The truth was that, in her eagerness to secure the most vivid kind of local color, she had gone a step too far. Clarence, with its decayed sidewalks and rotting buildings, was not typical of middle Iowa any more than a stagnant pool left by a receded river after a flood is typical of the river itself. Before the days of railroads Clarence had been a lively little town, but it was on the top of a hill, and, when the engineer of the Jefferson Western Railroad had laid his ruler on the map and had drawn a straight line across Iowa to represent the course of the road, Clarence had been left ten or twelve miles to one side, and, as the town was not important enough to justify spoiling the beauty of the straight line by putting a curve in it, a station was marked on the road at the point nearest Clarence, and called Kilo. For a while the new station was merely a sidetrack on the level prairie, a convenience for the men of Clarence, but before Clarence knew how it had happened Kilo was a flourishing town, and the older town on the hill had begun to decay. Even while Clarence was still sneering at Kilo as a sidetrack village, Kilo had begun to sneer at Clarence as a played-out crossroads settlement. Clarence, when Mrs. Tarbro-Smith visited it, was no more typical of middle Iowa than a sunfish really resembles the sun.
In Clarence Mrs. Smith's best loved and best loving admirer was Susan, daughter of her hostess, and, to Mrs. Smith, Susan was the long sought and impossible—a good maid. From the first Susan had attached herself to Mrs. Smith, and, for love and two dollars a week, she learned all that a lady's maid should know. When Mrs. Smith asked her if she would like to go to New York, Susan jumped up and down and clapped her hands. Susan was as sweet and lovable as she was useful, and under Mrs. Smith's care she had been transformed into such a thing of beauty that Clarence could hardly recognize her. Instead of tow-colored hair, crowded back by means of a black rubber comb, Susan had been taught a neat arrangement of her blonde locks—so great is the magic of a few deft touches. Instead of being a gawky girl of seventeen, in a faded blue calico wrapper, Susan, as transformed by one of Mrs. Smith's simple white gowns, was a young lady. She so worshipped Mrs. Smith that she imitated her in everything, even to the lesser things, like motions of the hand, and tossings of the head.
When Mrs. Smith broached the matter of taking Susan to New York, she received a shock from Mr. and Mrs. Bell. She had not for one moment doubted that they would be delighted to find that Susan could have a good home, good wages, and a city life, instead of the existence in such a town as Clarence.
“Well, now,” Mr. Bell said, “we gotter sort o' talk it over, me an' ma, 'fore we decide that. Susan's a'most our baby, she is. T'hain't but four of 'em younger than what she is in our fambly. We'll let you know, hey?”
Ma and Pa Bell talked it over carefully and came to a decision. The decision was that they had better talk it over with some of the neighbors. The neighbors met at Bell's and talked it over openly in the presence of Mrs. Smith.
They agreed that it would be a great chance for Susan, and they said that no one could want a nicer, kinder lady for boss than what Mrs. Smith was—“but 'tain't noways right to take no risks.”
“You see, ma'am,” said Ma Bell, “WE don't know who you are no more than nothin', do we? And we do know how as them big towns is ungodly to beat the band, don't we? I remember my grandma tellin' me when I was a little girl about the awful goin's on she heard tell of one time when she was down to Pittsburg, and I reckon New York must be twice the size of Pittsburg was them days, so it must be twice as wicked. So we tell you plain, without meanin' no harm, that WE don't know who you are, nor what you'd do with Susan, once you got her to New York.”
“Oh, I now what you want,” said Mrs. Smith; “you want references.”
“Them's it,” said Mrs. Bell, with great relief.
“Well,” said Mrs. Smith, “that is easy. I know EVERYBODY in New York.”
She thought a moment.
“There's Mr. Murray, of MURRAY'S MAGAZINE,” she suggested, mentioning her friend of the great monthly magazine.
“Guess we never heard of that,” said Mrs. Bell doubtfully.
“Then do you know the AEON MAGAZINE? I know the editor of AEON.”
The neighbors and Mrs. Bell looked at each other blankly, and shook their heads.
Mrs. Smith named ALL the magazines. She had contributed stories to most of them, but not one was known, even by name, to her inquisitors. One shy old lady asked faintly if she had ever heard of Mr. Tweed. She thought she had heard of a Mister Tweed of New York, once.
Then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Smith remembered her own brother, the great Marriott Nolan Tarbro, whose romances sold in editions of hundreds of thousands, and who was, beyond all doubt, the greatest living novelist. Kings had been glad to meet him, and newsboys and gamins ran shouting at his heels when he walked the streets.
“How silly of me,” she said. “You must have heard of my brother, Marriott Nolan Tarbro, you know, who wrote 'The Marquis of Glenmore' and 'The Train Wreckers'?”
Mrs. Bell coughed apologetically behind her hand.
“I'm not very littery, Mrs. Smith,” she said kindly, “but mebby Mrs. Stein knows of him. Mrs. Stein reads a lot.”
Mrs. Stein, whose sole reading was the Bible and such advertising booklets as came by mail, or as she could pick up on the counter of the drugstore, when she went to Kilo, moved uneasily. For years she had had the reputation of being a great reader, and brought face to face with the sister of an author she feared her reputation was about to fall.
“What say his name was?” she asked.
“Tarbro,” said Mrs. Smith, as one would mention Shakespeare or Napoleon. “Tarbro. Marriott Nolan Tarbro.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Stein slowly, turning her head on one side and looking at the spot on the ceiling from which the plaster had fallen, “I won't say I haven't. And I won't say I have. When a person reads as much as what I do, she reads so many names they slip out of memory. Just this minute I don't quite call him to mind. Mighty near, though; I mind a feller once that peddled notions through here name of Tarbox. Might you know him?”
“No,” said Mrs. Smith, “I haven't the honor.”
“I thought mebby you might know him,” said Mrs. Stein. “His business took him 'round considerable, and I thought mebby it might have took him to New York, and that mebby you might have met him.”
Mrs. Bell sighed audibly.
“It's goin' to be an awful trial to Susan if she can't go,” she said; “but I dunno WHAT to say. Seems like I oughtn't to say 'go,' an' yet I can't abear to say 'stay.'”
“I MUST have Susan,” said Mrs. Smith, putting her arm about the girl. “I know you can trust her with me.”
“Clementina,” said Mr. Bell suddenly, “why don't you leave it to the minister? He'd settle it for the best. Why don't you leave it to him? Hey?”
“Well, bless my stars,” said Mrs. Bell, brightening with relief, “I'd ought to have thought of that long ago. He WOULD know what was for the best. I'll ask him to-morrow.”
To-morrow was the picnic day.
As Mrs. Smith led the way for Eliph' Hewlitt, the minister left the group of women who had clustered about him, and walked toward her.
“Sister Smith,” he said, in his grave, kind way, “Sister Bell tells me you want to carry off our little Susan. You know we must be wise as serpents and gentle as doves I deciding, and”—he laid his hand on her arm—“though I doubt not all will be well, I must think over the matter a while.