She altered strangely after that talk. Before his eyes she grew thinner
and paler, looked really ill. A shadow lay over her, a trouble she could
scarcely support. It distressed the good man very much in more ways than
one, for he imagined she was struggling against her loyalty to her dead
husband, and he was not only sorry for her, but jealous as well. She
avoided him noticeably, and he was too proud and too kind to trouble
her. In the office she was formal, almost hostile. All this hurt him and
puzzled him; it was not until long, long after that he realised what a
terrible thing was taking place in her queer little soul.
She didn’t want her child out of her sight. In the evening, when he came
now and then to see her, she would sit with the little creature on her
lap, pressed against her heart, sleepy and patient.
He began to fancy that he was in some way offensive to her, and little
by little tried to resume his old manner, to be kind but quite
impersonal. A faint resentment aided him; he called her Mrs. Naylor, and
ceased to call on her at the hotel.
And, directly he began to draw back, she advanced. He permitted it. He
wouldn’t see her hints; he waited until she actually asked him to call.
She had tried to dress up a little, with a lace collar on her rusty old
black blouse, and she had left Sandra upstairs, with a bag of candy and
some new paper dolls. She was waiting in the Ladies’ Sitting Room, with
the naked light illuming her sallow, anxious face; not pretty, not very
young, not fresh, and in a decidedly disadvantageous situation. But
fully able to cope with it.
“Mr. Petersen,” she said, very, very gravely, “some time ago you made me
an offer. I have reason to believe that you regret it now. I want to
tell you that you are quite free.”
“I don’t regret it. If it were of any use, I should be only too glad to
repeat it.”
“You’d better not,” she said.
He enquired why.
“Because,” she said, with her charming smile, “I should accept it.”
Thus were they betrothed.
And now she was still more surprising. She wanted to be married without
delay.
“We don’t want any fuss or bother,” she said. “There aren’t any
preparations to make.”
“It can’t be too soon for me,” he said.
“Why not next week?” she suggested.
He professed himself delighted.
“And--Chris----” she added, with a blush, “I’d like ever so much to get
a new dress for Sandra and a few little things----”
He gave her a cheque for five hundred dollars, which he thought would be
ample. So that he was surprised, on the wedding day, to find her wearing
a grey suit he was sure he had seen on her before. She was waiting in
the “Ladies’ Sitting Room,” with little Sandra beside her, dressed in a
lace frock trimmed with ribbon and a flopping beflowered hat which
almost hid her grave little face. He complimented Minnie upon her
appearance, although he was deeply disappointed, and then began to
praise Sandra, when Minnie burst into tears.
“Oh, my poor, poor baby!” she sobbed. “My poor innocent little lamb! She
doesn’t realise one bit---- Oh, you _will_ be nice to her, won’t you?”
“Come, come! You know I will. She loves me already, don’t you, pet?”
To his chagrin and surprise, the child answered clearly:
“I don’t love you. I like you. I only love my daddy.”
He knew quite well that she had been taught to say that. It wasn’t a
child’s thought. He turned redder than ever, but held his peace.
“I’m doing wrong!” cried Minnie. “You see!”
“But surely.... Little Sandra, you like old Uncle Chris a lot, don’t
you?”
Sandra looked at her weeping mother, then at Mr. Petersen’s distressed
face, and herself began to cry. Minnie caught her in her arms and tried
to comfort her.
“Don’t cry, dear. Mother wouldn’t let _anyone_ hurt you.”
“Minnie!” he protested.
“Oh, do stop!” she cried. “You don’t know anything about children. Don’t
cry, sweetheart! You’re going to live right in the house with dear old
Michael! Isn’t that _nice_!”
Mr. Petersen suspected at this time and at future times, that Minnie
didn’t do all she might to make the child fond of him. In the course of
time she dried her eyes, her mother, red-eyed and pale, straightened her
hat, and the festive wedding party set off for the church.
It was evidently a terrible ordeal for Minnie. And for poor Mr.
Petersen. He looked at her haggard and tormented face, and suffered from
many new doubts. Was she marrying him for money, for a home for her
child, for safety?
“She doesn’t love me,” he said to himself, and added, with deeper
unhappiness, “She doesn’t even _like_ me.”
They went out, man and wife, back to Mr. Petersen’s house, where Mrs.
Hansen waited to salute them. She knew her days there were numbered, but
the occasion called for a smile and a cheerful demeanour, and she
complied.