Of course he was waiting for Minnie the next day as she had appointed.
She was late, as she always was, and Lionel had grown a little
impatient.
He had much he wanted to say, a number of arguments he had arranged
during the night. He couldn’t remember Minnie very well, but he had
gained a vague impression that she was a kindly, pleasant little body, a
bit meddlesome and without distinction, but _nice_. He felt that he
could manage her. She had smiled very good-humouredly. He was far from
despairing.
But he couldn’t help remembering so many other times when he had been
waiting for his own dear girl, bright, brave old Frankie! Every memory
of her was a pain; he could not endure to think of their parting, and
her face, so hopeful, so full of tender anxiety for him. He longed so
for her, for the support of her love and her courage. No one else would
do, no other voice console him.
At last he saw Minnie coming, a queer, dowdy little figure in black,
hurrying toward him with short, bobbing steps.
“I’m sorry!” she said, breathlessly, “but it’s not easy for me to get
away.... Shall we walk? There are nice quiet streets about here.”
“Just as you please,” he answered. Some of his hopefulness had left him
after the first proper daylight look at her. Her appearance was so
discouragingly adult and reasonable; so altogether foreign to romance.
She was not smiling either.
He began resolutely.
“Miss Defoe, I don’t think you quite understand the----”
“Oh, I _do_!” she assured him, earnestly. “Indeed I do! I’ve thought of
nothing else since I heard of it. Mr. Naylor, I want to help you and
Frankie. I want you both to be happy. But I don’t--I _can’t_ think it
wise for you to marry just now. I don’t in the least want to separate
you entirely. That would be cruel. I only want Frankie to wait until you
are--more--better....”
“I understand.”
“I wish very much you’d let me lend you enough to go out and see
her----”
“Miss Defoe!” he said sternly, “I said before I can’t listen to that.”
She laid her hand on his arm and looked up into his face with a troubled
frown.
“Mr. Naylor! It’s just as Frankie’s sister I’m speaking.... It’s only
because I want to _understand_. I’m practical, much more so than
Frankie. Won’t you please tell me just how--just what your income
is--what your prospects are?”
She watched his face.
“Please don’t resent it,” she said. “It’s not curiosity!”
“I’m sure----” he answered, with vague politeness. But nevertheless he
did resent it; that was Frankie’s business and his business, and _not_
Minnie’s. She held them both in her power, however, and he was obliged
to answer her.
“I’ve about five hundred dollars a year,” he said stiffly, “that’s all.
I’m looking about for a job of some sort.”
“What business have you been in?”
“None. Except for a few weeks with my brother.”
“Can’t he help you?”
“No.... Not exactly. We’re not on good terms.”
“That’s too bad! What do you expect to find? What sort of job?”
“I don’t know. Frankie used to suggest things. She knew the country
better than I, of course.”
“Poor Frankie! And that’s what you were counting on--_some sort_ of
work!”
She sighed.
“I’m sorry for you. You don’t know the trouble you’ll have.”
He was nettled, as she meant him to be. Her intention was to make him
feel a fool, to show him the utter folly of Frankie’s ideas. He could
not bring himself to tell her that Frankie had intended to keep her own
position, he was ashamed of that. He felt that Minnie despised him, and
he didn’t blame her.
He thrust his hands into his empty pockets, and silently cursed the
universe--and Minnie. He hadn’t even money for his dinner. Not a sou.
And no Frankie to advise him. He had a sudden terrible feeling of
desolation.
“Oh, Lord!” he groaned.
“What is it?” asked Minnie.
“I suppose ... I haven’t any right to think of Frankie. I suppose--if I
let her alone, she’ll forget me, and make a better match out there.”
Minnie knew what the matrimonial prospects were in Brownsville Landing;
still she looked grave.
“One can never tell,” she said. “Still, Mr. Naylor, I certainly
shouldn’t give up hope if I were you. I’d only think of the marriage as
postponed. Until you’re doing--better.”
“That’s all very well. But to be on the point of marrying a girl like
Frankie, and then to lose her, for an indefinite length of time--it’s
not easy.”
“But she’s worth waiting for!” cried Minnie, like a good sister.
“Yes,” he answered, bitterly, “but I’m not. Look at me! I haven’t a
penny in my pocket, as I stand here. Not much better than a beggar.”
It was his old black depression, which he had grown accustomed to having
assuaged by Frances. And now there was no Frances, and no encouraging
words.
They had been strolling through moribund streets for some time, and were
now back at the corner where they had met.
Minnie held out her hand, in a shabby glove that Frankie _could_ not
have worn.
“Good night!” she said, “and please give me your address. I want to
think things over, seriously. You’ll hear from me very soon.... And in
the meantime, won’t you write to Frankie? Tell her all I’ve said.
Perhaps she’ll listen to _you_.”
He went back to his room completely crushed. He was a fool, Frankie was
a misguided and romantic girl; there was no light in the world. They
would never, never be able to marry. He sat down and wrote as Minnie had
suggested.
Frankie, reading the letter, had no way of knowing how he felt, writing
it. She couldn’t see him, or read his heart, and the very deepest love
gives no key to the beloved’s mystery. It was a genuine act of
self-sacrifice on his part. He felt it his duty to point out all the
drawbacks and penalties of such a marriage, as seen through the eyes of
Minnie and the world; all the old obstacles she had so gallantly
disdained, and a host of new ones, born of his own despondency and
humiliation, and of his lack of food. She could read in it only
reluctance and coldness. It hurt her beyond measure.