Then, too, he might have foreseen and prevented her next step, but again
he failed to do so, because it was a bit beyond his imagination. She
wrote a terrific letter to Julie, telling her she was defrauding Lionel
of his rights, that she knew Horace’s intentions, and ought, if she had
_any_ feeling of honour, to carry them out.
Julie replied briefly:
“You won’t get a red cent out of me, now or any other time. I’m sorry
for Lionel, but he has got to lie in the bed he’s made.”
Lionel didn’t even reproach Minnie for having written. What was the use?
His humiliation couldn’t be hidden from any one.
They had a serious situation to confront. They were in debt, and they
had an income on which they couldn’t exist. And Minnie, although she
bought the cheapest and nastiest of everything, and never spent a penny
on anything gracious or luxurious, had not the gift of stretching a
dollar. Her economy was all negative. She never thought, “What is the
best I can get with my money?” but always, “How little can I spend?” She
had no idea of values, of proportion.
The poor thing worried unceasingly, because it was her duty to do so;
lay awake at night by the side of her magnificent and superior husband
and planned with desperation. During the day she was cheerful, that also
being her duty, and tried as she always had tried, to make Lionel
comfortable. She really loved and admired him more than he ever
realised. She considered him finer than herself; she wanted to spare
him, to please him, to keep him contented and happy at any cost to
herself.
He, for his part, was past any worry. He simply existed from day to day
like a caged animal, absolutely without hope, fortitude his only virtue.
He endured, she struggled.
In the course of time she evolved a plan.
She came out on the porch after she had finished her laborious work in
the kitchen, and sat down at the top of the steps, near Lionel’s feet.
From either side came the nasal voices of their neighbours, silly
laughs, and the whining cries of tired children. Little Sandra lay
asleep in the hammock nearby. There was an arc light almost opposite; it
shone on Minnie’s earnest face and Lionel’s unpolished boots.
“It’s _very_ hot, isn’t it?” she said, rather pitifully.
“Very,” he agreed.
There was a long silence.
“Lionel!”
Minnie’s voice came out of the dark, fatigued and insistent.
“I’ve been thinking--it’s such a shame for you to be wasted this way....
I saw an advertisement and I wrote to it.... I think it would be just
the thing for you. Gentlemanly, and yet you could make any amount of
money.”
“What is it?” he asked, without much interest.
“Here’s the booklet.” She began to read in a solemn voice, “‘_Be your
own master! Read what others have done! The Manhattan Institute of
Tonico-Therapy. Ten weeks course renders you independent for life.
Highly paid selected staff instructs in all branches._’ And it goes on
to tell you the theory of it. How all illnesses come from the chemical
action of poisons in the stomach. You learn the antidotes for all these
poisons, and then how to find which poison is causing the trouble, and
there you are! I think--it sounds wonderful.”
“What rot! The ordinary fake!” said Lionel, impatiently.
“And you should read the money the doctors make!”
“It’s a swindle, I tell you! There are any number of them. The rankest
sort of fraud.”
Then Minnie showed the cloven hoof.
“What if it is?” she asked, “we’ve got to live. It wouldn’t do any one
any harm. I dare say in lots of cases it’s very good----”
“I don’t intend to be a swindler,” he interrupted, “it’s no use talking
any more about it. I’m surprised you could consider a thing like that.”
“Very well, then, think of something better.”
“I couldn’t think of anything much worse.”
“You could do it for a little while, and save up----”
He jumped up.
“No!” he cried, angrily. “It’s outrageous! Don’t mention it again! There
are some things I will _not_ do!”
But there weren’t!