Invincible Minnie/Book 3/Chapter 24

was thankful to escape from the house the next morning. After what a night! No sleep for anyone; even the baby had been awake and crying half a dozen times.

Minnie had opened her attack on Alec. Mr. Petersen heard her, hour after hour, raging, crying, pleading with him in his room. Time after time he had tried to go out, but she would spring in front of him and bar the door.

“You’ve got to listen to me!” she shrieked.

At last, very reluctantly, Mr. Petersen felt obliged to intervene. He knocked on the door two or three times unheard, for the storm was raging wildly. Then he turned the knob and walked in. Minnie was on her knees, clasping Alexander tightly, while he stood, white and cold, not even looking at her.

Mr. Petersen was shocked and for the first time angry at Minnie.

“Get up!” he commanded. “This is disgusting!”

She turned her face, blistered with tears, to him.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t let him go!” she cried, “Chris, for Heaven’s sake!”

He made the fatal mistake of trying to argue with her. He was quiet and reasonable, and she aped his manner to perfection. Argued with him, the distorted and plausible arguments of a madwoman, became quiet, scornful. She involved him in a maze, bewildered and confounded him, and made it more and more difficult for him to keep his temper.

Alec gave him sound advice.

“It’s no use talking to her,” he said. “She never listens.”

They all became violent and rude. Sandra waked up and came running in, barefooted, wide-eyed, pale, stood listening for a long time. Then the baby began to cry again and Minnie hurried to it, but when Alec tried to escape downstairs, she flew after him, baby in arms, and again barred his way.

An awful night! Mr. Petersen unlocked his office and sat down with a great sigh. Never suspecting the far more awful night that was drawing in upon him. The climax, which so strangely and regularly occurs in human affairs, the definite point of departure, of division between the old days and the new, was approaching. His doom drew near.

He had just begun to lose himself in his business papers when there was a rap at the door. It was too early for Miss Layne; he was rather surprised; he called out “Come in!” and the instrument of fate entered.

It was Frances.

He was astonished and pleased. He had always admired Frances. He brought forward a chair.

“Miss Defoe!” he exclaimed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you!”

“Five years, nearly,” she answered with a sigh and a smile. “But you haven’t changed a bit!”

She had, he thought; she had improved. She looked older; no longer a girl, but straighter, more vigorous, more nobly honest than ever. Her face was a little cold in its severe, composed beauty, but not at all hard. A woman who expected a great deal, but who also forgave a great deal. She was dressed very plainly but with distinction, with pride. He could see no sort of resemblance to Minnie.

“And where have you been all the while?” he asked.

“Out on the Coast. I went out as a doctor’s secretary. Then I helped him with some research work. He recommended me to other doctors, so I set up a little office of my own. For very special sort of work. Only medical. Compiling and revising and translating books and articles doctors wrote. I was doing very well. I’d got quite a reputation in my line.”

He admired her modest pride, her simple assumption of his interest in her affairs. He praised her enterprise.

“I like it. It’s been very interesting. And profitable. And I’ve learned a great deal. I’ve watched operations. I’ve even helped doctors in an unofficial way. Especially with children. And now I’ve come East again to see if I can’t get into the war somehow. I’m not a nurse, but I could train for special work. I’ve lots of letters to all sorts of people. I think I could be useful somewhere.”

“I should think so,” he said, thinking to himself that such a woman would be useful in any place. Their eyes met in a glance almost affectionate, a regard made up of memories of the old days of faithful work together, of their old respect and esteem.

“I wanted,” she said, with a smile, “to have another look at Brownsville Landing, and Mr. Petersen. I’ve always remembered you. I think, in the old days, I didn’t quite appreciate you, and I wanted—it’s sentimental, isn’t it—but before I went to Europe I wanted to come back and say thank you, for all the many, many kind things you did for us. I don’t think any of us realised Only now, after I know the world a little better, I’m able to judge you a little better.”

He turned scarlet with delight and confusion. He had never before heard such words, never received acknowledgment of his generosity.

“I had to tell you,” she went on, “in case I didn’t come back.... I’ve seen a good many people in these last years. I’ve learned what to expect, more or less. And I can see now how rare it was—the way you treated us. There we were, living on your bounty, and turning up our silly noses at you. Silly, shabby little snobs! Only we didn’t know any better. We didn’t know anything at all. We really weren’t able to appreciate”

“Please stop!” he said, laughing, “I can’t listen.” He was silent for a minute.

“You make me very proud and happy,” he went on, at last. “What I did was nothing. I had a great regard for your family. And I sincerely regretted all your misfortunes. I.... It’s very kind of you to speak to me in this way”

He held out his hand.

“Thank you again,” he said. “You don’t often find people willing to express a good opinion of one. Bad points—mistakes, they’re mentioned fast enough”

“Don’t I know!” she cried, grasping his huge paw.

“Now!” said he, still beaming, “You’ll come home with me and see Minnie, won’t you?”

“Minnie! Here?”

“I forgot you didn’t know. I’m married to Minnie.” Frankie’s face turned quite white.

“But—married to Minnie! But ... I thought—Mr. Naylor...?”

“He died,” said Mr. Petersen. He knew nothing about Frankie’s connection with the dead man, or he wouldn’t have been so unconcerned. As it was, he was distressed at the change that came over her face. It was quite distorted for a minute, with grief, with anguish, with a terrible resentment.

“Died!” she repeated. “I didn’t know!”

He saw that there was something in this unknown to him. He kept silent.

“And then she married you. Soon after, I suppose?”

“I don’t know,” he had to answer. “I never asked her.”

She looked squarely into Mr. Petersen’s eyes.

“I was engaged to him once,” she said, “until Minnie took him away from me.”

She was still for a moment.

“I ought not to talk like this to you,” she went on. “It’s not fair. Only ... I thought I’d got over it ... and all the time, it ... was there. I ... feel so—cheated!”

Her fine mouth quivered.

Mr. Petersen rose.

“Come,” he said, kindly. “Come home with me now and see Minnie. Perhaps she’ll have something to say to you.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak to Minnie.”

“I’m sure you could,” he answered. “I wish you’d try. Give her a chance to explain. Perhaps there’s a misunderstanding. And even if there isn’t, you’re ... I’m sure you’re able to come. Please!”

She got up with a sigh.

“I might as well,” she said, “one can’t go on forever being cynical. It’s all over, long ago.”

They went out together on to the Main Street, busier, more prosperous now, but still familiar to her. She walked by his side, with her fine, free stride, so very different from Minnie’s anxious bobbing. They passed the Eagle House and turned the corner.

“Oh!” cried Mr. Petersen, suddenly. “There’s a piece of good news too. Your brother is with us.”

“I haven’t any brother,” said Frances.

“Your brother who was in England.”

“But I never had a brother!”

“Your brother Alec!” he said, quite loudly.

“I never knew anyone called Alec in my life.”

Mr. Petersen stopped short and grasped her arm.

“Please, Miss Defoe,” he said, “try to recollect your brother. It—it’s very important!”

She looked at him with a puzzled frown.

“I’m sorry, but I never had a brother. Minnie and I were the only children. What made you?”

He looked terribly shocked. He couldn’t go on, but remained stock still in the street, wiping his brow with an enormous handkerchief.

“Of course,” he said, in a stunned sort of voice, “it’s some—some kind of—misunderstanding. We’ll soon clear it up. Nothing to worry over.”

But she could see how terribly worried, how filled with dread and horror he was, and she too grew apprehensive.

“I wish you’d explain!” she entreated.

“Wait! We’ll be home in a minute!”

“Was there someone who pretended to be our brother?”

“Minnie said he was.... I ... it will be cleared up in a minute or two now. Nothing to worry over.”

But he was absolutely panting, wiping his streaming face as if in the thick of some tremendous exertion.

They went on down the quiet old street, to Mr. Petersen’s beloved home. It did not look at all as it had in the old days, when Frances used to go there for books; the curtains were dirty, blankets were hanging out of an upstairs window, and a baby’s toys littered the porch.

“Is there a baby?” Frances asked.

“Two,” he answered. “One of—his, and one of mine.”

She smothered a bitter sigh, and went with him through the gate, up the walk and into the house. The sitting-room was empty, and very dirty; no one in the dining-room, where the breakfast dishes still stood.

“They’re in the garden, I dare say,” said Mr. Petersen.

They hurried through the vile kitchen and down the back steps.

“There!” shouted Mr. Petersen, pointing to the end of the grape arbour. “There’s Minnie and your brother!”

Frances gave a shriek that horrified him, that caused the two at the end of the garden to look up suddenly:

“Her brother!” she cried, “Oh, Mr. Petersen! Mr. Petersen! It’s her husband!”