INVINCIBLE MINNIE

                        ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING




                               INVINCIBLE
                                 MINNIE

                                   BY
                        ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING


                                NEW YORK

                        [Illustration: colophon]

                        GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


                            COPYRIGHT, 1920,
                       BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




                           A LITTLE FOREWORD


This is not intended to be a romantic story, or a realistic story--not a
tale of anything that ever did happen, only of something which _might
have happened_. If you know a Minnie, as you very likely do, you will
admit that, whether or not she is actually guilty of such deplorable
exploits as herein narrated, she is certainly _capable_ of them. Capable
of _everything_!




CONTENTS


BOOK ONE:                                                           PAGE

THE CAMPAIGN OPENS                                                     9

BOOK TWO:

FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY                                                   89

BOOK THREE:

MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW                                          169

BOOK FOUR:

THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL                                            233

BOOK FIVE:

THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION                                            297

EPILOGUE                                                             317




BOOK ONE: THE CAMPAIGN OPENS




INVINCIBLE MINNIE




CHAPTER ONE


I

Mr. Petersen rode along in the choking dust, considering the problem
with perplexity but with good-humour. After all, it was absurd.... He
wanted to be kind, but he didn’t want to be ridiculous.

In spite of himself, a grin came over his face. He was remembering his
last visit to the old lady. He had ridden out to the miserable old farm
and very politely introduced himself as her new landlord. He had bought
the place for next to nothing, and, considering this, and the
dilapidated state it was in, his sensitive conscience required that he
should reduce the rent. But he never got so far as to propose this.

The old lady received him with lofty affability and invited him to sit
down in her parlour, then left him there for a long time while she
prepared refreshments. He had waited awkwardly enough, touched by the
shabbiness of the place and its evident decline. Old mahogany furniture,
ugly in style, but _good_--once very good--and now so battered, arms
gone, legs gone, splinters torn off, cushions disgorging hair, springs
sagging. His skilful fingers longed to be at it.

She came in again, with a plate of cookies and a jug of lemonade, and
sat down at a little table to dispense them, with a regal air.

“Well!” she said, with a grim smile, “I suppose you’ve come about the
rent, Mr. Petersen. I might as well be frank. I haven’t got it. I’ve
had orders for some preserves, so perhaps I’ll have it next month. I
hope so, I’m sure. But you can’t draw blood from a stone, Mr. Petersen.”

He had gone away that time utterly defeated, and he was returning now
without much hope. What was one to do in such a case? Impossible to turn
out the poor little old woman of seventy, alone on earth. He didn’t need
the money from the house, he was quite able to permit her to live there
free for the rest of her life, but that would be, he saw, a ridiculous
thing to do. Unbusinesslike. Fantastic. _She_ would laugh at him, and so
would everyone else. People would be sure to find out, and his
reputation as a shrewd and sensible man would suffer. And although he
was a Socialist, and opposed to the paying of rents, his common-sense
forbade exceptions. Either no one must pay rent, or everyone must.

He pulled up his horse and wiped his face, for the house was in sight
and he was anxious to look well in the eyes of the queenly and provoking
old lady. She was a Defoe, and married to a cousin Defoe, and this was,
to her, a fact of immense significance. From it she derived her
superiority to everyone else. She regarded Mr. Petersen as nobody at
all, and a foreigner at that. He was aware of her attitude, and not at
all pleased, for he had his own modest pride.

He even went so far as to take out a small pocket mirror and smooth his
moustache--a long yellow moustache, standing out fiercely like a cat’s.
His appearance was at no time satisfactory to him; it was rather too
Socialistic. He was an enormous fellow of five and thirty, with huge
hands and a blunt red face, handsome in a way, but certainly lacking in
distinction, certainly not an exterior to commend itself to a Defoe.

He was quite correctly dressed in riding breeches and a linen jacket,
all fitting very well, but all the more offensive to a Defoe because of
their excellence. In Brownsville Landing people of Mr. Petersen’s class
didn’t ride horseback under any circumstances; above all, not in clothes
designed for such a purpose. It was presumptuous and it was foreign.

The old lady saw him from the window, cantering along the almost
obliterated driveway, and by the time he had dismounted and tied his
horse to an old apple tree, she was standing in the doorway, in the
attitude of a tenant insolvent but unbowed.

“Good day!” she said. “Step in, Mr. Petersen!”

So once again he went into that parlour, dim and cool, aged and forlorn
like herself, and once more sat down to wait for the cookies and the
lemonade which he detested.

But this time it was not the old lady who brought them in. It was
Minnie. Minnie, until that instant unknown to him, unimagined, but
predestined to his ruin....


II

He was, innocently enough, pleased with her appearance, and saw nothing
sinister, nothing extraordinary about her. A rather short, full-bosomed
young woman of perhaps twenty, with a dark, freckled face and an
expression very pleasant and friendly. She smiled at him as soon as she
entered.

“Mrs. Defoe will be back in a minute,” she said, as she set down her
tray. She was wearing a ruffled little apron tied about her neat waist,
and her air was altogether housewifely and homely, as if she had been
brought up from infancy in that very house. He couldn’t imagine who she
was. He knew that the old lady lived alone, had lived alone since the
death of her husband twelve years ago. This agreeable young person was
certainly not a servant, and he was sure she didn’t belong in the
neighbourhood. If he had seen her, he knew he would have remembered her.

She gave him a glass of lemonade and sat down opposite him, amiably
prepared to entertain him.

“It’s growing warm, isn’t it?” she said, and he recognised in her voice
and accent something far superior to the native language of Brownsville
Landing.

“It’s what we want, for the fruit,” he answered, in his sing-song drawl.
“It was a cold Spring here.”

“So I’ve heard.... What a _nice_ horse! Is it yours, Mr. Petersen?”

He was very much pleased; he said it was, and went on to tell of the
virtues and eccentricities of his beloved mare.

Minnie said she didn’t ride, but was very fond of driving.

Riding suited Mr. Petersen better; it made one feel more independent.

“Oh, well, you’re a _man_!” said she. “A girl can’t go riding about
alone, very well.”

In some way this made him suddenly conscious of her smallness and
feminineness and of all the handicaps imposed upon her by God and by
man. Mr. Petersen’s views about women were definite. She was neither
above nor below, neither hallowed nor accursed, but a quite ordinary
human being, like himself, equally responsible, equally privileged. A
woman--the right sort--was a friend, simply. And he saw in Minnie a
friend, candid and good-tempered.... (Minnie a _friend_!)

“I was so _pleased_,” she went on, “to find a horse here. Of course, I
don’t really know much about them. I’ve never lived in the country,
really. But I _love_ animals. All animals. And I think I have a sort of
knack with them----”

He was acquainted with Mrs. Defoe’s horse, a ridiculously coy old
skeleton that came into the village once a week harnessed to a buggy and
driven by a Negro truck farmer who cultivated the old lady’s arid fields
on shares. He could not imagine anyone’s having much affection for that
caricature. It touched him. He could think of nothing to say, and the
young woman had once more to start up a conversation.

“I hope I haven’t made your lemonade too sweet!” she began, anxiously,
but was interrupted by Mrs. Defoe calling from upstairs.

“Minnie! Minnie!”

“Excuse me,” she murmured, and vanished. He heard her running up the
stairs, then not another sound for a long time. He sat still, with his
glass in his hand, and waited.

She didn’t run down; she came slowly, with obvious reluctance.

“I’m very sorry,” she said, “but--Mrs. Defoe wants to know--if you’d be
good enough to--wait just a _little_ longer----”

She was very much distressed; said something about preserves and next
week and the expensiveness of jelly glasses. Mr. Petersen’s face turned
still redder.

“Pshaw!” he said, awkwardly, “It doesn’t matter to _me_. I can wait any
length of time. Don’t worry. Tell Mrs. Defoe not to worry. I--perhaps
she will send a message when she’s ready----”

“_Positively_ next Tuesday,” said Minnie, firmly. “And I’m _dreadfully_
sorry, Mr. Petersen. I appreciate your kindness.”

She held out a small plump hand which he grasped earnestly.

“But just the same, who is she?” he asked himself as he rode away.


III

He went home to his house on a shady street of the village, and strolled
into the kitchen where his housekeeper was cooking a rabbit.

“Mrs. Hansen,” he said, “who’s that up at Mrs. Defoe’s?”

Of course she knew.

“Her granddaughter, Mr. Petersen. Two of them,” she answered, eagerly,
delighted at being questioned. “They came from New York a week ago. Two
young orphans. Just lost their father. He was thought to be rich, but it
seems he wasn’t. He didn’t leave them a penny. And they’ve been brought
up to expect the best of everything, so I’ve heard. It’s sad, isn’t it,
Mr. Petersen?”

He thought it was; the phrase “two young orphans” stuck in his mind, and
while he walked about his garden, inspecting his trees and vegetables,
he reflected on it. “Young orphans.” He remembered that she had been
wearing a black dress, and that the ribbons in her little apron had been
black. And there had been a sobriety in her bearing....

Mrs. Hansen wished to pursue the subject. She began when she had put his
excellent dinner on the table.

“Excuse me, Mr. Petersen,” she said--he wouldn’t allow “sir”--“But which
of the young ladies did you see? I hear that one of them is very
handsome.”

He reflected. No, Minnie was not very handsome; _nice_ looking, and with
fine dark eyes, but not handsome.

He smiled a little.

“It’s hard to say. I’m not a judge, Mrs. Hansen. The one I saw was
dark----”

“They’re both dark. But one’s----”

“This rabbit stew is very good, Mrs. Hansen,” he interposed, and she
took the hint and left him to read the local paper in peace, as was his
custom during dinner.

Afterwards he went out to sit on his little porch and smoke. And thought
very kindly of the “young orphan,” who hadn’t a penny.

The least he could do, he decided, was not to trouble them about the
rent--a decision which suited them, apparently, for he neither saw nor
heard anything of the Defoe family for a long time. In fact, until he
was needed by one of them.




CHAPTER TWO


I

Two years previously Mr. Petersen had arrived in Brownsville Landing and
had rented an office in the most up-to-date building there was, putting
up a modest sign, “Christian Petersen, Lawyer.” The other lawyers, who
announced themselves LL.D’s, laughed at his sign, but all the same, in
spite of it, or perhaps because of its old-fashioned simplicity, he
attracted clients from the beginning. People liked him; he was careful,
polite and he knew his business. Although a foreigner, he was not
offensively eccentric or ridiculous. There were one or two little
things, such as riding a saddle horse, and wearing breeches and leggins,
which were not approved of, nor was his polite avoidance of any social
relations. Still, he was always friendly and antagonised no one.

After six months of legal practice, he branched out unexpectedly. A new
sign appeared under the old one: “REAL ESTATE.” Now he began making
money in earnest. The town was growing, new factories were building, and
he knew how to take advantage of the growth.

It was a horrible, squalid little town, too near the city for any but
the pettiest of retail trade to flourish, too far for any influence of
urbanity. It was technically on the Hudson River, but as a matter of
fact, the river bank was used exclusively for commercial purposes,
freight yards and so on, and the town itself lay in a little hollow,
which was stiflingly hot all summer long. There were the old people,
whose families had lived there for generations, who had old Colonial
houses and furniture; they looked with alarm and hostility upon the new
element, the workers in the mills, the factories, the brick yards, this
foreign-born, incomprehensible rabble, which was, nevertheless, the life
blood of the town, which sustained three savings banks and fourteen
saloons, which lay dead drunk by the roadsides, and crowded the public
library. Then there were “new people,” factory managers, and their like,
who were respectable and well-to-do, but not “_quite_”.... And with all
these people Mr. Petersen was perfectly at home, buying, selling,
renting, and arranging for them all.

Before long a third sign appeared: “CONTRACTOR.” And in this capacity he
had perhaps his greatest success. He began with the building of some
little cottages for the workers in a cotton mill, and he was so
excellent and painstaking and experienced a supervisor that his fame
spread rapidly. He explained with simplicity that as a boy in the “old
country” he had been apprenticed to a builder. And although a lawyer, he
was not at all ashamed of this; he was, on the contrary, quite proud of
his thorough knowledge of the trade.

He was a Swede, son of a poor man, and self-educated, but there were few
people in the town who spoke English as well as he did, in spite of a
singing drawl and an indefinably exotic note.


II

He was sitting, this summer morning, at his desk, in his shirt-sleeves,
reading a contract with twofold attention, once as a lawyer, once as a
builder. His door was open, and when someone knocked, he called out,
“Come in!” without turning his head. He expected to be spoken to, and
when he wasn’t, he looked up to see who could be there, waiting in
silence. And saw a most splendid young creature, tall, broad-shouldered,
with a healthy sunburned face of vivid colouring and severely perfect
features, eager, vigorous, yet full of a fine young dignity.

He rose at once and put on his coat.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, with his invariable politeness.

The girl’s brown face flushed, but she answered without hesitation.

“I’m Frances Defoe--Mrs. Defoe’s granddaughter, you know. My sister told
me how nice you’d been about--Grandma and the rent, so I thought perhaps
you’d be good enough to--oh, to give _me_ a little advice.”

“Please sit down,” he said cheerfully. “Now!”

“I want something to do, work of some sort. I heard that you were the
most progressive man in the village, so I thought you’d be the best one
to consult.”

He was pleased and embarrassed by the compliment, which he knew to be
merited.

“I don’t suppose,” she went on, in her clear, somewhat imperious voice,
“that there’s much opportunity here, is there?”

_He_ had found opportunities enough; still he answered, no, not many,
but that perhaps----

“Have you had any sort of experience?” he asked.

She said no; but that she’d studied a lot and was good at mathematics
and figures in general, and knew something of French and German.

“And I can type a little,” she added. “I used to do my essays and things
on a typewriter at college.”

“Fine!” said Mr. Petersen. “Now, let’s see where that would fit in.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, thinking in his
slow and prudent fashion.

At last he brought his glance back to the girl.

“If you’d care for it,” he remarked, “there’s an opening here. I need a
young lady to help me, to be in the office while I’m out, to answer the
telephone and so forth. It’s not much of a place--not more than eight
dollars a week to begin----”

He paused.

“If it would suit you----”

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “If you think I’d _do_!”

He smiled; he had sufficient imagination to comprehend the thrill of a
first job.

“Suppose we try then,” he said. “Let’s see.... This is Friday. Next
Monday at nine, Miss Defoe.”

She gave him a bright, a grateful smile, and got up, ready to go.

“I’m awfully glad to get such a chance,” she said. “I hope I’ll be
satisfactory.”

Mr. Petersen also rose.

“Mrs. Defoe quite well?” he enquired.

“Yes; at least she says so. She never complains.”

“And--I believe it was your sister I spoke to----”

“Minnie? Oh, she’s always well,” she answered, carelessly, and with
still another glowing smile, went off, elated.

Undoubtedly she was the handsome one--a striking figure. But somehow,
for him, at any rate, lacking the peculiar charm of her plainer sister;
that sober and matronly young creature in the little apron.

He felt a most Quixotic interest in both of the “young orphans.” He
would have done a very great deal for them. In fact, he _did_....


III

He was surprised and disappointed when she didn’t appear on Monday
morning. At half past ten he gave her up and went out about some
business, reflecting upon the instability of women. He came back in half
an hour, and had just sat down at his desk when she entered, terribly
flushed and dusty. Her expression was defiant, but her voice
suspiciously uncertain.

“I’m very sorry to be so late,” she said. “It won’t happen again. I had
to walk, and I missed the way. But I’ll arrange better after this.”

To hide his own distress and hers, he promptly gave her something to
type--he didn’t care what--and sat down at his own desk, where he
pretended to work. But he _knew_, without venturing to turn his head,
that she was stealthily wiping her eyes, and he was sure there had been
some serious trouble at home. A five-mile walk along that dusty road, on
an August day! Poor girl!

There had indeed been a classic and unforgettable encounter, ending in a
drawn battle. She couldn’t get it out of her head, no matter how she
tried to concentrate her attention on this new work.

In the first place, her sister and her grandmother had both protested
passionately against her plan as soon as they heard of it. She had gone
home triumphantly to tell them that she had a “job” at eight dollars a
week, in Mr. Petersen’s office.

“Why, child!” cried the old lady, affronted. “What an idea!”

She was really shocked. A Defoe working for a Petersen!

Minnie, too, was shocked; they both argued, reasoned and expostulated,
but to no avail. Then Minnie, to the point:

“How do you expect to get there, Frankie?”

Her sister was slightly crestfallen.

“I thought you’d drive me in,” she admitted, “I’d pay you for it.”

“Thank you!” said Minnie, coldly. “But I couldn’t possibly. At that time
in the morning, with all the work to be done.”

“Very well,” said Frankie, “I’ll walk.”

She was confident that when the time came, Minnie would yield, Minnie
who was so kind-hearted, so self-sacrificing. And she couldn’t believe
it when Monday morning actually came, and she remained obdurate.

“I said I wouldn’t, and I _won’t_,” she repeated. “I don’t approve of
your working for that man, and I certainly shan’t help you in any way.”

Frances had no idea how to harness the horse; she was at her sister’s
mercy, absolutely.

“Minnie, don’t be such a beast! And a prig. You’re not my nurse, you
know. I’m old enough to decide for myself.”

“Decide everything you like,” Minnie replied, “but I shan’t help you in
such a nasty, undignified affair. I can’t stop you. Why don’t you walk?
You said you would.”

Frances looked at her with blazing scorn.

“You darned little hypocrite!” she cried. “Very well, I _will_ walk, if
it takes me all day.”

She wasn’t even sure of the way. She strode doggedly along in the dust
and the scorching sun, furious and defiant, for more than two hours.

“I’ll walk back and forth every day,” she said to herself, “if it kills
me. I won’t give in to her. She always gets her own way. Not this time,
though. I’ll wait till I get my first pay, and then I’ll hire someone. I
won’t give up this job!”

Twelve o’clock came.

“You’re a stranger here,” said Mr. Petersen, “perhaps you don’t know
where to go for lunch. If you’d do me the honour, this first day----”

She was not quite sure what was the proper course for a business woman,
but she knew that Mr. Petersen was absolutely “all right,” and to be
trusted, so she accepted, and went up the street to the Eagle House with
him.

The Eagle House was a fly-blown and extraordinarily dingy hotel
patronised by travelling salesmen; the food was horrible but the
atmosphere impeccably respectable. Frances was delighted with it. Never
before had she felt so adult, so independent. She was sure that Mr.
Petersen took her seriously, judged her upon her merits as an individual
and not as a Defoe or as a young girl--not as a female at all. She liked
him! She remembered what Minnie had said about him and rejected it all.
“Common,” “presumptuous,” “thick-skinned”; snobbish nonsense, all that!

They walked back to the office and spent a very agreeable afternoon
there. He explained the work to her, and was pleased by the quickness
with which she grasped his explanations. He saw that she would soon be
really very useful. She was not only intelligent and ambitious, but she
had that remarkable feminine loyalty, that willingness to use all her
powers in behalf of some one else, that is the curse and the glory of
her sex. She never viewed Mr. Petersen as an ambitious young man would
have done, as a stepping stone in her own career; she was genuinely
concerned with how she could help Mr. Petersen with Mr. Petersen’s
business.

Five o’clock came very soon, she thought. Mr. Petersen looked at the
clock and closed his desk.

“Closing time!” he said cheerfully, “I hope your first day in business
hasn’t----”

He stopped short because her face had changed so suddenly. She turned
pale as he was speaking.

“Oh!” she said, with a gasp.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, anxiously. “Are you ill?”

“No--only--I’d forgotten.... Is there a short cut?”

Even her fine courage faltered at the prospect of once more walking
those five dusty miles; it really appalled her. Yet, with a quite empty
pocketbook, what could she do?

“A short cut?” he repeated, puzzled. “But--you don’t mean to say you
expect to walk home?”

“I’ve got to!”

“Wait a bit!... I’ve a nice little trap in my stable. I’ll be back in
ten minutes to fetch you. No; I shan’t listen to you. It’s out of the
question, walking back.”

She was _so_ relieved. She climbed into his nice little trap, behind his
brisk little mare and they set off smartly. Of course, Mr. Petersen did
look undeniably like a coachman, with his back like a ramrod and his red
neck and his huge hands holding the reins so very correctly.... But what
_does_ it matter? “He’s a gentleman, if there ever was one,” she told
herself. “He’s a dear!”

They had not gone half the distance, when whom should they meet but
Minnie, in the ramshackle buggy, with the silly old horse. Her eyes were
red and her expression uncertain.

“Frankie!” she cried, “I’ve been so worried! Come right in here!”

She smiled a wan greeting at Mr. Petersen.

“I didn’t think she’d really do it,” she said. “I thought she’d turn
back. And when I realised that she’d really gone, all that long way----
You poor old Frankie!”

With her sister established by her side, she turned again to Mr.
Petersen.

“Well!” she said. “We’ll have to give in. And let her go. No matter how
much we miss her.”

Which gave him the impression that the objection to Frankie’s
enterprise was solely one of sentiment. An impression altogether false,
but then, he didn’t really know any of the Defoes or their principles.
It never occurred to him that it was disgraceful and shameful to work in
his office.

He looked after the sisters with a kindliness which had now become
almost affection, and he thought what a loving, unreasonable little soul
Minnie was. Couldn’t bear her sister out of her sight! A thorough woman,
she was!




CHAPTER THREE


I

It was Frances who was usually considered the snob of the family, for
Frances was imperious and inclined to be haughty, and had a sense of her
personal dignity. But, as a matter of fact, she was as little snobbish
as one so brought up could well be. She respected herself but she
respected others. She was devilishly proud, but she permitted pride in
others. She was capable of admiring worth wherever found and was quite
honest about it. She really did not stand upon her Defoeness. She had,
it must be admitted, a fair share of young conceit; she believed herself
to be handsome and intelligent and resolute, and these were her claims
upon the world’s regard. Whereas Minnie, far more humble as an
individual, demanded a slavish servility from the majority of mankind
simply because she was what she called a “gentlewoman.” It entailed no
obligations, required no effort. One was, or one wasn’t. Like being born
a sacred white bull. It was an involuntary sanctity which all
right-minded people of the lower orders could instantly recognise.

Her grandmother thought as she did. Between them they ordained that Mr.
Petersen did not exist, and they had tried in vain to convince Frankie
of it. She had been very, very trying!

The two sisters drove on in a rather constrained silence after the bone
of contention had gone. Minnie was absorbed in the management of the
capricious skeleton, but was still able to suggest a forgiveness that
irritated Frances. And Frances couldn’t quite stifle her remorse. She
remembered dreadful things she had said to Minnie that morning. Things
which had evidently made her weep.

All on account of Mr. Petersen; because he was so utterly unworthy of
being served by one of the Brahmin caste. How vain their prayers and
tears. She had suffered too much from that life without hope or
sympathy. She knew that they could not comprehend her pain, and she
could not endure attempting to explain. _She_ knew that Mr. Petersen had
saved her from despair.

She looked at Minnie’s obstinate, tear-stained face, and was filled with
a great regret and a sort of loneliness.

“Oh, Minnie!” she cried. “Do try to understand a little! Don’t you see
that I couldn’t bear a life like this?”

“There’s no use talking about it. Only, Frankie, don’t imagine it hasn’t
been hard for me,” she answered. “After all, I suppose I am a human
being.”

“I know it, darling, I’m awfully sorry for you!” Frances assured her
contritely.

Minnie had a not very admirable trait of always pressing an advantage.

“In a way,” she went on, “I feel it more. I was home so much more--with
_him_.”

Her eyes filled with tears; her thoughts flew back to that day, six
weeks ago....


II

She was sitting alone in the studio, copying a cast of a child’s foot
with great care. She had expressed a ladylike desire to “learn drawing”
and her father had willingly consented, and arranged for private
lessons, which she took in the afternoon, when the other girls had gone
home. She was a bitter cross to her teacher, for not only was she quite
without aptitude, but she likewise had no taste and no spirit. She
couldn’t be fired. She wished to “learn drawing” simply; art and beauty
had nothing to do with it. An artist, to Minnie, was a person who could
so present things that you recognised them on paper. She was often
pleased with her own drawings.

According to her habit, the young teacher had gone out of the room.
Minnie was perfectly contented to be alone, to potter away with those
exasperating fine little lines. She couldn’t be taught, anyway; it was
of no use even to criticise. She had accepted what was told her about
tacking paper on a board, about the mechanical uses of charcoal and
fixative and so forth, and after that wished to go ahead in her own way,
simply drawing. Nothing more to it. She sat before her easel very
straight and serious. She was really absorbed in her messy little
drawing; she thought it was “sweet,” and contemplated giving it to her
father, nicely framed, as a Christmas present. He was sure to admire
anything she did.

The big room was absolutely silent, peopled with ghostly white casts,
heads, limbs, entire figures, lighted coldly from a skylight, so that
she seemed in a world quite different from the brilliant autumn outside.
Calm, quiet, satisfied, in the midst of an extraordinary peace--a peace
which had surrounded her all her short years.

And which ended forever that day. She heard the footsteps of the teacher
coming back along the corridor, more quickly than usual.

“Minnie, dear,” she said, “Miss Leland wishes to see you.”

This surprised Minnie mildly. With her usual docility she got up, put
her charcoal in its little box, and hurried down the corridor, past all
the rooms familiar to her for nearly ten years, rooms all empty now,
with rows and rows of chairs and desks, with their blackboards and
charts and maps, well known to her and more or less dear. She had been
graduated from the school a year ago, and was now, of course, beyond all
that and superior to it, but she enjoyed coming back for these drawing
lessons. She clung to familiar places.

Down the stairs, three flights, and to the comfortable little study of
the principal. Minnie had no reproof to dread, she was and had always
been beyond reproach in everything, a model girl. She tapped on the door
and was bidden to enter.

As soon as she saw her cousin there, she knew something was wrong. A
great dread came over her. She didn’t look at Miss Leland at all.

“What is it, Cousin Ella?” she asked, sharply.

The forlorn spinster, who had years ago technically replaced their
mother, suddenly burst into tears.

“My poor child!” she cried, “My poor child!”

She had come, trembling with dread and grief, prepared to “break” it to
Minnie in a merciful way. But couldn’t endure the sight of the
unsuspecting orphan.

“Minnie!” she sobbed. “Your poor father----”

Minnie had turned very pale.

“Hurry up!” she cried. “Is he--dead?”

Cousin Ella told her in a confused and broken way. A cable had come to
tell of his death from pneumonia in Liverpool, the very day he had
landed.

“I came to you at _once_” she said. “The very instant I had read it.”

That was her duty, of course. News of death must be spread without
delay. She had driven off immediately to intercept Minnie, so that she
should learn of it at least an hour sooner than if she had come home in
the usual way.

Minnie was stunned and incredulous. Cousin Ella always got things mixed,
anyway.

“Let’s see the cable!” she demanded.

Cousin Ella answered, with a shade of resentment, that she hadn’t
brought it.

In a horrible nightmare daze, Minnie followed her to the carriage. It
was not sorrow she felt, but dread; as if the catastrophe instead of
having taken place already, were about to happen, were imminent. They
drove along the familiar suburban roads, lined with charming houses,
smooth lawns without fence or hedge, great trees, a domain prosperous,
lovely and serene. They reached home, a grey stone house on a hill,
planted with dwarf evergreens; they went in. Nothing in any way changed,
the same well-ordered, comfortable dignity. It couldn’t be true! Father
_never_ coming back?

She again demanded the cable, and obtained it.

               “_Mr. Defoe died this morning. Pneumonia.
                Seven o’clock. Writing._      JOHNSON.”

So it wasn’t a mistake. She looked round instinctively for support, for
reassurance, in her terror.

“Oh, father!” she cried, in a sort of shriek. “Cousin Ella! Oh.... _Do
something!_ Don’t let it be!”

In that instant, the very essence of her father’s soul was comprehended
by her; she could realise him, all his fondness, his immeasurable
indulgence for her. She saw what she had lost, and was overwhelmed. It
was the end of her childhood, the last wholly genuine, wholly
disinterested emotion she was ever to feel.


III

He had been a “business man,” engaged in a very vague
business--promoting schemes and so on. He had spent money lavishly on
his adored daughters, and when he was at home, in the intervals between
mysterious trips, he liked to talk to them about their future, and ask
them what they wanted him to do for them. Poor devil! Evidently he
expected to live forever, for he had made no provision at all for them,
not even life insurance. There was not a penny.

Frances had been at college just a month when she was recalled. The
lawyer had gone out to break the news to her of her father’s death and
her own destitution, and it must be admitted that she had behaved very
badly. At first she refused absolutely to come home. She said she
_would_ go on, no matter what happened; she’d work her way through
college; lots of girls did. She had made up her mind to become a doctor,
and she wasn’t going to be stopped now, at the very start. The lawyer
pointed out that as this plan demanded quite eight years of study, she
might well spare a day or two now to attend to her poor sister. So she
consented, though she felt in her heart that it was the end. She went,
but she was markedly sullen.

Sober little Minnie, tired out with crying, reproved her.

“Can’t you think of something else beside yourself, Frankie?” she asked.

Frankie was abashed. She had an unbounded admiration for Minnie’s moral
worth; the very fact of her being smaller, plainer and stupider than she
was, was somehow proof of it. She really made an effort to look upon her
ambition as selfish and petty and to concentrate her eager and vigorous
mind solely on her father’s death.

Minnie had no ambition to give up. She supposed that in the course of
time she would marry, and that would suffice. She was not able to show
much sympathy for her sister’s intolerable disappointment.

“I know it’s hard to leave college and all that,” she said. “But after
all, Frankie, I don’t think you’d have stuck it out for eight years. You
wouldn’t have liked being a doctor, when the time came. Such a queer
thing for a girl.”

“Nonsense!” cried Frances, angrily, “you have the stupidest, most
antiquated ideas!”

“I’ll work my way through,” she went on, “I’ll be a waitress or
something. But I _won’t_ give up!”

Minnie began to cry.

“Please, Frankie, stay with me a little while,” she entreated. “I’m so
lonely!”

Who could refuse?


IV

Cousin Ella advised them to accept the offer of their grandmother, their
father’s mother. She was the only living soul who wanted them, anyway.

Frankie protested.

“Brownsville Landing!” she cried. “Oh, Cousin Ella! It’s the _worst_
place!”

She remembered visits there in the summer holidays, the boredom of it,
the ugliness. But Minnie assured her that it would only be temporary,
while they looked about and made their plans. She brought forward the
sensibleness of it, made Frances feel how rash and headstrong it would
be not to go.

She had her way, as she always did. The house was closed, the furniture
sold, the servants dismissed. After a curious fortnight in a boarding
house nearby, where their friends came to say good-by, they went off,
with all their effects in two modest trunks.

Early in the afternoon they reached Brownsville Landing.

Even grief could not blind them to the fact that they were interesting
figures--two young orphans. They were aware that every one of the idlers
in the station knew who they were and where they were going. They
followed Thomas Washington to the battered old surrey and sat down,
perfectly decorous, without turning their heads, conscious nevertheless
of being regarded with sympathy, with speculation.

They were tacitly agreed that it would not be correct to talk; in
silence and concealing all trace of curiosity they went rattling off up
Main Street and along the dusty five-mile road to the farm.

Their grandmother was waiting for them in terror. How to console them?
Their loss seemed to her so terrible, so desolating. She could with
truth say nothing better than--“You are utterly ruined and alone in the
world, friendless and penniless.” She watched the carriage coming, with
the girls side by side, images of decent grief, perfectly restrained;
then, when the carriage stopped, the restraint vanished, and they rushed
into her arms, sobbing.

She led them into the darkened parlour, and sat down on the sofa between
them, trying in a trembling voice to comfort them with religion and
proverbs, inextricably mixed. But Frankie was not in any way to be
quieted. She wept so violently, so passionately that the old lady could
think of nothing better to do than to lead her upstairs and urge her to
lie down.

“There! There!” she murmured. “What can Grandma do for you?”

She answered, in a muffled voice, her head buried in the pillows:

“Please--let me alone ... a little while.”

“I think we’d better,” whispered Minnie, and they went out, carefully
closing the door upon Frankie’s weeping.

The first glimpse of the farm had overwhelmed her completely. She
remembered the college, august, beautiful, with the orderly and
purposeful life that so appealed to her, she thought of her old home, as
it would look now, in the late afternoon sunshine, of its dignity and
freedom, the hope she had known there. And then this, this shabby,
forlorn old house standing alone in a weed-grown straggling garden,
surrounded by the neglected fields, which stretched away to the cold and
unknown blue hills. All that she hated most, solitude, stagnation,
neglect.


V

The old lady turned with relief to Minnie, who was so much more
amenable. She led her down into the kitchen where she had been cooking
her choicest dishes for the orphans, gave her milk to drink and fresh
cake to eat, and watched her with melancholy in which there was
considerable satisfaction. So absolutely what it should be was Minnie’s
attitude. She was worn and tired, her eyes reddened with crying, all of
which rendered so touching her pleasantness and politeness, her
willingness to answer questions. A womanly little soul, altogether. The
old lady fancied she saw in her the amiable and domestic creature
desired by all old people, the consolation of her age; youth with none
of youth’s disadvantages, the sedateness, the responsibility of maturity
with the vigour and charm proper to her twenty years. She acclaimed
Minnie a paragon, a Phœnix among maidens.

Minnie herself began to feel comforted. The quiet kitchen in the last
brightness of the Spring day, with the dinner pots and pans hissing on
the stove and a pleasant fragrance of freshly baked bread and cake in
the air, all the homeliness and friendly peace about her assuaged her
grief, strengthened her soul. Her thoughts began to turn to the
future--she tried to imagine a possible life there.

“Do you still live here all alone, Grandma?” she asked.

The old lady sighed. Poor creature! When she allowed herself to think of
it, she wondered how she succeeded in living at all.

Her husband had been one of those happy and lavish persons who obtain,
Heaven knows how, a reputation for wealth. He had always had plenty of
money to spend, and everything he or his family needed, but it was,
unfortunately, a sort of Fortunatus’ purse, into which he could dip
without limit, but which couldn’t be bequeathed, which for everyone else
lay flat and empty.

At least he had insured his life, and his widow received a monthly
income of twenty-five dollars from this--her sole income. An impossible
situation. How she struggled along, no one knew, not even herself.
Although struggle is not the word; she didn’t struggle; she simply went
on existing, miraculously sustained by the forbearance of others. It was
impossible to turn the poor creature out, rent or no rent, or to refuse
her credit for food, in this town where she had lived for sixty years.
She “managed.” When she couldn’t pay, she didn’t pay. Her quite simple
rule was to give cash when compelled, and to commandeer the rest of her
necessities. She didn’t worry very much over her debts. She had a phrase
which satisfied her completely. “You can’t draw blood from a stone,” she
would say.

Her son had sent her money now and then, but very little. He had not
been a good son; ‘his father over again,’ she often reflected, ‘out of
sight, out of mind.’ A present at Christmas time, or when the girls came
to visit. He never asked her how she managed, because he didn’t want to
know.

And here were the girls left as she had been left.... Her eyes filled
with tears as she looked at Minnie.

“Yes, I’ve been a lonely old woman,” she said, “but I hope I shan’t be
any more.”

Minnie kissed her soberly.

“No, Grandma, dear,” she said. “We won’t leave you again.”

“Where else could we go, anyway?” she added to herself, in her practical
way.




CHAPTER FOUR


I

Frances had waked up early that first morning. She looked round the big,
low-ceilinged room, at the pictures on the walls, sheep in a snowstorm,
ships at sea, religious maidens, hung with a sole aim of covering up the
most badly stained places in the faded paper, at the white iron wash
stand, the lame chest of drawers on which stood a quite unrelated and
unattached mirror, the dusty strips of old carpets serving as rugs, at
all the dinginess and shabbiness and deserted old age, and in a sort of
frenzy, she began to shake Minnie.

Minnie opened her black eyes.

“Well!” she said, sleepy but good-humoured.

“Minnie, isn’t this _awful_!”

“The same as it always was,” she replied, slowly, “and it seems to me we
can be pretty useful here.”

Frances frowned.

“To Grandma? Of course.... Only, isn’t it senseless for two healthy
young women to spend their time looking after one old lady?”

“I shouldn’t call it senseless.”

“I could help much more by earning money and sending it to her,” said
Frances.

“You don’t have to decide all that _now_,” Minnie returned, rather
severely. “You can give yourself a week or so to rest--after what’s
happened.”

Frankie said no more, but remained unconvinced. She made up her mind she
_wouldn’t_ stay on that farm--not for a week.

Poor Frankie! Doomed to stay there for how many weeks!

She tried in vain to think of some means of getting away. At first there
were a dozen radiant vistas, possibilities of all sorts. She
contemplated becoming a secretary, a writer, a doctor’s assistant, a
teacher, or, as a last resort, the wife of an extraordinary man. It was
a long time before she could realise of how little value she was, how
undesired. She hadn’t even money for her fare to New York, and her
answers to advertisements found in the city papers were always late and
never regarded. She was amazed to find herself in this blind alley: her
eager hands groped for some sort of outlet; she couldn’t believe that
she was actually obliged to stay in Brownsville Landing.

It cannot be denied that she was a trial to the other two. She shirked
her share of the housework and remained obstinately shut up in her room
with her old school books. And every time they drove into the village
she insisted upon stopping at the Carnegie Library and exchanging piles
of books, keeping Minnie waiting an outrageous length of time. Minnie
and her grandmother had each to take out cards so that she could get as
many books as she could carry.

She used to cry, too, at night, and tell Minnie she couldn’t _stand_ it.
Some days she was scornful and silent, scarcely saw them except at meal
times; then remorse would seize her and the next day she wouldn’t touch
her books, but would work to the point of exhaustion cleaning the house.
When she did bend her mind to such humble tasks she far surpassed
Minnie. She was quick, thoroughgoing, altogether competent, and, when
she wasn’t cross, she was a delight to the others, gay, endearing,
irresistible.

They couldn’t understand, couldn’t see how her ardent spirit suffered.
Her ambition, still so vague that she was not able to express it, was
unintelligible to them. Sometimes she would confess to Minnie that she
wanted to marry an explorer.

“Or someone like that. Someone awfully famous and yet not stuffy. Not
anyone who sits down and works.”

And perhaps that same day she would say vehemently that she didn’t care
a bit about getting married, ever. She wanted to be something on her own
account. There wasn’t much chance now that she could be a doctor, but
there were plenty of other things, useful and interesting.

Minnie often asked to be informed of the object of all the studying her
sister did.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Frances would tell her, “only it’s some comfort
to think I’m not slipping back.”


II

Minnie fitted into that life as if she had been made for it. Serious,
anxious, good-tempered, she followed her grandmother about, helping her,
deeply interested in the daily work. She was not very clever or skilful,
but she supplied the lack of these by a great willingness. She did not
suffer from any passion for perfection; she was satisfied if she could
“get through” what was essential.

She assumed responsibilities. She took it upon herself to get up first
and get the breakfast. Frances used to watch her, springing out of bed
in the half-darkness directly the alarm clock rang, and beginning to
dress without wasting time even to stretch.

And not only was she invaluable within doors, but almost at once she had
taken charge of the decrepit old mare lingering on in a filthy old barn.
This had formerly been Thomas Washington’s duty, but Minnie assured her
grandmother that this arrangement was extravagant and that Thomas was
rough. In a very few days she had learned from him all the essentials in
the care of Bess, and herself assumed the work.

She had a passionate, an exaggerated love for animals; compassion rather
than love; for every dumb creature she saw she felt a distressing pity
and, of course, being Minnie, an anxious sense of responsibility. She
was forever worried by the thought that some beast was being ill-used.
She even went so far as to follow carters to make sure they weren’t
cruel. She had repeated disagreements with her grandmother because the
old lady wouldn’t allow Michael to usurp her chair.

Michael and the other cats had at once become her special property. She
put them into the cellar at night and first thing in the morning would
unbolt the door and let them out, welcoming them with a smile maternal
and solicitous. They were always waiting near the door, and would come
jostling in at once, uttering impatient little cries, and looking up at
her with luminous and plaintive eyes. She would bend over the worn and
unlovely Spotty, mother of uncounted drowned kittens, with kindly
sympathy; her young son Teddy, who was still silly and charming, she
treated with indulgence; but for old Michael she had a manner at once
motherly and propitiating. Michael, truculent old blackguard, his thick,
short coat striped like a tiger, arrogant and complacent as an old
pirate chief! _He_ never showed any affection, but a sort of shameless
allegiance, knowing that from her came all his benefits. She was really
very happy in this life....


III

Providence was always on Minnie’s side, and Providence, it would seem,
was set firmly against Frankie’s worldly ambition to leave Brownsville
Landing.

The poor old lady fell ill; not at all suddenly, simply one day she
asked Minnie to stop at the doctor’s on her way home from the village
and, if possible, fetch him with her. He came, and remained shut up with
the old lady a long time. When he came out of her room, he saw neither
of the girls; he had to waste his valuable time seeking them. Minnie he
discovered at last in the barn, preparing the old horse for her journey
back with him, and she was so concerned about this, so insistent that
the doctor should perfectly understand Bess’s delicacy and nervousness,
that she forgot to ask about her grandmother.

“She won’t pass a milk waggon,” she explained. “You’ll have to get out
and lead her by if you happen to meet one. She’s....”

“I’ll look after your horse,” said the doctor. “It’s only a matter of
six miles. I’ll send my man back with her as soon as he’s back from the
blacksmith’s with my own. And now that your mind’s easy on that score,
perhaps you’ll be interested to hear that your grandmother’s in a bad
state.”

“Oh, what’s the matter!” she cried.

“We’ll bring her round; don’t worry,” he replied evasively, “but it
won’t be in a week, or in a month. She needs care and nursing. And
you’ll have to see that she doesn’t go down the stairs,” he added.
“She’s not to leave that floor for the present.”

Minnie stopped long enough to see how he handled Bess, over that awful
rut near the gate; then she flew upstairs.

“Grandma!” she entreated, “do tell me what’s wrong!”

But the old lady refused to discuss it.

“Don’t fret, child,” she said. “I’ll do very well.”

“But it worries me so dreadfully not to know.”

The old lady remained firm. Some obscure sense of pride informed her
that it was not fitting and proper to discuss the physical body with
one’s grandchild. She would only admit that her heart was not as strong
as it might be....

She didn’t seem particularly ill; she sat propped up in bed, knitting,
quite cheerful. It did not occur to Minnie that the poor old thing was
worn out, that the organism which had worked without ceasing for
seventy-five years was in need of rest--eternal rest.

She knocked vigorously on the bedroom door, which Frances insisted upon
keeping locked. Frances let her in with a very bad grace, which she
ignored.

“_Now!_” she said. “Now, we’re in for it. Poor Grandma’s sick and the
doctor won’t allow her to go downstairs for months.”

They discussed it soberly, Frankie lying flat on the bed, her hands
under her head, Minnie sitting beside her.

“We’ll simply have to do the best we can,” said Minnie.

Frances agreed.

“It’s dreadful for her,” she said, “when she’s always been so active.”


IV

Minnie at once instituted a new régime, under which her grandmother
received the best possible care. She waited on her devotedly, spent all
her scant leisure with her; was, as usual, faultless.

At least, that was how she appeared to her sister. Frankie honestly
could not see a fault in her. Except that she was sometimes a bit too
diplomatic, too anxious to keep things pleasant. That is, she didn’t
always tell the truth--exactly.... She was not at all abashed if she
were found out; she had always the same reply.

“I thought it was for the best.”

The long, long days went by, all alike. At five o’clock the alarm clock
rang. Minnie jumped up and closed the window, and lighted the lamp on
the bureau while Frances, pretending to be asleep, lay watching her. The
lamp-light made a little bright spot in the big shadowy room, showing
Minnie like an actress in the spotlight, only quite without
self-consciousness, dressing herself quickly, wishing only to be neat.

“I wish I weren’t a bit vain,” she would reflect. “Minnie’s so
wonderful!”

Then Minnie would go groping her way along the black corridor, stopping
always outside the old lady’s door to listen to her breathing, and,
after that, there was always a long interval of silence, before she
could be heard, coming up the stairs, slowly and carefully, with the
tray.

She always opened the door of the darkened room quietly, so that she
shouldn’t startle her grandmother, in spite of the fact that she
invariably found the old lady wide awake. Then she went at once about
the hated business of admitting a little light into the room with as
little fresh air as possible. She had first to pull up the shade, which
never would roll properly but had to be jerked up and down a number of
times, then to unlock the window and prop it up with a stick while she
struggled with the rusty catches and flung open the shutters. She set
the tray by the bedside with the unvarying question:

“How are you this morning, Grandma?” with a sort of professional
cheerfulness. “Did you have a good night?”

“Very poor, my dear,” the old lady would usually reply.

Minnie would say that she was _very_ sorry, and after asking if there
were anything else needed, would go on her way, not really at all sorry
or disturbed. She had no idea what a “poor night” meant; she had never
experienced one, never tried to imagine one. All her grandmother’s
ailments were remote, vague and without interest for her. Her sole
concern was to do her duty.

This done, she proceeded to wake Frances, and while she was dressing,
got ready their own breakfast in the kitchen. Frances usually found her
preparing an economical mixture of condensed milk and water for the
cats, with old Michael standing at her side, looking up into her face,
his pink mouth opening in a silent cry. The milk properly warmed, each
animal bent its sleek little head over its familiar saucer, lapping
steadily; now and then Michael looked up, licked his chops and seemed
about to speak, then thought better of it and went on drinking.

Minnie was not good company at breakfast time; she was too much
preoccupied with plans for the day. She had the obnoxious air of a very
busy person trying to be polite. Immediately she had finished she
hurried off to the stable, or to the cottage of Thomas Washington across
the road, or about some other of her varied undertakings.

Thomas Washington was a highly respectable Negro who had begun life as
“hired man” for their grandfather, but who had got on very well and was
now a small farmer on his own account. He was always willing to assist
Minnie with expert advice, but nothing further, unless it were to be
suitably recompensed. Thrift had made him independent and comfortable;
thrift he worshipped and practised, and it forbade him to do anything
for nothing. The gratitude of a penniless Defoe was of no value to him,
he didn’t care for it. Nevertheless he was of the greatest use to
Minnie, because he knew how to do everything and she being so very
“handy” was able to learn from his explanations. From the bedroom window
Frances used to see her talking to him over his gate, or watching him as
he illustrated some point of carpentry with grave gestures, and come
tramping home again, in her shapeless old hat and a big apron, to work
with noble cheerfulness.

Not for anything on earth would she have admitted that this cheerfulness
was genuine, that it sprang from her satisfaction at finding work within
her power, for the first time. At school, at home with Frances, she had,
in spite of her naïve conceit, always been more or less conscious of
inferiority, of being surpassed. Resolutely she covered this new
satisfaction with a veil of martyrdom, made it a sort of reproach. She
would never, never admit enjoying anything. Perhaps at the bottom of her
queer little soul she was aware that the things she truly enjoyed were
not altogether admirable--perhaps her spirit was appalled before her
mind. Provided, of course, that she possessed a spirit.

Mysteries forever unsolvable, these greedy, hypocritical, obtuse little
beings. Stupid, without sympathy, they none the less leave their impress
on the whole world. They force us to believe that their blind and
ruinous maternal passion--a perverted instinct--is a sacred and mystic
thing; they hold up to us their animal jealousy of one man as “love”;
complacently they reveal this little beast, which one loves with rage
and disgust, and cannot resist, and they call it Woman. And perhaps it
is. Perhaps those others, with hearts, with brains, with souls, are not
true women, only the freaks of nature....




CHAPTER FIVE


I

Minnie turned in at the gate, or rather, the gate posts, for there had
been no gates for years.

“I got a cold supper ready before I left,” she said. “Everything’s on
the table. Don’t wait for me, Frankie; you must be terribly tired and
hungry.”

Frances was touched.

“Minnie!” she said, “Really, you’re an angel!”

Minnie smiled indulgently.

“Silly old Frankie!” she said.

Indulgence was all that Frankie could obtain. In vain she talked of the
good she could do them, of how she would be able to help them as she got
on better, of the value of the experience to be gained in Mr. Petersen’s
office. Minnie and her grandmother persisted in regarding this work of
hers as a rather selfish frivolity; they humoured her, but they were
grieved. Frankie was made to see that Minnie had chosen the better and
the harder part, that she at least held inexorably to duty. They passed
an evening not at all pleasant. The gulf between them was becoming more
and more evident. Things were never quite the same again, after that
first day at Mr. Petersen’s.


II

Unknown to the old lady, who would have been deeply shocked, Frankie and
Minnie were in the parlour the next Sunday afternoon sewing, putting the
final touches to a dress which Frankie was to wear in the office next
day. When, suddenly, as she happened to look up, Minnie saw Mr. Petersen
riding up the drive, on his splendid horse, and wearing his breeches and
leggins and a quite new coat.

“Frankie!” she cried, in horror. “He’s coming in! Hide the sewing,
quick!”

“He wouldn’t care,” Frankie objected, but nevertheless she obeyed, and
every trace of their activity had vanished by the time Minnie admitted
him.

“Might I see Mrs. Defoe?” he asked.

Minnie explained that she wasn’t able to come downstairs.

“So I’ve heard. But it’s a business matter. Perhaps she’d let me go up.”

She did; they watched him mounting the stairs, which creaked and shook
under his heavy tread.

“What can he want?” asked Frances, nervously. “Oh, Minnie, I hope and
pray it’s nothing about my not going on!”

“I don’t see what else it can be,” said Minnie, consolingly.

But she was soon enlightened. Mr. Petersen came tramping down again
after twenty minutes’ talk and announced that Mrs. Defoe would like to
see Miss Minnie.

The old lady was rather agitated.

“Dear! Dear!” she whispered. “The man’s arranged a second mortgage on
the east field, so that I can pay off part of that first mortgage Mr.
Bascom is so rude about. I don’t understand it very well, but I must say
he’s very considerate--very considerate. Dear me! You’ll have to be
civil to him, pet. Ask him to sit down and give him a piece of the fruit
cake.”

She found him standing in the hall, talking to Frankie, and when she
invited him into the parlour, he accepted cheerfully.

“Get Mr. Petersen a piece of cake, Frankie,” said Minnie. She _couldn’t_
bring herself to wait on him.

He was polite, he was clean and well-dressed, he said nothing that could
offend her, and yet she _was_ grossly offended, merely by the sight of
him, sitting there, in the Defoe parlour, holding his straw hat in his
great red hands. Couldn’t he realise?

The fact of his being a Swede was enough. She had a very vague idea
where and what Sweden was, knew nothing at all about its people, its
history, its music, its literature. She considered all Scandinavians
“low.” There was no appeal from that.

Unconscious of his lowness, Mr. Petersen talked on pleasantly, told them
what was going on in the town, and all the bits of news he thought they
might like to hear. He was actuated by a great good-will toward both of
the girls, and a peculiar interest in Minnie. He had thought of her
often since that first meeting.

He stopped a long time. When he had gone, Frankie began to laugh.

“Minnie!” she cried. “Did you notice? He really looks awfully like old
Michael.”

Minnie refused to smile.

“I think he’s a horrid, presumptuous man,” she said. “I call it a shame
that we have to put up with him.”

“Nonsense,” Frankie interrupted her, “it’s he who puts up with us. A
darn good thing for us he does! I _like_ him!”

Minnie was destined to see him often. As the old lady had requested,
with great dignity, he called regularly every month and was conducted
upstairs. She felt pretty sure that he didn’t get his rent, all of it,
at any rate, but it didn’t affect him. He was as kind, as cheerful as
ever, and always willing to make any repairs that were needed.

It didn’t occur to her for some time that she was the object of
“attentions” on his part. She knew that he liked to chat with her, and
now and then he brought her fruit from his garden. But she didn’t think,
she couldn’t think, that he “meant anything.” With the gulf there was
between a Defoe and a Petersen!

It was Frankie who first mentioned it.

“Do you know,” she said, “I think Mr. Petersen’s gone on you, Minnie.”

“Don’t be so vulgar!” Minnie reproved her.

“He’s always asking about you,” Frankie went on. “Oh, he _is_, Minnie, I
know it!”

Quite true; he was. He saw Frankie every day, and was yet proof against
her beauty and her happy courage; his heart never beat the quicker for
her. He liked her very much, and respected her, and was courteous and
kind and friendly toward her, but she had no appeal for him. In Minnie
he saw every quality he most admired in a woman. He was happy to sit and
look at her, always with an apron on, going about her business in her
terribly serious way. He thought her kind, gentle and sympathetic, he
thought her thrifty and capable, he admired her fine dark eyes and her
matronly figure. He even fancied that she was peculiarly intelligent,
because she always listened attentively to him, and was so silent, so
mysterious herself. He noticed, too, how her grandmother doted on her,
and how Frances looked up to her. He was, in his cautious way, always
studying her, until he thought he understood her. While, as a matter of
fact, he misunderstood her completely, in every way, like the others.

She was the quietest and the stupidest person in the house, and she
ruled both the others; she was the least scrupulous, and they exalted
her “goodness”; she did nothing well, and continually they praised her
for her wonderful housekeeping. Enigma; extraordinary Minnie,
quintessence of womanliness--in Heaven’s name, who is to sit in judgment
on you?


III

In the autumn the old lady was permitted to go downstairs once a day,
and on the first of these occasions, Mr. Petersen came with a gift of
fruit which he had bought in New York. Frances had told him of the old
lady’s improvement and he wanted, so he said, to congratulate her. He
came as usual on his horse, and Mrs. Defoe, who was sitting by the
parlour window, was the first to see him. She frowned.

“Silly nonsense!” she said, half aloud. “A carpenter, capering round the
country like a fine gentleman!”

(A carpenter she had decided to consider him.)

He came in; his face and hands looked redder than ever, and he was
frankly wiping his forehead with a huge handkerchief.

“Well!” he said cheerfully, “I’m very glad to see you so much better,
Mrs. Defoe.”

“Thank you, Mr. Petersen,” she replied, demurely.

“We’re likely to have a mild winter, I believe,” he went on, “from all
indications----”

He rose as Minnie came in, grave, like one interrupted in the midst of
important work, but mindful of the duties of hospitality.

“I was saying,” he resumed, in his singing drawl, “I think we’ll have a
fine, mild winter. I was working in my garden on Sunday----”

“On _Sunday_!” cried the old lady.

“That’s the only day I have time,” he explained.

“But---- Well, I have my little notions.... Very old-fashioned, I dare
say.... You’re not a member of Our church, Mr. Petersen? I don’t
remember ever having seen you there.”

He shook his head.

“A Lutheran?”

“No.”

“A--_Catholic_?”

“I am a Freethinker,” he said gravely.

This was the final straw; Minnie and the old lady stared at him in open
disapproval.

“I think maybe on the other side we are not so--religious,” he said.

Mrs. Defoe had long been convinced of that, as she was of their
immorality in general, but she was genuinely shocked that, under her
roof, in the very room where the minister had sat not a week ago, in the
very presence of her Bible and her prayer books, he should openly and
without shame proclaim himself a Freethinker! Neither he nor Minnie had
any idea what that word implied for her, with what horror and repulsion
she had heard her husband speak of Tom Paine. She made some sort of
excuse and, supported by Minnie, disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’ll sit here,” she whispered, “until that man’s gone.”

Mr. Petersen remained, happy and undisturbed, talking on and on, while
Minnie listened with her usual polite attention, giving no hint of her
burning anxiety to get on with her work. She scarcely heard a word; no
matter what he was saying, she was thinking, “Oh, dear! Eleven o’clock
and Grandma’s bed isn’t made yet!” That was of so much more importance
and interest than anything he could say.

He went away, imagining that he had ingratiated himself with them both,
by his present of fruit, and by his agreeable conversation; he didn’t
suspect that there was now another and still blacker mark against him.

He had only one friend in that household, and that was Frances. Before
she had been working a week in his office, she realised something of
his quality and as time went on she grew enthusiastic.

“He’s a fine man,” she told her sister. “He’d make a wonderful husband.
He has the disposition of an angel, really. He’s so honest, too.
Everyone respects him.”

“I wouldn’t marry him if I were starving,” said Minnie, “that common,
vulgar carpenter!”

“He’s not common and he’s not vulgar and he’s _not_ a carpenter. I wish
you could see his house.”

“I never shall,” said Minnie.

Frances often went there to fetch books for him when he was busy in his
office. He lived in the town, in a solid old brick house which he had
remodelled and greatly improved, with a respectable Swede and his wife
to attend to his wants. Everything very orderly, very simple, very
comfortable, a hundred times more civilised than the Defoe home. He had
his garden, which gave him a great deal of pleasure, and an excellent
little library of Scandinavian and English books, law books, novels,
plays, a number of books on Socialism and economics. He read a great
deal, in a laborious sort of way, slowly going through page after page
and taking the ideas into his own head, to be examined there. His chief
interest was Socialism; he could be--and often was--quite eloquent on
that topic.

He was rather lonely in Brownsville Landing. He had found no one who was
interested in his kind of Socialism, which was something more than
discontent and jealousy; he found no one who had read what he had read
on the subject; he was not able to interest himself in pool or poker,
the popular recreations. Without being unduly vain, he believed himself
to be considerably superior to the average inhabitant of the village.
Even to the Defoes, as far as intellect and experience were concerned.
He actually thought that he might be a good match for Minnie.

Frances thought so too. She read his books with more and more respect
and liked to hear him talk. She insisted upon quoting him to Minnie. She
liked his plain and fine manner of living, she honoured his virtues.

“Minnie, you’re an idiot,” she said, bluntly. “You couldn’t do better.
If you’d come out of the middle ages and really _look_ at him----”

“I don’t pretend to be a modern woman,” said Minnie, virtuously.




CHAPTER SIX


I

A year and a half went by, and nothing changed. Minnie was the same
serious little drudge, Frankie went on with her work in Mr. Petersen’s
office; he too was quite the same. The old lady was uncomplainingly
busy. And the “affair,” also, between Minnie and Mr. Petersen had
progressed not at all. Minnie had so willed it; she knew quite well how
to check her very prudent suitor.

Everything was going just as she wished. She was used now to Frankie’s
being away all day; she rather liked it, it gave her a freer hand. She
thought of nothing but the daily routine and never tired of it. She
would sit with her grandmother and discuss for hours the advisability
and the possibility of a new preserving kettle, or whether they should
send the rags to be woven into a rug, or whether Thomas Washington had
been unfair about the tomatoes. She liked to tell Frankie that she
worried about the future, but she really never did. She was remarkably
contented. No great effort was required of her; she wasn’t expected to
read, or to keep up-to-date; even to trouble about clothes. She could
work along in a sort of pleasant daze, just as she wished, praised by
everyone for whatever she did, her numerous omissions and failures
unknown. The animals were an unfailing happiness to her; she had her
grandmother to talk to, and Frankie in the evening, and there was always
the gratifying sense of Mr. Petersen’s admiration in the background.
Everything going so smoothly, so beautifully, until once more Frankie
spoiled it all.

She came home one evening in a fever of excitement. The librarian in the
Carnegie Branch--a nice, jolly girl who extolled Mr. Petersen and liked
Frankie--had told her of a position in New York.

“She was offered it, but it wouldn’t suit her, so she recommended me.
She says she’s sure I could fill it. Wasn’t it nice of her?”

Minnie said nothing.

“It’s an authoress; she wants a secretary. She doesn’t care so much
about experience or training, but she wants someone presentable--of good
family.”

That was emphasised to appease Minnie.

“It’s thirty dollars a month, free and clear. I’d send you _half_.”

Minnie looked coldly at her.

“I suppose you’d be only too glad to go,” she said.

“Of course not,” said Frankie, and dropped the subject for the time.
Only in her heart longed and longed for that wonderful job, that new,
entrancing life in the city.

Of course she got it. That goes without saying. She was twenty-two, and
passionately desirous. Of course she got it! But after what a struggle!

At first she renounced the plan utterly. It was selfish. She went to
bed, lay by Minnie’s side, weeping quietly for a long time in the dark,
longing and longing. Then she grew desperate. She _must_ go! She
couldn’t give up such an opportunity. The next day she wrote to the
authoress and presently had a letter asking her to call. So she was
obliged to tell them.

There was a dreadful scene. They even wept. She was amazed by her own
ruthless firmness; she had never imagined she could so trample on these
two beloved creatures. She tried, poor girl, to explain something of
her own fiery restlessness and vigour, her need for more life. But to no
purpose; they saw nothing but her wish and determination to leave them.
She ended, as one usually does, by losing her temper, and shut herself
in the bedroom, trembling with anger.

“Do they expect me to bury myself here?” she thought. “Just to stop
here, forever and ever? It’s all very well for Grandma, _she’s_
seventy-five, and it’s all right for Minnie. A little old maid like her!
But _me_---- I won’t!”

She temporised, fully resolved to hurt them _this once_, and then to
load them with benefits, when her wonderful future should begin.

Daylight faded; the old room grew quite dark, the pallid yellow in the
west turned grey, then inky. Her lamp was downstairs, and not for
anything would she have gone after it. She drew a rocking chair up to
the window and sat there looking out over the melancholy wide fields
stretching to the mountains. One of those immeasurably solemn and
majestic moods came over her: the night breeze blew on her face, sighing
through the pine trees; her spirit was not on earth. High resolves,
divine unselfishness, fired her; she wanted to help everyone, not only
Minnie and her grandmother, but every single human soul. She felt urged
to a mighty destiny....

Then the mood ebbed, and left her chilled and lonely. She could hear
Minnie in the kitchen directly beneath her; her pleasant voice talking
to Michael; sometimes a cough from the old lady. Like a knife her love
pierced her, love for everything safe, familiar and homely.

In another minute she would have rushed down the stairs to fling her
arms round her sister, to tell her she would not, could not, ever leave
her. But at that moment the door opened and Minnie entered, lamp in
hand; her eyes were red, her plain face rather pale.

“Frankie,” she said, and setting down the lamp, caught her sister in a
tight embrace.

“Frankie,” she went on, “I’ve been talking it over with Grandma.... And
we’re both willing--for you to go----”

She could keep her tears back no longer; they wept together on each
other’s shoulders.

Minnie was the first to look up and dry her eyes.

“Now come downstairs, dear,” she said, “I’ve made delicious cornmeal
gems for your supper.”


II

It was a bitter loss to Minnie. She drove Frankie to the station that
last day with her heart like lead. And though she had voluntarily let
her go, and said good-by to her steadily and cheerfully, her very real
affection for her sister was hurt beyond remedy. She never again felt
quite the same toward her, never lost that faint resentment; always
remembered that Frances had wanted to go off and leave her, alone and
lonely.

The house was dreadful when she re-entered it. She cried all day as she
did her work, and went to sleep in miserable solitude. Oh, but she
missed Frankie, the brilliant, the lovely, the ardent! And the more she
missed her, the more deeply did she feel the wrong Frankie had done her.

Life had become unsupportable. She thought all the time of some way in
which she could change it, a way which should, of course, satisfy her
conscience.

For Minnie’s was a conscience which imperiously required satisfaction.
She had always to feel sure that she was “doing right.” However, as she
was always certain that all her aims were beyond reproach, her
conscience never refused to sanction whatever means she employed in
arriving at them.

She was more than a Jesuit. She did not so much believe that bad means
were justified by a worthy end; she was simply convinced that no means
used by her were, or could possibly be, bad.

Remorse and regret were unknown to her. And defeat, too, she had not as
yet encountered. From her earliest years she had known how to get her
own way. Either a serious manner made any request seem reasonable, or,
if this failed, thoughtful consideration had always showed her a way to
victory.

And yet, for all her crookedness and her muddle-headedness, and her
fierce and ridiculous ruthlessness, wasn’t there something about Minnie
that was really sublime? When you look at her whole life, in all its
preposterousness, can you really say whether or not she was good? Or
bad? Or perhaps was not either good or bad, but elemental and innocent,
even in harm, like a force of nature?

She bent her mind now upon her problem, surveyed her situation from
every angle. Useless to deny that she considered Mr. Petersen. She
turned him over and over in her mind, and, not without deep study,
rejected him. He absolutely would not do. She couldn’t be Mrs. Petersen.
Although he had never asked her, never mentioned the subject at all.

She was quite determined to marry someone, though, and to marry soon.
She couldn’t see any other end to her miseries and her loneliness. She
realised that under the present circumstances she was not at all likely
to meet anyone marriageable; she could not, like Frankie, roam the world
to find a man; she had to use more subtle and more difficult means. And,
actually, alone and unaided, the indomitable little thing thought of a
way----


III

It was difficult to find a pretext for getting into the village that
day. It was not her regular day, nothing was really needed, and no mail
expected. Her grandmother was a little annoyed at such obstinacy.

“I can’t _see_,” she protested, “why on earth you want to go gadding off
again to-day, with so much to be done.”

“I’ve seen to everything,” Minnie answered, and it was true.

“You’ll have to go in on Saturday,” the old lady reminded her.

“I _need_ the wire,” said Minnie, calmly. (Chicken wire being the
pretext.)

The old lady argued that she could wait. Minnie wished to know what was
to be gained by waiting: she had any number of excellent reasons for not
waiting. In the end she went out to harness Bess, with secret triumph,
knowing that she had disarmed all her grandmother’s suspicions, and
wouldn’t need to make explanations when she returned home.

She drove off in the buggy, sitting very straight, with a full sense of
her dignity as a young lady of fine old family. It never occurred to her
that she was in the least ridiculous. She was not physically vain, but
she did consider herself impressive, aristocratic, and it would have
been a cruel shock to her to know that the cultured spinster, Miss
Vanderhof, used to laugh when she saw her driving by, and say to her
mother, “There goes Miss Quixote!”

Penniless and proud Minnie was, but farther than that the simile would
not hold. No one less likely than she to tilt against windmills, no one
less sympathetic toward a lost cause.

She was engrossed in the management of the silly old horse, scanning the
road for anything that might disturb its absurd old nerves, sternly
resolved that it shouldn’t over-exert itself. She was convinced that she
had a most high-strung, mettlesome animal to handle.

At last she reached the village and drove regally along the Main Street,
bowing right and left to the tradespeople, almost all of them her
grandmother’s creditors.

She stopped in front of the up-to-date office building, leaving Bess in
charge of a reliable little boy in spectacles, personally known to her,
then she climbed the stairs and knocked on Mr. Petersen’s door.

He was delighted to see her, drew forward a chair and sat down opposite
her with a pleasant smile.

“It’s something new to see you here,” he said. “The first time, isn’t
it?”

Minnie said it was.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said appealingly, hesitatingly, “I know I
shouldn’t take up your time, but--I don’t know anyone else I could
possibly ask----”

“I’m only too happy,” he assured her. “What can I do?”

“Your advice,” she said. “I--things aren’t going--very well.... I wanted
to put this in a New York paper. But I didn’t know which was the best,
the most--respectable. If you think it’s.... Would you just please look
at it?”

She had taken a piece of paper from her shabby little purse and now
handed it to him. He read it, read it again, and his face grew scarlet.

     “_Young gentleman would receive board and practical instruction in
     farming in refined family. Beautiful location. Moderate terms.
     Apply X_----”

“But----” he faltered, “I don’t ... do you mean ... you would teach
farming, Miss Minnie?”

“Yes,” she said, calmly. “I could always ask Thomas Washington about
things I didn’t know, when they came up. His truck farm is quite a
model, you know.”

Mr. Petersen was suffering horribly; he felt that he could _not_ keep a
straight face much longer.

“But--you see ...” he said. “People don’t do that much--in these days.
There are--you know--any number of agricultural colleges----”

“Yes,” said Minnie, scornfully. “That’s all very well. But practical
experience is what anyone needs. You can’t learn farming out of books.”

Mr. Petersen tried to convince her that students at agricultural
colleges didn’t occupy themselves exclusively with books, but he failed.
She plainly considered all such institutions ridiculous and unpractical.
He did convince her, however, that other people would very likely have
the same silly notions as he had, and that it would be difficult, to say
the least, for her to secure a pupil.

“Then suppose I simply advertise for a boarder?” she said.

Mr. Petersen was silent for some time, torn between a desire to placate
Minnie, and a strong dislike for making a fool of himself. Suppose she
were able to say afterward, “Well, you didn’t say anything against it. I
consulted you!” No! He couldn’t; he had to be honest.

“The trouble is, nowadays people expect so much,” he said, with a
distressed frown. “All sorts of conveniences. Bathroom, hot water, gas
or electricity. I don’t believe--unless of course you were willing to
make very low terms--and in that case you wouldn’t attract the sort of
person you’d care to have in the house.”

“I’d have to take what I could get,” said Minnie.

Their points of view were so astonishingly different. Mr. Petersen
wished to convey politely to her the idea that no sane person would
dream of coming to board in a desolate old farm without even the classic
advantages of fresh milk and “scenery.” And Minnie wondered that he
couldn’t see the extraordinary and fascinating results which might
follow the introduction of a strange man into their household. He might
be an old man, who would naturally die and leave her all his money, or a
young one who would marry her. She even thought, with irrational
delight, of the possibility of an artist, or a poet.... Why wouldn’t the
man understand that she didn’t care whether or not she made money from
the venture? The essential thing was, that _something should happen_.

“And with the winter coming on,” said Mr. Petersen.

“I should think,” said Minnie, stiffly, “that there’d be plenty of
people who would enjoy a nice, old-fashioned country winter.”

“An old person,” she added. “He might enjoy Grandpa’s library.”

This was absolutely too much for Mr. Petersen. He could no longer
restrain himself; he burst into a tremendous laugh. He had a vision of a
wretched old man, shivering in their frigid parlour, absorbed in that
desolating accumulation of old hymn books, old volumes of sermons, bound
volumes of long dead and forgotten magazines, and sickly old novels. By
the time he had controlled his mirth, he had mortally and eternally
offended Minnie. She rose.

“Thank you very much,” she said, with a polite smile. “It’s very good
of you to advise me. I’ll think over all you’ve said.”

“Just a minute!” he cried in alarm. “Please!... Miss Minnie ... if it’s
a question of--earning a--little pocket money--why don’t you consider a
position in an office?”

A long silence.

“In my office, for instance? If you’d like your sister’s place----”

“No, thank you; I couldn’t leave Grandma,” she answered.

And went out, burning with resentment against him. He knew it; as she
drove off he watched her from the window with a sigh of regret. Her
pitiful ignorance, her enterprise, her obstinacy, touched him
profoundly. His heart positively ached for her.

Alas, Mr. Petersen! By reason of his compassion, forever lost!




CHAPTER SEVEN


I

Behold Minnie, a week or so later, harnessing Bess, this time for a
mission authorised and altogether blameless. She was going to the
station to meet Frankie, who was coming home for a week-end.

For days she and her grandmother had been making preparations, partly
from an affectionate wish to please Frankie, and partly from a desire to
impress her with their own importance and progressiveness. They had both
an unspoken but perfectly understood feeling that it would be
intolerable for her to say or to think that everything was unchanged
since she had left. The old lady was specially proud of a pile of copies
of a weekly magazine which she had audaciously subscribed for, seduced
by a nice young agent.

As for Minnie, she had something up her sleeve which she _knew_ would
astonish and amaze, and utterly kill any news Frankie might bring. She
whistled as she worked in the stable with a slightly malicious delight
in anticipating the shock. Although she was terribly nervous, too. She
had not yet had occasion to try her strength, and she was afraid that
they--the practical, experienced wage-earning Frankie, and the quite
incomprehensible old lady, might crush her. She was bound and determined
to win, but she wasn’t altogether sure....

She drove off in her usual majestic fashion, agreeably conscious of a
new hat. In order that she might compete upon equal terms with Frankie,
her grandmother had presented it to her, bought with money withheld
from Heaven knows how many creditors. A triumphal progress through the
town, and she came up the gravel drive to the station with something
faintly resembling a trot. There, however, she was forced to descend,
and hold the old mare by the bridle, patting her nose, trying with
intense seriousness to soothe her. She couldn’t bear to see her start
and tremble, with that distressing rolling of her brown eyes, at the
first sound of the engine’s whistle. She had suggested that Frances
should walk as far as the drug-store, so that Bess could wait there, out
of sight of the trains that so disturbed her, but Frances wrote back
with some spirit that she did not intend to lug a heavy bag four blocks
for the sake of a silly old horse. She threatened to hire a hack, and
rather than suffer that affront to the Defoe pride, Minnie was ready to
make great concessions.

She was too much taken up with the horse to see her sister at first, and
Frances had an oddly illuminating view of her, an impersonal view. It
seemed to her that she had never before looked at Minnie without
Minnie’s looking back at her; this was not the Minnie familiar to her as
her own reflection in the glass, but a stranger, a solemn, swarthy
little woman, very countrified, inclined to plumpness, looking older
than her years. She felt terribly sorry for her, hurried to her in
affectionate remorse for having so seen her.

Minnie greeted her with her very agreeable smile.

“Frankie, you look splendid!” she said warmly.

So she did. She had a new tweed suit and a quite plain hat, correct,
well-chosen things that suited her tall strong figure and permitted
attention to fly at once to her gay, brilliant face. Oh, there was some
foundation for the Defoe pride! Minnie, in her mind, saluted her sister
as a princess, the vindication of the family. She felt not the
slightest envy; that was not one of her faults. Or was it that she was
too well satisfied with her own quite different allure?

They drove through the Main Street again and past the up-to-date brick
building, and, as she hoped, Frances asked her:

“How’s old Petersen these days?”

“All right,” Minnie answered, and was able to tell her several quite
satisfactory things he had said on his last visit. He was a poor enough
swain, but he was better than none, and the lovely Frankie had none! She
listened with interest.

“I’m sure he _means something_!” she said.

Minnie admitted that she thought so too.

“But of course I don’t encourage him,” she said. “Imagine his even
thinking of such a thing--a man of his class!”

“That’s all nonsense,” said Frances, bluntly. “I think he’s splendid.
And he’s well read and intelligent---- If you like him----”

“Well, I don’t. Anyway, I’ve got other plans,” said Minnie. “I’ll tell
you after supper.”

Frances didn’t ask what these plans were, didn’t show any special
interest in them, never for an instant suspected their radical and
disturbing character. She did not even notice that Minnie was unusually
preoccupied.

She hastened into the house to embrace her grandmother and to make and
answer all the traditional enquiries; then looked about her with a
peculiar emotion that was almost pain. She loved the old place, in a
way; looked toward it while absent as her home and sure refuge, dreamed
of it often with longing, but with devout thankfulness that she was no
longer imprisoned in it. The memory of the two years she had suffered
there was ineradicable.

Minnie and her grandmother seemed to her pitiful, small and shabby. She
wanted ardently to help them and to change and improve them. She tried
to keep this benevolence out of her manner, but it was always there, and
they felt it.

She told them that she hoped soon to be able to send money home
regularly.

“I’m going to study shorthand,” she told them, “and then I’ll be able to
earn much more.”

She saw their faces, unconvinced, not even much interested, and her
enthusiasm waned. She would have to prove her good intentions to them.


II

Supper was over, and the dishes washed and put away. It was rather later
than usual, on account of Frankie’s talkativeness, and the old lady
announced that she was going “right straight to bed.” To her great
surprise, Minnie stopped her.

“Please, Grandma,” she said, “I want to talk to you for a minute.
Frankie too. Please come into the parlour.”

They followed her and waited while she lighted the blue china lamp on
the centre table; then, at her request, they sat down. The occasion, as
she intended it should, had taken on a solemn and important air; she
faced them, flushed, serious, dogged.

“Grandma,” she began, “I’ve been thinking a great deal.... I don’t think
we ought to go on like this.... Frankie and I aren’t children now, you
know.... I think--we ought to know how things stand.”

The old lady looked at her but said nothing; she was waiting for a more
definite challenge. She got it at once.

“I mean,” said Minnie, stoutly, “what have we got to live on?”

“What’s this!” cried the old lady tartly.

“I _know_ we’re in debt. People are getting--horrid. They don’t want
your--our trade. Really, Grandma, you ought to talk things over with
Frankie and me.”

The old lady was almost unable to speak.

“I _never_!” she repeated, again and again, “I _never_! At my time of
life ... talking things over with two girls of your age!”

“We only want to help,” said Minnie, ingeniously including her sister.

“I’ve got on pretty well for seventy-five years without your
assistance,” said the old lady.

“Well,” observed Minnie, “it’s not what _I_ call getting on. Grandma,
we’ve got to have some sort of method. I ... do please let us know--what
there is?”

“Really, Grandma, I do think it would be better,” Frankie interposed,
“Minnie’s a wonderful manager, and I’m sure she could help you ever so
much.”

“Two children! It’s outrageous! I’ve managed....”

“Grandma,” Minnie interrupted solemnly, “Mr. Simms spoke to me.”

This was a telling blow; the old lady winced under it.

“He was in a very bad temper,” Minnie went on, “and he said to me, in
the rudest way, ‘How many _years_ longer is this bill going to run,
anyway?’”

Frances was distressed by the idea of debts.

“Oh, dear!” she cried, “That’s too bad! Do let’s talk it over, Grandma
dear, and see what can be done.”

But Minnie met with an obstinacy inflexible as her own. Not one detail
could they extract from the old lady. She took refuge in bitter
reproach.

“I’ve worked for you both, day in and day out, for more than two years,”
she said, “and whatever money I’ve spent was my own. I’m not
accountable to anyone for it.” And she called them undutiful,
ungrateful, unkind.

“Very well, then,” said Minnie at last, “if you’re going to take it that
way ... if you refuse to--to co-operate, Grandma, then I’ll have to
accept an offer I had of a position in an office.”

“What office?” Frankie asked, with interest.

“Mr. Petersen’s. He says I can have your place. I’ll go down to the
village to-morrow and find a girl to stay with Grandma while I’m away.”

Now, both Frances and Minnie knew that, on account of her liability to
those mysterious “attacks,” it wouldn’t do to leave the old lady alone,
and they wouldn’t have done so under any circumstances, but she, poor
old soul, terrified before their confident youth, not knowing what
resources they had, felt them to be capable of everything. She pictured
herself, solitary again, ill perhaps, with a strange servant prowling
about, prying into everything, pilfering, undoubtedly setting the house
on fire....

It was a most painful scene; she broke down, cried, surrendered. Minnie,
although with tears in her eyes, saw her opportunity and pressed her
point.

“Grandma dear,” she said, “tell us just what you have, and we’ll arrange
some way to manage.”

The old lady confessed resentfully to a sole income of twenty-five
dollars a month. They were incredulous.

“But in that case,” said Frances, “you must.... Why, there must be....”

“About how much do you suppose--we--owe?” asked Minnie.

This question the old lady couldn’t answer, because she actually did not
know. She had never attempted to calculate; it was a topic she did not
care to think about. She mentioned a number of tradespeople who had
been “very nice”; in fact, she deluded herself into the belief they
enjoyed serving a Defoe. They were, she assured the girls, perfectly
willing to wait. Wait for Heaven knows what!

“Mr. Petersen, too, I suppose,” Minnie asked with a frown, “I suppose we
owe him money?”

“Dear me, child, he’s only too pleased to have someone living here. He
told me so himself. He couldn’t rent this place to anyone else; he’d
simply have to pay a caretaker.”

“Why did he buy it then?” enquired Frankie.

The subject was not pursued, however, for Minnie had got up, a little
pale as her great minute approached.

“Now then, Grandma and Frankie,” she said, “here’s my plan. I want to
take charge of the housekeeping and--and the money.... I’ll keep things
going and try to pay off the debts.”

“Nonsense, child! What are you going to pay them off with? How far do
you imagine----”

“I’ve found a boarder,” she said.

“A boarder!” they both cried, simultaneously.

“A literary gentleman,” she explained, “from New York. He’ll only pay
eight dollars a week, but he’s a start, anyway.”

“But, my dear,” Frances objected, “where could you put him?”

“Nowhere in _my_ house!” cried the old lady. “I won’t hear of it! It’s
disgraceful! It’s vulgar! I won’t have it!”

“I _must_!” said Minnie, “I’ve made up my mind. I can’t and won’t go on
this way. Either you’ll let me have this boarder or I’ll have to go into
Mr. Petersen’s office.”

They argued, wrangled, remonstrated. It was of vital importance to them
both. To the old lady a boarder meant incalculable loss of dignity, it
meant degradation. She defended her position vehemently, fought to the
last ditch for her honour.

But Minnie won. Her grandmother’s resistance crumpled at last before her
iron determination. She went up to bed that night in a sort of ecstasy
of triumph, drunk with her first victory. Her career had begun. The
tiger had tasted blood.


III

She met with some slight opposition from Frances, loyally concealed
until they were alone, but this she easily ended by a great deal of talk
about the necessity of earning a living.

That’s what she called it; never facing the truth. If someone else had
confronted her with it, she very likely wouldn’t have recognised it.
Even in her own soul she called it a chance to “earn a living,” when it
was really nothing but a ferocious determination to seek another man
before accepting Mr. Petersen. She was resolved upon getting married.
Mr. Petersen she would take if no one else presented, but not without a
struggle, a gallant struggle to find a better. No one, nothing should
balk her of this literary man from New York.

It was another little triumph, too, to be the object of such deep
interest to her sister. They sat in the gloomy, cold bedroom, Frances on
the bed with a blanket round her shoulders, while Minnie, erect on a
broken little chair near the lamp, combed her heavy black hair with
conscientious vigour.

“How on earth did you ever find him?” Frances asked.

“I saw his advertisement in a New York paper; he wanted country board
some place where he could be quiet, for his writing. So I answered it.”

Frances expressed admiration for her enterprise.

“It was wonderful for you to think of such a thing,” she said, “But,
Minnie, what an awful lot of work and bother for you!”

“I don’t mind that,” Minnie answered scornfully, “I _like_ to work
hard.”

They sat up late, discussing the arrangement of the boarder’s room and
everything connected with him. They forgot nothing, overlooked nothing,
except the effect of all this upon their grandmother.

She lay awake in her room, vaguely bitter, very unhappy. She had died
and been buried that evening. She was supplanted. She was no longer to
be the guardian of Frankie and Minnie; in the future they were to take
care of her. As far as they were concerned, she was unnecessary; she
was--one might say--no longer anything but an urn of sacred ashes, to be
reverenced as the receptacle of what had once been an important human
being.

They heard her coughing feebly.

“No wonder she coughs!” said Minnie. “She will _not_ have the window
open the least crack.”

Frances spent all the next day, which was Sunday, in helping Minnie give
the boarder’s room a “good cleaning.” They cherished a tradition that
they detested such work, that it disgusted and exhausted them, but one
had only to hear their voices to know that the vigorous work delighted
them and that they were tremendously happy in doing it. Frankie was on
her knees scrubbing the floor, while Minnie cleaned the windows. They
talked incessantly; when it became necessary for Minnie to clean the
outsides of the panes, Frankie always had to stop work and stand beside
her, so that she could still hear.

As a sort of silent protest, their grandmother had dressed herself in
her best dress and was sitting in the parlour, reading a book of
sermons. The girls insisted that they were too busy to go to church.

“I’ll drive you, if you want,” Minnie told her, grudgingly, “but I can’t
spare the time to stay through the service.”

The old lady then said that all this work on the Sabbath was godless and
altogether wrong, and that she wouldn’t help in the least. Which Minnie
smartly parried by giving her to understand that there was nothing she
_could_ do--at her age. Relations were very much strained....

They sat down to supper, weary but profoundly satisfied.

“Well!” said Frances, “I _hope_ he’ll be all right. I hope he’ll be the
right sort.”

Minnie shook her head gravely.

“Not likely,” she said, “at eight dollars a week.”

“It isn’t money that gives people distinction,” Frances protested.

“Generally it is,” said Minnie.

Frances departed the next morning with a comfortable feeling that now
Minnie wouldn’t be so lonely. Perhaps she had a secret hope like the one
Minnie so cunningly dissembled....

A fortnight later she had an enthusiastic letter from Minnie, enclosing
a blurred and artistic photograph of herself and the old lady, sitting
in the sunset. The polite, the well-informed Mr. Blair had taken it.
Then for a long time she heard no more on the subject, and she was too
much engrossed in her own affairs to make enquiries about those of
anyone else.




CHAPTER EIGHT


I

That winter was for Minnie the bitterest and hardest one she was ever to
know. She came to the very brink of discouragement; she had not as yet
fully developed the supreme self-confidence which later sustained her
through such extraordinary trials, and there were moments when she had
faint doubts of her own wisdom and ability. When she _almost_ regretted
that she had embarked upon this course.

The boarder was practically the first man she had ever known, for Mr.
Petersen she didn’t count, and on him and his gentlemanly letter she had
built an elaborate and exciting future. She looked upon it as almost a
certainty that she would marry him. Or if not him, then some one of his
literary friends, whom he would be encouraged to invite frequently to
the farm. She was anxious to marry. All her maiden dreams were of
marriage, never of love, always of a husband, never of a lover. She
required a man who was kind and able to support her; she didn’t indulge
in romantic dreams of a handsome man, or a gallant one.

Still, Mr. Blair was almost too unromantic. She was shocked when she saw
him. She had gone down to the station to meet him, expectant of Heaven
knows what--anything but what he was; a pompous middle-aged man in
spectacles and baggy, cheap clothes. She could have wept at the sight of
him.

But before they had reached the house, she had begun to see
compensations in him. He was affable, obliging, and courtly; so
attentive that she was disposed to overlook his age, his bagginess and
his dustiness.

His conversation was remarkable. He talked ceaselessly, in a bland, slow
voice. He explained everything, because all things were known to him.
They passed the rubber factory, and he explained the entire process of
rubber manufacture, went back to the gathering of rubber, and finally to
curious facts about rubber trees. He took pains to use terms she would
understand. Also he explained to her why Bess refused to pass milk
waggons, and told her a great deal about horses hitherto unknown to her.

Of the old lady he made an easy conquest. He obeyed the call to supper
with alacrity, but although he had had quite an hour and a half to rest
and make ready, although warm water and a clean towel and a new cake of
scented soap had been provided for him, it was evident that he had spent
no time in washing. His nails were grimy, like his cuffs. Still, he was
so pleasant and so courtly, so full of interesting information, that the
two women couldn’t withstand him. Especially the old lady.

“Minnie,” she whispered, when the girl rose to clear the table, “why
don’t you make some of your fudge for Mr. Blair?”

Minnie was quite willing and Mr. Blair very much pleased; he rather
archly admitted a “sweet tooth.” She made haste to clear the table, and
while the kettle was heating for the dishes, she started her
confectionery, bending seriously over a saucepan on the fire. Michael
sat watching her with scornful eyes. He never looked at anyone else; all
his faith was placed in Minnie; he expected nothing from any other
source.

She was somewhat surprised at seeing Mr. Blair saunter in; the kitchen
was not the place for any man, let alone a boarder. He was, however,
oblivious of the proprieties. He offered to, and insisted upon, drying
the dishes for her. Humorously he tied about his ample middle a gingham
apron and set to work slowly but competently. He gave her many points,
too, about how things might be done better, how she could save steps,
and so forth. About the range, and the coal, about soaps, about how a
kitchen should be arranged efficiently.

Then, when everything was neat and clean, the fire banked and Michael
and his brethren locked in the cellar, he followed Minnie into the
parlour, bringing a plate of the fudge.

They sat up unusually late, very cosy, about the blue china lamp, eating
Minnie’s candy and hearing Mr. Blair’s stately voice telling of dairy
farming in Holland. He admitted that he had never been there, but he
knew. This was a curious feature about Mr. Blair; he always spoke as a
witness, irrefutable and calmly positive; apparently his knowledge came
through inspiration or clairvoyance, for he never mentioned having read
or heard any of it.

“Well,” said the old lady to Minnie, as they were going up to bed, “I
don’t know _when_ I’ve spent a pleasanter evening!”


II

Mr. Blair had a remarkable opportunity to display his quality the next
day, for the old lady had another of her “attacks.” He at once assumed a
position of authority. He sat by her bedside making the most
professional enquiries, and establishing boundless confidence by his
graveness and his assurance. When the doctor arrived, he met him as a
colleague, conferred secretly with him, gave his own opinion and
listened with professional courtesy to that of the other. Then went out
to the stable to comfort Minnie.

“It is not immediately serious,” he told her; “I studied medicine for
some time, and I understand these things.”

He not only comforted Minnie, but he helped her in material ways. He was
very “handy,” somewhat in her own manner. That is, he had a certain
manual facility, and was very easily satisfied: he didn’t require his
“jobs” either to look well or to wear well. He was of a most domestic
disposition. He really enjoyed sitting in the kitchen and peeling
potatoes while he talked; he even swept the parlour with wet tea leaves.
He put up shelves and hooks, convenient although not quite trustworthy;
he carried the old lady’s trays upstairs, made the coffee for breakfast
after a scientific method which required a large amount of coffee and
took quite half an hour; he looked after the fire night and morning; did
everything except the literary work he had come there to do.

It appeared that he had not yet begun this literary career; he had been,
he said, a business man, but his health had failed, and he had decided
to earn his bread by his pen. In a series of special articles on
America’s Industries. He had planned them all meticulously, the twelve
articles, with their titles, sub-titles, number of words in each, and
the space that was to be occupied by photographs. Only he had not as yet
written a single sentence.

His health was deceptive; no one would have suspected him of being so
broken-down, except for a lassitude that was almost incredible. He ate
very well, and slept well, and was always cheerful; still it was
necessary for him to take a tonic, a “heart medicine,” and a “digestive
stimulant.” Every morning he read the newspaper thoroughly from end to
end, then, after he had helped Minnie with the housework, he sat. Not
reading, simply sitting, in the sun, if there were any, but always by a
window, for he liked to see anything that passed.

The relations between him and Minnie were curious. She knew that he
admired her; he often said so, and she exhibited a very discreet
complacence toward his compliments. She was, as always, impersonal,
detached, with an agreeableness difficult to misunderstand. She was
considerate and pleasant toward him, just as she was toward her
grandmother--or toward Thomas Washington. What she really thought of him
no one knew, but Mr. Blair, with characteristic simplicity, was sure
that she was well-disposed toward him, if not something more....

He was a Southerner, and a mighty consequential one. He believed that he
understood women, that his gallantry, learning and courtliness combined
could not fail to conquer. Even the hard fact that he made no headway
did not disconcert him. He knew it was impossible for him to fail.

It was not long before his too affectionate disposition became evident.
He wanted to take Minnie’s hand and pat it, or even put an arm about her
waist in a fatherly way. Dalliance, however, had no part in Minnie’s
life; it was not one of her weaknesses, and she discouraged him pretty
brusquely. Or rather, tried to discourage him. After a rebuff he would
stroll over to Thomas Washington’s cottage and bargain to be taken into
the village in Thomas’s Ford. Thomas, in spite of his dignity, was not
above a certain pride in being seen talking confidentially with a white
man; he almost always accommodated him. And Mr. Blair would buy things
for Minnie and the old lady and come cheerfully home again. They
couldn’t help being pleased, they had so very few pleasures. They would
all sit in the old lady’s room, eating the ice-cream he had brought and,
of course, listening to him. Only when he recurred to the subject of
Thomas Washington and his race did they become restive. They disagreed
with him strongly. In the first place, they didn’t at all like the word
“nigger.” Then, his opinions, boiled down, amounted simply to this: that
“niggers” were created simply for the convenience of Southern whites,
that it was impudent and radical and altogether harmful to Southern
industry for Northerners to have them in their country at all; that no
one but a Southerner knew anything about them, had any right to their
services, or could possibly get on with them. He and he alone knew how
to “handle” Thomas Washington--that is, to exploit him. He did not think
it necessary to tell them that he had to pay well for any favour
received from Thomas. He wanted them to think that he stood in place of
the Lord to that family--that the Washingtons, young and old, couldn’t
help adoring and respecting his Southernness. But Minnie and the old
lady knew Thomas too well.

A great triumph for Minnie was the showing of this boarder to Mr.
Petersen. He had said that she couldn’t get one! He came in one
afternoon and she presented them to each other, carefully watching the
Swedish countenance for some sort of chagrin. Useless; he smiled his
slow smile and held out a huge paw, quite willing to sit down and
talk--or listen.


III

She was glad, though, that Mr. Petersen didn’t know _all_ about the
boarder, for then her triumph wouldn’t have been quite so complete....
His affectionateness, for instance, and his absent-mindedness. He
continually forgot to pay his board. Minnie would be forced to remind
him, then he would immediately take out a pocketbook and pay a week’s
board, apparently not realising that he owed for two weeks, or perhaps
three. He never got up to date. It was a great worry. She had to buy
things for him, food and the “root beer” he was so fond of, under the
most dreadful difficulties. The tradespeople, knowing that she had a
boarder, presupposed cash, and grew more and more grudging. She couldn’t
offend and perhaps lose the precious boarder by too strict insistence
upon the letter of the contract; he was supposed to pay in advance, of
course, but if he didn’t!...

There were certain times when he really alarmed her, when there was
something about him that she could not endure, something not fully
understood but none the less comprehended. For, in spite of her
soberness and her sedateness, Minnie was after all only a young girl,
and a very ignorant one. She had nothing but her instincts and her cool
temperament to protect her. She had, one might say, no sex at all, no
trace of passion. She adored compliments and attentions, and very
sensibly wanted a husband to work for her, but she recoiled with a quite
morbid aversion from the idea of a kiss. Mr. Blair’s little attempts
were repulsive to her.

He used to propose walks after supper, but after one trial, she never
accepted again. It was a horrible experience. She was too innocent to
know whether she had been insulted or whether it was all quite harmless,
but she could not deny her own distress. She lay awake and wept--a very
little--at the idea of marrying Mr. Blair. Of course, she could, and she
would, but it wasn’t an agreeable prospect.

She believed that he must have a fair enough income, for he did no work
and yet had all he wanted. Tobacco and magazines and new neckties were
his sole indulgences, with an occasional bag of cheap candy. He was the
most contented fellow alive. It was not possible that he suffered from
the usual human “money worries.” His slowness in paying his board she
attributed to his literariness.


IV

It was a fine morning, late in April; Minnie had finished her work in
the kitchen and was on the point of going up to “do” the bedrooms when
Mr. Blair came in with a camera in his hand.

“I’m going to try to get a picture of you,” he said.

She said she was busy but he waved that aside.

“Call your cats,” he said pompously, “I’ve got an idea.”

He ordered her to sit on the back steps, with Michael in her arms and
the others one on each side.

“‘My Lady of the Cats,’ I’ll call it,” he said. And went on to tell her,
not for the first time, of the artistic photographs he had had in
various exhibitions. He told her that photography was quite as great an
art as painting. She knew nothing to the contrary; she had not a drop of
artist blood in her veins; who knows if perhaps she wouldn’t have
admired extravagantly his shadowy ladies in kimonos with light gleaming
on rippling hair. She had observed that his subjects were always women,
and that he had a strong penchant for glowing glimpses of white breasts
and arms, and a certain unrestraint of attitude which disturbed her. He
went as far as he dared with her. He wanted to take her picture climbing
a ladder with an apronful of peaches, but somehow she knew that the
peaches were a subterfuge, and so discouraged his artistic fancy. Then
he proposed “Day Dreams,” in which she was to be lying, very much
stretched out, on the sofa. That too she rejected, uneasily.

This new idea, however, showed itself quite innocent from every side,
and she willingly tried to help. It was an unruly group, though; it took
a tremendous time to prepare it and even at that it didn’t entirely
satisfy him. He looked at them through the lens, came over to Minnie and
looked down at her critically.

“A little to this side,” he said, and, quite unnecessarily, put a hand
under her chin and turned her head.

“You have a lovely neck,” he said, but though his tone was impersonal
and professional, there was a repulsive look about his big, loose mouth.

He would have had a severe rebuke, boarder or no boarder, if Mr.
Petersen had not saved him. But at the sight of his horse coming along
the drive, she stifled her anger. She would not, in his presence, admit
a failing in this boarder whom she had so brilliantly evoked. She was
uneasy, though, very uneasy, wondering if Mr. Petersen had seen....

“I stopped at the post-office,” he said, “and fetched your mail.”

She thanked him and took the solitary letter from his hand. She had, of
course, to ask him to dismount, which he did, and sat on the steps,
chatting with Mr. Blair and stroking Michael, whose prototype he
unknowingly was. Minnie apologised and opened the letter.

Fatal letter! Fatal news! Without a word she handed it to Mr. Blair and
went into the house.

She reflected over it all that night, lying awake longer than she ever
had before. She knew she was beaten, that she had failed.

But this very defeat, the first she had yet known, had a curious effect
upon her. She was humiliated and shaken, but far from despair. She had
never felt so calm, so sensible, so competent. She wasted little time in
anger or regret; she turned her thoughts firmly toward the future,
looking for a way out of her trouble.

And found one, an amazing one, the first of her remarkable ventures. She
planned it out in every detail that night, envisaged the obstacles and
arranged her campaign against them. She certainly did not intend to stop
where she was, for Mr. Petersen to laugh at, for the brilliant Frankie
to pity. Wounded vanity, mixed with envy, pricked her.

Her life really began that night. Until then she had been dormant,
untried; now came her first opportunity to prove her spirit, and she
rose to it magnificently, gallantly, ruthlessly.


V

The day before Christmas Frankie came home.

A new Frankie, who blushed as she caught sight of Minnie at the end of
the platform, engaged with Bess. Impossible that her Minnie should not
notice the change in her, not read the happiness in her trembling smile.

She hugged her passionately, and climbed into the buggy beside her. She
was disappointed that Minnie noticed nothing unusual, hadn’t a single
question to ask. And Minnie, doggedly silent, was resentful because
Frankie couldn’t see that something was wrong. They did not speak for a
long time; then Frankie, too happy not to be affectionate, turned a
bright face to her sister.

“What’s the news at home?” she asked. “How’s Grandma? _And_ Mr. Blair?”

“Mr. Blair’s gone,” said Minnie, curtly.

“Gone! Not really!”

She was shocked to see tears in Minnie’s eyes.

“But, my dear, what happened?”

Minnie turned away her head.

“A letter from his wife....”

“So he was _married_!...”

“Yes.... He never mentioned it.... She wrote that he’d written her
again for his board money. She’d already given it to him twice, and
couldn’t afford to give it again. She said she hoped he’d pay me, but
that she couldn’t be responsible for his debts. That she was a business
woman and found it hard enough to get along anyway. And advised me not
to ‘place too much confidence in his statements.’ She said she was sure
that by this time his health was much improved----”

“Was he ill, then?”

“Ill! He was as strong as an ox. He ate and ate.... And he just calmly
went off.... He said he was going into the city to get some money from
the bank, and would come back on the last train, and never did. And he
owed for five weeks.”

She wiped her eyes sternly and went on.

“Grandma’s so mean and petty about it. Keeps saying ‘I told you so,
Miss.’ You know she never did. She liked him more than anyone did. I’ll
never hear the end of it.”

Frances did her best to console the frustrated Minnie.

“Maybe he’ll come back,” she suggested, inanely.

“He’d better not!” said Minnie, “Nasty, lazy cheat! Oh, Frankie, I will
admit that I was deceived in that man!”

Obviously this was no moment in which to tell _her_ news. With patience
and good temper Frankie waited, listened to the long and harrowing story
of Mr. Blair and said what she could to heal her sister’s wound. She was
really distressed about Minnie, she was so unlike her usual self; she
was severe and cold. It would be nothing less than cruel to tell the
poor soul of her own good-fortune.

So she kept it to herself all the afternoon. With the superstition so
natural to the happy, she fancied she was making her happiness more
secure, earning it, in a way, by repressing and disciplining herself,
pretending to take an interest in the affairs of the household, effacing
herself and her important news.

No one questioned her; they were absorbed in their own calamity. The old
lady showed her a sort of diary of the expenses incurred by Mr. Blair,
“to say nothing of the extra work.” She did crow over Minnie without
mercy; she was vindicated, once more the infallible adult, competent to
guide and rebuke youth. Minnie said very little; she had, however, a
sinister air of having something up her sleeve.


VI

At last they were alone in the bedroom. Minnie had just locked the door
when Frances sprang at her, caught her in a tight embrace, and
whispered:

“Minnie!”

“What?” asked Minnie sharply.

“Minnie!... _I’m engaged!_”

Minnie gasped.

“Why, Frankie!” she cried. “How on earth!...”

“Oh, darling, I’ve been longing to tell you!... I’m so happy! If you
only knew him, Minnie! You couldn’t help liking him. There’s something
about him.... He’s so dear and boyish----”

“Who is he?” Minnie asked.

“He’s an Englishman. Very nice family, and all that. The nicest manners.
And I consider him really handsome. Just the type we’ve always liked,
Minnie.”

It occurred to Frances that Minnie was not so enthusiastic as the
occasion warranted. She felt a sudden fear that Minnie was jealous, felt
herself neglected.

“We’ve talked so much about you,” she hurried on. “You’re going to live
with us after we’re married, and we’re going to do everything to make
you happy. I told Lionel what a little brick you were, slaving away
here, and he said he knew he’d love you. And, oh, Minnie, you’re _sure_
to love him!”

Instead of answering Minnie got up and went to the window, stood there,
staring out at the fields.

“Minnie!” cried her sister, “Please, Minnie, darling, say you’re glad!”

“I am,” said Minnie, keeping her back turned, “I’m very glad you’re so
happy.”

“Please you be happy too! I’m going to make Lionel write to you the
instant I get back.”

“Frankie,” said Minnie, “you’re not going back.”

There was something unmistakably sinister in her voice now; Frances
looked at her nervously.

“What on earth do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean just what I say. You’re not going back to New York. I’m going
and you’ll have to stay here.”

“But what ... Minnie, what nonsense! I have my job and Lionel....”

“They’ll have to get on without you,” said Minnie.

“You’re crazy!” said her sister. “What would you do in New York? And
who’ll take care of Grandma?”

“You.”

“I shouldn’t dream of giving up my job.”

“You’ll have to. I tell you, Frankie, I’m going to have my turn. I’ve
stopped here a whole year while you’ve been in the city and I’m sick and
tired of it. I’m _through_. I’m going!”

“You can’t be such a beast. After I’ve just told you about Lionel.”

“He can come out here to see you.”

“He can’t. He’s too poor. He couldn’t pay the fare.”

“Then you’d better not bother about him. You certainly couldn’t marry
him if he’s as poor as that.”

“Minnie, please be reasonable. I’ll just go back for a few weeks----”

“You shan’t go back at all.”

“I will! I won’t give in to your nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense; it’s justice. You’ve had a year and now I’m going to
have a year. You didn’t care whether or not I wanted you to go, and now
I don’t care whether you want me to go or not. I’m going.”

Frances smiled scornfully.

“I’ll go back as usual,” she said.

“Oh, _will_ you! I’ve got a nice place myself.”

“I don’t believe it! What sort of place?”

“I’m going to be Aunt Irene’s companion,” she said calmly, “And I’m
going to get just as much as you’re getting.”

They fought it out passionately, forgot their dignity, forgot their
love, raised their voices until the poor old lady at the end of the
corridor heard them. They cried, too, tears of anger and hysteria; at
last, from sheer exhaustion they fell asleep side by side in the bed
they had slept in together for so many nights in harmony and affection,
fell asleep hating each other, each utterly resolved upon her own way.


VII

But Minnie conquered. When Frances woke up, she found herself alone.
Minnie had left a note on the pillow.

     “_Gone on the early train. Grandma knows all about it, and agrees
     with me that I am doing perfectly right._”




BOOK TWO: FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY




CHAPTER NINE


I

Frankie was quite desperate with grief and anxiety. She rushed into the
old lady’s room, bare-footed, in her nightdress, and denounced her in a
storm of sobs.

“How _could_ you!” she cried. “How _could_ you! How did you and Minnie
dare to arrange my life for me that way?... You didn’t know.... You
couldn’t know--what plans I had.... How _could_ you! You don’t know what
you’ve done!”

The old lady said that no great harm had been done.

“It has! It has!” Frankie cried. “You don’t know! You’ve spoiled
everything!”

This the old lady didn’t believe; she asked for an explanation, and
Frances would give none.

“But Grandma!” she implored, “Grandma, trust me! Believe me when I say
I’ve got to go back! It’s terribly important. It means my whole life.
Oh, Grandma, please, _please_ write to Minnie and make her come home!”

“My dear child, I can’t. She wouldn’t come. And I must say I think she’s
entitled to a little---- Don’t you think you’re rather selfish,
Frances?”

“Oh, stop!” Frances interrupted, rudely. “You don’t understand. It’s
something ... I _have_ to see about, something important.”

“What can it be?”

The old lady was indulgent; she fancied she scented a sentimental
interest.

“I can’t tell you--just now, anyway.”

Frances dried her eyes and looked at her grandmother with a new look,
hard and clear.

“You’ll have to make out alone for a few hours,” she said, “I’ve got to
go in on that four-eight train. I’ll be back some time to-night.”

She went into her room and, closing the door, flung herself down on the
creaking bed, not to cry, but to think, to plan for him. All morning the
breakfast dishes were unwashed, the beds unmade, nothing touched in the
house. It was noon when a curious sound startled Frankie. She fancied
she heard a step in the passage.

She flung open the door, to see a poor, trembling little figure come out
of her grandmother’s room.

“Grandma!” she shrieked, and flew to catch her and half carry her back
to her bed, reproaching her bitterly, tenderly, while she got her
clothes off. She noticed with intolerable remorse how clumsily the
things were put on and the scanty hair twisted up.

“Grandma,” she cried. “You know you shouldn’t! Suppose you had slipped!
It was dreadful of you!”

She saw to her horror that there were tears in the poor thing’s eyes and
her feeble voice quavered.

“Frances,” she said, “I couldn’t stand it. Both of you going off ...
neither of you wanting to stay with me.... I felt I didn’t care what
happened to me.... And----” she broke into a weak little sob as she came
to her last and worst grief, “one o’clock and the house not touched! I
just couldn’t lie abed any longer!”

“No, Granny dear, I know! I’ll do everything right away. Only lie down
and rest, won’t you? I’ll do everything before I go.”

The old lady patted her hand.

“Won’t you ask Sally Washington to sit in the kitchen while you’re
gone?” she asked. “I’m so nervous about fire.”

Frankie hurried across to the cottage, but Sally couldn’t come; she was
sick in bed and there was no one available but young Norman Washington,
aged nine, who was guaranteed by his mother to be trustworthy.

The old lady, however, rejected him.

“Worse than no one!” she cried. “A boy! He’ll eat up all my preserves.
And goodness knows _what_ he’ll break.”

It also occurred to her that he was quite likely, in his quality as boy,
to set fire to the house; in fact, as she considered it longer, she
declared it _certain_ that he would do so.

She was in a pitifully nervous state. She entreated Frances to dress her
again and help her downstairs, so that she could wait there, where, in
case of fire, she could manage somehow to get out. She couldn’t eat
anything for lunch. She sat propped up in bed, her trembling fingers
moving ceaselessly, her watery eyes staring vacantly, in dim anxiety,
consumed with dread, with the horror of her own helplessness. As she
passed by the door, Frances could see her there, each time more
intolerably pitiful. Until, one time, she saw her press her poor,
clawlike hand against her mouth.... Somehow that decided Frances; she
_couldn’t_ leave her; couldn’t endure the idea of her alone there until
two in the morning, when the last train would have brought her back. No;
she couldn’t go. She went into the room, hard and brusque again.

“I won’t go to the city,” she said. “I’ll just harness up Bess somehow
and go to the village and send a telegram.”

All over--all finished. She knew it. She had no hope, no illusion about
the matter, only the certainty that her terribly brief time of happiness
was done.


II

Happiness which existed now only in her memory, in time to grow
incredible even there....

One year!

She remembered very well when she had made that first visit to Miss
Eppendorfer. She had never before been alone in New York, didn’t know
how to find the address, had to ask one policeman after another, and try
in a sort of agony to comprehend the directions they gave. And when she
had arrived, her terror of the unknown city was supplanted by a worse
one; suppose she didn’t get the job, that the authoress didn’t like her,
and she had to return home, shamefully defeated.

She had plenty of time to contemplate this, waiting in the sitting-room
of Miss Eppendorfer’s flat. An insolent coloured girl showed her in and
left her there without a word. She was almost ill from nervousness; she
watched the door without stirring for fifteen minutes or so, then, when
no one came, grew bold enough to look about her. It was a small and
rather dark room, furnished in a style new to her--the ubiquitous
Mission style. Little square chairs of imitation weathered oak, with
imitation leather seats, studded with gilt nails, fit for an authoress
from the Middle West to sit in while she laughed indulgently at
Victorian mahogany. Mock austerity, mock simplicity, a crowd of cheap
and monotonous stuff, all square and squat; plain curtains, bookcases
with sets of books selected always by authorities, and never by the
owner. Replica of a thousand rooms, mirror of a thousand souls, a room
which signified and expressed nothing. It was the first
cheaply-furnished room Frances had ever entered, and she was innocently
impressed with it. The good taste she possessed was not innate, it was
traditional; she wasn’t able to judge the unknown.

The mistress of all this came in an hour late. She was a thin, blonde
woman with hollow cheeks and a sweet, sweet smile; she hurried forward,
holding out both hands with a profuse cordiality that surprised Frances.

“Is this the little country girl who’s going to do so much for me?”

Blushing but courageous, Frances made some sort of answer, her candid
eyes fixed on the face before her. If she hadn’t _known_, she might have
thought that this haggard woman with bleached hair was “not quite nice.”
But she knew that her rural standards couldn’t be applied everywhere.
She wasn’t a bumpkin....

“Sit down,” Miss Eppendorfer invited, “and we’ll have tea while we
chat.”

It was the first time Frances had ever had tea; it was an institution as
yet unknown in the suburbs during her girlhood, and utterly undeveloped
in Brownsville Landing; there, when one had guests in the afternoon,
they were splendidly served with lemonade and good cake. Tea and toast
would have been almost an insult.

The authoress had to fetch everything herself from the kitchen.

“I don’t dare to disturb that black wretch,” she whispered to Frances.
“She’s only looking for an excuse to go, and _then_ where shall I be?
_I_ couldn’t boil an egg, could you?”

Frances said that she could.

“Well, my dear,” said the authoress, when she had got her samovar
started, “tell me about yourself.”

But she didn’t need much telling; aside from the letter she had had from
the librarian in Brownsville Landing, she could see in one shrewd glance
that Frances would “do”; was able to realise, as only an imitation
could, how honest, how genuine was this girl.

She engaged her then and there, said she was “strangely attracted” by
her. And urged her to take up her duties at once.

“Send home for your things,” she advised, “and settle right down
to-night in your comfy little room. That’s the way I always like to do
things--on the spur of the moment.”

“I’d like to, but I couldn’t. They’d worry at home.”

“Send a telegram, honey,” Miss Eppendorfer suggested.

It was her first telegram, too, and it gave her a delightful sense of
adventure, and of defiance, for she knew that Minnie would disapprove.

Miss Eppendorfer opened the door of a tiny room, which, she said, was to
be Frankie’s “very own.”

“Isn’t it _dear_?” she asked. “I think I must have _known_ when I
furnished it, that someone just like you was coming to me some day. It
_expresses_ you, don’t you think so?”

At first Frances thought it a delightful room, furnished all in wicker
even to the bed and decorated in gay chintz; there were candles on the
dressing table with rose-covered shades which at once took her eye, and
a brocade glove box. She felt that she would be tremendously happy in
such a nest.

And then, as she laid her hat on the bed, she was startled, dismayed, at
the sight of the pillow-cases. Suspicions aroused, her glance travelled
from corner to corner, and she apprehended the appalling griminess of
the place. Griminess not confined to this room of “her very own,” as she
was soon to discover.

She had turned back the lace-trimmed chintz bedspread and was
suspiciously examining the sheets when Miss Eppendorfer came in again
with a filmy nightdress decorated with pale green ribbons, a boudoir cap
and an elaborate negligee.

“Put these on now and be comfy,” she urged, “and we’ll have a nice
little supper, all alone together.”

She herself had got into a lace tea-gown over a torn lace petticoat and
quilted satin slippers which weren’t high enough to hide the holes in
her stockings....

“Thank you,” said Frances, “but I’m quite comfortable as I am.”

She felt that her neat linen blouse and dark skirt gave her a sort of
advantage; anyway she _couldn’t_ have gone trailing about in a wrapper,
she wasn’t that sort.

Disillusionment progressed rapidly. She sat down at the supper table,
hungry and curious, and disposed to be charitable; but the dirtiness of
the tablecloth was flagrant and her napkin had obviously been used
before. And her glass had a milky ring inside it.... She was not
over-fastidious, or inclined to give great importance to domestic
matters, but she had a genuine passion for cleanliness. She couldn’t
help being disgusted. Still, she reflected, it was no doubt all due to
the scornful coloured girl, and she consoled herself by thinking that
perhaps, when not engaged in literary work, she could look after things
a bit.

She put on the ribbon-trimmed nightdress and went to sleep between the
dubious sheets, a little homesick for the big, airy bedroom where Minnie
was lying, and the darkness and the quiet. Her window opened on to a
court; she could hear voices talking and phonographs playing, and the
light from Miss Eppendorfer’s room shone under her door and disturbed
her. She couldn’t compose herself, she was excited and confused, and
imagined that she lay awake for hours.

Miss Eppendorfer came in to wake her up the next morning, in a state of
great excitement, still wearing the trailing tea-gown. She told Frankie
that the coloured girl had gone; and she related a long story of wrongs
and grievances; the girl drank, lied, pilfered, was even engaged in
complicated plots against one of the best and kindest mistresses extant.
Miss Eppendorfer gave a list of her benefactions: a pink hat, a dotted
veil, blouses, shoes, and still----!

“She used to say all sorts of things about me over the telephone, if
anyone rang up when I was out. And, my dear, the things she told that
hall-boy!”

Frankie pitied her distress and was eager to soothe her excitement.

“Never mind!” she said, “We’ll find another. And now wouldn’t you like
me to make a cup of coffee for you?”

“Oh, I _would_, my dear! I’m no good till I’ve had my coffee, and I
can’t make it decently myself.”

She sat down on the bed, and though Frances waited impatiently for a
chance to get up, she showed no signs of moving. Nothing could have
induced Frankie to dress in her presence. A faint annoyance crept over
her. She got out of bed on the other side, gathered up her clothes and
went into the bathroom, with a brusque excuse.

She came out, stiffer and straighter than ever, and went into the tiny
kitchen to make the coffee. It was the filthiest place; roaches running
over everything, grease, dust, crumbs.

“That girl was a very poor servant,” she said severely.

Miss Eppendorfer was sitting on a corner of the table, swinging her
slippered feet.

“I spoil them,” she said. “I’m too good to them. And then I don’t _keep
after_ them. You have to, if you want anything done.... But with my
writing, of course I can’t keep my mind on that sort of thing very
well.”

She praised the coffee extravagantly, and, as she drank it, explained to
Frankie that she was very, very nervous, and that a scene such as she
had had with that dreadful girl upset her beyond measure. Frances
noticed her trembling hands, her quick breath, and accepted this
nervousness, and, in her competent way, went about making her
comfortable.

They had a rather pleasant day together. The hall-boy was sent to fetch
“Jennie” who had often before come to fill in gaps, and while she was
creaking and wheezing, scrubbing and mopping her faithful way round the
flat, the authoress lay on a sofa and talked to Frankie. She told her
about her work, which so far consisted of three short stories and two
very successful novels.

“But I’m really only beginning,” she said.

(Frances thought privately that she was rather old for any sort of
beginning.)

Her latest book was called “The Lonely Woman.” She gave a copy to
Frances and begged for a candid opinion after she had read it.

“But I’m not a judge,” Frances told her earnestly, “I don’t know
anything about literature. Only that I love books and reading.”

“My dear,” said Miss Eppendorfer, “I saw at once how sensible and
level-headed you were. I _want_ your opinion!”

Noon came. Miss Eppendorfer sighed as the clock struck.

“I do _not_ feel equal to going out,” she said, “I’d rather do without
lunch. Of course, there’s plenty in the house, but Jennie can’t cook a
thing.”

Frances was quite willing to get a lunch ready, and to bring it on a
tray to the nervous authoress. Also tea and supper. Otherwise there was
nothing to do but sit and talk.


III

Frances would have found it difficult to explain what her secretarial
duties were during that year. Principally to go with Miss Eppendorfer
everywhere that she went--to the shops, the bank, the dentist. She was
too nervous to go out alone; she wouldn’t stir without her “little pal”;
and, as far as Frances could see, she had no other friends. There were a
few people who telephoned, and who very rarely dropped in to see her,
but she never got invitations of any sort. It puzzled Frances; she could
see no reason why Miss Eppendorfer shouldn’t be popular; in the first
place, she was a quite successful writer, which should have brought some
sort of fame, and in the second place, she had an excellent disposition.
They lived together, all day and every day, month after month, those two
women, without a sharp or a violent word, with the exception of the two
famous Scenes, to be described later. And these didn’t exactly count,
for the authoress was not altogether responsible, altogether herself
then.... Of course, there were times when relations were a bit strained,
but not often. And the remarkable, the admirable thing was, that they
were _not_ congenial, not in any way suited to each other; it was simply
their common kindliness and good temper that so preserved harmony.

Lack of friends was not the only point to puzzle Frankie; there were
other mysteries. It was a long time before she could understand Miss
Eppendorfer, or appraise her with any justice. At first she saw much to
disgust her. The slatternliness, above all, the shameless lack of pride.
She used to look across the supper table at the pallid, faded blonde
creature, with uncombed hair, still dressed in a wrapper over her
nightdress, and wonder how, _how_ ...! Even this, though, she learned to
condone when she saw that it sprang not so much from neglect as from
awful weariness. The poor soul was either hectic with excitement,
flying from shop to shop, restaurant to restaurant, taking every meal
away from home for perhaps a week, or else she couldn’t make up her mind
even to walk round the corner for a breath of air, would stay shut up in
the flat for days. She dressed well enough when she went out; she spent
money lavishly on her clothes and wore them with a conspicuous and
rather vulgar sort of style, but she didn’t really care; had no sort of
decent pride in her body. Didn’t trouble much about cleanliness, for
instance.

Her book, too, was a shock to Frances. It was the story of a woman
living on the prairies--the Lonely Woman--alone with a stolid husband;
then a young clergyman stopped there on his way somewhere, and chapter
after chapter recounted the wiles, the lures of the lonely woman to
rouse his passion, to destroy his honour. In the end she got him,
triumphed for a few lurid days, and then tried to run away with him. But
they were overtaken by a blizzard and died, frozen to death. The
pursuing husband saw them, sitting clasped in each other’s arms, and
shot them, not knowing that they were already dead, and then gave
himself up to the police and was hanged. It was what her publishers
called “palpitating”--very. Nothing was left to the imagination.

Frances thought it awful; she hadn’t been trained to see the poetry in
lust. All she could say in praise was that the prairie scenes seemed
very true to life, and Miss Eppendorfer assured her that they were.

“I’ve lived out there,” she said. She often told scraps of her past
life, but they wouldn’t piece together; sometimes one story directly
contradicted another. She had been married, sometimes she said once,
sometimes twice, and her husband--or first husband--had been
“unspeakable.” She had divorced him, or he her. Sometimes she described
her childhood as ideally happy, her parents as wealthy and indulgent;
then, once, she told Frances she was the daughter of a wretched woman
who had lived with a worker in the Chicago stockyards. Yet all this
didn’t impress Frances as lying; it was too vague, too aimless; she
couldn’t help a stupid feeling that Miss Eppendorfer didn’t _know_
exactly what had happened to her. Which was of course absurd.... And she
was sure that the stories which told of want, pain, and struggle were
the true ones, that the poor woman had suffered.

Talent she undoubtedly possessed. Although Frances detested the
persistent fleshliness of her stories, she had a generous admiration for
the gift itself. She would watch her writing, almost with awe, wondering
where the ideas came from, from what unfathomable reservoir she drew so
easily. She had no style, little art, couldn’t even use the language
properly; simply she put on paper the visions of her curious mind. She
sometimes used to cry as she wrote. And, although her books were
oversensual, her talk wasn’t. She avoided those topics which distressed
the austere Frances.


IV

It was not for six months that Frances got her first clue to this
baffling creature. She tried to study her, to understand her, why she
had no friends, no “circle” such as she had imagined literary people
always had, why she was sometimes so slovenly, sometimes so
extravagantly dressed, why sometimes she couldn’t bear to go out, and
sometimes couldn’t endure staying at home.

It was after one of her infrequent visits home. Miss Eppendorfer hated
to let her go, and would never go out during her absence, which
naturally used to distress Frankie and cause her to cut her time at home
unduly short. She did everything possible before leaving, and always saw
to it that Jennie was there, under a solemn promise not to leave for a
minute until she got back; then with soothing assurances, as if Miss
Eppendorfer were a very nervous child, she would pack her bag and hurry
off, oppressed and serious, worrying over the household she had left.

This time, when she came back, Jennie didn’t answer the bell. She rang
again and again, but couldn’t hear a sound. Then she questioned the
hall-boy and he told her Jennie had left that morning, but that Miss
Eppendorfer was at home.

“Maybe she’s asleep,” he said, with a grin.

Frances turned white, remembering all the stories she had read of
suicides and murders.

“Isn’t there _any_ way I can get in?” she cried.

The boy leisurely suggested going to the flat below and asking leave to
go up through the fire escape. He didn’t offer to do it for her; he was,
on the contrary, as indifferent, as contemptuous as he could well be.

Fortunately the window on the fire escape was open and Frances got in
without difficulty. And rushed into Miss Eppendorfer’s room.

She was asleep, her mouth open, her hair in her eyes, lying on the
outside of the bed with no covering but a gauzy nightdress. The room was
full of a smell unfamiliar to Frances, but she surmised, even before she
saw the empty bottle.

Whiskey.

Somehow she got the poor thing warmly and decently covered up and the
horrible littered room tidied. Then she went into her own room and sank
into a chair, for her knees would support her no longer. She couldn’t
_think_ about it, her intelligence seemed to have fled, to be suspended,
waiting. She was conscious of nothing but horror and a reluctant and
painful compassion. She felt that now, after this, she could never,
never leave Miss Eppendorfer.




CHAPTER TEN


I

Frances did not mention this shortcoming of Miss Eppendorfer’s at home,
and it was never openly referred to between the authoress and herself.
But Miss Eppendorfer ceased to be so careful, she was even relieved that
Frances knew her vice and that she didn’t have to live in fear of her
discovering it. The whiskey came openly with the grocery orders, then
vanished into her own room. She was never to be seen drinking it, but
there were many mornings when she couldn’t be awakened till noon, and
when she did get up, she would be in a state that wrung Frankie’s kindly
heart. The poor shaky, weeping thing, moaning about her aching head,
swallowing her dreadful “headache cures,” and waiting in agony till
relief came.... Frances had to sit by her, holding her hand and trying
to quiet and cheer her. She struggled against disgust, but in vain; she
would reach the point where the whole affair seemed intolerable, and she
was determined to go home, and then Miss Eppendorfer would suddenly
change, get up in the morning, dress elaborately and take her “little
pal” out for a day of amusement. She was at such times so ingratiatingly
kind that Frances put aside all thought of leaving her. No doubt these
intervals of hectic excitement were her periods of reform; in fact, she
almost admitted it.

“I have to keep on going,” she said, “to take my mind off things.”

Curious that Frances should find herself so placed, Frances who had been
brought up to regard drunkenness in a man as a bestial crime, and in a
_woman_, a thing almost impossibly awful. She sometimes wondered at
herself, how was it that she didn’t blame Miss Eppendorfer, but looked
upon her failing as if it were a disease? She felt herself very old,
very experienced. In spite of her pity and real unhappiness over the
thing, there was in it a deep, secret satisfaction; it was, she felt,
Knowledge, Life; she was learning, developing. She had so far, far
outgrown Minnie and her grandmother and their standards! She was
tolerant, worldly-wise; there wasn’t, she believed, much more for her to
learn....

The future rather worried her. This couldn’t last forever, and after
this, what? She was not gaining experience that would be of any
practical value to her in any other position. She was not able to save
money; at the end of six months she found herself no better off than
when her career had begun. And she was so ambitious, so passionately
anxious to succeed, to be important and famous. She gave her problem
much serious thought. One thing was certain; she couldn’t and wouldn’t
leave Miss Eppendorfer under the present circumstances; the only thing
was for her to prepare herself, to be ready for something better when
there was a change of some sort. She presented her scheme to Miss
Eppendorfer as tactfully as possible.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “if I knew how to type better and
faster, and something of shorthand, I’d be ever so much more useful ...
to you, and--and in general ... I wrote to a business school near here,
and I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a course there in shorthand
and typing. Three evenings a week, from seven to nine.”

But Miss Eppendorfer protested, begged her to put it off and not to
leave her so much alone. She was afraid of this plan, afraid that she
would, by it, lose this girl she so much needed.

“Just wait a month, dear, won’t you? Till the days are longer?”

It seemed an idiotic reason to Frances, and she looked obstinate.

“Perhaps I could take the course with you,” Miss Eppendorfer suggested,
“I think I’d enjoy it.”

That idea didn’t please Frankie at all; the thought of going to school
with anyone of Miss Eppendorfer’s age, appearance and temperament was
appalling. She imagined what people would say--how they would be
ridiculed. She was obliged to postpone the plan for a time, until she
could think of a different way of presenting it....

Chance gave her an opportunity very soon. One morning the telephone
rang, in itself a rare happening, and she hurried to answer it, as the
authoress was asleep.

“Is this Miss Eppendorfer?” enquired a high, loud voice with an
exaggerated London accent. “Oh, her secretary! Very well! You will
please to tell Miss Eppendorfer that her cousin Kurt Hassler from
Hamburg is here, and would like to call.”

“She’s not awake yet,” Frances explained, “but if you’ll leave your
number----”

“The Ritz,” he replied haughtily. “Find it in the telephone directory. I
am here until one.”

She had scarcely replaced the receiver when Miss Eppendorfer opened the
door of her room and stood smiling absent-mindedly at her.

“I thought I heard the telephone,” she said.

“You did. It was your cousin from Hamburg. He wants to see you.”

Miss Eppendorfer became immensely excited, and insisted upon Frankie’s
calling him up at once.

“I’m too nervous,” she said. “Tell him to come to-night for dinner at
seven.”

He accepted the invitation, and the authoress was delighted.

“I haven’t seen him since he was a child,” she told Frankie, “but I’ve
heard lots about him. He went to Heidelberg, and then he went into his
father’s business and he’s done wonderfully well, they say. He speaks
English, French and Spanish perfectly.”

“Are you a German then?” Frankie asked.

“No; my father was, but I’m not. I’m American through and through. I
can’t even speak German. If Kurt didn’t speak English, I don’t know what
I’d do.”

While she drank her coffee, Miss Eppendorfer ingenuously confided to
Frances her great desire to impress Mr. Hassler.

“You see, his family--- my father’s cousins, over in Germany, always
looked down on us. They were as rude as they could be. You know how
proud those old commercial families are. Why, my dear, Kurt Hassler
would never have _dreamed_ of putting his foot inside my door if I
hadn’t got a name for myself with this writing. So I’m going to show him
that I’m somebody, after all. That I know how to do things _right_!”

Jennie was fetched to wait on the table, and supper was ordered from a
restaurant nearby, with an extravagant variety of wines. Miss
Eppendorfer dressed herself in her very best, and implored Frances to do
the same, but Frances, although expecting a bearded and majestic man in
evening dress, refused to put on any of the authoress’s finery.

“He’s not coming to see me,” she cried, “and, anyway, I’d rather look
like what I am.”

Proud humility! And wasn’t she aware all the time that in her fresh
blouse and blue serge skirt she utterly eclipsed Miss Eppendorfer, she
with her clear brown skin and her beautifully honest eyes, with her
youth and strength and dignity?

She had resented Mr. Hassler’s manner over the telephone and she had
only to take one look at him in person to hate and detest him forever.
He was unexpectedly young, not so old as herself, she imagined, but with
a self-assurance seldom attained by other races this side of forty. He
was handsome enough, but detestably arrogant, a smooth-shaven,
blonde-crested boy with up-turned nose and wide, impudent mouth. He was
stupid and pompous, couldn’t talk about anything but himself and his
“world-export business” as he called it, yet Frances saw that he had wit
enough to take the measure of his cousin. His gallantry was so obviously
mocking that she burned with shame for the poor haggard, painted woman
who gulped it down. It was really torment for her to look on.

Alas, poor Frankie! She had yet to learn of Miss Eppendorfer’s second
great weakness!


II

After that evening everything was changed, Miss Eppendorfer herself a
quite different person. She was as good-tempered, as kindly as ever, but
so silly that Frankie’s own amiability began to wear thin. She wrote no
more, all her talk was of clothes, of hair dressers, of manicures. She
would spend all morning sitting at her dressing table, polishing her
nails and “jabbering,” as her secretary mentally called her talking. She
was full of the affectations of a happy young girl, was impulsive,
whimsical, even pouted. And for whom but that obnoxious little
Hamburger, young enough to be her son!

He called every evening, and made it plain to Frankie that he wanted to
be alone with his cousin. So she withdrew to her bedroom and tried to
read, to ignore that light, hysterically gay voice answering his
impudent compliments.

“Can’t she see?” Frankie used to ask herself, almost in tears. “Doesn’t
she know he’s laughing at her? Oh, what an idiot she’s making of
herself, poor old thing!”

He and Frances hated each other. She stared at him with cold contempt,
he looked her up and down insolently; they never spoke unless it
couldn’t be avoided. Unfortunately Frances had to listen to a great deal
about him from Miss Eppendorfer, how successful and brilliant he was in
business, how supremely well-educated, how fastidious and aristocratic,
how irresistible to the fair sex. He told her about his “affairs” and
she insisted upon telling Frankie, although the latter said bluntly
enough that she wasn’t interested. It was necessary that she should be
shown what a remarkable conquest Miss Eppendorfer had made. She was
forced to hear about the Russian princess, the awfully exclusive
Parisienne, and above all about the eminent and very chic Damen in Wien.
The colossal success he had had! Frances had either to consider him a
liar, or the ladies on the continent of Europe as pitifully lacking in
taste.

He very soon began coming to dinner every night, and Miss Eppendorfer
went to great trouble to secure a cook who was not only a German, but a
German from the only correct part of Germany for cooks to inhabit. She
extorted big wages and made life wretched with her shrewishness, but her
delicacies were supposed to atone for all this. Expenses mounted
steadily; Frances had not imagined that Miss Eppendorfer had so much
money. She bought new clothes continually, and flowers, and very
expensive wines. Mr. Hassler was not absent for a single night for two
months after the coming of the German cook, but not once did he invite
his cousin to go anywhere with him, or did he bring her flowers or
sweets.

Frances could not comprehend this thing; she thought she did, but she
didn’t, in the least. It was the sort of affair not related in romantic
novels; there was nothing romantic about it. It might be classified as a
“love affair,” although it would have been confoundedly hard to find any
love in it.... Frankie simply thought that Miss Eppendorfer was “silly”
about the young man, and anxious to impress him, and that he was
attracted by the good dinners.

Her first real suspicions awoke when she was checking up the stubs in
the authoress’s cheque book, which she did every month when the vouchers
came back from the bank. And she saw, no less than five times, cheques
made out to “Kurt Hassler” for fifty dollars, sixty dollars, up to a
hundred. It gave her a vague feeling of uneasiness, which she couldn’t
shake off, although she assured herself that it was all “business.”

Then she and Miss Eppendorfer had the first of their quarrels. The cook
wanted a day off, and Miss Eppendorfer gaily asked Frankie if she
wouldn’t cook one of her dear little suppers for “Kurtie.” Frances
flushed.

“Why don’t you go to a restaurant?” she suggested.

“Kurtie’s so sick of restaurants. I told him what heavenly things you
used to fix up for me, and he said he’d like to see what you could do.
He’s----”

“I’m sorry,” said Frances, “but I’d rather not.”

“My dear! Please! I’ve practically promised.”

“I can’t help it. I _couldn’t_.”

“But _why_?”

Frances looked at her indignantly.

“I wouldn’t cook for _that man_!” she said, severely.

“What is your objection to him, may I ask?” enquired Miss Eppendorfer,
with sudden frigidity.

“I’d rather not say.”

“I insist.”

“I’m not going to say. It has nothing to do with the case, anyway. I
don’t mind--I _never_ mind doing things for _you_. But ... I should
think you’d know better than to ask me to cook for your guests. I’m
supposed to be your secretary, Miss Eppendorfer, not your servant.”

She was startled by the expression on Miss Eppendorfer’s face.

“A hell of a secretary you are!” she screamed. “You don’t know a damned
thing. You’re no more use to me than a parrot. You take my money and
never do a stroke of work. You’re as lazy as a nigger.” And much, much
more, of abuse that grew fouler and fouler, most of it unintelligible to
the girl. She stood motionless, white as a sheet, dumb with horror, her
own little anger swept away on this violent torrent. She never forgot
the scene, or the words.

“Oh!” she whispered. “Oh!... How terrible!... Oh, God, how terrible!”

For she had a dreadful feeling of helplessness, of being in a world
where her dignity was of no avail. She cried forlornly for Minnie and
her grandmother, even for her mother, dead a score of years.

She had packed her trunk and was absolutely determined to go home that
night when Miss Eppendorfer came to the door, imploring to be let in.
She, too, was in tears, streaming with tears, and she went down on her
knees to Frances.

“Forgive me!” she cried. “Forgive me! Frances, darling, you know how
terribly nervous I am! Don’t be too hard on me. I can’t live without
you!”

She was so dreadfully upset that Frances had to get her to bed and give
her a dose of some powerful sedative she used for her “nerve attacks,”
and telephoned to Hassler not to come. And in the end she agreed not to
go home.

But she remained very grave and thoughtful. She went out to supper at a
little French table d’hôte nearby, came back and went to bed, without
seeing Miss Eppendorfer again.

She was waked up late that night, though, by her. The poor creature was
crying again, standing by Frankie’s bed.

“Oh, Frances!” she moaned, “I’m so wretched! I wish I were dead!”

Frances asked what was the matter.

“Kurt was so nasty to me,” she sobbed. “I rang him up after you’d gone
out, and he came. But he wouldn’t stay a minute. He just looked at the
supper and went away. I _tried_! I had sardines and caviare and fruit,
all fixed in a dainty way.... Oh, _Frances_!”

Her voice rose to a shriek that alarmed Frances.

“Don’t get excited!” she entreated. “Just tell me, quietly, all about
it. First let me close the window.”

It was an incoherent tale; he had told her that she didn’t know how to
dress, that he wouldn’t be seen in a public place with her, that at
_her_ age she shouldn’t try to wear pink. Told her she looked vulgar.
That he couldn’t see a trace in her conversation of the brains he
imagined were required in novel writing.

Frances was exasperated.

“Why in the world do you bother with him!” she cried. “He’s--I’m sure
you’re deceived in him. Why don’t you let him go?”

Miss Eppendorfer began to weep anew.

“I love him!” she declared. And seeing Frankie’s shocked face, she
added, with humane motive, “We’re going to be married!”

Frances believed it.




CHAPTER ELEVEN


I

After this, Miss Eppendorfer was not able to make any further objection
to Frankie’s study.

“I may as well tell you now,” said Frankie, “that I shan’t--I couldn’t
stay with you after you’re married to that man.”

“But it won’t be for a long time,” Miss Eppendorfer protested.

A very long time indeed! Dimly, in her muddled head, she realised how
much she wanted and needed Frankie, even foresaw the day when Mr. Kurt
Hassler would go the way of other men to whom she had been so generous,
and she would be quite alone. She tried to bribe her not to learn
shorthand, she didn’t want her to be able to find another place; she
said it would tire her, hurt her eyes, everything she could imagine.

Frances was firm.

“You’re not alone in the evenings now,” she said, “and I’ve got to think
of my own future.”

“I’ll always look after you----”

“I don’t want to be looked after, thank you. Please don’t be
unreasonable!”

Miss Eppendorfer cried a little and consented.


II

Frances found it a curious experience. She wrote home to Minnie, after
the first week:

“I’m a sort of grandmother here in the business school. All the rest are
little girls with pigtails and hair ribbons, and little boys in short
trousers. You can imagine how I feel, so old and sedate. And even in
size! They’re all so stunted. I tower above my tiny desk. I’m taller
even than any of the teachers, and quite a different colour, at least
five degrees redder.

“I thought I knew something about typing, but I’ve had to start all over
again, and learn the ‘touch system.’ And shorthand! Oh, Minnie! I’m so
stupid, you can’t think. The others learn like eager little trained
animals. They can’t speak decently, or spell, of course, but what does
that matter? They can put down on paper what they hear someone say, and
copy it off, without the trouble of understanding. I foresee that I
shall be here for years while all the little boys and girls pass on and
out, and become bank presidents.”

It was quite true that she wasn’t quick at learning her new trade. She
was studious by nature, and painstaking, but her hand was not ready. She
was more discouraged than she cared to tell.

Life seemed, just then, a rather miserable affair. Her ambition was
balked by her slowness in learning, and she began to think that she
would never be able to do better than she was doing with Miss
Eppendorfer. A filler of odd jobs, employed principally because she was
personally agreeable.... And, somehow, Miss Eppendorfer’s talk of love
made her lonely and sad. She thought of her twenty-three years, and was
terrified by the fear that she would never be loved. She longed so to be
loved! What chance, though? She went from Miss Eppendorfer’s flat, which
no man entered but “Kurtie,” to the night school, where the oldest male
was perhaps nineteen.

A situation ripe for the coming of the hero. As usual he came. Or
perhaps, the one who came had to be he....

It was the end of June, and after two months of effort, Frankie still
sat among the beginners. She had developed a new trouble. She was able
now to scratch desperately while the teacher dictated, almost keeping
pace with her, but she could never afterward read what she had written.
She was trying in vain to type a letter she had taken down, in which all
she could distinguish was “Dear Sir:” and the “14th inst.” when she
heard someone sit down in the seat next her, which had till then been
vacant. Naturally she glanced up. It was, as she later wrote to Minnie,
a “real grown-up human being,” a tall, thin fellow with a haughty,
stupid face, a man who couldn’t be under thirty and who was dressed in
well-fitting and expensive clothes. She couldn’t help staring at him,
all the more because he took no notice of her at all. “He was so out of
place there,” she wrote. “He was so well-bred, with the nicest thin
brown hands. And, my dear Minnie, he was even stupider than me. Much
stupider.”

She watched him a great deal, as he tried to write on his machine. The
keyboard was hidden with a tin cover, so that he was obliged to learn
the letters by memory; this puzzled and annoyed him, and he frowned
severely over his chart.

“I say!” he said, suddenly, to Frances, with a marked English accent,
“Isn’t there something wrong about this thing? B ought to come next to
A.”

She explained that the keyboard wasn’t arranged alphabetically. He asked
why not, and she said she didn’t know.

“Some American idea, I suppose,” he observed, with displeasure, and
turned away to resume his struggle.

He was not polite, he was certainly not clever, and, in spite of limpid
and innocent grey eyes, not handsome; his nose was too large, his
expression too contemptuous. Why then should Frances think him so
terribly appealing and attractive? She felt an exaggerated good-will
toward him, an ardent wish to help him, even to comfort him. There was
no obvious reason for this painful compassion; he was well-dressed,
showed not the least trace of poverty, quite the contrary. He looked
healthy too, although very thin. And he had very much the air of being
satisfied with himself. Ridiculous girl!

He had come to the end of a line and not understanding the bell’s
signal, was trying to keep on writing. He saw that something was wrong,
and he turned to Frances again. She had been watching him, and was ready
to explain at once.

“I’ve never tried one of these infernal things before,” he remarked,
quite unnecessarily.

“I’ve been at it for two months,” said Frances, with a sigh, “but I
don’t seem to get on. Not like the others.”

He looked at her thoroughly for the first time.

“You’re _not_ like the others,” he said, “that’s probably why.”

And added:

“You look like an English girl.”

That meant that he was pleased, she knew.

“I’m not. I’m American--as far back as the Revolution.”

“What revolution?” he asked.

With the characteristic innocence of her country-people, whose Genesis
it is, she was astounded.

“Why, _our_ Revolution! In 1776!” she explained.

He said “Really!” and went on with his writing.

The next night he saluted her with a stiff “Good evening!” directly she
entered the room, so formal and frigid that her heart sank. They weren’t
friendly, then! But, after half an hour’s desperate effort, he grew
bored and discouraged, and once more turned his attention to the pretty
girl.

“You’re doing well,” he observed.

Frances gave a sigh and smiled at him.

“I hate it!” she said.

“Rather! But why do you do it?”

“I want to get on--get a better job.”

“What are you doing now?”

He was, she thought, very personal, but he didn’t seem aware of it.

“I’m a secretary, for an authoress.”

That seemed to interest him.

“I’d thought of something of that sort for myself,” he said. “What do
they expect of a secretary over here?”

“My position’s rather peculiar,” Frances told him. “I do all sorts of
things that aren’t really part of my duties.”

“What, for instance? Can’t you give me some sort of idea?” he persisted,
and, half-laughing, she tried to tell him.

“Oh, I go shopping with her,” she said, “and I listen while she reads,
and I get up little chafing-dish suppers, and answer the telephone, and
check up her bank book, and talk to her publishers, and--oh, well--lots
of things like that!”

“I shouldn’t call that a secretary,” said the young man. “At home we’d
call you a sort of companion.”

Frances turned red, and began typing again. He was rude, and no mistake
about it. Detestable! She worked violently for a time, then, out of the
corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him, pecking away at his
typewriter so slowly and stupidly that her heart smote her.

“Good night!” she said cheerfully when the gong sounded, and she went
off to the dictation class and he to the beginner’s room, where she
could see him through the open door, writing on the arm of his chair,
surrounded by eager children.


III

Frances was a little late the next night, and from her locker in the
corridor, she looked anxiously into the classroom for the young
Englishman’s nice brown head bent over his machine. But he wasn’t there.
She went to her place and began to work half-heartedly, with one eye on
the door, watching for him. The clock ticked on and on, half an hour
gone, still she couldn’t believe he wasn’t coming. The whole long hour
passed, the typing lesson was finished, and he hadn’t come.

Disappointment out of all proportion assailed her. Her heart was like
lead, the whole world blank.

“What a fool I am!” she told herself. “Why on earth should I care? I
don’t really; it’s only that he’s the only other possible person in the
place---- Why should he come? Of course he’s given up the whole thing in
disgust. _Of course_ he’s not coming back, at all. Ever. Of course I
shan’t see him again. What difference does it make?”

And yet, in spite of all this excellent common-sense, that feeling of
desolation persisted. She hated and loathed the silly school, made up
her mind to stop coming. She sat in the shorthand class, scratching down
her unintelligible little symbols----

Suddenly an awful thought swept over her. It grew rapidly to a
conviction. He had certainly stayed away solely because of her, because
she had been so preposterously over-friendly that he was disgusted and
alarmed. She did wish that she might see him once more, just to tell him
that she didn’t like him, not him, personally; simply, like all nice
Americans, she had wanted to be kind to a stranger....

She rushed out the minute the class was over. She was very anxious to
get home. And there he was, waiting for her, standing under a street
lamp where the light streamed on his arrogant face, a slim, foppish
figure, with a walking stick. She felt suddenly angry at him; replied
with coldness to his greeting.

“It was such a nice evening,” he said, “I couldn’t stand that filthy
place.”

It was; sweet, calm, fresh, with a bright little moon overhead.

“I thought perhaps you’d like to walk a bit,” he said, “if you’re not
tired.”

She hesitated imperceptibly, then accepted.

“A few blocks,” she said. “I shouldn’t like to be late.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked presently.

Frances said she didn’t, and they began strolling, quite aimlessly,
uptown.

“I say!” he exclaimed, “It’s very decent of you to come. You Americans
_are_ unconventional, aren’t you?”

“Not all of us,” said Frances drily.

“We’re different. We won’t have anything to do with a stranger till
we’ve got his credentials. I dare say we’re over-particular. No English
girl I’ve ever met would take up a man this way----”

“I’m not in the habit of it,” said Frances. She was affronted and angry.
“But I’m not a child. I’m accustomed to--to forming my own judgments.
I--as far as I could judge, you were a gentleman. I thought you’d quite
understand----”

“I _do_!” he protested, “I do, absolutely. I only wanted to tell you
that I like it--all this freedom, you know. An English girl of your
class would be so--so much more prudent----”

“I’m not imprudent!” cried Frances, passionately.

“Ah, but you are, though. My dear young lady, you don’t even know my
name.”

“Well, what is it, then?” she asked, half-laughing, half-furious. “You’d
better tell me, if that will make this shocking walk more ‘prudent.’”

“Lionel Naylor,” he said.

“Haven’t you any letters, any papers, to identify yourself? How can I
tell if that’s really your name?”

He replied with perfect seriousness:

“I’ve one or two things--a letter----”

“Oh, nonsense! Couldn’t you see that I was joking? Why on earth should I
care _who_ you are? I’m old enough and sufficiently intelligent to find
out very soon _what_ you are. I’m not afraid of strange men. I can take
care of myself.”

“It does no harm for a girl to be careful,” he answered, stubbornly.

And that was, apparently, his final word. They went on in silence.
Frances counted fifteen blocks without a word. At the first crossing he
had rather ceremoniously taken her arm, and he didn’t release it. He
seemed quite contented to go on forever in this way. But it provoked
Frances beyond measure. She longed to say to him:

“Why did you ask me to take a walk, if you didn’t want to speak to me?”

She made up her mind that she wouldn’t speak first, no matter how long
it was. She had to, though. She looked at her watch.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to turn back now,” she said. “It’s time I was
home.”

“I say!” he cried. “That’s too bad! I wanted to have a talk with you.”

“Why didn’t you talk then?” she asked, sharply, and he answered with
equal irritability:

“My dear young lady, I can’t plunge into things the way you people do. I
have to collect my thoughts a bit----”

“Strange as it may seem to you,” said Frances, “all the people in this
country are not exactly alike.”

It began to dawn upon him that she was really annoyed, that these people
were possibly as sensitive to offence as himself. Instantly he was very
sorry.

“I dare say I’m not very tactful,” he said, “I didn’t mean to be
offensive, though, I assure you. I admire you people very much.”

“_All_ of us?”

He laughed.

“There are some, of course.... My sister-in-law--She!...”

“She’s an American?”

“Yes. My brother lives over here, you know. Been here some time. We
thought he was a confirmed bachelor. Practically certain not to marry.
Then, the very day after I got here, he did it. And such a girl! Of
course it made trouble at once.”

Frances was interested, and moreover, she could see that he wanted to
talk about it.

“How?” she asked.

“Set my brother against me. Put all sorts of beastly--Am--beastly ideas
into his head. She has no use for a man unless he’s eternally stewing
over a row of figures, grubbing after money. So now he’s got this
idiotic idea of my learning this typing and shorthand rot. And why? So I
can get a job in his office. I never heard such silly rot. What earthly
use is that stuff going to be? I shan’t be one of his clerks. It’s _her_
idea. She wants to humiliate me.”

Frances murmured something sympathetic.

“What business were you in before?” she asked.

“Not in any business,” he replied, surprised. “Didn’t you understand? I
suppose, according to _your_ ideas, I’m no good. I’ve never done
anything much. Just stopped at home while my mother was alive.... Until
two years ago ... when she died. She--liked to have me at home. We got
on together very well.”

He was rather pathetically anxious to be friendly and communicative now,
to show her that he wasn’t aloof and condescending. He tried to tell her
about himself, indirectly to present his credentials. And did so, far
more fully than he imagined. With every word, spoken and unspoken, she
was more certain that she had not been mistaken--that he was “nice,”
that he was to be trusted, that he was mysteriously likable.

“We travelled, and so on,” he continued. “She liked that.... Do you
know, when I look at this girl Horace has married, I’m glad--really
glad, the poor old mater--isn’t here.”

Then, unfortunately, he got started on a very favourite topic; he told
her what he had endured from “that girl”; how she sneered at him,
persecuted him, was continually poisoning his brother’s mind against
him. Frances listened with a heavy heart. She couldn’t approve of this!
It wasn’t manly; it wasn’t fine. She pitied him, yearned over him, and
at the same time felt a passionate Defoe desire to lecture him, to tell
him he was wrong, didn’t see things in a proper light. She wanted to
tell him what to do and offer to help him to do it.

Conversation about his sister-in-law lasted until they had reached
Frankie’s door. Then he was once more surprised and regretful that he
hadn’t made better use of his time. He took Frankie’s proffered hand
warmly.

“You see,” he said, “I didn’t ask _your_ name. It wasn’t necessary.”

“Do you know it?” she asked, a little puzzled.

“No, not that. Simply, I don’t need any credentials to know that
you’re--absolutely--all right. Absolutely.”

She smiled at him maternally. She liked that clumsy compliment; she
liked his naïveness, his simplicity, even his rudeness. She saw him no
longer as a young man, but as a boy, who had been badly trained, a
rather spoilt boy. She felt very peaceful, very kindly, toward him and
toward everyone else. She had never known life to be so satisfying as it
was that evening, for no reason at all.




CHAPTER TWELVE


I

He was there, the next evening, and welcomed her as an old friend; in
fact, he talked so much that she grew uneasy.

“We’d better work a little,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be awful if a
teacher should come and scold us--at our age!”

“What I particularly want to ask,” he said, “is, if you’d come down to
Brighton Beach to-morrow? I’ll run you down in Horace’s motor. We’ll
have lunch and a swim and get back early. Will that be all right?”

“I’d love it,” she answered, “but I don’t know whether Miss E. could
spare me. I’ll ask her.”

“Perhaps if I came home with you this evening, it would look better. So
that she can see what sort of chap I am. I could stop in for a moment,
couldn’t I?”

“Yes,” Frances answered, doubtfully, “but--I suppose so ... but I’ll
have to explain a little in advance. There’s a young German who comes
every evening to see her, and you’re sure to find him there.”

“Every evening, eh?”

“Yes; he’s her cousin.”

He frowned over this; asked a number of questions.

“Are you sure she’s all right?” he demanded. “You can’t be too careful,
you know.”

“Oh, yes!” Frances asserted, positively, although she was far from sure
that he would think so.

“I’ll certainly stop in this evening,” he said. “I want to see for
myself.”

“I don’t think you’d better,” she said, reluctantly, “Miss E.’s awfully
queer, eccentric, you know. She mightn’t like it.”

“But I want to see her,” he insisted. “She surely can’t object to my
stopping in for half a minute. You’re not a servant.”

“It’s not that----”

“I want to see for myself,” he repeated. “It may not be a suitable place
for you at all. I’d know at once.”

His attitude, his air of protection, delighted Frankie while it annoyed
her. She was so firmly convinced that she could take care of herself, so
jealous of her freedom, that she didn’t want even advice. And still
couldn’t help being very much pleased by this wholly masculine gesture.

In the end she agreed. And was at once sorry and wretched, going through
her classes in a nightmare of worry. How would Miss Eppendorfer take it?
What would she think of Frankie’s walking in, uninvited, unpermitted,
with a strange man? And how to explain him? Now she was ready to confess
herself imprudent. She would have given anything she owned if something
would have prevented Mr. Naylor from coming.

He, of course, was perfectly unruffled, as anyone conscious of such
superiority would be. He followed Frances into the little Mission
sitting-room where Miss Eppendorfer and Mr. Hassler were smoking side by
side on the sofa. Frances was bitterly embarrassed; for a minute she
couldn’t speak at all. She saw them both staring at her in amazement.

“I’ve brought my friend, Mr. Naylor, in for a few minutes,” she said, in
a strained, artificial sort of voice. “We----”

Nothing more came; the girl who could always take care of herself
couldn’t account for her visitor.

“We met at the business school,” said Naylor, “and as we were more or
less the only human beings there, we naturally had to be friends.”

At the sound of his careless voice, Miss Eppendorfer’s look of amazement
died away. She got up and shook hands with him, presented him to Kurt,
and asked him to sit down. She was like a good servant; she knew class
when she saw it.

Never before had Frances realised how distinguished her Mr. Naylor was
until she saw him in Miss Eppendorfer’s sitting-room. She saw the
authoress inspecting him in her detailed and unabashed way, staring at
him, computing the cost of his clothes, comprehending the high degree he
possessed of what she called “style,” and so greatly admired. She was
deeply impressed.

He was very gallant to the poor thing, which delighted her beyond
measure. No denying that she made a fool of herself. She was coy,
imperious, more youthful than she had ever dared to be with Kurt, and,
no matter how preposterous her behaviour, Mr. Naylor didn’t once attempt
to catch Frankie’s eye, never encouraged her to be more preposterous.

Poor Miss Eppendorfer! Frankie, watching her, reflected on her
ingratiating servility toward Mr. Hassler and her present conduct with
Mr. Naylor, and found it impossible to reconcile all this with the Miss
Eppendorfer she knew. Could it be the same woman who often talked to her
with sense, with cynical shrewdness, with sharp knowledge of the world?
The same woman who wrote books and sold them, knew how to make money and
how to invest it? At the sound of a man’s voice she was horribly
bewitched, even her face lost its look of worn good nature and took on a
false and stupid simper. It hurt Frances, she was genuinely grateful to
Mr. Naylor for not sneering.

But the baleful eye of the young German was fixed upon him. He was
forced to sit in silence and listen to their badinage, and it infuriated
him. He broke in suddenly, in a harsh, high voice:

“You are in business here?”

Mr. Naylor turned toward him, looked at him, and hated him.

“No,” he said.

“Perhaps you are looking for an opening?”

“No; there’s an ‘opening’ for me when I’m ready for it,” he answered
haughtily.

“It should not be at all difficult to find an opening in this country.
The requirements are so small,” Mr. Hassler announced, with tact. “Here
they will willingly employ a man who knows nothing. Even hard work they
don’t expect. With us in Germany all is very different. It is necessary
to work very hard. We are all trained to work very hard. A young fellow
starting in business with us would never ask, ‘What are the hours?’
Certainly not. We realise that you have got to work very hard, in order
to get somewhere.”

“We don’t need to work so hard in England,” said Mr. Naylor. “We _are_
somewhere.”

“Yes, where!” cried the other, raising his voice.

“Where you’d like to be,” Mr. Naylor replied with a smile.

“Bah! You’re getting left behind. We’re beating you everywhere, in every
line. Your British trade--where will it be in ten years’ time?”

“Can’t say, I’m sure. I’m not in trade. But I’m not worried. I dare say
we’ll still be on the map.”

Mr. Hassler’s excitement carried him away.

“Yes, you’ll be on the map!” he shouted, “as a German Provinz. We’ll
stamp out a little of that damn arrogance.”

“I say, are you trying to be funny?”

“That damned British arrogance,” he went on, at the top of his voice.
“You half-educated, half-trained, half-alive nation of money-greedy
_pigs_----”

“I say!” cried Mr. Naylor again, puzzled and angry, “You’re going a bit
too far!”

“PIGS!” shouted the young German.

Naylor sprang to his feet, as white with anger as the other was red; he
was on the point of speaking when Frances caught his arm.

“Oh, please!” she entreated, and suddenly and helplessly, began to
laugh.

“Oh, why do Germans always call people pigs!” she cried.

They all looked at her, and under their surprised glance, she struggled
for self-control and gained it. She looked down at the ground, her mouth
still quivering, and kept very still.

“As for _you_----” began Mr. Hassler, and then stopped.

“Now! Now!” begged Miss Eppendorfer, in terrible distress, “Now,
gentlemen!... What about some nice cold beer?”

She was afraid, though, to fetch it and leave the men alone; she was
afraid also to ask Frances, not knowing whether or not she considered
herself insulted in the person of her guest. She stood nervously
smiling, her eyes on her cousin, mutely beseeching him to be placated by
beer. At last Frances took pity on her, and went herself to get the
stuff. But Mr. Naylor declined.

“Thanks,” he said, stiff and outraged, “I’ll be going.”

“Pshaw!” muttered Mr. Hassler, who stood at the window with his back
turned ostentatiously.

“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Naylor, crisply.

“Pshaw!” the other repeated, somewhat louder.

With a very obvious effort the young Englishman said nothing to this; he
took his hat, and with a hasty hand-clasp for Frankie and a bow for
Miss Eppendorfer, took himself off.

Frankie went into her own room and tried to compose herself by reading,
but not for long. Almost immediately the front door slammed and Miss
Eppendorfer came into her room like a whirlwind.

“There! You see!” she screamed. “You miserable creature! He’s gone! He’s
gone!”

Frances looked at her severely.

“You’ve spoiled everything!” she went on. “How did you dare to laugh at
him? What right have you to laugh at him! You’re nothing better than a
servant. And he belongs to one of the finest families in Hamburg. His
father’s worth nearly half a million. He’s been through Heidelberg. And
you dare to laugh at him! Who are you, anyway? A big, gawky fool of a
girl.... Picking up a man in the street and bringing him into my
house.... He’s shocked at you.”

And so on, in the strain that so sickened and dismayed Frances.

“He laughs at you. He says you’re a clumsy, ignorant----” ... All manner
of dirty insolence.

The heart of the trouble was there, that Frances had laughed at him. He
could forget his anger against the Englishman, but he could not stomach
being laughed at by a pretty girl. He had said horrible things about
her, which Miss Eppendorfer had treasured up and now repeated, with
greater malice because she dimly perceived that in his hatred for
Frances there was more than a little lust.

Against this attack Frances was defenceless. There was nothing in her
nature, nothing in her training, to arm her. She stood up very straight,
very proud, but tears were running down her cheeks. She waited until
every one of the dreadful words had been said, and the speaker had flung
out of the room, then she set to work to pack her little trunk with
furious energy, cramming everything in, wishing only to be gone forever
from that place. In hat and jacket, she went out into the hall and
telephoned for a taxi.

The driver came up after her trunk; he was just dragging it along the
hall to put it into the lift, when Miss Eppendorfer came rushing out, in
a kimono, her face raddled and tear-blistered, her wisps of hair in a
wild tangle.

“No! No!” she screamed. “Stop! Frances!”

Her voice reverberated shockingly in the stone corridor. The lift boy
and the chauffeur stared at her. Frances felt ready to faint.

“Frances! Come back and let me explain!”

“I can’t!” said Frances in a low voice. “Please don’t make such a
noise!”

“Come back! I can’t let you go like this! I didn’t mean what I said! You
know I didn’t!”

Already the doors of two apartments had stealthily opened.

“Oh, please hush!” entreated Frances. “I can’t come back. I’ll write.”

Suddenly Miss Eppendorfer turned to the two men.

“Can’t _you_ beg this hard-hearted girl not to leave me like this,
without a chance to explain?” she sobbed, in a torrent of tears. “Can’t
you say a word for me? I’m alone in the world. I haven’t----”

“Hush!” commanded Frances. “I’ll come! Please take the trunk in again.”

When the front door was closed Miss Eppendorfer flung her arms about
Frances.

“I know you can’t forgive me,” she moaned. “But, oh Frances!... You
don’t know what love is! You don’t know how I love that man! I know I’m
a fool, but I can’t help it. Oh, Frances, just stand by me till it’s
over.”

“I don’t understand you. I thought you were going to marry him----”

“No! No! Never!... Only stand by me till I get over it. It won’t last.
He’ll go away soon. It’s madness; I know it. But you don’t _know_ how I
suffer. I can’t help myself. Oh, Frances, you’re so cool and reasonable,
you don’t _know_!”

The flood of her confession was not to be dammed. Frances had to hear it
all and to learn its lesson, as well as her unready mind permitted. And
all the time she listened, in shame, pity and disgust, her adventuring
spirit was eagerly and thirstily drinking this new knowledge, this
experience, precious even if vicarious.

She really understood very little of it. Miss Eppendorfer, although
protesting constantly how she “loved” Kurt, seemed actually to display
more hate than affection. She bore him a bitter grudge for this “love.”
She was full of stories of his sneers, his taunts; how he had pulled the
pins out of her hair and then laughed himself sick at the bleached and
scanty locks. How he compared her to other women whom he had seen in the
course of the day; how he had asked her to sing, and then mocked her.
How he wasted her money and forever demanded more. She knew that he
ridiculed her to his friends. He encouraged her to drink and then got
her to sign cheques....

The end of her recital left her stripped of all decency, all honour,
showed her a weak fool destroyed by a vice, something to shudder at: yet
her honesty, her lack of self-justification, the eternal and naked
humanness in it all, touched even the fastidious young girl.

“This awful thing is _I_!” the woman seemed to say. “This is my soul.
May God help me, and Man pity me!”

Frances sat beside her till she fell asleep, wiser, kinder, better than
she had ever been before.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN


I

Mr. Naylor telephoned the next morning.

“I’m waiting downstairs in the hall,” he said. “I don’t care to come
up.”

Frances hurried into her hat and jacket and went down. She got into the
motor-car beside him, indescribably relieved to get away from the flat
for a while. She looked at him with a smile.

“Well!” she said.

“Well!” he repeated. “Upon my word, that was a jolly little party last
night! That German chap!”

“You don’t know how sorry I felt, bringing that on you. But, of course,
I never imagined----”

“You know, though, it’s no place for you, Miss Defoe. That woman’s
not----”

“Please! You really can’t understand her as I do. She--really,
she’s....”

She stopped, at a loss, but quite determined to protect the poor wretch
who had begged for pity the night before.

“She has so many good points,” she went on, “Oh, I’m not quite an idiot,
Mr. Naylor.... I see her as she is. Only--I’d rather dwell on her good
qualities. She’s been very kind to me.”

Not for worlds would she have told anyone of the two dreadful scenes.
She enlarged on Miss Eppendorfer’s friendliness and good humour and the
excellence of her work.

“That’s all very well,” said he, “but I stick to it that it’s no place
for _you_.”

They didn’t talk much more on the way down; Mr. Naylor was too much
occupied with his driving, which was minutely careful. He took no risks,
and he muttered furiously against those who did. He seemed to Frankie
unnecessarily prudent; she would have liked to go faster, as lots of
other cars did. However, a look at his frowning face reproved her; she
felt that this driving business must be more difficult, more perilous
than her inexperience imagined.

As soon as they reached the beach he proposed taking their swim at once,
and she very readily agreed. Poor girl! She hadn’t been in the sea for
years, since those long gone days, those happy days when she had been a
school-girl. She was, it must be admitted, rather eager to “show off” to
her Englishman, for she was a good swimmer, and not at all an unpleasant
object in a bathing suit. She came out of her bath-house and walked down
on to the beach, conscious of her splendid symmetry, her strong,
straight limbs, her face gay and boyish under a tight rubber cap. It was
obvious to both of them at once that Mr. Naylor was physically not at
all her equal. Gone his chic, his superiority; he was thin, fragile,
rather wretched. Within her stirred faintly an old, old instinct,
perverted and crushed out through generations of false training, the
instinct of the woman to seek for strength and beauty in her mate. Her
smile was artificial.

“Beastly cold!” he grumbled.

But Frances dashed by him, through the breakers, and began swimming out
in strong and beautiful strokes, her bare arms flashing up rhythmically,
her white teeth showing in a broad smile. She looked back, and saw Mr.
Naylor moving slowly near the shore; after ten minutes or so he came
out on to the sand, and lay in the sun watching her. And presently began
to wave.

She came inshore reluctantly.

“What is it?” she asked. “It’s glorious in the water to-day. I never
want to come out!”

“It’s time to come out now,” he said.

“Oh, it can’t be! I’ll _have_ to stop longer!”

“But, I say, I want my lunch. This isn’t much of a lark for me, you
know, roasting out here like this.”

“Why don’t you go back into the water again?”

“I can’t. It gives me a chill.”

“A chill!” said Frances, and couldn’t keep a faint contempt out of her
voice. “You’d better go and dress. I’ll be out presently.”

“I shouldn’t think of leaving you; you’re so rash. Go ahead, enjoy
yourself; I’ll wait.”

His good nature conquered Frances; she gave one more look at the
glittering sea and went back into her bath-house.

She had to wait quite twenty minutes for him.

“You’re quick, aren’t you?” he said, artlessly.

“Or is it that you’re slow?” she returned. Now he was his own self
again, the imperturbable, the superior. She wished to forget the
shivering, frail being who had for a time supplanted him.

He ordered an amazing lunch, in the old “Oriental,” which was still
standing then, with its unique flavour; he saw people whom he knew by
sight and could point out to Frankie. He ordered champagne, which she
had never before tasted. He was like a prince, or rather, like a
millionaire....

After this meal, which was nothing less than a banquet, Frances said she
would have to go home.

“The awful cook’s gone out,” she explained, “and I’ll have to help poor
Miss E. to get something ready.”

“What!” he cried. “Do you mean to tell me you’re going to _cook_!”

“And eat,” she answered, cheerfully. “Please don’t be mediæval.”

“I don’t like it. A girl of your class--and your ability----”

They were spinning along the road by the marshes, passed by an incessant
stream of motors going down.

“It’s a confounded shame to go home now anyway,” he said. “If we could
only have had the evening!”

“Another time,” she said, before she thought, and was rather confused at
her own forwardness.

“I hope so,” he answered gravely, “I can’t tell you how much I--like to
be with you. I--altogether--I’ve old Horace to see you.... Do you
suppose you could meet him some time? Without his wife, I mean? It’s
irregular, I know, but you’re not conventional.”

She said no, that she wasn’t.

“Could you set a time? Next Wednesday?”

And she said she thought that would do.


II

“You don’t mind if I go out to tea on Wednesday, do you?” Frances asked
Miss Eppendorfer the next morning.

“Not a bit!” said she, cheerfully. “I like to see you enjoy yourself
like a human being. Is it your English friend?”

“Yes. The only trouble is, I haven’t a thing fit to wear, and it’s at a
hotel,” she said. “Couldn’t you come down town with me and help me pick
out something?”

Miss Eppendorfer was only too pleased; it was one of her good days and
she was cheerful and energetic. She led Frances from shop to shop,
imperiously rejecting every suggestion.

“I know what suits you,” she insisted, “I’m a wonderful judge of value,
too. You leave it all to me.”

At last she was pleased by a grey broadcloth suit.

“Oh, yes!” cried Frankie, ironically. “A hundred and fifty dollars is
just what I always pay!”

“I’m going to get it for you.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” she protested, shocked.

“You must. To make up for all I said that night,” whispered the
authoress. “Be generous, Frances! Don’t be petty!”

She allowed herself to be persuaded, accepted the suit and with it a new
hat and blouse. She felt guilty and ashamed and yet delighted. She was
so very anxious to make a favourable impression on this brother Horace.

She started off, very nervous and still more ashamed. The whole exploit
seemed wrong, meeting the man without his wife, and wearing clothes she
could never have bought for herself.... It was common.

“Cheap,” she reflected.

But Horace would have made a supper-club respectable. They were waiting
in the corridor; she saw _her_ Mr. Naylor at once though he didn’t see
her; slender and drooping, quietly conscious of his impeccable British
elegance, he was watching the wrong door. Near him was a heavy,
bull-necked, red-faced man with a black moustache and melancholy,
bilious eyes, who smoked a big cigar and stared nowhere. This was
Horace.

He surprised Frances by his lack of everything that pleased her in his
brother. He was altogether the merchant, not a hint of the
man-of-the-world. He shook hands with her and smiled, but it was a sad,
dull smile. He was distrait, and couldn’t conceal it.

“Well,” he said, with a sigh, “Lead the way, Lionel, my boy!”

They entered an engaging little tea-room with shaded lamps and sofas.
Lionel took charge of everything, chose a table, and ordered the
cocktails, but the management of the conversation was evidently beyond
him. There was a long and awkward silence, while the drinks were coming.
No one looked at either of the others.

It was Horace who first revived, after two cocktails.

“Well,” he observed again, “He’s a handful. You’ll have to keep an eye
on him, _I_ can tell you.”

Frances was startled; was he talking to her?... She looked up and caught
his gaze, melancholy and kindly, fixed on her.

“You’ll have all you can manage, with _him_,” he continued.

She was alarmed and confused. It wasn’t possible that he thought.... And
yet, very evidently, he did think so, for he went on, with a sort of
gloomy archness:

“I hope he won’t be too much for you.”

She was anxious to refute the suggestion of any responsibility for
Lionel, to tell this brother, subtly and politely, but unmistakably,
that he misread the situation. But she could not, on the spur of the
moment, think of anything that would do.

“I don’t really know Mr. Naylor very well,” she attempted.

Horace smiled.

“Plenty of time!” he said.

And this time his glance wandered to his brother, and was curiously
altered, rested upon that futile young face with limitless fidelity and
affection----

“Yes,” he said again, fatuously, “You’ll have your hands full.”

Frances had a horrible feeling of being caught in a net.

“I’m afraid I can’t undertake such a responsibility,” she said, with a
sickly smile.

Horace smiled indulgently at her. After a third cocktail, he was
becoming a little garrulous on the subject of his brother; partly
because he thought it would interest Frankie and partly because it was
his great topic anyway. His pride in his brother was rather surprising
to Frankie; she couldn’t know, of course, from what a stodgy, obscure
family this charming irresponsibility had sprung, couldn’t imagine how
audacious his extravagances appeared, how remarkable his social
progress; in fine, she couldn’t see him as a Naylor.

It was not until much later that she divined something of the relations
between these two. Sons of a well-to-do manufacturer, they had both
“received advantages” in the way of education and so forth, but while
Horace remained immutably the son of a wealthy manufacturer who had had
“advantages,” Lionel in some mysterious way, not unusual in this world,
had turned out to be aristocratic, elegant, fashionable. His brother
took a naïve pride in this; he admired Lionel as he did royalty, not
very useful, but immensely valuable in his place. He never urged him to
go into business; he was quite satisfied that he should go his own
dazzling way. For Horace was not the classic business man of stage and
story, who despises and berates the idler; he was something much newer,
the money-maker who is apologetic and secretly bewildered; who feels
called upon to justify his activity. Lionel was what he would have liked
to be, only that he knew it to be impossible. He acknowledged that they
were of different clay.

He told Frankie how Lionel had no idea of time, and was always late.

How he kept the most exclusive people waiting for him and never had a
proper excuse.

How he spent preposterous sums on handkerchiefs, his hobby.

How altogether idle and rude and popular he had been “at home.”

In spite of her common-sense, Frankie began to feel that the attentions
of such a man were something to boast of, to treasure. He wasn’t rude to
her, ever.

After a fourth cocktail and a minute sardine sandwich, Horace said he
was obliged to go.

“Au revoir!” he said to Frankie, with a very bad accent. “If this boy
gives you any trouble, you let me know, eh?”

He clasped her hand in his warm, moist one with genuine good-will,
slapped Lionel on the shoulder, and went out, edging his way clumsily
among the little low tables.

Lionel gave a sigh of comfort, and leaned across the table.

“May I have another cup?” he asked.

Frances was looking at him sternly.

“Mr. Naylor!” she said, “You have given your brother a false
impression.”

He was startled.

“I ... so it seems,” he said, weakly, “I ... he _does_ seem....”

“It isn’t fair,” she went on, “I’m surprised at you! What could _I_ do?
Or say? Mr. Naylor, really, it was _not_ right of you!”

“I know it.... But I give you my word I never exactly said--anything. I
dare say I was--oh, enthusiastic.... I suppose he drew his own
conclusions.”

He went on, after a pause:

“I did talk a lot about you.... You see----”

He tapped his cigarette nervously on his plate.

“I say!” he said. “Couldn’t it be true, you know?”

She understood him well enough, and a bright colour surged into her
face.

“What?” she asked, disingenuously.

“I mean--what Horace thinks.... I mean--do you think you _could_----”

She faltered.

“I don’t know.... It’s been such a short time----”

“You know that doesn’t matter. Time! Why, the first minute I saw you,
there in that beastly school, I knew I was done for. You looked so
lovely and so dignified. Such a lady. Just the sort of girl I’d always
thought about. My lovely girl! My dear, beautiful girl!”

For some reason her eyes filled with tears. His voice touched her so,
moved her so profoundly. She couldn’t pretend, couldn’t hesitate.
Because _she_ knew, too, perfectly well. She looked up at him with a
trembling smile.

“It’s silly!” she said. “We don’t know each other.”

“I know _you_, darling, as well as if I’d seen you every day for a
year.”

“But, really, we must be sensible,” she said, seriously. “We’ll have to
wait--not commit ourselves to anything definite. We’ll be friends----”

“Not I! I _want_ to commit myself as much as possible. Won’t you commit
yourself just a little bit, darling girl? Just go so far as to say you
_like_ me?”

“You know I like you,” she said, smiling.

He could laugh now, tease her; he knew she was won.

They left the tea-room and began to stroll down Fifth Avenue. And at
every crossing he took her arm and their eyes met, and a ridiculous and
passionate happiness filled them both.

“_My_ girl!” he whispered.

Frances was almost ashamed of being so happy; she was anxious to appear
practical and reasonable. She said she had shopping to do, and that
Lionel might come with her, if he liked. He insisted upon augmenting her
little purchases, choosing very expensive things, and things he had
realised she wanted. In spite of her independence, all this was
delightful to her; she hesitated, refused, accepted....

A shop girl looked after them, was amused at their long, long glances
and their unwarranted smiles: she thought them a well-matched couple,
both so tall and so nice-looking and so well-bred. And she was very
right; they were well-matched, by God Himself, Who had filled Lionel’s
need of a strong and sober and honest lover, who had given to Frankie
the gay and careless companion her heart required, the clinging and
exigent affection she could so well support. Lionel had the power to
soften the touch of austerity latent in her, the hint of priggishness;
she had the nobility and the resoluteness which he needed as an example,
a stimulus to his plastic soul. They had, in each other’s company, a
sense of absolute completeness and satisfaction; they knew that this
love was altogether _right_.

Frances inspected the new pocketbook he had bought her, so unnecessarily
and unsuitably costly, and then again at Lionel’s happy face. And she
would have liked to cry out what she and all women know enough to
conceal:

“Oh, my love, I want to protect you, to care for you, to shield your raw
pride, forever and ever to stand between you and the world!”

And that mustn’t be said. She knew she must call his weakness strength,
or she would destroy him. No man must ever see his true self mirrored in
a woman’s eyes. He could not endure it.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN


I

“But don’t worry, my dearest girl!” said Lionel.

“I can’t help it,” said Frances. “It’s such a waste. We could just as
well take a train. Or anyway the taxi needn’t wait. We could always find
another.”

They were on the veranda of a hotel at Long Beach, on a Sunday
afternoon, part of the crowd that Lionel liked so much.

“We might not,” he said. “There’s such a mob here. Better take no
chances. As for the train--no, thanks! Now, do be a nice kid, and not
scold me. Don’t you want me to have _any_ pleasures at all?”

“That’s not the question. Oh, Lionel, we could have just as nice a time
without being so dreadfully wasteful. It’s ... why, Lionel, it’s _mad_!”

She had a genuine dislike for extravagance and frivolity. Old traditions
from remote Defoe ancestors urged her always toward prudence and
restraint. She really couldn’t enter into Lionel’s mood, couldn’t for a
moment be careless, and would never pretend to be. She wanted dignity
and purpose; she was fond enough of fun, but it wasn’t his kind. She
could not enjoy watching other people spend money. Lionel didn’t care to
swim, or to walk; he was quite happy to sit on a crowded veranda,
drinking cocktails and chaffing his serious girl. He was happy now, in
watching the streams of people going in and out of the hotel,
over-dressed, over-perfumed, over-fed, over-stimulated. But there was
nothing here for Frankie.

All this life that Lionel had pulled her into distressed her. He had
urged her to give up her business course, and instead they went out
somewhere every evening. Miss Eppendorfer was always ready to let her
go, as long as she wasn’t left alone. She absolutely approved of Lionel.
From her point of view, he was the ideal lover, attractive and lavish.
He was continually bringing presents to Frankie, flowers, chocolates and
books. He refused to believe that she was not very fond of sweets, and
was deaf to her hints that her taste in reading was not his. She felt
like a prig, a bluestocking, with her perpetual advice and rebuke. Her
serious soul was in revolt against this waste of time; often when they
were at some blatant cabaret, she would be longing for her quiet room
and a good book. She was really weary of this ceaseless pleasure-hunt,
disgusted, and yet hadn’t the heart to deny his pleasures to Lionel. He
never read a book, and was no more capable or desirous of quiet than a
small boy.

She took it for granted that he was more or less a rich man, and that as
his wife she would be obliged to endure a good deal of this sort of
existence. She did ask him, though, if he wouldn’t just as soon live out
of town, and he said, whatever she liked. So she was able to picture
herself in one of those charming suburban houses on the Sound, with a
fine garden, and horses, and dogs. And undoubtedly children; lovely,
happy children.

He had started to work in his brother’s office, which pleased Frankie,
for she had the American woman’s dislike for an unoccupied man. He said
he was doing well, and talked of an early marriage. But that, too, was
against Frankie’s principles. She wanted to wait, not because she wasn’t
sure of herself or of him, but because a hasty marriage appeared somehow
indecent to her. She even refused to tell her own people.

“Wait till I’ve known you a little longer,” she said.

Taken all in all, this “being engaged” was not what Frankie had
expected, was by no means the happiest time of her life, as she had
always been told it would be. With Lionel, _per se_, she could find no
fault. If he had been made to order for a Defoe he could not have been
more satisfactory. He was almost like a brother in his manner, never too
ardent, too pressing, or in any way offending her squeamishness. It was
for this she really adored him, for his delicacy and genuine kindliness.
She was too ignorant fully to appreciate it; she was simply vaguely
thankful that he was not like “some men” of whom she had read and heard.

Moreover, she had a little of Horace’s absurd admiration for Lionel’s
social graces. All the solid, substantial, serious people in the world
have it, this irrational and somewhat pathetic regard for the others,
the spenders, the wasters, the ones who refuse to conform to their
righteous code, the gay and audacious good-for-nothings. She knew that
she wouldn’t have _dared_ to do as he did, live after his style.
Sometimes she had misgivings, fancied her ideas for the future were
sordid and petty, her hope for an orderly, self-respecting sort of
existence, the house in the suburbs, with books and lectures and
intellectual friends.... An existence that had no place for the poor
fellow’s febrile excitements.

Characteristically she got Lionel into the picture by assuring herself
that he would change.


II

There came one day a careless little note, scrawled in huge letters on a
bizarre card with a purple and gold monogram:

     “_Won’t you come for dinner on Thursday?_

                                                         “JULIE NAYLOR.”



Lionel explained it to her when he arrived that evening.

“Horace made her,” he said. “If she had her own way, I don’t think she’d
ever ask a woman into the house. Of course she’s out of the question.
Impossible. But for Horace’s sake, I wish you’d come. He’s a decent old
boy. And he likes you. Thought you were the prettiest thing he’s
seen---- You’ll go, won’t you?”

Upon reflection, it seemed the correct thing to do, and she consented.

Miss Eppendorfer helped her to get ready on the very important evening.
She took the greatest interest in the whole affair, was very arch about
it. Frances persisted in her “nothing really settled yet,” but Miss
Eppendorfer refused to believe it.

“Oh, I know all about such things!” she said.

This evening was to mark the end of the feeble pretence, anyway. Lionel
came for her a little early, and Miss Eppendorfer undertook to entertain
him until Frankie was ready. She heard them talking gaily together, in
their usual vein of preposterous flirtation. She surmised the customary
brandy and soda, and she felt her invariable shade of annoyance at their
_camaraderie_. If Lionel would only be--not condescending of course,
but--oh, a little more----

An unusually loud shriek from the authoress startled her.

“Oh, you extravagant boy! What a _beauty_! What a perfect beauty!”

She hurried a bit then, and entered the room, looking her very best and
loveliest, dignified, concealing her curiosity. They were on the sofa
side by side, a little table before them holding the siphon and the
brandy bottle, their heads together over something in the authoress’s
hand. Directly she saw Frankie, she thrust the thing back at Lionel.

“_You_ must show it to her!” she cried, in great excitement.

Lionel extended his hand, proffered her her ring----

It was the conventional single diamond, set in platinum, a stone so pure
and beautiful and of such a size that Frances almost gasped. Her face
showed no pleasure at first, nothing but blank dismay. She barely
stopped herself in time from saying:

“But oh, how terribly expensive!”

He put it on her finger, and she smiled in duty bound. But secretly it
terrified her. It was so much too splendid. Perhaps she had a
premonition that it was an unlucky ring----

Lionel was disappointed. He looked into Frankie’s face as they sat in
the taxi, and waited for her to praise it.

“Don’t you like it?” he asked, at last, as she said nothing.

“Oh, yes, dear,” she answered, touched by his wistful tone, and, as she
very rarely did, kissed him. “It’s beautiful. _Too_ beautiful!”


III

Horace lived in an overwhelmingly grand apartment house on Riverside
Drive. His private door was opened by a man servant, and Frances was
conducted to a boudoir where a French maid waited to assist her. She was
a little nervous at the unexpectedly sumptuous tone of the
establishment; she wasn’t accustomed to rich people. She dreaded meeting
the mistress of such a household, not only on account of the
unfavourable reports she had had from Lionel, but also on account of her
richness. A most ignoble awe, from which no living soul is immune....
It might be too that she felt a warning shudder, could divine the shadow
of the pain she was to suffer here. She never again entered that house,
but she remembered always every detail of what she had seen there. It
was the setting, the stage of such an unforgettably bitter scene.

She was glad to find Horace alone, although she was not pleased by her
hostess’s delay. He was in the “library,” a panelled room, dimly and
richly lighted by Oriental lamps and crowded with massive furniture.
(She didn’t see _any_ books.) He was very cordial and kind, though
melancholy. He apologised for Julie.

“She was late getting in,” he explained, “and it takes her the deuce of
a time to get herself ready.”

It certainly did, for it was quite half an hour more before she
appeared.

“I’m sorry, people!” she cried, running into the room, and swept them
all with a smile.

_This_ Julie, the impossible, the cruel, the vulgar! This sparkling
lovely thing, with her piquant dark face and the figure of a nymph!
Frances found it hard to believe.... Except that she was over-dressed,
in a glittering sort of ball gown, and that her voice was not at all
agreeable.

“I shouldn’t call her ‘impossible,’” she thought. “In fact, I think
she’s fascinating.”

And so long as she confined herself solely to looking at Julie, she did
find her fascinating. She was very young--years younger than Horace, and
filled with an ardent vitality. She produced an extraordinary effect of
brilliancy, although her conversation was far from clever. She was one
of those people who absolutely take one’s breath away; her glances, her
gestures, her gipsy vividness wrought a spell; one could watch her in a
daze, indefinitely.

But the fascination wore off a bit for Frances after she had experienced
something of Julie’s famous rudeness. She was utterly ignored. Horace
tried to talk to her, but he was not fluent, and his dinner engrossed
him. She had nothing to do but listen to Julie talking to Lionel, a
torrent of gossip about people not personally known to either of them,
glib comment on plays and books and fashions and dances. Lionel’s
interest lay in just these things; he had as many stories as she: those
mysterious tales of prominent people, confidential to a degree, heard
from someone who really knows.... If Lionel hated and despised Julie and
she loathed him, they dissembled it well. They were friendly, they were
more than friendly, they were comrades. He had never talked with such
interest to Frankie!

“Did you notice Mrs. Lord on the Avenue yesterday, Li? I never saw such
a fool. A skirt like that with her celebrated bowlegs!”

And so on. The impossibleness of Julie was now fully evident to Frances,
the gross vulgarity beneath her dainty charm, the malice, the nastiness
in her shallow heart. She was glad Lionel didn’t like her; she told
herself that his absorption in her chatter was only politeness.

When the dinner was over, she retired with Julie to a little music room,
where Julie began to smoke. She changed abruptly now that there were no
men about, became frankly, brutally hard.

“Well!” she said. “You’ve picked a winner! When Horace told me Li was
going to be married, I couldn’t believe it. I told him there wasn’t a
girl on earth who’d be such a fool.”

“Why?” asked Frances coldly.

“The boy’s a joke, my dear child! A perfect _joke_! The biggest idiot
there is. He spent all the money his mother left him in two years, just
making a fool of himself. And now he expects to sit down on Horace for
the rest of his little life. It makes me sick.”

Frances had grown rather pale.

“I suppose he thinks he is welcome in his brother’s house,” she said.

“Lord! He knows I’m sick and tired of his hanging about. It’s not that!
He doesn’t care whether he’s _welcome_ or not. He worries us to death.
And that chump of a Horace always gives in to him. I only hope you’ll be
able to do something with him. I’ve told old Horace we didn’t understand
that in this country--a young, able-bodied man sitting round the house,
living on someone else. I said if Horace had any money to waste, he
could waste it on me. I can do with all he’s got!”

Frances, shocked, outraged, stunned by this sudden and vigorous attack,
tried to rally.

“He does work,” she said.

“_Work!_ My God! Horace told me himself what an infernal nuisance Li is
in the office. He comes in late and fiddles about a bit, and then goes
uptown again. Work! He just likes to call the money he gets out of
Horace a salary instead of graft. It comforts his little pride. Let’s
see your ring!” she demanded suddenly.

Frances took it off and handed it to her.

“Two carats! And look at the setting! For God’s sake! I bet poor Horace
had to shell out heavily for that!”

Frances did not put it on again; she held it in her hand. She was in
anguish, so great that she was afraid she would not be able to hide it
much longer. It called for every ounce of self-control she possessed to
speak in a fairly natural voice.

“I didn’t understand the situation,” she said, “and I’m sure--he
didn’t--entirely realise----”

“I’ve spoken plainly enough to make him ‘realise.’ No; he’s a hopeless
case; I only wanted to warn you that Horace isn’t going to take care of
a whole family. Oh, don’t get furious! I know you didn’t know about it!
Only Li’s a grafter born and bred.”

“You misjudge him,” said Frances sternly. She wasn’t going to be routed
by this horrible little savage. “I don’t think you’re able to understand
a man of his type.”

“My Lord! I’ve met dozens like him. Just a nice, harmless little
grafter. You’ll find them in every hotel in the city. My dear child, I
know men mighty well. I’ve had experience!”

Then, to Frankie’s indescribable relief, she left the topic of Lionel
and began a history of her own life, with particular emphasis on her
suitors. Her father had been a “Cattle King,” she told her, in all
seriousness, a millionaire. She had been brought up on a ranch, and then
sent to school in the East, to “finish.”

“_The_ best school in New York,” she said. “Dad had a hard time to get
me in. But I hated it. I had a great deal of talent for drawing, so I
just walked out of the school and got a studio in Washington Square, and
plunged right in. I got lots of work from the start, fashions and
society sketches. Popper was tickled to death. He said he’d double every
cent I made, and he did. He likes independence. But I gave that all up
when I got married. I’ve taken up dancing. I’ve got a regular gift for
it. I could go on the stage to-morrow if I wanted. I’ve had offers from
the big managers.”

The men came in then, and she offered an exhibition.

“I’ll show you the dance I’m going to do in the Fresh Air Fund Bazaar.
You play, Li; go over this music while I get ready,” and she disappeared
for a long time.

Lionel sat down at the piano and began obediently to try the music she
had handed him; a sensual, banal thing, called new, but very
reminiscent. He turned his head to smile at Frankie, and then gave his
attention to the music, innocently satisfied with the answering smile he
had had from her. The light from the lamp shone on his sleek head; he
looked so young, so very slim, so fragile and well-bred; her heart ached
for him in his unconscious shame. Of course, _of course_, he didn’t
realise! She no more despised him than a mother despises a greedy child.

Julie came back in a costume which completed Frankie’s nightmare of
misery and shame. She called it Hindu. Her slim legs and feet were bare,
and her body so gauzily covered.... Frances involuntarily glanced at her
husband, but he was staring up at the smoke rings he was blowing.

Her dancing was good--quite beautiful. But Frances was not an artist,
not an æsthete; she was something of a prig and very much of a Defoe. A
little--a tiny bit more of either in her nature would have turned the
balance and sent her to her feet in terrible indignation. However, she
was able to endure the exhibition with apparent coolness, watched the
half-naked Julie twisting supplely before Lionel’s eyes without a
visible trace of what she felt.

But how immeasurably glad she was to get away!

“Please send away the taxi,” she asked Lionel. “I’d like to walk a
little way. And talk to you.”

Cheerful and unsuspicious, he complied.

“Wonderful night!” he remarked, looking with grateful eyes at the river.

She clutched his arm.

“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, and he was startled to hear a sob in her
voice.

“What’s wrong, dearest girl?” he asked anxiously, trying to see her face
in the dark.

“That awful--that dreadful, disgusting woman----” she said, in a broken
voice. “Oh, Lionel! You can’t imagine!...”

“Did she say anything to upset you, old girl?”

“It’s not that---- It’s ... I didn’t know----”

She dried her eyes and spoke more calmly, all her courage, all her
pride, all her love impelling her. She held out the ring, glittering
marvellously in the light of a street lamp.

He stared at it in stupefaction.

“Frances!” he cried.

“Please take it! Lionel! My dear boy! I couldn’t wear it.... She
said--_he_ had to pay for it. That it’s all _his_ money.... Oh, my dear
old Lionel, don’t you see? I’ll wait--till you can get me one--of your
own!”

Regardless of passers-by, he put his arm about her waist.

“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll do exactly what you want--always. I know I’m
not nearly good enough for you. Only tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to be a _man_!” she cried passionately, and began to cry
again.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN


I

Frances was a prey to remorse that night. She took into consideration
Lionel’s upbringing, Horace’s indulgence to him, his own generous and
careless nature, and she felt that she had hurt him cruelly and
unjustly. The thought of his flouted ring brought her almost to tears.

He was very proud, very sensitive in his own queer way. She was even a
little afraid that he wouldn’t come back, or that, if he did, he would
be changed.

It was a great relief to hear him through the telephone, in quite his
usual voice, at his usual hour of five o’clock.

“What about a walk this evening?” he suggested. “I’ll be waiting at the
door for you at eight.”

He was remarkably solemn and correct; he took Frankie’s arm without a
word and set off toward Madison Avenue. It was a warm, misty evening in
late September, enervating weather. Frankie was tired and nervous and
filled with apprehension. Was he going to reproach her?

He pulled out of his pocket a little bundle of papers fastened by a
rubber band, and gave it to her.

“My bank book,” he said, “and all the other stuff. You’d better take
charge of it, old girl.... I’ll tell you just how I stand, and you can
tell me what I’d better do.”

“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, “You _dear_ old thing! And I was so afraid
you’d be hurt or offended!”

“I think you’re right--all that you said,” he answered seriously. “I
want to make a new start--begin over again. Only it’s rather hopeless.
I’ve a hundred and five pounds a year income from my mother, and that’s
all. No prospects. Not a relative who could leave me a son. And eighty
dollars in the bank. Rather dismal, isn’t it?”

“Not a bit! Fancy having an income, and calling the outlook dismal! And
you’re young, you’ve got everything before you. You’re sure to find a
good job before very long----”

“Yes, but my dear girl, that eighty dollars is all I’ve got to live on
for three months and a half, until my next remittance comes. Unless I
stop on in Horace’s office----”

“No, no! You mustn’t stay there! Please, please break off all that,
won’t you?”

“Whatever you say, old girl. But where am I to live if I leave
Horace’s?”

“I’ll find you a place,” she said, rashly.

“I’ll have to explain to him, though.... What shall I say?”

He really did not understand quite what was expected of him, or what he
was doing. It was somehow a fine thing to renounce his comfort and
security, and declare himself independent, and as long as Frances wished
it, he was willing to do it. But it was a bit--theatrical. After all
these years to refuse old Horace’s money.

“I’ll pop in and take lunch with him to-morrow,” he said.

“And tell him that you’re going to stand on your own feet,” urged
Frances. “He’ll understand. And think all the more of you. Tell him--be
sure--that you appreciate all he’s done for you, but that now you’re
going to take care of yourself.”

He agreed.

“I’ll come and tell you about it as soon as it’s over,” he said. “You
can expect me about three.”

She didn’t know with what a heavy heart he went upon this errand, or how
well it proved his love and admiration for her. She didn’t know, or
suspect, what he felt for Horace, and how he dreaded hurting him.
Otherwise, she might have understood that he would necessarily be stupid
and clumsy and muddle the whole thing, as he did....


II

Miss Eppendorfer was lying down in her bedroom, not to be disturbed.
Kurt was not coming that evening, and the poor woman had seized the
chance of gratifying her long-starved vice. So that Frances was as good
as alone. She waited half an hour for Lionel without thinking much about
it; they wouldn’t be able to talk anyway. She couldn’t go out and leave
the authoress in her present condition, and she never entertained Lionel
in the flat. They both considered it incorrect. Still, he could tell her
what Horace had said. She was anxious about that interview. She was
afraid that Horace might have begged him to go on living with him; that
he might have weakened Lionel’s very new independence.

An hour passed, and she grew a little restless. It wasn’t like Lionel to
keep her waiting. Why didn’t he telephone? She picked up a book and
began to read. Another hour. She made herself a cup of tea and tried to
be angry, with all the time a dull alarm in her heart. Six o’clock! Her
anxiety grew unbearable, in that silent flat, worse than alone. She was
not much given to tears, but she shed some now. It grew dark; she
lighted a lamp and pulled down the shades and flung herself on the sofa.

She thought the same things any woman would have thought; that he had
met with an accident, been run over, that he was injured, dying, perhaps
dead. Then that he had deserted her, because he no longer loved her.
Then that there was some mistake, that he had meant Sunday....

At last there was a ring at the bell, and she flew to open the door.
Lionel stood outside.

“Lionel!” she cried. “I’ve been so worried! What _has_ been the matter?”

He said nothing, made no move to enter.

“Come in,” she said impatiently, “and tell me what’s kept you.”

Her alarm increased every minute; there was something queer about
him....

She took his arm and pulled him gently into the sitting room; then when
she was able to look at him in the lamp-light, she knew. She had seen
that silly smile, that flush before, had heard that thick and faltering
voice.

Her heart seemed to stop beating; her blazing eyes were fixed on his
face.

“You’re drunk,” she said, with what contempt, disgust, and bitterness!
“You’d better go.”

But he sat down on the sofa and began to cry forlornly, like a child.

“Stop!” she said. “Stop! Miss Eppendorfer’ll hear you.”

“I can’t!” he sobbed.

She closed the door into the hall, and went back to the sofa to find him
incredibly and suddenly asleep. She couldn’t at first believe in a
slumber so very sudden. She shook him.

“Get up and go away!” she said, but it had no effect. There he lay,
breathing heavily through his mouth, flushed, oddly serious in his
expression, like a weary victor in some mighty struggle.

Frances gave way to a sort of frenzy.

“I can’t have two of you!” she cried.

Recklessly she opened the door of Miss Eppendorfer’s room, found her
also sound asleep, not to be wakened. She revolted utterly then, locked
herself into her own little room, careless of what might happen to those
others.

For the first time in her life she remained awake all night. Early in
the morning, before it was quite light, she slipped into the kitchen to
make tea, and then went again to wake Lionel. This time it was not so
hard. She gave him a cup of tea, stood in stony silence while he gulped
it down, handed him his hat and overcoat, and firmly pushed him, dazed
and passive, out of the door.


III

Miss Eppendorfer remained in bed until noon; she was “better” she said,
but exhausted and listless. Frances was inordinately busy. She typed
page after page of the authoress’s manuscript, and when there was
absolutely no more to copy, set to work cleaning the table silver. She
did not wish to think. It was the end of the world. Nothing ahead,
nothing she could endure to contemplate.

She hated Miss Eppendorfer because Lionel had been drunk. It was an
illogical and unjust feeling, but she couldn’t repress it. She kept away
from her as much as possible. She was very thankful to see her go out,
arm in arm, with her cousin Kurt, to a concert for which she had bought
tickets for a fabulous price. She thought she would go out herself,
perhaps to church; she had begun to get ready, in fact, when Lionel
arrived. Lionel exactly the same, nonchalant, superior, not a trace even
of fatigue----

“The hall-boy told me Miss E. and the German chap had gone out, so I
thought I’d come up,” he said.

Frances was frigidly silent.

“I owe you an explanation,” he went on, “only--I haven’t any. I ... had
an awful row with Horace, and it knocked me up, and I ... tried to--more
or less--forget it.”

“No doubt you succeeded.”

She spoke with cold precision, like a school teacher to a prejudged
culprit; and he, acknowledging her claims as he always did, forced
himself to explain. It was wretched for him, an almost intolerable
humiliation to be called to account in this way; he was ashamed of
himself, and he longed passionately to drop the subject forever. But
Frances was the woman who had promised to marry him, and he felt he owed
it to her.

“You see, he was offended.... He thought--wanted me to be more--gradual.
Stop on in his office, at least. And in the end, we quarrelled. I told
him I wouldn’t take anything more from him--all that you advised, and so
forth. And he--but what’s the use in repeating all that? It’s the first
row we’ve ever had.”

He could not tell her how he regretted old Horace, with what affection
and pain he remembered his benefits; couldn’t explain how much this
“row” had hurt him. He had been horribly tactless and had wounded and
infuriated Horace, without making it clear to him--or to himself--what
it was about.

If he expected sympathy he was disappointed. If he had only apologised,
said he was ashamed and sorry, she would have melted completely; it was
this insistence upon the misfortune of having quarrelled with Horace,
this cool passing over of his own beastliness, that she couldn’t stand.
She didn’t even ask him to sit down, but remained standing herself,
looking straight at him.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “that I came here like that. Awfully
sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. But I didn’t realize what I was doing.”

Frances laughed shortly.

“Don’t bother to apologise. Why should I object to being alone all night
with two drunken beasts----”

“I say!” he protested.

“It’s evident,” she went on, “that you don’t know at all how I look at
that. How I _loathe_ it. I’d rather not talk about it at all. I’d rather
you’d go.”

“You don’t mean that, Frankie, old girl!”

“I do!”

He searched her face.

“Frankie, you don’t mean ... I see you do, though. Very well, I’ll
go.... But, Frankie!... Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” said Frankie.


IV

Frankie resolved to forget Lionel. She tried her best.

“I made a mistake,” she said to herself. “Very well! It’s over and done
with now. I’m not going to be a sentimental idiot. It’s _over_!”

It wasn’t, though. Her loneliness was bitter, her wound profound; she
had nothing to sustain her but her own self-righteousness--cold comfort
in that. It was all very well to tell herself Lionel was no good;
whether he was or not, she wanted him back. Worst of all was her worry
about him. She was convinced that without her he was lost, was
helpless--what all women think about their men. She had the loftiest
views about women anyway, and their influence. They were ordained the
spiritual monitors of men, as well as the natural guardians of their
healths and pocketbooks. Woman was the practical one, the conserver, the
frequenter of savings banks; she was also the beauty and the charm of
life. What remained was Man.

Frances had planned a future for them with care; and little by little
she fancied she was improving the man himself, making him more
responsible, more sedate, more what a woman demands of a husband. She
was too intelligent to understand him. She couldn’t manage him and
comprehend him as an ignorant, emotional woman would have done. With
every new idea, every book read, she had retreated from the position
that was her birthright.

She thought over Lionel with a passionate desire to do right; tried to
obtain guidance from her brain while her heart was dumb. She wondered
whether it did him more good to see how seriously she regarded his
offence, or whether it would have helped him more to forgive him. Never
considered it simply as a matter of cruelty or kindness. She was so
concerned with thinking of what was morally best for Lionel that she
neglected her own soul’s good.

And without doubt her soul suffered. She was becoming irritable,
intolerant, over-haughty, wrapped up in her own affairs. She needed
Lionel badly, needed his carelessness, his sweet temper. In spite of
that, she thought she was “getting over” it splendidly; being sensible,
and so on. She was able to eat and to sleep and to live as usual; even
looked the same. And then, suddenly, one night, woke up with a piercing
pain, a most irresistible tenderness and longing for him.

“How could I have been so heartless!” she asked herself, sitting up in
bed, and clasping her hands hysterically. “What did it matter, what he
did? What do I care about that? Lionel! Darling! I want you back so!”

She got up then and there and wrote to him, addressing it in care of
Horace.


V

He came the next evening. Quite in accordance with his extreme character
he had in ten days’ time become unnecessarily wretched and shabby in
looks and manners. He was even thinner.

He had looked and looked for a job, he said, but no one would have an
inexperienced man of his age. He was in despair. So that Frances could
not for an instant maintain her injured majesty, but had to comfort and
fortify him, even to cry over him a little.

“Don’t be discouraged!” she entreated, stroking his hair. “Poor old
boy!”

“But I haven’t a penny! I used that money in the bank. I’ve moved into a
cheap boarding-house. But still I can’t manage. And my remittance
doesn’t come until January.”

Followed an extraordinary period for the lovers. Lionel pawned his
watch, his travelling-bag, his cuff-buttons, one thing after another. He
would get down to his last dollar and come to Frankie, white with
despair, and she would think of something else to do. He would come back
from each of these visits to the pawn-shop jubilant and pleading for a
“celebration,” but Frankie never permitted it. He put everything into
her hands without reserve, and received back what she allowed him,
unquestioningly. They frequented cinemas instead of theatres; he found a
cheaper brand of cigarettes. He did it all, too, with such generosity
and simplicity that Frankie was utterly enslaved. He was her child, her
ewe lamb, she watched over him, planned for him, guided him, with
passionate devotion.

He alternated between ghastly worry that made him talk about suicide,
and the wildest hopefulness. It was Frances who bore the brunt of the
misery. She fretted continually, couldn’t sleep at night. She thought
and schemed and planned for means of sustaining this beloved creature,
above all trying to secure him proper food three times a day without his
suspecting that some of its cost came from her own pocket. Luckily he
almost always forgot how much he had given her to keep for him, and how
much he had spent out of it. He didn’t imagine the suffering he caused
her. On the contrary, he believed that his fits of extravagant gaiety,
in reality quite beyond his control, were contrived especially to cheer
up Frances.

He was sometimes ready to admit to himself that Frankie’s disposition
was not quite what he had once thought it. She was absolutely cross.
Time after time she refused to go out with him, even to the “movies”;
she said they couldn’t afford it.

“But you don’t realise,” he protested, “how much I need a bit of
recreation.”

“I realise how much you’re going to need a bit of money,” she replied
grimly. “You can’t be childish. You’ll have to do without _everything_
but necessities for a while.”


VI

Inspiration came from a wholly unexpected source. Frankie was sitting in
her room in the dark one evening, after a walk with Lionel, exhausted
from her effort to encourage him in a mood of black despair. She had
drawn her chair up to the window and sat looking out over the roof of
the next house at the cloudy sky. There was the usual noise from the
court, the shrill children who never went to bed, the phonographs, a
woman singing in a piercing, artificial voice. She was used to it now,
scarcely heard it, but it filled her ears, and she was unaware of Miss
Eppendorfer’s entrance until she touched her on the shoulder.

“I knocked and knocked!” said she. “I wanted to ask you to make me a cup
of coffee; I’m so nervous.”

Frankie said ‘Of course’ but her voice was weary, and Miss Eppendorfer
noticed it.

“What’s the trouble, my dear?” she asked, kindly. “Let’s sit here and
talk a while.”

She sat down on the bed where she could reach out and lay a friendly
hand on Frankie’s arm.

“I’ve noticed--it’s not curiosity.... It’s only that I’m very fond of
you--you can’t imagine _how_ fond of you, my dear.... I don’t expect you
to return it. I know I’m not lovable. And probably you despise me
for--lots of things. But, my dear! My dear! I do wish you so well! I’d
do anything! If you’d like to tell me, perhaps I could help.... I’ve had
experience enough. I could understand.”

Frances was silent. She couldn’t bring herself to confide in Miss
Eppendorfer.

“I think I know,” the other went on. “It’s money, isn’t it? You want to
marry, but you’re afraid.”

“Not afraid,” said Frances, nettled. “It’s only that I don’t want to be
stupid--rash---- I don’t think it’s right to marry on nothing. I’d
rather wait ten years.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said the authoress. “But tell me about it.”

Frances hesitated a moment.

“You see,” she began. “I’m afraid that perhaps I made a mistake--advised
him wrongly. You see, he was depending entirely on his brother--living
with him. He’d never really thought how--that it wasn’t quite--very
self-respecting. And I asked him to stop, to try to stand on his own
feet. And I’m not sure if he’s able to do that. He has _nothing_ now,
except a little more than a hundred pounds a year or so.”

“Except!” said Miss Eppendorfer.

“Oh, of course, it helps. But the trouble is, he’s perfectly
inexperienced. He can’t seem to find a job. We’ve--he has answered
advertisements and registered at agencies, and nothing’s any good. I’m
so afraid of his getting completely discouraged and going back to his
brother again. It’s so wretched for him. There’s no chance of our being
married for years----”

“Why?”

“We couldn’t both live on a hundred pounds a year--about five hundred
dollars!”

“Why should you try? You’re earning something, and under no expense. Why
don’t you get married anyway, and go on as you are?”

Frankie was amazed.

“I never thought of such a thing. It ... we couldn’t have any home....”

“Does that matter? You’d have each other. Oh, if I were you, if I were
you ...! I shouldn’t think of anything but--just having each other, just
your love. I’d never think of a home or money. Only of the man I loved.”

Her voice broke, and her hand on Frankie’s arm trembled.

“My dear, I’m speaking against my own interests, for of course I don’t
want to lose you.... But you don’t understand, you don’t appreciate
love. It isn’t a _home_ that you want. My dear! My dear! And would you
let him wait and eat out his heart, for years, for your vanity, until he
could give you all the silly little things you think you want? You don’t
know men, you don’t know life; you don’t know how very short a time we
have for love. You don’t know him. You don’t know _anything_. If you
did, you wouldn’t let this go! You’d be happy while you could, you’d
make him happy.”

Frances didn’t stir; there was absolute silence for a long time. Then
she got up.

“I’ll make the coffee now,” she said, and, in spite of herself, couldn’t
keep a trace of gentleness out of her tone, something that approached
tenderness. She hated sentimentality, but--no use denying that she was
deeply moved by the poor woman’s vehemence, by the thought she had
conveyed. Of course, the advice of Miss Eppendorfer was not to be taken
too seriously, and yet, couldn’t she be right on _some_ points? She
attended to the coffee with earnestness, thinking all the while. What if
she had been cold and selfish, and made her own dear boy unhappy? A
coward?... And a faint realisation of the truth not fully seen or known
till much later came upon her, of the pitiful folly of waiting, of
patience and of prudence in this poor life so short and so hazardous.

“I will! I will!” she said to herself. “He shan’t struggle on alone. I
_won’t_ lose my happiness--our happiness. I’m _not_ afraid!”




CHAPTER SIXTEEN


I

She hurried downstairs to meet Lionel the next evening, flushed and
resolute.

“Let’s walk!” she said.

“It’s raining----”

“I don’t care. I want to talk to you. I must!”

He didn’t approve of walking in the rain; he thought it imprudent and
eccentric, so that he was somewhat stiff; but she took no notice of
that. She thrust her hand through his arm and squeezed it a little.

“Lionel!” she whispered, “Shall we get married?”

“My dearest girl!” he cried. “You know there’s nothing on God’s earth I
want so much. But----”

“No! Listen! We can!”

And she told him Miss Eppendorfer’s plan. He refused violently; it
wasn’t fair to Frankie; he would be a cad, a beast.

“You’ll be much more of a beast if you won’t. We can be happy. I’ll save
up, and after you find a job, you can save too, so that we can soon have
a home of our own. And until then, of course, we’ll keep it a secret.
But, oh, Lionel, I do so want us to be safely married, so that no one
can separate us. So that if you were to be sick, I could look after
you.”

He comprehended perfectly and sympathised with that curious and touching
idea of all lovers; that if only they can be married, no ill can touch
them; they are safe.

“I can’t!” he said. “Absolutely I can’t. Don’t you see, old girl, I want
to give you _something_--I don’t want to _take_ everything from you. I
want----”

“Don’t let pride stand in the way!” she entreated. “Lionel, only suppose
one of us were to die! Dear, darling old boy, let’s be brave. Let’s just
go ahead, and if things are hard, why, we’ll go through with them
together.”

“I ought not,” he said miserably. “It’s not fair to you.”

He felt obliged to bring forward all the objections which obviously
presented themselves, but he did so without spirit. For the preposterous
idea appealed to him irresistibly. He said, “Wait,” but he didn’t mean
it. He abhorred waiting at all times, and above all, waiting for
Frankie. She kindled him, thrilled him with her serious madness.

“We can’t waste our best years,” said Frankie. “Really, Lionel, it’s not
a silly plan. I’m not rash, you know it. I _know_ this will be the best
plan for us both.”

She was determined to hold him tightly, to defend him from his own
weakness, to fortify him. For this, any sacrifice of pride, of worldly
advantage, was justified. She had to marry Lionel to save him, even if
in saving him everything else was lost.

“I’m not convinced,” he insisted, “but, old girl, I haven’t got the
strength to refuse. I’d have to be more than mortal to refuse to marry
my beautiful girl.”

“Stop being so wretched!” she ordered. “We’re going to be happy. We’re
going to help each other.”

He caught her in his arms.

“Darling!” he cried, “I’ll--I’d do _anything_ to make you happy. I’ll
try. I’m not good enough, but I’ll try. I--absolutely worship you,
Frankie!”

And added, more quietly:

“And when you’re my wife, I’ll amount to something.”


II

He went to the Grand Central with her on Christmas Eve, to say good-bye,
for conscience compelled her to go back to Brownsville Landing for the
holidays. They were both in a mood of rapture, although Frankie was
somewhat obsessed by finances. She had given Lionel five envelopes, each
containing just enough money for one of the five days she was to be
away.

“Now remember!” she warned, “that’s _all_ you’ve got, until I get back.
I’ll come early on New Year’s morning, and Miss Eppendorfer’ll give me
my cheque. She never keeps me waiting a day. Then I’ll lend you that
until the fifteenth. But do please, please be careful of what you’ve
got! Remember it’s all you’ve got! You will be sensible, won’t you?”

“No. Frankie, aren’t you sorry to think of my being all alone on
Christmas day in a beastly cheap boarding-house?”

“You know I am! But don’t think about it, dear; think about the
sixteenth.”

They had planned to be married then, the very day after his quarterly
remittance came.

“Five minutes to! We’d better go down to the lower level. Oh, dear old
boy, I do hate to leave you! You will be careful, won’t you? About
everything. About money--and you know what!”

“Dashed if I do! Money and what?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“About--drinking,” she whispered.

“Oh, by Jove!” he cried, startled. “But, my dear girl, I don’t go in
for that, you know. I’m not quite a drunkard.”

“I know! I know, darling! Only I _had_ to say it. Don’t be offended!”

“Of course not, you blessed baby!”

“And you will take at least one glass of milk a day, won’t you? You’re
so thin! And----”

“I shall! I shall!” he cried, laughing. “Come on, old girl! The gates
are open. I say! It’s perfectly all right to kiss you good-bye, isn’t
it? I might be your brother--or your husband. Everyone does, eh?”

She reflected.

“Yes,” she said, with a blush, and raised her face to his. “Good-bye!
God bless you, my own boy! Take care of yourself! I shall think of you
every minute!”

“Good-bye, my beautiful girl!” he answered. “God bless you! Come back to
me soon!”

He stood watching her down the platform, strong, eager, and splendid.
Saw her go, never to return to him.




BOOK THREE: MR PETERSEN IS
BROUGHT LOW




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


I

Mr. Petersen had remained faithful to the memory of Minnie for five
years. It cannot be said that he had grieved, or suffered; his
attachment had not been a very passionate one; yet Minnie had not
misread him. He really had wanted to marry her, had felt for her a mild
and kindly sort of love.

He had not, however, been over-anxious for marriage. He cared little for
women; in all these five years his heart had never been touched, and he
had formed no ties. Nor was he lonely, except very rarely, perhaps in a
Spring twilight, or while listening to certain beloved pieces of music.
He had the most admirable sort of reputation. Temperate, honest,
thrifty, his life was without a secret; he didn’t talk about his
affairs, but he was perfectly willing that others should find out about
them. In his own sober way, he cherished a terrific pride, not so much
for his achievements, as for his spotless honour. He was the Socialist
of the world’s dream, the man who harmed no one, who was always just,
always open to argument, always generous. As far as was humanly and
sensibly possible he put into practice his convictions. He fraternised
with the workmen--the intelligent ones--asked them to dinner on Sunday.
He admitted making and keeping a considerable sum of money, and was
always ready and willing to explain this course.

“The only valuable Socialist,” said he, “is the one who works for the
advancement of all. How do you wish me to so work then if I strip myself
of power? Money, in our modern world, is power. The Socialists must
first of all concentrate money in their own hands.”

He quite satisfied his comrades. He was respected everywhere, because he
was without arrogance or ostentation, and yet had so admirable a balance
in the bank. He had made most of his money through a “development park,”
which he had planned and executed; scores of little houses along orderly
streets, planted with saplings; each house with its lawn, its tiny back
garden, all neat, bright and prosperous. They were built for the factory
workers, and Mr. Petersen had included a number of what he called
“built-in features”; little bookcases, china closets, window seats, and
so on. He knew what the comrades wanted, and he gave them honest and
generous measure for their money. How could he not succeed?

He lived in the same solid, modest house in the village, with the same
Swede and his wife serving him in Socialistic fashion. In appearance too
he was quite unchanged; immense, red-faced, fair-haired,
blonde-moustached; slow, good-tempered, rather silent. Within himself,
however, he was conscious of those profound changes we all experience
and which the world ignores. He had read, had thought, had seen; he had
grown. He believed himself in every way a better and a stronger man.
Although he had _felt_ very little.

Minnie’s abrupt disappearance had distressed him and worried him; he had
made many enquiries about her, but her sister was surprisingly curt and
discouraged him.

“She’s gone to New York,” she told him. “She has a position there. I
don’t hear from her often.”

There came a day when she even said, biting her lip:

“I’d rather not talk about Minnie. She--we’re not on very good terms.”

This had caused him a pang, for he surmised that it meant a man. He had
said he was sorry, and he was. He pitied that bright, lovely Frances,
condemned to lonely drudgery. He wished to be nice to her; to help her;
he attempted to make little friendly visits now and then, very patient
with her growing irritability. He saw how things were; she didn’t get on
with the old lady as Minnie had, relations were strained. He watched the
four years pass, crushing her, embittering her, ageing her. Her youth
died, she became severe, still beautiful but no longer charming. She
managed the moribund old house better than her sister ever had done, but
it had lost its old air of homeliness. It was deserted, it was desolate.
She earned a bit of money by baking cakes for the Woman’s Exchange, and
embroidering tablecloths. Like her grandmother, she “managed,” never
able, of course, to pay the accumulating debts, never a penny the richer
at the end of a year than at the beginning; simply keeping her head
above water, procuring food for them to eat, clothes for them to wear,
maintaining an appearance not too humiliating for a Defoe. It was
touching and horrible. Mr. Petersen urged her to come back into his
office again, but she refused.

“You could get some young girl from the village to look after your
grandmother,” he said, but she stopped him.

“Not at any price could I get anyone to do what I do.”

It was quite true. A servant would have required lunch, which Frankie
didn’t; would have expected to be warm in winter, to rest in the
terrible heat which overwhelmed the river valley in mid-summer.

Mr. Petersen waived the question of rent. After a time it was mentioned
no more. The two women didn’t thank him; it seemed not only proper but
essential that Defoes should live in the Defoe house. Mr. Petersen,
after all, was a stranger, an intruder, a Swede. And he didn’t _need_
the money, either. So he didn’t get it.

In the middle of a terrible winter the old lady died of pneumonia, and,
as soon as the funeral had taken place, conducted in a seemly manner,
Frankie went off. He heard nothing more of her. She never wrote to him,
or to anyone he knew.

He remodelled the house. With what curious, painful feelings did he
watch its dismantlement, walk into that gloomy room Minnie had so long
inhabited and see for the first time its poverty. All the furniture was
left there; doubtless it belonged to the creditors, but none of them
troubled to claim it. All old, shabby, ugly. There were lots of closets,
cupboards, a big attic, filled with astounding rubbish, clothes, old
papers, broken furniture, pictures. Whatever was worth saving, Mr.
Petersen removed to his own house, the rest he burned in a sort of
sacrificial bonfire. He saw the sagging old bed, the little rocking
chair, the lame bureau from Minnie’s room go up in smoke and all the
while he thought with profound melancholy of the brisk, pleasant little
woman. He sighed over her, wished with all his heart that he could find
her again and put her into his own orderly and comfortable home.
Solemnly he led the silly old horse, more provoking than ever in its
senility, back to his own stable, while his housekeeper carried the
cats.

The house, because of its size, was destined for a boarding-house. That
too put him in mind of intrepid Minnie and her venture.

“Poor girl!” he thought. “A brave little soul! What’s become of her, I
wonder?”


II

This day he was not thinking about her; he was busy in his office,
dictating letters to his spinster stenographer, the sound of his
drawling, hesitating voice filling the little room. A window was open to
let in the sweet May air, and a breeze ruffled his hair. As usual he was
in his shirt sleeves.

The door was open, and in she came; said, gently:

“Mr. Petersen!”

“Miss Minnie!” he cried, jumping up, and according to his custom,
hurrying into his respectable dark coat. “Well, well, Miss Minnie!”

She shook her head.

“Mrs. Naylor,” she corrected him, with a smile; the very same pleasant,
kindly smile. He stared at her, smiling himself, and shaking his head.

“Well, well!” he repeated.

She hadn’t changed much; she was stouter and a trifle more serious, that
was all. He observed that she was in mourning, wearing a black blouse
and skirt somewhat like his housekeeper but dowdier and cheaper.
Nevertheless, she didn’t look _poor_; somehow you didn’t pity her.

“Mrs. Naylor,” he repeated.

“I’m a widow,” she said, simply. He answered, in very much the same
simple and friendly way--

“I’m sorry.”

Then she said, smiling again, but with a hint of melancholy:

“I’ve come to you for advice again. I look on you as an old friend, Mr.
Petersen.”

“I am!” he assured her.

“I know it!”

He held out a huge hand.

“Sit down,” he said. “Miss Layne, you shall have a holiday in honour of
Mrs. Naylor’s return.”

The spinster stenographer, disapproving, suspicious, with a comically
false smile, put on a pinched little jacket and a hat and jerked out,
nodding in duty bound to this odious widow.

“Now!” said Mr. Petersen.

Without too much emphasis, in just the quiet, well-bred way he admired,
she told him her little story.

“My husband had a great deal of trouble ... in business, and so on. He
was English, and I don’t think he understood our ways very well. So ...
when he ... died, there wasn’t anything. Nothing at all. And I have a
little girl.... I sold everything I could, and then--somehow--I wanted
to come back here--where father was born.... And I remembered all your
kindness and I thought perhaps you’d help me--advise me.”

“To the very best of my ability,” he said, soberly.

“I thought of a boarding-house. Would there be a good chance for one
here?”

Still the same idea; perhaps it is an obsession with the womanly woman.

Mr. Petersen suggested a thorough discussion of her problem from every
side.

“Do you mind, then, if I bring little Sandra in?” Minnie asked. “I
didn’t want to bother you----”

“By all means. Where is she? I’ll fetch her.”

“Downstairs,” said Minnie. “Just inside the door.”

She was standing there with a patience that touched his heart, a thin,
tall, little girl-baby, with limpid grey eyes and straight black hair.
One of those indescribably appealing children, filled with a divine
pathos, a soul-stirring beauty. She was very quiet, too subdued, he
thought, and too fragile. She took his hand willingly and toiled up the
stairs at his side; she said nothing, except:

“Is Mother there?”

“Yes, pet,” he answered.

He knew at that instant that he was going to marry Minnie and take care
of her and of this little creature too. He looked down upon its dark
head with a new and poignant tenderness. He would be its father.

The child ran up to Minnie and stood beside her, looking up into her
face calmly. And she looked back at it with an expression he had never
conceived her capable of: rapturous, idolatrous passion. Her proud eyes
questioned him, and he willingly responded.

“She is beautiful,” he said.

“I can’t help thinking so,” said Minnie.

Their business discussion amounted to very little. No one could discuss
business with Minnie, anyway. It was an absurd idea.

Simply, Mr. Petersen asked if he couldn’t lend her a bit until she had
“looked round,” and without demur Minnie accepted. In some intangible
but perfectly plain way she suggested that she accepted only because of
her little Sandra and that accordingly the acceptance was justified, if
not sanctified. Mr. Petersen was ready to believe this.

“And now,” he said, when the money had changed hands, “there’s the
problem of finding a place for you to live.”

He suggested several places for her to telephone, and she did so. The
extreme propriety of both of them forbade his appearing in any such
transaction. There was nothing suitable to be had; as a very last resort
he proposed the Eagle House, and there she was obliged to go.

“I’ll call this evening, if I may,” he said, “to see if you’re all
right.”


III

The Eagle House was little changed from the days when Frankie had
lunched there, the same four-story, brown brick building with awnings,
much the worse for wear, boldly marked “Eagle House.” It still derived
its support from the “Pool Room and Café,” reached by a separate
entrance, but something had been done for the comfort of the “guest,” as
well--a sun-baked, uneven little tennis court now appeared on the
hitherto vacant lot beside the hotel. Inside it was just as sordid, as
fly-blown, as horribly gloomy.

But Minnie was not fastidious. She discovered that there was at least
one other lady stopping there, the wife of a visiting cotton-mill
magnate, and that satisfied her. With her child by the hand she walked
sedately through the lobby, thick with tobacco smoke, crowded with the
travelling salesmen and the village loafers who composed the clientele
of the Eagle House, and went upstairs to take possession of a tiny
bedroom with a single bed for both of them. It was very cheap and that
was what she required. She unpacked their very few belongings quite
cheerfully and washed the little girl’s face.

“Shan’t we be happy here!” she said.

They were rather late in coming down, and the dining room was full of
men, the waitresses flying round, exchanging sallies with the guests, a
brilliant glare pouring down from an electrolier high overhead. Minnie
stood in the doorway, still holding the child’s hand, a little
bewildered by the noise and bustle and by the frankness with which
everyone turned to regard them. Unassailably respectable, she met and
countered the general regard and with dignity advanced to a little table
in a corner. A book was brought for the little girl to sit on and an
interested waitress presented a grease-spotted menu. They ate their meal
composedly; once in a while the clear voice of the child could be heard
asking a question. It behaved wonderfully well. It ate what its mother
ate, without regard for any silly modern ideas as to what was suitable
to its little wants--and it ate mighty little.

They finished and went upstairs to what was known as the “Ladies’
Sitting Room,” a big room, unseparated from the hall, furnished with a
mouldering “set” in mahogany and obliterated brocade; a most desolating
room, with one naked electric light. But how respectable, situated as it
was, directly at the head of the stairs, baldly open to the gaze of each
and every one of the guests, passing by on the way to his room! There
was a table piled with magazines years and years old; Minnie and the
child sat down by this and began looking them over in silence. So Mr.
Petersen found them, and wondered at and pitied the precocious sobriety
of the tiny girl. He took her on his knee and lifted up her face.

“A beautiful child!” he said again.

Again Minnie beamed.

“And so good!” she said. “Never a bit of trouble! Mother’s comfort,
aren’t you, Sandra?”

“I are,” said the baby, seriously.

“When does she go to bed?” he enquired. He thought the little face
looked pale and tired.

“Whenever I do,” Minnie answered, and then and there expressed her
unalterable opposition to all these silly, high-flown ideas that women
got out of books. (Mr. Petersen fancied he recognised this antagonism to
book learning.) She brought up her Sandra according to her own
common-sense and the dictates of a mother’s heart, and not according to
doctors and _books_. In a _natural_ way.

Mr. Petersen had nothing to say on that dangerous subject. He had come
to ask Minnie if she would like to go to work in his office.

“But I don’t know anything. I can’t do anything!”

“You’ll learn easily.”

“And what could I do with Sandra?”

“I thought of that. My housekeeper’s a very fine woman; I spoke to her;
she says she’d be glad to take care of the little girl all day.”

Thus it was arranged.

“I might as well stop here,” said Minnie, “until I’m more settled,
anyway.”

Mr. Petersen agreed, and as he didn’t think it proper that his visit
should be a long one, rose to take leave. He clasped Minnie’s hand over
the head of her child.

“A brave, fine, sensible woman!” he thought.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


I

As an office worker Minnie was not so successful as Mr. Petersen had
anticipated. Not by any means. She tried; she was very earnest and, in a
way, painstaking, but it was extremely difficult to teach her anything.
Within a week Mr. Petersen was bitterly regretting Miss Layne, whom he
had ruthlessly, although generously, discharged. He was obliged to admit
that Minnie was not bright or quick, and neither was she accurate. She
learned to typewrite, but how badly! At figures she was hopeless. She
always made mistakes.

“But I know you’ll go over them,” she would say, in regard to her
crooked and erroneous columns. “You’re sure to find any mistakes there
are.”

He remembered Frances, her capability and intelligence. He asked after
her.

“She’s gone out to the Coast,” Minnie told him. “She’s settled out
there. I never hear from her.”

Evidently a serious breach. He regretted it; he thought what a help
Frances might be to her poor sister.

Somehow it distressed him to see the poor plump little soul working
away, poring over his books. He got Miss Layne back again, and she did
all the work that really mattered, and left the rest for her abhorred
colleague. She detested and despised and feared Minnie. She had seen at
once that the artful widow was sure to hoodwink Mr. Petersen.

He saw strange things going on, which amused while they troubled him. He
saw Minnie putting pencils and erasers and sheets and sheets of folded
paper into her coat pocket. For her child, no doubt: but though he
smiled at her maternal obsession, he was growing convinced that the
womanly woman is out of place in a business office....

Her conduct toward Miss Layne he could not admire. She was so
unnecessarily haughty, so frigid. And insisted so upon this being her
first experience of “work.”

“Of course _you’re_ used to it,” she would say, whenever she had made a
glaring mistake, “but _I’ve_ never been outside my own home before.”

She liked to bring her lunch with her, sandwiches and so on which the
hotel put up for her--as well as fruit and cake which she purloined from
the dinner table--and she made a great ceremony of spreading out a
little embroidered doily on the desk, on which to lay her food.

“I do love to make things a little bit dainty and homelike,” she told
Mr. Petersen. “You don’t mind, do you?”

But the doily was soon very far from dainty. Mr. Petersen thought he
would not care to eat anything that had lain on it. He felt sorrier than
ever for the poor little woman when he saw her sitting before it, so
daintily eating thick ham sandwiches, and adding new bits of butter and
strings of fat to her homelike tablecloth. In the course of time, the
rats ate it, lace and all, and she had nothing daintier than several
sheets of his best type-writing paper, fresh every day, on which to lay
out her repast.

It began to dawn upon her before very long that she was not altogether
indispensable; that Mr. Petersen and Miss Layne could manage the office
very well without her. So she began entreating them to teach her,
anything and everything. The books, especially. And, as she wrote a good
enough hand, and apparently took great pains, Mr. Petersen allowed her
to post certain items, providing she didn’t try to write in any of her
own totals. She enjoyed doing this; she used to ask Mr. Petersen for
“the books” as early in the morning as possible, because she liked to
see him open the safe and hand these precious volumes to her.

But she was detected in an awful deed. He _saw_ her, with his own eyes,
carefully tearing out one of the numbered pages.

“Mrs. Naylor!” he cried. “What are you doing?”

She looked up, blushing crimson.

“I was going to copy it all again,” she explained pitifully. “I hadn’t
written it very nicely. I didn’t have a proper pen. And I did take such
pride in having it all look nice!”

The books went back to Miss Layne again, while Mr. Petersen invented
tasks for Minnie.

She took her work with the utmost seriousness. One day Mr. Petersen
surprised her wiping away a surreptitious tear.

“Now, then!” he said kindly, “What’s the matter?”

She tried to answer cheerfully, but her voice failed.

“Sandra doesn’t seem well,” she said, “I don’t know--her throat----”

“But, my dear Mrs. Naylor, why didn’t you stay home? You mustn’t worry
yourself like this!”

“I didn’t want to neglect my work,” she said.

And she meant it; she had, in Minnie-fashion, made herself believe that
she was essential, that her absence would cause trouble. She _had_ to
believe this; her vanity would have suffered too cruelly otherwise.

Mr. Petersen assured her and reassured her, almost begged her to go
home, even appealed to Miss Layne, who answered, in what a tone, that
she _thought_ she could manage alone.

So Minnie put on her poor little coat and hat and hurried off to Mr.
Petersen’s house. She had never been in it before. Mrs. Hansen, the
housekeeper, observed her coming up the front steps with deep
misgivings. She knew her well by sight; had often seen her in the old
days, driving by with her sister, and even then had been inordinately
irritated.... The idea of Mr. Petersen, king of men, learned, just,
endowed with every virtue, forever picking his choicest flowers and
fruits for those “beggars,” as she called them! Living there all those
years without paying him a penny, and then, if you please, walking off
without so much as thank you! Ungrateful creatures, owing everyone, and
turning up their noses at honest people ten times better than
themselves. And this one was the worst of the lot.

However, with a manner absolutely correct, Mrs. Hansen opened the door,
and even smiled.

“I am Mrs. Naylor,” said Minnie, pleasantly.

“I know who _you_ are, and all about you!” thought Mrs. Hansen, though
aloud she said, “Yes, ma’am.” Although her husband was a Socialist, and
her revered Mr. Petersen as well, Mrs. Hansen had no patience with such
ideas. She knew herself to be a housekeeper, and as a housekeeper,
socially obliged to call this widow “ma’am.”

“I came for my little girl,” Minnie went on. “I felt worried about her
this morning. She didn’t seem well.”

Mrs. Hansen had her private opinion about the cause of the child’s
listlessness, which she had confided to her husband, but not, of course,
to Mr. Petersen, whom she looked upon as already lost.

“The child’s up till all hours of the night,” she said to Hansen, “and
eats all sorts of trash. What could you expect?”

“I think she’s better now,” she said to Minnie, “she’s taken two glasses
of milk.”

“You do take such wonderful care of her,” Minnie returned; “she tells me
at night of so many things you’ve done for her.”

“She’s a lovely, good child,” Mrs. Hansen answered, quite unmoved by the
flattery.

She led Minnie through a narrow red-carpeted passage into her kitchen,
pride and joy of her life, filled with sun and sweet air, utterly clean,
gleaming and neat. From the window she pointed out the quiet baby,
sitting on the back steps, leaning her head against a post, languid,
thoughtful, quite contented. Beside her sat an immense cat.

“Why!” cried Minnie. “That--can it _possibly_ be Michael?”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s your cat. Mr. Petersen took it after your sister
left.”

Minnie looked down with tears in her eyes at her long-lost darling,
sleek and fat still, but old; his buccaneer swagger gone, his insolent
eyes dim. She touched his head, with the furry skin so tightly drawn
over the round little skull; but he never stirred. He didn’t know her,
didn’t care for her.

Then she took Sandra by the hand and led her off, out of the fresh air
and the quiet garden, back to the hotel, where she got her into bed in
their hot little room and read to her, hovered over her, flooded her
with sympathy.

“You just needed Mother, didn’t you, baby?” she said. “Mother knows what
her little girl wants!”




CHAPTER NINETEEN


I

After a decorous interval, Mr. Petersen began discreetly to woo. He had
considered the matter very thoroughly, and he was sure that his
happiness lay in marrying Minnie. He did not deceive himself, he
realised that she had faults, but they were faults he didn’t mind,
lovable feminine faults. And her virtues were sublime. He knew that she
would make his home an earthly paradise, with her contented, thoroughly
domestic disposition and her good-temper. It never occurred to him that
the lack of accuracy and method she had shown in the office might be
transported to this other realm; he felt sure she would be a marvellous
housekeeper. He considered her practical, perhaps because she confined
her attention solely to petty things, never bothered with the ideal, the
theoretical....

He also admired her dowdiness, thought it showed that she made no
unworthy effort to attract his sex. He didn’t know that Minnie was far
beyond that, that she had weapons infinitely more deadly. She didn’t
need to _look_ charming; she was instinct with an allurement
irresistible and fatal. She was all woman, nothing but woman. She had no
ambition; her mission was simply to exist. Her power lay in the fact
that no man would ever be able to understand her.

Mr. Petersen knew that she wouldn’t be the comrade and equal he had
longed for in his younger days; she would never comprehend his ideas and
theories, he was sure. She would never become a Socialist--although she
might become a parrot--or know what a Socialist was. She would remain
unalterably Minnie. And that was what he wanted now.

Not even the shyest man could have dreaded proposing to Minnie. She was
certain not to laugh or to be capricious. One might have said that her
nature presupposed proposals. What is more, he felt sure that she knew
his intention, and he had seen no hint of discouragement in her manner
toward him. That counted for much with Mr. Petersen, the proud, who
couldn’t bear to be laughed at.

It came about easily and naturally, in the office one Saturday
afternoon; of course when they were alone. So easily and naturally that
one might have imagined--

Minnie said something about the future, how black it looked for a lonely
woman with a dependent child.

“I can’t go on like this,” she said, “and be separated from Sandra most
of the time. You’re awfully good and kind--I’ll never forget it--but of
course I can’t stay here forever. I know I’m not very useful to you. You
could find plenty of others who would do as well, or better.”

He was silent, a portentous sort of silence, marshalling his forces,
bringing his somewhat slow mind to bear on this subject.

“Do you think I could get a place as a housekeeper?” she asked
earnestly, “where I could have Sandra with me?”

A broad smile overspread his face.

“I think so,” he said.

“Oh! Do you know of anyone?”

“Yes, if it will suit you.”

“Please tell me!”

Never in life had he so enjoyed a joke.

“It’s a nice place,” he went on slowly, “in this town.”

“With a good salary, do you think?”

“Well, yes, over ten thousand a year, I should say.”

“Oh, you’re joking, Mr. Petersen,” she cried, in such a disappointed
voice that he stopped smiling and took her warm little hand.

“Minnie!” he said. “It’s I ... I want you. I’ll do everything I can to
make you happy and your child too. I’ve got on well; you’ll be
comfortable. If you--if you would care to marry me?”

For one instant a terrible look crossed her face--a sort of horror. She
grew so white that he thought she would faint.

“You’re so kind----” she faltered.

“You mean you will?”

“I’ll have to think,” she answered. That was the answer he liked,
modest, and prudent.


II

She altered strangely after that talk. Before his eyes she grew thinner
and paler, looked really ill. A shadow lay over her, a trouble she could
scarcely support. It distressed the good man very much in more ways than
one, for he imagined she was struggling against her loyalty to her dead
husband, and he was not only sorry for her, but jealous as well. She
avoided him noticeably, and he was too proud and too kind to trouble
her. In the office she was formal, almost hostile. All this hurt him and
puzzled him; it was not until long, long after that he realised what a
terrible thing was taking place in her queer little soul.

She didn’t want her child out of her sight. In the evening, when he came
now and then to see her, she would sit with the little creature on her
lap, pressed against her heart, sleepy and patient.

He began to fancy that he was in some way offensive to her, and little
by little tried to resume his old manner, to be kind but quite
impersonal. A faint resentment aided him; he called her Mrs. Naylor, and
ceased to call on her at the hotel.

And, directly he began to draw back, she advanced. He permitted it. He
wouldn’t see her hints; he waited until she actually asked him to call.
She had tried to dress up a little, with a lace collar on her rusty old
black blouse, and she had left Sandra upstairs, with a bag of candy and
some new paper dolls. She was waiting in the Ladies’ Sitting Room, with
the naked light illuming her sallow, anxious face; not pretty, not very
young, not fresh, and in a decidedly disadvantageous situation. But
fully able to cope with it.

“Mr. Petersen,” she said, very, very gravely, “some time ago you made me
an offer. I have reason to believe that you regret it now. I want to
tell you that you are quite free.”

“I don’t regret it. If it were of any use, I should be only too glad to
repeat it.”

“You’d better not,” she said.

He enquired why.

“Because,” she said, with her charming smile, “I should accept it.”

Thus were they betrothed.

And now she was still more surprising. She wanted to be married without
delay.

“We don’t want any fuss or bother,” she said. “There aren’t any
preparations to make.”

“It can’t be too soon for me,” he said.

“Why not next week?” she suggested.

He professed himself delighted.

“And--Chris----” she added, with a blush, “I’d like ever so much to get
a new dress for Sandra and a few little things----”

He gave her a cheque for five hundred dollars, which he thought would be
ample. So that he was surprised, on the wedding day, to find her wearing
a grey suit he was sure he had seen on her before. She was waiting in
the “Ladies’ Sitting Room,” with little Sandra beside her, dressed in a
lace frock trimmed with ribbon and a flopping beflowered hat which
almost hid her grave little face. He complimented Minnie upon her
appearance, although he was deeply disappointed, and then began to
praise Sandra, when Minnie burst into tears.

“Oh, my poor, poor baby!” she sobbed. “My poor innocent little lamb! She
doesn’t realise one bit---- Oh, you _will_ be nice to her, won’t you?”

“Come, come! You know I will. She loves me already, don’t you, pet?”

To his chagrin and surprise, the child answered clearly:

“I don’t love you. I like you. I only love my daddy.”

He knew quite well that she had been taught to say that. It wasn’t a
child’s thought. He turned redder than ever, but held his peace.

“I’m doing wrong!” cried Minnie. “You see!”

“But surely.... Little Sandra, you like old Uncle Chris a lot, don’t
you?”

Sandra looked at her weeping mother, then at Mr. Petersen’s distressed
face, and herself began to cry. Minnie caught her in her arms and tried
to comfort her.

“Don’t cry, dear. Mother wouldn’t let _anyone_ hurt you.”

“Minnie!” he protested.

“Oh, do stop!” she cried. “You don’t know anything about children. Don’t
cry, sweetheart! You’re going to live right in the house with dear old
Michael! Isn’t that _nice_!”

Mr. Petersen suspected at this time and at future times, that Minnie
didn’t do all she might to make the child fond of him. In the course of
time she dried her eyes, her mother, red-eyed and pale, straightened her
hat, and the festive wedding party set off for the church.

It was evidently a terrible ordeal for Minnie. And for poor Mr.
Petersen. He looked at her haggard and tormented face, and suffered from
many new doubts. Was she marrying him for money, for a home for her
child, for safety?

“She doesn’t love me,” he said to himself, and added, with deeper
unhappiness, “She doesn’t even _like_ me.”

They went out, man and wife, back to Mr. Petersen’s house, where Mrs.
Hansen waited to salute them. She knew her days there were numbered, but
the occasion called for a smile and a cheerful demeanour, and she
complied.


III

“Shall we put it in the papers?” asked Mr. Petersen.

“No!” cried Minnie, “I hate that!”

They were at supper, their first meal together. And how different from
what he had imagined! There was still daylight in the room, even a last
gleam of sun striking across the table. It looked so charming and so
peaceful that Mr. Petersen couldn’t help expecting some comment. Surely
she would notice his linen and the fine old silver? Or at least Mrs.
Hansen’s cooking? How could she not be delighted at finding such a home
for herself and her child? He had proudly led her from room to room,
each one so exquisitely clean and neat, furnished so well and
substantially, and she hadn’t made a single remark about the comfort or
the beauty of any of them. Just followed him and asked, idiotically,
“And this is the sitting-room?” and so on. He was too even-tempered and
too fond of Minnie to be angry, but he was deeply disappointed. Without
showing it in any way.

Quite in his usual way, he resumed:

“Would you like to send out a few announcements? To your sister,
perhaps?”

She sprang to her feet to answer him.

“No, no, no!” she cried, in an odd, hysterical voice. “What’s the matter
with you? Can’t you let things be as they are? Can’t you let me alone? I
hate that vulgar, nasty display. I won’t have it! I’ll deny it! I’ll
deny it!”

She stamped her foot and began to cry furiously, so that in the end he
had to call in Mrs. Hansen, and between them they did their best to
soothe her, and persuade her to go directly to bed, where a tray was
brought her, so that she could finish her supper in peace. They arranged
a good light, and found a cheerful book for her.

Mr. Petersen lingered a minute after Mrs. Hansen had gone downstairs. He
looked down at the worn and wretched Minnie.

“My dear,” he said gently, “don’t worry, please--about anything. I don’t
want you even to shake hands with me, if you don’t wish. I should be
very glad if I could make you understand--that I am not that sort of
man. I hope you will never have cause to regret----”

“Chris,” she answered soberly, “I’m sorry, very sorry I’ve acted like
this. But I’m overwrought, not myself. After all, it’s a terribly
important step for a woman. Especially when there’s a child to be
considered.”




CHAPTER TWENTY


“Well,” said Mr. Petersen to himself, “I’m not the first nor the last!”

He was standing on the back porch, looking into the kitchen formerly
Mrs. Hansen’s immaculate kingdom. How changed, how sadly altered now! As
if a huge maddened bumblebee had been flying about in it, knocking down
everything, making all sorts of stupid mischief. Dirty pots and pans on
the stove, the sink, even, unaccountably, on the chairs. And
extraordinary things, which interested him, on the floor, egg-shells,
toys, a pair of gloves.

Without the least trouble he could remember just how it had been nine or
ten months ago, when Mrs. Hansen had ruled, when he had been a bachelor.
Sighed, but not with bitterness. Order-loving and systematic as he was,
he was not exasperated by the turmoil in his home, or by the dreadful
meals. He had toward Minnie an absolutely boundless tenderness. For one
thing, he could see that she always _tried_; her failure came not from
laziness but from--he hesitated even to think it--from lack of
intelligence, from a sort of obstinate stupidity.

Servants were hard to procure and Minnie never got on well with them.
There were always scenes, in which Minnie was the perfect Defoe and the
servant very impudent. She seemed to have an absolute talent for
provoking impudence from the most unexpected sources. Furthermore, she
would not pay good wages. She resented the very idea of a servant
profiting by her work. It was one of her queer little parsimonies. So
she was compelled to do most of the work of the house alone. When she
became quite submerged in the torrent of disorder, she called upon Mrs.
Hansen, but grudgingly and ungraciously.

It was after six, and she hadn’t begun even to consider dinner. He went
upstairs and found her sweeping the big bedroom with frantic haste.

“Oh, Chris,” she said, with a worried frown, “I know I’m awfully late.
But I had a terrible headache, and I had to lie down almost all
afternoon.”

He put his arm about her shoulders.

“Oh, leave this!” he said. “You poor little soul! If you’re well enough
to get dressed, we’ll go and have dinner at the Eagle House.”

“But, Chris, the house! The kitchen!”

“Nonsense! I’ll get Mrs. Hansen----”

“No, not that odious woman!”

“Someone else then. Come on, little Minnie! Put on your nice new dress!
I’ll find Sandra.”

Finding Sandra was a recognised preliminary. Her mother never knew where
she was. She roamed about the neighbourhood, dirty and beautiful,
playing with whatever children she encountered, or, oftener, went quite
alone on her expeditions. She was never hungry, and hadn’t the least
regard for meal times. Sometimes it sufficed to call her, sometimes
Petersen went making enquiries.

He found her this time in the garden next door, talking with the old
lady who lived there. As soon as she saw his kindly face she rushed up
to him and sprang into his arms with the warm and silent affection she
had developed for him, and which so enraptured him. He smiled
apologetically over her head at the old lady, and carried her off. She
was five now, and tall for her age, thinner than ever, and lovelier. She
had lost the softness of babyhood, her little face was pointed, her
features clearer. Mr. Petersen looked upon her with an admiration that
was almost awe. His feeling for this child was more than he could
express, more than he could comprehend; something beyond any paternal
affection. Minnie _loved_ her, with a violent and undiscriminating
passion, but he was privately convinced that Minnie didn’t quite
understand her, or quite appreciate her rareness. She would, he fancied,
have loved any child she had borne with the same fervour.

“Well, Sandra!” he said, “are you hungry?”

“No, Uncle Chris.”

So she always answered, and it always worried him. He had been disturbed
to learn from Minnie that the child never drank milk, didn’t like it. He
found a very particular sort of cow out in the country and arranged with
its owner to deliver daily a quart of its milk, and, with bribes and
cajolery, got her to drink it.

“How much milk to-day?” he asked, as he did every evening.

“None. Because Michael tipped over the bottle just when Mother opened
it, and _he_ drank it _all_ up, from the floor, like this.”

She illustrated with a small tongue.

“Now then, that will never do! We shall have Michael growing bigger than
you!”

That amused her, and together they constructed imaginary scenes with an
enormous Michael.

“We’re going out to dinner to-night,” he said. “Uncle Chris will make
you pretty, eh?”

So he carefully washed the little face, and combed her hair, talking to
her all the while.

“What did the little girl do to-day?” he asked.

“I writed a letter to my daddy. I writes to my daddy every day.”

He felt a great pity for her, and a generous pity for the man who had
had to leave her forever. She often spoke about her father, and in
honour bound, Mr. Petersen encouraged it, although it wasn’t altogether
pleasant for him. He didn’t like to be reminded of the dead Englishman
whom he had supplanted.

“That’s right,” he said. “Remember your daddy.”

The little girl was sitting on his knee while he buttoned her frock; she
rubbed her silky head against his face and rested for a moment against
him. He could hear Minnie in the next room, opening bureau drawers in a
vain search for some of her perpetually lost belongings.

“Mother wroted too, to daddy,” Sandra went on, “and I did post it in the
high box.”

He wondered casually whom Minnie had been writing to, then in an instant
forgot all about it, for he heard her calling him in a queer, desperate
voice:

“Chris! Chris!”

He hurried in to her. She had apparently begun to dress and then
stopped; she was standing, leaning against the bureau, in a petticoat
and a cheap little flannel dressing sack, her hair down.

“Chris!” she cried again.

“What’s the matter? Are you ill? Shall I send for the doctor? Speak!
What’s the matter?”

“I know I’m going to die!” she whispered.

He was appalled.

“Die! Minnie, my dear, what is it!”

She collapsed in his arms; not in a faint, simply gave way, in a sort of
dreadful limpness. He carried her to the bed and covered her up with a
blanket, and stood looking down at her in helpless alarm.

“Shall I telephone the doctor?” he asked.

She nodded feebly, and he ran downstairs to do so. Then sat down by the
bedside to wait. He would very much have liked to tidy the room a bit
before the doctor came, but Minnie had clutched his hand tightly, lying
with closed eyes and rigid face. He felt himself disgustingly petty to
be troubled by details, by corsets on the bureau, an underskirt dangling
on the gas bracket, a window curtain secured only by a pin.... Nothing
better should be expected from a woman in her condition. And what did it
matter? He tried to concentrate his attention on Minnie, but unhappily
his eye fell upon a sort of waste tract under the bed, where in a tangle
lay fluffy bits of hair, mouse-like rolls of dust, torn letters,
stockings, toys of Sandra’s.

The doctor came and Petersen went downstairs to Sandra.

“Mother’s not well to-night,” he told her. “We’ll see if Uncle Chris
can’t fix up some supper for his little girl.”

Resolutely denying the emotions that were assailing him, disgust,
impatience and despair, he went into the awful kitchen.

“It can’t go on this way,” he said, half-aloud. “Ill or not, she could
surely.... We’d better give up housekeeping if she can’t find a servant.
We’d better board.”

And the emotions suddenly mastered him.

“This is filthy!” he cried. “This is horrible! You’d lose your soul in a
mess like this! There isn’t, there can’t be any excuse for such a state
of things!”

He came out of the awful kitchen, banging the door, and, in a whisper,
telephoned for Mrs. Hansen.

Presently the doctor came down.

“She’s in a very nervous state,” he said, “but there’s nothing
physically wrong, as far as I can see. Morbid. Thinks she can’t live
through it. That she’s going to die. Not unusual in her condition. If I
were you, I’d see she didn’t over-exert herself. Persuade her to rest
more. Get a good servant, Mr. Petersen; you can afford it. Try to
interest the little lady in sewing, books, that sort of thing.”

Mr. Petersen went upstairs again, to find Minnie in tears. He told her
what the doctor had said.

“But I don’t _want_ a servant!” she cried. “No, Chris! I’d far rather
have the extra money.”

“I’ll give you the extra money beside,” he assured her, in surprise.
“You know, my dear, you only need mention----”

It wasn’t the first time he had reflected on the subject of Minnie and
income. He allowed her considerably more for housekeeping than Mrs.
Hansen had had, and yet she couldn’t manage. They had cheaper food, and
not too much of it. She bought no clothes for herself, and only what was
essential for Sandra. The entire tone of his life was lowered; broken
articles were always replaced by something cheaper. It had more than
once occurred to him that Minnie must be saving, laying up a little
hoard on her own account, and it rather hurt him. She knew he had left
her everything in his will, and he felt that she might certainly trust
him while he was living. He was very generous with her, and never asked
a question, once he had given her any money; but he hated waste and
extravagance, and he had no intention of giving her too free a rein. His
former idea of a wife who should be a comrade, to share equally in all
he had, to be consulted and apprised of everything, had gone. Minnie was
not a comrade, whatever else she was. Business could never be discussed
with her. He couldn’t even say, “We’ll spend so much of our profits,” or
tell her what proportion he wished to save or to reinvest. He simply had
to tell her, “I can afford so much and so much,” and she would take it
without comment. Her share of his money, as a woman, was all that she
could get hold of; she didn’t consider it a right or a privilege, but an
opportunity.

He didn’t resent that attitude; he was strong enough and large-minded
enough to admit the exorbitant claims of the weak. The only thing he
did resent a little was her secretiveness. Her ruling instinct was to
hide everything, to conceal her true thoughts, to distort her actions.
She didn’t like even to tell him what she had eaten for lunch. Her age
remained forever dubious. She had curious reticences about different
phases of her childhood. Her little prevarications he didn’t so much
mind; was rather amused by them. If she wanted to hurry him she
ingenuously told him the time a half hour in advance of the truth. She
gave him milk with his coffee and declared that it was cream. She told
him things cost twice as much as they did, so that she could pocket the
difference. And he, with a fatuousness by no means rare in this world,
felt that there was no harm in these naïve little deceptions, was sure
that in anything important she was quite to be trusted. If only she had
talked more, confided in him more fully, he would have been entirely
satisfied. Suspiciousness was utterly foreign to his kindly heart.

Although doubts were beginning to trouble him.... This “attack” for
instance. He could not stifle a feeling that she had some object to gain
by it. He wanted, of course, to be sympathetic, but it was not easy.
After Mrs. Hansen had come, calm, polite but outraged, and had bathed
and fed Sandra and got her to sleep, he went upstairs to sit with Minnie
and found her lying flat on her back, her black eyes wide and troubled.

She turned to him sombrely.

“Chris,” she said, “suppose I were to die?”

“I won’t suppose it,” he answered. “You mustn’t allow yourself to be
morbid.”

“I’m not. Only there’s always a risk. And I can’t help thinking of
Sandra. She hasn’t anyone but me----”

“Don’t you trust me, Minnie? Don’t you know how fond I am of the
child?”

“I know,” she said, with a frown. “But I’ve seen so much of that sort of
love.... You might die yourself.”

“I’ve provided for that, as you know.”

“Or,--I might as well be frank, Chris. When this other child comes,
you’ll feel very differently toward Sandra. You’ll lose interest in
her.”

He was seriously annoyed.

“You ought to know me better----”

“I’m not blaming you. But a child of your _own_--it’s altogether another
thing. Oh, you’ll see!”

Slow tears were running down her face.

“How can I help worrying? My poor little girl!”

“What would you like me to do?” he asked kindly. “I tell you I’ve
provided for her in any event.”

“I suppose there’s nothing to be _done_,” she answered. She turned her
face to the wall and lay perfectly still. He waited until he believed
her to be asleep and then went softly out. But he was amazed and
horrified when, from the darkness of the hall, he saw her sit up in bed
and fling her hands above her head, and whisper, with a ferocious
distinctness he could not misunderstand:

“Oh, I _hate_ your baby! I hate it! I hate it! I hope and _pray_ it will
die before it comes to rob my little girl! I hate your baby!”

He crept downstairs and into his study.

“It’s her condition,” he told himself. “She’s not normal, hardly
sane.... She didn’t realise....”

But his joy and pride in the child they were expecting had quite gone.
Her distorted passion had tainted his healthy common-sense. A hated,
unwanted child! In spite of himself, he began to see it as a monster,
began to dread it....




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


I

It took a countless number of small details finally to arouse distrust
in Mr. Petersen.

In the beginning, there was the roast chicken. Mrs. Hansen, who once
more ruled the kitchen, came to him in great distress.

“Mr. Petersen!” she cried, “It’s gone! The whole thing! A beautiful
whole roast chicken I put into the ice chest with my own hands this very
morning.”

“Tramps,” he suggested, “or Michael. Don’t worry. Go and buy another.”

And that marked the beginning. After that she missed something almost
every day, and it nearly made her insane. She never talked of anything
else; to Mr. Petersen, to Mrs. Petersen, to her own husband, or even to
Sandra.

“It isn’t tramps,” she insisted. “There I’ve never stirred out of my
kitchen the whole morning, and that loaf of bread’s gone!”

She could not make anyone realise the magnitude of it, the hair-raising
mystery. Minnie took the attitude that Mrs. Hansen must be and was
mistaken; Mr. Petersen suspected Michael. The poor woman was desperate.

“All the years I’ve been here!” she moaned, “and never a bit of trouble
like this!”

She was not superstitious, but the mystery began to terrify her; bread,
meat, fruit, all sorts of things, vanished utterly, and with regularity.
She considered Minnie grossly careless to take so little interest; the
more she saw of her, the more she despised her, anyway. On her return,
Minnie had turned everything over to her, never so much as ordered a
meal. She offended further by always sitting upstairs, just rocking or
embroidering there in the bedroom, in a bedraggled wrapper, with her
hair in an untidy knot, until late in the afternoon, when she made a
supreme effort, dressed herself and went out for a walk.

Her appearance shocked Mrs. Hansen immeasurably, her brazen disregard
for her “condition,” her unsuitable clothes. Her treatment of Sandra,
too. Such unwisdom she had never seen. The child was ailing half the
time with colds and coughs; she was forever getting her poor little feet
wet, and going about for hours in that way; she ate nothing, she moped,
she was badly dressed, her hair was never taken care of, but fell over
her face in a silky tangle, she didn’t get nearly enough sleep. Mrs.
Hansen did what she could for her, incurring Minnie’s relentless hatred.

“I can’t see how you stood that odious, interfering woman so long,” she
said to Petersen. “As soon as I’m well, she’ll go, I can promise you!”

He tried to defend Mrs. Hansen, but with no success. And she, on her
part, made as many veiled insinuations against her mistress as she
dared. Mr. Petersen was not comfortable.

One evening he was sitting reading in his library while Minnie lay on
the sofa with closed eyes and little Sandra was playing at his feet,
talking in a low voice to her dolls. It was after nine; Mrs. Hansen had
long ago cleared up and gone home to the new cottage--one of Mr.
Petersen’s--which her husband had bought upon Minnie’s arrival. The
house was quiet; there was for the moment a little peace, and Mr.
Petersen was enjoying it. Then came a rap at the back door. He was
surprised to see Hansen.

“Could I have maybe one, two minutes?” he asked solemnly.

“Of course!” said Mr. Petersen. “Come in! We’ll sit down in the kitchen,
not to disturb Mrs. Petersen. Now! What’s wrong?”

Hansen took a chair in a manner combining Socialistic equality with the
politeness due to a much richer man.

“It’s this way,” he said, “my wife she is badly upset about this
business.”

“What business?” Mr. Petersen enquired with a sinking heart, surmising
another miserable disturbance between the two women, an unusually bad
one if their men had to be dragged into it.

“Losing all these things. She thinks maybe you begin to suspect her.”

Mr. Petersen’s face flushed.

“Nonsense, Hansen!”

“Nonsense all right,” said Hansen, with slow obstinacy. “But that’s what
she thinks. First one thing, then another is every day going.”

His English grew more and more halting, but he wouldn’t for worlds have
used his and Mr. Petersen’s native tongue. They must under all
circumstances preserve the illusion of being Americans.

“For ten, twelve years you know us now, Mr. Petersen,” he went on. “All
the same, this is a queer business and my old woman she doesn’t like it.
She thinks maybe very soon you begin to suspect her.”

“But I tell you I’d never suspect her,” Mr. Petersen insisted.

“The Missis could.”

“Nonsense!” he said again, but he made no impression upon the stolid
Swede--nor upon himself.

“Anyway, Mr. Petersen, I want to pay you any time you are thinking my
wife is taking something. Any time you would think she got a chicken or
what, you just tell me, Mr. Petersen, and I pay you.”

“But I tell you I’d never think so.”

“Maybe sometime you could, Mr. Petersen.”

Mr. Petersen understood what he meant.

“Here you are with a new wife, and what she thinks you’re going to think
before long,” was what Hansen’s tone implied, and he resented the
implication. They talked a long time about it; neither gave an inch.
Hansen’s parting words were:

“Remember, I pay you any time, Mr. Petersen!”

And Mr. Petersen’s:

“Nonsense!”

Nevertheless, he felt obliged now to consider this thing seriously. He
sat alone in the kitchen and reflected until bed time, but couldn’t
reach any sort of conclusion. Mrs. Hansen was absolutely above
suspicion, unless she had suddenly gone mad, and that he couldn’t
accept. Sandra never wanted food, and anyway, she would have been
discovered. Michael had no opportunities, tramps couldn’t remain
invisible, stray dogs wouldn’t rifle the apple barrel, wouldn’t and
couldn’t be so nicely discriminating. His mind dwelt upon Minnie, he
remembered things he had read or heard about morbid cravings for certain
things to eat, about temporary mental derangements.... But that idea
filled him with such alarm and uneasiness that he refused to consider
it. He evolved a diabolic dog, actually invented excuses for it....


II

The very next day he found out, quite by accident. He was going to lunch
at the Eagle House with a rather important client and he hurried home
to put on a clean collar and his cherished white flannel trousers, worn
only on semi-official occasions. Minnie was taking a bath, so he didn’t
even call out to ask her where his things were. She wouldn’t have known
anyway. He was accustomed to searching patiently for every article when
it was required.

He went through his own bureau drawers and his own closet in vain; then
he went to look in Minnie’s appalling wardrobe.

On the shelf there, lying on a piece of newspaper, behind her best hat,
lay half a cold leg of lamb.

A corpse could scarcely have terrified him more. In a panic he seized
his cap and rushed out of the house as he was; and Minnie never knew he
had been home at all.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


I

It may be said with perfect truth that Mr. Petersen was haunted by the
leg of lamb; it gave him sleepless nights. He couldn’t imagine why it
was there. He would stop in the middle of serious work in his office,
and contemplate the mystery. Could it be connected with her peculiar
efforts at economy? Or a plot against Mrs. Hansen? Or absolute madness?

It was significant--more so than he realised--that he didn’t dare to ask
Minnie about it. At the bottom of his heart, in spite of his affection
and admiration for her, he was perfectly aware that Minnie was a woman
capable of anything and everything. There was nothing she wouldn’t do.
He went about for days, with the leg of lamb on his conscience,
miserably imagining that he had in some way wronged Minnie by finding
it.

The losses continued. But he never looked in the closet again.
Imagination balked at the prospect. When Mrs. Hansen reported a dish of
apple sauce and three pork chops missing, a dreadful vision of them
behind Minnie’s hat flashed across his brain. He tried his best to
mollify Mrs. Hansen, to assure her that he knew she had no hand in the
business. He felt intolerably guilty before that honest woman. He was a
changed man, and he knew it. He had fallen into a sort of daze of
astonishment, like a man who has undeniably seen a ghost.

An impossible situation, and ended by a still more incredible
revelation. Quite by accident he learned where the leg of lamb and all
its associates had gone.

Minnie’s health was causing him a great deal of anxiety. She was in a
perpetual state of exhaustion and worry, and refused to be relieved. It
was one of her most sacred principles that it was not only meritorious
but absolutely a duty for a domestic house-loving woman to tire herself
out every day. In addition to doing a great many tasks which Mrs. Hansen
had plenty of time and ability to do, she _would_ take a walk every
afternoon, even if it rained. The doctor said it was too much for her,
advised her resting more, but although she listened to him sweetly, she
said afterward to Mr. Petersen that she knew what was good for herself
better than all the doctors on earth. She wouldn’t even take Sandra with
her on these walks; she said she had to be alone, for her nerves. Mr.
Petersen warned her of rough characters from the brick yards and
solemnly cautioned her to guard against being frightened; certain roads
she was never to take, and she said she wouldn’t.

So that he was alarmed and annoyed one day to see her crossing the
railway tracks and starting off down the very worst of all the forbidden
ways. He had happened to go over in that direction himself to see one of
the comrades who wanted to build a house. At first he didn’t believe his
eyes; it couldn’t be Minnie, in the dusk of a raw October day,
deliberately and unnecessarily walking through that wretched quarter of
drunken Slavs. But it was surely her hat ...! He hurried after her. She
was a long way in advance, and before he had caught her up she had
turned off the main road where the wretched hovels were, and entered a
little wood.

It was quite dark there, under the trees, and very still; there was a
faintly marked path, which the workmen sometimes used as a short cut to
the brickyards in summer, but quite deserted at this time of the year. A
mat of sodden leaves underfoot, and a damp reek of decay. He was really
angry at her morbid folly; such a place might well be dangerous. But
just as he was on the point of speaking to her, gently, so that she
shouldn’t be startled, she rushed up to the dim form of a man who had
materialised from the twilight. She kissed him several times.

Mr. Petersen was near enough to hear every word, although he could not
distinguish the man. It was Minnie’s voice which most astounded him--it
was _not_ her voice; it had tones he had never before heard, never
imagined; it was gay, tender, full of a beautiful bravery.

“My darling boy!” she said, “I’ve only an instant. Is your cold clearing
up at all?”

“How’s Sandra?” he asked curtly. His voice was hoarse and weak.

“Splendid! I’ve brought you a little something to eat, dear. You must do
all you can to keep up your strength. For just a little while longer.”

“Oh, my God! Minnie!” he groaned, “I wish I were dead! And you too. And
Sandra. It’s too much for me----”

“Don’t, don’t, my dearest! Just a little while longer. I ought to go
now, really.... But I can’t leave you like this. Say one word to comfort
me, dear. Tell me you’ll be brave, just a little while longer.”

“I am brave,” he answered grimly. “If I weren’t, I shouldn’t be here.”

Once more she kissed him.

“Good-bye, my dearest!” she said. “Keep up your courage! God bless you!
I’ll see you to-morrow as usual. And eat that nice beef, won’t you? You
need it so!”

She turned away and retraced her steps, through the wood and through the
settlement. She was hurrying and breathing painfully, and Mr. Petersen
heard a gasping little sob now and then.

He was afraid of startling her too much by speaking just then. He waited
until she was slowly climbing the hill above the tracks before he came
up with her.

“Minnie!” he said as gently as possible, “_Who was that?_”

She looked at him wildly; her eyes made him think of a terrified horse,
and she quivered like one.

“Chris!” she cried. “You didn’t----!” And abruptly and mechanically
began to scream, shriek after shriek.

“Stop! Stop!” he implored, in dreadful anxiety. “Calm yourself! Never
mind! Don’t tell me; only stop! Stop! Please, Minnie!”

She couldn’t now. There in the road, where the Slav colony could hear
her and coming rushing to witness, she had a frightful hysterical
attack. Mr. Petersen sent someone after one of the old station hacks,
and got her home at last. He was dripping with perspiration and
altogether in a bad state when the doctor came; he was sure he had
killed Minnie.

She was not allowed to talk that night; a trained nurse came and took
charge of her, and kept Petersen out of the room. He didn’t go to bed at
all; he sat in his study, in dreadful anguish.

In the morning the nurse came down and told him he might see his wife
for a few minutes. He tried to compose himself; he soaked his great
yellow head in cold water until his hair lay sleek as a seal; he
swallowed a glass of brandy, but nothing helped him. He so dreaded what
he might hear.

Minnie loved that man. No matter what she said, she couldn’t make him
doubt that. Her words, above all, her voice.... She must have been
meeting that incredible, that unimaginable lover for weeks, feeding
him.... He was not in the least angry at her. On the contrary he felt
very, very sorry for her. But he did not want to see her, or to hear
what she was going to say. If it were only possible for her to be
restored to health and then to vanish!

He couldn’t speak. He went over to her bedside and stood looking down at
her. She was worn, pale, more troubled than ever. But she met his
glance; she had not the look of a guilty woman.

“You’ll have to be told now,” she said. “I wanted to wait--but I suppose
you wouldn’t consent----?”

“You needn’t tell me anything----” he began.

She closed her eyes wearily.

“You’d never trust me.... He’s my brother. We’ve never spoken of him ...
he’s caused us a great deal of sorrow--disgrace, poor fellow. Through
drinking. Father wouldn’t let us see him, or mention him. And Grandma
was just as harsh. Even Frankie turned against him....”

She paused a moment and feebly wiped the tears from her closed eyes.

“But I’ve always seen so much good in him. I’ve always been so fond of
him, poor fellow!... So much good--going to waste!”

“But, Minnie, if you’d only spoken to me----”

“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to him. He’s very proud, in his
way.”

Mr. Petersen sat down beside her, and tried, in a long silence, to
adjust himself to this. He was conscious of a great relief, a terrible
burden being lifted from him. And a feeling of guilt in the presence of
the poor little woman. How could he for an instant have suspected
_Minnie_, respectable, conscientious, maternal Minnie, of having a
lover! Filthy, vile, preposterous idea!

“We’ll find a way to help your brother, my dear,” he said.

She reached out a calloused and hot little hand and put it into his.

“Chris,” she said, “what I want is to have him _here_. Under my eye.
Where I can look after him. May I?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“But, Chris, I want you to understand it _all_. It’s such a difficult
situation. For a man like him--brought up in the best schools in
England----”

“In England!” exclaimed Mr. Petersen.

“Yes; Father liked the English schools best for boys. Alec’s lived in
England for years,” she explained, a little impatient at the
interruption. “He’s quite an Englishman. But, listen carefully, Chris,
please. It’s going to be very hard to get him here.”

“Why? Can’t----?”

“You see, I didn’t tell him I was married. He wouldn’t have taken
anything from me if he hadn’t believed it was all mine. I told him I had
a position.... It will be a great shock to him, and he’s far from well.
If you’ll only promise to do just exactly as I tell you, please, Chris!”

He was rather amused at her solemnity.

“Whatever you think is necessary,” he said, indulgently.

“It is--very necessary. I’ve written a note, and I want you to take it
to him in that same place in the wood this afternoon at five. And,
Chris, _don’t_ talk to him, don’t tell him anything--any single
thing--until he’s read it. Not _any_thing. It’s very important for him
to learn it all from me--from the note. Promise!”

“Very well, my dear.”

“You see, I know just how to manage him, so that he won’t be too much
shocked. And you’d better take your pocket flashlight, or you’ll be
giving the letter to the wrong person.”


II

Privately Mr. Petersen considered it a preposterous errand. He set off
at half-past four with the note and made his way through the windy
twilight to the wood. At first he couldn’t find the fellow; at last he
discovered him sitting on a fallen log a few feet from the path, sunk in
apathy.

“Is your name Defoe?” he asked.

The man jumped up.

“What is it?” he asked. “Have you a message from her?”

Mr. Petersen handed him the note and the flashlight by which to read it,
and with no little curiosity, tried to study his appearance in the
little spot of light. But couldn’t; could see no more than a thin, long
hand clutching the letter. It seemed a long one.

Presently the flashlight was extinguished and the little wood was very
dark, and still. Mr. Petersen respected the feelings of the sensitive
brother for a long time, but he couldn’t wait there all night.

“Shall we be getting along?” he said, pleasantly.

Out of the dark came that hoarse and pitiful voice.

“Who are you?” it asked.

“Petersen,” he answered.

“The man--the man that Minnie----?”

“Her husband; yes. Are you ready?”

The man came abreast of him, and began walking by his side with weary
and heavy steps.

“Is she so very ill?” he asked.

“No-oo,” said Petersen. “Not very. Can’t look for perfect health, I
suppose, in her condition.”

“What condition?”

“There’s a baby coming in a few weeks, you know.”

He was surprised her brother hadn’t noticed; then reflected that he had
only seen her in the dark.

“The doctor tells me there’s no cause for worry,” he went on. He was
curiously anxious to reassure the fellow; he was moved by a great pity
for him which he could not have explained. Simply that his voice, his
manner, the very atmosphere about him, seemed tragic and terrible.

They went on toward the house, Petersen talking cheerfully, neither
exacting nor expecting replies from his companion. They entered the
hall, and he turned, for the first time, to look at him.

Like a madman, like a ghost, so deadly pale and haggard and ruined....
He couldn’t bear to look at him. He turned away, but found the image
still in his eyes, the tall, lean fellow with his fine-featured face,
his great grey eyes, so sunken and luminous, his straggling beard, his
ruffled hair, all his shabbiness and wretchedness.

He wanted to propose a bath and a shave before going in to Minnie; the
poor devil wasn’t a fit object for her gaze. But he divined the morbid
sensitiveness of the famished creature, and was afraid of hurting him.
As he hesitated, little Sandra came in from the kitchen.

He caught her violently in his arms.

“Sandra!” he cried. “_Don’t you know me?_”

She looked up into his face.

“No,” she whimpered, frightened. “Put me down!”


III

His interview with Minnie was very brief, for the nurse sent him out
without ceremony, and followed him downstairs.

“Mr. Petersen,” she said, “I’m going to telephone for the doctor.”

The two men looked at her in alarm.

“Is she worse?” asked Mr. Petersen.

“She’ll soon be better,” answered the nurse, with a smile.

Mr. Petersen caught her arm as she was going.

“You don’t mean--it’s beginning now?” he asked. “I thought--three weeks
more at least----?”

The nurse smiled again.

“I shouldn’t be surprised!” she said.

Mr. Petersen felt utterly frightened and helpless. He looked about in
vain for comfort, saw only the very professional nurse, and Alec, more
alarmed than himself.

“Will it be--bad?” he asked the nurse, but she went hurrying upstairs
again. He followed her, but wasn’t allowed to come into the room.

“You’ll only make her nervous,” the nurse told him, severely. “You must
be sensible now, Mr. Petersen, and not worry me. I’ve got my hands
full!”

So he went down again and met the doctor coming in. He, too, had the
professional cheerfulness so difficult to endure.

“Take a drink,” he advised, “and go out for a walk. We don’t need
_you_!”

He went back into his study once more, and was surprised to see the
brother still there. He had forgotten all about him. He poured out a
drink for him, too, and sat down, very glad to have someone with him. He
became fictitiously cheerful to hide his anguish. And every time he
heard a footstep overhead, his heart bounded horribly.

He poured out a second glass of brandy for each of them, and was sorry
to see the misery on the face of the other, not to be dispelled by many
drinks. He tried to console him, said, after all, it was a perfectly
natural thing--a beautiful thing. But didn’t believe it himself. There
wasn’t--there couldn’t be beauty in the bestial agony of a poor little
woman. It was _natural_ enough, natural as an owl crunching the bones of
a rabbit....

Suddenly there was a long, horrible groan from upstairs. Mr. Petersen
turned pale, and reached blindly for the brandy.

“My God!” he muttered. “This is----” But was cut short by a frantic
clutch at his arm. The brother stood swaying like a reed; suddenly
collapsed and fell at his feet unconscious.


IV

He was fully occupied with this other sufferer for a long time. He did
all the proper things, threw water over him, slapped his hands, forced
brandy down his throat, until he revived. Then he fetched Mrs. Hansen
and she made him drink hot soup and eat bread and butter. There wasn’t a
sound upstairs. Resolutely Mr. Petersen kept his mind away from Minnie,
and clung to Mrs. Hansen, followed her wherever she went. Her calmness,
her ordinariness solaced, as well as the fact that she was a woman. He
questioned her minutely about Alec and what she thought he needed,
without listening to her replies. It was only her reassuring voice he
needed.

“There now!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Petersen, the doctor’s coming down.”

“She’s dead!” he thought.

But the doctor was smiling.

“A fine boy!” he said.


V

Presently, as dawn was breaking, the nurse came running downstairs to
Mr. Petersen.

“You may go in for just a _minute_!” she said.

She was looking worn and jaded, and, for the first time, not
immaculately neat. She was human now.

Mr. Petersen took it upon himself to invite Alec to come with him.

“It will do you good, my boy,” he said.

So they entered the room together, together had their first glimpse of
the newly-born little man. He was asleep, his red, wizened little face
screwed up into a look of comical misery, his tiny dark-red claws
stretched up. The nurse assured them that he was large and that he was
healthy.

Minnie was lying flat on her back, with a long braid of hair over each
shoulder, framing a very pale and grave face. She was exhausted and ill,
but proudly victorious, aware that she had accomplished a masterly
thing. Thus had she replied to all doubts or questions whatever that
might arise within Mr. Petersen. She was the mother of his son; she had
established a claim upon his heart and upon his conscience which he
could never deny. He not only loved her, he reverenced her. A deep
conviction, belonging to a somewhat old-fashioned brand of Socialism, of
the “sacredness of motherhood,” lay in him. Minnie had heard a great
deal of it from him. It made her more than ever conscious of what a
remarkable and praiseworthy thing she had accomplished. She looked at
the two men with a worn yet sublime smile.




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


I

The days that followed were the golden days of Mr. Petersen’s life, the
happiest he was ever to have.

Minnie was angelic. Her worry, her preoccupied air had gone; she was
gentle, gay, affectionate. She didn’t get well very fast and had to stay
in bed for some weeks, but that was no burden; she liked it. With her
tiny son beside her and little Sandra quietly playing nearby, she was
contented and blissful for hour after hour.

She developed a great fondness for being read aloud to; all evening and
part of the afternoon one of the two men could be seen sitting by the
bed with a book. Her taste was astoundingly catholic; as a matter of
fact, she didn’t care in the least what was read, or pay much heed to
it, so long as she could secure the uninterrupted companionship of one
of her men. She only wanted to see them there, safe and happy.

Mrs. Hansen managed the house and Sandra to perfection. There wasn’t a
bother or an annoyance from one day’s end to another. Except that Mr.
Petersen felt a bit disturbed about the brother’s state of health. He
had taken a great liking to the fellow, and he hated to see him so
despondent.

Theirs was a most curious companionship. He realised how curious some
time later. Mr. Petersen had never before met a man of this class and
type; he had been wont to despise them, to look upon them as hindrances
to the Socialist scheme, and useless from any point of view. Now he
revised his ideas, in his open-minded fashion. Alec’s education he
couldn’t admire; he really knew nothing at all, nor was he particularly
intelligent. But his ideas were fine. They were not personal to him,
they were nothing more than traditions, and yet Mr. Petersen was forced
to admit that such traditions were quite as good, if not a great deal
better, than anything which most men would have been able to work out
originally. Principles of honour, of fidelity, of endurance. No matter
that he didn’t live up to his principles very well; who did, anyway? Mr.
Petersen himself was aware of many betrayals of his own faith. The thing
was to aspire.

What is more, he liked the personality of the fellow; his simplicity,
his infinite gentleness with Sandra. Certainly he would have liked to
see him more cheerful, still, he could very well understand this
depression in a man well over thirty who had failed to make a living for
himself. He proposed looking about for some opening for him, but Alec
said, no thanks, he was going away in a day or so. He was reserved to
the point of mysteriousness. Mr. Petersen used to discuss him with
Minnie and ask her advice.

“You know him better than I do,” he said. “What do you think would suit
him?”

Minnie, as always incapable of answering a question, would say:

“But let’s keep him here, anyway, Chris. It’s the best place for him.”

She had the greatest devotion for her brother, a devotion which Mr.
Petersen fancied was not quite appreciated. He was so formal with the
affectionate little soul. If she succeeded in kissing him good-night or
good-morning, he would turn scarlet and actually frown at her. He never
returned a caress, never spoke a tender word to her. He seemed rather
to avoid her. He was willing enough to read aloud, but if she
interrupted him, and wanted to chat a bit, he lost his temper.

“Do you want me to read or _not_?” he would ask, menacingly.

Sombre and inscrutable, he withdrew into himself, disregarding even Mr.
Petersen’s always renewed offers of friendship. He treated Mr. Petersen
with a respectful deference which would have been grotesque if he had
not been so obviously sincere.

Sandra he loved passionately. It surprised Mr. Petersen to hear him
upbraiding Minnie for her carelessness with the child. Her food, her
clothes, her manners. He was always saying that she should be taken to
church, and taught what he called “decent ideas,” and Minnie always
promised to comply when she grew stronger. She was invariably
propitiating toward her brother, as toward someone she had wronged....


II

The War broke out. With very little effect upon Brownsville Landing.
“Let them fight it out,” was the prevailing opinion; it was also stated
positively that none of the nations had any clear idea of its aims or
why it was involved. Even the Belgians were fools, who had rushed into
war for no reason. There was a certain amount of awfully sentimental
sympathy for the “Belgian babies,” but it wasn’t very effective. The
Brownsville Landing natives looked upon the whole affair as a colossal
folly, in which all the participants were equally guilty; the British
perhaps a bit more reprehensible than the others. The old families,
brought up on flamboyant traditions of “1776,” looked upon the British
with scorn and dislike, the Irish element with positive hatred, and the
great mass of aliens, with their obscure and vague affiliations,
swallowed docilely the German propaganda fed to them. There was a
wide-spread conviction that the Germans were invincible, if not
superhuman, with amazing scientific devices impossible to resist. A sort
of laboratory witchcraft, “secrets” and “discoveries” without limit.
France was degenerate and vitiated; England gross, slothful, devoid of
patriotism, Russia a farce; the whole affair wouldn’t last long.

To Mr. Petersen, the European, the outbreak was of immense significance;
it was the falling of Damocles’ sword. He read the papers avidly. He was
not partisan; he felt nothing but the passionate interest of an onlooker
observing a mortal struggle between equally unpleasant adversaries. A
struggle among capitalists. With the poor man dying, bleeding,
suffering, whether victor or conqueror. He shook his head over the fate
of the Continent.

It surprised him that Minnie’s feelings were so vehement. She was
absolutely furious that there should be a war. All those men should have
known better. She didn’t know or care what it was about; she declared it
was shameful and wicked for so many people to be killed. She went so far
as to weep over it. He knew Minnie well enough to guess at something
personal in this fervour; an abstract interest was not possible for her.

Sure enough, it was a personal matter. It concerned her adored brother.
He had evidently been telling her that he wanted to enlist, for one
morning Mr. Petersen heard them at it, taking it up again with
incredible obstinacy and indirectness on both sides.

“I won’t let you!” cried Minnie. “I won’t have it!”

“Good God! What do you want to make of me? Can’t you _see_, even _you_,
that it’s the only way to rehabilitate myself? My only chance. I shan’t
lose it, no fear!”

“Don’t you dare!” she cried hysterically. “I’ll die! It would kill me!”

Mr. Petersen entered after Alec had gone out angrily, banging the door.

“Minnie, my dear,” he said, mildly, “don’t you think you’re wrong to try
to influence your brother in such a----”

“Oh, do stop!” she interrupted rudely. “You don’t understand.” And
suddenly grew angry with him. “I should think you could see he’s not fit
for a military life. So thin and sensitive. How can you be so
heartless.”

Mr. Petersen remarked that if he weren’t fit for a military life, he
wouldn’t be accepted, but Minnie said she knew all about _that_; they’d
take anyone they could get hold of, even in a dying condition.

This marked the end of her period of sweetness. With her characteristic
scorn for doctor’s orders, she refused to stay in bed any longer. In a
wrapper, thinner, pallid, and untidy, she pervaded the house, for the
sole purpose of keeping her eye on Alec. She followed him about,
scolding him, crying, tormenting him. He stopped arguing, he absolutely
refused to answer her. He would sit, with a cigarette in his mouth,
quite unmoved by her tirades.

It was undoubtedly a unique opportunity for the poor fellow to
“rehabilitate” himself, as he put it, and Mr. Petersen couldn’t
understand why he hesitated. Surely no man owed so immoderate a duty to
a sister. If he wanted to go, if he saw it as his duty to go, why in
Heaven’s name, didn’t he go, and at once?

All of poor Minnie’s loves were so inordinate. She was to Alec as she
was to her children, utterly and blindly devoted, without the least
discretion or scruple. He knew that she didn’t love him in that way,
but he felt it was because he was independent, didn’t need her so. Her
whole life consisted in service for those weaker ones. The most
superfluous services, that instead of helping hindered. She annoyed Alec
by her futile and insistent attentions, by counting his cigarettes and
deploring their number, by bringing him special dishes which were
intended to fatten him. She denied Sandra nothing, no matter how
injurious and stupid. She served her little son by carrying him in her
arms continually, never let him alone in peace. Only to Mr. Petersen she
did nothing but her duty, and not always that, though she didn’t realise
it.

The old disorder was re-established, on account of trouble with Mrs.
Hansen.

Minnie came into his little room one morning, frowning.

“Chris,” she said. “You’ll have to tell that woman to go at once!”

“Who, my dear?”

“You know very well! That Hansen woman! _This_ time she’s surpassed
herself. I never heard of such impudence. Never! There she was, the
old--_creature_--snooping round in Alec’s room. Snooping!”

Now Mr. Petersen had long been aware of this sole failing in an
otherwise classically lofty character. He knew that Mrs. Hansen snooped.
But, having no secrets, her snooping hadn’t particularly disturbed him.
He realised, too, that for one of Minnie’s secretive nature, snooping
must seem a crime; he knew by this time that _she_ had plenty of things
to hide, queer little magpie stores, money she imagined she was saving,
clothes she had ruined in the making, bills she didn’t wish seen. He
thought it rather humorous.

“That’s too bad,” he said, soothingly. “Still--perhaps if you speak to
her----”

“Indeed I shan’t. _You_ engaged her and _you_ can get rid of her. I will
_not_ have her in the house. Poking her nose into everyone’s affairs.
She’s got to go at once!”

She heard the baby crying and turned to go.

“I never did trust that woman,” she said, turning back at the door. “I
always felt there was something queer when we missed all that food last
autumn.”

Mr. Petersen was stricken dumb. To accuse poor Mrs. Hansen of that!

And such was the plausibility, the fatal assurance of Minnie’s manner,
that he was almost inclined to disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes,
to deny the facts known to him, and to put his faith in her words....

She got another servant, a silly young girl, and between them they
produced a masterpiece of discomfort and disorder. They quarrelled, too,
in a distressing way; but were nevertheless conscious of a sort of bond.
Mr. Petersen would hear Minnie in the kitchen preparing food for the
baby and talking to Addie with interest, with animation, as she had
never talked to Mrs. Hansen, who was so much more worth talking to. And
Addie would reply as one woman to another. They used to discuss the war
sometimes with deep indignation. Their opinions were identical. Addie’s
young man, who was a German with American citizenship, hankered after
the Fatherland, and wanted to go home and fight, but Addie had told him
firmly that if he did, _she_ was done with him. He could find one of
those fat German girls.

Minnie’s housekeeping annoyed her brother very much. In fact, Mr.
Petersen thought him unnecessarily fault-finding with the anxious little
woman. She used to cry sometimes but she never resented anything he
said. She would excuse herself by saying that the baby took up so much
of her time. And that was a new cause of offense. He accused her
bitterly of favouritism, and even Mr. Petersen was obliged to admit a
basis of truth in the accusation. She had an absolutely frantic passion
for her little son; she was ready enough to be sharp and unjust to
Sandra if she disturbed his inordinate demands for quiet slumber.

It was a beautiful, a wonderful baby, a lusty, blonde little Petersen
with serene blue eyes and a sort of debonair quality; a baby no woman
could be blamed for adoring. But she was so immoderate, so inordinately
proud of having a son anyway. And when, combined with its superior sex,
it possessed the attractions of this son, how withstand it? She expected
Sandra to worship as she did, and Sandra refused. Sandra was annoyed
with this superfluous child. As far as she was concerned it was useless,
too young for a playmate and not docile enough for a toy. Moreover it
received attentions which properly belonged to her. Uncle Alec alone
confined his devotion to her.

He didn’t want the little girl out of his sight. He spent many hours
walking through the garden, holding her hand, listening to her, touching
her misty hair. He couldn’t play with her or amuse her as Mr. Petersen
did, but she was able to love him even more. They had between them a
rare and touching sympathy.

Mr. Petersen thought it charming. He often watched the grave little
girl, sitting on the sofa beside the wretched man, reading aloud to him
from her funny little books, which she knew by heart, sometimes stopping
to run her little hand over his cheeks, or his beard, which amused her.

“Isn’t _that_ a nice one?” she would ask, ending some story about bears
or wolves or fairies.

“Rather!” he would answer. “You’re a very clever, good kid to read to me
like that.”


III

Mr. Petersen came home one day at noon, and found no trace of lunch.
Addie was not in the kitchen, nor Minnie. The latter he could always
trace by means of his son’s voice, and he went up to the bedroom, to
find her lying on the bed, exhausted, sobbing, while Addie bathed her
forehead with cold water while she dandled the baby.

“Well, well!” he asked. “What’s wrong now?”

“He _will_ enlist!” cried Minnie wildly. “You’ve got to stop him! I
won’t have it. I’ll die!”

“Pshaw!” said Mr. Petersen mildly. “This won’t do!”

He was a little annoyed.

“You must let a man do as he thinks right,” he said.

“Right!” cried Minnie. “He’s not thinking of that! He wants to get
away---- He’s made up his mind to get away from _me_!”

“Come, come! This isn’t very sensible, my dear!”

“Neither are you!” she answered, unexpectedly. “You’re the biggest fool
in the world, Christian Petersen!” And began to laugh.

In the course of time she was calmed, and Mr. Petersen went downstairs
to look for a bite to eat. He discovered Alec in the kitchen with
Sandra, boiling eggs.

“Minnie been at you?” he asked.

Mr. Petersen admitted that she had.

“She’ll have to get over it, that’s all,” said Alec. “I’m going! About
Sandra--I’ve got something ... a small income.... It isn’t clear now;
I’ve drawn against it for some time to come ... but what there is, is
for her. I.... You’ll look out for her, won’t you, in case I----?
She’s--Minnie doesn’t altogether understand her. Not so well as you do.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Mr. Petersen, who was too kindly even to hint
that he didn’t need to be shown his duty toward Sandra by this poor
failure. “You’ve really made up your mind then?”

“All the mind she’s left in me!” he answered with sudden passion. “Good
God! What does the woman want! She wants to own a man, body and soul.
Wants me to hang about here a disgraced, ruined man, not even _trying_
to--stand alone---- The most disgusting, despicable object under the
sun--so that she won’t be separated from me. Good God! If I’d ever
thought I’d come to this, Petersen ...!”

“Now then, my boy,” said Mr. Petersen gently, “don’t blame your sister
too harshly. She’s too much a woman to understand these things. And
don’t be bitter. You’re a young man yet. You can----”

“No!” said Alec, “It’s too late. You’ve only to look at me to see I’m
done for. In every way. Physical as well as--moral. No good. Rotten all
the way through. My only chance is to get into the army. If _they_ won’t
have me, I’m finished.”

He was so obviously excited that Mr. Petersen did not remonstrate.

“If I can help you,” he said, “with your outfit, for instance, let me
know. I’d be very glad. Or ... if you need ready money----?”

Alec looked at him sombrely.

“Petersen,” he said, “some day you’ll understand. And I hope you’ll----
But I can’t expect it.... Only, before I go, I’d like you to know
that--I’m not so bad as I seem.--I--I _realise_.... I hope I’m going to
be killed. Perhaps that’ll wipe out--this. You might--in that case--not
judge me so--you might--have mercy....”




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


I

Mr. Petersen was thankful to escape from the house the next morning.
After what a night! No sleep for anyone; even the baby had been awake
and crying half a dozen times.

Minnie had opened her attack on Alec. Mr. Petersen heard her, hour after
hour, raging, crying, pleading with him in his room. Time after time he
had tried to go out, but she would spring in front of him and bar the
door.

“You’ve _got_ to listen to me!” she shrieked.

At last, very reluctantly, Mr. Petersen felt obliged to intervene. He
knocked on the door two or three times unheard, for the storm was raging
wildly. Then he turned the knob and walked in. Minnie was on her knees,
clasping Alexander tightly, while he stood, white and cold, not even
looking at her.

Mr. Petersen was shocked and for the first time angry at Minnie.

“Get up!” he commanded. “This is disgusting!”

She turned her face, blistered with tears, to him.

“Don’t, don’t, _don’t_ let him go!” she cried, “Chris, for Heaven’s
sake----!”

He made the fatal mistake of trying to argue with her. He was quiet and
reasonable, and she aped his manner to perfection. Argued with him, the
distorted and plausible arguments of a madwoman, became quiet, scornful.
She involved him in a maze, bewildered and confounded him, and made it
more and more difficult for him to keep his temper.

Alec gave him sound advice.

“It’s no use talking to her,” he said. “She never _listens_.”

They all became violent and rude. Sandra waked up and came running in,
barefooted, wide-eyed, pale, stood listening for a long time. Then the
baby began to cry again and Minnie hurried to it, but when Alec tried to
escape downstairs, she flew after him, baby in arms, and again barred
his way.

An awful night! Mr. Petersen unlocked his office and sat down with a
great sigh. Never suspecting the far more awful night that was drawing
in upon him. The climax, which so strangely and regularly occurs in
human affairs, the definite point of departure, of division between the
old days and the new, was approaching. His doom drew near.

He had just begun to lose himself in his business papers when there was
a rap at the door. It was too early for Miss Layne; he was rather
surprised; he called out “Come in!” and the instrument of fate entered.

It was Frances.

He was astonished and pleased. He had always admired Frances. He brought
forward a chair.

“Miss Defoe!” he exclaimed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you!”

“Five years, nearly,” she answered with a sigh and a smile. “But you
haven’t changed a bit!”

_She_ had, he thought; she had improved. She looked older; no longer a
girl, but straighter, more vigorous, more nobly honest than ever. Her
face was a little cold in its severe, composed beauty, but not at all
hard. A woman who expected a great deal, but who also forgave a great
deal. She was dressed very plainly but with distinction, with pride. He
could see no sort of resemblance to Minnie.

“And where have you been all the while?” he asked.

“Out on the Coast. I went out as a doctor’s secretary. Then I helped him
with some research work. He recommended me to other doctors, so I set up
a little office of my own. For very special sort of work. Only medical.
Compiling and revising and translating books and articles doctors wrote.
I was doing very well. I’d got quite a reputation in my line.”

He admired her modest pride, her simple assumption of his interest in
her affairs. He praised her enterprise.

“I like it. It’s been very interesting. And profitable. And I’ve learned
a great deal. I’ve watched operations. I’ve even helped doctors in an
unofficial way. Especially with children. And now I’ve come East again
to see if I can’t get into the war somehow. I’m not a nurse, but I could
train for special work. I’ve lots of letters to all sorts of people. I
think I could be useful somewhere.”

“I should think so,” he said, thinking to himself that such a woman
would be useful in any place. Their eyes met in a glance almost
affectionate, a regard made up of memories of the old days of faithful
work together, of their old respect and esteem.

“I wanted,” she said, with a smile, “to have another look at Brownsville
Landing, and Mr. Petersen. I’ve always remembered you. I think, in the
old days, I didn’t quite appreciate you, and I wanted--it’s sentimental,
isn’t it--but before I went to Europe I wanted to come back and say
thank you, for all the many, many kind things you did for us. I don’t
think any of us _realised_---- Only now, after I know the world a little
better, I’m able to judge you a little better.”

He turned scarlet with delight and confusion. He had never before heard
such words, never received acknowledgment of his generosity.

“I had to tell you,” she went on, “in case I didn’t come back.... I’ve
seen a good many people in these last years. I’ve learned what to
expect, more or less. And I can see _now_ how rare it was--the way you
treated us. There we were, living on your bounty, and turning up our
silly noses at you. Silly, shabby little snobs! Only we didn’t know any
better. We didn’t know anything at all. We really weren’t able to
appreciate----”

“Please stop!” he said, laughing, “I can’t listen.” He was silent for a
minute.

“You make me very proud and happy,” he went on, at last. “What I did was
nothing. I had a great regard for your family. And I sincerely regretted
all your misfortunes. I.... It’s very kind of you to speak to me in this
way----”

He held out his hand.

“Thank you again,” he said. “You don’t often find people willing to
express a good opinion of one. Bad points--mistakes, _they’re_ mentioned
fast enough----”

“Don’t I _know_!” she cried, grasping his huge paw.

“Now!” said he, still beaming, “You’ll come home with me and see Minnie,
won’t you?”

“Minnie! Here?”

“I forgot you didn’t know. I’m married to Minnie.” Frankie’s face turned
quite white.

“But--married to Minnie! But ... I thought--Mr. Naylor ...?”

“He died,” said Mr. Petersen. He knew nothing about Frankie’s connection
with the dead man, or he wouldn’t have been so unconcerned. As it was,
he was distressed at the change that came over her face. It was quite
distorted for a minute, with grief, with anguish, with a terrible
resentment.

“Died!” she repeated. “I didn’t know!”

He saw that there was something in this unknown to him. He kept silent.

“And then she married you. Soon after, I suppose?”

“I don’t know,” he had to answer. “I never asked her.”

She looked squarely into Mr. Petersen’s eyes.

“I was engaged to him once,” she said, “until Minnie took him away from
me.”

She was still for a moment.

“I ought not to talk like this to you,” she went on. “It’s not fair.
Only ... I thought I’d got over it ... and all the time, it ... was
there. I ... feel so--_cheated_!”

Her fine mouth quivered.

Mr. Petersen rose.

“Come,” he said, kindly. “Come home with me now and see Minnie. Perhaps
she’ll have something to say to you.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t _speak_ to Minnie.”

“I’m sure you could,” he answered. “I wish you’d try. Give her a chance
to explain. Perhaps there’s a misunderstanding. And even if there isn’t,
you’re ... I’m sure you’re able to come. Please!”

She got up with a sigh.

“I might as well,” she said, “one can’t go on forever being cynical.
It’s all over, long ago.”

They went out together on to the Main Street, busier, more prosperous
now, but still familiar to her. She walked by his side, with her fine,
free stride, so very different from Minnie’s anxious bobbing. They
passed the Eagle House and turned the corner.

“Oh!” cried Mr. Petersen, suddenly. “There’s a piece of good news too.
Your brother is with us.”

“I haven’t any brother,” said Frances.

“Your brother who was in England.”

“But I never had a brother!”

“Your brother Alec!” he said, quite loudly.

“I never knew anyone called Alec in my life.”

Mr. Petersen stopped short and grasped her arm.

“Please, Miss Defoe,” he said, “try to recollect your brother. It--it’s
very important!”

She looked at him with a puzzled frown.

“I’m sorry, but I never had a brother. Minnie and I were the only
children. What made you----?”

He looked terribly shocked. He couldn’t go on, but remained stock still
in the street, wiping his brow with an enormous handkerchief.

“Of course,” he said, in a stunned sort of voice, “it’s some--some kind
of--misunderstanding. We’ll soon clear it up. Nothing to _worry_ over.”

But she could see how terribly worried, how filled with dread and horror
he was, and she too grew apprehensive.

“I wish you’d explain!” she entreated.

“Wait! We’ll be home in a minute!”

“Was there someone who pretended to be our brother?”

“Minnie said he was.... I ... it will be cleared up in a minute or two
now. Nothing to worry over.”

But he was absolutely panting, wiping his streaming face as if in the
thick of some tremendous exertion.

They went on down the quiet old street, to Mr. Petersen’s beloved home.
It did not look at all as it had in the old days, when Frances used to
go there for books; the curtains were dirty, blankets were hanging out
of an upstairs window, and a baby’s toys littered the porch.

“Is there a baby?” Frances asked.

“Two,” he answered. “One of--his, and one of mine.”

She smothered a bitter sigh, and went with him through the gate, up the
walk and into the house. The sitting-room was empty, and very dirty; no
one in the dining-room, where the breakfast dishes still stood.

“They’re in the garden, I dare say,” said Mr. Petersen.

They hurried through the vile kitchen and down the back steps.

“There!” shouted Mr. Petersen, pointing to the end of the grape arbour.
“There’s Minnie and your brother!”

Frances gave a shriek that horrified him, that caused the two at the end
of the garden to look up suddenly:

“Her brother!” she cried, “Oh, Mr. Petersen! _Mr. Petersen!_ It’s her
_husband_!”




BOOK FOUR: THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


One might imagine a sort of allegorical picture of Minnie’s progress.
There would be Minnie, in her triumphal chariot, dressed in modern
garments for the reason that her rather short and matronly form would in
no wise be suited by any classic costume; she would be standing upright,
her expression anxious but resolute, driving with careful skill the twin
steeds which had carried her so well--Sex and Wilfulness, the latter
with a single eye. Before her walk slowly the victims dedicated to
sacrifice on her altar, Sandra and little Robert. Their poor little
faces bear the shadow of their destiny. Behind her walk Frances, erect
as ever, but incurably wounded--the woman robbed of her one love,--and
Mr. Petersen, the honest man despoiled of his good repute. And tied to
the car itself, dragged stumbling in her wake, stripped to the scornful
gaze of the populace, ruined, broken, is Lionel, fastidious ruler of a
tiny kingdom forever lost to him, shorn of all his pride and prestige,
most pitiable of all her victims.

And she never glances back; her gaze is steadfastly forward, toward the
future, where her children will surely suffer and die. She never looks
to one side or the other, sees nothing of what she passes, neither the
black valleys where lie bleaching bones, or the windy hill tops, bright
and beautiful. Never hears a friendly hail or a warning cry, or a call
for help.

In fact, I think that when at last she comes to the end of her journey,
she will not know at all where she has been.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


I

This is the story Lionel would have told, if he could. But, poor devil,
he was as incapable of explaining himself as if he had been a creature
from another planet. Even the few extenuating circumstances of his case
he was never able to bring forward. He had always taken pride in his
reticence, in concealing his sentiments. And from having lain ignored so
long, they had grown unfamiliar to him, he didn’t know them when they
came forth. Didn’t actually recognise his own feelings, past or present.
He saw only that he was guilty; he accepted that sentence, not pleading
his own weakness even to himself.

Poor devil! Poor devil! He never even knew that he had been the innocent
victim of a most cruel seduction.


II

His martyrdom had begun on New Year’s Day, when he had gone to meet
Frankie’s train, and Frankie had not come. He had returned for the next,
two hours later, in vain, and for all the others, until late at night.
He had eaten a wretched little supper in a cheap restaurant nearby and
gone home to bed. He was stunned; he couldn’t believe in his misfortune.

Next morning a telegram came.

               “_Cannot return. Writing._       FRANKIE.”

He hadn’t a penny. He sat in his room all day waiting for the letter,
which reached him in the last mail that evening.

“My dearest boy,” she wrote, “the most dreadful thing has happened. My
sister has gone away and of course I can’t leave Grandma alone and
helpless. I am trying my best to think of some plan, but oh, Lionel, I
am so worried about you! I enclose five dollars, which is all I have. I
can’t imagine how you will make out. I have written a special delivery
to Miss Eppendorfer to send me my salary, and I will forward it to you
the instant it comes. My dear old boy! This is so miserable! Minnie has
found some sort of place for herself, and says she is going to stay
there for a year. I am thinking and thinking what I can do. Take care of
yourself, my dear.

                                                      Always your

                                                               “FRANKIE.

“P.S. Minnie is at my aunt Mrs. Lounsbury’s, 226 Lenover Street,
Brooklyn. You might go to see her and see if you can persuade her to
come home. I don’t think it will do the least good, but it won’t do any
harm to try.”

He went that very evening, used Frankie’s five dollars for a taxi, in
order to make a good impression. It was a raw, wet night, fit for his
desperate mood. He was determined to _force_ the beastly, selfish sister
to release his Frankie.

The taxi went across the bridge, over the mystical river, shrouded in
fog, and turned into an avenue where trolleys crashed by and elevated
trains thundered overhead, where fruit stalls did a brisk business with
swarthy foreigners; a slum, he called it. He watched from the window in
vain to find any place possible for an aunt of Frankie’s to inhabit.
Then abruptly the driver swung round a corner, and left the unsavoury
turmoil for a dark and quiet street, paved with cobblestones. A wind was
blowing from the nearby river, bringing a dreary din of horns and
whistles; there was no other sound, no traffic, no footsteps.

“No. 226,” said the driver. “Here you are!”

He got out, paid the fare with his last bill on earth, and climbed the
steep flight of steps to the front door. There was an old-fashioned bell
to be pulled; he heard it jangle inside. He waited in the wretched
drizzle a long time, then rang again. The house was quite dark and the
street too; the blurred lamps showed nothing but glistening cobblestones
and pavement, and one stealthy cat slinking past. He shivered and
sighed.

At last the door was opened and a head peered out cautiously.

“Well?” enquired a feminine voice.

“May I see Miss Defoe?” he asked. “It’s Mr. Naylor.”

“Come in!” said the voice.

He entered a narrow hall, lighted by a “Turkish” lamp, a pierced iron
sort of thing, in which a feeble jet of gas burned. His guide turned to
the right and lighted another gas jet, revealing a vast drawing-room,
all the furniture shrouded in covers.

“Sit down,” she said, pleasantly. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long,
but we go to bed very early, and the servants can’t hear the bell, up on
the third floor.”

He asked again for Miss Defoe; he had no interest in anything else.

“I’m Miss Defoe,” said she. “What can I do for you?”

He scarcely looked at her.

“I’ve come to _see_----” he said, “to try to influence you if possible
to----”

“I suppose to go back and let Frankie come to the city again,” she
interposed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

“I don’t think you realised what you were doing,” he said. “If you had,
you wouldn’t--you couldn’t--have cut us off this way, without any
warning. It was--absolutely inhuman. Did you know that your sister and
I intended to be married?”

“She mentioned it,” said Minnie.

Her calmness infuriated him.

“Let me tell you!” he cried, “that I won’t submit to this. I’m going out
there on Sunday and I shall try to persuade her to marry me at once.”

“She can’t. She can’t leave Grandma.”

“She’s not called upon to sacrifice her entire life to her grandmother,
is she?”

“No,” said Minnie slowly.

She was thinking very hard.

Lionel changed his tone.

“I say! Miss Defoe! Please try to realise! You’re--I’m sure you don’t
want to separate us---- You don’t want to make your sister suffer. She’s
always spoken so affectionately of you. You know she wouldn’t treat you
this way. Let her come back and marry me, and as soon as I’m on my feet
a bit, I’ll do _anything_ for you--anything you like.”

Minnie did not answer, or raise her eyes. She was still thinking. It was
intolerable for her to be looked upon as heartless and selfish by this
very nice young man. He pleased, he charmed her; she determined to
appear well in his eyes. She was always inordinately sensitive to blame;
it was vital to her to be admired by everyone. She didn’t so much intend
to lie, as to idealise herself, to show him the Minnie she felt he would
respect.

She found her note, with her unerring instinct.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, hesitatingly, “but I must be
frank. You see, Mr. Naylor, Frankie’s nothing but a child. She’s so
impulsive and unreasoning. She’s not practical like I am. That’s the
reason I _had_ to do as I did. I couldn’t stop her any other way.”

“Do you mean you--did this on purpose?”

“Why, of course. She told me ... forgive me for mentioning it ... how
very poor you were--and I _couldn’t_ let her make such a marriage. Not
that way, so rashly--and a man we’d never seen. She will never listen to
reason. I begged her to wait, even a little while; I didn’t want her to
throw herself away. The only way was to make her a sort of prisoner, as
I did. Aunt Irene had said ages ago that I could come here as her
companion any time I wanted, so I packed up my things and went off at
once. Then I intended to see you and--find out something about you.”

“Frankie doesn’t know you came for that reason--to prevent her marrying
me,” he said, in a crestfallen way.

“I suppose not; she’s very hasty in her judgments. I suppose she puts it
all down to selfishness and hard-heartedness. It doesn’t matter though,
so long as I’ve saved her.”

He had not a word to say. Minnie had accomplished her favourite piece of
magic, had made her opponent feel utterly guilty, had quite put him in
the wrong. He was ready to believe that Frankie had been “saved” from a
penniless and highly undesirable suitor.

“You don’t know what Frankie is to me,” said Minnie, improving as she
went on, “there’s nothing--_nothing_ I wouldn’t do for her. I do wish
she didn’t misjudge me so. She’ll never know how hard it is for me, how
I hated to leave home. I’m not like her--adventurous and enterprising. I
was happy there on the farm, with the animals. And Grandma,” she added
hastily.

“Well, you see,” said Lionel, weakly. “You didn’t explain to her. How
could she help----”

“How could I explain!” she answered, reproachfully. “Only think how
self-righteous and disgusting it would have sounded. Besides, she
wouldn’t have believed me. And she would have thought that she knew what
was best for herself. It would only have made more trouble.”

Lionel was no longer indignant and resolute; he was becoming more and
more uncertain of himself, more and more apologetic.

“But,” he protested, “now we can’t see each other at all. It’s not only
a question of getting married at once; it means that we’re to be
_entirely_ separated. Don’t you think that’s unnecessarily harsh?”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go out to see her.”

He flushed.

“Not very well,” he said; “at the present time, I’m rather--hard up.”

“I should be glad to lend----” Minnie began, but he frowned.

“Thanks, no.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Minnie, “that you haven’t even the train
fare to Brownsville Landing?” Her tone was blunt but kindly; quite that
of an elder sister. “And you’re talking of _marriage_, Mr. Naylor!”

“I have a small income,” he protested, “only the next quarter’s not due
just yet.”

Minnie smiled her rare smile, and it warmed his heart. A smile so
simple, so good-natured, so illuminating her dark and serious face.

“I’m afraid you don’t manage very well,” she began, when a very shrill
old voice interrupted her, calling from the top of the stairs.

“Minnie! Minnie! What’s all this?”

“I’ll have to go,” said Minnie, with a sigh, and held out her hand. “Mr.
Naylor, I’d like to say a great deal more. You mustn’t look on me as
your enemy by any means! Quite the contrary. If you and Frankie will
trust to me a little--I could meet you to-morrow afternoon, on the
downtown corner, about four. I’d like to talk to you more fully.”

He had no chance to answer, for she had hurried from the room; as he
let himself out of the front door, he saw her running up the stairs to
the disagreeable old voice.

Then he went out into the fog again, unreasonably comforted,
unreasonably hopeful.


III

Of course he was waiting for Minnie the next day as she had appointed.
She was late, as she always was, and Lionel had grown a little
impatient.

He had much he wanted to say, a number of arguments he had arranged
during the night. He couldn’t remember Minnie very well, but he had
gained a vague impression that she was a kindly, pleasant little body, a
bit meddlesome and without distinction, but _nice_. He felt that he
could manage her. She had smiled very good-humouredly. He was far from
despairing.

But he couldn’t help remembering so many other times when he had been
waiting for his own dear girl, bright, brave old Frankie! Every memory
of her was a pain; he could not endure to think of their parting, and
her face, so hopeful, so full of tender anxiety for him. He longed so
for her, for the support of her love and her courage. No one else would
do, no other voice console him.

At last he saw Minnie coming, a queer, dowdy little figure in black,
hurrying toward him with short, bobbing steps.

“I’m sorry!” she said, breathlessly, “but it’s not easy for me to get
away.... Shall we walk? There are nice quiet streets about here.”

“Just as you please,” he answered. Some of his hopefulness had left him
after the first proper daylight look at her. Her appearance was so
discouragingly adult and reasonable; so altogether foreign to romance.
She was not smiling either.

He began resolutely.

“Miss Defoe, I don’t think you quite understand the----”

“Oh, I _do_!” she assured him, earnestly. “Indeed I do! I’ve thought of
nothing else since I heard of it. Mr. Naylor, I want to help you and
Frankie. I want you both to be happy. But I don’t--I _can’t_ think it
wise for you to marry just now. I don’t in the least want to separate
you entirely. That would be cruel. I only want Frankie to wait until you
are--more--better....”

“I understand.”

“I wish very much you’d let me lend you enough to go out and see
her----”

“Miss Defoe!” he said sternly, “I said before I can’t listen to that.”

She laid her hand on his arm and looked up into his face with a troubled
frown.

“Mr. Naylor! It’s just as Frankie’s sister I’m speaking.... It’s only
because I want to _understand_. I’m practical, much more so than
Frankie. Won’t you please tell me just how--just what your income
is--what your prospects are?”

She watched his face.

“Please don’t resent it,” she said. “It’s not curiosity!”

“I’m sure----” he answered, with vague politeness. But nevertheless he
did resent it; that was Frankie’s business and his business, and _not_
Minnie’s. She held them both in her power, however, and he was obliged
to answer her.

“I’ve about five hundred dollars a year,” he said stiffly, “that’s all.
I’m looking about for a job of some sort.”

“What business have you been in?”

“None. Except for a few weeks with my brother.”

“Can’t he help you?”

“No.... Not exactly. We’re not on good terms.”

“That’s too bad! What do you expect to find? What sort of job?”

“I don’t know. Frankie used to suggest things. She knew the country
better than I, of course.”

“Poor Frankie! And that’s what you were counting on--_some sort_ of
work!”

She sighed.

“I’m sorry for you. You don’t know the trouble you’ll have.”

He was nettled, as she meant him to be. Her intention was to make him
feel a fool, to show him the utter folly of Frankie’s ideas. He could
not bring himself to tell her that Frankie had intended to keep her own
position, he was ashamed of that. He felt that Minnie despised him, and
he didn’t blame her.

He thrust his hands into his empty pockets, and silently cursed the
universe--and Minnie. He hadn’t even money for his dinner. Not a sou.
And no Frankie to advise him. He had a sudden terrible feeling of
desolation.

“Oh, Lord!” he groaned.

“What is it?” asked Minnie.

“I suppose ... I haven’t any right to think of Frankie. I suppose--if I
let her alone, she’ll forget me, and make a better match out there.”

Minnie knew what the matrimonial prospects were in Brownsville Landing;
still she looked grave.

“One can never tell,” she said. “Still, Mr. Naylor, I certainly
shouldn’t give up hope if I were you. I’d only think of the marriage as
postponed. Until you’re doing--better.”

“That’s all very well. But to be on the point of marrying a girl like
Frankie, and then to lose her, for an indefinite length of time--it’s
not easy.”

“But she’s worth waiting for!” cried Minnie, like a good sister.

“Yes,” he answered, bitterly, “but I’m not. Look at me! I haven’t a
penny in my pocket, as I stand here. Not much better than a beggar.”

It was his old black depression, which he had grown accustomed to having
assuaged by Frances. And now there was no Frances, and no encouraging
words.

They had been strolling through moribund streets for some time, and were
now back at the corner where they had met.

Minnie held out her hand, in a shabby glove that Frankie _could_ not
have worn.

“Good night!” she said, “and please give me your address. I want to
think things over, seriously. You’ll hear from me very soon.... And in
the meantime, won’t you write to Frankie? Tell her all I’ve said.
Perhaps she’ll listen to _you_.”

He went back to his room completely crushed. He was a fool, Frankie was
a misguided and romantic girl; there was no light in the world. They
would never, never be able to marry. He sat down and wrote as Minnie had
suggested.

Frankie, reading the letter, had no way of knowing how he felt, writing
it. She couldn’t see him, or read his heart, and the very deepest love
gives no key to the beloved’s mystery. It was a genuine act of
self-sacrifice on his part. He felt it his duty to point out all the
drawbacks and penalties of such a marriage, as seen through the eyes of
Minnie and the world; all the old obstacles she had so gallantly
disdained, and a host of new ones, born of his own despondency and
humiliation, and of his lack of food. She could read in it only
reluctance and coldness. It hurt her beyond measure.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


I

He woke up the next morning dizzy and sick, and quite obsessed by the
question of food. Marriage and love were relatively unimportant. Not
that he was hungry, at all, only dreadfully empty and weak, and
frightened about his condition. He wondered if it were possible for a
person of his class really to starve to death, whether his pride, and
his love for Frankie were strong enough, if he could hold out, and not
turn to Horace.

“What in God’s name can I do?” he asked himself. “Ten days before I have
a penny! Ten days!”

His mind dwelt persistently on one of those cheap, white-tiled
restaurants, crowded with people, places formerly despised. If only
there were a quarter in some forgotten pocket!

He had nothing to read, not even a magazine. No one to speak to. Not an
earthly thing to do. He lay down on his bed and dozed away hours in a
half-stupor. He began to imagine that he was already starving.

The next morning a letter slid under his door, as he had expected. But
it was not the hoped-for letter from Frankie; it was from Minnie, and it
enclosed a ten dollar bill. She wrote as his grandmother might have
written--spoke of the difficulties of a young man, a stranger in the
city. “Repay me when you are able,” she said, and signed herself
“Frankie’s sister.”

He was furious.

“I suppose she thought I was hinting at a loan when I told her I hadn’t
a penny in my pockets,” he thought. “She has no more sensitiveness than
a rhinoceros.”

But in the end, he kept the money, knowing he could pay it back in nine
days. And wrote at once to Minnie, thanking her. He made up his mind
that he would never, never face her again. He would return the money by
letter, and she shouldn’t hear of him again until he was a successful
man and able to marry Frankie. His attitude at this future time would be
amused, tolerant, very superior. He was horribly ashamed of himself for
taking her money; it poisoned every mouthful he ate. He didn’t like her
anyway; he was afraid of her. Neither was he grateful. Instinct was
warning him of a snare.


II

There was another note from her the next day.

“Dear Mr. Naylor: If possible, will you please come to tea this
afternoon at four? I want particularly to see you.

                                                            MARY DEFOE.”

He wrote a curt reply, that he was too busy, then, thinking better of
it, tore that up, and wrote another one, accepting.

He was annoyed with her and her persistence, but, after all, she was
Frankie’s sister, and the arbiter of Frankie’s fate.

Punctually at four he presented himself at the front door of the dismal
old house, and was admitted by a lean, elderly maid. She showed him into
the same enormous sitting-room with shrouded furniture.

“Miss Defoe will be down in a minute,” she said, severely.

The place had a sort of chill magnificence which impressed him; he was
fond of magnificence, anyway. Minnie increased in importance through
being able to receive him in such an environment. He had been inclined
to think her very ordinary, an opinion not to be held of the niece of
such a drawing room.

It was the stillest house imaginable. Not a sound of any sort. He sat
uneasily on a mammoth sofa, with nothing to hear, nothing to see but
pictures muffled in netting, nothing that he cared to think about. His
watch had gone long ago, and the marble clock on the marble mantelpiece
had stopped....

At last there was a faint rustle overhead, and then the sound of very
slow steps on the stairs, and in a minute Minnie entered, leading by the
arm a frail little old woman in black silk, a nervous, pampered shadow
of former elegance.

And this old lady remained in the room until Lionel went away. She was
polite enough in her own peculiarly unpleasant way, and she evidently
regarded his visit as a call upon herself, a compliment which she
appreciated. Tea was served, very weak tea, too, with limp little
biscuits; the old lady chattered banal and ill-humoured comments on news
of the day, and at last the room began to grow dark, and Lionel took his
leave.

She rose and held out a feeble old claw.

“Come again!” she said, and meant it, he knew. “We don’t see much
company.”

He went away puzzled and annoyed. Why had Minnie sent for him? She had
scarcely spoken a word to him, hadn’t given him a significant glance. He
couldn’t understand, couldn’t guess at her object, but he felt quite
sure that she had one, and that it was one he didn’t like.


III

Lucky for him he didn’t know her object, or see the sword suspended over
his head. He had enough trouble as it was, poor fellow. When he got
home, there was his eagerly expected letter from Frankie.

“My dear Lionel,” she wrote, “I see that you have evidently changed your
mind, and that you consider our former plan wild and impracticable. No
doubt you are right; at any rate I shan’t urge you or try to influence
you. I am sure that anyone as prudent and cautious as you will get on in
the world. I hope so, sincerely. Please look upon yourself as not bound
in any way.

                     “Always your friend,

                                             “FRANCES DEFOE.”

He knew the answer to that letter--to take the first train, to hurry to
her and take her in his arms, to tell her how he had longed for her and
missed her. He read her hurt in every word, and it made him desperate.
He swore to himself that somewhere and somehow he would get the money to
go at once and marry her. Then he didn’t care what happened, even if
they had to be separated, even if Frankie stayed with her grandmother
for months while he tried to find work. He knew, absolutely _knew_, that
there was no time to be lost.

He went off at once to Horace, but Horace and Julie had gone on a motor
trip for ten days. Then he took a bold step. He telephoned to Minnie.

Her pleasant, troubled voice answered the telephone.

“Miss Defoe,” he said, “I need five dollars more, badly. Will you----?”

“Wait!” she answered, and after a pause, in a lower voice, “At the same
corner--at five.”


IV

The poor idiot had made up his mind to throw himself on Minnie’s mercy,
to confide in her, and he did.

“I can’t stand it!” he told her. “It’s too much--it’s breaking her
heart. And it’s--too much for me. Sensible or not, it doesn’t matter.
You’re a woman, you ought to understand. I--I beg you to help us.
To--have pity. I ... I’m not much good at talking--but if you knew how
I--care for Frankie, and what she is to me.... We--it’s not right, by
Jove! It’s not _right_ for us to be separated. I’m no good without her.
I need her. If I have her with me, I’m sure I can amount to something.
But not alone. I’m no good without her,” he repeated.

In the twilight he couldn’t see her face, but her voice, when she
replied, was not unsympathetic.

“I’ll see,” she said, “I’ll think.”

“No!” he answered, with unusual decision, “Please decide now. I can’t
wait. I can’t stand another night. If you’ll lend me five dollars more,
I’ll go to her to-morrow morning.”

“I haven’t got it now. I don’t get my week’s salary until to-morrow.”

“And you’ll let me have it then?”

“I--oh, yes, I will!” she answered, with a sort of sob.

“You’re a brick--Minnie!” he cried, joyfully, and seized her warm little
hand. “Sister Minnie! I won’t forget this!” And hastened off to send a
telegram to Frankie.

                  “_Coming to-morrow._        LIONEL.”

Minnie walked home very slowly. In the evenings she always played cards
with the old lady from the time when she woke up from her after-dinner
nap until eleven. This evening was just as usual. During the nap, which
was never mentioned, Minnie sat looking over the morning paper, a
decorous and sober little figure; then, when the querulous old voice
suggested a game, she rose with well-paid cheerfulness, brought out the
pack and the folding table, played conscientiously and amiably, led the
old lady upstairs at the proper time, said “Good-night,” fetched her a
glass of water, and then was free.

She retired to her own little room, locked the door after her, and stood
still in the dark, with clenched hands.

“She shan’t have him!” she whispered. “I won’t give him up! I won’t! I
won’t!”

Lionel didn’t suspect the effect his innocent grey eyes had had upon
that heart, never before touched! But _she_ had been fully aware, from
the first time she had seen him. It was too startling and intense a
feeling to be mistaken. She had made up her mind then. He was the one
man on earth for her. She had never even fancied herself in love before,
and never did again. It was her unique passion.

She didn’t deceive herself. She admitted that she intended to get Lionel
away from Frankie by hook or by crook. Of course, being Minnie, she felt
that it would be for his good and for Frankie’s good, and that she was
doing it largely for their sakes. She and she alone was the infallible
judge of what was best for everyone on earth. She had no misgivings on
that score. Her only anxiety lay in her knowledge that Lionel was not at
all attracted by her, and that, left to himself, he never would be. She
wasn’t the sort of woman he liked.

Her original intention, when she had seen ample time ahead, had been to
enlist old Mrs. Lounsbury on her side, to make everything very correct,
very regular, in contrast to Frankie’s wildness. And then, later, to
hold out prospects, all sorts of alluring prospects, of assistance from
the old lady, of an unassailable “position” in their married life, of
respectability and money, which she had seen that he coveted. For, like
all women who can “manage” men, Minnie had an unerring flair for the
weak point; that being the pivot upon which they may most easily be
swung. She knew what she was doing when she asked Lionel to tea. She had
first carefully prepared her aunt with stories, wholly fictitious, of
his social standing and eligibility, and his affection for herself. She
knew that he would appreciate the atmosphere of money and solidity
there, and that it would reflect credit upon herself. The next step,
already arranged with her approving aunt, was an invitation to dinner.

But that wouldn’t serve now, if he were going to be so impetuous. She
would have to work quickly. If he saw Frankie again, or had many more
letters from her, all would be lost. A desperate step was necessary, and
she took it.




CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


I

Minnie had asked Lionel to stop at home the next day until he heard from
her, and of course, he did so, simply darting out, once for breakfast,
once for lunch.

He was very nervous for fear he’d miss the afternoon train to
Brownsville Landing. Frankie would be expecting him, perhaps she’d meet
the trains. He couldn’t bear the idea of her waiting disappointed, at
the station. After that train at three, there wasn’t another until
seven; he was sure she couldn’t manage that.

And still he was happy and full of hope, of Frankie’s fine spirit of
adventurousness; he gloried in the rashness of the marriage, felt
strong, masterful, able to cope with the world. Poor Lionel! Frail
barrier against which the stream of Minnie’s life force was to hurl
itself! He had but an hour more to remain upright, before he was swept
down and submerged and laid flat forever in the mud. An hour more of
manhood.


II

Three o’clock had passed, and he knew that day to be lost. It was five
o’clock and he had just lighted the gas when there was a knock at his
door, and he discovered Minnie herself in the dark hall.

He was surprised and a little shocked; wondered what the landlady would
think. Still, of course, he had to ask her in, and in she came, and sat
down in his one chair. He was obliged to sit on the bed, an informality
very distressing to him. He didn’t like this sort of thing at all; it
wasn’t correct, it wasn’t well-bred.

He waited and waited for her to speak, but she remained silent, pale and
rigid. And no wonder, considering what was in her head!

“I’ve brought it!” she said.

“Thank you!” he said. “It’s awfully good of you. We’ll never forget it!”

She smiled constrainedly, but said nothing. Her eyes wandered about the
mean, shabby room, with the dusty yellowish carpet on the floor, the
narrow painted bureau covered with a torn towel, the iron bed with its
one flat pillow, his smart little trunk, so out of place there. So
intent was she that he fancied she was about to make some comment on the
poverty of which he was ashamed. But she only said:

“I do wish I had a cup of tea! I’ve such a headache!”

“We can go out----”

“Oh, couldn’t we have it here? Isn’t that a spirit lamp?”

“Yes,” he answered, reluctantly, “but I’ve no milk or sugar----”

“I’m sure you can get them very near here.”

He could think of no polite reason for refusing, so he went out to buy
what she told him, slipping in and out of the front door, in mortal
terror lest the landlady should catch him and tell him ladies weren’t
allowed in the gentlemen’s rooms. Why did Minnie do such an
extraordinary, unnecessary thing?

When he got back, the spirit lamp was lighted and the little kettle
beginning to hiss, while Minnie sat watching it. She looked very much at
home. She had taken off her jacket and hat, and he fancied that her hair
was better dressed than usual, that she was wearing a rather gayer
blouse, in short, that she was “dressed up.”

“Now then!” she said, cheerfully, “aren’t we cozy?”

“Rather!” he answered, gallantly, and might have added, “_Too_ cozy!”

He was like the innocent young heroine in a drama; he had a dim
perception of something evil, he felt that he ought not to be there
alone with Minnie.

The tea seemed to do her good, for she revived, and became quite
animated, talked to him about Frances, their childhood, their
schooldays, anything and everything. The friendly, disarming air, the
classic second step of the seducer! He was amused by her chatter, but he
didn’t lose his feeling of uneasiness. Because, in spite of her
immeasurably respectable appearance----

The clock struck seven and he felt obliged to protest.

“I say!” he cried, in pretended surprise, “seven o’clock! Shan’t we go
out and--take a walk--have a bit of supper somewhere?”

“Oh, no,” said Minnie, “I’ll have to be going.”

She rose and picked up her hat. But did not put it on; at last put it
down again and opened her worn little pocketbook.

“Here is the money, Mr. Naylor,” she said, and held out a bill to him.

Then, as he took it, suddenly she flung herself into the chair and
buried her face in her hands.

“Oh!” she sobbed, “Oh! It’s _too_ hard!”

He was frightened and disconcerted. He knew women were liable to such
curious attacks, but he had never before witnessed one. It made him so
sorry for her weakness and inferiority. Poor little thing! Poor
emotional, unbalanced Woman!

“I say!” he said, “What is it? Please don’t cry!”

The huddled little figure didn’t reply, kept on weeping in a muffled
sort of way.

“Please tell me!” he entreated. He went so far as to pat her shoulder,
while he cast about for something to say or to do.

“Is it on account of Frankie?” he asked.

She raised a miserable, tear-stained face and looked straight at him.

“No!” she cried. “I--I _thought_ I was able--to give you up--but oh, I
can’t!”

“Give me up!” exclaimed the astonished Lionel.

Her great black eyes, their long lashes wet and heavy with tears, were
fixed upon his face with solemn intensity.

“Yes!” she said, firmly.

“But--exactly what----?” he stammered.

“I don’t care if you do know it,” she said.

He began to understand; he turned scarlet, he dared not look at her, and
yet couldn’t take his eyes from her dark, desperate little face.

Suddenly she stretched up her arms to him, like a child.

“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, in such a pitiful voice that he couldn’t
withstand her. She clung to him, sobbing, trembling, her head buried in
his coat.

“Oh, Lionel, I love you so!”

He was immeasurably moved. He put an arm about her and very gently
stroked her hair.

“Don’t cry!” he said. “Poor little girl! Don’t cry!”

To save his life he couldn’t have kept the least little trace of
condescension out of his tone. He had never been made love to before; he
felt that he hadn’t quite realised his own charm. He felt very, very
kindly toward poor Minnie, unhappy victim to his fascination. An
absolutely hopeless passion; she had to be made to see that, in the
most humane way possible. He kept on patting her shoulder.

“Lionel!” she said, looking up again with those really magnificent dark
eyes, “Please--you won’t despise me, will you? I can’t--can’t help it! I
never--in all my life----!”

“Of course I don’t despise you! I think you’re a--I think you’re--a fine
woman,” he said, ineptly. “Come now! Don’t cry, my dear girl! You’ll
make yourself ill, you know.”

As gently as possible he disengaged her clinging arms and made her sit
down in the chair again, then he dipped a towel in cold water and wiped
her swollen eyes. He had not as yet had time to realise the awkwardness
of this affair; he was, to tell the truth, just a little elated.
Supermanly.

He talked to her soothingly until she had stopped crying, then:

“It’s getting late,” he said, “we’d really better be----”

She jumped up again, so violently that her dishevelled hair came down
and fell over her shoulders. She seized him by the wrist.

“I won’t go!” she cried.

And caught him round the neck and strained him to her, kissing him
wildly.

But why try to tell of all that--the eternal wiles of a passionate
woman? He had no weapon against her. He had his love for Frankie, but
_this_ was not love. He had his ideas of honour, he was fastidious, he
was, after a fashion, somewhat austere. But his safety, and the safety
of all his sex--lay only in avoiding the irresistible. And of all the
allurements in the world, there is none to compare with the abandon of
the respectable woman.

Poor devil! Poor devil!




CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


I

Horace was in his private office, not at all busy, when his brother came
in. He might, if he had been a child of nature, have jumped up and cried
out that the light of his life had returned, but instead he made a
decent effort to conceal his delight.

“Well!” he said, questioningly.

“Well!” said Lionel, with just his old smile.

Horace melted.

“So you’ve thought better of it, eh? Find you haven’t many friends
who’ll do for you what----”

“The usual thing,” said Lionel, with a luxurious feeling of sinking down
on a feather bed, of completely throwing himself upon someone else. “I’m
in a mess, and I want your help.”

This pleased Horace beyond measure.

“Debts?” he asked, trying to frown.

“No--not entirely.... Fact is, old boy, I’m married!”

“By Jove! And that independent young lady’s willing to come round now,
is she? Wouldn’t let you take anything from me, I remember. What is it
now? Baby?”

“Presently. But, I say, Horace, it’s not _that_ one.”

“Good God!” cried Horace, in amazement. “Another one!”

“Her sister.... I--er--it’s hard to explain....”

“She was a pretty girl,” said Horace, “I thought she’d suit you very
well.”

Lionel’s face had become very red. It was undoubtedly difficult to
explain, and yet he wanted terribly to tell it all to someone, to hear
another person’s comment, to be told definitely whether he was a natural
man or a cad. Honestly he didn’t know. There were some incidents that
absolutely couldn’t be mentioned. And yet, if they were omitted, the
story would be unintelligible.

“I’ll have to--you’ll have to assure me--give me your word you’ll never
mention this---- Especially to Julie. I’m only telling you because I
want you to--understand the whole thing....”

He was very anxious, above all, to remove any impression that he was
fickle, unstable.

“You see,” he began, “I--Frances and I were separated. More or less by
her sister. That is, her sister thought it wasn’t a good match for
Frankie, so she prevented it. She explained it all to me, perfectly
frankly. She knows Frankie so well, you see. Knew she couldn’t be happy
with me. So she ... explained it all. Of course, I had to see her
several times, to talk it over, and so forth. And--I--really, this is
hard to tell, you know, without seeming---- She--the sister--took a sort
of fancy to me. I didn’t--hadn’t any idea of such a thing.... I asked
her to lend me some money so that I could go out to see
Frankie--and--she brought it over to me, in my room....”

“Why?” enquired Horace, “What made her come to your room?”

“Well--more or less, to talk about Frankie.... And--in fact, she ...
gave herself away, you know.... I really can’t explain very well, old
boy, but--I rather lost my head ... and--she stayed.”

“Phew!” said Horace.

“So,” said Lionel, and grew very red again, “Well, in fact--what else
could I do? We took a furnished flat--and we weren’t going to say
anything about it for a bit--and then this baby---- So we were married
yesterday.”

Horace was looking unusually grave. There were things about this affair
he didn’t like.

“You’re sure it wasn’t a trap? It looks mighty queer, my boy.”

Lionel laughed.

“I wish you knew Minnie,” he said. “Then you’d never think such a thing.
She’s the most naïve, simple little soul----”

“But she should not have stopped there with you. She must have known she
was forcing you into a marriage. My boy.... It’s a bad business. How old
is she?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Old enough to understand all that. My boy, I know you fairly well. I’d
take an oath,” he said solemnly, “that you wouldn’t ‘lose your head,’ as
you put it, and take advantage of a respectable young woman unless you
were given encouragement--an extraordinary amount of encouragement. Am I
right?”

Lionel was not able to be properly indignant.

“I’ll admit,” he said, still very red, “that she’s--too fond of me. Too
much faith in me.... But, Horace, old man, you mustn’t misunderstand
her. She’s the best little woman on earth. Absolutely. An angel. Never
complains. Never finds fault. There she is, all day long, shut up in
that beastly little flat, while I’m hunting a job. No clothes, no
amusements. Especially hard on her now.”

He was rather surprised at the look he saw on his brother’s face, a
compassion so deep, so comprehending.

For Horace was quite certain that Lionel had been trapped, had been the
dupe of a woman, whether loving or scheming, it mattered little. Perhaps
she could be bought off--a divorce arranged, or something of that sort.

“Well, old chap!” he said, “What can I do for you? How can I help you?”

“That’s what I came to see you about. Fact is, Minnie’s longing to be in
the country. Doctor says it would do her no end of good. I thought
perhaps you’d finance a little house, lend me a bit, you know, or take a
mortgage, or whatever it is they do.”

Horace agreed at once. Lionel proceeded to the next point.

“And I wish you’d come home with me and _see_ Minnie,” he said, “I’d
like you to talk it over with her. She has very practical ideas. Can you
manage it?”

Horace looked at his watch and said he could. There was nothing he
wanted more at that moment than to see Minnie. He believed that after
even the briefest interview, he would know how she was to be got rid of,
and Lionel saved. He had gained an impression of her as a dangerous and
unscrupulous woman, who could do Lionel nothing but harm.

An impression never effaced, although she was quite a different sort of
person from the adventuress he had pictured. He sat talking to her for
an hour or more, asking friendly questions. Minnie herself fancied that
her domesticity, her womanliness were pleasing him, that he was
reflecting upon the good Lionel would derive from this match. Whereas!
He was, after all, the same Horace who had chosen for his wife a
flamboyant and radiant beauty, the Horace who had for years been more
than tolerant of his wastrel brother’s follies and caprices. He was a
man with a fanatic love for charm and distinction and beauty, there
could have been no one to whom Minnie’s sober dowdiness would have made
less appeal. His pity for Lionel increased every minute, and he felt
for Minnie something as near hatred as his kindly nature allowed.

He said he was going to walk home, and Lionel offered to accompany him
part of the way.

“What do you think of her now?” he asked, anxiously, as they came out
into the dusky street.

“A very nice little woman,” Horace answered. He could not force himself
to say more. Pain and disappointment seized him by the throat. Lionel in
that dingy flat, with that sallow, complacent woman who talked about
growing vegetables in the suburbs. The sort of woman inevitably to grow
fat. Shifty, too. Horace had had his experiences with women, there was a
quality in this one not at all unknown to him.

Lionel too fell silent. He was wondering just what _he_ thought himself.
He went back to the beginning; he was able to remember everything, every
detail, and still it wasn’t clear--


II

It wasn’t clear how he, the lover of Frankie, could have so conducted
himself with Minnie. And why he felt so little remorse or shame or even
regret?

He fancied that it must be because he loved Minnie. In spite of thirty
years in the world, he was still so sentimental, so ignorant, that he
had no comprehension of the base and sensual passion which had
overwhelmed him. Minnie was his wife; a fellow couldn’t feel that way
toward his wife. He was obliged to call it love. He couldn’t imagine
that Minnie, so serious and sensible, Minnie who didn’t even take much
interest in how she dressed her hair, could be just as carnal, as gross,
as any scarlet woman. He couldn’t see, in all her endless plans for his
“comfort,” the hidden snare, the net that bound him closer. She thought
of his food, his tobacco, that his bed should be comfortable, his linen
mended. This ignorant and unbeautiful Circe was not content with his
metamorphosis; the wretched swine must be taught to be more swinish.

He thought he was happy. She was very loving, very cheerful,
inordinately devoted. There was a sort of joy in coming back to a home
of his own after a day’s futile search for something to do, no matter if
the home were a furnished flat daily growing dirtier and dustier. He
enjoyed the bright welcome and her soothing interest in his adventures.
She always agreed with him, always approved of what he did.

Her condition touched him, too. He felt that she had given up everything
for him, had sacrificed herself with a splendid ardour. He believed that
he should, and did, admire all this, that there was something noble in
that greedy violence, that reckless seizure of what she desired.

She had been aware of the great advantage she had obtained from not
being married. It made her more pathetic, more helpless. He had
suggested it more than once, but she only cried and said she was
ashamed.

“I know you despise me,” she insisted.

“But, dearest, I don’t! I _honour_ you!” he always answered.

At last she tearfully confided her “secret” to him, and agreed to be
married at once. She pretended to be glad, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t
enough imagination to love an unseen child, and she certainly had no
desire for one as a matter of principle. No more than an animal. And,
like an animal, she was sure to love it when it came. Except for the
fact that it gave her a hold on Lionel, she looked upon the whole affair
as a bother and an expense. His delight seemed to her more or less
absurd.

He really was delighted; really happy for the time being. He was lost in
an utter and gross satisfaction.




CHAPTER THIRTY


I

Julie consented to go out with Horace one Sunday to see the young
couple, although she was something more than reluctant. She was
conscious of being an irreproachable woman and wife, so that when she
wanted Lionel for herself, it was in a perfectly respectable way. She
really _needed_ him. Horace was forty, stout, and what this daughter of
a “Cattle King” amazingly called “bourgeois.” As a husband he had
advantages, such as money and complaisance and inferiority, but as a
playmate, he wouldn’t do at all. Lionel was required for sweetness and
light. She had always enjoyed quarrelling with him. She had liked to
humiliate him, because she had secretly looked upon him as a superior
being. She was disgusted with him for marrying.

She sat back in the limousine and talked petulantly about it to Horace.
She had, of course, made the best of herself, looked her very loveliest,
to make Lionel discontented and his wife miserable if possible. She was
in white, a white serge frock and a small white toque from which floated
a long wine-red veil. It gave her a sort of Oriental look, with her dark
skin and immense, brilliant eyes. She knew Lionel would appreciate the
effect.

“What’s the creature like?” she asked.

“Not pretty,” said Horace. “Dowdy, quiet little thing.”

“But _why_? I can’t understand it. There’s something damn queer about
it, Horace. He was crazy about that other girl, and at least she was
good-looking. How did this one get hold of him? Of course he’s an awful
fool; anyone could make a monkey of him, but still--a dowdy woman! That
_is_ a mystery! And right after his being engaged to that other one!”

“He seems very happy,” said Horace. He was determined to make the best
of this business.

“Lord!” cried Julie, “They don’t live _here_!”

The motor had stopped before a very small house of unstained shingles,
an unfinished looking little house, standing in a row of similar houses
in a quite select residential park of the cheaper sort. One knows what
that implies; the sun-baked street lined with stripling trees that give
no shade; not a fence, not a hedge, every porch occupied and public as
the sidewalk, the children in white Sunday shoes, everything glaring,
immeasurably common, and cheap, sweltering in the July sun.

“Does he really live in this hole?” she asked.

“They haven’t much money,” said Horace, apologetically.

“Then give them some, for Heaven’s sake, and get that poor boy away from
here!”

She jumped out, aware that everyone on every porch was watching her,
walked along the tiny path and up the front steps. Minnie at once opened
the door, and behind her stood Lionel.

Minnie, outwardly polite and modest, was absorbed in her inspection of
Julie; she didn’t know what she was saying, or hear a word that was said
to her for a few moments. She formed an instantaneous opinion of her,
judged her “fast” and “vulgar,” and led her into the little
sitting-room. She knew this was going to be a grave encounter; she saw
that domestic virtues would have little significance in those eyes.

“Would you like to come upstairs to take off your hat?” asked Minnie.

“No thanks,” she answered, carelessly, without turning her head. “Li,
you’ve got awfully thin. Don’t you eat enough? Have you got a good
cook?”

“I’m the cook,” said Minnie, with her wide, bright smile, “I hope I’m a
good one.”

“Rather!” cried Lionel. “She’s a wonder, Julie.”

“Is she?” said Julie. “That’s nice. I’ve never met a cook before.”

Now that was warning enough; it was a challenge and not a subtle one
either. But no one ventured to pick up her gage; certainly not Horace or
Lionel, they were terrified. Not Minnie; she was very wary of such an
adversary.

Julie’s careless glance swept the sober little figure from head to foot.

“Let’s see your doll’s house, Li,” she said. “It’s the smallest thing
I’ve ever seen.”

He got up, reluctantly. She really was a bit too--too obvious. He
thought perhaps he’d speak to her, tactfully. And yet it was so good to
see her, and her beauty and vividness, a breath from a vanished life. He
couldn’t help a feeling of kinship with her, which was not loyal to
Minnie. He saw so plainly how the house must look to her, and how Minnie
appeared. Understood what she was thinking.

He led her into the dining-room, furnished with a proper little “set” of
light oak, the stupidest sort of room, neither pretty nor comfortable.
He opened and hastily closed the door of the kitchen, which was
evidently not prepared for inspection; then he took her upstairs to see
three small bedrooms, with cheap white iron beds.

She stopped him in the doorway of the last of these distressing rooms
and put her hands on his shoulders, looking into his face with her
wonderful eyes.

“Oh, you fool of a boy!” she said, “How could you! How long do you think
you’re going to stand this!”

“Julie,” he assured her, solemnly, “I’ve never been so happy before in
my life.”

It was true. In this ugly little place, in the midst of increasing and
pressing worry over money, he had been content. He had believed that he
had returned to something simpler and better than his old life. He
didn’t recognise it as a degradation. That is indeed the Minnie method.
She had drugged him, stupefied him with a sort of low comfort. Only now,
with Julie beside him, did doubts begin to arise.

Julie stared at him.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, bluntly, “You’re not going to pretend
you’re fond of that awful dowdy little----”

“I say, Julie! You’re----”

“Be honest, then. I’m awfully sorry for you. Can’t you get a divorce or
something?”

“I’m not joking, Julie. She’s my wife, and I--really I can’t tell you
what I think of her----”

“I’ll tell you what _I_ think of her. She’s a nasty, sneaky,
hypocritical devil. I could see it at once. She’s----” Julie cast about
for an expression, “She’s like a bad nun.”

“Stop it, Julie! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Rot! _You_ ought to be ashamed of yourself, to be tricked by such a
cheap little humbug.”

They were interrupted by Horace coming upstairs in profound distress.

“Hush!” he whispered, “You can be heard!”

“What the devil do I care?” demanded Julie.

“Can’t you behave like a lady?” he asked, still in a whisper.

Her famous temper began to heat.

“A lady!” she cried, “You wouldn’t know a lady if you saw one, any of
you. A fine lot! A fat old money-grubber like you, and a grafter like
Lionel, and that slut downstairs! I certainly must be on my best
behaviour here.”

The manners acquired in the city had dropped away, revealing the older,
truer self, the violent and reckless daughter of the “Cattle King,” the
spoiled princess of a primitive community. She had plenty to say, she
put her hands on her slim hips and attacked them all with vigour,
thoroughly enjoying herself. She wanted to score off Minnie, and she
did. And Minnie had to pretend not to hear. This was the sort of woman
she couldn’t cope with, a woman she feared.

Horace tried to remonstrate.

“Shut up, Horace,” she said, briskly, “The creature’s a ----. Can’t you
see the condition she’s in, and they haven’t been married a month?”

That silenced everyone.

“Now,” she said, at last, “I’m going. Come on, Horace!”

“Not till you apologise to Lionel’s wife,” he said, weakly.

“Oh, give her a cheque,” said Julie, “that’s the kind of apology _she_
wants. Come on!”

She went out of the house like a whirlwind, with her long veil floating
behind her, and sprang into the car to wait for her husband, looking
about at the citizens rocking on their porches with her brilliant,
insolent eyes.

“Oh, come on!” she called out to Horace, who was lingering in an effort
to propitiate his hosts. “Let’s get out of this damned hole!”

She startled and shocked the entire select neighbourhood, as she had
intended. And produced the desired effect of bringing Horace out at
once. They spun away, driven by a chauffeur who couldn’t keep a grin
from his face, leaving behind them astonishment, wrath and excitement.


II

It was quite natural that Minnie should cry. Lionel admired her for not
crying much more. She dried her eyes, smiled ruefully, and got up.

“I must get your dinner ready, darling,” she said.

“No hurry. Rest a bit, you poor girl! By Jove! That was a beastly scene!
No wonder you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset now,” she said, quietly. “A person like that couldn’t
affect me very much.”

And with a splendid Defoe grandeur, she went about her work.

As had her grandmother and Frankie, so did Lionel admire her
housekeeping. Because she was always busy and always wearing an apron,
he believed that she must accomplish an incredible amount of work. There
was a great deal of dust about, the meals were always late and often
burned, but that all went to prove what a lot there was to be done. She
was so hurried, so anxious, always thinking of his comfort.

And nothing but his comfort. Never of his soul, his spirit. She got the
dinner on the table and sat down opposite, watching with a frown to see
that he ate enough. She still wore her apron, and her hair was very
untidy, but he was used to that now. Anyway he felt that he must never
look upon Minnie with physical eyes, he was to treasure her only for her
sublime moral worth, her self-sacrifice, her stern sense of duty, her
noble womanhood.

“Eat the pudding, dear,” she urged. “It’s all made of milk. It will do
you good.”

He smiled at her and obeyed.

After dinner she made him sit in his comfortable chair on the porch with
a cigar, while she washed the dishes. She would never let him help her.
Pale and exhausted, doing everything in the most irrational way, it was
quite nine o’clock before she could join him.

At last she came out on the porch and sat down near him, creaking back
and forth in her particular rocking-chair. Out of the darkness her voice
came suddenly and amazingly.

“I suppose we’ll have to patch it up.”

“What?” he asked, puzzled, thinking of possible leaks in roof or
ceiling.

“This quarrel. With your sister-in-law.”

“I shouldn’t call it a ‘quarrel’” he said. “She insulted you, grossly. I
don’t see how or why it should be ‘patched up.’”

“I’m willing to overlook it,” said Minnie. “Anyway, what does it matter
what such a woman says? It won’t do for you to quarrel with your
brother.”

“I don’t intend to. We’ll simply let the thing drop. But of course Julie
can’t come here again, and we won’t enter her house.”

“It isn’t her house; it’s your brother’s----”

“I say! What are you driving at, Minnie? Haven’t you any pride?”

She began to cry.

“We’ll need a great deal of help from Horace,” she said, “and she’s
quite capable of turning him against us. This baby’s going to be a
terrible expense.”

He rebelled rather vigorously at first, but of course, in the end,
succumbed. Minnie’s sole view of the expected baby as an anxiety and a
crushing responsibility had begun to infect him. He too commenced to
see it only as an expense that must be met--and met by Horace. She
reiterated ceaselessly that it was their “duty” to this child to
humiliate themselves, sacrifice all pride and independence. A curious
doctrine, that the parents exist only to sustain their offspring,
forever deprived of any original existence, any private aims, living
only to convey physical nourishment.


III

The day came, the terrible expense began, and Minnie’s child entered the
world. It must be admitted that Minnie behaved very badly. She was never
good at enduring pain, and she was moreover in terror of dying.
Altogether a bad time, for her, for the doctor, for the nurse, and for
poor Lionel.

But once the child was born, her fierce maternal passion flamed into
life. She would have died to defend her baby. She nearly destroyed it
with indulgence. That was her manner of loving.

And she believed that the fact of having this child constituted a claim
upon all the world. That whatever she did for its sake was fully
justified. Because she loved it, she was licensed to take what she could
for it, by any and all means to secure advantages for it. A sort of
divine license given only to mothers, so that they could do no wrong; an
unlimited indulgence. Be assured that she took advantage of it!




CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


I

They went on, God knows how, for two years. Always in debt, always
harassed, gradually going down and down, their style of living always
deteriorating, themselves becoming more indifferent, more slovenly.

They ate their meals in the kitchen, horrible meals of fried chopped
meat and eternal potatoes. The little child was pallid and
under-nourished, they bought milk for her dutifully, but Minnie had
perverted her appetite with sweets and all sorts of rubbish, and she
refused to drink it, unless it were made ‘tasty’ with coffee or tea.
Minnie even did the family washing, with incredible labour and pitiful
results: Lionel went about dressed in greyish shirts and streaked soft
collars. At first he suffered, but very soon he forgot to notice.

Horace helped them generously, without question. But under Minnie’s
influence, Lionel learned to feel no gratitude, even to feel resentful.
For some reason the childless Horace was held morally responsible for
their child. He didn’t do enough, in fact, he _couldn’t_ have done
enough; the most fantastic sacrifice would not have sufficed. Lionel
rarely went to see him, and when he did, was constrained and formal. He
communicated with him by means of letters very unpleasant to receive. He
was no longer a friend or a brother, he was--metaphors fail for his
sex--he was the male equivalent of a milch cow, of the goose that laid
the golden egg. No one realised how the poor fellow suffered from this
exploitation.

Lionel was a ruined man, his health impaired by Minnie’s loving cooking,
his soul debauched by her dogma. He had never been resolute or original;
his strength had lain in his conventionality, his acceptance of the
principles taught him by others. And this faith in his tradition Minnie
had stifled, to fell him with her own horrible doctrine of expediency.

He tried to work. Horace offered to keep him on in his office, but it
didn’t do. They quarrelled; Lionel, instigated by Minnie, said he wasn’t
being paid enough, and didn’t have a position of sufficient importance.
Horace was very much a business man; he was willing to give, even to be
bled, but business was sacred; he couldn’t put Lionel in a responsible
place.

He got him another job, but Lionel couldn’t keep it. He was very slow to
learn, and very poor at figures. He wasn’t exactly stupid, but when he
tried to hurry, he grew dazed and helpless. He was untrained and
idiotically educated. He couldn’t compete with the men--even the
girls--about him, with their wits sharpened by struggle and poverty,
their shallow minds trained to run smoothly and rapidly in one groove.

Next he tried to sell automobiles. He saw a splendid future in this, and
so did Minnie. But after he had called on one or two “prospects,” his
enthusiasm vanished. The average American was exasperated by his
slowness, his quite unconscious air of superiority, by his English
accent. He was treated very rudely and he couldn’t stand that.

Then, on the strength of his distinguished appearance, and the English
accent, he got a place as clerk in a very select book shop of Fifth
Avenue. He liked that, and the customers liked him. They were “society
people”; they appreciated his air, and he was well-disposed toward them.
He was a cheerful, sweet-tempered fellow, willing to take any amount of
trouble. But he knew nothing at all of books, and he _could_ not learn
the stock, couldn’t remember which books to push, or the names of former
books by popular authors. And when he was asked, as he very frequently
was, if he couldn’t recommend something “really good,” he had always to
hurry and ask one of the clerks who could remember. After several months
he was discharged.

If it hadn’t been for Horace, he would have been entirely discouraged.
But so long as there was Horace to find him jobs and to support him
during the intervals, he kept up his courage. There was the possibility
of something delightful just round the corner. He rather enjoyed
working, and trying new things. And it didn’t matter so very much if he
_did_ fail. There was always another chance to be had.


II

It was a very hot day in August, and Lionel found the trip from the city
to his home suburb far from agreeable. He was in one of his moods for
despising everything in his adopted country, a mood familiar to every
alien in every country under the sun. He hated the way the people made
themselves comfortable on the train, men with handkerchiefs in their
collars and women in what he savagely called “ball dresses.” Personally
he accepted hot weather in the proper British spirit, as one of the
afflictions of the country, and he scorned to notice it by any extreme
change of costume or of habit. He sat by an open window, but he kept his
hat on, and his coat, and maintained at least a cool expression.

Three years of trouble had changed his appearance very little. He was as
slim, as elegant, as supercilious as ever, in spite of increasing
shabbiness. He had come from an interview with a corset manufacturer
who had advertised for salesmen, and who had instantaneously and
violently rejected Lionel. He really couldn’t find anything to do. He
wanted to work, and to succeed, but it was a bit too hard. What
advantages he had were unmarketable. He was bored with sitting about at
home, and he wanted very much to be independent of Horace and free from
debt and worry, and he wanted new clothes. Poverty was beginning to
disagree with him acutely.

“No use!” he said gloomily, as he came up the steps and sat down on the
tiny front porch where Minnie was sewing, and keeping an eye on their
child, digging in the sunny gutter. “What about a cup of tea?”

Then he noticed that she looked “queer.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Heat too much for you, old girl?”

“No,” she said, and was silent for a moment. Then: “telegram from ...
I’m so sorry ... poor Horace is dead.”

He had an odd feeling of deliberately putting off his grief until a more
fitting time. He discussed the thing with Minnie as if it concerned a
stranger. Apoplexy. Not to be wondered at. The funeral was to be on
Thursday.

“I don’t suppose Julie will be heart-broken,” said Minnie. “She’ll be
very well off, won’t she, Lionel?”

He was aware that she longed to discuss his own prospects; how “well
off” he was to be, but he refused to open the subject. It wasn’t decent.
No doubt Horace had done the proper thing.

That evening, after the child was in bed and Minnie in the kitchen
washing the dishes, he went out on the porch with his pipe and
consecrated an hour to Horace. Recalled his unfailing kindness, his
justice, his melancholy, saw, for an instant, and in a vague way, the
tragedy of the man who is only a means of supplying others with money.
Childless, friendless, the most exploited creature under the sun.

He knew what a loss he had suffered! And still had that wretched feeling
that the real pain was coming later, that now only his brain knew it,
not yet his heart.

He had a sudden vision of that tea with Horace and Frankie, something
more vivid than a memory. It brought an awful, blinding realisation of
his present solitude. His two friends gone, and he left alone with a
stranger. Minnie _was_ a stranger. He couldn’t talk to her about Horace.

“Poor old man!” he said, with a sigh for that kindly lost spirit.


III

Minnie was aware of something hostile in her husband’s attitude, and,
with a very great effort, kept her opinions to herself.

The hot weather held, and it wore her out. The child couldn’t sleep at
night. Her difficulties grew mountainous, outrageous. Horace’s
assistance had stopped and they heard nothing about his will. At last
she was forced to attack.

“Lionel,” she said, “I haven’t a penny. You’ll have to do something.”

He was silent.

“You know what those lawyers are,” she went on, “you have to keep after
them. They _expect_ it.”

But Lionel flatly refused even to make enquiries about the will. He
would not run greedily after old Horace’s money.

“It’s not decent,” he said, stiffly.

“Oh, nonsense!” cried Minnie. “Do _think_ a little, instead of using
those silly stock phrases. There’s the poor baby. She needs clothes
dreadfully. You shouldn’t let your pride stand in the way....”

“They’ll let us know at the proper time. Until they do, we can scrape
along----”

“We can’t! I’ve bills everywhere. People are getting nasty. It’s
dreadfully humiliating for me.”

“Sorry, but there’s nothing to be done,” he repeated, frigidly.

“There is! You could just ask his lawyers to let you see the will----”

“My dear girl, I am not going to go crawling after Horace’s money. It’s
not decent. I absolutely will not!”

He might have known what would happen after that, but he didn’t even
suspect....

Minnie said she was obliged to go to the city, shopping. And as she
never concerned herself except about domestic matters, Lionel believed
her object to be entirely serious and legitimate, and agreed to stop at
home with the baby while she was gone. He had forgotten she had said she
had no money, and anyway, he had learned that that statement from Minnie
was not to be believed. She always said that.

It was a horrible day for him. He didn’t know what to do with himself.
He sat on the sun scorched little porch conscientiously watching his
languid child digging in the gutter. It seemed to him to spend all its
waking hours there, busy with some patient work. At noon he brought her
in and fed her with the lunch Minnie had left, then he rocked her to
sleep in a hammock on the sweltering porch.

He wandered about the hot, dirty little house, smoking and trying not to
think. He did not dare to reflect, he did not wish to face the secret
desolation in his soul. He valiantly maintained that his life here with
Minnie was “wholesome,” was “normal,” was really the best sort of life.
And tried to deny visions of cool seaside hotels, or bars where men
lounged in flannels and drank those amazing and adorable American
drinks, with ice clinking in them.... He almost saw himself on the
veranda of a country club, with other well-dressed people, gay,
careless, enviable.

He strode across the tiny dining-room to disperse a swarm of flies about
an uncovered sugar bowl, and jerked down the dark shades, as much to
hide the room from his own eyes as to quiet the disgusting insects. She
_would_ leave the cloth on the table all day long, with its crumbs and
grease spots.

The baby called him; he went out and took her out of the hammock, poor
hot, patient little soul! He washed her pale little face, disfigured
with mosquito bites, and carried her out on the porch again. He held her
in his lap; she didn’t want to stir, lay against him, staring before
her.

Toward five o’clock Minnie came home, pallid and limp from the heat,
with her black hair escaping in wisps from under her crushed little hat.

“She looks like a char-woman,” he reflected, as he watched her coming.

She flung herself into a chair.

“Oh, _Lionel_!” she said, “_what_ do you think!”

He asked “What?” without much interest, expecting to hear that cotton
stockings were so much dearer, or some other Minnie news. She pulled a
bulky paper out of her hand-bag.

“Horace’s will!” she said, “and he hasn’t left you a penny. The lawyer
told me this is a new one, made only a month ago. And that he’d been
arranging a trust fund or something of the sort for you--something all
tied up, so you could only touch the interest--and then, before he’d
signed anything, he died. Oh, Lionel! Not a penny!”


IV

Then, too, he might have foreseen and prevented her next step, but again
he failed to do so, because it was a bit beyond his imagination. She
wrote a terrific letter to Julie, telling her she was defrauding Lionel
of his rights, that she knew Horace’s intentions, and ought, if she had
_any_ feeling of honour, to carry them out.

Julie replied briefly:

“You won’t get a red cent out of me, now or any other time. I’m sorry
for Lionel, but he has got to lie in the bed he’s made.”

Lionel didn’t even reproach Minnie for having written. What was the use?
His humiliation couldn’t be hidden from any one.

They had a serious situation to confront. They were in debt, and they
had an income on which they couldn’t exist. And Minnie, although she
bought the cheapest and nastiest of everything, and never spent a penny
on anything gracious or luxurious, had not the gift of stretching a
dollar. Her economy was all negative. She never thought, “What is the
best I can get with my money?” but always, “How little can I spend?” She
had no idea of values, of proportion.

The poor thing worried unceasingly, because it was her duty to do so;
lay awake at night by the side of her magnificent and superior husband
and planned with desperation. During the day she was cheerful, that also
being her duty, and tried as she always had tried, to make Lionel
comfortable. She really loved and admired him more than he ever
realised. She considered him finer than herself; she wanted to spare
him, to please him, to keep him contented and happy at any cost to
herself.

He, for his part, was past any worry. He simply existed from day to day
like a caged animal, absolutely without hope, fortitude his only virtue.
He endured, she struggled.

In the course of time she evolved a plan.

She came out on the porch after she had finished her laborious work in
the kitchen, and sat down at the top of the steps, near Lionel’s feet.
From either side came the nasal voices of their neighbours, silly
laughs, and the whining cries of tired children. Little Sandra lay
asleep in the hammock nearby. There was an arc light almost opposite; it
shone on Minnie’s earnest face and Lionel’s unpolished boots.

“It’s _very_ hot, isn’t it?” she said, rather pitifully.

“Very,” he agreed.

There was a long silence.

“Lionel!”

Minnie’s voice came out of the dark, fatigued and insistent.

“I’ve been thinking--it’s such a shame for you to be wasted this way....
I saw an advertisement and I wrote to it.... I think it would be just
the thing for you. Gentlemanly, and yet you could make any amount of
money.”

“What is it?” he asked, without much interest.

“Here’s the booklet.” She began to read in a solemn voice, “‘_Be your
own master! Read what others have done! The Manhattan Institute of
Tonico-Therapy. Ten weeks course renders you independent for life.
Highly paid selected staff instructs in all branches._’ And it goes on
to tell you the theory of it. How all illnesses come from the chemical
action of poisons in the stomach. You learn the antidotes for all these
poisons, and then how to find which poison is causing the trouble, and
there you are! I think--it sounds wonderful.”

“What rot! The ordinary fake!” said Lionel, impatiently.

“And you should read the money the doctors make!”

“It’s a swindle, I tell you! There are any number of them. The rankest
sort of fraud.”

Then Minnie showed the cloven hoof.

“What if it is?” she asked, “we’ve got to live. It wouldn’t do any one
any harm. I dare say in lots of cases it’s very good----”

“I don’t intend to be a swindler,” he interrupted, “it’s no use talking
any more about it. I’m surprised you could consider a thing like that.”

“Very well, then, think of something better.”

“I couldn’t think of anything much worse.”

“You could do it for a little while, and save up----”

He jumped up.

“No!” he cried, angrily. “It’s outrageous! Don’t mention it again! There
are some things I will _not_ do!”

But there weren’t!




CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


I

It was the tragedy of Lionel’s life that he so genuinely admired what
was honourable, and so persistently did what was dishonourable. From
good and admirable motives always. He was really unselfish; he
considered the interests of Minnie and Sandra first and foremost, and
tried, in his imbecile way, to further them.

So that Minnie was able, in the course of time, to make him a student of
Tonico-Therapy. He had to mortgage his little income for years to come
in order to pay his tuition fees and to keep them all alive while he was
preparing. He loathed himself for it, but he couldn’t see any other
course open to him.

He went to the Manhattan Institute one morning. It was on the fifteenth
floor of an office building on upper Broadway, a building of dubious
repute. He opened a door which was marked “Office,” and was brightly
greeted by a pretty young woman. He said he had come only for
information.

“You’d like to see our place,” she said. “I’ll call one of the doctors.”

She pressed a button, and presently in came a man whom she addressed as
Doctor Peters. He was preposterously like a doctor, too, tall, grave,
black-bearded, with a quite charming manner. He willingly led Lionel
about, through the four rooms which constituted the “Institute.” There
was the “laboratory” where one learned to compound the “antidotes”;
there were two class-rooms, on the walls of which were blackboards and
charts, and there was a snug little carpeted room which was the “office
of the Dean and Examining Room.” There were pamphlets from which the
pupils studied, but they were not to be removed from the premises. Upon
completing the course, the student was given the “Twenty Famous
Key-Prescriptions,” by means of which every ill could be remedied.

Poor Lionel was impressed. He stealthily scrutinised the students
already engaged in the course; they were well-dressed, quiet fellows,
six in all. Doctor Peters gave him information regarding them. Two of
them had been hospital nurses, one was a qualified M. D., one a dentist,
the other two former “business men.” “A good class of men,” the doctor
said, “we don’t encourage any others.”

It was all so neat, so bright, so open to inspection. And Doctor Peters
had nothing of the charlatan in looks or manners. He was courteous and
very restrained; he did not in any way extol the facilities of the
Institute to Lionel; he treated him as an intelligent layman anxious to
be informed. If he wished to avail himself of these extraordinary
advantages, very well. He could see for himself what was offered.

There was in Lionel’s mind nothing inquisitive, nothing critical. His
rules of conduct had been supplied to him by persons of
authority--persons not unlike Doctor Peters. He began to feel that there
might be something in this thing, after all.


II

And he never quite lost that idea. Indeed, he developed a faith in
Tonico-Therapy which no one--not even Minnie or Doctor Peters,
suspected. He studied the course diligently, trying his utmost to
understand and assimilate the farrago of nonsense in the pamphlets. He
was too ignorant of physiology and chemistry to detect some of the
grossest blunders, and he really fancied he was mastering a sort of
profession.

At the end of the ten weeks he received a diploma and a great deal of
congratulation and good advice from the “Dean,” a white-haired old
reprobate with a perpetual grin; and went home to Minnie, a full-fledged
“Professor of Tonico-Therapy.” The “Dean” had suggested that he use
“Professor” instead of “Doctor.”

Minnie was wild with delight; she considered their fortune made. She had
had a sign printed for him “_Lionel Naylor--Professor of
Tonico-Therapy_,” and it was displayed prominently in the sitting-room
window. She also insisted upon an advertisement in one of the local
papers, an advertisement modelled upon others she had read and no doubt
admired, and which shocked Lionel, yet to which he could offer no
reasonable objection. “_If doctors have not helped you_,” it ran, “_why
not try the Newer Way--Tonico-Therapy? Professor Lionel Naylor will see
clients between 10 and 12 and between 3 and 5. Also by appointment._”

It would be difficult to find words for Lionel’s terror and distress. He
showed nothing of it, except that he was quite unable to eat, but he
sat, professionally concealed within the house, sick with dread at the
idea of a patient’s coming. Minnie had arranged the room to look as
office-like as she could; she had put a big table in the centre of it,
with a big chair for the professor and other chairs ranged about the
walls; there was a book-case containing second-hand medical
books--imposing though not at all consistent with the theory Lionel was
to maintain; even books on surgery, which was so bitterly denounced in
the Tonico-Therapy pamphlets under the name of “going under the knife.”

He was devoutly thankful that his “system” required practically no
examining; he had simply to record and classify the symptoms as told
him, and then retire somewhere to consult his hand-book of
Tonico-Therapy, which would tell him what the disease was and what the
remedy. He hoped--he even went so far as to pray--that the patients
would all be men.

On the day after the advertisement appeared, his first patient came.
From the window he saw her mounting the steps, and he had a sort of
paroxysm of fright. He wanted to hide. But Minnie had let her in, and
there she was knocking at the door. She was a stout woman of forty or
so, terribly in earnest. She sat down heavily, with a sigh, and began to
describe, with great wealth of detail, the “torments” she endured with a
“sick stomach.” Her symptoms were extraordinarily complicated and
diverse; she enumerated all the articles she “dassen’t touch,” and gave
another list of dubious ones, which sometimes were harmless and again
would be “rank poison.”

“Like lead, those last sweet potatoes lay,” she told him mournfully,
“right _here_. Not a wink of sleep did I get that night. Just groaning
and moaning.”

Lionel listened in the proper attitude of dignified concern; he really
felt sorry for the poor thing. And so afraid he couldn’t help her.
Still, he said reassuringly:

“Wait here a moment please, while I go into the laboratory. I’ll prepare
something that will relieve you.”

(This is what he had planned to say, in order to give himself a chance
to consult his “handbook.”)

Minnie was in the dining-room when he entered.

“Oh, Lionel,” she whispered, excitedly, “does she----”

“Keep quiet!” he said, very rudely, and began copying the proper
prescription on his little pad.

“I find I’ve run out of one of my drugs,” he told his patient, “but
here is a prescription. If you’ll have this made up and take a
teaspoonful three times a day, it will....”

“When shall I come again?”

“Oh, er--next week!”

She got up with another sigh, and straightened her hat.

“What’s your fee, doctor?” she asked.

He turned scarlet; the idea of taking money from this poor vulgar,
suffering soul disgusted him, shamed him. And suppose he weren’t helping
her at all?

“Two dollars,” he muttered.

She laid a limp bill on the table, and went out.


III

In the next six months he had just seven patients. Summer was coming on
again, and they hadn’t a penny. He himself was shabby and cowed, the
little girl was so ragged that the neighbours’ children were told to
avoid her. Minnie was reduced to big aprons. They were hungry and
wretched, hounded by creditors, suffering from the intolerable
restraints of poverty. Lionel hadn’t even cigarettes. He pulled down the
sign and went about looking for work again. Without success. He was the
least desirable sort of worker there was. He had little physical
strength, no manual ability, a faulty and useless education, and an
unconsciously haughty and repellent manner. He went about exuding
failure; he was shabby, gloomy and resentful. He knew he wasn’t any
good.

At the very end, on the brink of ruin, he did get a job, addressing
envelopes for a big directory. There he sat, hour after hour, writing
away, surrounded by a heart-breaking collection of human wrecks, men who
terrified him by their sinister incarnation of his own future. Old men,
with broken shoes and no overcoats, with fawning smiles and
drink-reddened noses, middle-aged men who had finished with life, still
genteel, but fatally resigned.

He dallied with the thought of suicide. He couldn’t endure life. In his
heart he didn’t care what happened to Minnie or to his child. They would
be no worse off without him. He hated to see them. When he got home at
night, he would not speak to them. He couldn’t eat the coarse and
ill-cooked food Minnie put before him. He couldn’t sleep. He dreamed
with sick longing of old days, of big, airy rooms, gay little suppers,
he remembered his chest of drawers, with piles of clean linen and silk
socks, his neckties, his boots. This unhappy slattern, this pale bit of
a child, what had they to do with his dreams? They were unreal, didn’t
belong to him.

He lived in a ghastly solitude; he confided in no one, was in touch with
no one. He believed that the human being did not live who could
comprehend his anguish.

Spring came again, and he had become what he so feared, a man with
broken boots and the air of having once been a gentleman. He was ashamed
to ride on the train, ashamed to enter the lift in the office building,
ashamed to sit at a lunch counter. He had really made up his mind to
die, quickly, before he got ill and helpless, and had to be sent to a
charity hospital.

He came home one evening as usual, striding down the street past all the
neighbours with a scowl on his face. He went up the steps of his little
house with a familiar feeling of disgust and fatigue. Minnie was nowhere
about; he sat down, still with his hat on, and stared out of the window
at the placid sky which the sun had so lately deserted, a clear and
faintly luminous expanse, without clouds.

It occurred to him that the house was very still. No sound from the
kitchen or overhead. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t stir until it was
quite dark; then he got up to find a match for his wretched cigar. It
was odd, after all,--no one about, no lights anywhere. His indifference
was mere bravado now; he wouldn’t let himself call out....

When at last he did go upstairs he found an envelope addressed to
himself on his bureau.

“My own dearest Lionel: I have gone away for just a little while,
because I have a plan to help us all. Stay where you are, and I shall be
able to send you some money very soon. Don’t worry; everything will soon
be all right, and we shall be all together again. Take care of yourself,
dearest. Your loving, loving wife, Minnie. P.S.--There is a delicious
meat pie for you in the ice box.”

He read it again, and still it didn’t stir his indifference. He ate the
meat pie, an unusually pretentious dish which must have cost Minnie much
time and trouble; he sat on the porch for a while and at last went to
bed, to fall asleep easily. Minnie and Sandra gone? Very well; they
couldn’t be any worse off anywhere else.

He waked up just before dawn, with a shock of realisation. Minnie lost
too! Everything gone! He began to think of what the poor little woman
had suffered and endured, of her patience, her loyalty to him. He
remembered her, working so anxiously, so blindly, not questioning, not
complaining, trying her poor best to give him what comfort she could.

And _she_ had had nothing. He wondered how in Heaven’s name she had
lived. He thought of the long days she had spent with her poor little
child, the child she so loved, and whom she had had to see hungry and
ragged. Her utter loneliness, her pitiful faith in him, her hope of
finding in him all of life and happiness.


IV

For months he didn’t know where she had gone. She wrote to him loyally
and sent him money, but she had the letters posted in New York, and he
could imagine no way of tracing her. With the money she sent him and
what he earned, he managed to keep alive, and he stayed on in the
miserable little house, as she had told him. He was so sunk in
wretchedness that he no longer suffered. He sometimes had a violent
longing for the sound of Minnie’s pleasant voice, or to see her
solicitous, kindly face, but his chief thought, his chief concern was
his own health. He was ill; he knew it; he had that mysterious certainty
of imminent danger which has nothing to do with symptoms.

Creditors hounded him, until he grew desperate. They wouldn’t wait; he
couldn’t expect them to; he couldn’t very well expect them to have
implicit faith in Minnie’s vague promise that everything would soon be
all right. And that was all he could offer. The house was a pig-sty, an
offense, and he didn’t care. For days at a time he didn’t even shave. He
used to look at himself in the mirror and laugh at the blue stubble on
his haggard face, his uncut hair, his frayed necktie and dirty collar.

“Anyway I can’t go any lower,” he would tell himself, “I’m at the
bottom!”

He recalled stories he had read of beach-combers, all sorts of derelicts
drifting through strange countries, and it occurred to him that they
were probably people like himself, who had loved fine living, who had
been fastidious, who couldn’t adjust themselves to what was poor and
ugly. And they were, he reflected, always saved in the end by some
woman. Never by a woman in the least like Minnie; always by some
splendid, handsome creature. Like Frances.

He put that thought away from him, and that image.

He was literally driven out of the house. The gas was cut off, the
telephone, and at last the water. He groped about in the dark for a day
or two, even went to his work unwashed after the taps were empty, but he
couldn’t endure thirst. He wanted water to drink, lots of it.

He left the house; simply walked out of it and closed the door after
him. He went to a cheap lodging house for men in the city, directed his
mail forwarded there, and waited on and on.

He grew very sullen and angry. He wanted to write to Minnie, to tell her
things, to complain: he cursed her infernal secretiveness, and
muddle-headedness. Where in God’s name was she and what was she trying
to do?

At last, after six months, she wrote that she had a good position as
housekeeper in Brownsville Landing, but that he’d better write her in
care of the post-office at Sanasset, the next village, for she had
“thought best” to call herself a widow.

He answered sharply that he wished to see her, and she’d have to arrange
it. A bitter and resentful letter.

She answered with propitiating quickness, and proposed a meeting in the
little wood. She brought him a package of sandwiches and some money,
kissed him and consoled him and sent him back to New York like a baby
pacified with a sugar plum. After that, he came out regularly every
Saturday afternoon, and as regularly complained bitterly at the secrecy
which appeared to him so unnecessary. But Minnie assured him that it was
not, and entreated him to be patient until she had enough money saved to
start a new home.

He grew more and more ill; at last she advised him to give up his work.

“I’ll find you a place to board somewhere near,” she said, “and you can
rest for a few weeks.”

Under the circumstances, it was extraordinarily difficult to find a
place for him where there was no possibility of his hearing of Mr.
Petersen and Mr. Petersen’s household. She had to be satisfied with a
room in a family of Hungarians who spoke very little English and knew no
one outside of their own colony. They lived three miles away, in
Sanasset.

The poor fellow was glad enough to rest, glad, too, to get away from the
dreadful men’s lodging house in the city. Minnie met him every day and
brought him things to eat, which he took back to his clean, lonely
little room and consumed with relish. Minnie explained to him that the
family where she was housekeeper was very wasteful, very capricious.

“You might just as well have this,” she would say, “Otherwise it would
only be thrown away.”

Naturally he was not altogether happy in such an existence, living on
his wife’s earnings, taking money from her even for his cigarettes, fed
with the munificent scraps from her employer’s table. He had nothing to
do, no living soul to speak to, he was ill and growing no better. But he
wasn’t anything like so miserable as one might imagine. His feelings
were all dull, torpid; he really didn’t think at all. He was
forced--literally forced by nature to lie quiescent, to rest.

He was, in a way, beginning to be healed of his terrible moral wounds in
this solitude and idleness he so needed. He was not under the influence
of anyone now; he was little by little going back to his old traditions.

And then came Minnie’s note; exactly what the familiar phrase calls a
“bolt from the blue,” a dazzling and awful blow.

“Dearest Lionel: For reasons which I will explain when I see you, I have
thought best to call myself Mr. Petersen’s wife. I want you to come back
with him and I will explain _everything_. He thinks you are my brother,
named Alec. Don’t say anything to him, but wait until you have seen me.
I am very ill. I cannot write any more.

                                                                MINNIE.”

Even then he hadn’t been much impressed; he did not realise what her
words implied. Simply another piece of her tiresome chicanery; posing as
someone’s wife to make herself more important, or something of that
sort. Treachery to himself he never suspected, or that she could
possibly be actually guilty of bigamy.... Until Mr. Petersen told him of
the baby that was expected. Minnie was to be the mother of another man’s
child!

Oh, even she couldn’t explain that away, couldn’t make him swallow that!
He might be contemptible, a tool in her hands, but there was a limit, an
end! He walked beside the innocent other man in the dark, smiling grimly
to himself, filled with a curiously impersonal thirst for revenge. That
woman must be exposed, disgraced, crushed. He was savagely delighted to
do it. A long repressed and unrecognised wish came struggling to the
surface of his mind, the wish to be free of her and her domination. So
long as she loved him and was faithful to him, worked and schemed for
him, he couldn’t even wish to be rid of her. Only falseness in her could
justify him, and he rejoiced now in finding her false.

“It’s the end of her,” he reflected, “of her and her beastly trickery!”

But it was not. When he got to the house, and actually saw her, ill,
tortured with anxiety, when he once more heard her voice, his resolution
failed him. It was not so much through pity or affection, either; it
was the woman’s uncanny plausibility, the preposterous air of
respectability she threw over all she did. He could not see her as a
criminal.

Fate had reserved curious sufferings for him, unique pains. To live
through that night, with honest Mr. Petersen, to be in his house, while
Minnie bore his child.... And then, still at Mr. Petersen’s side, to go
in to her, and look at her son....

He was in a state of utter chaos. His little girl didn’t know him. In a
year and a half she had quite forgotten him, was growing up contentedly
under another man’s roof. It hurt him beyond measure. He had no idea how
he had changed, what with his beard, and the ravages of his illness. It
gave him a sensation of being already dead and buried and forgotten.

He couldn’t make himself feel as he believed he should feel. He could
not hate Minnie, and he actually liked Mr. Petersen. And pitied them
both. He thought, more seriously than he had ever thought before in his
life, and came to a conclusion which was quite at variance with his
tradition.

“I’m no good to Minnie or Sandra,” he said to himself, “I’ll go away,
and leave them to the man who can take care of them.”

And above all, he wished to consider Mr. Petersen. He was more anxious
to spare him than to spare Minnie. His one comfort was that he was not
“wronging” that honest man, that he was, in fact, making an honourable
and terribly difficult sacrifice for him, in thus giving up to him not
only Minnie but little Sandra. He would leave Mr. Petersen undisturbed
in his fool’s Paradise. He wanted passionately, with all his soul, to do
this one decent thing, to atone for Minnie’s sins and his own by this
restitution. It saved him in his own eyes.

Minnie did not oppose him. But she begged him to wait until she was a
little better. She was so heart-broken over the separation and so docile
that he yielded, and waited there in Mr. Petersen’s house during the
days of her convalescence.

But, no sooner had she begun to grow well again than she began
shamelessly to--as the novels say--persecute him with her attentions. He
was immeasurably shocked; he told her plainly what he thought of such
conduct. Under Mr. Petersen’s very roof!

“But you’re my own husband,” said Minnie.

“Do you mean to say you’re so depraved that you can’t _see_? That you’d
deceive that fine fellow again?”

“He’s nothing to me,” said Minnie, “I never even pretended to love him.”

And added:

“I only did it for Sandra’s sake.”

“Didn’t you know it was criminal? You’re a _bigamist_. You----”

She began to cry.

“I know it! But a mother will do anything in the world for her child. If
she’s a true woman.”

She was not to be convinced of wrong-doing. It wasn’t nice to have two
husbands; that she conceded: it was a painful and disagreeable
necessity, her only means of providing for her child.

“And Chris never need know,” she said. “It’s not doing him any harm. In
fact, he’s very happy.”

“Then you intend to go on like this forever?”

“Oh, I don’t _know_!” she cried, impatiently, “one has to be guided by
circumstances.”

And they were all the guide she had. Or could they be called a guide,
when she so deliberately manufactured them, and distorted them? Even the
poor chap’s love for Sandra she tried to utilise, in order to keep him
near her. She was continually throwing them together, fostering the
child’s affection for her “uncle.”

“She didn’t recognise you,” she said. “Poor little baby! But she _knows_
you. She feels _differently_ toward you.”

She was conscious that her own spell had waned; she could do nothing
with him. No matter how she clung to him, how she implored him, he would
not so much as say he loved her. He was absolutely impervious to her
seductions, although he was touched by her blind love for him. She would
have caused any suffering to Mr. Petersen if it would have benefited
Lionel. He was, as she said, and he well knew, the only man she had ever
cared for, the first and the last. She would even go so far as to admit
that she regretted having been obliged to marry Mr. Petersen. Not
because it was wrong, but because it hurt Lionel. She acknowledged that
it had not been an altogether loyal act, although, like so very many of
her sex, she couldn’t see that a merely physical infidelity really
mattered much. An idea that men have, which must be submitted to,
because of its importance to them.

“But in my _heart_,” she insisted, “there’s never been anyone but you.”

The war seemed to offer Lionel a remarkable opportunity for carrying out
his plan with dignity and nobility. He might even get himself killed,
which, according to his tradition, rights every wrong, wipes out every
offense. He resisted Minnie’s objections with firmness.

Then, so cruelly, before he had made his great renunciation, came
Frances and the shameful and horrible revelation. He was forced to go
away with Minnie; he couldn’t desert her then, when she was so utterly
alone. He tried to comfort her a little, and found it only too easy. She
wasn’t really very much ashamed or grieved. She was willing, eager, to
take up life with him again, the same slipshod and futile life of their
former years. She looked forward happily to another little house, more
amazing financial adventures, and, quite frankly, a subsidy from Mr.
Petersen.

“He’d be _glad_!” she told Lionel, “On account of little Robert. And he
has plenty of money. He could easily spare two or three thousand a
year.”

That was the final straw. Lionel said nothing against her scheme; he saw
her decently settled in a respectable boarding-house, well-supplied with
money salvaged from Mr. Petersen’s housekeeping allowance; then he went
away, disappeared. He left her a note, to say that he was going to
enlist, but she never quite knew what became of him.




BOOK FIVE: THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION




CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


I

Mr. Petersen and Frances lingered at the table long after the meal was
finished. Partly from fatigue, partly from embarrassment, neither of
them cared to suggest getting up. For _how_ were they to spend the
evening? They couldn’t sit down and read, as if nothing had happened,
and certainly they couldn’t talk. They would both have been delighted
never to exchange another word.

There was an unusual air of peace and order. Sandra and the baby were in
bed and asleep, wisely and lovingly managed by Frances. Mr. Petersen had
gone up to look at them in their cribs, clean, quiet and happy. Mrs.
Hansen was working away, without friction.

Yet it was an ominous quiet. There had been no “scene,” no excitement.
Simply Minnie had packed a bag and gone off in scornful silence, and
Lionel had vanished. It would have been far better if there _had_ been a
scene; no matter how violent or disgraceful. The roused emotions were
cheated, there was an exasperating lack of finality about it all, a
sense of frustration. Mr. Petersen and Frances had not opened the
subject at all. Mrs. Hansen of course was silent. Even Sandra had asked
no questions. It wasn’t natural!

Mr. Petersen had good reasons for his reticence. He was ashamed of his
thoughts; he would not have divulged them to any living creature.
Because he was longing and longing for Minnie, for the old turmoil and
disorder, Sandra running round the table while he ate, for Minnie,
holding the crying baby on her lap and feeding it sugar and water from a
spoon, Minnie in a wrapper, with her hair coming down, and her eternally
anxious look, worn out after having accomplished nothing.

He was aware of Frances opposite him, beautiful, severely neat, in her
starched blouse. He knew she was much better than Minnie, that she had
been cruelly wronged, and was behaving nobly. And yet he felt no
sympathy for her. All his pity was ridiculously, futilely given to
Minnie. He did not even blame her. The upright, honourable Mr. Petersen
was able to see the thing from her distorted angle; he could almost hear
her saying:

“But I tried to do what seemed best at the time.”

No anger, no bitterness, only a great sense of bereavement and grief. He
actually sat there worrying about her, thinking she had no money, afraid
she would suffer without her children.... That poor tiny Viking, replica
of himself, left now without a mother! And poor, poor mother, bereft of
such a son!


II

Frankie’s thoughts were altogether different. She _was_ angry, burning
with resentment against her sister. She _hated_ her! She remembered
Lionel’s dreadful face when he had seen her, the shame and anguish in
his eyes. Oh, she hated her! The man he might have been, and the thing
Minnie had made of him!

She had as little sympathy for Mr. Petersen as he for her. Simply he
didn’t matter. When she looked at his stolid face, she felt that it
wouldn’t be hard to hate him, too.

What Lionel must have endured to force him into such a course! Living in
Mr. Petersen’s house, on Mr. Petersen’s bounty, seeing his wife living
with Mr. Petersen, bearing his child! A feeling she didn’t know was in
her came rushing up; a longing to see Minnie suffer, even a little of
what she had inflicted upon others. She couldn’t stand Mr. Petersen’s
presence another moment--silly sheep--fatuous dupe of a vile woman!

She got up abruptly.

“I think I’ll go upstairs to the children,” she said. “Good-night!”

They were sleeping beautifully. She lighted a little night lamp and
looked at them, these children of Minnie, with curiously mixed emotions.
She bent over the baby; its fat little cheeks were puffed out, its
earnest mouth closed in a sort of pout. An ineffable fragrance rose from
the warm little body. Her breath stirred the fine fair hairs on its
head, where the pulse still beat so pitifully. Child of that hated
sister and that fool of a Petersen--but a baby none the less and sacred
and dear. She regarded it with love, she pitied the poor deserted little
man. She touched the tiny clenched fist, and at once it seized upon her
finger and clung to it blindly. Very gently she unclasped the absurd
little fingers and went over to Sandra.

This was the child that should have been hers; Lionel’s daughter. The
baby was delightful, but Sandra----! She was a dream child, she was
beauty in its purest, most exquisite moment. Her pale face, her clear
features, her cloud of fine-spun hair, the slender grace of her little
limbs, were, Frances thought, like some child angel in an old painting,
altogether spiritual. She sat down beside her, to think. It helped her
to look down at that innocent and fragile loveliness, sublimation of her
poor lover. She grew softer; at last began to weep a little.

Very much later, toward two in the morning, she went down to find Mr.
Petersen. She was quite sure he would not be in bed.

There he was, in his study, reading something.

“Mr. Petersen,” she said, “I’ve been thinking--about the children.”

He looked at her mutely.

“It seems to me--if you’d like me to--it would be better if I stopped
here and looked after them.”

“I thought you were going abroad,” he said, stupidly.

“I don’t care much where I go, as long as I’m more or less useful. And
it seems to me that I could be, here.”

He couldn’t answer.

“I’d like---- How can I help you best about them?” she asked.

He still stared at her in speechless misery. He tried in vain to picture
his future life, tried to realise that he was left with two small
children who had no mother. Useless. He could imagine no other person in
Minnie’s place. No one but Minnie looking after those children; anyone
else would be an impostor, a fraud, intolerable.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I haven’t thought much about it yet.”

“I’d do my best for them,” Frances said, with something like entreaty in
her voice.

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Petersen, “they may take away Sandra.”

And to his horror, a sob escaped him. He could not endure the idea of
losing that beloved little girl; he fancied her gone, and his own poor
baby more solitary than ever. Like a flash came the full realisation of
the wreck of his life, the desolation ahead of him. He bowed his head in
his huge hands.

Frances came over to him.

“Please!” she said, “Mr. Petersen!”

It was the first time she had felt any pity for him; she had pitied
Lionel, pitied herself; now her heart was wrung for this poor fellow,
innocent as herself, and more wronged.

“Anyway,” she said, “you have your little boy.”

“That makes it worse,” he answered, in a muffled voice. “He is an
illegitimate child. He is disgraced.”

“Oh, you don’t believe such things!” cried Frances. “You’re far too
sensible and broad-minded for that, I know!”

“No, no, I’m not.... If it was the ordinary thing--a passion--a love
affair.... But she--lived here as my wife.... Everyone knew her.”

He raised his head and looked at her with honest, misty, blue eyes.

“What am I to say? Bigamy is a crime. She is a bigamist. I’ve got to
keep it quiet. We were married here; it’s in the register.... I cannot
tell anyone she was not my wife. I’ll have to let it be thought that she
deserted me--ran off with this--this chap we called her brother. I’ll be
the laughing stock of the place. Under his nose it went on, the
neighbours will say. And I was a fool. Such a fool! I can’t believe it
...! My boy is going to hear all that in the course of time.”

“Can’t you leave here?”

“I’ve built up my name and reputation here. At my age--to start all over
again ...!

“I’m very sorry,” she said, simply.

“Thank you,” he replied.

She could see that he wanted to be alone, and that he was not able to
think then of the future. He was too bitterly concerned with the past
and with the present. She said good-night to him, and went upstairs
again, to be near the children.


III

She was awakening next morning by a cry from the baby, and she sprang up
at once, to wait on it, to adore it, to serve it in any capacity.

She hurried down stairs to the ice box to fetch the bottle she had
prepared overnight for it, warmed it, and flew up again to quiet its
hearty cries. But it stopped directly she entered the room, and lay on
her lap, swallowing the milk and staring at her, with its father’s
great, solemn blue eyes. It didn’t cry again all morning; it was a baby
of a happy and serene disposition. She put it back in its crib and it
lay there, watching its own fat hands, while she dressed Sandra. The
little girl was very quiet and docile, she fetched her own clean clothes
and stood passively to have them buttoned. Just once, while her hair was
being brushed, she looked up with her clear unfaltering gaze, and asked:

“Where’s Mother?”

“She’s gone away for a while, my darling. You’ll be happy with Aunt
Frankie, won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Sandra answered, truthfully.

It was still very early, so Frances got breakfast ready without waiting
for Mrs. Hansen. Mr. Petersen came down at seven, and he was mighty glad
to get his hot coffee. He sat down heavily opposite Frances, and drained
his cup.

“If you could stay,” he began, apologetically, “just a few days,
anyway--just a little while--till I get settled? I wasn’t--I didn’t
appreciate your goodness last night. But I do now. Just for a day or
two?”

“As long as you like,” Frances answered, heartily.




CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


I

The time went by well enough for Frankie. She was busy, and after a
fashion, happy, with the children. She had long ago trained herself not
to search her own heart, not to indulge her own emotions, not to think
of Lionel. No more now than during all the past five years.

With the assistance of Mrs. Hansen she put the house in order, all the
queer, jumbled cupboards and closets and bureau drawers. They found the
most extraordinary things. They were obliged to tell Mr. Petersen that
Minnie had been in debt to half a dozen tradesmen, enormous bills that
she would reduce dollar by dollar. He paid them at once, without
question. They found clothes of Mr. Petersen’s hidden away--no doubt to
be given to Lionel. They found pawn-tickets for some of the silver
spoons. Curious records of a subterranean life.... But at last they
cleaned away all traces of her rule; her clothes and personal belongings
were packed away, until she should send for them; she was sternly and
justly effaced.

Frances had begun to recover, to become inwardly as serene as she was in
appearance. When suddenly her makeshift peace was again destroyed.

They were at lunch, Frances, Mr. Petersen and Sandra, an exemplary
group, almost too decorous, all consuming exactly the right sort of food
for their health, served at the right moment. Then Mrs. Hansen brought
in his letter, and without thinking, Frankie tore it open, and saw his
writing again. She folded it again and sat through the meal; so very
long before she could shut herself into her own room, and read it.

“Frankie: I can’t get into the army in any branch. I got one of the
doctors to tell me, and he said I had tuberculosis and couldn’t last
more than a year or two at the most. Frankie, I can’t do it. What’s the
use, anyway, of waiting on like that, and dying in a charity hospital?
I’m going to go now, as decently as I can. Don’t tell them, not even
where I am. I want to be left in peace. But I wish you would come after
it is all over. I will leave you a note. Good-bye. God bless you, dear
old girl.

                                                                     L.”

She hurried to him. She found him in a little basement-room like a cell,
below the level of the street, with a barred window looking out on a
filthy courtyard. She had steeled herself for this meeting; she was
prepared for anything; she didn’t wince, didn’t falter, at the sight of
his ghastly face. He stood before her in the dim light, a gaunt,
stooping figure in a frayed suit; he looked really frightened at the
sight of her. He had said good-bye to her forever in his own soul; he
wasn’t prepared, wasn’t _capable_ of seeing her again.

He tried to tell her something of his story; especially he insisted upon
how he hadn’t “wronged” Mr. Petersen. He was very earnest about that.

“I don’t want you to think me worse than I am,” he said.

“My dear, I wouldn’t,” she assured him, gently.

He stared at her with his great hollow eyes.

“Frankie!” he cried, “You do understand, don’t you? That it was--I don’t
know--a mistake of some sort. I can say it now. I always--loved you.
Always. Never anyone else.”

She had a chill dread of what she felt he was about to ask her.

“If you could say--even a word----?”

She got up and went to him as he sat hunched up on a trunk; she stroked
his hair very gently. She wanted terribly to give him some little
comfort, but she couldn’t feed him with lies, even though he were
starving.

“It’s all over and done with now, Lionel,” she said. “It’s better to try
and forget it.”

“But, Frankie.... If I could only know.... If you’d changed.... If you
still care for me?”

“It’s no use talking of that, my dear.”

“Only tell me, before I die!” he entreated.

She looked up at him sorrowfully. And suddenly he clasped her in his
arms, such a pitiful, desperate embrace! She clung to him, sobbing,
strained him to her.

“Oh, I did, I did love you!” her heart cried. “When it was you. But not
this ghost--this distortion of what was you!”

But she didn’t say it, didn’t say anything, she was too full of an
aching and dreadful pity. Nothing on earth could save him; she saw death
in his face; she knew that she was saying good-bye to him forever. He
knew it, too. Ineffable moment! There were no words for it; they clung
to each other, hopelessly, in an abandon of grief.


II

She persuaded him to go to a sanitarium she knew of; he didn’t want to,
didn’t want to linger on, at her expense. But for her sake, for the sake
of her anguish, he consented. He lived there nearly six months, writing
to her now and then, stiff, stupid little notes. He died rather
suddenly.

She never again mentioned him to a living soul; no one else knew what
had happened to him. She let him die in peace, rest in peace. She went
on just as usual; it was her pride to keep her pain to herself, to hide
it absolutely. She never forgot him; really remained faithful to that
pitiful wraith. She had duties, interests, even pleasures enough, she
lived vigorously and fully. But that wound never healed. She was never
again conscious of absolute content, or of real hope. She never regarded
the future with eagerness. Her heart was not whole.


III

Mr. Petersen was becoming crushed by his disgrace. The amazing change of
mistresses in his establishment had caused a tremendous scandal. He
tried to go on as usual, but it was not possible. Many people shunned
him, business fell off, the general atmosphere of respect in which his
soul had flourished was poisoned, and unfit for his great lungs to
breathe.

And, what is more, he worried very much about Frankie. The presence of
this handsome young woman in his house, coincident with the
disappearance of Minnie and Lionel, was a fact of ugly significance. He
began very soon to see his course; he deliberated carefully, looked at
it from her point of view as well as from his own, and came at last to
the conclusion that it was a good plan.

He asked Frances to marry him.

“On account of the children,” he said, “You are so fond of them that I
thought you would like to remain with them permanently. And it would be
of the greatest benefit to them.... As for yourself, I haven’t much to
offer.... I can only promise that I wouldn’t bother you, interfere with
you in any sort of way. I can’t stop here. I’m--more or
less--disgraced.... I’ll live wherever you like, California, if that’s
best for your work. I have enough capital to start in business
again----”

She was not surprised by his offer; she had expected it and thought
about it. To her also it seemed the best course, on account of the
children. So she accepted.

They understood each other perfectly, without being obliged to drag from
their souls any explanation of feelings sacred and painful. These two
candid and faithful creatures knew themselves to be strong enough and
simple enough for a most difficult situation. They were tacitly agreed
to remain constant, he to Minnie, she to Lionel, and to assume the poor
little burdens deserted by them.

Frances was not anxious to return to California; she suggested a suburb
of New York, in quite another direction from Brownsville Landing, and
Mr. Petersen consented. She found a charming house there, the sort of
house she had dreamed long ago of having with Lionel, a dignified,
cheerful place with a fine garden. She had quite a bit of money saved,
and she insisted upon using some of it to equip the place.

“Please don’t be proud!” she entreated Mr. Petersen, laughing. “Do let
me have my own way about all this. I’ve always longed to furnish a
house.”

This touched him. The poor defrauded girl! So he left it all to her.

She had a wonderful time over it, particularly with the children’s
rooms. She was wilfully extravagant there. She had a nursery for little
Robert, very scientific and expensive, with a bathroom off it,
glitteringly white. Then a big, bright playroom, with little
white-painted chairs and tables gay with painted birds and animals, with
low shelves for toys, and not a sharp corner anywhere about; and next to
this, an exquisite nest for Sandra, all white willow and blue chintz.

She spent days and days in the house, with Mrs. Hansen to help her. She
would come back to Brownsville Landing--a five hours’ journey--very
tired, but filled with enthusiasm. Mr. Petersen went out once or twice
and found it charming. He planted a garden there, fruit trees and rose
bushes, and had a stable built for his beloved horse.

When at last the house was ready there was nothing else to wait for.
They went, one gay, cool morning in September, to the City Hall in New
York, got their license, and were married by a peevish alderman. They
were both curiously devoid of emotion. It was, after all, a matter of
little importance to them. They would go on as they had been going for
the last months.

Nevertheless, they considered it the polite and the correct thing to
celebrate in some sort of way. So they went to a hotel, where Mr.
Petersen ordered an elaborate lunch. He was just a little ill-at-ease,
not being a frequenter of hotels, and the lunch was too heavy, too
prolonged. Frankie conscientiously ate all she could, and praised
everything.

But no use denying that her heart ached! She caught a glimpse of
themselves in a mirror, saw her own proud distinction so incongruously
escorted by Mr. Petersen’s enormous Socialistic bulk, and how could she
help thinking of how Lionel had looked under similar circumstances, how
help remembering _his_ ways of ordering lunches ...?

Perhaps Mr. Petersen was rather heavy-hearted too, with memories of his
other wedding--or what he had imagined at the time to be a wedding. Who
knows but that for him there had been infinite romance in his dowdy
Minnie?

They had planned to go back to Brownsville Landing and close up the
house there, and then the next morning proceed by motor car with the
children and the Hansens to the new home. For the last time they boarded
the train, for the last time went flying through that familiar country
along the river bank.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Petersen, in his slow way, “that we are beginning
a new life. I shall do all I can to make it a happy one for you.”

She smiled at him kindly.

“We’re old friends,” she said, and then grew very serious, “Chris,” she
said, “we’ve missed--oh, almost everything, haven’t we? But if we can
only make up to the children for all _they’ve_ lost, all _they’ll_ have
to miss--that’s enough for us, isn’t it?”

“That’s enough,” he repeated, “enough to fill our lives.”




CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


I

She came in upon them like a whirlwind, as they sat at the dinner table,
and at the sight of their familiar faces, she gave a sort of sob of
relief, and flung herself into a chair. They looked at her, pulling off
her torn old gloves, and they had, both of them, an illusion that it was
entirely _her_ house, _her_ home, that they had nothing to say in it.

Her face was pale and worn, and bright with hysterical excitement. It
didn’t occur to her that she was expected to explain her presence; she
was preoccupied with some thought of her own. Suddenly she looked up, at
Frances.

“He’s gone!” she cried. “He would go. Into the army. I thought----” she
broke into open sobbing, “I thought ... he was ... too thin ... but he
left me a note ... to say they’ve taken him. Oh, _poor_ old Lionel!
_Poor_ old darling!”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s so terribly pitiful!” she went on. “I never ... in all my life....
Oh, his arms are like little sticks....”

She turned fiercely on Mr. Petersen.

“The idea of _his_ being in the army, while _you_ sit at home, a big,
hearty thing like you!” she cried, passionately. It was the same spirit
which led so many women to press recruiting.

Mr. Petersen’s face turned scarlet. He cleared his throat, and answered
at last, in his slow way:

“I don’t see----” he began.

“Of course you don’t! You never would. You haven’t any spirit in you.
You just want to sit at home and----”

Frances intervened.

“I don’t think it’s quite your place to come here and abuse Mr.
Petersen,” she said sternly.

“What have _you_ got to do with it?” asked Minnie, “it’s none of your
business, that I can see.”

She dried her eyes and sat up straighter.

“Where are the babies?” she asked.

“Asleep,” Frances answered.

Minnie got up and went toward the door, but Frances intercepted her.

“Let them alone!” she ordered.

Minnie stared at her.

“What do you _mean_! They’re _my_ children.”

“They’re not! You’ve forfeited your right to them. You deserted them.
You’ve disgraced them. I won’t ... I won’t let you disturb them!”

Minnie’s fine black eyes stared at her scornfully.

“They’re my children. I’ll do just as I think best about them. I’ve got
on very well without consulting you so far, and I shan’t begin now.”

“Chris!” Frances appealed to Mr. Petersen, “Won’t you say something? You
know she’s not fit to bring up children.”

“It takes an old maid to do that,” said Minnie.

That roused Mr. Petersen.

“Minnie,” he began, “it would be better--if you would consent....”

“I won’t consent to anything! I want my children, and I _will_ have
them. I’m going to take them now.”

“But--I have something to say about it,” he protested.

“You haven’t! Sandra’s not yours, and little Robert’s _mine_. I asked a
lawyer. You’re not my husband. You haven’t any claim on him.”

Frances rose.

“Minnie,” she said, “listen to me!”

She looked like the goddess Athene, so handsome, so stern, so just.

“You must have _some_ sort of conscience--_some_ standard--something I
can appeal to.... You’ve wronged me, you’ve wronged Mr. Petersen, in the
cruelest way. You’ve brought shame and suffering on innocent people.
You’ve thought only of yourself and your own desires, and had no mercy
on anyone who stood in your way. And now you want to do something still
worse. Just for your own selfish gratification, you want to take those
poor little children away from people who are able and willing to do
everything for them--honourable and decent people----”

“I suppose you mean yourself,” said Minnie, “I suppose you and Chris
intended to start housekeeping with _my_ children. Well, you can’t!”

“If you love them, Minnie, you can’t drag them into poverty and----”

“Oh, love, love, love!” cried Minnie impatiently. “What do you know
about loving, anyway? When I love people, I fight for them. I’d die for
them.... Or I’d murder. I’d do _anything_. I wouldn’t stop to reason and
plan like you do. You couldn’t keep my babies away from me if you had an
army of soldiers to help you.”

And she pushed by her sister and went upstairs.

They heard a sudden wild little shout.

“Oh, _Mummy_!” from Sandra. Then a number of sounds, Minnie walking
about, opening bureau drawers, the creak of a rocking chair.

It tortured Mr. Petersen, brought back old days. He felt that if he
went up now he would see Minnie in her horrible grey wrapper, with the
baby in her arms, rocking away, just in the same way, with the gas
turned low and Sandra sitting up in her crib. And then, when the baby
was asleep, Minnie would come down, exhausted, sighing, but smiling too,
and trail out into the kitchen, to look in the ice chest for something
to eat. And then to sit on the arm of his chair and gossip.... He could
not repress a groan.

“Oh, Minnie!” he whispered.

Frances looked at him with a pity not untinged with contempt. She knew
he wasn’t thinking of the children at all.

“Chris!” she said, in a low voice.

“Yes?”

“_Don’t_ tell her--that we’re married!”

He nodded assent.

They remained at the table, in silence. There was nothing to do, nothing
to say, but to wait for Minnie’s next move.

Presently she came downstairs, carrying the baby and holding Sandra by
the hand, all of them dressed for the street. Minnie’s eyes were red;
evidently she had been crying up there.

“Good-bye, Chris,” she said, rather wistfully, “I’m sorry about all
this.... But I had to do it, really, for Sandra’s sake. And I did make
you happy, and comfortable, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes!” he cried, and actually believed that she had. The pathos of
the anxious little figure overwhelmed him.

“Minnie!” he cried. “Wait! Just a minute!”

She turned again.

“If--your--he has gone in to the army--what will you have to live on?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I’ll get on somehow.”

“_No!_ ... That can’t be.... For old times’ sake--let me help you--and
the children. An allowance--a settlement of some sort....”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you, Chris dear,” she said, simply.

“If Frances will take the baby,” he suggested, “I’d like to speak to you
in my office just a moment.”

So Frances sat in the dining-room, with the baby in her arms for the
last time, holding Sandra’s little hand, forgotten and deserted,
despoiled now of everything, while in the study Mr. Petersen wrote a
generous cheque for Minnie.

She thought of the house in the suburbs, with the nursery and the
playroom; even the new toys.

She thought of herself and Mr. Petersen married, for the sake of the
children.

She thought of Minnie, who had carried off Lionel, and Lionel’s child,
and Mr. Petersen’s child, and was now securing a supply of Mr.
Petersen’s money.

She began to laugh heartily.


THE END




EPILOGUE


Mr. Petersen saw Minnie once again. He and Frances _did_ go to
California to live, because they naturally couldn’t endure the mocking
house in the suburbs, or the dreadful one in Brownsville Landing.

They did well enough; they were both able to make money and to save it;
they were kind, industrious, charitable, very much respected. They never
quarrelled, and never grew any more intimate or affectionate. A drab
sort of life, and they knew it.

It was a good thing that Mr. Petersen was both thrifty and well-to-do,
for Minnie’s demands on him were constant and outrageous. Her old
obsession broke out again; she wrote asking for capital to start a
boarding-house. The allowance he sent her didn’t suffice; she wanted, so
she said, to become independent.

And did, in a most original way. All the money she took in from her
boarders she regarded as profit, and belonging to her, while the bills,
when they grew too pressing, were sent to Mr. Petersen with complicated
and aggrieved letters complaining of the troubles of a landlady. Her
independence was a heavy drain on him.

He asked Frances if she minded his going East to see her and the
children once more.

“It’s ten years,” he said. “Robert’ll be quite a boy now.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” she answered, “I’d half like to see them
myself; especially Minnie. I’m curious.”

Her boarding-house, so familiar to him financially, for which he was
endlessly buying saucepans and tablecloths and towels, was a dingy old
place in the west Twenties. Even from the outside it had the Minnie
touch, bedraggled lace curtains and crooked shades.

He rang the bell, and waited with a fast beating heart. To see Minnie
again, after all this time!

The door was opened reluctantly by a young girl. (Everything in that
house was done reluctantly).

“Mrs. Naylor? I’ll see.... Is it about rooms?”

Surely that voice, that accent ...? He stared at her insistently in the
darkness of the hall.

“Why!” he cried, “Isn’t it Sandra? Come into the light, my dear. Do you
remember Uncle Chris?”

“I’ve heard Mother speak of you,” she answered listlessly, and turned up
the gas.

“Oh, Sandra!” he cried again. “My dear ...! You’re--you don’t look very
well!”

“I’m all right,” she replied, in languid surprise. “I’ve always been
thin.”

“Thin!” he thought. “My child, you’re dying!”

But he said only that she was growing too fast, and smiled and patted
her head.

He waited in the dark hall while she went to fetch her mother, and he
was haunted by her awful and heart-breaking loveliness--the unmistakable
shadow on her face.

She came back to lead him down into the basement. He noticed that there
were holes in her stockings and that her dress was very shabby.

In the basement dining-room he found Minnie, and was welcomed without
much cordiality. And if Sandra had shocked him in one way, Minnie
shocked him in another. She was so much changed; so much older, she had
quite a middle-aged look, she was much stouter, she was--he couldn’t
deny it--she was almost common, with her bright eyes and her sharp nose
and her double chin. And as badly dressed as ever, perhaps a little more
spotty. Her old air of anxiety had left her, it was now no more than a
shadow, a comfortable way of sighing at life in general. She was happier
than she had ever been before. Her health was excellent, she was free to
do as she pleased, and she was much admired. She had had more than one
offer of marriage from boarders who respected the fortitude, the
maternal affection and the business ability of this remarkable woman.
But she had no further use for men.

“I’ve seen enough of them!” she would say. It was evident that she had
suffered bitterly at their hands.

Her air towards Mr. Petersen implied that she was magnanimously willing
to let bygones be bygones. They talked of the boarders; they were, for
the most part, satisfactory, she said. The usual troubles, which one
must expect in this life, above all if one were a woman alone in the
world, and honest.

He spoke of Sandra. Minnie admitted that she was not strong, but that in
her circumstances, she couldn’t do much for her.

“Send her out to us,” he urged. “The climate would be just the thing for
her.”

“No, _thanks_!” Minnie answered, with irony, indicating her opinion of
the tone of Mr. Petersen’s household.

He offered to pay for any course of treatment, for sending her away. But
Minnie said, sharply, that it wasn’t necessary; she would outgrow her
weakness; there wasn’t any reason for making such a fuss about it. He
saw with amazement that this child whom she had formerly idolised was
now the object of an unmistakable resentment which he could not
comprehend. He wouldn’t have believed that it was jealousy; that as the
child became a woman she became, to the instinctive female within
Minnie, a rival. She was always trying to turn the talk away from Sandra
to Robert. _He_ was clever, _he_ was obedient, he was, she said,
altogether a comfort to her.

At last he came in from school, and Mr. Petersen ever afterward
regretted his visit. If he could only have kept the memory of his
stalwart tiny son, with his clear blue eyes and his gleeful smile!

This Robert was a pale, heavy boy of eleven or twelve, lazy, complacent,
maddeningly adult in manner. He sat down with the conscious intention of
entertaining this visitor, told him things he had read in the papers. It
was evident he did not know he was speaking to his father. Mr. Petersen
gave him some money, and in his heart completely disowned him.

Then he looked once more at _her_, a long, long look.

“Good-bye, Minnie!” he said.



Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

the cultured spinister, Miss Vanderhof=> the cultured spinster, Miss
Vanderhof {pg 60}

respecting his Southerness=> respecting his Southernness {pg 80}