It was difficult to find a pretext for getting into the village that
day. It was not her regular day, nothing was really needed, and no mail
expected. Her grandmother was a little annoyed at such obstinacy.
“I can’t _see_,” she protested, “why on earth you want to go gadding off
again to-day, with so much to be done.”
“I’ve seen to everything,” Minnie answered, and it was true.
“You’ll have to go in on Saturday,” the old lady reminded her.
“I _need_ the wire,” said Minnie, calmly. (Chicken wire being the
pretext.)
The old lady argued that she could wait. Minnie wished to know what was
to be gained by waiting: she had any number of excellent reasons for not
waiting. In the end she went out to harness Bess, with secret triumph,
knowing that she had disarmed all her grandmother’s suspicions, and
wouldn’t need to make explanations when she returned home.
She drove off in the buggy, sitting very straight, with a full sense of
her dignity as a young lady of fine old family. It never occurred to her
that she was in the least ridiculous. She was not physically vain, but
she did consider herself impressive, aristocratic, and it would have
been a cruel shock to her to know that the cultured spinster, Miss
Vanderhof, used to laugh when she saw her driving by, and say to her
mother, “There goes Miss Quixote!”
Penniless and proud Minnie was, but farther than that the simile would
not hold. No one less likely than she to tilt against windmills, no one
less sympathetic toward a lost cause.
She was engrossed in the management of the silly old horse, scanning the
road for anything that might disturb its absurd old nerves, sternly
resolved that it shouldn’t over-exert itself. She was convinced that she
had a most high-strung, mettlesome animal to handle.
At last she reached the village and drove regally along the Main Street,
bowing right and left to the tradespeople, almost all of them her
grandmother’s creditors.
She stopped in front of the up-to-date office building, leaving Bess in
charge of a reliable little boy in spectacles, personally known to her,
then she climbed the stairs and knocked on Mr. Petersen’s door.
He was delighted to see her, drew forward a chair and sat down opposite
her with a pleasant smile.
“It’s something new to see you here,” he said. “The first time, isn’t
it?”
Minnie said it was.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said appealingly, hesitatingly, “I know I
shouldn’t take up your time, but--I don’t know anyone else I could
possibly ask----”
“I’m only too happy,” he assured her. “What can I do?”
“Your advice,” she said. “I--things aren’t going--very well.... I wanted
to put this in a New York paper. But I didn’t know which was the best,
the most--respectable. If you think it’s.... Would you just please look
at it?”
She had taken a piece of paper from her shabby little purse and now
handed it to him. He read it, read it again, and his face grew scarlet.
“_Young gentleman would receive board and practical instruction in
farming in refined family. Beautiful location. Moderate terms.
Apply X_----”
“But----” he faltered, “I don’t ... do you mean ... you would teach
farming, Miss Minnie?”
“Yes,” she said, calmly. “I could always ask Thomas Washington about
things I didn’t know, when they came up. His truck farm is quite a
model, you know.”
Mr. Petersen was suffering horribly; he felt that he could _not_ keep a
straight face much longer.
“But--you see ...” he said. “People don’t do that much--in these days.
There are--you know--any number of agricultural colleges----”
“Yes,” said Minnie, scornfully. “That’s all very well. But practical
experience is what anyone needs. You can’t learn farming out of books.”
Mr. Petersen tried to convince her that students at agricultural
colleges didn’t occupy themselves exclusively with books, but he failed.
She plainly considered all such institutions ridiculous and unpractical.
He did convince her, however, that other people would very likely have
the same silly notions as he had, and that it would be difficult, to say
the least, for her to secure a pupil.
“Then suppose I simply advertise for a boarder?” she said.
Mr. Petersen was silent for some time, torn between a desire to placate
Minnie, and a strong dislike for making a fool of himself. Suppose she
were able to say afterward, “Well, you didn’t say anything against it. I
consulted you!” No! He couldn’t; he had to be honest.
“The trouble is, nowadays people expect so much,” he said, with a
distressed frown. “All sorts of conveniences. Bathroom, hot water, gas
or electricity. I don’t believe--unless of course you were willing to
make very low terms--and in that case you wouldn’t attract the sort of
person you’d care to have in the house.”
“I’d have to take what I could get,” said Minnie.
Their points of view were so astonishingly different. Mr. Petersen
wished to convey politely to her the idea that no sane person would
dream of coming to board in a desolate old farm without even the classic
advantages of fresh milk and “scenery.” And Minnie wondered that he
couldn’t see the extraordinary and fascinating results which might
follow the introduction of a strange man into their household. He might
be an old man, who would naturally die and leave her all his money, or a
young one who would marry her. She even thought, with irrational
delight, of the possibility of an artist, or a poet.... Why wouldn’t the
man understand that she didn’t care whether or not she made money from
the venture? The essential thing was, that _something should happen_.
“And with the winter coming on,” said Mr. Petersen.
“I should think,” said Minnie, stiffly, “that there’d be plenty of
people who would enjoy a nice, old-fashioned country winter.”
“An old person,” she added. “He might enjoy Grandpa’s library.”
This was absolutely too much for Mr. Petersen. He could no longer
restrain himself; he burst into a tremendous laugh. He had a vision of a
wretched old man, shivering in their frigid parlour, absorbed in that
desolating accumulation of old hymn books, old volumes of sermons, bound
volumes of long dead and forgotten magazines, and sickly old novels. By
the time he had controlled his mirth, he had mortally and eternally
offended Minnie. She rose.
“Thank you very much,” she said, with a polite smile. “It’s very good
of you to advise me. I’ll think over all you’ve said.”
“Just a minute!” he cried in alarm. “Please!... Miss Minnie ... if it’s
a question of--earning a--little pocket money--why don’t you consider a
position in an office?”
A long silence.
“In my office, for instance? If you’d like your sister’s place----”
“No, thank you; I couldn’t leave Grandma,” she answered.
And went out, burning with resentment against him. He knew it; as she
drove off he watched her from the window with a sigh of regret. Her
pitiful ignorance, her enterprise, her obstinacy, touched him
profoundly. His heart positively ached for her.
Alas, Mr. Petersen! By reason of his compassion, forever lost!