CHAPTER XVIII

THE CONQUEST OF CENTROPOLIS

Centropolis wasn't a very big town, but it had a wide, well paved street

lined with stores, and a pleasant variety of gravel roads winding round

hills that had neat and fairly prosperous-looking houses scattered over

them. A rather dignified old court-house among the big trees of the

Square proclaimed the place a county seat. It was a warm April day; the

grass was green and the little leaves already were bursting out on the

shrubbery.

Rose's idea was to stroll about a little and get her bearings first, and

then go into one store after another on Main Street until she should

find a job. She had no serious misgiving that she wouldn't get one

eventually; before night, this was to say.

Her confidence sprang from two sources: one, that though inexperienced

she knew she was intelligent, willing and attractive. People, she found,

were apt to be disposed in her favor. The other source of her confidence

was that she wasn't looking for much. She would take, for the present,

anything that offered. Because any sort of work, even menial work, would

be a relief after that nightmare tour. The weeks since she had left

Chicago, especially the last two or three of them, seemed unreal, and

the incidents of them as if they couldn't have happened. Anything that

didn't involve associations with that detestable company, and the

unspeakable piece they had played, would seem--well, almost heavenly. If

she couldn't get a job in a store, she'd go and be a waitress at the

hotel. She could make a pretty good waitress, she thought.

But her confidence was short-lived. She cut short her ramble about the

streets because of the stares she attracted, and the remarks about

herself that she couldn't ignore. Young men shouted at each other

directing attention to her with a brutality of epithet that brought the

blood to her cheeks. During all the time she had had that room on Clark

Street in Chicago, through their rehearsals and that month of

performances, she'd gone alone about the streets at all sort of hours,

both in the theatrical part of the loop and in the district where she

lived, without any molestation whatever. The small towns that she had

visited with the company had been different of course. She'd been stared

at in the streets and not infrequently addressed. She'd forgiven that

because she was a member of the company. It was natural enough for

people to stare at a girl they'd paid to see on the stage the night

before, or were going to see to-night.

Now she discovered that the company had been an immense protection to

her; had accounted for her, caused her to be taken, to a certain extent,

for granted. The wild beast that comes to town with the circus, though

an object of legitimate curiosity, does not excite the hostile and

fearful speculation that he would if he were left behind after the

circus had gone.

People got together in groups and nodded at her, pointed at her. A few

of them leered, but more of them scowled. There seemed to be a sense of

outrage that she hadn't left the town when the rest did.

There was a dry-goods store on the principal corner of the street, which

she'd selected as she walked along as the place to begin her quest. She

made a detour around two or three blocks in order to avoid retracing her

steps down Main Street and slipped into the door of this establishment

as unostentatiously as she could.

She was saved inquiring for the proprietor by the conviction that the

rather dapper-looking gray-haired man who came blinking toward her in a

near-sighted way as she paused in the main aisle, was he. He had a good

deal of manner and was evidently proud of it. But he looked neither weak

nor foolish.

"My name's Rose Stanton," she said as he came up. "I've come to see if I

can get employment in your store."

His manner changed instantly. He came a step closer and stared at her

with a surprise he didn't try to conceal.

"I haven't had any experience as a saleswoman," she went on, "and I know

there's a lot to learn. But I'd work hard and learn as fast as ..."

"Excuse me," he said, "but aren't you a member of that theatrical

company that was here last night?"

The intensity with which he was staring at her made her look away and

her eyes rested on a young man whose strong family likeness to the

proprietor identified him for her as his son; he had come up and was

waiting for a word with his father. At this question he stared at her

too.

The older man whipped around on his son. "Clear out, Jim," he said

sharply. And then to Rose: "You haven't answered my question."

"I was a member of that company," she said. "But ..."

"We have no vacancy at present," he said sharply. "Good day."

She flinched a little but stood her ground. "I said I wasn't experienced

as a saleswoman," she said, "but there are some things I know a good

deal about--clothes and hats...."

He hadn't stayed to listen; had walked straight to the door and opened

it. Reluctantly she followed him.

"There's no place," he said, "in this store, or I trust in the town

either, for young women of your sort. Good day!"

Rose made five more applications for work on Main Street, all with the

same result. Some of those who refused her were panicky about it; one

threatened to have her put in jail. One looked knowing and after he had

expressed in jocular though emphatic terms, his sense of her

impossibility as a publicly acknowledged employee, intimated a desire to

prosecute a personal acquaintance with her further.

She had left the first store incredulous rather than angry, under the

impression that she had encountered a chance fanatic. It seemed

impossible that anybody with a well-balanced mind, could treat her as if

she carried contamination, merely because she had earned a living for a

while in the chorus of a musical comedy. It was fortunate for her that

her first applications were met by anger, rude discourtesy, and openly

avowed suspicion, because this treatment roused in her, for the first

time in months, a strong surge of indignation. Her blood came up after

these encounters, nearer and nearer the boiling point. The man who

smiled at her like a satyr, was shriveled by the blaze of her blue eyes,

and was left, red-faced, blustering weakly after her.

When she walked back to the hotel along Main Street the lassitude that

had so long held her half-paralyzed was gone. She was the old Rose

again; the Rose whom Galbraith would have recognized.

She didn't know it. She was conscious of nothing but a hot determination

that had not, as yet, even expressed itself in terms. It was just a

newly kindled fire that warmed her shivering spirit; that made her

fearless; in a quite unreasoning way, confident.

The only touch of self-conscious thought about her was a vague wonder at

her long submission. What had she been doing all that while, drifting

like that, letting herself be beaten like that, consenting to live amid

the shabby degradations of the life that had surrounded her ever since

the company had gone on the road? The sense of the unreality of those

past weeks grew stronger. She felt like a person just waking out of a

long troubled dream.

She mode her way among the loungers in the lobby of the hotel, not

unmindful of their stares, but magnificently impervious to them; came up

to the desk and told the clerk she wanted to see the proprietor.

"Nothing doing," said the clerk.

Then as he got the straight look of her eyes, he amended his speech a

little.

"It won't do you any good to see him," he said sulkily.

"I'll see him, if you please," said Rose. "Will you have him called?"

The clerk hesitated. Stranded "actresses" weren't in the habit of

talking like that. They always wanted to see the proprietor, they were

always on the point of receiving an ample remittance from some generally

distant place. They were often very queenly, incredibly outraged that

their solvency should be questioned. But their voices never had the cool

confident ring that this girl's voice had, nor the look in their eyes,

the purposeful thrust.

He hesitated uncomfortably. Then his difficulty was solved for him.

"There he goes now," he said. "You can talk to him if you like."

The proprietor was sixty years old, perhaps; gray, stooped, stringy of

neck. He had a short-cropped mustache, one corner of which he was always

caressing with a protruding under-lip. He had a good shrewd pair of

eyes, not altogether unkindly. Rose had seen him before, but hadn't

known who he was.

He was making, just now, for a little office he had, that opened into

the railed-off space behind the desk, and, by another door, into the

corridor. He had another man with him, but it was evident that their

business wasn't going to take long. The door into the corridor was left

open behind them, and there Rose waited. When the other man came out,

she stepped inside.

There was nothing kindly about the look the proprietor's eyes directed

at her when he saw who she was. He looked up at her with a frown of

resignation.

"So you didn't go to Chicago with the rest of the troupe?" he said.

"That's where you made a mistake, I guess."

"I didn't want to go to Chicago," she said.

"I suppose," he drawled ironically, "you've written or telegraphed to

some friends for money, and that it's surely coming, and that you want

to stay here in my hotel on credit till it does. Well, there's not a

chance in the world. The clerk could have told you that. I suppose he

did."

"I haven't sent for money," said Rose. "There's no one I could send to.

I've got to earn it for myself and I thought there was as good a chance

to earn it here as in Chicago."

"Well, by God!" said the proprietor. "You've got your nerve with you at

any rate. But I'll tell you, young woman, the town of Centropolis don't

take kindly to the efforts of young women of your sort to make a living

nor to the way they make it."

"You're wrong," said Rose, dangerously quiet, "if you think I mean to

make a living in any other than a decent honest way. I have already

asked for work in five places on Main Street and I have been refused as

if I were the--sort of person you've just called me. I'm going to keep

on until I find somebody in this town who's clean enough minded to

recognize decency when he sees it. There are people like that, of

course, even in Centropolis. I didn't come in here to borrow money of

you, nor to ask for credit. I came to ask for a job as a waitress."

The proprietor stared at her. "Well," he said, "you are a new one on

John Culver. I never got up against _your_ game before."

"I haven't any game," said Rose. "I've told you the exact truth."

Culver twisted around uneasily in his chair and began biting

thoughtfully on the end of a lead-pencil.

"Well," he said at last, "I'll take a chance. I'll tell you about a job

I think you can get. Only it won't do you any good to use my name. If

the man you go to comes to me, I can't tell him anything about you but

what I know. His name's Albert Zeider and he's got a picture house three

doors down the street. He's just put in a glass cage out in front, and

he wants a pretty girl to sit in it and sell tickets. He hasn't been

able to get anybody yet that filled the bill. So maybe he'd take a

chance on you. Only, mind, don't tell him I recommended you."

"I won't," said Rose. "I won't go to him at all. I've walked the length

of Main Street and back this morning, and I won't sit in Mr. Zeider's

glass cage. I'll wash dishes or scrub floors, but I won't do that."

The proprietor flung out his hands with the air of a man of whom nothing

more could be expected.

"Well, then," he said, "if you won't take a decent job that's offered to

you ..."

"It's not a decent job," said Rose. "Not for me; not for a girl who's

looked on in this town as I am. I want work! Don't you understand?"

Then, after a pause, "Won't you give it to me?"

"Well, I should say not," said John Culver. "Look here! What's the use?

Suppose you are what you say ..."

"You know I am," interrupted Rose.

"Well, I say, suppose it's true. What's the use? Do you think any decent

store-keeper on Main Street would risk his reputation by giving a job to

a stranded actress that had come here with a rotten show like the one

you was with; or that I could have you in my dining-room? This is a

respectable hotel, I tell you."

He broke off to wave his hand genially to a man who was walking slowly

by the door on his way down to the dining-room.

"There!" he went on to Rose. "That's what I mean! That's Judge Granger

of the Supreme Court of this state. He's come here regularly for meals,

when he ain't in Springfield, for the last fifteen years. He's the

biggest man in this county. Do you suppose he'd stand for it, if I asked

him to give his order to a busted actress?"

"Would you stand for it if he did?" demanded Rose. "If he told you that

I was all right and asked you to give me a job, would you do it?"

The proprietor laughed impatiently. "What's the good of talking

nonsense?" he demanded. "Yes, I would, if that'll satisfy you. But you'd

better take the next train for Chicago. And if ..." He hesitated,

stroked his mustache again with his under-lip, and went on,--"Oh, I

suppose I'm a damned fool, but if a couple of dollars will help you

out ..."

"No, thank you," said Rose. "I'm going to see the judge." And she cut

off John Culver's exclamation of protest by walking out of the office.

Rose went back to the desk, told the clerk she wanted dinner, and

forestalled the objection she saw him preparing to make, by laying a

dollar bill on the counter. He even hesitated a little over that, but

he took it and gave her a quarter in change.

"That'll be all right," he said, and she went the way the judge had

gone, down the corridor to the dining-room. A glance showed her where he

sat, and without waiting for the assistance of the head waitress, she

chose a chair near the door, facing it, and with her back to the judge.

Those were rather audacious tactics. Seventy-five cents, in the present

state of her finances, was a good deal to squander on a meal. And the

fact that she was openly stalking the judge might lead John Culver to

give his honored patron a word of warning. But Rose didn't care. No

tactics but the simplest and most direct appealed to her. When the judge

finished his dinner, she would follow him to his office, wherever it

might be, walk in with him, and demand a hearing. If he were forewarned,

she would find some other way of getting access to him.

But, whether the proprietor was really ignorant of her plan, or whether

the little scene with her in his office had shaken him so that he didn't

care to try conclusions with her again, the judge was left to his fate.

Rose followed him, unmolested, down the corridor and out into the

street, across the road and up a flight of outside steps, to the second

story of a brick building opposite.

He was fitting his key into the lock when she came up. And though he

drew his eyebrows down into a frown as he looked at her, it seemed to be

rather in the effort to make out who she was, than from any feeling of

hostility. He asked her with a dry and rather affected judicial

courtesy, what he could do for her.

"You can do me a service," said Rose, "that I don't think you will mind.

Will you let me come in for about a minute and tell you what it is?"

His manner chilled a little, but his curt nod gave her permission to

precede him into his office.

The outer room was bleak enough, furnished with three or four hard

chairs, a table and an old black walnut desk with a typewriter on it.

His secretary or stenographer was evidently still at dinner, because the

room was empty.

The judge walked straight into an inner room and Rose followed him.

It was a big, rather fine-looking room, or so it looked to Rose after

the places she had been seeing lately; evidently, from a beam across the

middle of the ceiling, cut out of two. There was a fireplace with a fire

in it, a big oak table and a number of easy chairs. There were two or

three good rugs on the floor, and the walls were completely lined with

books; the familiar buckram and leather-bound, red-labeled law-books

that gave her memory a pang.

In these surroundings, the judge took on an added impressiveness, and he

was not an unimpressive-looking man. He was not large. Nose, mouth and

chin were small and rather fine, and he had the shape of head that is

described as a scholar's. One might not have remarked it in the hotel

dining-room, but in these surroundings, he looked altogether a judge.

But the effect of this on Rose was only to heighten her confidence. She

hadn't used the dinner hour to think out what she'd say to him. She'd

been thinking of Rodney again. Somehow, just the rebirth of a sense of

power in her, had brought the image of him back. She was throbbing with

that sense now, and her thoughts of Rodney had given her an exhilarating

idea. This man that she was about to confront was one whom Rodney had

often confronted. It was before this man, on the bench of the Supreme

Court, up at Springfield, that Rodney had made uncounted arguments. She

would try to do as well as he did.

The judge was staring at her in growing perplexity. Who in the world

could she be. What did she want? His very greatness in this little town

made him accessible. It was so unthinkable a thing that any one should

intrude upon his time frivolously. But this girl! She didn't belong in

the town. Hadn't he seen her about the hotel yesterday, with that shabby

theatrical troupe?

"You will please be brief," he said. "My time is limited."

"I'll be as brief as I can," said Rose.

He sat down in his desk chair, but she did not avail herself of the

permission his half-hearted nod toward another chair accorded her;

remained standing across the table from him.

"I came to Centropolis day before yesterday," said Rose, "with a

theatrical company that failed. They went away this morning unpaid, with

nothing but tickets to Chicago. I decided to stay here and try to get

work. I applied for it at five places on Main Street this morning, and

then went to Mr. Culver at the hotel. I asked him for a position as a

waitress."

Already the judge was tapping his pencil.

"This doesn't concern me in the least," he said. "I have no possible

employment for you. I can do nothing for you. Good day!"

"Employment isn't what I want from you," said Rose. "I'll come to what I

do want in a minute."

It is safe to say that the judge hadn't been caught up with a round turn

like that in years. He stared at her now in perfectly blank amazement.

"Mr. Culver," she went on, "told me why I hadn't been successful. He

accused me of being the sort of person no decent employer would give

work to, of being a person of bad character. I convinced him, I think,

that I was not. Then he said that even though I were a perfectly honest,

decent woman, he wouldn't dare put me in his dining-room. He cited you

as the reason."

At that the judge suddenly went purple.

"Me!" he shouted.

The tension of Rose's body relaxed a little. A smile flickered just

instantaneously over her mouth.

"He used you as an example," she explained. "He said that you were the

most important person in the county; that your opinion counted for the

most. He said that you were a regular patron of his hotel, and that

you'd object seriously to giving your order, as he said, to a 'busted

actress.'"

"That's perfectly unwarranted," fumed the judge. "Culver had no right to

use my name like that. It's outrageous!"

"I hoped you'd feel that way," said Rose.

The judge pounded on the desk. "That's not what I mean. He had no right

to drag me into it at all; into a miserable business like that."

"It is a miserable business," Rose assented. "It's a thoroughly

contemptible business. But Mr. Culver didn't drag you into it

deliberately. You were passing the door as we stood talking, and he used

you for an illustration. But afterward he said that if you told him it

was all right to give me a job, he would do it. That's what I have come

up to ask you to do."

"That," said the judge, setting his teeth and breathing hard, "is the

most monstrous piece of impudence I have ever heard of. On his part as

well as yours. What have I to do with John Culver's waitresses?"

He wasn't expecting an answer to this question, but Rose had one ready

for him.

"You've given him the idea, without meaning to most likely, that you

wouldn't tolerate a girl among them who'd been earning her living on the

stage. If that's just a stupid mistake of his, I'm asking you to tell

him so."

"Well, I won't," said the judge. "The thing's preposterous. You're

asking me for what amounts to a guarantee. In the first place, I don't

know that you're not--after all--what you say you convinced Culver that

you were not."

"I think you do," said Rose thoughtfully, with a steady look he angrily

turned away from. "I think you knew, without any reason at all, just

from your instinct and your experience in judging people. And if you

don't know it that way, I think you can prove it to yourself by common

sense. Do you think it likely that if a girl of my--appearance

and--manners, had a mind to practise the--profession you've talked

about, she would be here in Centropolis, fighting desperately like this,

going through humiliations like this, for a chance to be a waitress in

Mr. Culver's dining-room?"

She stopped there and took a good deep breath and waited. There was a

solid minute of silence. The judge got up out of his chair and began

pacing the room with short impatient steps. He stopped with a jerk two

or three times, as if he were about to demolish her with speech, but

always gave up the attempt before a word was spoken.

"Oh, I admit it's a hard case," he said at last. "You've apparently been

a victim of circumstance. The people down in this part of the country

are perhaps narrow. In the main it's a good sort of narrowness. It's

better than the broadness of your cities. But in an isolated case it may

work an injustice." Then he wheeled on her. "But I can't do anything for

you. Can't you see that I can't do anything for you?"

"I don't see," said Rose, "why you can't do what I ask."

"Have it known," shouted the judge, "in this town and all over the

county, and all over the Supreme Court district, as it would be in

another week, that I had gone to John Culver and got a job in his

hotel--the hotel where I go myself, three times a day--for a girl who

got left behind by a stranded comic-opera company? Now can't you see?

I'm coming up for re-election in two years."

Rose drew in a long sigh and for a moment drooped a little.

"Yes, I see," she said with a rueful little smile. They were afraid of

him, and he was afraid of them.

"I'm sorry about it," said the judge. "If there's anything else I can

do ..." He put his hand tentatively in his pocket.

"No," Rose said, "that isn't what I want. Mr. Culver offered me two

dollars to go away. I suppose you might offer me ten. But I'm not going.

There is somebody in this town who isn't afraid of anybody, if I can

only find out who that somebody is."

For a moment the judge looked annoyed; tried to collect his scattered

dignity. But presently a twinkle lighted up in his eye. Then he smiled.

"You might try Miss Gibbons," he said.

"Who is she?" Rose asked.

By now the judge was smiling broadly. Apparently there was something

exquisitely humorous in the notion of an encounter between Rose and this

lady he'd mentioned.

"She's lived," he said, "and practised gossip and millinery, for the

last thirty years, up over the drug-store on the next corner. It's quite

true that there's nobody in this tier of counties that she's afraid of.

But I don't recommend her seriously. You will get small comfort out of

her."

"All right," said Rose, "we'll see."

She walked straight from the judge's office to the stairs beside the

drug-store on the next corner, which led up to Miss Gibbons' atelier.

She walked fast, conserving as a precious thing that might ebb away from

her, the warm feeling of indignant contempt her talk with the judge had

inspired her with. He was the biggest man in this part of the state, was

he! Why, he was a hollow man! A fabric of lath and plaster with no

structural pillars inside! Well, if the rest of the town was afraid of

him, she certainly wasn't afraid of the rest of the town.

She hadn't any thought of conciliating Miss Gibbons, of asking Miss

Gibbons to give her a chance. She was going to give Miss Gibbons a

chance to prove whether she was lath and plaster like the judge, or a

real person with something besides her façade to hold her up.

So it wasn't at all in the manner of a disheartened applicant for work

that she pushed open the glass door with _"Gibbons. Modes_." painted on

it, and stepped inside.

A bell had rung somewhere in the distance as she opened the door, and

there was no one in the room as she entered it. But she hadn't much time

to look around--only long enough to get the impression that the place

was somehow overflowing with hats--when another door opened, and a thin,

gray-haired, tight little woman (she had a tight dress and tight hair,

and her joints, when she moved, seemed to be tight, too) confronted her.

She was unmistakably Miss Gibbons and in that first glance, Rose liked

her. Her features were rather too big for her small face--a big nose not

finely made, a wide thin-lipped mouth, and a long chin--and her eyes,

looking very straight out through gold-rimmed spectacles, had a

penetrating brightness about them that was a little formidable. It was

not what one would call a good-natured face. But good-natured

sentimentality was the last thing Rose was looking for.

"What can I do for you?" she asked. Her voice was as tight and brisk as

the rest of her.

"I'm looking for a job," said Rose.

Miss Gibbons came a step closer and her bright look pierced a little

more deeply.

"So!" she said. "You're the actress, are you?"

Rose smiled at that. "I'm not a real actress," she said, "but I'm who

you mean. I was a chorus-girl with that company that broke down here."

"Why didn't you go away when the rest of them did?" the milliner

demanded.

"I decided I didn't want to go on being a chorus-girl," said Rose, "and

I thought there was as good a chance of getting other work here as in

Chicago."

"That was a sort of fool idea, I guess, wasn't it?" Miss Gibbons

suggested.

"It seems so, up to now," said Rose. "I spent the morning on Main Street

without having any luck. I went to five places ..."

"Five?" questioned Miss Gibbons. "I knew about Arthur Perkins and Sim

Laidlaw and Tabby Parkes. Who were the other two?"

Rose couldn't enlighten her. She'd forgotten their names.

"I've had work offered to me," she went on, "or at least suggested. Mr.

Culver at the hotel told me of a moving-picture place ..."

"Where you could sit in that glass cage of Al Zeider's and sell

tickets?" Miss Gibbons broke in. "Why didn't you take it?"

"I told Mr. Culver," said Rose, "that I'd already walked the length of

Main Street and back, and that was enough for me."

"How did John Culver happen to say anything about that? How come it you

were talking to him?"

"I'd asked him to hire me as a waitress," said Rose.

"And I reckon," said Miss Gibbons, "that he told you he kept a

respectable hotel. He may have put some frills on it, but that's close

enough to go on, isn't it?"

Rose nodded. In her relief at finding her situation so well understood,

she was turning a little limp.

"Why did you come to me?" Miss Gibbons demanded. "He never would have

thought of sending you here."

Rose braced up once more and told about her conversation with Judge

Granger.

This time the milliner heard her through.

"And so the judge sent you to me," she said, when Rose had finished. "I

suppose that was his fool idea of being funny. He thought it was a

chance to get me poison mad."

Rose nodded a little wearily.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose that was it."

The milliner shot out a sharp glance at her. "Sit down," she said

bruskly, and nodded to a chair.

Rose didn't much want to. Her instinct was to stay on her feet until

she'd won her battle, and her fatigue only heightened it. But Miss

Gibbons had given her an order rather than an invitation, and she obeyed

it.

The older woman didn't sit down.

"Harvey Granger," she said thoughtfully, "will never forgive me as long

as he lives, for not thinking he's a great man. That's just ridiculous,

of course, because I know Harve. Years ago, you see,--so long ago that

everybody's forgotten it--my father was the big man down in this part of

the state. He was a circuit judge, when circuit judges amounted to

something, and he was one of the best of them. But he was a fool about

money and he got mixed up in things--and died. I was twenty-five years

old then, and I took to hats.

"Well, Harve Granger was my father's law-clerk before father was elected

judge. I used to see him night and morning. And, as I say, I know him

all the way through. He knows I know him, and that's what he can't get

over."

There was a little silence when she finished; a silence Rose's instinct

told her not to break. Presently the little woman wheeled around on her.

"Well," she said, "you came to me anyway, though you saw the judge

meant it for a joke. Why did you do that?"

"I don't know," said Rose. "I thought I would."

"And you haven't told me yet," said Miss Gibbons, "that you're really

straight and respectable. What have you got to say about that?"

"Nothing much," said Rose. "I am straight and respectable. But I suppose

a woman who wasn't would pretend to be. So you will have to decide about

that for yourself."

"Hmph!" grunted Miss Gibbons. "I don't know why I asked a fool question

like that, unless it's because, like the rest of them, I live in

Centropolis. I know what you are, as well as you do yourself."

The words were brusk, and the inflection of them not much gentler, but

they fell on Rose's heart like rain; like an unexpected warm little

shower out of a brazen sky. She caught her breath, and, to her

consternation, felt her eyes flushing up with tears. She hadn't realized

the tension she had been under, until it was relaxed. She gave a shaky

half-suppressed sob and then made a desperate effort to pull herself

together.

"Now, look here!" said Miss Gibbons, in a tone harder and dryer than

ever. "I'm not going to take you in and pay you wages just because

you're a cat in a strange garret and don't know where to turn. I'm not

even going to do it to spite Harve Granger. But, if you've got any sort

of gumption about hats, I am going to do it, and the rest of this fool

town can say what it likes and do what it pleases. So the thing for you

to do is to quiet down sensibly and show me whether you can trim a hat."

It took Rose a few minutes to carry out the first part of this

injunction. The rush of relief and gratitude and happiness shook her.

Given _carte blanche_ to design a special angel from Heaven to come down

and give her just the comfort and encouragement she wanted, she couldn't

have imagined one so good as Miss Gibbons,--with those keen

straight-looking eyes that had observed her fellow citizens of

Centropolis for the last half-century or so, not in vain; with her

courageous common sense, and with that dry, cool, astringent manner,

which lay with a pleasant healing sting on the lacerations of Rose's

soul.

For a while she just sat still and tried to get the catch out of her

breathing. At last, when she thought she could trust her voice not to

break absurdly, she smiled and said:

"What sort of hat do you want me to trim? I mean, for what sort of

person?"

"What sort of person!" echoed Miss Gibbons and gave Rose a rather keen

look. "Why," she said, after hesitating a moment, "there's a silly old

maid in this town. She ain't more than ten years younger than I am, but

her hair's stayed sort of fluffy and yellow, and she's kept part of her

looks, though not near as much of them as she thinks. She was a

beautiful girl at twenty, I'll say that for her. None of these girls now

compares with her. But she was a little too sure of herself and took too

long deciding among the young men of this town, until all at once, she

found that nobody wanted her. She's been trying ever since to show she

doesn't care; and she pesters the life out of me twice a year trying to

fit her out with a hat. I won't let her go around the streets looking

like a giddy young fool, and that's what she's determined to do. So, if

you can suit her _and_ me, you will be doing pretty well."

The description made a picture for Rose. She saw the faded pathetic

prettiness of the woman who'd looked too long and had been trying to

pretend for the last fifteen years or so that she didn't care. And the

picture in her mind's eye was surmounted by a hat; a hat that conceded

some of the years Miss Gibbons had insisted on, and that her client was

unwilling to acknowledge, and yet retained a sort of jauntiness.

She didn't know whether she could execute the thing she saw or not, out

of the stock of materials at her disposal. But it hadn't cost her a

thought or an effort to see the hat.

"All right," she said after a bit. "I'll see what I can do. If you'll

show me where the things are ..."

It was a much humbler sort of job, of course, designing a hat for a

middle-aged village spinster, than making those dozen gowns for

Goldsmith and Block had been. But this consideration never occurred to

her. She found, and was not even amazed to find, the same thrill of

exhilaration in conquering the small problem, that she had found in the

larger one. She worked with the same swift unconscious economy of labor

and materials.

At the end of two hours, she presented the result of her labors for the

milliner's approval.

Miss Gibbons surveyed it with a smile of ironic appreciation.

"It isn't what I'd call a real finished job," she commented after a

minute inspection of some of the details of Rose's sewing. "I wouldn't

trust it in a high wind not to scatter all the way from here to the

Presbyterian church. But it will certainly suit Agatha Stebbins."

She looked at it a while longer. "And I don't know," she concluded a

little reluctantly, "as it'll look so all-mighty foolish on her, either.

Will ten dollars a week suit you to begin on?"

"Yes," said Rose, "that will suit me very well indeed."

"All right," said Miss Gibbons. "That's settled. There's one more thing

to settle now, and that's where you're going to live."

Rose contemplated this question a little blankly for a moment.

"Do you suppose," she said, "there's any place in this town where I

_can_ live; where they'd take a person like me? Or would it be all

right, if you asked them?"

"Oh, I guess," said Miss Gibbons, "we could most likely find somebody.

I'll think about it."

She gave Rose some work to do and didn't refer to the matter again till

nearly six o'clock.

"I've been thinking," she said then, "that I've got room for a boarder

myself. There's a little room back here that I don't use; there's a

black girl does me out and cooks my dinner and supper, and I get my own

breakfast. The girl could cook for two as well as one, and I guess I

could feed you for two dollars a week. If that ain't satisfactory, you

can just say so."

"Satisfactory!" said Rose, and once more her voice broke.

"All right," said Miss Gibbons hastily, "we'll say no more about it.

That's settled. I'll send the girl to the hotel to get your bags."

John Galbraith's letter asking Rose to report to him July first in New

York, reached her via Portia, during the last week in June, and made an

abrupt conclusion to her life at Centropolis.

Those weeks with Miss Gibbons in the millinery parlor, when she looked

back on them afterward, set in as they were between that purgatorial

winter and the first breathless months while she was establishing

herself in New York, had a quality of happiness and peace, which she was

wont to describe as heavenly.

She'd probably have taken to Miss Gibbons in any circumstance. But,

coming into her life just when she did, the little woman was the shadow

of a great rock to her. She was in a state, when she settled down in the

milliner's spare back room over the drug-store, where all the warmer

emotions seemed terrible to her. It was Rodney's love for her and hers

for him, that had bruised and lacerated her; that had made the winter

months a long torment, unmitigated during the last of them, by any form

of adequate self-expression. The two parodies on love which had been

thrust into her face just at the end, Olga Larson's inverted form of it

toward herself, and Dolly's shabby little romance, had given her an

absolute loathing for it. To her, in that condition, any expression of

friendship that was warm and soft, and in the least sentimental, would

have been almost unendurable to her. Miss Gibbons, in that acrid

antiseptic way of hers, simply washed her soul in cold water and clothed

it again in the garments of self-respect.

Her manner to Rose, even as their friendship ripened and grew more

confident, never changed. Nor did the manner Rose adopted toward her.

Their endless talks resulted in a good deal of self-revelation, but this

was never direct. Miss Gibbons never again came as near to a

confidential account of her life, as she did on that first afternoon,

when she explained the thoroughness of her acquaintance with Judge

Granger. And Rose never explained how it had happened that she was left

at the mercy of the town of Centropolis by the failure of _The Girl

Up-stairs_ company. But she poured out for her friend a wealth of

illustrative reminiscences, drawn from her childhood, her days at the

university, her life on the stage; and though she was a good deal more

reticent about it, she even touched on her married life with Rodney; at

least, on the collateral incidents of it.

Miss Gibbons listened to all this with a hunger she didn't conceal, and

this eagerness gave Rose a pretty vivid picture of the inner life the

little woman had lived here in Centropolis.

If she'd been born a boy instead of a girl, she'd probably have equaled,

or outstripped, Rose thought, her father's eminence. With her courage,

her vitality, her fine penetrating intelligence, she'd have managed to

win her way out of this stagnant little back-water of life. But, having

been born a girl, brought up helpless, as became the daughter of the

circuit judge, and then having had this support wrenched from under her

at the critical moment, there had been nothing for her but--hats.

She'd never gone sour, at that; never, apparently, wasted any hours in

repining. She'd made, after a fashion, a career of hats; had risen on

them, to a position of acknowledged social consequence. There must have

been disquieting echoes in her, rhythms that answered to the pulsation

of an ampler life. She never could hope to get out into it, she

undoubtedly knew, but she took every opportunity she could get for a

glimpse at it. Rose's incursion into her life must have been a godsend

to her.

She probably pieced together a pretty good picture of Rose, too. But she

did this piecing in silence and kept her surmises to herself.

In a material way, her adoption of Rose was an immense success.

Centropolis, when it learned the news, was thunder-struck. For a matter

of hours, one might say, the town held its breath. Then it began to

talk. The women began asking questions: What did the actress look like?

The men offered lame descriptions. Rose had been seen, apparently, that

morning on Main Street, by the entire male population, but their

descriptions weren't satisfactory. Curiosity must be assuaged! But Rose

never went into the stores on Main Street; never patronized the

picture-show, and even had these glimpses been afforded, they'd have

been pretty unsatisfactory. There was only one real way of discovering

what the creature was like; discovering for yourself, that is--and

hearsay evidence is notoriously unreliable; that was to buy a hat of

Lizzie Gibbons.

The first daring adventurer was Agatha Stebbins. Agatha found, you will

remember, the hat Rose had already designed for her. And, as Miss

Gibbons caustically disclaimed the authorship of it ("I'd never have

made you up a thing like that, you can believe!") and as Miss Stebbins,

after a moment's hesitation, decided she adored it, another inducement,

though perhaps a superfluous one, was offered for visits to the atelier.

"Of course she isn't what you could call genteel," Miss Stebbins

explained, parading her acquisition, "and she's never had any

advantages. And as to her moral character, I suppose the less said the

better. Lizzie Gibbons can settle that question with her own conscience.

But when it comes to hats she's got more gimp in her little finger than

Lizzie's got in both hands. Dear, no! She's not what I call pretty. Not

with a mouth like that. Of course the men ..."

So Miss Gibbons' spring business was distended to unrecognizable

proportions. Rose fitted on hats in the show-room during business hours

and took a mischievous delight in the assumption of the intangible

manner of a perfect shop-assistant; in saying "Yes, madam," and "No,

madam," and "Will you try this, madam?" with a perfection of politeness

that baffled the most determined curiosity. Miss Gibbons got as much fun

out of it as she did.

The hours in the workroom were pleasant ones, too, with their perpetual

reminder that the creative power that had deserted her last January, had

come back. The little problems were ludicrously easy, of course but they

stimulated a pleasant sense of reserve power.

She couldn't, of course, have stayed in Centropolis indefinitely. In

time, that feeling of mounting energy would have driven her out in

search of something that would test it.

But, when Galbraith's letter came, it took her a little aback. Miss

Gibbons had brought it in; because Rose, even then, didn't go to the

post-office. Miss Gibbons watched her tear open the big envelope

addressed to Rose in the handwriting that always went with the

California post-mark, and saw her take another unopened letter out of

it. She saw the girl's face set itself in a sudden gravity; watched her

with a hungry misgiving, while she read the enclosure, and felt the

misgiving mount to an unhappy certainty, when Rose put it away without

comment.

But Rose wasn't certain, or she felt that night when she went to bed

that she was not. Galbraith's letter frightened her a little. It was a

dictated letter, very stiff, wholly businesslike. It offered to make her

his personal assistant at a salary of fifty dollars a week. He

summarized in rather formidable terms, what her duties would be. He

wished her to report to him promptly, July first, and to telegraph him

at her earliest convenience, whether she accepted his offer. There was

no explanation of his long delay in sending for her.

Rose had no illusions as to what its acceptance would mean. It would

mean gripping life again with the full strength of both hands. It would

mean many anxious days and sleepless nights. It would mean spurring

herself to a high degree of competency. You didn't get fifty dollars a

week for anything that was easy to do. She knew that now, by hard

experience. And then the transplantation to New York would mean an end

of the cool healing peace of her present life. Things would begin

happening to her that she couldn't foresee nor control. Feelings would

begin happening to her; the kind of feelings that scorched and terrified

you. They wouldn't happen to her here in Centropolis.

She fell asleep that night under the persuasion that the thing wasn't

decided; that the safe, quiet, peaceful way was still open to her. But

when she awakened in the morning, she knew it was not.

"I surmise," said Miss Gibbons that morning at breakfast, "that you're

figuring to go away."

Rose smiled and sighed. "I don't know how you guess things like that,"

she said, "but it's true. I must be in New York on the first of July."

"Well, the sooner the quicker," said Miss Gibbons dryly. "You came all

at once and I guess it's just as well you should go the same way. I

guess neither of us is sorry you came, and I hope you'll never be sorry

you went."

That was her nearest approach to an affectionate farewell. Rose managed

to express her affection and gratitude a little more adequately, but not

much. "It isn't the end of us, you know," she concluded. "You're coming

to see me in New York."

Miss Gibbons smiled with good-humored skepticism at that.

Rose telegraphed Galbraith that morning, and she took the noon train for

St. Louis. She needed a day or two there to make the modest supplements

to her wardrobe that her savings permitted.

BOOK FOUR

The Real Adventure