This is the story Lionel would have told, if he could. But, poor devil, he was as incapable of explaining himself as if he had been a creature from another planet. Even the few extenuating circumstances of his case he was never able to bring forward. He had always taken pride in his reticence, in concealing his sentiments. And from having lain ignored so long, they had grown unfamiliar to him, he didn’t know them when they came forth. Didn’t actually recognise his own feelings, past or present. He saw only that he was guilty; he accepted that sentence, not pleading his own weakness even to himself.
Poor devil! Poor devil! He never even knew that he had been the innocent victim of a most cruel seduction.
His martyrdom had begun on New Year’s Day, when he had gone to meet Frankie’s train, and Frankie had not come. He had returned for the next, two hours later, in vain, and for all the others, until late at night. He had eaten a wretched little supper in a cheap restaurant nearby and gone home to bed. He was stunned; he couldn’t believe in his misfortune.
Next morning a telegram came.
“Cannot return. Writing. Frankie.”
He hadn’t a penny. He sat in his room all day waiting for the letter, which reached him in the last mail that evening.
“My dearest boy,” she wrote, “the most dreadful thing has happened. My sister has gone away and of course I can’t leave Grandma alone and helpless. I am trying my best to think of some plan, but oh, Lionel, I am so worried about you! I enclose five dollars, which is all I have. I can’t imagine how you will make out. I have written a special delivery to Miss Eppendorfer to send me my salary, and I will forward it to you the instant it comes. My dear old boy! This is so miserable! Minnie has found some sort of place for herself, and says she is going to stay there for a year. I am thinking and thinking what I can do. Take care of yourself, my dear.
“Frankie.
“P.S. Minnie is at my aunt Mrs. Lounsbury’s, 226 Lenover Street, Brooklyn. You might go to see her and see if you can persuade her to come home. I don’t think it will do the least good, but it won’t do any harm to try.”
He went that very evening, used Frankie’s five dollars for a taxi, in order to make a good impression. It was a raw, wet night, fit for his desperate mood. He was determined to force the beastly, selfish sister to release his Frankie.
The taxi went across the bridge, over the mystical river, shrouded in fog, and turned into an avenue where trolleys crashed by and elevated trains thundered overhead, where fruit stalls did a brisk business with swarthy foreigners; a slum, he called it. He watched from the window in vain to find any place possible for an aunt of Frankie’s to inhabit. Then abruptly the driver swung round a corner, and left the unsavoury turmoil for a dark and quiet street, paved with cobblestones. A wind was blowing from the nearby river, bringing a dreary din of horns and whistles; there was no other sound, no traffic, no footsteps.
“No. 226,” said the driver. “Here you are!”
He got out, paid the fare with his last bill on earth, and climbed the steep flight of steps to the front door. There was an old-fashioned bell to be pulled; he heard it jangle inside. He waited in the wretched drizzle a long time, then rang again. The house was quite dark and the street too; the blurred lamps showed nothing but glistening cobblestones and pavement, and one stealthy cat slinking past. He shivered and sighed.
At last the door was opened and a head peered out cautiously.
“Well?” enquired a feminine voice.
“May I see Miss Defoe?” he asked. “It’s Mr. Naylor.”
“Come in!” said the voice.
He entered a narrow hall, lighted by a “Turkish” lamp, a pierced iron sort of thing, in which a feeble jet of gas burned. His guide turned to the right and lighted another gas jet, revealing a vast drawing-room, all the furniture shrouded in covers.
“Sit down,” she said, pleasantly. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long, but we go to bed very early, and the servants can’t hear the bell, up on the third floor.”
He asked again for Miss Defoe; he had no interest in anything else.
“I’m Miss Defoe,” said she. “What can I do for you?”
He scarcely looked at her.
“I’ve come to see” he said, “to try to influence you if possible to”
“I suppose to go back and let Frankie come to the city again,” she interposed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”
“I don’t think you realised what you were doing,” he said. “If you had, you wouldn’t—you couldn’t—have cut us off this way, without any warning. It was—absolutely inhuman. Did you know that your sister and I intended to be married?”
“She mentioned it,” said Minnie.
Her calmness infuriated him.
“Let me tell you!” he cried, “that I won’t submit to this. I’m going out there on Sunday and I shall try to persuade her to marry me at once.”
“She can’t. She can’t leave Grandma.”
“She’s not called upon to sacrifice her entire life to her grandmother, is she?”
“No,” said Minnie slowly.
She was thinking very hard.
Lionel changed his tone.
“I say! Miss Defoe! Please try to realise! You’re—I’m sure you don’t want to separate us You don’t want to make your sister suffer. She’s always spoken so affectionately of you. You know she wouldn’t treat you this way. Let her come back and marry me, and as soon as I’m on my feet a bit, I’ll do anything for you—anything you like.”
Minnie did not answer, or raise her eyes. She was still thinking. It was intolerable for her to be looked upon as heartless and selfish by this very nice young man. He pleased, he charmed her; she determined to appear well in his eyes. She was always inordinately sensitive to blame; it was vital to her to be admired by everyone. She didn’t so much intend to lie, as to idealise herself, to show him the Minnie she felt he would respect.
She found her note, with her unerring instinct.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, hesitatingly, “but I must be frank. You see, Mr. Naylor, Frankie’s nothing but a child. She’s so impulsive and unreasoning. She’s not practical like I am. That’s the reason I had to do as I did. I couldn’t stop her any other way.”
“Do you mean you—did this on purpose?”
“Why, of course. She told me ... forgive me for mentioning it ... how very poor you were—and I couldn’t let her make such a marriage. Not that way, so rashly—and a man we’d never seen. She will never listen to reason. I begged her to wait, even a little while; I didn’t want her to throw herself away. The only way was to make her a sort of prisoner, as I did. Aunt Irene had said ages ago that I could come here as her companion any time I wanted, so I packed up my things and went off at once. Then I intended to see you and—find out something about you.”
“Frankie doesn’t know you came for that reason—to prevent her marrying me,” he said, in a crestfallen way.
“I suppose not; she’s very hasty in her judgments. I suppose she puts it all down to selfishness and hard-heartedness. It doesn’t matter though, so long as I’ve saved her.”
He had not a word to say. Minnie had accomplished her favourite piece of magic, had made her opponent feel utterly guilty, had quite put him in the wrong. He was ready to believe that Frankie had been “saved” from a penniless and highly undesirable suitor.
“You don’t know what Frankie is to me,” said Minnie, improving as she went on, “there’s nothing—nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I do wish she didn’t misjudge me so. She’ll never know how hard it is for me, how I hated to leave home. I’m not like her—adventurous and enterprising. I was happy there on the farm, with the animals. And Grandma,” she added hastily.
“Well, you see,” said Lionel, weakly. “You didn’t explain to her. How could she help”
“How could I explain!” she answered, reproachfully. “Only think how self-righteous and disgusting it would have sounded. Besides, she wouldn’t have believed me. And she would have thought that she knew what was best for herself. It would only have made more trouble.”
Lionel was no longer indignant and resolute; he was becoming more and more uncertain of himself, more and more apologetic.
“But,” he protested, “now we can’t see each other at all. It’s not only a question of getting married at once; it means that we’re to be entirely separated. Don’t you think that’s unnecessarily harsh?”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go out to see her.”
He flushed.
“Not very well,” he said; “at the present time, I’m rather—hard up.”
“I should be glad to lend” Minnie began, but he frowned.
“Thanks, no.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Minnie, “that you haven’t even the train fare to Brownsville Landing?” Her tone was blunt but kindly; quite that of an elder sister. “And you’re talking of marriage, Mr. Naylor!”
“I have a small income,” he protested, “only the next quarter’s not due just yet.”
Minnie smiled her rare smile, and it warmed his heart. A smile so simple, so good-natured, so illuminating her dark and serious face.
“I’m afraid you don’t manage very well,” she began, when a very shrill old voice interrupted her, calling from the top of the stairs.
“Minnie! Minnie! What’s all this?”
“I’ll have to go,” said Minnie, with a sigh, and held out her hand. “Mr. Naylor, I’d like to say a great deal more. You mustn’t look on me as your enemy by any means! Quite the contrary. If you and Frankie will trust to me a little—I could meet you to-morrow afternoon, on the downtown corner, about four. I’d like to talk to you more fully.”
He had no chance to answer, for she had hurried from the room; as he let himself out of the front door, he saw her running up the stairs to the disagreeable old voice.
Then he went out into the fog again, unreasonably comforted, unreasonably hopeful.
Of course he was waiting for Minnie the next day as she had appointed. She was late, as she always was, and Lionel had grown a little impatient.
He had much he wanted to say, a number of arguments he had arranged during the night. He couldn’t remember Minnie very well, but he had gained a vague impression that she was a kindly, pleasant little body, a bit meddlesome and without distinction, but nice. He felt that he could manage her. She had smiled very good-humouredly. He was far from despairing.
But he couldn’t help remembering so many other times when he had been waiting for his own dear girl, bright, brave old Frankie! Every memory of her was a pain; he could not endure to think of their parting, and her face, so hopeful, so full of tender anxiety for him. He longed so for her, for the support of her love and her courage. No one else would do, no other voice console him.
At last he saw Minnie coming, a queer, dowdy little figure in black, hurrying toward him with short, bobbing steps.
“I’m sorry!” she said, breathlessly, “but it’s not easy for me to get away.... Shall we walk? There are nice quiet streets about here.”
“Just as you please,” he answered. Some of his hopefulness had left him after the first proper daylight look at her. Her appearance was so discouragingly adult and reasonable; so altogether foreign to romance. She was not smiling either.
He began resolutely.
“Miss Defoe, I don’t think you quite understand the”
“Oh, I do!” she assured him, earnestly. “Indeed I do! I’ve thought of nothing else since I heard of it. Mr. Naylor, I want to help you and Frankie. I want you both to be happy. But I don’t—I can’t think it wise for you to marry just now. I don’t in the least want to separate you entirely. That would be cruel. I only want Frankie to wait until you are—more—better....”
“I understand.”
“I wish very much you’d let me lend you enough to go out and see her”
“Miss Defoe!” he said sternly, “I said before I can’t listen to that.”
She laid her hand on his arm and looked up into his face with a troubled frown.
“Mr. Naylor! It’s just as Frankie’s sister I’m speaking.... It’s only because I want to understand. I’m practical, much more so than Frankie. Won’t you please tell me just how—just what your income is—what your prospects are?”
She watched his face.
“Please don’t resent it,” she said. “It’s not curiosity!”
“I’m sure” he answered, with vague politeness. But nevertheless he did resent it; that was Frankie’s business and his business, and not Minnie’s. She held them both in her power, however, and he was obliged to answer her.
“I’ve about five hundred dollars a year,” he said stiffly, “that’s all. I’m looking about for a job of some sort.”
“What business have you been in?”
“None. Except for a few weeks with my brother.”
“Can’t he help you?”
“No.... Not exactly. We’re not on good terms.”
“That’s too bad! What do you expect to find? What sort of job?”
“I don’t know. Frankie used to suggest things. She knew the country better than I, of course.”
“Poor Frankie! And that’s what you were counting on—some sort of work!”
She sighed.
“I’m sorry for you. You don’t know the trouble you’ll have.”
He was nettled, as she meant him to be. Her intention was to make him feel a fool, to show him the utter folly of Frankie’s ideas. He could not bring himself to tell her that Frankie had intended to keep her own position, he was ashamed of that. He felt that Minnie despised him, and he didn’t blame her.
He thrust his hands into his empty pockets, and silently cursed the universe—and Minnie. He hadn’t even money for his dinner. Not a sou. And no Frankie to advise him. He had a sudden terrible feeling of desolation.
“Oh, Lord!” he groaned.
“What is it?” asked Minnie.
“I suppose ... I haven’t any right to think of Frankie. I suppose—if I let her alone, she’ll forget me, and make a better match out there.”
Minnie knew what the matrimonial prospects were in Brownsville Landing; still she looked grave.
“One can never tell,” she said. “Still, Mr. Naylor, I certainly shouldn’t give up hope if I were you. I’d only think of the marriage as postponed. Until you’re doing—better.”
“That’s all very well. But to be on the point of marrying a girl like Frankie, and then to lose her, for an indefinite length of time—it’s not easy.”
“But she’s worth waiting for!” cried Minnie, like a good sister.
“Yes,” he answered, bitterly, “but I’m not. Look at me! I haven’t a penny in my pocket, as I stand here. Not much better than a beggar.”
It was his old black depression, which he had grown accustomed to having assuaged by Frances. And now there was no Frances, and no encouraging words.
They had been strolling through moribund streets for some time, and were now back at the corner where they had met.
Minnie held out her hand, in a shabby glove that Frankie could not have worn.
“Good night!” she said, “and please give me your address. I want to think things over, seriously. You’ll hear from me very soon.... And in the meantime, won’t you write to Frankie? Tell her all I’ve said. Perhaps she’ll listen to you.”
He went back to his room completely crushed. He was a fool, Frankie was a misguided and romantic girl; there was no light in the world. They would never, never be able to marry. He sat down and wrote as Minnie had suggested.
Frankie, reading the letter, had no way of knowing how he felt, writing it. She couldn’t see him, or read his heart, and the very deepest love gives no key to the beloved’s mystery. It was a genuine act of self-sacrifice on his part. He felt it his duty to point out all the drawbacks and penalties of such a marriage, as seen through the eyes of Minnie and the world; all the old obstacles she had so gallantly disdained, and a host of new ones, born of his own despondency and humiliation, and of his lack of food. She could read in it only reluctance and coldness. It hurt her beyond measure.