Two years previously Mr. Petersen had arrived in Brownsville Landing and had rented an office in the most up-to-date building there was, putting up a modest sign, “Christian Petersen, Lawyer.” The other lawyers, who announced themselves LL.D’s, laughed at his sign, but all the same, in spite of it, or perhaps because of its old-fashioned simplicity, he attracted clients from the beginning. People liked him; he was careful, polite and he knew his business. Although a foreigner, he was not offensively eccentric or ridiculous. There were one or two little things, such as riding a saddle horse, and wearing breeches and leggins, which were not approved of, nor was his polite avoidance of any social relations. Still, he was always friendly and antagonised no one.
After six months of legal practice, he branched out unexpectedly. A new sign appeared under the old one: “Real Estate.” Now he began making money in earnest. The town was growing, new factories were building, and he knew how to take advantage of the growth.
It was a horrible, squalid little town, too near the city for any but the pettiest of retail trade to flourish, too far for any influence of urbanity. It was technically on the Hudson River, but as a matter of fact, the river bank was used exclusively for commercial purposes, freight yards and so on, and the town itself lay in a little hollow, which was stiflingly hot all summer long. There were the old people, whose families had lived there for generations, who had old Colonial houses and furniture; they looked with alarm and hostility upon the new element, the workers in the mills, the factories, the brick yards, this foreign-born, incomprehensible rabble, which was, nevertheless, the life blood of the town, which sustained three savings banks and fourteen saloons, which lay dead drunk by the roadsides, and crowded the public library. Then there were “new people,” factory managers, and their like, who were respectable and well-to-do, but not “quite”.... And with all these people Mr. Petersen was perfectly at home, buying, selling, renting, and arranging for them all.
Before long a third sign appeared: “Contractor.” And in this capacity he had perhaps his greatest success. He began with the building of some little cottages for the workers in a cotton mill, and he was so excellent and painstaking and experienced a supervisor that his fame spread rapidly. He explained with simplicity that as a boy in the “old country” he had been apprenticed to a builder. And although a lawyer, he was not at all ashamed of this; he was, on the contrary, quite proud of his thorough knowledge of the trade.
He was a Swede, son of a poor man, and self-educated, but there were few people in the town who spoke English as well as he did, in spite of a singing drawl and an indefinably exotic note.
He was sitting, this summer morning, at his desk, in his shirt-sleeves, reading a contract with twofold attention, once as a lawyer, once as a builder. His door was open, and when someone knocked, he called out, “Come in!” without turning his head. He expected to be spoken to, and when he wasn’t, he looked up to see who could be there, waiting in silence. And saw a most splendid young creature, tall, broad-shouldered, with a healthy sunburned face of vivid colouring and severely perfect features, eager, vigorous, yet full of a fine young dignity.
He rose at once and put on his coat.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, with his invariable politeness.
The girl’s brown face flushed, but she answered without hesitation.
“I’m Frances Defoe—Mrs. Defoe’s granddaughter, you know. My sister told me how nice you’d been about—Grandma and the rent, so I thought perhaps you’d be good enough to—oh, to give me a little advice.”
“Please sit down,” he said cheerfully. “Now!”
“I want something to do, work of some sort. I heard that you were the most progressive man in the village, so I thought you’d be the best one to consult.”
He was pleased and embarrassed by the compliment, which he knew to be merited.
“I don’t suppose,” she went on, in her clear, somewhat imperious voice, “that there’s much opportunity here, is there?”
He had found opportunities enough; still he answered, no, not many, but that perhaps
“Have you had any sort of experience?” he asked.
She said no; but that she’d studied a lot and was good at mathematics and figures in general, and knew something of French and German.
“And I can type a little,” she added. “I used to do my essays and things on a typewriter at college.”
“Fine!” said Mr. Petersen. “Now, let’s see where that would fit in.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, thinking in his slow and prudent fashion.
At last he brought his glance back to the girl.
“If you’d care for it,” he remarked, “there’s an opening here. I need a young lady to help me, to be in the office while I’m out, to answer the telephone and so forth. It’s not much of a place—not more than eight dollars a week to begin”
He paused.
“If it would suit you”
“Oh, yes!” she cried. “If you think I’d do!”
He smiled; he had sufficient imagination to comprehend the thrill of a first job.
“Suppose we try then,” he said. “Let’s see.... This is Friday. Next Monday at nine, Miss Defoe.”
She gave him a bright, a grateful smile, and got up, ready to go.
“I’m awfully glad to get such a chance,” she said. “I hope I’ll be satisfactory.”
Mr. Petersen also rose.
“Mrs. Defoe quite well?” he enquired.
“Yes; at least she says so. She never complains.”
“And—I believe it was your sister I spoke to”
“Minnie? Oh, she’s always well,” she answered, carelessly, and with still another glowing smile, went off, elated.
Undoubtedly she was the handsome one—a striking figure. But somehow, for him, at any rate, lacking the peculiar charm of her plainer sister; that sober and matronly young creature in the little apron.
He felt a most Quixotic interest in both of the “young orphans.” He would have done a very great deal for them. In fact, he did....
He was surprised and disappointed when she didn’t appear on Monday morning. At half past ten he gave her up and went out about some business, reflecting upon the instability of women. He came back in half an hour, and had just sat down at his desk when she entered, terribly flushed and dusty. Her expression was defiant, but her voice suspiciously uncertain.
“I’m very sorry to be so late,” she said. “It won’t happen again. I had to walk, and I missed the way. But I’ll arrange better after this.”
To hide his own distress and hers, he promptly gave her something to type—he didn’t care what—and sat down at his own desk, where he pretended to work. But he knew, without venturing to turn his head, that she was stealthily wiping her eyes, and he was sure there had been some serious trouble at home. A five-mile walk along that dusty road, on an August day! Poor girl!
There had indeed been a classic and unforgettable encounter, ending in a drawn battle. She couldn’t get it out of her head, no matter how she tried to concentrate her attention on this new work.
In the first place, her sister and her grandmother had both protested passionately against her plan as soon as they heard of it. She had gone home triumphantly to tell them that she had a “job” at eight dollars a week, in Mr. Petersen’s office.
“Why, child!” cried the old lady, affronted. “What an idea!”
She was really shocked. A Defoe working for a Petersen!
Minnie, too, was shocked; they both argued, reasoned and expostulated, but to no avail. Then Minnie, to the point:
“How do you expect to get there, Frankie?”
Her sister was slightly crestfallen.
“I thought you’d drive me in,” she admitted, “I’d pay you for it.”
“Thank you!” said Minnie, coldly. “But I couldn’t possibly. At that time in the morning, with all the work to be done.”
“Very well,” said Frankie, “I’ll walk.”
She was confident that when the time came, Minnie would yield, Minnie who was so kind-hearted, so self-sacrificing. And she couldn’t believe it when Monday morning actually came, and she remained obdurate.
“I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t,” she repeated. “I don’t approve of your working for that man, and I certainly shan’t help you in any way.”
Frances had no idea how to harness the horse; she was at her sister’s mercy, absolutely.
“Minnie, don’t be such a beast! And a prig. You’re not my nurse, you know. I’m old enough to decide for myself.”
“Decide everything you like,” Minnie replied, “but I shan’t help you in such a nasty, undignified affair. I can’t stop you. Why don’t you walk? You said you would.”
Frances looked at her with blazing scorn.
“You darned little hypocrite!” she cried. “Very well, I will walk, if it takes me all day.”
She wasn’t even sure of the way. She strode doggedly along in the dust and the scorching sun, furious and defiant, for more than two hours.
“I’ll walk back and forth every day,” she said to herself, “if it kills me. I won’t give in to her. She always gets her own way. Not this time, though. I’ll wait till I get my first pay, and then I’ll hire someone. I won’t give up this job!”
Twelve o’clock came.
“You’re a stranger here,” said Mr. Petersen, “perhaps you don’t know where to go for lunch. If you’d do me the honour, this first day”
She was not quite sure what was the proper course for a business woman, but she knew that Mr. Petersen was absolutely “all right,” and to be trusted, so she accepted, and went up the street to the Eagle House with him.
The Eagle House was a fly-blown and extraordinarily dingy hotel patronised by travelling salesmen; the food was horrible but the atmosphere impeccably respectable. Frances was delighted with it. Never before had she felt so adult, so independent. She was sure that Mr. Petersen took her seriously, judged her upon her merits as an individual and not as a Defoe or as a young girl—not as a female at all. She liked him! She remembered what Minnie had said about him and rejected it all. “Common,” “presumptuous,” “thick-skinned”; snobbish nonsense, all that!
They walked back to the office and spent a very agreeable afternoon there. He explained the work to her, and was pleased by the quickness with which she grasped his explanations. He saw that she would soon be really very useful. She was not only intelligent and ambitious, but she had that remarkable feminine loyalty, that willingness to use all her powers in behalf of some one else, that is the curse and the glory of her sex. She never viewed Mr. Petersen as an ambitious young man would have done, as a stepping stone in her own career; she was genuinely concerned with how she could help Mr. Petersen with Mr. Petersen’s business.
Five o’clock came very soon, she thought. Mr. Petersen looked at the clock and closed his desk.
“Closing time!” he said cheerfully, “I hope your first day in business hasn’t”
He stopped short because her face had changed so suddenly. She turned pale as he was speaking.
“Oh!” she said, with a gasp.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, anxiously. “Are you ill?”
“No—only—I’d forgotten.... Is there a short cut?”
Even her fine courage faltered at the prospect of once more walking those five dusty miles; it really appalled her. Yet, with a quite empty pocketbook, what could she do?
“A short cut?” he repeated, puzzled. “But—you don’t mean to say you expect to walk home?”
“I’ve got to!”
“Wait a bit!... I’ve a nice little trap in my stable. I’ll be back in ten minutes to fetch you. No; I shan’t listen to you. It’s out of the question, walking back.”
She was so relieved. She climbed into his nice little trap, behind his brisk little mare and they set off smartly. Of course, Mr. Petersen did look undeniably like a coachman, with his back like a ramrod and his red neck and his huge hands holding the reins so very correctly.... But what does it matter? “He’s a gentleman, if there ever was one,” she told herself. “He’s a dear!”
They had not gone half the distance, when whom should they meet but Minnie, in the ramshackle buggy, with the silly old horse. Her eyes were red and her expression uncertain.
“Frankie!” she cried, “I’ve been so worried! Come right in here!”
She smiled a wan greeting at Mr. Petersen.
“I didn’t think she’d really do it,” she said. “I thought she’d turn back. And when I realised that she’d really gone, all that long way You poor old Frankie!”
With her sister established by her side, she turned again to Mr. Petersen.
“Well!” she said. “We’ll have to give in. And let her go. No matter how much we miss her.”
Which gave him the impression that the objection to Frankie’s enterprise was solely one of sentiment. An impression altogether false, but then, he didn’t really know any of the Defoes or their principles. It never occurred to him that it was disgraceful and shameful to work in his office.
He looked after the sisters with a kindliness which had now become almost affection, and he thought what a loving, unreasonable little soul Minnie was. Couldn’t bear her sister out of her sight! A thorough woman, she was!