In the autumn the old lady was permitted to go downstairs once a day,
and on the first of these occasions, Mr. Petersen came with a gift of
fruit which he had bought in New York. Frances had told him of the old
lady’s improvement and he wanted, so he said, to congratulate her. He
came as usual on his horse, and Mrs. Defoe, who was sitting by the
parlour window, was the first to see him. She frowned.
“Silly nonsense!” she said, half aloud. “A carpenter, capering round the
country like a fine gentleman!”
(A carpenter she had decided to consider him.)
He came in; his face and hands looked redder than ever, and he was
frankly wiping his forehead with a huge handkerchief.
“Well!” he said cheerfully, “I’m very glad to see you so much better,
Mrs. Defoe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Petersen,” she replied, demurely.
“We’re likely to have a mild winter, I believe,” he went on, “from all
indications----”
He rose as Minnie came in, grave, like one interrupted in the midst of
important work, but mindful of the duties of hospitality.
“I was saying,” he resumed, in his singing drawl, “I think we’ll have a
fine, mild winter. I was working in my garden on Sunday----”
“On _Sunday_!” cried the old lady.
“That’s the only day I have time,” he explained.
“But---- Well, I have my little notions.... Very old-fashioned, I dare
say.... You’re not a member of Our church, Mr. Petersen? I don’t
remember ever having seen you there.”
He shook his head.
“A Lutheran?”
“No.”
“A--_Catholic_?”
“I am a Freethinker,” he said gravely.
This was the final straw; Minnie and the old lady stared at him in open
disapproval.
“I think maybe on the other side we are not so--religious,” he said.
Mrs. Defoe had long been convinced of that, as she was of their
immorality in general, but she was genuinely shocked that, under her
roof, in the very room where the minister had sat not a week ago, in the
very presence of her Bible and her prayer books, he should openly and
without shame proclaim himself a Freethinker! Neither he nor Minnie had
any idea what that word implied for her, with what horror and repulsion
she had heard her husband speak of Tom Paine. She made some sort of
excuse and, supported by Minnie, disappeared into the kitchen.
“I’ll sit here,” she whispered, “until that man’s gone.”
Mr. Petersen remained, happy and undisturbed, talking on and on, while
Minnie listened with her usual polite attention, giving no hint of her
burning anxiety to get on with her work. She scarcely heard a word; no
matter what he was saying, she was thinking, “Oh, dear! Eleven o’clock
and Grandma’s bed isn’t made yet!” That was of so much more importance
and interest than anything he could say.
He went away, imagining that he had ingratiated himself with them both,
by his present of fruit, and by his agreeable conversation; he didn’t
suspect that there was now another and still blacker mark against him.
He had only one friend in that household, and that was Frances. Before
she had been working a week in his office, she realised something of
his quality and as time went on she grew enthusiastic.
“He’s a fine man,” she told her sister. “He’d make a wonderful husband.
He has the disposition of an angel, really. He’s so honest, too.
Everyone respects him.”
“I wouldn’t marry him if I were starving,” said Minnie, “that common,
vulgar carpenter!”
“He’s not common and he’s not vulgar and he’s _not_ a carpenter. I wish
you could see his house.”
“I never shall,” said Minnie.
Frances often went there to fetch books for him when he was busy in his
office. He lived in the town, in a solid old brick house which he had
remodelled and greatly improved, with a respectable Swede and his wife
to attend to his wants. Everything very orderly, very simple, very
comfortable, a hundred times more civilised than the Defoe home. He had
his garden, which gave him a great deal of pleasure, and an excellent
little library of Scandinavian and English books, law books, novels,
plays, a number of books on Socialism and economics. He read a great
deal, in a laborious sort of way, slowly going through page after page
and taking the ideas into his own head, to be examined there. His chief
interest was Socialism; he could be--and often was--quite eloquent on
that topic.
He was rather lonely in Brownsville Landing. He had found no one who was
interested in his kind of Socialism, which was something more than
discontent and jealousy; he found no one who had read what he had read
on the subject; he was not able to interest himself in pool or poker,
the popular recreations. Without being unduly vain, he believed himself
to be considerably superior to the average inhabitant of the village.
Even to the Defoes, as far as intellect and experience were concerned.
He actually thought that he might be a good match for Minnie.
Frances thought so too. She read his books with more and more respect
and liked to hear him talk. She insisted upon quoting him to Minnie. She
liked his plain and fine manner of living, she honoured his virtues.
“Minnie, you’re an idiot,” she said, bluntly. “You couldn’t do better.
If you’d come out of the middle ages and really _look_ at him----”
“I don’t pretend to be a modern woman,” said Minnie, virtuously.