Fanny Herself | Page 8

up dazzlingly against this background. The scarlets, and pinks,
and blues, and whites of the robes appeared doubly bright. The whole
made a picture that struck and held you by its vividness and contrast.
Father Fitzpatrick, very tall and straight, and handsome, with his
iron-gray hair and his cheeks pink as a girl's, did step by next morning
on his way to the post-office. It was whispered that in his youth Father
Fitzpatrick had been an actor, and that he had deserted the footlights for
the altar lights because of a disappointment. The drama's loss was the
Church's gain. You should have heard him on Sunday morning, now
flaying them, now swaying them! He still had the actor's flexible voice,
vibrant, tremulous, or strident, at will. And no amount of fasting or
praying had ever dimmed that certain something in his eye--the
something which makes the matinee idol.
Not only did he step by now; he turned, came back; stopped before the
window. Then he entered.
"Madam," he said to Mrs. Brandeis, "you'll probably save more souls
with your window display than I could in a month of hell-fire
sermons." He raised his hand. "You have the sanction of the Church."
Which was the beginning of a queer friendship between the Roman
Catholic priest and the Jewess shopkeeper that lasted as long as Molly
Brandeis lived.
By noon it seemed that the entire population of Winnebago had turned
devout. The figures, a tremendous bargain, though sold at a high profit,
seemed to melt away from the counter that held them.
By three o'clock, "Only one to a customer!" announced Mrs. Brandeis.
By the middle of the week the window itself was ravished of its show.

By the end of the week there remained only a handful of the duller and
less desirable pieces--the minor saints, so to speak. Saturday night Mrs.
Brandeis did a little figuring on paper. The lot had cost her two hundred
dollars. She had sold for six hundred. Two from six leaves four. Four
hundred dollars! She repeated it to herself, quietly. Her mind leaped
back to the plush photograph album, then to young Bauder and his cool
contempt. And there stole over her that warm, comfortable glow born
of reassurance and triumph. Four hundred dollars. Not much in these
days of big business. We said, you will remember, that it was a pitiful
enough little trick she turned to make it, though an honest one. And--in
the face of disapproval--a rather magnificent one too. For it gave to
Molly Brandeis that precious quality, self-confidence, out of which is
born success.

CHAPTER THREE
By spring Mrs. Brandeis had the farmer women coming to her for their
threshing dishes and kitchenware, and the West End Culture Club for
their whist prizes. She seemed to realize that the days of the general
store were numbered, and she set about making hers a novelty store.
There was something terrible about the earnestness with which she
stuck to business. She was not more than thirty-eight at this time,
intelligent, healthy, fun-loving. But she stayed at it all day. She listened
and chatted to every one, and learned much. There was about her that
human quality that invites confidence.
She made friends by the hundreds, and friends are a business asset.
Those blithe, dressy, and smooth-spoken gentlemen known as traveling
men used to tell her their troubles, perched on a stool near the stove,
and show her the picture of their girl in the back of their watch, and
asked her to dinner at the Haley House. She listened to their tale of woe,
and advised them; she admired the picture of the girl, and gave some
wholesome counsel on the subject of traveling men's lonely wives; but
she never went to dinner at the Haley House.
It had not taken these debonair young men long to learn that there was

a woman buyer who bought quickly, decisively, and intelligently, and
that she always demanded a duplicate slip. Even the most unscrupulous
could not stuff an order of hers, and when it came to dating she gave no
quarter. Though they wore clothes that were two leaps ahead of the
styles worn by the Winnebago young men--their straw sailors were
likely to be saw-edged when the local edges were smooth, and their
coats were more flaring, or their trousers wider than the coats and
trousers of the Winnebago boys--they were not, for the most part, the
gay dogs that Winnebago's fancy painted them. Many of them were
very lonely married men who missed their wives and babies, and
loathed the cuspidored discomfort of the small-town hotel lobby. They
appreciated Mrs. Brandeis' good-natured sympathy, and gave her the
long end of a deal when they could. It was Sam Kiser who had begged