I
A year and a half went by, and nothing changed. Minnie was the same
serious little drudge, Frankie went on with her work in Mr. Petersen’s
office; he too was quite the same. The old lady was uncomplainingly
busy. And the “affair,” also, between Minnie and Mr. Petersen had
progressed not at all. Minnie had so willed it; she knew quite well how
to check her very prudent suitor.
Everything was going just as she wished. She was used now to Frankie’s
being away all day; she rather liked it, it gave her a freer hand. She
thought of nothing but the daily routine and never tired of it. She
would sit with her grandmother and discuss for hours the advisability
and the possibility of a new preserving kettle, or whether they should
send the rags to be woven into a rug, or whether Thomas Washington had
been unfair about the tomatoes. She liked to tell Frankie that she
worried about the future, but she really never did. She was remarkably
contented. No great effort was required of her; she wasn’t expected to
read, or to keep up-to-date; even to trouble about clothes. She could
work along in a sort of pleasant daze, just as she wished, praised by
everyone for whatever she did, her numerous omissions and failures
unknown. The animals were an unfailing happiness to her; she had her
grandmother to talk to, and Frankie in the evening, and there was always
the gratifying sense of Mr. Petersen’s admiration in the background.
Everything going so smoothly, so beautifully, until once more Frankie
spoiled it all.
She came home one evening in a fever of excitement. The librarian in the
Carnegie Branch--a nice, jolly girl who extolled Mr. Petersen and liked
Frankie--had told her of a position in New York.
“She was offered it, but it wouldn’t suit her, so she recommended me.
She says she’s sure I could fill it. Wasn’t it nice of her?”
Minnie said nothing.
“It’s an authoress; she wants a secretary. She doesn’t care so much
about experience or training, but she wants someone presentable--of good
family.”
That was emphasised to appease Minnie.
“It’s thirty dollars a month, free and clear. I’d send you _half_.”
Minnie looked coldly at her.
“I suppose you’d be only too glad to go,” she said.
“Of course not,” said Frankie, and dropped the subject for the time.
Only in her heart longed and longed for that wonderful job, that new,
entrancing life in the city.
Of course she got it. That goes without saying. She was twenty-two, and
passionately desirous. Of course she got it! But after what a struggle!
At first she renounced the plan utterly. It was selfish. She went to
bed, lay by Minnie’s side, weeping quietly for a long time in the dark,
longing and longing. Then she grew desperate. She _must_ go! She
couldn’t give up such an opportunity. The next day she wrote to the
authoress and presently had a letter asking her to call. So she was
obliged to tell them.
There was a dreadful scene. They even wept. She was amazed by her own
ruthless firmness; she had never imagined she could so trample on these
two beloved creatures. She tried, poor girl, to explain something of
her own fiery restlessness and vigour, her need for more life. But to no
purpose; they saw nothing but her wish and determination to leave them.
She ended, as one usually does, by losing her temper, and shut herself
in the bedroom, trembling with anger.
“Do they expect me to bury myself here?” she thought. “Just to stop
here, forever and ever? It’s all very well for Grandma, _she’s_
seventy-five, and it’s all right for Minnie. A little old maid like her!
But _me_---- I won’t!”
She temporised, fully resolved to hurt them _this once_, and then to
load them with benefits, when her wonderful future should begin.
Daylight faded; the old room grew quite dark, the pallid yellow in the
west turned grey, then inky. Her lamp was downstairs, and not for
anything would she have gone after it. She drew a rocking chair up to
the window and sat there looking out over the melancholy wide fields
stretching to the mountains. One of those immeasurably solemn and
majestic moods came over her: the night breeze blew on her face, sighing
through the pine trees; her spirit was not on earth. High resolves,
divine unselfishness, fired her; she wanted to help everyone, not only
Minnie and her grandmother, but every single human soul. She felt urged
to a mighty destiny....
Then the mood ebbed, and left her chilled and lonely. She could hear
Minnie in the kitchen directly beneath her; her pleasant voice talking
to Michael; sometimes a cough from the old lady. Like a knife her love
pierced her, love for everything safe, familiar and homely.
In another minute she would have rushed down the stairs to fling her
arms round her sister, to tell her she would not, could not, ever leave
her. But at that moment the door opened and Minnie entered, lamp in
hand; her eyes were red, her plain face rather pale.
“Frankie,” she said, and setting down the lamp, caught her sister in a
tight embrace.
“Frankie,” she went on, “I’ve been talking it over with Grandma.... And
we’re both willing--for you to go----”
She could keep her tears back no longer; they wept together on each
other’s shoulders.
Minnie was the first to look up and dry her eyes.
“Now come downstairs, dear,” she said, “I’ve made delicious cornmeal
gems for your supper.”