# Invincible Minnie/Book 4/Chapter 29

pp. 258–263.
Horace was in his private office, not at all busy, when his brother came in. He might, if he had been a child of nature, have jumped up and cried out that the light of his life had returned, but instead he made a decent effort to conceal his delight.
“Well!” he said, questioningly.
“Well!” said Lionel, with just his old smile.
Horace melted.
“So you’ve thought better of it, eh? Find you haven’t many friends who’ll do for you what——”
“The usual thing,” said Lionel, with a luxurious feeling of sinking down on a feather bed, of completely throwing himself upon someone else. “I’m in a mess, and I want your help.”
This pleased Horace beyond measure.
“Debts?” he asked, trying to frown.
“No—not entirely.... Fact is, old boy, I’m married!”
“By Jove! And that independent young lady’s willing to come round now, is she? Wouldn’t let you take anything from me, I remember. What is it now? Baby?”
“Presently. But, I say, Horace, it’s not that one.”
“Good God!” cried Horace, in amazement. “Another one!”
“Her sister.... I—er—it’s hard to explain....”
“She was a pretty girl,” said Horace, “I thought she’d suit you very well.”
Lionel’s face had become very red. It was undoubtedly difficult to explain, and yet he wanted terribly to tell it all to someone, to hear another person’s comment, to be told definitely whether he was a natural man or a cad. Honestly he didn’t know. There were some incidents that absolutely couldn’t be mentioned. And yet, if they were omitted, the story would be unintelligible.
“I’ll have to—you’ll have to assure me—give me your word you’ll never mention this—— Especially to Julie. I’m only telling you because I want you to—understand the whole thing....”
He was very anxious, above all, to remove any impression that he was fickle, unstable.
“You see,” he began, “I—Frances and I were separated. More or less by her sister. That is, her sister thought it wasn’t a good match for Frankie, so she prevented it. She explained it all to me, perfectly frankly. She knows Frankie so well, you see. Knew she couldn’t be happy with me. So she ... explained it all. Of course, I had to see her several times, to talk it over, and so forth. And—I—really, this is hard to tell, you know, without seeming—— She—the sister—took a sort of fancy to me. I didn’t—hadn’t any idea of such a thing.... I asked her to lend me some money so that I could go out to see Frankie—and—she brought it over to me, in my room....”
“Why?” enquired Horace, “What made her come to your room?”
“Well—more or less, to talk about Frankie.... And—in fact, she ... gave herself away, you know.... I really can’t explain very well, old boy, but—I rather lost my head ... and—she stayed.”
“Phew!” said Horace.
“So,” said Lionel, and grew very red again, “Well, in fact—what else could I do? We took a furnished flat—and we weren’t going to say anything about it for a bit—and then this baby—— So we were married yesterday.”
Horace was looking unusually grave. There were things about this affair he didn’t like.
“You’re sure it wasn’t a trap? It looks mighty queer, my boy.”
Lionel laughed.
“I wish you knew Minnie,” he said. “Then you’d never think such a thing. She’s the most naïve, simple little soul——”
“But she should not have stopped there with you. She must have known she was forcing you into a marriage. My boy.... It’s a bad business. How old is she?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Old enough to understand all that. My boy, I know you fairly well. I’d take an oath,” he said solemnly, “that you wouldn’t ‘lose your head,’ as you put it, and take advantage of a respectable young woman unless you were given encouragement—an extraordinary amount of encouragement. Am I right?”
Lionel was not able to be properly indignant.
“I’ll admit,” he said, still very red, “that she’s—too fond of me. Too much faith in me.... But, Horace, old man, you mustn’t misunderstand her. She’s the best little woman on earth. Absolutely. An angel. Never complains. Never finds fault. There she is, all day long, shut up in that beastly little flat, while I’m hunting a job. No clothes, no amusements. Especially hard on her now.”
He was rather surprised at the look he saw on his brother’s face, a compassion so deep, so comprehending.
For Horace was quite certain that Lionel had been trapped, had been the dupe of a woman, whether loving or scheming, it mattered little. Perhaps she could be bought off—a divorce arranged, or something of that sort.
“Well, old chap!” he said, “What can I do for you? How can I help you?”
“That’s what I came to see you about. Fact is, Minnie’s longing to be in the country. Doctor says it would do her no end of good. I thought perhaps you’d finance a little house, lend me a bit, you know, or take a mortgage, or whatever it is they do.”
Horace agreed at once. Lionel proceeded to the next point.
“And I wish you’d come home with me and see Minnie,” he said, “I’d like you to talk it over with her. She has very practical ideas. Can you manage it?”
Horace looked at his watch and said he could. There was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to see Minnie. He believed that after even the briefest interview, he would know how she was to be got rid of, and Lionel saved. He had gained an impression of her as a dangerous and unscrupulous woman, who could do Lionel nothing but harm.
An impression never effaced, although she was quite a different sort of person from the adventuress he had pictured. He sat talking to her for an hour or more, asking friendly questions. Minnie herself fancied that her domesticity, her womanliness were pleasing him, that he was reflecting upon the good Lionel would derive from this match. Whereas! He was, after all, the same Horace who had chosen for his wife a flamboyant and radiant beauty, the Horace who had for years been more than tolerant of his wastrel brother’s follies and caprices. He was a man with a fanatic love for charm and distinction and beauty, there could have been no one to whom Minnie’s sober dowdiness would have made less appeal. His pity for Lionel increased every minute, and he felt for Minnie something as near hatred as his kindly nature allowed.
He said he was going to walk home, and Lionel offered to accompany him part of the way.
“What do you think of her now?” he asked, anxiously, as they came out into the dusky street.
“A very nice little woman,” Horace answered. He could not force himself to say more. Pain and disappointment seized him by the throat. Lionel in that dingy flat, with that sallow, complacent woman who talked about growing vegetables in the suburbs. The sort of woman inevitably to grow fat. Shifty, too. Horace had had his experiences with women, there was a quality in this one not at all unknown to him.
Lionel too fell silent. He was wondering just what he thought himself. He went back to the beginning; he was able to remember everything, every detail, and still it wasn’t clear—
II
It wasn’t clear how he, the lover of Frankie, could have so conducted himself with Minnie. And why he felt so little remorse or shame or even regret?
He fancied that it must be because he loved Minnie. In spite of thirty years in the world, he was still so sentimental, so ignorant, that he had no comprehension of the base and sensual passion which had overwhelmed him. Minnie was his wife; a fellow couldn’t feel that way toward his wife. He was obliged to call it love. He couldn’t imagine that Minnie, so serious and sensible, Minnie who didn’t even take much interest in how she dressed her hair, could be just as carnal, as gross, as any scarlet woman. He couldn’t see, in all her endless plans for his “comfort,” the hidden snare, the net that bound him closer. She thought of his food, his tobacco, that his bed should be comfortable, his linen mended. This ignorant and unbeautiful Circe was not content with his metamorphosis; the wretched swine must be taught to be more swinish.
He thought he was happy. She was very loving, very cheerful, inordinately devoted. There was a sort of joy in coming back to a home of his own after a day’s futile search for something to do, no matter if the home were a furnished flat daily growing dirtier and dustier. He enjoyed the bright welcome and her soothing interest in his adventures. She always agreed with him, always approved of what he did.
Her condition touched him, too. He felt that she had given up everything for him, had sacrificed herself with a splendid ardour. He believed that he should, and did, admire all this, that there was something noble in that greedy violence, that reckless seizure of what she desired.
She had been aware of the great advantage she had obtained from not being married. It made her more pathetic, more helpless. He had suggested it more than once, but she only cried and said she was ashamed.
“I know you despise me,” she insisted.
“But, dearest, I don’t! I honour you!” he always answered.
At last she tearfully confided her “secret” to him, and agreed to be married at once. She pretended to be glad, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t enough imagination to love an unseen child, and she certainly had no desire for one as a matter of principle. No more than an animal. And, like an animal, she was sure to love it when it came. Except for the fact that it gave her a hold on Lionel, she looked upon the whole affair as a bother and an expense. His delight seemed to her more or less absurd.
He really was delighted; really happy for the time being. He was lost in an utter and gross satisfaction.