Invincible Minnie/Book 5/Chapter 33

and Frances lingered at the table long after the meal was finished. Partly from fatigue, partly from embarrassment, neither of them cared to suggest getting up. For how were they to spend the evening? They couldn’t sit down and read, as if nothing had happened, and certainly they couldn’t talk. They would both have been delighted never to exchange another word.

There was an unusual air of peace and order. Sandra and the baby were in bed and asleep, wisely and lovingly managed by Frances. Mr. Petersen had gone up to look at them in their cribs, clean, quiet and happy. Mrs. Hansen was working away, without friction.

Yet it was an ominous quiet. There had been no “scene,” no excitement. Simply Minnie had packed a bag and gone off in scornful silence, and Lionel had vanished. It would have been far better if there had been a scene; no matter how violent or disgraceful. The roused emotions were cheated, there was an exasperating lack of finality about it all, a sense of frustration. Mr. Petersen and Frances had not opened the subject at all. Mrs. Hansen of course was silent. Even Sandra had asked no questions. It wasn’t natural!

Mr. Petersen had good reasons for his reticence. He was ashamed of his thoughts; he would not have divulged them to any living creature. Because he was longing and longing for Minnie, for the old turmoil and disorder, Sandra running round the table while he ate, for Minnie, holding the crying baby on her lap and feeding it sugar and water from a spoon, Minnie in a wrapper, with her hair coming down, and her eternally anxious look, worn out after having accomplished nothing.

He was aware of Frances opposite him, beautiful, severely neat, in her starched blouse. He knew she was much better than Minnie, that she had been cruelly wronged, and was behaving nobly. And yet he felt no sympathy for her. All his pity was ridiculously, futilely given to Minnie. He did not even blame her. The upright, honourable Mr. Petersen was able to see the thing from her distorted angle; he could almost hear her saying:

“But I tried to do what seemed best at the time.”

No anger, no bitterness, only a great sense of bereavement and grief. He actually sat there worrying about her, thinking she had no money, afraid she would suffer without her children.... That poor tiny Viking, replica of himself, left now without a mother! And poor, poor mother, bereft of such a son!

Frankie’s thoughts were altogether different. She was angry, burning with resentment against her sister. She hated her! She remembered Lionel’s dreadful face when he had seen her, the shame and anguish in his eyes. Oh, she hated her! The man he might have been, and the thing Minnie had made of him!

She had as little sympathy for Mr. Petersen as he for her. Simply he didn’t matter. When she looked at his stolid face, she felt that it wouldn’t be hard to hate him, too.

What Lionel must have endured to force him into such a course! Living in Mr. Petersen’s house, on Mr. Petersen’s bounty, seeing his wife living with Mr. Petersen, bearing his child! A feeling she didn’t know was in her came rushing up; a longing to see Minnie suffer, even a little of what she had inflicted upon others. She couldn’t stand Mr. Petersen’s presence another moment—silly sheep—fatuous dupe of a vile woman!

She got up abruptly.

“I think I’ll go upstairs to the children,” she said. “Good-night!”

They were sleeping beautifully. She lighted a little night lamp and looked at them, these children of Minnie, with curiously mixed emotions. She bent over the baby; its fat little cheeks were puffed out, its earnest mouth closed in a sort of pout. An ineffable fragrance rose from the warm little body. Her breath stirred the fine fair hairs on its head, where the pulse still beat so pitifully. Child of that hated sister and that fool of a Petersen—but a baby none the less and sacred and dear. She regarded it with love, she pitied the poor deserted little man. She touched the tiny clenched fist, and at once it seized upon her finger and clung to it blindly. Very gently she unclasped the absurd little fingers and went over to Sandra.

This was the child that should have been hers; Lionel’s daughter. The baby was delightful, but Sandra! She was a dream child, she was beauty in its purest, most exquisite moment. Her pale face, her clear features, her cloud of fine-spun hair, the slender grace of her little limbs, were, Frances thought, like some child angel in an old painting, altogether spiritual. She sat down beside her, to think. It helped her to look down at that innocent and fragile loveliness, sublimation of her poor lover. She grew softer; at last began to weep a little.

Very much later, toward two in the morning, she went down to find Mr. Petersen. She was quite sure he would not be in bed.

There he was, in his study, reading something.

“Mr. Petersen,” she said, “I’ve been thinking—about the children.”

He looked at her mutely.

“It seems to me—if you’d like me to—it would be better if I stopped here and looked after them.”

“I thought you were going abroad,” he said, stupidly.

“I don’t care much where I go, as long as I’m more or less useful. And it seems to me that I could be, here.”

He couldn’t answer.

“I’d like How can I help you best about them?” she asked.

He still stared at her in speechless misery. He tried in vain to picture his future life, tried to realise that he was left with two small children who had no mother. Useless. He could imagine no other person in Minnie’s place. No one but Minnie looking after those children; anyone else would be an impostor, a fraud, intolerable.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I haven’t thought much about it yet.”

“I’d do my best for them,” Frances said, with something like entreaty in her voice.

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Petersen, “they may take away Sandra.”

And to his horror, a sob escaped him. He could not endure the idea of losing that beloved little girl; he fancied her gone, and his own poor baby more solitary than ever. Like a flash came the full realisation of the wreck of his life, the desolation ahead of him. He bowed his head in his huge hands.

Frances came over to him.

“Please!” she said, “Mr. Petersen!”

It was the first time she had felt any pity for him; she had pitied Lionel, pitied herself; now her heart was wrung for this poor fellow, innocent as herself, and more wronged.

“Anyway,” she said, “you have your little boy.”

“That makes it worse,” he answered, in a muffled voice. “He is an illegitimate child. He is disgraced.”

“Oh, you don’t believe such things!” cried Frances. “You’re far too sensible and broad-minded for that, I know!”

“No, no, I’m not.... If it was the ordinary thing—a passion—a love affair.... But she—lived here as my wife.... Everyone knew her.”

He raised his head and looked at her with honest, misty, blue eyes.

“What am I to say? Bigamy is a crime. She is a bigamist. I’ve got to keep it quiet. We were married here; it’s in the register.... I cannot tell anyone she was not my wife. I’ll have to let it be thought that she deserted me—ran off with this—this chap we called her brother. I’ll be the laughing stock of the place. Under his nose it went on, the neighbours will say. And I was a fool. Such a fool! I can’t believe it ...! My boy is going to hear all that in the course of time.”

“Can’t you leave here?”

“I’ve built up my name and reputation here. At my age—to start all over again ...!

“I’m very sorry,” she said, simply.

“Thank you,” he replied.

She could see that he wanted to be alone, and that he was not able to think then of the future. He was too bitterly concerned with the past and with the present. She said good-night to him, and went upstairs again, to be near the children.

She was awakening next morning by a cry from the baby, and she sprang up at once, to wait on it, to adore it, to serve it in any capacity.

She hurried down stairs to the ice box to fetch the bottle she had prepared overnight for it, warmed it, and flew up again to quiet its hearty cries. But it stopped directly she entered the room, and lay on her lap, swallowing the milk and staring at her, with its father’s great, solemn blue eyes. It didn’t cry again all morning; it was a baby of a happy and serene disposition. She put it back in its crib and it lay there, watching its own fat hands, while she dressed Sandra. The little girl was very quiet and docile, she fetched her own clean clothes and stood passively to have them buttoned. Just once, while her hair was being brushed, she looked up with her clear unfaltering gaze, and asked:

“Where’s Mother?”

“She’s gone away for a while, my darling. You’ll be happy with Aunt Frankie, won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Sandra answered, truthfully.

It was still very early, so Frances got breakfast ready without waiting for Mrs. Hansen. Mr. Petersen came down at seven, and he was mighty glad to get his hot coffee. He sat down heavily opposite Frances, and drained his cup.

“If you could stay,” he began, apologetically, “just a few days, anyway—just a little while—till I get settled? I wasn’t—I didn’t appreciate your goodness last night. But I do now. Just for a day or two?”

“As long as you like,” Frances answered, heartily.