She came in upon them like a whirlwind, as they sat at the dinner table, and at the sight of their familiar faces, she gave a sort of sob of relief, and flung herself into a chair. They looked at her, pulling off her torn old gloves, and they had, both of them, an illusion that it was entirely her house, her home, that they had nothing to say in it.
Her face was pale and worn, and bright with hysterical excitement. It didn’t occur to her that she was expected to explain her presence; she was preoccupied with some thought of her own. Suddenly she looked up, at Frances.
“He’s gone!” she cried. “He would go. Into the army. I thought” she broke into open sobbing, “I thought ... he was ... too thin ... but he left me a note ... to say they’ve taken him. Oh, poor old Lionel! Poor old darling!”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s so terribly pitiful!” she went on. “I never ... in all my life.... Oh, his arms are like little sticks....”
She turned fiercely on Mr. Petersen.
“The idea of his being in the army, while you sit at home, a big, hearty thing like you!” she cried, passionately. It was the same spirit which led so many women to press recruiting.
Mr. Petersen’s face turned scarlet. He cleared his throat, and answered at last, in his slow way:
“I don’t see” he began.
“Of course you don’t! You never would. You haven’t any spirit in you. You just want to sit at home and”
Frances intervened.
“I don’t think it’s quite your place to come here and abuse Mr. Petersen,” she said sternly.
“What have you got to do with it?” asked Minnie, “it’s none of your business, that I can see.”
She dried her eyes and sat up straighter.
“Where are the babies?” she asked.
“Asleep,” Frances answered.
Minnie got up and went toward the door, but Frances intercepted her.
“Let them alone!” she ordered.
Minnie stared at her.
“What do you mean! They’re my children.”
“They’re not! You’ve forfeited your right to them. You deserted them. You’ve disgraced them. I won’t ... I won’t let you disturb them!”
Minnie’s fine black eyes stared at her scornfully.
“They’re my children. I’ll do just as I think best about them. I’ve got on very well without consulting you so far, and I shan’t begin now.”
“Chris!” Frances appealed to Mr. Petersen, “Won’t you say something? You know she’s not fit to bring up children.”
“It takes an old maid to do that,” said Minnie.
That roused Mr. Petersen.
“Minnie,” he began, “it would be better—if you would consent....”
“I won’t consent to anything! I want my children, and I will have them. I’m going to take them now.”
“But—I have something to say about it,” he protested.
“You haven’t! Sandra’s not yours, and little Robert’s mine. I asked a lawyer. You’re not my husband. You haven’t any claim on him.”
Frances rose.
“Minnie,” she said, “listen to me!”
She looked like the goddess Athene, so handsome, so stern, so just.
“You must have some sort of conscience—some standard—something I can appeal to.... You’ve wronged me, you’ve wronged Mr. Petersen, in the cruelest way. You’ve brought shame and suffering on innocent people. You’ve thought only of yourself and your own desires, and had no mercy on anyone who stood in your way. And now you want to do something still worse. Just for your own selfish gratification, you want to take those poor little children away from people who are able and willing to do everything for them—honourable and decent people”
“I suppose you mean yourself,” said Minnie, “I suppose you and Chris intended to start housekeeping with my children. Well, you can’t!”
“If you love them, Minnie, you can’t drag them into poverty and”
“Oh, love, love, love!” cried Minnie impatiently. “What do you know about loving, anyway? When I love people, I fight for them. I’d die for them.... Or I’d murder. I’d do anything. I wouldn’t stop to reason and plan like you do. You couldn’t keep my babies away from me if you had an army of soldiers to help you.”
And she pushed by her sister and went upstairs.
They heard a sudden wild little shout.
“Oh, Mummy!” from Sandra. Then a number of sounds, Minnie walking about, opening bureau drawers, the creak of a rocking chair.
It tortured Mr. Petersen, brought back old days. He felt that if he went up now he would see Minnie in her horrible grey wrapper, with the baby in her arms, rocking away, just in the same way, with the gas turned low and Sandra sitting up in her crib. And then, when the baby was asleep, Minnie would come down, exhausted, sighing, but smiling too, and trail out into the kitchen, to look in the ice chest for something to eat. And then to sit on the arm of his chair and gossip.... He could not repress a groan.
“Oh, Minnie!” he whispered.
Frances looked at him with a pity not untinged with contempt. She knew he wasn’t thinking of the children at all.
“Chris!” she said, in a low voice.
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell her—that we’re married!”
He nodded assent.
They remained at the table, in silence. There was nothing to do, nothing to say, but to wait for Minnie’s next move.
Presently she came downstairs, carrying the baby and holding Sandra by the hand, all of them dressed for the street. Minnie’s eyes were red; evidently she had been crying up there.
“Good-bye, Chris,” she said, rather wistfully, “I’m sorry about all this.... But I had to do it, really, for Sandra’s sake. And I did make you happy, and comfortable, didn’t I?”
“Yes, yes!” he cried, and actually believed that she had. The pathos of the anxious little figure overwhelmed him.
“Minnie!” he cried. “Wait! Just a minute!”
She turned again.
“If—your—he has gone in to the army—what will you have to live on?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “I’ll get on somehow.”
“No! ... That can’t be.... For old times’ sake—let me help you—and the children. An allowance—a settlement of some sort....”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you, Chris dear,” she said, simply.
“If Frances will take the baby,” he suggested, “I’d like to speak to you in my office just a moment.”
So Frances sat in the dining-room, with the baby in her arms for the last time, holding Sandra’s little hand, forgotten and deserted, despoiled now of everything, while in the study Mr. Petersen wrote a generous cheque for Minnie.
She thought of the house in the suburbs, with the nursery and the playroom; even the new toys.
She thought of herself and Mr. Petersen married, for the sake of the children.
She thought of Minnie, who had carried off Lionel, and Lionel’s child, and Mr. Petersen’s child, and was now securing a supply of Mr. Petersen’s money.
She began to laugh heartily.
THE END