Invincible Minnie/Book 4/Chapter 28
Minnie had asked Lionel to stop at home the next day until he heard from her, and of course, he did so, simply darting out, once for breakfast, once for lunch.
He was very nervous for fear he’d miss the afternoon train to Brownsville Landing. Frankie would be expecting him, perhaps she’d meet the trains. He couldn’t bear the idea of her waiting disappointed, at the station. After that train at three, there wasn’t another until seven; he was sure she couldn’t manage that.
And still he was happy and full of hope, of Frankie’s fine spirit of adventurousness; he gloried in the rashness of the marriage, felt strong, masterful, able to cope with the world. Poor Lionel! Frail barrier against which the stream of Minnie’s life force was to hurl itself! He had but an hour more to remain upright, before he was swept down and submerged and laid flat forever in the mud. An hour more of manhood.
Three o’clock had passed, and he knew that day to be lost. It was five o’clock and he had just lighted the gas when there was a knock at his door, and he discovered Minnie herself in the dark hall.
He was surprised and a little shocked; wondered what the landlady would think. Still, of course, he had to ask her in, and in she came, and sat down in his one chair. He was obliged to sit on the bed, an informality very distressing to him. He didn’t like this sort of thing at all; it wasn’t correct, it wasn’t well-bred.
He waited and waited for her to speak, but she remained silent, pale and rigid. And no wonder, considering what was in her head!
“I’ve brought it!” she said.
“Thank you!” he said. “It’s awfully good of you. We’ll never forget it!”
She smiled constrainedly, but said nothing. Her eyes wandered about the mean, shabby room, with the dusty yellowish carpet on the floor, the narrow painted bureau covered with a torn towel, the iron bed with its one flat pillow, his smart little trunk, so out of place there. So intent was she that he fancied she was about to make some comment on the poverty of which he was ashamed. But she only said:
“I do wish I had a cup of tea! I’ve such a headache!”
“We can go out”
“Oh, couldn’t we have it here? Isn’t that a spirit lamp?”
“Yes,” he answered, reluctantly, “but I’ve no milk or sugar”
“I’m sure you can get them very near here.”
He could think of no polite reason for refusing, so he went out to buy what she told him, slipping in and out of the front door, in mortal terror lest the landlady should catch him and tell him ladies weren’t allowed in the gentlemen’s rooms. Why did Minnie do such an extraordinary, unnecessary thing?
When he got back, the spirit lamp was lighted and the little kettle beginning to hiss, while Minnie sat watching it. She looked very much at home. She had taken off her jacket and hat, and he fancied that her hair was better dressed than usual, that she was wearing a rather gayer blouse, in short, that she was “dressed up.”
“Now then!” she said, cheerfully, “aren’t we cozy?”
“Rather!” he answered, gallantly, and might have added, “Too cozy!”
He was like the innocent young heroine in a drama; he had a dim perception of something evil, he felt that he ought not to be there alone with Minnie.
The tea seemed to do her good, for she revived, and became quite animated, talked to him about Frances, their childhood, their schooldays, anything and everything. The friendly, disarming air, the classic second step of the seducer! He was amused by her chatter, but he didn’t lose his feeling of uneasiness. Because, in spite of her immeasurably respectable appearance
The clock struck seven and he felt obliged to protest.
“I say!” he cried, in pretended surprise, “seven o’clock! Shan’t we go out and—take a walk—have a bit of supper somewhere?”
“Oh, no,” said Minnie, “I’ll have to be going.”
She rose and picked up her hat. But did not put it on; at last put it down again and opened her worn little pocketbook.
“Here is the money, Mr. Naylor,” she said, and held out a bill to him.
Then, as he took it, suddenly she flung herself into the chair and buried her face in her hands.
“Oh!” she sobbed, “Oh! It’s too hard!”
He was frightened and disconcerted. He knew women were liable to such curious attacks, but he had never before witnessed one. It made him so sorry for her weakness and inferiority. Poor little thing! Poor emotional, unbalanced Woman!
“I say!” he said, “What is it? Please don’t cry!”
The huddled little figure didn’t reply, kept on weeping in a muffled sort of way.
“Please tell me!” he entreated. He went so far as to pat her shoulder, while he cast about for something to say or to do.
“Is it on account of Frankie?” he asked.
She raised a miserable, tear-stained face and looked straight at him.
“No!” she cried. “I—I thought I was able—to give you up—but oh, I can’t!”
“Give me up!” exclaimed the astonished Lionel.
Her great black eyes, their long lashes wet and heavy with tears, were fixed upon his face with solemn intensity.
“Yes!” she said, firmly.
“But—exactly what?” he stammered.
“I don’t care if you do know it,” she said.
He began to understand; he turned scarlet, he dared not look at her, and yet couldn’t take his eyes from her dark, desperate little face.
Suddenly she stretched up her arms to him, like a child.
“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, in such a pitiful voice that he couldn’t withstand her. She clung to him, sobbing, trembling, her head buried in his coat.
“Oh, Lionel, I love you so!”
He was immeasurably moved. He put an arm about her and very gently stroked her hair.
“Don’t cry!” he said. “Poor little girl! Don’t cry!”
To save his life he couldn’t have kept the least little trace of condescension out of his tone. He had never been made love to before; he felt that he hadn’t quite realised his own charm. He felt very, very kindly toward poor Minnie, unhappy victim to his fascination. An absolutely hopeless passion; she had to be made to see that, in the most humane way possible. He kept on patting her shoulder.
“Lionel!” she said, looking up again with those really magnificent dark eyes, “Please—you won’t despise me, will you? I can’t—can’t help it! I never—in all my life!”
“Of course I don’t despise you! I think you’re a—I think you’re—a fine woman,” he said, ineptly. “Come now! Don’t cry, my dear girl! You’ll make yourself ill, you know.”
As gently as possible he disengaged her clinging arms and made her sit down in the chair again, then he dipped a towel in cold water and wiped her swollen eyes. He had not as yet had time to realise the awkwardness of this affair; he was, to tell the truth, just a little elated. Supermanly.
He talked to her soothingly until she had stopped crying, then:
“It’s getting late,” he said, “we’d really better be”
She jumped up again, so violently that her dishevelled hair came down and fell over her shoulders. She seized him by the wrist.
“I won’t go!” she cried.
And caught him round the neck and strained him to her, kissing him wildly.
But why try to tell of all that—the eternal wiles of a passionate woman? He had no weapon against her. He had his love for Frankie, but this was not love. He had his ideas of honour, he was fastidious, he was, after a fashion, somewhat austere. But his safety, and the safety of all his sex—lay only in avoiding the irresistible. And of all the allurements in the world, there is none to compare with the abandon of the respectable woman.
Poor devil! Poor devil!