“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.”
“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.
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!”