Unknown to the old lady, who would have been deeply shocked, Frankie and
Minnie were in the parlour the next Sunday afternoon sewing, putting the
final touches to a dress which Frankie was to wear in the office next
day. When, suddenly, as she happened to look up, Minnie saw Mr. Petersen
riding up the drive, on his splendid horse, and wearing his breeches and
leggins and a quite new coat.
“Frankie!” she cried, in horror. “He’s coming in! Hide the sewing,
quick!”
“He wouldn’t care,” Frankie objected, but nevertheless she obeyed, and
every trace of their activity had vanished by the time Minnie admitted
him.
“Might I see Mrs. Defoe?” he asked.
Minnie explained that she wasn’t able to come downstairs.
“So I’ve heard. But it’s a business matter. Perhaps she’d let me go up.”
She did; they watched him mounting the stairs, which creaked and shook
under his heavy tread.
“What can he want?” asked Frances, nervously. “Oh, Minnie, I hope and
pray it’s nothing about my not going on!”
“I don’t see what else it can be,” said Minnie, consolingly.
But she was soon enlightened. Mr. Petersen came tramping down again
after twenty minutes’ talk and announced that Mrs. Defoe would like to
see Miss Minnie.
The old lady was rather agitated.
“Dear! Dear!” she whispered. “The man’s arranged a second mortgage on
the east field, so that I can pay off part of that first mortgage Mr.
Bascom is so rude about. I don’t understand it very well, but I must say
he’s very considerate--very considerate. Dear me! You’ll have to be
civil to him, pet. Ask him to sit down and give him a piece of the fruit
cake.”
She found him standing in the hall, talking to Frankie, and when she
invited him into the parlour, he accepted cheerfully.
“Get Mr. Petersen a piece of cake, Frankie,” said Minnie. She _couldn’t_
bring herself to wait on him.
He was polite, he was clean and well-dressed, he said nothing that could
offend her, and yet she _was_ grossly offended, merely by the sight of
him, sitting there, in the Defoe parlour, holding his straw hat in his
great red hands. Couldn’t he realise?
The fact of his being a Swede was enough. She had a very vague idea
where and what Sweden was, knew nothing at all about its people, its
history, its music, its literature. She considered all Scandinavians
“low.” There was no appeal from that.
Unconscious of his lowness, Mr. Petersen talked on pleasantly, told them
what was going on in the town, and all the bits of news he thought they
might like to hear. He was actuated by a great good-will toward both of
the girls, and a peculiar interest in Minnie. He had thought of her
often since that first meeting.
He stopped a long time. When he had gone, Frankie began to laugh.
“Minnie!” she cried. “Did you notice? He really looks awfully like old
Michael.”
Minnie refused to smile.
“I think he’s a horrid, presumptuous man,” she said. “I call it a shame
that we have to put up with him.”
“Nonsense,” Frankie interrupted her, “it’s he who puts up with us. A
darn good thing for us he does! I _like_ him!”
Minnie was destined to see him often. As the old lady had requested,
with great dignity, he called regularly every month and was conducted
upstairs. She felt pretty sure that he didn’t get his rent, all of it,
at any rate, but it didn’t affect him. He was as kind, as cheerful as
ever, and always willing to make any repairs that were needed.
It didn’t occur to her for some time that she was the object of
“attentions” on his part. She knew that he liked to chat with her, and
now and then he brought her fruit from his garden. But she didn’t think,
she couldn’t think, that he “meant anything.” With the gulf there was
between a Defoe and a Petersen!
It was Frankie who first mentioned it.
“Do you know,” she said, “I think Mr. Petersen’s gone on you, Minnie.”
“Don’t be so vulgar!” Minnie reproved her.
“He’s always asking about you,” Frankie went on. “Oh, he _is_, Minnie, I
know it!”
Quite true; he was. He saw Frankie every day, and was yet proof against
her beauty and her happy courage; his heart never beat the quicker for
her. He liked her very much, and respected her, and was courteous and
kind and friendly toward her, but she had no appeal for him. In Minnie
he saw every quality he most admired in a woman. He was happy to sit and
look at her, always with an apron on, going about her business in her
terribly serious way. He thought her kind, gentle and sympathetic, he
thought her thrifty and capable, he admired her fine dark eyes and her
matronly figure. He even fancied that she was peculiarly intelligent,
because she always listened attentively to him, and was so silent, so
mysterious herself. He noticed, too, how her grandmother doted on her,
and how Frances looked up to her. He was, in his cautious way, always
studying her, until he thought he understood her. While, as a matter of
fact, he misunderstood her completely, in every way, like the others.
She was the quietest and the stupidest person in the house, and she
ruled both the others; she was the least scrupulous, and they exalted
her “goodness”; she did nothing well, and continually they praised her
for her wonderful housekeeping. Enigma; extraordinary Minnie,
quintessence of womanliness--in Heaven’s name, who is to sit in judgment
on you?