“FRANKIE.
“P.S. Minnie is at my aunt Mrs. Lounsbury’s, 226 Lenover Street,
Brooklyn. You might go to see her and see if you can persuade her to
come home. I don’t think it will do the least good, but it won’t do any
harm to try.”
He went that very evening, used Frankie’s five dollars for a taxi, in
order to make a good impression. It was a raw, wet night, fit for his
desperate mood. He was determined to _force_ the beastly, selfish sister
to release his Frankie.
The taxi went across the bridge, over the mystical river, shrouded in
fog, and turned into an avenue where trolleys crashed by and elevated
trains thundered overhead, where fruit stalls did a brisk business with
swarthy foreigners; a slum, he called it. He watched from the window in
vain to find any place possible for an aunt of Frankie’s to inhabit.
Then abruptly the driver swung round a corner, and left the unsavoury
turmoil for a dark and quiet street, paved with cobblestones. A wind was
blowing from the nearby river, bringing a dreary din of horns and
whistles; there was no other sound, no traffic, no footsteps.
“No. 226,” said the driver. “Here you are!”
He got out, paid the fare with his last bill on earth, and climbed the
steep flight of steps to the front door. There was an old-fashioned bell
to be pulled; he heard it jangle inside. He waited in the wretched
drizzle a long time, then rang again. The house was quite dark and the
street too; the blurred lamps showed nothing but glistening cobblestones
and pavement, and one stealthy cat slinking past. He shivered and
sighed.
At last the door was opened and a head peered out cautiously.
“Well?” enquired a feminine voice.
“May I see Miss Defoe?” he asked. “It’s Mr. Naylor.”
“Come in!” said the voice.
He entered a narrow hall, lighted by a “Turkish” lamp, a pierced iron
sort of thing, in which a feeble jet of gas burned. His guide turned to
the right and lighted another gas jet, revealing a vast drawing-room,
all the furniture shrouded in covers.
“Sit down,” she said, pleasantly. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long,
but we go to bed very early, and the servants can’t hear the bell, up on
the third floor.”
He asked again for Miss Defoe; he had no interest in anything else.
“I’m Miss Defoe,” said she. “What can I do for you?”
He scarcely looked at her.
“I’ve come to _see_----” he said, “to try to influence you if possible
to----”
“I suppose to go back and let Frankie come to the city again,” she
interposed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”
“I don’t think you realised what you were doing,” he said. “If you had,
you wouldn’t--you couldn’t--have cut us off this way, without any
warning. It was--absolutely inhuman. Did you know that your sister and
I intended to be married?”
“She mentioned it,” said Minnie.
Her calmness infuriated him.
“Let me tell you!” he cried, “that I won’t submit to this. I’m going out
there on Sunday and I shall try to persuade her to marry me at once.”
“She can’t. She can’t leave Grandma.”
“She’s not called upon to sacrifice her entire life to her grandmother,
is she?”
“No,” said Minnie slowly.
She was thinking very hard.
Lionel changed his tone.
“I say! Miss Defoe! Please try to realise! You’re--I’m sure you don’t
want to separate us---- You don’t want to make your sister suffer. She’s
always spoken so affectionately of you. You know she wouldn’t treat you
this way. Let her come back and marry me, and as soon as I’m on my feet
a bit, I’ll do _anything_ for you--anything you like.”
Minnie did not answer, or raise her eyes. She was still thinking. It was
intolerable for her to be looked upon as heartless and selfish by this
very nice young man. He pleased, he charmed her; she determined to
appear well in his eyes. She was always inordinately sensitive to blame;
it was vital to her to be admired by everyone. She didn’t so much intend
to lie, as to idealise herself, to show him the Minnie she felt he would
respect.
She found her note, with her unerring instinct.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, hesitatingly, “but I must be
frank. You see, Mr. Naylor, Frankie’s nothing but a child. She’s so
impulsive and unreasoning. She’s not practical like I am. That’s the
reason I _had_ to do as I did. I couldn’t stop her any other way.”
“Do you mean you--did this on purpose?”
“Why, of course. She told me ... forgive me for mentioning it ... how
very poor you were--and I _couldn’t_ let her make such a marriage. Not
that way, so rashly--and a man we’d never seen. She will never listen to
reason. I begged her to wait, even a little while; I didn’t want her to
throw herself away. The only way was to make her a sort of prisoner, as
I did. Aunt Irene had said ages ago that I could come here as her
companion any time I wanted, so I packed up my things and went off at
once. Then I intended to see you and--find out something about you.”
“Frankie doesn’t know you came for that reason--to prevent her marrying
me,” he said, in a crestfallen way.
“I suppose not; she’s very hasty in her judgments. I suppose she puts it
all down to selfishness and hard-heartedness. It doesn’t matter though,
so long as I’ve saved her.”
He had not a word to say. Minnie had accomplished her favourite piece of
magic, had made her opponent feel utterly guilty, had quite put him in
the wrong. He was ready to believe that Frankie had been “saved” from a
penniless and highly undesirable suitor.
“You don’t know what Frankie is to me,” said Minnie, improving as she
went on, “there’s nothing--_nothing_ I wouldn’t do for her. I do wish
she didn’t misjudge me so. She’ll never know how hard it is for me, how
I hated to leave home. I’m not like her--adventurous and enterprising. I
was happy there on the farm, with the animals. And Grandma,” she added
hastily.
“Well, you see,” said Lionel, weakly. “You didn’t explain to her. How
could she help----”
“How could I explain!” she answered, reproachfully. “Only think how
self-righteous and disgusting it would have sounded. Besides, she
wouldn’t have believed me. And she would have thought that she knew what
was best for herself. It would only have made more trouble.”
Lionel was no longer indignant and resolute; he was becoming more and
more uncertain of himself, more and more apologetic.
“But,” he protested, “now we can’t see each other at all. It’s not only
a question of getting married at once; it means that we’re to be
_entirely_ separated. Don’t you think that’s unnecessarily harsh?”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go out to see her.”
He flushed.
“Not very well,” he said; “at the present time, I’m rather--hard up.”
“I should be glad to lend----” Minnie began, but he frowned.
“Thanks, no.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Minnie, “that you haven’t even the train
fare to Brownsville Landing?” Her tone was blunt but kindly; quite that
of an elder sister. “And you’re talking of _marriage_, Mr. Naylor!”
“I have a small income,” he protested, “only the next quarter’s not due
just yet.”
Minnie smiled her rare smile, and it warmed his heart. A smile so
simple, so good-natured, so illuminating her dark and serious face.
“I’m afraid you don’t manage very well,” she began, when a very shrill
old voice interrupted her, calling from the top of the stairs.
“Minnie! Minnie! What’s all this?”
“I’ll have to go,” said Minnie, with a sigh, and held out her hand. “Mr.
Naylor, I’d like to say a great deal more. You mustn’t look on me as
your enemy by any means! Quite the contrary. If you and Frankie will
trust to me a little--I could meet you to-morrow afternoon, on the
downtown corner, about four. I’d like to talk to you more fully.”
He had no chance to answer, for she had hurried from the room; as he
let himself out of the front door, he saw her running up the stairs to
the disagreeable old voice.
Then he went out into the fog again, unreasonably comforted,
unreasonably hopeful.