I
Mr. Petersen had remained faithful to the memory of Minnie for five
years. It cannot be said that he had grieved, or suffered; his
attachment had not been a very passionate one; yet Minnie had not
misread him. He really had wanted to marry her, had felt for her a mild
and kindly sort of love.
He had not, however, been over-anxious for marriage. He cared little for
women; in all these five years his heart had never been touched, and he
had formed no ties. Nor was he lonely, except very rarely, perhaps in a
Spring twilight, or while listening to certain beloved pieces of music.
He had the most admirable sort of reputation. Temperate, honest,
thrifty, his life was without a secret; he didn’t talk about his
affairs, but he was perfectly willing that others should find out about
them. In his own sober way, he cherished a terrific pride, not so much
for his achievements, as for his spotless honour. He was the Socialist
of the world’s dream, the man who harmed no one, who was always just,
always open to argument, always generous. As far as was humanly and
sensibly possible he put into practice his convictions. He fraternised
with the workmen--the intelligent ones--asked them to dinner on Sunday.
He admitted making and keeping a considerable sum of money, and was
always ready and willing to explain this course.
“The only valuable Socialist,” said he, “is the one who works for the
advancement of all. How do you wish me to so work then if I strip myself
of power? Money, in our modern world, is power. The Socialists must
first of all concentrate money in their own hands.”
He quite satisfied his comrades. He was respected everywhere, because he
was without arrogance or ostentation, and yet had so admirable a balance
in the bank. He had made most of his money through a “development park,”
which he had planned and executed; scores of little houses along orderly
streets, planted with saplings; each house with its lawn, its tiny back
garden, all neat, bright and prosperous. They were built for the factory
workers, and Mr. Petersen had included a number of what he called
“built-in features”; little bookcases, china closets, window seats, and
so on. He knew what the comrades wanted, and he gave them honest and
generous measure for their money. How could he not succeed?
He lived in the same solid, modest house in the village, with the same
Swede and his wife serving him in Socialistic fashion. In appearance too
he was quite unchanged; immense, red-faced, fair-haired,
blonde-moustached; slow, good-tempered, rather silent. Within himself,
however, he was conscious of those profound changes we all experience
and which the world ignores. He had read, had thought, had seen; he had
grown. He believed himself in every way a better and a stronger man.
Although he had _felt_ very little.
Minnie’s abrupt disappearance had distressed him and worried him; he had
made many enquiries about her, but her sister was surprisingly curt and
discouraged him.
“She’s gone to New York,” she told him. “She has a position there. I
don’t hear from her often.”
There came a day when she even said, biting her lip:
“I’d rather not talk about Minnie. She--we’re not on very good terms.”
This had caused him a pang, for he surmised that it meant a man. He had
said he was sorry, and he was. He pitied that bright, lovely Frances,
condemned to lonely drudgery. He wished to be nice to her; to help her;
he attempted to make little friendly visits now and then, very patient
with her growing irritability. He saw how things were; she didn’t get on
with the old lady as Minnie had, relations were strained. He watched the
four years pass, crushing her, embittering her, ageing her. Her youth
died, she became severe, still beautiful but no longer charming. She
managed the moribund old house better than her sister ever had done, but
it had lost its old air of homeliness. It was deserted, it was desolate.
She earned a bit of money by baking cakes for the Woman’s Exchange, and
embroidering tablecloths. Like her grandmother, she “managed,” never
able, of course, to pay the accumulating debts, never a penny the richer
at the end of a year than at the beginning; simply keeping her head
above water, procuring food for them to eat, clothes for them to wear,
maintaining an appearance not too humiliating for a Defoe. It was
touching and horrible. Mr. Petersen urged her to come back into his
office again, but she refused.
“You could get some young girl from the village to look after your
grandmother,” he said, but she stopped him.
“Not at any price could I get anyone to do what I do.”
It was quite true. A servant would have required lunch, which Frankie
didn’t; would have expected to be warm in winter, to rest in the
terrible heat which overwhelmed the river valley in mid-summer.
Mr. Petersen waived the question of rent. After a time it was mentioned
no more. The two women didn’t thank him; it seemed not only proper but
essential that Defoes should live in the Defoe house. Mr. Petersen,
after all, was a stranger, an intruder, a Swede. And he didn’t _need_
the money, either. So he didn’t get it.
In the middle of a terrible winter the old lady died of pneumonia, and,
as soon as the funeral had taken place, conducted in a seemly manner,
Frankie went off. He heard nothing more of her. She never wrote to him,
or to anyone he knew.
He remodelled the house. With what curious, painful feelings did he
watch its dismantlement, walk into that gloomy room Minnie had so long
inhabited and see for the first time its poverty. All the furniture was
left there; doubtless it belonged to the creditors, but none of them
troubled to claim it. All old, shabby, ugly. There were lots of closets,
cupboards, a big attic, filled with astounding rubbish, clothes, old
papers, broken furniture, pictures. Whatever was worth saving, Mr.
Petersen removed to his own house, the rest he burned in a sort of
sacrificial bonfire. He saw the sagging old bed, the little rocking
chair, the lame bureau from Minnie’s room go up in smoke and all the
while he thought with profound melancholy of the brisk, pleasant little
woman. He sighed over her, wished with all his heart that he could find
her again and put her into his own orderly and comfortable home.
Solemnly he led the silly old horse, more provoking than ever in its
senility, back to his own stable, while his housekeeper carried the
cats.
The house, because of its size, was destined for a boarding-house. That
too put him in mind of intrepid Minnie and her venture.
“Poor girl!” he thought. “A brave little soul! What’s become of her, I
wonder?”