Privately Mr. Petersen considered it a preposterous errand. He set off
at half-past four with the note and made his way through the windy
twilight to the wood. At first he couldn’t find the fellow; at last he
discovered him sitting on a fallen log a few feet from the path, sunk in
apathy.
“Is your name Defoe?” he asked.
The man jumped up.
“What is it?” he asked. “Have you a message from her?”
Mr. Petersen handed him the note and the flashlight by which to read it,
and with no little curiosity, tried to study his appearance in the
little spot of light. But couldn’t; could see no more than a thin, long
hand clutching the letter. It seemed a long one.
Presently the flashlight was extinguished and the little wood was very
dark, and still. Mr. Petersen respected the feelings of the sensitive
brother for a long time, but he couldn’t wait there all night.
“Shall we be getting along?” he said, pleasantly.
Out of the dark came that hoarse and pitiful voice.
“Who are you?” it asked.
“Petersen,” he answered.
“The man--the man that Minnie----?”
“Her husband; yes. Are you ready?”
The man came abreast of him, and began walking by his side with weary
and heavy steps.
“Is she so very ill?” he asked.
“No-oo,” said Petersen. “Not very. Can’t look for perfect health, I
suppose, in her condition.”
“What condition?”
“There’s a baby coming in a few weeks, you know.”
He was surprised her brother hadn’t noticed; then reflected that he had
only seen her in the dark.
“The doctor tells me there’s no cause for worry,” he went on. He was
curiously anxious to reassure the fellow; he was moved by a great pity
for him which he could not have explained. Simply that his voice, his
manner, the very atmosphere about him, seemed tragic and terrible.
They went on toward the house, Petersen talking cheerfully, neither
exacting nor expecting replies from his companion. They entered the
hall, and he turned, for the first time, to look at him.
Like a madman, like a ghost, so deadly pale and haggard and ruined....
He couldn’t bear to look at him. He turned away, but found the image
still in his eyes, the tall, lean fellow with his fine-featured face,
his great grey eyes, so sunken and luminous, his straggling beard, his
ruffled hair, all his shabbiness and wretchedness.
He wanted to propose a bath and a shave before going in to Minnie; the
poor devil wasn’t a fit object for her gaze. But he divined the morbid
sensitiveness of the famished creature, and was afraid of hurting him.
As he hesitated, little Sandra came in from the kitchen.
He caught her violently in his arms.
“Sandra!” he cried. “_Don’t you know me?_”
She looked up into his face.
“No,” she whimpered, frightened. “Put me down!”