughed
oftener than Win in these days. "You look as if you'd lost your last
friend."

"I'm afraid--I have," Winifred replied in a strange, withdrawn voice
which made Daisy Thompson's eyes widen.

"Say! I'm real sorry! I hope it ain't your beau."

Win did not answer, because she did not hear. Sadie! Sadie! The dear
little old sardine!

"Good-bye, deerie," she read again. "I coodn't of said this to yure
fase. I only noo for shure yesterdy. Its cunsumsion and they won't
have me back for fere of my giving it to others. I gess thats right
tho its hard luck on me. It aint that I care much about living. I
dont, becawse theres sum one I love who loves another girl. Shes a lot
better than me and werthy of him so thats all right too but it herts
and Id be kind of glad to go out. Dont you be afrade of me doing
anything silly in the tabloyde line tho. I wont. Im no coward. But I
got to leeve this house for the same reeson as the Hands. I mite give
my truble to sum one else. Its a good thing we found out in time. Ive
hurd of a noo plase where they take consumps for nuthing, and Ive got
to steer for it. Its in the country but I wont tell you where deerie
or you mite try to see me and I dont think I cood stand it the way I
feel now. But I love you just as much. Good-by. Yure affecshunate
Sadie."

Win was overwhelmed. Lately she had seen little of her friend. Neither
girl had much time, and the weather had drunk all their energy. She
ought to have guessed from Sadie's thinness that she was ill. She
ought--oh, she ought to have done a dozen things that she had not
done! Now it was too late.

But no, it mustn't be too late! She would find out where Sadie was. It
ought to be easy, for the verdict which had sent the girl away from
the Hands must have been that of a young doctor who attended the
employees. There were certain hours when he came to the hospital room
which Win had seen on her first day at Peter Rolls's. One of these
hours was just before the opening of the shop. Perhaps he hadn't yet
got away.

The floorwalker who controlled Mantles was one of the smartest men in
any department, somewhat of a martinet, but inclined to be reasonable
with those who had any "gumption." Miss Child had gumption, and though
it was nearly time for the public to rush in (there was a bargain sale
that day) he gave her a permit of absence.

"Nothing worse than a headache, I hope, takes you to the H.R.?" he
questioned, scrawling his powerful name. "We need everybody to get
busy to-day."

"I'm going to beg for some _sal volatile_," answered Win, and
determined to do so, as even white fibs were horrid little things,
almost as horrid as cowardly, scuttling black beetles.

Poor Sadie had giggled the other night: "You stick even to the _truth_
this hot weather!"

The doctor had not gone, but he did not know of the new place Sadie
referred to, and, not knowing, didn't believe in its existence. He had
told Sadie Kirk yesterday that her lungs were infected and that she
had become "contagious." Of course she had had to be discharged. These
things were sad, but they were a part of the day's work. It was a pity
that Miss Kirk hadn't been longer with the Hands. Her insurance money
wouldn't amount to much.

"Do you mean to say that they've sent her away to die and haven't
given her anything?" Win gasped.

"Not to die, I hope," said young Dr. Marlow. "She's curable. But she
wouldn't get more than a week's salary with her discharge, I'm afraid.
Old Saint Peter isn't in this business for his health."

"Or for any one else's," the girl retorted.

Marlow shrugged his shoulders, bowed slightly to the pretty but
unreasonable young woman, and went away.

Winifred also should have gone. She had got her _sal volatile_ and her
information. But life was lying in ruins around her--Sadie's life, if
not her own--and she did not know how to set about reconstructing it.

"What man does she love who loves another girl?" she asked herself.

Then, suddenly, she knew. It was Earl Usher, and he loved her,
Winifred, who could never be more to him than a friend.

Win had heard of a "vicious circle." It seemed that she and Sadie and
Ursus were travelling in one, going round and round, and could never
get out.

"But I must go down," the mechanical part of herself kept repeating.

She had involuntarily paused near the door to think things out in
peace. There were no patients for the two narrow white beds, and the
nurse--a small, nervous woman with sentimental eyes--was heating water
over a spirit lamp. She suffered from headache and had prescribed
herself some tea. The water had begun to boil, and despite the
throbbing in her temples she hummed monotonously: "You Made Me Love
You."

Winifred heard the tune through her thoughts of Sadie and Earl Usher,
and it seemed to make everything sadder and more hopeless. But
suddenly the singing broke off--the thin voice rose to a shriek, and
was lost in a loud explosion.

In the act of going out Win turned, bewildered and expecting horror.
Head down, her hands covering her burned face, the nurse came
staggering toward the door. Hair and cap were on fire. All over the
white dress and apron were dotted little blue tongues of flame that
had spouted out from the bursting lamp.

Often such an accident had been lightly prophesied by this very woman.
The spirit sent up for the hospital was of the cheapest. Peter Rolls
was "not in business for his health!"

Dazed by the deafening noise, and shocked to the very heart by the
woman's shriek of pain, Win was not conscious of thought. She did not
tell herself to spring to the nearest bed, tear off the covering,
stop the nurse before she could rush wildly into the corridor, and
wrap her in the blanket. All she knew for a moment was that she had
done and was doing these things, that she was using her strength to
hold the maddened creature, and all the while calling out for help.

The doctor had not yet reached the end of the long corridor, and the
explosion and cries brought him and others running. Vaguely Win was
conscious that there were women there, maids who cleaned floors and
windows, and that there were two or three men besides Dr. Marlow. She
thought that he ordered some of them out and gave directions to
others, but the scene sharpened into detail only when she heard
herself told to stay and give assistance.

She aiding the doctor, the nurse's burns were dressed. The little
quivering creature, hastily undressed, was put to bed, face, head,
arms, and hands covered with oil and bandaged. It was not until
another nurse--telephoned for from somewhere to somewhere--had
arrived, and the invalid had been given an opiate, that Win realized
the tingling pain in her own fingers.

"Why, yes, so I _am_ burned a little!" she exclaimed when the doctor
asked to see her hands. "But it's nothing to matter. I can go back to
work now. Nurse is all right."

"No, it's nothing to matter, and you can go back to work, all right,"
briskly echoed Marlow, who was no coddler of any hands at Peter
Rolls's; "that is, you can when I've patched you up a bit. And nurse
isn't going to be bad, either. She won't be disfigured, I can
guarantee that--thanks to you."

"Thanks to me?" Win echoed.

"Yes, just that. Perhaps you don't realize that you probably saved her
life."

"No. I--I don't think I've realized anything yet." She found herself
suddenly wanting to cry, but remembered a day on the _Monarchic_ (as
she always did remember if tears felt near) and swallowed the rising
lump in her throat.

"Well, don't bother about it. You can get conceited later. Here, drink
this to quiet your nerves in case you feel jumpy, and now run along.
It'll be all right for you downstairs. The news will have got to your
dep by this time and they'll know why you're late."

Win "ran along" and found the doctor's prophecy correct The news had
bounded ahead of her.

"I hear you've been distinguishing yourself," said Mr. Wellby, the
floorwalker. "Let's see your hands. Oh, I guess they won't put you out
of business, a brave girl like you."

"I'm as well as ever, thank you," said Win.

Stupid of her, wanting to cry again just because people were paying
her compliments! But perhaps she hadn't quite got over last night and
not sleeping at all. And then Sadie's letter. Things had piled on top
of each other, but she mustn't let herself go to pieces. She must keep
her wits and think--think--think how to get at Sadie and what to do
for her.

Dr. Marlow had covered Win's fingers with something he called
"newskin," since it would not do for a "saleslady" to disgust
customers by serving them with bandaged hands. It was like a
transparent varnish and made her nails shine as brightly as those of
the vainest girls who spent all their spare time in polishing. But the
redness showed through, as if her hands were horribly chapped. She saw
a lady who had asked her to try on a white lace evening coat staring
at them.

"What's the matter with your hands?" The question came sharply.

"I scalded them a little this morning," Win explained.

"Oh! I'm glad it isn't a _disease."_

The girl blushed faintly, ashamed, glanced down at the offending pink
fingers, and turning slowly round to display the cloak, suddenly
looked up into the eyes of Peter Rolls.

She could not help starting and drawing in her breath. For half a
second her brain whirled and she thought that she imagined him, that
it was just such another vision as those of last night when she had
put on the Moon dress.

His eyes were looking at her as they had looked then, and they were
the good blue eyes of Mr. Balm of Gilead. It could not be that he was
really here gazing at her. It must be some other man like him. But no!
He had taken off his hat. He was saying something in the well
remembered--too well remembered!--voice.

"How do you do, Miss Child? When you've finished with this lady, I
shall be so much obliged if you can speak to me for a minute."

She bowed her head--quite a polite, ordinary sort of bow, just like
that of any well-trained saleslady to a prospective customer intending
to wait till she was free. But really it did not mean politeness at
all. It meant that she had to hide her face, and that it was taking
every square inch of nerve force she had to behave in the least like
a saleslady.

It was seeing Peter Rolls suddenly--Peter Rolls in flesh and bone and
muscle and magnetism of eyes, which told her in a devastating flash a
thing about herself she had feared for months--ever since the day she
turned her back upon Mr. Balm of Gilead and the _Monarchic_.

She was in love with him. Hideously, desperately, overwhelmingly in
love with him, just as ridiculous girls always were with men they
oughtn't to think of. Probably he had tried to make her so at first
with his friendly, chivalrous ways that hid blacknesses underneath.

She had escaped, thanks to his sister. And it looked as if those
horrid hints had indeed been true, otherwise he would not have
troubled to persist after his snubbing. For he had persisted. Some
glint of blue light in the steady eyes told her that. This was not a
coincidence. Mr. Rolls had the air of having found her at last. She
must make him sorry for it. Because, after her experience of the other
man who had persisted--though she thought herself forgotten--why
should she hope against hope that this man was different?

At last the customer, who did not hurry in the least--rather the
contrary--wore all excuses for lingering to shreds, she waddled fatly
away, carrying the lace cloak with her; and Win, not shirking the
ordeal as she had done when Jim Logan haunted Toyland, turned to Peter
Rolls.

CHAPTER XXV

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."

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