He woke up the next morning dizzy and sick, and quite obsessed by the question of food. Marriage and love were relatively unimportant. Not that he was hungry, at all, only dreadfully empty and weak, and frightened about his condition. He wondered if it were possible for a person of his class really to starve to death, whether his pride, and his love for Frankie were strong enough, if he could hold out, and not turn to Horace.
“What in God’s name can I do?” he asked himself. “Ten days before I have a penny! Ten days!”
His mind dwelt persistently on one of those cheap, white-tiled restaurants, crowded with people, places formerly despised. If only there were a quarter in some forgotten pocket!
He had nothing to read, not even a magazine. No one to speak to. Not an earthly thing to do. He lay down on his bed and dozed away hours in a half-stupor. He began to imagine that he was already starving.
The next morning a letter slid under his door, as he had expected. But it was not the hoped-for letter from Frankie; it was from Minnie, and it enclosed a ten dollar bill. She wrote as his grandmother might have written—spoke of the difficulties of a young man, a stranger in the city. “Repay me when you are able,” she said, and signed herself “Frankie’s sister.”
He was furious.
“I suppose she thought I was hinting at a loan when I told her I hadn’t a penny in my pockets,” he thought. “She has no more sensitiveness than a rhinoceros.”
But in the end, he kept the money, knowing he could pay it back in nine days. And wrote at once to Minnie, thanking her. He made up his mind that he would never, never face her again. He would return the money by letter, and she shouldn’t hear of him again until he was a successful man and able to marry Frankie. His attitude at this future time would be amused, tolerant, very superior. He was horribly ashamed of himself for taking her money; it poisoned every mouthful he ate. He didn’t like her anyway; he was afraid of her. Neither was he grateful. Instinct was warning him of a snare.
There was another note from her the next day.
“Dear Mr. Naylor: If possible, will you please come to tea this afternoon at four? I want particularly to see you. Mary Defoe.”
He wrote a curt reply, that he was too busy, then, thinking better of it, tore that up, and wrote another one, accepting.
He was annoyed with her and her persistence, but, after all, she was Frankie’s sister, and the arbiter of Frankie’s fate.
Punctually at four he presented himself at the front door of the dismal old house, and was admitted by a lean, elderly maid. She showed him into the same enormous sitting-room with shrouded furniture.
“Miss Defoe will be down in a minute,” she said, severely.
The place had a sort of chill magnificence which impressed him; he was fond of magnificence, anyway. Minnie increased in importance through being able to receive him in such an environment. He had been inclined to think her very ordinary, an opinion not to be held of the niece of such a drawing room.
It was the stillest house imaginable. Not a sound of any sort. He sat uneasily on a mammoth sofa, with nothing to hear, nothing to see but pictures muffled in netting, nothing that he cared to think about. His watch had gone long ago, and the marble clock on the marble mantelpiece had stopped....
At last there was a faint rustle overhead, and then the sound of very slow steps on the stairs, and in a minute Minnie entered, leading by the arm a frail little old woman in black silk, a nervous, pampered shadow of former elegance.
And this old lady remained in the room until Lionel went away. She was polite enough in her own peculiarly unpleasant way, and she evidently regarded his visit as a call upon herself, a compliment which she appreciated. Tea was served, very weak tea, too, with limp little biscuits; the old lady chattered banal and ill-humoured comments on news of the day, and at last the room began to grow dark, and Lionel took his leave.
She rose and held out a feeble old claw.
“Come again!” she said, and meant it, he knew. “We don’t see much company.”
He went away puzzled and annoyed. Why had Minnie sent for him? She had scarcely spoken a word to him, hadn’t given him a significant glance. He couldn’t understand, couldn’t guess at her object, but he felt quite sure that she had one, and that it was one he didn’t like.
Lucky for him he didn’t know her object, or see the sword suspended over his head. He had enough trouble as it was, poor fellow. When he got home, there was his eagerly expected letter from Frankie.
“My dear Lionel,” she wrote, “I see that you have evidently changed your mind, and that you consider our former plan wild and impracticable. No doubt you are right; at any rate I shan’t urge you or try to influence you. I am sure that anyone as prudent and cautious as you will get on in the world. I hope so, sincerely. Please look upon yourself as not bound in any way.
“Frances Defoe.”
He knew the answer to that letter—to take the first train, to hurry to her and take her in his arms, to tell her how he had longed for her and missed her. He read her hurt in every word, and it made him desperate. He swore to himself that somewhere and somehow he would get the money to go at once and marry her. Then he didn’t care what happened, even if they had to be separated, even if Frankie stayed with her grandmother for months while he tried to find work. He knew, absolutely knew, that there was no time to be lost.
He went off at once to Horace, but Horace and Julie had gone on a motor trip for ten days. Then he took a bold step. He telephoned to Minnie.
Her pleasant, troubled voice answered the telephone.
“Miss Defoe,” he said, “I need five dollars more, badly. Will you?”
“Wait!” she answered, and after a pause, in a lower voice, “At the same corner—at five.”
The poor idiot had made up his mind to throw himself on Minnie’s mercy, to confide in her, and he did.
“I can’t stand it!” he told her. “It’s too much—it’s breaking her heart. And it’s—too much for me. Sensible or not, it doesn’t matter. You’re a woman, you ought to understand. I—I beg you to help us. To—have pity. I ... I’m not much good at talking—but if you knew how I—care for Frankie, and what she is to me.... We—it’s not right, by Jove! It’s not right for us to be separated. I’m no good without her. I need her. If I have her with me, I’m sure I can amount to something. But not alone. I’m no good without her,” he repeated.
In the twilight he couldn’t see her face, but her voice, when she replied, was not unsympathetic.
“I’ll see,” she said, “I’ll think.”
“No!” he answered, with unusual decision, “Please decide now. I can’t wait. I can’t stand another night. If you’ll lend me five dollars more, I’ll go to her to-morrow morning.”
“I haven’t got it now. I don’t get my week’s salary until to-morrow.”
“And you’ll let me have it then?”
“I—oh, yes, I will!” she answered, with a sort of sob.
“You’re a brick—Minnie!” he cried, joyfully, and seized her warm little hand. “Sister Minnie! I won’t forget this!” And hastened off to send a telegram to Frankie.
“Coming to-morrow. Lionel.”
Minnie walked home very slowly. In the evenings she always played cards with the old lady from the time when she woke up from her after-dinner nap until eleven. This evening was just as usual. During the nap, which was never mentioned, Minnie sat looking over the morning paper, a decorous and sober little figure; then, when the querulous old voice suggested a game, she rose with well-paid cheerfulness, brought out the pack and the folding table, played conscientiously and amiably, led the old lady upstairs at the proper time, said “Good-night,” fetched her a glass of water, and then was free.
She retired to her own little room, locked the door after her, and stood still in the dark, with clenched hands.
“She shan’t have him!” she whispered. “I won’t give him up! I won’t! I won’t!”
Lionel didn’t suspect the effect his innocent grey eyes had had upon that heart, never before touched! But she had been fully aware, from the first time she had seen him. It was too startling and intense a feeling to be mistaken. She had made up her mind then. He was the one man on earth for her. She had never even fancied herself in love before, and never did again. It was her unique passion.
She didn’t deceive herself. She admitted that she intended to get Lionel away from Frankie by hook or by crook. Of course, being Minnie, she felt that it would be for his good and for Frankie’s good, and that she was doing it largely for their sakes. She and she alone was the infallible judge of what was best for everyone on earth. She had no misgivings on that score. Her only anxiety lay in her knowledge that Lionel was not at all attracted by her, and that, left to himself, he never would be. She wasn’t the sort of woman he liked.
Her original intention, when she had seen ample time ahead, had been to enlist old Mrs. Lounsbury on her side, to make everything very correct, very regular, in contrast to Frankie’s wildness. And then, later, to hold out prospects, all sorts of alluring prospects, of assistance from the old lady, of an unassailable “position” in their married life, of respectability and money, which she had seen that he coveted. For, like all women who can “manage” men, Minnie had an unerring flair for the weak point; that being the pivot upon which they may most easily be swung. She knew what she was doing when she asked Lionel to tea. She had first carefully prepared her aunt with stories, wholly fictitious, of his social standing and eligibility, and his affection for herself. She knew that he would appreciate the atmosphere of money and solidity there, and that it would reflect credit upon herself. The next step, already arranged with her approving aunt, was an invitation to dinner.
But that wouldn’t serve now, if he were going to be so impetuous. She would have to work quickly. If he saw Frankie again, or had many more letters from her, all would be lost. A desperate step was necessary, and she took it.