He was, innocently enough, pleased with her appearance, and saw nothing
sinister, nothing extraordinary about her. A rather short, full-bosomed
young woman of perhaps twenty, with a dark, freckled face and an
expression very pleasant and friendly. She smiled at him as soon as she
entered.
“Mrs. Defoe will be back in a minute,” she said, as she set down her
tray. She was wearing a ruffled little apron tied about her neat waist,
and her air was altogether housewifely and homely, as if she had been
brought up from infancy in that very house. He couldn’t imagine who she
was. He knew that the old lady lived alone, had lived alone since the
death of her husband twelve years ago. This agreeable young person was
certainly not a servant, and he was sure she didn’t belong in the
neighbourhood. If he had seen her, he knew he would have remembered her.
She gave him a glass of lemonade and sat down opposite him, amiably
prepared to entertain him.
“It’s growing warm, isn’t it?” she said, and he recognised in her voice
and accent something far superior to the native language of Brownsville
Landing.
“It’s what we want, for the fruit,” he answered, in his sing-song drawl.
“It was a cold Spring here.”
“So I’ve heard.... What a _nice_ horse! Is it yours, Mr. Petersen?”
He was very much pleased; he said it was, and went on to tell of the
virtues and eccentricities of his beloved mare.
Minnie said she didn’t ride, but was very fond of driving.
Riding suited Mr. Petersen better; it made one feel more independent.
“Oh, well, you’re a _man_!” said she. “A girl can’t go riding about
alone, very well.”
In some way this made him suddenly conscious of her smallness and
feminineness and of all the handicaps imposed upon her by God and by
man. Mr. Petersen’s views about women were definite. She was neither
above nor below, neither hallowed nor accursed, but a quite ordinary
human being, like himself, equally responsible, equally privileged. A
woman--the right sort--was a friend, simply. And he saw in Minnie a
friend, candid and good-tempered.... (Minnie a _friend_!)
“I was so _pleased_,” she went on, “to find a horse here. Of course, I
don’t really know much about them. I’ve never lived in the country,
really. But I _love_ animals. All animals. And I think I have a sort of
knack with them----”
He was acquainted with Mrs. Defoe’s horse, a ridiculously coy old
skeleton that came into the village once a week harnessed to a buggy and
driven by a Negro truck farmer who cultivated the old lady’s arid fields
on shares. He could not imagine anyone’s having much affection for that
caricature. It touched him. He could think of nothing to say, and the
young woman had once more to start up a conversation.
“I hope I haven’t made your lemonade too sweet!” she began, anxiously,
but was interrupted by Mrs. Defoe calling from upstairs.
“Minnie! Minnie!”
“Excuse me,” she murmured, and vanished. He heard her running up the
stairs, then not another sound for a long time. He sat still, with his
glass in his hand, and waited.
She didn’t run down; she came slowly, with obvious reluctance.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, “but--Mrs. Defoe wants to know--if you’d be
good enough to--wait just a _little_ longer----”
She was very much distressed; said something about preserves and next
week and the expensiveness of jelly glasses. Mr. Petersen’s face turned
still redder.
“Pshaw!” he said, awkwardly, “It doesn’t matter to _me_. I can wait any
length of time. Don’t worry. Tell Mrs. Defoe not to worry. I--perhaps
she will send a message when she’s ready----”
“_Positively_ next Tuesday,” said Minnie, firmly. “And I’m _dreadfully_
sorry, Mr. Petersen. I appreciate your kindness.”
She held out a small plump hand which he grasped earnestly.
“But just the same, who is she?” he asked himself as he rode away.