Mr. Petersen was becoming crushed by his disgrace. The amazing change of
mistresses in his establishment had caused a tremendous scandal. He
tried to go on as usual, but it was not possible. Many people shunned
him, business fell off, the general atmosphere of respect in which his
soul had flourished was poisoned, and unfit for his great lungs to
breathe.
And, what is more, he worried very much about Frankie. The presence of
this handsome young woman in his house, coincident with the
disappearance of Minnie and Lionel, was a fact of ugly significance. He
began very soon to see his course; he deliberated carefully, looked at
it from her point of view as well as from his own, and came at last to
the conclusion that it was a good plan.
He asked Frances to marry him.
“On account of the children,” he said, “You are so fond of them that I
thought you would like to remain with them permanently. And it would be
of the greatest benefit to them.... As for yourself, I haven’t much to
offer.... I can only promise that I wouldn’t bother you, interfere with
you in any sort of way. I can’t stop here. I’m--more or
less--disgraced.... I’ll live wherever you like, California, if that’s
best for your work. I have enough capital to start in business
again----”
She was not surprised by his offer; she had expected it and thought
about it. To her also it seemed the best course, on account of the
children. So she accepted.
They understood each other perfectly, without being obliged to drag from
their souls any explanation of feelings sacred and painful. These two
candid and faithful creatures knew themselves to be strong enough and
simple enough for a most difficult situation. They were tacitly agreed
to remain constant, he to Minnie, she to Lionel, and to assume the poor
little burdens deserted by them.
Frances was not anxious to return to California; she suggested a suburb
of New York, in quite another direction from Brownsville Landing, and
Mr. Petersen consented. She found a charming house there, the sort of
house she had dreamed long ago of having with Lionel, a dignified,
cheerful place with a fine garden. She had quite a bit of money saved,
and she insisted upon using some of it to equip the place.
“Please don’t be proud!” she entreated Mr. Petersen, laughing. “Do let
me have my own way about all this. I’ve always longed to furnish a
house.”
This touched him. The poor defrauded girl! So he left it all to her.
She had a wonderful time over it, particularly with the children’s
rooms. She was wilfully extravagant there. She had a nursery for little
Robert, very scientific and expensive, with a bathroom off it,
glitteringly white. Then a big, bright playroom, with little
white-painted chairs and tables gay with painted birds and animals, with
low shelves for toys, and not a sharp corner anywhere about; and next to
this, an exquisite nest for Sandra, all white willow and blue chintz.
She spent days and days in the house, with Mrs. Hansen to help her. She
would come back to Brownsville Landing--a five hours’ journey--very
tired, but filled with enthusiasm. Mr. Petersen went out once or twice
and found it charming. He planted a garden there, fruit trees and rose
bushes, and had a stable built for his beloved horse.
When at last the house was ready there was nothing else to wait for.
They went, one gay, cool morning in September, to the City Hall in New
York, got their license, and were married by a peevish alderman. They
were both curiously devoid of emotion. It was, after all, a matter of
little importance to them. They would go on as they had been going for
the last months.
Nevertheless, they considered it the polite and the correct thing to
celebrate in some sort of way. So they went to a hotel, where Mr.
Petersen ordered an elaborate lunch. He was just a little ill-at-ease,
not being a frequenter of hotels, and the lunch was too heavy, too
prolonged. Frankie conscientiously ate all she could, and praised
everything.
But no use denying that her heart ached! She caught a glimpse of
themselves in a mirror, saw her own proud distinction so incongruously
escorted by Mr. Petersen’s enormous Socialistic bulk, and how could she
help thinking of how Lionel had looked under similar circumstances, how
help remembering _his_ ways of ordering lunches ...?
Perhaps Mr. Petersen was rather heavy-hearted too, with memories of his
other wedding--or what he had imagined at the time to be a wedding. Who
knows but that for him there had been infinite romance in his dowdy
Minnie?
They had planned to go back to Brownsville Landing and close up the
house there, and then the next morning proceed by motor car with the
children and the Hansens to the new home. For the last time they boarded
the train, for the last time went flying through that familiar country
along the river bank.
“I suppose,” said Mr. Petersen, in his slow way, “that we are beginning
a new life. I shall do all I can to make it a happy one for you.”
She smiled at him kindly.
“We’re old friends,” she said, and then grew very serious, “Chris,” she
said, “we’ve missed--oh, almost everything, haven’t we? But if we can
only make up to the children for all _they’ve_ lost, all _they’ll_ have
to miss--that’s enough for us, isn’t it?”
“That’s enough,” he repeated, “enough to fill our lives.”