was thankful to escape from the house the next morning. After what a night! No sleep for anyone; even the baby had been awake and crying half a dozen times.
Minnie had opened her attack on Alec. Mr. Petersen heard her, hour after hour, raging, crying, pleading with him in his room. Time after time he had tried to go out, but she would spring in front of him and bar the door.
“You’ve got to listen to me!” she shrieked.
At last, very reluctantly, Mr. Petersen felt obliged to intervene. He knocked on the door two or three times unheard, for the storm was raging wildly. Then he turned the knob and walked in. Minnie was on her knees, clasping Alexander tightly, while he stood, white and cold, not even looking at her.
Mr. Petersen was shocked and for the first time angry at Minnie.
“Get up!” he commanded. “This is disgusting!”
She turned her face, blistered with tears, to him.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t let him go!” she cried, “Chris, for Heaven’s sake!”
He made the fatal mistake of trying to argue with her. He was quiet and reasonable, and she aped his manner to perfection. Argued with him, the distorted and plausible arguments of a madwoman, became quiet, scornful. She involved him in a maze, bewildered and confounded him, and made it more and more difficult for him to keep his temper.
Alec gave him sound advice.
“It’s no use talking to her,” he said. “She never listens.”
They all became violent and rude. Sandra waked up and came running in, barefooted, wide-eyed, pale, stood listening for a long time. Then the baby began to cry again and Minnie hurried to it, but when Alec tried to escape downstairs, she flew after him, baby in arms, and again barred his way.
An awful night! Mr. Petersen unlocked his office and sat down with a great sigh. Never suspecting the far more awful night that was drawing in upon him. The climax, which so strangely and regularly occurs in human affairs, the definite point of departure, of division between the old days and the new, was approaching. His doom drew near.
He had just begun to lose himself in his business papers when there was a rap at the door. It was too early for Miss Layne; he was rather surprised; he called out “Come in!” and the instrument of fate entered.
It was Frances.
He was astonished and pleased. He had always admired Frances. He brought forward a chair.
“Miss Defoe!” he exclaimed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you!”
“Five years, nearly,” she answered with a sigh and a smile. “But you haven’t changed a bit!”
She had, he thought; she had improved. She looked older; no longer a girl, but straighter, more vigorous, more nobly honest than ever. Her face was a little cold in its severe, composed beauty, but not at all hard. A woman who expected a great deal, but who also forgave a great deal. She was dressed very plainly but with distinction, with pride. He could see no sort of resemblance to Minnie.
“And where have you been all the while?” he asked.
“Out on the Coast. I went out as a doctor’s secretary. Then I helped him with some research work. He recommended me to other doctors, so I set up a little office of my own. For very special sort of work. Only medical. Compiling and revising and translating books and articles doctors wrote. I was doing very well. I’d got quite a reputation in my line.”
He admired her modest pride, her simple assumption of his interest in her affairs. He praised her enterprise.
“I like it. It’s been very interesting. And profitable. And I’ve learned a great deal. I’ve watched operations. I’ve even helped doctors in an unofficial way. Especially with children. And now I’ve come East again to see if I can’t get into the war somehow. I’m not a nurse, but I could train for special work. I’ve lots of letters to all sorts of people. I think I could be useful somewhere.”
“I should think so,” he said, thinking to himself that such a woman would be useful in any place. Their eyes met in a glance almost affectionate, a regard made up of memories of the old days of faithful work together, of their old respect and esteem.
“I wanted,” she said, with a smile, “to have another look at Brownsville Landing, and Mr. Petersen. I’ve always remembered you. I think, in the old days, I didn’t quite appreciate you, and I wanted—it’s sentimental, isn’t it—but before I went to Europe I wanted to come back and say thank you, for all the many, many kind things you did for us. I don’t think any of us realised Only now, after I know the world a little better, I’m able to judge you a little better.”