I
Frances had waked up early that first morning. She looked round the big,
low-ceilinged room, at the pictures on the walls, sheep in a snowstorm,
ships at sea, religious maidens, hung with a sole aim of covering up the
most badly stained places in the faded paper, at the white iron wash
stand, the lame chest of drawers on which stood a quite unrelated and
unattached mirror, the dusty strips of old carpets serving as rugs, at
all the dinginess and shabbiness and deserted old age, and in a sort of
frenzy, she began to shake Minnie.
Minnie opened her black eyes.
“Well!” she said, sleepy but good-humoured.
“Minnie, isn’t this _awful_!”
“The same as it always was,” she replied, slowly, “and it seems to me we
can be pretty useful here.”
Frances frowned.
“To Grandma? Of course.... Only, isn’t it senseless for two healthy
young women to spend their time looking after one old lady?”
“I shouldn’t call it senseless.”
“I could help much more by earning money and sending it to her,” said
Frances.
“You don’t have to decide all that _now_,” Minnie returned, rather
severely. “You can give yourself a week or so to rest--after what’s
happened.”
Frankie said no more, but remained unconvinced. She made up her mind she
_wouldn’t_ stay on that farm--not for a week.
Poor Frankie! Doomed to stay there for how many weeks!
She tried in vain to think of some means of getting away. At first there
were a dozen radiant vistas, possibilities of all sorts. She
contemplated becoming a secretary, a writer, a doctor’s assistant, a
teacher, or, as a last resort, the wife of an extraordinary man. It was
a long time before she could realise of how little value she was, how
undesired. She hadn’t even money for her fare to New York, and her
answers to advertisements found in the city papers were always late and
never regarded. She was amazed to find herself in this blind alley: her
eager hands groped for some sort of outlet; she couldn’t believe that
she was actually obliged to stay in Brownsville Landing.
It cannot be denied that she was a trial to the other two. She shirked
her share of the housework and remained obstinately shut up in her room
with her old school books. And every time they drove into the village
she insisted upon stopping at the Carnegie Library and exchanging piles
of books, keeping Minnie waiting an outrageous length of time. Minnie
and her grandmother had each to take out cards so that she could get as
many books as she could carry.
She used to cry, too, at night, and tell Minnie she couldn’t _stand_ it.
Some days she was scornful and silent, scarcely saw them except at meal
times; then remorse would seize her and the next day she wouldn’t touch
her books, but would work to the point of exhaustion cleaning the house.
When she did bend her mind to such humble tasks she far surpassed
Minnie. She was quick, thoroughgoing, altogether competent, and, when
she wasn’t cross, she was a delight to the others, gay, endearing,
irresistible.
They couldn’t understand, couldn’t see how her ardent spirit suffered.
Her ambition, still so vague that she was not able to express it, was
unintelligible to them. Sometimes she would confess to Minnie that she
wanted to marry an explorer.
“Or someone like that. Someone awfully famous and yet not stuffy. Not
anyone who sits down and works.”
And perhaps that same day she would say vehemently that she didn’t care
a bit about getting married, ever. She wanted to be something on her own
account. There wasn’t much chance now that she could be a doctor, but
there were plenty of other things, useful and interesting.
Minnie often asked to be informed of the object of all the studying her
sister did.
“I don’t know, exactly,” Frances would tell her, “only it’s some comfort
to think I’m not slipping back.”