It was a fine morning, late in April; Minnie had finished her work in
the kitchen and was on the point of going up to “do” the bedrooms when
Mr. Blair came in with a camera in his hand.
“I’m going to try to get a picture of you,” he said.
She said she was busy but he waved that aside.
“Call your cats,” he said pompously, “I’ve got an idea.”
He ordered her to sit on the back steps, with Michael in her arms and
the others one on each side.
“‘My Lady of the Cats,’ I’ll call it,” he said. And went on to tell her,
not for the first time, of the artistic photographs he had had in
various exhibitions. He told her that photography was quite as great an
art as painting. She knew nothing to the contrary; she had not a drop of
artist blood in her veins; who knows if perhaps she wouldn’t have
admired extravagantly his shadowy ladies in kimonos with light gleaming
on rippling hair. She had observed that his subjects were always women,
and that he had a strong penchant for glowing glimpses of white breasts
and arms, and a certain unrestraint of attitude which disturbed her. He
went as far as he dared with her. He wanted to take her picture climbing
a ladder with an apronful of peaches, but somehow she knew that the
peaches were a subterfuge, and so discouraged his artistic fancy. Then
he proposed “Day Dreams,” in which she was to be lying, very much
stretched out, on the sofa. That too she rejected, uneasily.
This new idea, however, showed itself quite innocent from every side,
and she willingly tried to help. It was an unruly group, though; it took
a tremendous time to prepare it and even at that it didn’t entirely
satisfy him. He looked at them through the lens, came over to Minnie and
looked down at her critically.
“A little to this side,” he said, and, quite unnecessarily, put a hand
under her chin and turned her head.
“You have a lovely neck,” he said, but though his tone was impersonal
and professional, there was a repulsive look about his big, loose mouth.
He would have had a severe rebuke, boarder or no boarder, if Mr.
Petersen had not saved him. But at the sight of his horse coming along
the drive, she stifled her anger. She would not, in his presence, admit
a failing in this boarder whom she had so brilliantly evoked. She was
uneasy, though, very uneasy, wondering if Mr. Petersen had seen....
“I stopped at the post-office,” he said, “and fetched your mail.”
She thanked him and took the solitary letter from his hand. She had, of
course, to ask him to dismount, which he did, and sat on the steps,
chatting with Mr. Blair and stroking Michael, whose prototype he
unknowingly was. Minnie apologised and opened the letter.
Fatal letter! Fatal news! Without a word she handed it to Mr. Blair and
went into the house.
She reflected over it all that night, lying awake longer than she ever
had before. She knew she was beaten, that she had failed.
But this very defeat, the first she had yet known, had a curious effect
upon her. She was humiliated and shaken, but far from despair. She had
never felt so calm, so sensible, so competent. She wasted little time in
anger or regret; she turned her thoughts firmly toward the future,
looking for a way out of her trouble.
And found one, an amazing one, the first of her remarkable ventures. She
planned it out in every detail that night, envisaged the obstacles and
arranged her campaign against them. She certainly did not intend to stop
where she was, for Mr. Petersen to laugh at, for the brilliant Frankie
to pity. Wounded vanity, mixed with envy, pricked her.
Her life really began that night. Until then she had been dormant,
untried; now came her first opportunity to prove her spirit, and she
rose to it magnificently, gallantly, ruthlessly.
V
The day before Christmas Frankie came home.
A new Frankie, who blushed as she caught sight of Minnie at the end of
the platform, engaged with Bess. Impossible that her Minnie should not
notice the change in her, not read the happiness in her trembling smile.
She hugged her passionately, and climbed into the buggy beside her. She
was disappointed that Minnie noticed nothing unusual, hadn’t a single
question to ask. And Minnie, doggedly silent, was resentful because
Frankie couldn’t see that something was wrong. They did not speak for a
long time; then Frankie, too happy not to be affectionate, turned a
bright face to her sister.
“What’s the news at home?” she asked. “How’s Grandma? _And_ Mr. Blair?”
“Mr. Blair’s gone,” said Minnie, curtly.
“Gone! Not really!”
She was shocked to see tears in Minnie’s eyes.
“But, my dear, what happened?”
Minnie turned away her head.
“A letter from his wife....”
“So he was _married_!...”
“Yes.... He never mentioned it.... She wrote that he’d written her
again for his board money. She’d already given it to him twice, and
couldn’t afford to give it again. She said she hoped he’d pay me, but
that she couldn’t be responsible for his debts. That she was a business
woman and found it hard enough to get along anyway. And advised me not
to ‘place too much confidence in his statements.’ She said she was sure
that by this time his health was much improved----”
“Was he ill, then?”
“Ill! He was as strong as an ox. He ate and ate.... And he just calmly
went off.... He said he was going into the city to get some money from
the bank, and would come back on the last train, and never did. And he
owed for five weeks.”
She wiped her eyes sternly and went on.
“Grandma’s so mean and petty about it. Keeps saying ‘I told you so,
Miss.’ You know she never did. She liked him more than anyone did. I’ll
never hear the end of it.”
Frances did her best to console the frustrated Minnie.
“Maybe he’ll come back,” she suggested, inanely.
“He’d better not!” said Minnie, “Nasty, lazy cheat! Oh, Frankie, I will
admit that I was deceived in that man!”
Obviously this was no moment in which to tell _her_ news. With patience
and good temper Frankie waited, listened to the long and harrowing story
of Mr. Blair and said what she could to heal her sister’s wound. She was
really distressed about Minnie, she was so unlike her usual self; she
was severe and cold. It would be nothing less than cruel to tell the
poor soul of her own good-fortune.
So she kept it to herself all the afternoon. With the superstition so
natural to the happy, she fancied she was making her happiness more
secure, earning it, in a way, by repressing and disciplining herself,
pretending to take an interest in the affairs of the household, effacing
herself and her important news.
No one questioned her; they were absorbed in their own calamity. The old
lady showed her a sort of diary of the expenses incurred by Mr. Blair,
“to say nothing of the extra work.” She did crow over Minnie without
mercy; she was vindicated, once more the infallible adult, competent to
guide and rebuke youth. Minnie said very little; she had, however, a
sinister air of having something up her sleeve.