He asked Frances to marry him.
“On account of the children,” he said, “You are so fond of them that I thought you would like to remain with them permanently. And it would be of the greatest benefit to them.... As for yourself, I haven’t much to offer.... I can only promise that I wouldn’t bother you, interfere with you in any sort of way. I can’t stop here. I’m—more or less—disgraced.... I’ll live wherever you like, California, if that’s best for your work. I have enough capital to start in business again——”
She was not surprised by his offer; she had expected it and thought about it. To her also it seemed the best course, on account of the children. So she accepted.
They understood each other perfectly, without being obliged to drag from their souls any explanation of feelings sacred and painful. These two candid and faithful creatures knew themselves to be strong enough and simple enough for a most difficult situation. They were tacitly agreed to remain constant, he to Minnie, she to Lionel, and to assume the poor little burdens deserted by them.
Frances was not anxious to return to California; she suggested a suburb of New York, in quite another direction from Brownsville Landing, and Mr. Petersen consented. She found a charming house there, the sort of house she had dreamed long ago of having with Lionel, a dignified, cheerful place with a fine garden. She had quite a bit of money saved, and she insisted upon using some of it to equip the place.
“Please don’t be proud!” she entreated Mr. Petersen, laughing. “Do let me have my own way about all this. I’ve always longed to furnish a house.”
This touched him. The poor defrauded girl! So he left it all to her.
She had a wonderful time over it, particularly with the children’s rooms. She was wilfully extravagant there. She had a nursery for little Robert, very scientific and expensive, with a bathroom off it, glitteringly white. Then a big, bright playroom, with little white-painted chairs and tables gay with painted birds and animals, with low shelves for toys, and not a sharp corner anywhere about; and next to this, an exquisite nest for Sandra, all white willow and blue chintz.
She spent days and days in the house, with Mrs. Hansen to help her. She would come back to Brownsville Landing—a five hours’ journey—very tired, but filled with enthusiasm. Mr. Petersen went out once or twice and found it charming. He planted a garden there, fruit trees and rose bushes, and had a stable built for his beloved horse.
When at last the house was ready there was nothing else to wait for. They went, one gay, cool morning in September, to the City Hall in New York, got their license, and were married by a peevish alderman. They were both curiously devoid of emotion. It was, after all, a matter of little importance to them. They would go on as they had been going for the last months.