I
It may be said with perfect truth that Mr. Petersen was haunted by the
leg of lamb; it gave him sleepless nights. He couldn’t imagine why it
was there. He would stop in the middle of serious work in his office,
and contemplate the mystery. Could it be connected with her peculiar
efforts at economy? Or a plot against Mrs. Hansen? Or absolute madness?
It was significant--more so than he realised--that he didn’t dare to ask
Minnie about it. At the bottom of his heart, in spite of his affection
and admiration for her, he was perfectly aware that Minnie was a woman
capable of anything and everything. There was nothing she wouldn’t do.
He went about for days, with the leg of lamb on his conscience,
miserably imagining that he had in some way wronged Minnie by finding
it.
The losses continued. But he never looked in the closet again.
Imagination balked at the prospect. When Mrs. Hansen reported a dish of
apple sauce and three pork chops missing, a dreadful vision of them
behind Minnie’s hat flashed across his brain. He tried his best to
mollify Mrs. Hansen, to assure her that he knew she had no hand in the
business. He felt intolerably guilty before that honest woman. He was a
changed man, and he knew it. He had fallen into a sort of daze of
astonishment, like a man who has undeniably seen a ghost.
An impossible situation, and ended by a still more incredible
revelation. Quite by accident he learned where the leg of lamb and all
its associates had gone.
Minnie’s health was causing him a great deal of anxiety. She was in a
perpetual state of exhaustion and worry, and refused to be relieved. It
was one of her most sacred principles that it was not only meritorious
but absolutely a duty for a domestic house-loving woman to tire herself
out every day. In addition to doing a great many tasks which Mrs. Hansen
had plenty of time and ability to do, she _would_ take a walk every
afternoon, even if it rained. The doctor said it was too much for her,
advised her resting more, but although she listened to him sweetly, she
said afterward to Mr. Petersen that she knew what was good for herself
better than all the doctors on earth. She wouldn’t even take Sandra with
her on these walks; she said she had to be alone, for her nerves. Mr.
Petersen warned her of rough characters from the brick yards and
solemnly cautioned her to guard against being frightened; certain roads
she was never to take, and she said she wouldn’t.
So that he was alarmed and annoyed one day to see her crossing the
railway tracks and starting off down the very worst of all the forbidden
ways. He had happened to go over in that direction himself to see one of
the comrades who wanted to build a house. At first he didn’t believe his
eyes; it couldn’t be Minnie, in the dusk of a raw October day,
deliberately and unnecessarily walking through that wretched quarter of
drunken Slavs. But it was surely her hat ...! He hurried after her. She
was a long way in advance, and before he had caught her up she had
turned off the main road where the wretched hovels were, and entered a
little wood.
It was quite dark there, under the trees, and very still; there was a
faintly marked path, which the workmen sometimes used as a short cut to
the brickyards in summer, but quite deserted at this time of the year. A
mat of sodden leaves underfoot, and a damp reek of decay. He was really
angry at her morbid folly; such a place might well be dangerous. But
just as he was on the point of speaking to her, gently, so that she
shouldn’t be startled, she rushed up to the dim form of a man who had
materialised from the twilight. She kissed him several times.
Mr. Petersen was near enough to hear every word, although he could not
distinguish the man. It was Minnie’s voice which most astounded him--it
was _not_ her voice; it had tones he had never before heard, never
imagined; it was gay, tender, full of a beautiful bravery.
“My darling boy!” she said, “I’ve only an instant. Is your cold clearing
up at all?”
“How’s Sandra?” he asked curtly. His voice was hoarse and weak.
“Splendid! I’ve brought you a little something to eat, dear. You must do
all you can to keep up your strength. For just a little while longer.”
“Oh, my God! Minnie!” he groaned, “I wish I were dead! And you too. And
Sandra. It’s too much for me----”
“Don’t, don’t, my dearest! Just a little while longer. I ought to go
now, really.... But I can’t leave you like this. Say one word to comfort
me, dear. Tell me you’ll be brave, just a little while longer.”
“I am brave,” he answered grimly. “If I weren’t, I shouldn’t be here.”
Once more she kissed him.
“Good-bye, my dearest!” she said. “Keep up your courage! God bless you!
I’ll see you to-morrow as usual. And eat that nice beef, won’t you? You
need it so!”
She turned away and retraced her steps, through the wood and through the
settlement. She was hurrying and breathing painfully, and Mr. Petersen
heard a gasping little sob now and then.
He was afraid of startling her too much by speaking just then. He waited
until she was slowly climbing the hill above the tracks before he came
up with her.
“Minnie!” he said as gently as possible, “_Who was that?_”
She looked at him wildly; her eyes made him think of a terrified horse,
and she quivered like one.
“Chris!” she cried. “You didn’t----!” And abruptly and mechanically
began to scream, shriek after shriek.
“Stop! Stop!” he implored, in dreadful anxiety. “Calm yourself! Never
mind! Don’t tell me; only stop! Stop! Please, Minnie!”
She couldn’t now. There in the road, where the Slav colony could hear
her and coming rushing to witness, she had a frightful hysterical
attack. Mr. Petersen sent someone after one of the old station hacks,
and got her home at last. He was dripping with perspiration and
altogether in a bad state when the doctor came; he was sure he had
killed Minnie.
She was not allowed to talk that night; a trained nurse came and took
charge of her, and kept Petersen out of the room. He didn’t go to bed at
all; he sat in his study, in dreadful anguish.
In the morning the nurse came down and told him he might see his wife
for a few minutes. He tried to compose himself; he soaked his great
yellow head in cold water until his hair lay sleek as a seal; he
swallowed a glass of brandy, but nothing helped him. He so dreaded what
he might hear.
Minnie loved that man. No matter what she said, she couldn’t make him
doubt that. Her words, above all, her voice.... She must have been
meeting that incredible, that unimaginable lover for weeks, feeding
him.... He was not in the least angry at her. On the contrary he felt
very, very sorry for her. But he did not want to see her, or to hear
what she was going to say. If it were only possible for her to be
restored to health and then to vanish!
He couldn’t speak. He went over to her bedside and stood looking down at
her. She was worn, pale, more troubled than ever. But she met his
glance; she had not the look of a guilty woman.
“You’ll have to be told now,” she said. “I wanted to wait--but I suppose
you wouldn’t consent----?”
“You needn’t tell me anything----” he began.
She closed her eyes wearily.
“You’d never trust me.... He’s my brother. We’ve never spoken of him ...
he’s caused us a great deal of sorrow--disgrace, poor fellow. Through
drinking. Father wouldn’t let us see him, or mention him. And Grandma
was just as harsh. Even Frankie turned against him....”
She paused a moment and feebly wiped the tears from her closed eyes.
“But I’ve always seen so much good in him. I’ve always been so fond of
him, poor fellow!... So much good--going to waste!”
“But, Minnie, if you’d only spoken to me----”
“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to him. He’s very proud, in his
way.”
Mr. Petersen sat down beside her, and tried, in a long silence, to
adjust himself to this. He was conscious of a great relief, a terrible
burden being lifted from him. And a feeling of guilt in the presence of
the poor little woman. How could he for an instant have suspected
_Minnie_, respectable, conscientious, maternal Minnie, of having a
lover! Filthy, vile, preposterous idea!
“We’ll find a way to help your brother, my dear,” he said.
She reached out a calloused and hot little hand and put it into his.
“Chris,” she said, “what I want is to have him _here_. Under my eye.
Where I can look after him. May I?”
“Of course, my dear.”
“But, Chris, I want you to understand it _all_. It’s such a difficult
situation. For a man like him--brought up in the best schools in
England----”
“In England!” exclaimed Mr. Petersen.
“Yes; Father liked the English schools best for boys. Alec’s lived in
England for years,” she explained, a little impatient at the
interruption. “He’s quite an Englishman. But, listen carefully, Chris,
please. It’s going to be very hard to get him here.”
“Why? Can’t----?”
“You see, I didn’t tell him I was married. He wouldn’t have taken
anything from me if he hadn’t believed it was all mine. I told him I had
a position.... It will be a great shock to him, and he’s far from well.
If you’ll only promise to do just exactly as I tell you, please, Chris!”
He was rather amused at her solemnity.
“Whatever you think is necessary,” he said, indulgently.
“It is--very necessary. I’ve written a note, and I want you to take it
to him in that same place in the wood this afternoon at five. And,
Chris, _don’t_ talk to him, don’t tell him anything--any single
thing--until he’s read it. Not _any_thing. It’s very important for him
to learn it all from me--from the note. Promise!”
“Very well, my dear.”
“You see, I know just how to manage him, so that he won’t be too much
shocked. And you’d better take your pocket flashlight, or you’ll be
giving the letter to the wrong person.”