Invincible Minnie/Book 1/Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She said she was busy but he waved that aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day before Christmas Frankie came home.

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

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

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

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

“Gone! Not really!”

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

“But, my dear, what happened?”

Minnie turned away her head.

“A letter from his wife....”

“So he was married!...”

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

“Was he ill, then?”

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

She wiped her eyes sternly and went on.

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

Frances did her best to console the frustrated Minnie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Minnie!”

“What?” asked Minnie sharply.

“Minnie!... I’m engaged!”

Minnie gasped.

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

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

“Who is he?” Minnie asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You.”

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

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

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

“He can come out here to see you.”

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

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

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

“You shan’t go back at all.”

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

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

Frances smiled scornfully.

“I’ll go back as usual,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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