Invincible Minnie/Book 3/Chapter 22
It may be said with perfect truth that Mr. Petersen was haunted by the leg of lamb; it gave him sleepless nights. He couldn’t imagine why it was there. He would stop in the middle of serious work in his office, and contemplate the mystery. Could it be connected with her peculiar efforts at economy? Or a plot against Mrs. Hansen? Or absolute madness?
It was significant—more so than he realised—that he didn’t dare to ask Minnie about it. At the bottom of his heart, in spite of his affection and admiration for her, he was perfectly aware that Minnie was a woman capable of anything and everything. There was nothing she wouldn’t do. He went about for days, with the leg of lamb on his conscience, miserably imagining that he had in some way wronged Minnie by finding it.
The losses continued. But he never looked in the closet again. Imagination balked at the prospect. When Mrs. Hansen reported a dish of apple sauce and three pork chops missing, a dreadful vision of them behind Minnie’s hat flashed across his brain. He tried his best to mollify Mrs. Hansen, to assure her that he knew she had no hand in the business. He felt intolerably guilty before that honest woman. He was a changed man, and he knew it. He had fallen into a sort of daze of astonishment, like a man who has undeniably seen a ghost.
An impossible situation, and ended by a still more incredible revelation. Quite by accident he learned where the leg of lamb and all its associates had gone.
Minnie’s health was causing him a great deal of anxiety. She was in a perpetual state of exhaustion and worry, and refused to be relieved. It was one of her most sacred principles that it was not only meritorious but absolutely a duty for a domestic house-loving woman to tire herself out every day. In addition to doing a great many tasks which Mrs. Hansen had plenty of time and ability to do, she would take a walk every afternoon, even if it rained. The doctor said it was too much for her, advised her resting more, but although she listened to him sweetly, she said afterward to Mr. Petersen that she knew what was good for herself better than all the doctors on earth. She wouldn’t even take Sandra with her on these walks; she said she had to be alone, for her nerves. Mr. Petersen warned her of rough characters from the brick yards and solemnly cautioned her to guard against being frightened; certain roads she was never to take, and she said she wouldn’t.
So that he was alarmed and annoyed one day to see her crossing the railway tracks and starting off down the very worst of all the forbidden ways. He had happened to go over in that direction himself to see one of the comrades who wanted to build a house. At first he didn’t believe his eyes; it couldn’t be Minnie, in the dusk of a raw October day, deliberately and unnecessarily walking through that wretched quarter of drunken Slavs. But it was surely her hat ...! He hurried after her. She was a long way in advance, and before he had caught her up she had turned off the main road where the wretched hovels were, and entered a little wood.
It was quite dark there, under the trees, and very still; there was a faintly marked path, which the workmen sometimes used as a short cut to the brickyards in summer, but quite deserted at this time of the year. A mat of sodden leaves underfoot, and a damp reek of decay. He was really angry at her morbid folly; such a place might well be dangerous. But just as he was on the point of speaking to her, gently, so that she shouldn’t be startled, she rushed up to the dim form of a man who had materialised from the twilight. She kissed him several times.
Mr. Petersen was near enough to hear every word, although he could not distinguish the man. It was Minnie’s voice which most astounded him—it was not her voice; it had tones he had never before heard, never imagined; it was gay, tender, full of a beautiful bravery.
“My darling boy!” she said, “I’ve only an instant. Is your cold clearing up at all?”
“How’s Sandra?” he asked curtly. His voice was hoarse and weak.
“Splendid! I’ve brought you a little something to eat, dear. You must do all you can to keep up your strength. For just a little while longer.”
“Oh, my God! Minnie!” he groaned, “I wish I were dead! And you too. And Sandra. It’s too much for me”
“Don’t, don’t, my dearest! Just a little while longer. I ought to go now, really.... But I can’t leave you like this. Say one word to comfort me, dear. Tell me you’ll be brave, just a little while longer.”
“I am brave,” he answered grimly. “If I weren’t, I shouldn’t be here.”
Once more she kissed him.
“Good-bye, my dearest!” she said. “Keep up your courage! God bless you! I’ll see you to-morrow as usual. And eat that nice beef, won’t you? You need it so!”
She turned away and retraced her steps, through the wood and through the settlement. She was hurrying and breathing painfully, and Mr. Petersen heard a gasping little sob now and then.
He was afraid of startling her too much by speaking just then. He waited until she was slowly climbing the hill above the tracks before he came up with her.
“Minnie!” he said as gently as possible, “Who was that?”
She looked at him wildly; her eyes made him think of a terrified horse, and she quivered like one.
“Chris!” she cried. “You didn’t!” And abruptly and mechanically began to scream, shriek after shriek.
“Stop! Stop!” he implored, in dreadful anxiety. “Calm yourself! Never mind! Don’t tell me; only stop! Stop! Please, Minnie!”
She couldn’t now. There in the road, where the Slav colony could hear her and coming rushing to witness, she had a frightful hysterical attack. Mr. Petersen sent someone after one of the old station hacks, and got her home at last. He was dripping with perspiration and altogether in a bad state when the doctor came; he was sure he had killed Minnie.
She was not allowed to talk that night; a trained nurse came and took charge of her, and kept Petersen out of the room. He didn’t go to bed at all; he sat in his study, in dreadful anguish.
In the morning the nurse came down and told him he might see his wife for a few minutes. He tried to compose himself; he soaked his great yellow head in cold water until his hair lay sleek as a seal; he swallowed a glass of brandy, but nothing helped him. He so dreaded what he might hear.
Minnie loved that man. No matter what she said, she couldn’t make him doubt that. Her words, above all, her voice.... She must have been meeting that incredible, that unimaginable lover for weeks, feeding him.... He was not in the least angry at her. On the contrary he felt very, very sorry for her. But he did not want to see her, or to hear what she was going to say. If it were only possible for her to be restored to health and then to vanish!
He couldn’t speak. He went over to her bedside and stood looking down at her. She was worn, pale, more troubled than ever. But she met his glance; she had not the look of a guilty woman.
“You’ll have to be told now,” she said. “I wanted to wait—but I suppose you wouldn’t consent?”
“You needn’t tell me anything” he began.
She closed her eyes wearily.
“You’d never trust me.... He’s my brother. We’ve never spoken of him ... he’s caused us a great deal of sorrow—disgrace, poor fellow. Through drinking. Father wouldn’t let us see him, or mention him. And Grandma was just as harsh. Even Frankie turned against him....”
She paused a moment and feebly wiped the tears from her closed eyes.
“But I’ve always seen so much good in him. I’ve always been so fond of him, poor fellow!... So much good—going to waste!”
“But, Minnie, if you’d only spoken to me”
“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to him. He’s very proud, in his way.”
Mr. Petersen sat down beside her, and tried, in a long silence, to adjust himself to this. He was conscious of a great relief, a terrible burden being lifted from him. And a feeling of guilt in the presence of the poor little woman. How could he for an instant have suspected Minnie, respectable, conscientious, maternal Minnie, of having a lover! Filthy, vile, preposterous idea!
“We’ll find a way to help your brother, my dear,” he said.
She reached out a calloused and hot little hand and put it into his.
“Chris,” she said, “what I want is to have him here. Under my eye. Where I can look after him. May I?”
“Of course, my dear.”
“But, Chris, I want you to understand it all. It’s such a difficult situation. For a man like him—brought up in the best schools in England”
“In England!” exclaimed Mr. Petersen.
“Yes; Father liked the English schools best for boys. Alec’s lived in England for years,” she explained, a little impatient at the interruption. “He’s quite an Englishman. But, listen carefully, Chris, please. It’s going to be very hard to get him here.”
“Why? Can’t?”
“You see, I didn’t tell him I was married. He wouldn’t have taken anything from me if he hadn’t believed it was all mine. I told him I had a position.... It will be a great shock to him, and he’s far from well. If you’ll only promise to do just exactly as I tell you, please, Chris!”
He was rather amused at her solemnity.
“Whatever you think is necessary,” he said, indulgently.
“It is—very necessary. I’ve written a note, and I want you to take it to him in that same place in the wood this afternoon at five. And, Chris, don’t talk to him, don’t tell him anything—any single thing—until he’s read it. Not anything. It’s very important for him to learn it all from me—from the note. Promise!”
“Very well, my dear.”
“You see, I know just how to manage him, so that he won’t be too much shocked. And you’d better take your pocket flashlight, or you’ll be giving the letter to the wrong person.”
Privately Mr. Petersen considered it a preposterous errand. He set off at half-past four with the note and made his way through the windy twilight to the wood. At first he couldn’t find the fellow; at last he discovered him sitting on a fallen log a few feet from the path, sunk in apathy.
“Is your name Defoe?” he asked.
The man jumped up.
“What is it?” he asked. “Have you a message from her?”
Mr. Petersen handed him the note and the flashlight by which to read it, and with no little curiosity, tried to study his appearance in the little spot of light. But couldn’t; could see no more than a thin, long hand clutching the letter. It seemed a long one.
Presently the flashlight was extinguished and the little wood was very dark, and still. Mr. Petersen respected the feelings of the sensitive brother for a long time, but he couldn’t wait there all night.
“Shall we be getting along?” he said, pleasantly.
Out of the dark came that hoarse and pitiful voice.
“Who are you?” it asked.
“Petersen,” he answered.
“The man—the man that Minnie?”
“Her husband; yes. Are you ready?”
The man came abreast of him, and began walking by his side with weary and heavy steps.
“Is she so very ill?” he asked.
“No-oo,” said Petersen. “Not very. Can’t look for perfect health, I suppose, in her condition.”
“What condition?”
“There’s a baby coming in a few weeks, you know.”
He was surprised her brother hadn’t noticed; then reflected that he had only seen her in the dark.
“The doctor tells me there’s no cause for worry,” he went on. He was curiously anxious to reassure the fellow; he was moved by a great pity for him which he could not have explained. Simply that his voice, his manner, the very atmosphere about him, seemed tragic and terrible.
They went on toward the house, Petersen talking cheerfully, neither exacting nor expecting replies from his companion. They entered the hall, and he turned, for the first time, to look at him.
Like a madman, like a ghost, so deadly pale and haggard and ruined.... He couldn’t bear to look at him. He turned away, but found the image still in his eyes, the tall, lean fellow with his fine-featured face, his great grey eyes, so sunken and luminous, his straggling beard, his ruffled hair, all his shabbiness and wretchedness.
He wanted to propose a bath and a shave before going in to Minnie; the poor devil wasn’t a fit object for her gaze. But he divined the morbid sensitiveness of the famished creature, and was afraid of hurting him. As he hesitated, little Sandra came in from the kitchen.
He caught her violently in his arms.
“Sandra!” he cried. “Don’t you know me?”
She looked up into his face.
“No,” she whimpered, frightened. “Put me down!”
His interview with Minnie was very brief, for the nurse sent him out without ceremony, and followed him downstairs.
“Mr. Petersen,” she said, “I’m going to telephone for the doctor.”
The two men looked at her in alarm.
“Is she worse?” asked Mr. Petersen.
“She’ll soon be better,” answered the nurse, with a smile.
Mr. Petersen caught her arm as she was going.
“You don’t mean—it’s beginning now?” he asked. “I thought—three weeks more at least?”
The nurse smiled again.
“I shouldn’t be surprised!” she said.
Mr. Petersen felt utterly frightened and helpless. He looked about in vain for comfort, saw only the very professional nurse, and Alec, more alarmed than himself.
“Will it be—bad?” he asked the nurse, but she went hurrying upstairs again. He followed her, but wasn’t allowed to come into the room.
“You’ll only make her nervous,” the nurse told him, severely. “You must be sensible now, Mr. Petersen, and not worry me. I’ve got my hands full!”
So he went down again and met the doctor coming in. He, too, had the professional cheerfulness so difficult to endure.
“Take a drink,” he advised, “and go out for a walk. We don’t need you!”
He went back into his study once more, and was surprised to see the brother still there. He had forgotten all about him. He poured out a drink for him, too, and sat down, very glad to have someone with him. He became fictitiously cheerful to hide his anguish. And every time he heard a footstep overhead, his heart bounded horribly.
He poured out a second glass of brandy for each of them, and was sorry to see the misery on the face of the other, not to be dispelled by many drinks. He tried to console him, said, after all, it was a perfectly natural thing—a beautiful thing. But didn’t believe it himself. There wasn’t—there couldn’t be beauty in the bestial agony of a poor little woman. It was natural enough, natural as an owl crunching the bones of a rabbit....
Suddenly there was a long, horrible groan from upstairs. Mr. Petersen turned pale, and reached blindly for the brandy.
“My God!” he muttered. “This is” But was cut short by a frantic clutch at his arm. The brother stood swaying like a reed; suddenly collapsed and fell at his feet unconscious.
He was fully occupied with this other sufferer for a long time. He did all the proper things, threw water over him, slapped his hands, forced brandy down his throat, until he revived. Then he fetched Mrs. Hansen and she made him drink hot soup and eat bread and butter. There wasn’t a sound upstairs. Resolutely Mr. Petersen kept his mind away from Minnie, and clung to Mrs. Hansen, followed her wherever she went. Her calmness, her ordinariness solaced, as well as the fact that she was a woman. He questioned her minutely about Alec and what she thought he needed, without listening to her replies. It was only her reassuring voice he needed.
“There now!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Petersen, the doctor’s coming down.”
“She’s dead!” he thought.
But the doctor was smiling.
“A fine boy!” he said.
Presently, as dawn was breaking, the nurse came running downstairs to Mr. Petersen.
“You may go in for just a minute!” she said.
She was looking worn and jaded, and, for the first time, not immaculately neat. She was human now.
Mr. Petersen took it upon himself to invite Alec to come with him.
“It will do you good, my boy,” he said.
So they entered the room together, together had their first glimpse of the newly-born little man. He was asleep, his red, wizened little face screwed up into a look of comical misery, his tiny dark-red claws stretched up. The nurse assured them that he was large and that he was healthy.
Minnie was lying flat on her back, with a long braid of hair over each shoulder, framing a very pale and grave face. She was exhausted and ill, but proudly victorious, aware that she had accomplished a masterly thing. Thus had she replied to all doubts or questions whatever that might arise within Mr. Petersen. She was the mother of his son; she had established a claim upon his heart and upon his conscience which he could never deny. He not only loved her, he reverenced her. A deep conviction, belonging to a somewhat old-fashioned brand of Socialism, of the “sacredness of motherhood,” lay in him. Minnie had heard a great deal of it from him. It made her more than ever conscious of what a remarkable and praiseworthy thing she had accomplished. She looked at the two men with a worn yet sublime smile.