Benedicta tried to draw away her hands, tried to find words for the anger and bitter disappointment within her; but before she had uttered a syllable, the door opened again and a man entered.
“Dumall,” he said, politely ignoring the flushed Benedicta, “I wish you’d come over to the station with me and see that fellow from Cowan’s. He’s waiting for the up train, but he’d like to see you about that Bijou line of cards.”
Young Dumall turned to Benedicta with such a pleased expression.
“You won’t be afraid to look after the shop for a quarter of an hour, will you?” he asked earnestly. “You needn’t try to sell anything. If any one comes in, show those new books, you know—and keep them talking until I get back.[Pg 137]”
Before she had time to refuse, he had hurried away on his errand.
VII
A Miller waiting in a shop! No! It was too much!
“I won’t do it!” Benedicta thought, angry tears in her eyes. “I’ll leave his horrible, vulgar shop! I never want to see him again! So this is what he calls something worth doing! In a year he’ll pay back Mr. Wilkinson and be standing on his own feet—”
Somehow the phrase arrested her. Standing on his own feet! Working honestly and faithfully and happily, proud of his work, confident of success, looking forward, instead of back—standing on his own feet!
Benedicta was at the door, with her hand on the latch, but she could not open it. It was as if a crowd of new ideas were holding it fast, keeping her in there. This bright, neat little place, where something was done, instead of remembered—this thing that was being built up, instead of falling into ruins—what had she ever had in her life one-half so fine? After all, wasn’t it an adventure, wasn’t it a worthy thing to do, to stand on his own feet?