Minnie was aware of something hostile in her husband’s attitude, and,
with a very great effort, kept her opinions to herself.
The hot weather held, and it wore her out. The child couldn’t sleep at
night. Her difficulties grew mountainous, outrageous. Horace’s
assistance had stopped and they heard nothing about his will. At last
she was forced to attack.
“Lionel,” she said, “I haven’t a penny. You’ll have to do something.”
He was silent.
“You know what those lawyers are,” she went on, “you have to keep after
them. They _expect_ it.”
But Lionel flatly refused even to make enquiries about the will. He
would not run greedily after old Horace’s money.
“It’s not decent,” he said, stiffly.
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Minnie. “Do _think_ a little, instead of using
those silly stock phrases. There’s the poor baby. She needs clothes
dreadfully. You shouldn’t let your pride stand in the way....”
“They’ll let us know at the proper time. Until they do, we can scrape
along----”
“We can’t! I’ve bills everywhere. People are getting nasty. It’s
dreadfully humiliating for me.”
“Sorry, but there’s nothing to be done,” he repeated, frigidly.
“There is! You could just ask his lawyers to let you see the will----”
“My dear girl, I am not going to go crawling after Horace’s money. It’s
not decent. I absolutely will not!”
He might have known what would happen after that, but he didn’t even
suspect....
Minnie said she was obliged to go to the city, shopping. And as she
never concerned herself except about domestic matters, Lionel believed
her object to be entirely serious and legitimate, and agreed to stop at
home with the baby while she was gone. He had forgotten she had said she
had no money, and anyway, he had learned that that statement from Minnie
was not to be believed. She always said that.
It was a horrible day for him. He didn’t know what to do with himself.
He sat on the sun scorched little porch conscientiously watching his
languid child digging in the gutter. It seemed to him to spend all its
waking hours there, busy with some patient work. At noon he brought her
in and fed her with the lunch Minnie had left, then he rocked her to
sleep in a hammock on the sweltering porch.
He wandered about the hot, dirty little house, smoking and trying not to
think. He did not dare to reflect, he did not wish to face the secret
desolation in his soul. He valiantly maintained that his life here with
Minnie was “wholesome,” was “normal,” was really the best sort of life.
And tried to deny visions of cool seaside hotels, or bars where men
lounged in flannels and drank those amazing and adorable American
drinks, with ice clinking in them.... He almost saw himself on the
veranda of a country club, with other well-dressed people, gay,
careless, enviable.
He strode across the tiny dining-room to disperse a swarm of flies about
an uncovered sugar bowl, and jerked down the dark shades, as much to
hide the room from his own eyes as to quiet the disgusting insects. She
_would_ leave the cloth on the table all day long, with its crumbs and
grease spots.
The baby called him; he went out and took her out of the hammock, poor
hot, patient little soul! He washed her pale little face, disfigured
with mosquito bites, and carried her out on the porch again. He held her
in his lap; she didn’t want to stir, lay against him, staring before
her.
Toward five o’clock Minnie came home, pallid and limp from the heat,
with her black hair escaping in wisps from under her crushed little hat.
“She looks like a char-woman,” he reflected, as he watched her coming.
She flung herself into a chair.
“Oh, _Lionel_!” she said, “_what_ do you think!”
He asked “What?” without much interest, expecting to hear that cotton
stockings were so much dearer, or some other Minnie news. She pulled a
bulky paper out of her hand-bag.
“Horace’s will!” she said, “and he hasn’t left you a penny. The lawyer
told me this is a new one, made only a month ago. And that he’d been
arranging a trust fund or something of the sort for you--something all
tied up, so you could only touch the interest--and then, before he’d
signed anything, he died. Oh, Lionel! Not a penny!”