BOOK FIVE: THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I

Mr. Petersen and Frances lingered at the table long after the meal was finished. Partly from fatigue, partly from embarrassment, neither of them cared to suggest getting up. For how were they to spend the evening? They couldn’t sit down and read, as if nothing had happened, and certainly they couldn’t talk. They would both have been delighted never to exchange another word.

There was an unusual air of peace and order. Sandra and the baby were in bed and asleep, wisely and lovingly managed by Frances. Mr. Petersen had gone up to look at them in their cribs, clean, quiet and happy. Mrs. Hansen was working away, without friction.

Yet it was an ominous quiet. There had been no “scene,” no excitement. Simply Minnie had packed a bag and gone off in scornful silence, and Lionel had vanished. It would have been far better if there had been a scene; no matter how violent or disgraceful. The roused emotions were cheated, there was an exasperating lack of finality about it all, a sense of frustration. Mr. Petersen and Frances had not opened the subject at all. Mrs. Hansen of course was silent. Even Sandra had asked no questions. It wasn’t natural!

Mr. Petersen had good reasons for his reticence. He was ashamed of his thoughts; he would not have divulged them to any living creature. Because he was longing and longing for Minnie, for the old turmoil and disorder, Sandra running round the table while he ate, for Minnie, holding the crying baby on her lap and feeding it sugar and water from a spoon, Minnie in a wrapper, with her hair coming down, and her eternally anxious look, worn out after having accomplished nothing.

He was aware of Frances opposite him, beautiful, severely neat, in her starched blouse. He knew she was much better than Minnie, that she had been cruelly wronged, and was behaving nobly. And yet he felt no sympathy for her. All his pity was ridiculously, futilely given to Minnie. He did not even blame her. The upright, honourable Mr. Petersen was able to see the thing from her distorted angle; he could almost hear her saying:

“But I tried to do what seemed best at the time.”

No anger, no bitterness, only a great sense of bereavement and grief. He actually sat there worrying about her, thinking she had no money, afraid she would suffer without her children.... That poor tiny Viking, replica of himself, left now without a mother! And poor, poor mother, bereft of such a son!

II

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.

III

She was awakening next morning by a cry from the baby, and she sprang up at once, to wait on it, to adore it, to serve it in any capacity.

She hurried down stairs to the ice box to fetch the bottle she had prepared overnight for it, warmed it, and flew up again to quiet its hearty cries. But it stopped directly she entered the room, and lay on her lap, swallowing the milk and staring at her, with its father’s great, solemn blue eyes. It didn’t cry again all morning; it was a baby of a happy and serene disposition. She put it back in its crib and it lay there, watching its own fat hands, while she dressed Sandra. The little girl was very quiet and docile, she fetched her own clean clothes and stood passively to have them buttoned. Just once, while her hair was being brushed, she looked up with her clear unfaltering gaze, and asked:

“Where’s Mother?”

“She’s gone away for a while, my darling. You’ll be happy with Aunt Frankie, won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Sandra answered, truthfully.

It was still very early, so Frances got breakfast ready without waiting for Mrs. Hansen. Mr. Petersen came down at seven, and he was mighty glad to get his hot coffee. He sat down heavily opposite Frances, and drained his cup.

“If you could stay,” he began, apologetically, “just a few days, anyway—just a little while—till I get settled? I wasn’t—I didn’t appreciate your goodness last night. But I do now. Just for a day or two?”

“As long as you like,” Frances answered, heartily.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I

The time went by well enough for Frankie. She was busy, and after a fashion, happy, with the children. She had long ago trained herself not to search her own heart, not to indulge her own emotions, not to think of Lionel. No more now than during all the past five years.

With the assistance of Mrs. Hansen she put the house in order, all the queer, jumbled cupboards and closets and bureau drawers. They found the most extraordinary things. They were obliged to tell Mr. Petersen that Minnie had been in debt to half a dozen tradesmen, enormous bills that she would reduce dollar by dollar. He paid them at once, without question. They found clothes of Mr. Petersen’s hidden away—no doubt to be given to Lionel. They found pawn-tickets for some of the silver spoons. Curious records of a subterranean life.... But at last they cleaned away all traces of her rule; her clothes and personal belongings were packed away, until she should send for them; she was sternly and justly effaced.

Frances had begun to recover, to become inwardly as serene as she was in appearance. When suddenly her makeshift peace was again destroyed.

They were at lunch, Frances, Mr. Petersen and Sandra, an exemplary group, almost too decorous, all consuming exactly the right sort of food for their health, served at the right moment. Then Mrs. Hansen brought in his letter, and without thinking, Frankie tore it open, and saw his writing again. She folded it again and sat through the meal; so very long before she could shut herself into her own room, and read it.

“Frankie: I can’t get into the army in any branch. I got one of the doctors to tell me, and he said I had tuberculosis and couldn’t last more than a year or two at the most. Frankie, I can’t do it. What’s the use, anyway, of waiting on like that, and dying in a charity hospital? I’m going to go now, as decently as I can. Don’t tell them, not even where I am. I want to be left in peace. But I wish you would come after it is all over. I will leave you a note. Good-bye. God bless you, dear old girl.

L.”

She hurried to him. She found him in a little basement-room like a cell, below the level of the street, with a barred window looking out on a filthy courtyard. She had steeled herself for this meeting; she was prepared for anything; she didn’t wince, didn’t falter, at the sight of his ghastly face. He stood before her in the dim light, a gaunt, stooping figure in a frayed suit; he looked really frightened at the sight of her. He had said good-bye to her forever in his own soul; he wasn’t prepared, wasn’t capable of seeing her again.

He tried to tell her something of his story; especially he insisted upon how he hadn’t “wronged” Mr. Petersen. He was very earnest about that.

“I don’t want you to think me worse than I am,” he said.

“My dear, I wouldn’t,” she assured him, gently.

He stared at her with his great hollow eyes.

“Frankie!” he cried, “You do understand, don’t you? That it was—I don’t know—a mistake of some sort. I can say it now. I always—loved you. Always. Never anyone else.”

She had a chill dread of what she felt he was about to ask her.

“If you could say—even a word——?”

She got up and went to him as he sat hunched up on a trunk; she stroked his hair very gently. She wanted terribly to give him some little comfort, but she couldn’t feed him with lies, even though he were starving.

“It’s all over and done with now, Lionel,” she said. “It’s better to try and forget it.”

“But, Frankie.... If I could only know.... If you’d changed.... If you still care for me?”

“It’s no use talking of that, my dear.”

“Only tell me, before I die!” he entreated.

She looked up at him sorrowfully. And suddenly he clasped her in his arms, such a pitiful, desperate embrace! She clung to him, sobbing, strained him to her.

“Oh, I did, I did love you!” her heart cried. “When it was you. But not this ghost—this distortion of what was you!”

But she didn’t say it, didn’t say anything, she was too full of an aching and dreadful pity. Nothing on earth could save him; she saw death in his face; she knew that she was saying good-bye to him forever. He knew it, too. Ineffable moment! There were no words for it; they clung to each other, hopelessly, in an abandon of grief.

II

She persuaded him to go to a sanitarium she knew of; he didn’t want to, didn’t want to linger on, at her expense. But for her sake, for the sake of her anguish, he consented. He lived there nearly six months, writing to her now and then, stiff, stupid little notes. He died rather suddenly.

She never again mentioned him to a living soul; no one else knew what had happened to him. She let him die in peace, rest in peace. She went on just as usual; it was her pride to keep her pain to herself, to hide it absolutely. She never forgot him; really remained faithful to that pitiful wraith. She had duties, interests, even pleasures enough, she lived vigorously and fully. But that wound never healed. She was never again conscious of absolute content, or of real hope. She never regarded the future with eagerness. Her heart was not whole.

III

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.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I

She came in upon them like a whirlwind, as they sat at the dinner table, and at the sight of their familiar faces, she gave a sort of sob of relief, and flung herself into a chair. They looked at her, pulling off her torn old gloves, and they had, both of them, an illusion that it was entirely her house, her home, that they had nothing to say in it.

Her face was pale and worn, and bright with hysterical excitement. It didn’t occur to her that she was expected to explain her presence; she was preoccupied with some thought of her own. Suddenly she looked up, at Frances.

“He’s gone!” she cried. “He would go. Into the army. I thought——” she broke into open sobbing, “I thought ... he was ... too thin ... but he left me a note ... to say they’ve taken him. Oh, poor old Lionel! Poor old darling!”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s so terribly pitiful!” she went on. “I never ... in all my life.... Oh, his arms are like little sticks....”

She turned fiercely on Mr. Petersen.

“The idea of his being in the army, while you sit at home, a big, hearty thing like you!” she cried, passionately. It was the same spirit which led so many women to press recruiting.

Mr. Petersen’s face turned scarlet. He cleared his throat, and answered at last, in his slow way:

“I don’t see——” he began.

“Of course you don’t! You never would. You haven’t any spirit in you. You just want to sit at home and——”

Frances intervened.

“I don’t think it’s quite your place to come here and abuse Mr. Petersen,” she said sternly.

“What have you got to do with it?” asked Minnie, “it’s none of your business, that I can see.”

She dried her eyes and sat up straighter.

“Where are the babies?” she asked.

“Asleep,” Frances answered.

Minnie got up and went toward the door, but Frances intercepted her.

“Let them alone!” she ordered.

Minnie stared at her.

“What do you mean! They’re my children.”

“They’re not! You’ve forfeited your right to them. You deserted them. You’ve disgraced them. I won’t ... I won’t let you disturb them!”

Minnie’s fine black eyes stared at her scornfully.

“They’re my children. I’ll do just as I think best about them. I’ve got on very well without consulting you so far, and I shan’t begin now.”

“Chris!” Frances appealed to Mr. Petersen, “Won’t you say something? You know she’s not fit to bring up children.”

“It takes an old maid to do that,” said Minnie.

That roused Mr. Petersen.

“Minnie,” he began, “it would be better—if you would consent....”

“I won’t consent to anything! I want my children, and I will have them. I’m going to take them now.”

“But—I have something to say about it,” he protested.

“You haven’t! Sandra’s not yours, and little Robert’s mine. I asked a lawyer. You’re not my husband. You haven’t any claim on him.”

Frances rose.

“Minnie,” she said, “listen to me!”

She looked like the goddess Athene, so handsome, so stern, so just.

“You must have some sort of conscience—some standard—something I can appeal to.... You’ve wronged me, you’ve wronged Mr. Petersen, in the cruelest way. You’ve brought shame and suffering on innocent people. You’ve thought only of yourself and your own desires, and had no mercy on anyone who stood in your way. And now you want to do something still worse. Just for your own selfish gratification, you want to take those poor little children away from people who are able and willing to do everything for them—honourable and decent people——”

“I suppose you mean yourself,” said Minnie, “I suppose you and Chris intended to start housekeeping with my children. Well, you can’t!”

“If you love them, Minnie, you can’t drag them into poverty and——”

“Oh, love, love, love!” cried Minnie impatiently. “What do you know about loving, anyway? When I love people, I fight for them. I’d die for them.... Or I’d murder. I’d do anything. I wouldn’t stop to reason and plan like you do. You couldn’t keep my babies away from me if you had an army of soldiers to help you.”

And she pushed by her sister and went upstairs.

They heard a sudden wild little shout.

“Oh, Mummy!” from Sandra. Then a number of sounds, Minnie walking about, opening bureau drawers, the creak of a rocking chair.

It tortured Mr. Petersen, brought back old days. He felt that if he went up now he would see Minnie in her horrible grey wrapper, with the baby in her arms, rocking away, just in the same way, with the gas turned low and Sandra sitting up in her crib. And then, when the baby was asleep, Minnie would come down, exhausted, sighing, but smiling too, and trail out into the kitchen, to look in the ice chest for something to eat. And then to sit on the arm of his chair and gossip.... He could not repress a groan.

“Oh, Minnie!” he whispered.

Frances looked at him with a pity not untinged with contempt. She knew he wasn’t thinking of the children at all.

“Chris!” she said, in a low voice.

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell her—that we’re married!”

He nodded assent.

They remained at the table, in silence. There was nothing to do, nothing to say, but to wait for Minnie’s next move.

Presently she came downstairs, carrying the baby and holding Sandra by the hand, all of them dressed for the street. Minnie’s eyes were red; evidently she had been crying up there.

“Good-bye, Chris,” she said, rather wistfully, “I’m sorry about all this.... But I had to do it, really, for Sandra’s sake. And I did make you happy, and comfortable, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes!” he cried, and actually believed that she had. The pathos of the anxious little figure overwhelmed him.

“Minnie!” he cried. “Wait! Just a minute!”

She turned again.

“If—your—he has gone in to the army—what will you have to live on?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I’ll get on somehow.”

“No! ... That can’t be.... For old times’ sake—let me help you—and the children. An allowance—a settlement of some sort....”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you, Chris dear,” she said, simply.

“If Frances will take the baby,” he suggested, “I’d like to speak to you in my office just a moment.”

So Frances sat in the dining-room, with the baby in her arms for the last time, holding Sandra’s little hand, forgotten and deserted, despoiled now of everything, while in the study Mr. Petersen wrote a generous cheque for Minnie.

She thought of the house in the suburbs, with the nursery and the playroom; even the new toys.

She thought of herself and Mr. Petersen married, for the sake of the children.

She thought of Minnie, who had carried off Lionel, and Lionel’s child, and Mr. Petersen’s child, and was now securing a supply of Mr. Petersen’s money.

She began to laugh heartily.

THE END