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....