Three o’clock had passed, and he knew that day to be lost. It was five
o’clock and he had just lighted the gas when there was a knock at his
door, and he discovered Minnie herself in the dark hall.
He was surprised and a little shocked; wondered what the landlady would
think. Still, of course, he had to ask her in, and in she came, and sat
down in his one chair. He was obliged to sit on the bed, an informality
very distressing to him. He didn’t like this sort of thing at all; it
wasn’t correct, it wasn’t well-bred.
He waited and waited for her to speak, but she remained silent, pale and
rigid. And no wonder, considering what was in her head!
“I’ve brought it!” she said.
“Thank you!” he said. “It’s awfully good of you. We’ll never forget it!”
She smiled constrainedly, but said nothing. Her eyes wandered about the
mean, shabby room, with the dusty yellowish carpet on the floor, the
narrow painted bureau covered with a torn towel, the iron bed with its
one flat pillow, his smart little trunk, so out of place there. So
intent was she that he fancied she was about to make some comment on the
poverty of which he was ashamed. But she only said:
“I do wish I had a cup of tea! I’ve such a headache!”
“We can go out----”
“Oh, couldn’t we have it here? Isn’t that a spirit lamp?”
“Yes,” he answered, reluctantly, “but I’ve no milk or sugar----”
“I’m sure you can get them very near here.”
He could think of no polite reason for refusing, so he went out to buy
what she told him, slipping in and out of the front door, in mortal
terror lest the landlady should catch him and tell him ladies weren’t
allowed in the gentlemen’s rooms. Why did Minnie do such an
extraordinary, unnecessary thing?
When he got back, the spirit lamp was lighted and the little kettle
beginning to hiss, while Minnie sat watching it. She looked very much at
home. She had taken off her jacket and hat, and he fancied that her hair
was better dressed than usual, that she was wearing a rather gayer
blouse, in short, that she was “dressed up.”
“Now then!” she said, cheerfully, “aren’t we cozy?”
“Rather!” he answered, gallantly, and might have added, “_Too_ cozy!”
He was like the innocent young heroine in a drama; he had a dim
perception of something evil, he felt that he ought not to be there
alone with Minnie.
The tea seemed to do her good, for she revived, and became quite
animated, talked to him about Frances, their childhood, their
schooldays, anything and everything. The friendly, disarming air, the
classic second step of the seducer! He was amused by her chatter, but he
didn’t lose his feeling of uneasiness. Because, in spite of her
immeasurably respectable appearance----
The clock struck seven and he felt obliged to protest.
“I say!” he cried, in pretended surprise, “seven o’clock! Shan’t we go
out and--take a walk--have a bit of supper somewhere?”
“Oh, no,” said Minnie, “I’ll have to be going.”
She rose and picked up her hat. But did not put it on; at last put it
down again and opened her worn little pocketbook.
“Here is the money, Mr. Naylor,” she said, and held out a bill to him.
Then, as he took it, suddenly she flung herself into the chair and
buried her face in her hands.
“Oh!” she sobbed, “Oh! It’s _too_ hard!”
He was frightened and disconcerted. He knew women were liable to such
curious attacks, but he had never before witnessed one. It made him so
sorry for her weakness and inferiority. Poor little thing! Poor
emotional, unbalanced Woman!
“I say!” he said, “What is it? Please don’t cry!”
The huddled little figure didn’t reply, kept on weeping in a muffled
sort of way.
“Please tell me!” he entreated. He went so far as to pat her shoulder,
while he cast about for something to say or to do.
“Is it on account of Frankie?” he asked.
She raised a miserable, tear-stained face and looked straight at him.
“No!” she cried. “I--I _thought_ I was able--to give you up--but oh, I
can’t!”
“Give me up!” exclaimed the astonished Lionel.
Her great black eyes, their long lashes wet and heavy with tears, were
fixed upon his face with solemn intensity.
“Yes!” she said, firmly.
“But--exactly what----?” he stammered.
“I don’t care if you do know it,” she said.
He began to understand; he turned scarlet, he dared not look at her, and
yet couldn’t take his eyes from her dark, desperate little face.
Suddenly she stretched up her arms to him, like a child.
“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, in such a pitiful voice that he couldn’t
withstand her. She clung to him, sobbing, trembling, her head buried in
his coat.
“Oh, Lionel, I love you so!”
He was immeasurably moved. He put an arm about her and very gently
stroked her hair.
“Don’t cry!” he said. “Poor little girl! Don’t cry!”
To save his life he couldn’t have kept the least little trace of
condescension out of his tone. He had never been made love to before; he
felt that he hadn’t quite realised his own charm. He felt very, very
kindly toward poor Minnie, unhappy victim to his fascination. An
absolutely hopeless passion; she had to be made to see that, in the
most humane way possible. He kept on patting her shoulder.
“Lionel!” she said, looking up again with those really magnificent dark
eyes, “Please--you won’t despise me, will you? I can’t--can’t help it! I
never--in all my life----!”
“Of course I don’t despise you! I think you’re a--I think you’re--a fine
woman,” he said, ineptly. “Come now! Don’t cry, my dear girl! You’ll
make yourself ill, you know.”
As gently as possible he disengaged her clinging arms and made her sit
down in the chair again, then he dipped a towel in cold water and wiped
her swollen eyes. He had not as yet had time to realise the awkwardness
of this affair; he was, to tell the truth, just a little elated.
Supermanly.
He talked to her soothingly until she had stopped crying, then:
“It’s getting late,” he said, “we’d really better be----”
She jumped up again, so violently that her dishevelled hair came down
and fell over her shoulders. She seized him by the wrist.
“I won’t go!” she cried.
And caught him round the neck and strained him to her, kissing him
wildly.
But why try to tell of all that--the eternal wiles of a passionate
woman? He had no weapon against her. He had his love for Frankie, but
_this_ was not love. He had his ideas of honour, he was fastidious, he
was, after a fashion, somewhat austere. But his safety, and the safety
of all his sex--lay only in avoiding the irresistible. And of all the
allurements in the world, there is none to compare with the abandon of
the respectable woman.
Poor devil! Poor devil!