Frankie’s thoughts were altogether different. She _was_ angry, burning
with resentment against her sister. She _hated_ her! She remembered
Lionel’s dreadful face when he had seen her, the shame and anguish in
his eyes. Oh, she hated her! The man he might have been, and the thing
Minnie had made of him!
She had as little sympathy for Mr. Petersen as he for her. Simply he
didn’t matter. When she looked at his stolid face, she felt that it
wouldn’t be hard to hate him, too.
What Lionel must have endured to force him into such a course! Living in
Mr. Petersen’s house, on Mr. Petersen’s bounty, seeing his wife living
with Mr. Petersen, bearing his child! A feeling she didn’t know was in
her came rushing up; a longing to see Minnie suffer, even a little of
what she had inflicted upon others. She couldn’t stand Mr. Petersen’s
presence another moment--silly sheep--fatuous dupe of a vile woman!
She got up abruptly.
“I think I’ll go upstairs to the children,” she said. “Good-night!”
They were sleeping beautifully. She lighted a little night lamp and
looked at them, these children of Minnie, with curiously mixed emotions.
She bent over the baby; its fat little cheeks were puffed out, its
earnest mouth closed in a sort of pout. An ineffable fragrance rose from
the warm little body. Her breath stirred the fine fair hairs on its
head, where the pulse still beat so pitifully. Child of that hated
sister and that fool of a Petersen--but a baby none the less and sacred
and dear. She regarded it with love, she pitied the poor deserted little
man. She touched the tiny clenched fist, and at once it seized upon her
finger and clung to it blindly. Very gently she unclasped the absurd
little fingers and went over to Sandra.
This was the child that should have been hers; Lionel’s daughter. The
baby was delightful, but Sandra----! She was a dream child, she was
beauty in its purest, most exquisite moment. Her pale face, her clear
features, her cloud of fine-spun hair, the slender grace of her little
limbs, were, Frances thought, like some child angel in an old painting,
altogether spiritual. She sat down beside her, to think. It helped her
to look down at that innocent and fragile loveliness, sublimation of her
poor lover. She grew softer; at last began to weep a little.
Very much later, toward two in the morning, she went down to find Mr.
Petersen. She was quite sure he would not be in bed.
There he was, in his study, reading something.
“Mr. Petersen,” she said, “I’ve been thinking--about the children.”
He looked at her mutely.
“It seems to me--if you’d like me to--it would be better if I stopped
here and looked after them.”
“I thought you were going abroad,” he said, stupidly.
“I don’t care much where I go, as long as I’m more or less useful. And
it seems to me that I could be, here.”
He couldn’t answer.
“I’d like---- How can I help you best about them?” she asked.
He still stared at her in speechless misery. He tried in vain to picture
his future life, tried to realise that he was left with two small
children who had no mother. Useless. He could imagine no other person in
Minnie’s place. No one but Minnie looking after those children; anyone
else would be an impostor, a fraud, intolerable.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I haven’t thought much about it yet.”
“I’d do my best for them,” Frances said, with something like entreaty in
her voice.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Petersen, “they may take away Sandra.”
And to his horror, a sob escaped him. He could not endure the idea of
losing that beloved little girl; he fancied her gone, and his own poor
baby more solitary than ever. Like a flash came the full realisation of
the wreck of his life, the desolation ahead of him. He bowed his head in
his huge hands.
Frances came over to him.
“Please!” she said, “Mr. Petersen!”
It was the first time she had felt any pity for him; she had pitied
Lionel, pitied herself; now her heart was wrung for this poor fellow,
innocent as herself, and more wronged.
“Anyway,” she said, “you have your little boy.”
“That makes it worse,” he answered, in a muffled voice. “He is an
illegitimate child. He is disgraced.”
“Oh, you don’t believe such things!” cried Frances. “You’re far too
sensible and broad-minded for that, I know!”
“No, no, I’m not.... If it was the ordinary thing--a passion--a love
affair.... But she--lived here as my wife.... Everyone knew her.”
He raised his head and looked at her with honest, misty, blue eyes.
“What am I to say? Bigamy is a crime. She is a bigamist. I’ve got to
keep it quiet. We were married here; it’s in the register.... I cannot
tell anyone she was not my wife. I’ll have to let it be thought that she
deserted me--ran off with this--this chap we called her brother. I’ll be
the laughing stock of the place. Under his nose it went on, the
neighbours will say. And I was a fool. Such a fool! I can’t believe it
...! My boy is going to hear all that in the course of time.”
“Can’t you leave here?”
“I’ve built up my name and reputation here. At my age--to start all over
again ...!
“I’m very sorry,” she said, simply.
“Thank you,” he replied.
She could see that he wanted to be alone, and that he was not able to
think then of the future. He was too bitterly concerned with the past
and with the present. She said good-night to him, and went upstairs
again, to be near the children.