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diff --git a/9931-h/9931-h.htm b/9931-h/9931-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5058938 --- /dev/null +++ b/9931-h/9931-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16049 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + K, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of K, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: K + +Author: Mary Roberts Rinehart + +Release Date: June 16, 2009 [EBook #9931] +Last Updated: April 27, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK K *** + + + + +Produced by David Brannan, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + K + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Mary Roberts Rinehart + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + The Street stretched away north and south in two lines of ancient houses + that seemed to meet in the distance. The man found it infinitely inviting. + It had the well-worn look of an old coat, shabby but comfortable. The + thought of coming there to live pleased him. Surely here would be peace—long + evenings in which to read, quiet nights in which to sleep and forget. It + was an impression of home, really, that it gave. The man did not know + that, or care particularly. He had been wandering about a long time—not + in years, for he was less than thirty. But it seemed a very long time. + </p> + <p> + At the little house no one had seemed to think about references. He could + have given one or two, of a sort. He had gone to considerable trouble to + get them; and now, not to have them asked for— + </p> + <p> + There was a house across and a little way down the Street, with a card in + the window that said: “Meals, twenty-five cents.” Evidently the midday + meal was over; men who looked like clerks and small shopkeepers were + hurrying away. The Nottingham curtains were pinned back, and just inside + the window a throaty barytone was singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Home is the hunter, home from the hill: + And the sailor, home from sea.” + </pre> + <p> + Across the Street, the man smiled grimly—Home! + </p> + <p> + For perhaps an hour Joe Drummond had been wandering up and down the + Street. His straw hat was set on the back of his head, for the evening was + warm; his slender shoulders, squared and resolute at eight, by nine had + taken on a disconsolate droop. Under a street lamp he consulted his watch, + but even without that he knew what the hour was. Prayer meeting at the + corner church was over; boys of his own age were ranging themselves along + the curb, waiting for the girl of the moment. When she came, a youth would + appear miraculously beside her, and the world-old pairing off would have + taken place. + </p> + <p> + The Street emptied. The boy wiped the warm band of his hat and slapped it + on his head again. She was always treating him like this—keeping him + hanging about, and then coming out, perfectly calm and certain that he + would still be waiting. By George, he'd fool her, for once: he'd go away, + and let her worry. She WOULD worry. She hated to hurt anyone. Ah! + </p> + <p> + Across the Street, under an old ailanthus tree, was the house he watched, + a small brick, with shallow wooden steps and—curious architecture of + Middle West sixties—a wooden cellar door beside the steps. + </p> + <p> + In some curious way it preserved an air of distinction among its more + pretentious neighbors, much as a very old lady may now and then lend tone + to a smart gathering. On either side of it, the taller houses had an + appearance of protection rather than of patronage. It was a matter of + self-respect, perhaps. No windows on the Street were so spotlessly + curtained, no doormat so accurately placed, no “yard” in the rear so tidy + with morning-glory vines over the whitewashed fence. + </p> + <p> + The June moon had risen, sending broken shafts of white light through the + ailanthus to the house door. When the girl came at last, she stepped out + into a world of soft lights and wavering shadows, fragrant with tree + blossoms not yet overpowering, hushed of its daylight sounds of playing + children and moving traffic. + </p> + <p> + The house had been warm. Her brown hair lay moist on her forehead, her + thin white dress was turned in at the throat. She stood on the steps, the + door closed behind her, and threw out her arms in a swift gesture to the + cool air. The moonlight clothed her as with a garment. From across the + Street the boy watched her with adoring, humble eyes. All his courage was + for those hours when he was not with her. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + He crossed over, emerging out of the shadows into her enveloping radiance. + His ardent young eyes worshiped her as he stood on the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “I'm late. I was taking out bastings for mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney sat down on the doorstep, and the boy dropped at her feet. + </p> + <p> + “I thought of going to prayer meeting, but mother was tired. Was Christine + there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; Palmer Howe took her home.” + </p> + <p> + He was at his ease now. He had discarded his hat, and lay back on his + elbows, ostensibly to look at the moon. Actually his brown eyes rested on + the face of the girl above him. He was very happy. “He's crazy about + Chris. She's good-looking, but she's not my sort.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray, what IS your sort?” + </p> + <p> + “You.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed softly. “You're a goose, Joe!” + </p> + <p> + She settled herself more comfortably on the doorstep and drew along + breath. + </p> + <p> + “How tired I am! Oh—I haven't told you. We've taken a roomer!” + </p> + <p> + “A what?” + </p> + <p> + “A roomer.” She was half apologetic. The Street did not approve of + roomers. “It will help with the rent. It's my doing, really. Mother is + scandalized.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman?” + </p> + <p> + “A man.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of man?” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know? He is coming tonight. I'll tell you in a week.” + </p> + <p> + Joe was sitting bolt upright now, a little white. + </p> + <p> + “Is he young?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a good bit older than you, but that's not saying he's old.” + </p> + <p> + Joe was twenty-one, and sensitive of his youth. + </p> + <p> + “He'll be crazy about you in two days.” + </p> + <p> + She broke into delighted laughter. + </p> + <p> + “I'll not fall in love with him—you can be certain of that. He is + tall and very solemn. His hair is quite gray over his ears.” + </p> + <p> + Joe cheered. + </p> + <p> + “What's his name?” + </p> + <p> + “K. Le Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + “K.?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what he said.” + </p> + <p> + Interest in the roomer died away. The boy fell into the ecstasy of content + that always came with Sidney's presence. His inarticulate young soul was + swelling with thoughts that he did not know how to put into words. It was + easy enough to plan conversations with Sidney when he was away from her. + But, at her feet, with her soft skirts touching him as she moved, her + eager face turned to him, he was miserably speechless. + </p> + <p> + Unexpectedly, Sidney yawned. He was outraged. + </p> + <p> + “If you're sleepy—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be silly. I love having you. I sat up late last night, reading. I + wonder what you think of this: one of the characters in the book I was + reading says that every man who—who cares for a woman leaves his + mark on her! I suppose she tries to become what he thinks she is, for the + time anyhow, and is never just her old self again.” + </p> + <p> + She said “cares for” instead of “loves.” It is one of the traditions of + youth to avoid the direct issue in life's greatest game. Perhaps “love” is + left to the fervent vocabulary of the lover. Certainly, as if treading on + dangerous ground, Sidney avoided it. + </p> + <p> + “Every man! How many men are supposed to care for a woman, anyhow?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there's the boy who—likes her when they're both young.” + </p> + <p> + A bit of innocent mischief this, but Joe straightened. + </p> + <p> + “Then they both outgrow that foolishness. After that there are usually two + rivals, and she marries one of them—that's three. And—” + </p> + <p> + “Why do they always outgrow that foolishness?” His voice was unsteady. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know. One's ideas change. Anyhow, I'm only telling you what + the book said.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a silly book.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it's true,” she confessed. “When I got started I just + read on. I was curious.” + </p> + <p> + More eager than curious, had she only known. She was fairly vibrant with + the zest of living. Sitting on the steps of the little brick house, her + busy mind was carrying her on to where, beyond the Street, with its dingy + lamps and blossoming ailanthus, lay the world that was some day to lie to + her hand. Not ambition called her, but life. + </p> + <p> + The boy was different. Where her future lay visualized before her, heroic + deeds, great ambitions, wide charity, he planned years with her, selfish, + contented years. As different as smug, satisfied summer from visionary, + palpitating spring, he was for her—but she was for all the world. + </p> + <p> + By shifting his position his lips came close to her bare young arm. It + tempted him. + </p> + <p> + “Don't read that nonsense,” he said, his eyes on the arm. “And—I'll + never outgrow my foolishness about you, Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + Then, because he could not help it, he bent over and kissed her arm. + </p> + <p> + She was just eighteen, and Joe's devotion was very pleasant. She thrilled + to the touch of his lips on her flesh; but she drew her arm away. + </p> + <p> + “Please—I don't like that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” His voice was husky. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't right. Besides, the neighbors are always looking out the + windows.” + </p> + <p> + The drop from her high standard of right and wrong to the neighbors' + curiosity appealed suddenly to her sense of humor. She threw back her head + and laughed. He joined her, after an uncomfortable moment. But he was very + much in earnest. He sat, bent forward, turning his new straw hat in his + hands. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you know how I feel. Some of the fellows have crushes on girls + and get over them. I'm not like that. Since the first day I saw you I've + never looked at another girl. Books can say what they like: there are + people like that, and I'm one of them.” + </p> + <p> + There was a touch of dogged pathos in his voice. He was that sort, and + Sidney knew it. Fidelity and tenderness—those would be hers if she + married him. He would always be there when she wanted him, looking at her + with loving eyes, a trifle wistful sometimes because of his lack of those + very qualities he so admired in her—her wit, her resourcefulness, + her humor. But he would be there, not strong, perhaps, but always loyal. + </p> + <p> + “I thought, perhaps,” said Joe, growing red and white, and talking to the + hat, “that some day, when we're older, you—you might be willing to + marry me, Sid. I'd be awfully good to you.” + </p> + <p> + It hurt her to say no. Indeed, she could not bring herself to say it. In + all her short life she had never willfully inflicted a wound. And because + she was young, and did not realize that there is a short cruelty, like the + surgeon's, that is mercy in the end, she temporized. + </p> + <p> + “There is such a lot of time before we need think of such things! Can't we + just go on the way we are?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not very happy the way we are.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Joe!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm not”—doggedly. “You're pretty and attractive. When I see + a fellow staring at you, and I'd like to smash his face for him, I haven't + the right.” + </p> + <p> + “And a precious good thing for you that you haven't!” cried Sidney, rather + shocked. + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment between them. Sidney, to tell the truth, + was obsessed by a vision of Joe, young and hot-eyed, being haled to the + police station by virtue of his betrothal responsibilities. The boy was + vacillating between relief at having spoken and a heaviness of spirit that + came from Sidney's lack of enthusiastic response. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you think about it?” + </p> + <p> + “If you are asking me to give you permission to waylay and assault every + man who dares to look at me—” + </p> + <p> + “I guess this is all a joke to you.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned over and put a tender hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to hurt you; but, Joe, I don't want to be engaged yet. I + don't want to think about marrying. There's such a lot to do in the world + first. There's such a lot to see and be.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” he demanded bitterly. “Here on this Street? Do you want more time + to pull bastings for your mother? Or to slave for your Aunt Harriet? Or to + run up and down stairs, carrying towels to roomers? Marry me and let me + take care of you.” + </p> + <p> + Once again her dangerous sense of humor threatened her. He looked so + boyish, sitting there with the moonlight on his bright hair, so inadequate + to carry out his magnificent offer. Two or three of the star blossoms from + the tree had fallen all his head. She lifted them carefully away. + </p> + <p> + “Let me take care of myself for a while. I've never lived my own life. You + know what I mean. I'm not unhappy; but I want to do something. And some + day I shall,—not anything big; I know. I can't do that,—but + something useful. Then, after years and years, if you still want me, I'll + come back to you.” + </p> + <p> + “How soon?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I know that now? But it will be a long time.” + </p> + <p> + He drew a long breath and got up. All the joy had gone out of the summer + night for him, poor lad. He glanced down the Street, where Palmer Howe had + gone home happily with Sidney's friend Christine. Palmer would always know + how he stood with Christine. She would never talk about doing things, or + being things. Either she would marry Palmer or she would not. But Sidney + was not like that. A fellow did not even caress her easily. When he had + only kissed her arm—He trembled a little at the memory. + </p> + <p> + “I shall always want you,” he said. “Only—you will never come back.” + </p> + <p> + It had not occurred to either of them that this coming back, so tragically + considered, was dependent on an entirely problematical going away. + Nothing, that early summer night, seemed more unlikely than that Sidney + would ever be free to live her own life. The Street, stretching away to + the north and to the south in two lines of houses that seemed to meet in + the distance, hemmed her in. She had been born in the little brick house, + and, as she was of it, so it was of her. Her hands had smoothed and + painted the pine floors; her hands had put up the twine on which the + morning-glories in the yard covered the fences; had, indeed, with what + agonies of slacking lime and adding blueing, whitewashed the fence itself! + </p> + <p> + “She's capable,” Aunt Harriet had grumblingly admitted, watching from her + sewing-machine Sidney's strong young arms at this humble spring task. + </p> + <p> + “She's wonderful!” her mother had said, as she bent over her hand work. + She was not strong enough to run the sewing-machine. + </p> + <p> + So Joe Drummond stood on the pavement and saw his dream of taking Sidney + in his arms fade into an indefinite futurity. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to give you up,” he said doggedly. “When you come back, + I'll be waiting.” + </p> + <p> + The shock being over, and things only postponed, he dramatized his grief a + trifle, thrust his hands savagely into his pockets, and scowled down the + Street. In the line of his vision, his quick eye caught a tiny moving + shadow, lost it, found it again. + </p> + <p> + “Great Scott! There goes Reginald!” he cried, and ran after the shadow. + “Watch for the McKees' cat!” + </p> + <p> + Sidney was running by that time; they were gaining. Their quarry, a + four-inch chipmunk, hesitated, gave a protesting squeak, and was caught in + Sidney's hand. + </p> + <p> + “You wretch!” she cried. “You miserable little beast—with cats + everywhere, and not a nut for miles!” + </p> + <p> + “That reminds me,”—Joe put a hand into his pocket,—“I brought + some chestnuts for him, and forgot them. Here.” + </p> + <p> + Reginald's escape had rather knocked the tragedy out of the evening. True, + Sidney would not marry him for years, but she had practically promised to + sometime. And when one is twenty-one, and it is a summer night, and life + stretches eternities ahead, what are a few years more or less? + </p> + <p> + Sidney was holding the tiny squirrel in warm, protecting hands. She smiled + up at the boy. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night. I say, Sidney, it's more than half an engagement. Won't you + kiss me good-night?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, flushed and palpitating. Kisses were rare in the staid + little household to which she belonged. + </p> + <p> + “I—I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “Please! I'm not very happy, and it will be something to remember.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, after all, Sidney's first kiss would have gone without her heart,—which + was a thing she had determined would never happen,—gone out of sheer + pity. But a tall figure loomed out of the shadows and approached with + quick strides. + </p> + <p> + “The roomer!” cried Sidney, and backed away. + </p> + <p> + “Damn the roomer!” + </p> + <p> + Poor Joe, with the summer evening quite spoiled, with no caress to + remember, and with a potential rival who possessed both the years and the + inches he lacked, coming up the Street! + </p> + <p> + The roomer advanced steadily. When he reached the doorstep, Sidney was + demurely seated and quite alone. The roomer, who had walked fast, stopped + and took off his hat. He looked very warm. He carried a suitcase, which + was as it should be. The men of the Street always carried their own + luggage, except the younger Wilson across the way. His tastes were known + to be luxurious. + </p> + <p> + “Hot, isn't it?” Sidney inquired, after a formal greeting. She indicated + the place on the step just vacated by Joe. “You'd better cool off out + here. The house is like an oven. I think I should have warned you of that + before you took the room. These little houses with low roofs are fearfully + hot.” + </p> + <p> + The new roomer hesitated. The steps were very low, and he was tall. + Besides, he did not care to establish any relations with the people in the + house. Long evenings in which to read, quiet nights in which to sleep and + forget—these were the things he had come for. + </p> + <p> + But Sidney had moved over and was smiling up at him. He folded up + awkwardly on the low step. He seemed much too big for the house. Sidney + had a panicky thought of the little room upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind heat. I—I suppose I don't think about it,” said the + roomer, rather surprised at himself. + </p> + <p> + Reginald, having finished his chestnut, squeaked for another. The roomer + started. + </p> + <p> + “Just Reginald—my ground-squirrel.” Sidney was skinning a nut with + her strong white teeth. “That's another thing I should have told you. I'm + afraid you'll be sorry you took the room.” + </p> + <p> + The roomer smiled in the shadow. + </p> + <p> + “I'm beginning to think that YOU are sorry.” + </p> + <p> + She was all anxiety to reassure him:— + </p> + <p> + “It's because of Reginald. He lives under my—under your bureau. He's + really not troublesome; but he's building a nest under the bureau, and if + you don't know about him, it's rather unsettling to see a paper pattern + from the sewing-room, or a piece of cloth, moving across the floor.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Moyne thought it might be very interesting. “Although, if there's + nest-building going on, isn't it—er—possible that Reginald is + a lady ground-squirrel?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney was rather distressed, and, seeing this, he hastened to add that, + for all he knew, all ground-squirrels built nests, regardless of sex. As a + matter of fact, it developed that he knew nothing whatever of + ground-squirrels. Sidney was relieved. She chatted gayly of the tiny + creature—of his rescue in the woods from a crowd of little boys, of + his restoration to health and spirits, and of her expectation, when he was + quite strong, of taking him to the woods and freeing him. + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne, listening attentively, began to be interested. His quick mind + had grasped the fact that it was the girl's bedroom he had taken. Other + things he had gathered that afternoon from the humming sewing-machine, + from Sidney's businesslike way of renting the little room, from the + glimpse of a woman in a sunny window, bent over a needle. Genteel poverty + was what it meant, and more—the constant drain of disheartened, + middle-aged women on the youth and courage of the girl beside him. + </p> + <p> + K. Le Moyne, who was living his own tragedy those days, what with poverty + and other things, sat on the doorstep while Sidney talked, and swore a + quiet oath to be no further weight on the girl's buoyant spirit. And, + since determining on a virtue is halfway to gaining it, his voice lost its + perfunctory note. He had no intention of letting the Street encroach on + him. He had built up a wall between himself and the rest of the world, and + he would not scale it. But he held no grudge against it. Let others get + what they could out of living. + </p> + <p> + Sidney, suddenly practical, broke in on his thoughts:— + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going to get your meals?” + </p> + <p> + “I hadn't thought about it. I can stop in somewhere on my way downtown. I + work in the gas office—I don't believe I told you. It's rather + haphazard—not the gas office, but the eating. However, it's + convenient.” + </p> + <p> + “It's very bad for you,” said Sidney, with decision. “It leads to slovenly + habits, such as going without when you're in a hurry, and that sort of + thing. The only thing is to have some one expecting you at a certain + time.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds like marriage.” He was lazily amused. + </p> + <p> + “It sounds like Mrs. McKee's boarding-house at the corner. Twenty-one + meals for five dollars, and a ticket to punch. Tillie, the dining-room + girl, punches for every meal you get. If you miss any meals, your ticket + is good until it is punched. But Mrs. McKee doesn't like it if you miss.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. McKee for me,” said Le Moyne. “I daresay, if I know that—er—Tillie + is waiting with the punch, I'll be fairly regular to my meals.” + </p> + <p> + It was growing late. The Street, which mistrusted night air, even on a hot + summer evening, was closing its windows. Reginald, having eaten his fill, + had cuddled in the warm hollow of Sidney's lap, and slept. By shifting his + position, the man was able to see the girl's face. Very lovely it was, he + thought. Very pure, almost radiant—and young. From the middle age of + his almost thirty years, she was a child. There had been a boy in the + shadows when he came up the Street. Of course there would be a boy—a + nice, clear-eyed chap— + </p> + <p> + Sidney was looking at the moon. With that dreamer's part of her that she + had inherited from her dead and gone father, she was quietly worshiping + the night. But her busy brain was working, too,—the practical brain + that she had got from her mother's side. + </p> + <p> + “What about your washing?” she inquired unexpectedly. + </p> + <p> + K. Le Moyne, who had built a wall between himself and the world, had + already married her to the youth of the shadows, and was feeling an odd + sense of loss. + </p> + <p> + “Washing?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you've been sending things to the laundry, and—what do + you do about your stockings?” + </p> + <p> + “Buy cheap ones and throw 'em away when they're worn out.” There seemed to + be no reserve with this surprising young person. + </p> + <p> + “And buttons?” + </p> + <p> + “Use safety-pins. When they're closed one can button over them as well as—” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said Sidney, “that it is quite time some one took a little care + of you. If you will give Katie, our maid, twenty-five cents a week, she'll + do your washing and not tear your things to ribbons. And I'll mend them.” + </p> + <p> + Sheer stupefaction was K. Le Moyne's. After a moment:— + </p> + <p> + “You're really rather wonderful, Miss Page. Here am I, lodged, fed, + washed, ironed, and mended for seven dollars and seventy-five cents a + week!” + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” said Sidney severely, “that you'll put what you save in the + bank.” + </p> + <p> + He was still somewhat dazed when he went up the narrow staircase to his + swept and garnished room. Never, in all of a life that had been active,—until + recently,—had he been so conscious of friendliness and kindly + interest. He expanded under it. Some of the tired lines left his face. + Under the gas chandelier, he straightened and threw out his arms. Then he + reached down into his coat pocket and drew out a wide-awake and suspicious + Reginald. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Reggie!” he said. “Good-night, old top!” He hardly recognized + his own voice. It was quite cheerful, although the little room was hot, + and although, when he stood, he had a perilous feeling that the ceiling + was close above. He deposited Reginald carefully on the floor in front of + the bureau, and the squirrel, after eyeing him, retreated to its nest. + </p> + <p> + It was late when K. Le Moyne retired to bed. Wrapped in a paper and + securely tied for the morning's disposal, was considerable masculine + underclothing, ragged and buttonless. Not for worlds would he have had + Sidney discover his threadbare inner condition. “New underwear for yours + tomorrow, K. Le Moyne,” he said to himself, as he unknotted his cravat. + “New underwear, and something besides K. for a first name.” + </p> + <p> + He pondered over that for a time, taking off his shoes slowly and thinking + hard. “Kenneth, King, Kerr—” None of them appealed to him. And, + after all, what did it matter? The old heaviness came over him. + </p> + <p> + He dropped a shoe, and Reginald, who had gained enough courage to emerge + and sit upright on the fender, fell over backward. + </p> + <p> + Sidney did not sleep much that night. She lay awake, gazing into the + scented darkness, her arms under her head. Love had come into her life at + last. A man—only Joe, of course, but it was not the boy himself, but + what he stood for, that thrilled her had asked her to be his wife. + </p> + <p> + In her little back room, with the sweetness of the tree blossoms stealing + through the open window, Sidney faced the great mystery of life and love, + and flung out warm young arms. Joe would be thinking of her now, as she + thought of him. Or would he have gone to sleep, secure in her half + promise? Did he really love her? + </p> + <p> + The desire to be loved! There was coming to Sidney a time when love would + mean, not receiving, but giving—the divine fire instead of the pale + flame of youth. At last she slept. + </p> + <p> + A night breeze came through the windows and spread coolness through the + little house. The ailanthus tree waved in the moonlight and sent sprawling + shadows over the wall of K. Le Moyne's bedroom. In the yard the leaves of + the morning-glory vines quivered as if under the touch of a friendly hand. + </p> + <p> + K. Le Moyne slept diagonally in his bed, being very long. In sleep the + lines were smoothed out of his face. He looked like a tired, overgrown + boy. And while he slept the ground-squirrel ravaged the pockets of his + shabby coat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + Sidney could not remember when her Aunt Harriet had not sat at the table. + It was one of her earliest disillusionments to learn that Aunt Harriet + lived with them, not because she wished to, but because Sidney's father + had borrowed her small patrimony and she was “boarding it out.” Eighteen + years she had “boarded it out.” Sidney had been born and grown to + girlhood; the dreamer father had gone to his grave, with valuable patents + lost for lack of money to renew them—gone with his faith in himself + destroyed, but with his faith in the world undiminished: for he left his + wife and daughter without a dollar of life insurance. + </p> + <p> + Harriet Kennedy had voiced her own view of the matter, the after the + funeral, to one of the neighbors:— + </p> + <p> + “He left no insurance. Why should he bother? He left me.” + </p> + <p> + To the little widow, her sister, she had been no less bitter, and more + explicit. + </p> + <p> + “It looks to me, Anna,” she said, “as if by borrowing everything I had + George had bought me, body and soul, for the rest of my natural life. I'll + stay now until Sidney is able to take hold. Then I'm going to live my own + life. It will be a little late, but the Kennedys live a long time.” + </p> + <p> + The day of Harriet's leaving had seemed far away to Anna Page. Sidney was + still her baby, a pretty, rather leggy girl, in her first year at the High + School, prone to saunter home with three or four knickerbockered boys in + her train, reading “The Duchess” stealthily, and begging for longer + dresses. She had given up her dolls, but she still made clothes for them + out of scraps from Harriet's sewing-room. In the parlance of the Street, + Harriet “sewed”—and sewed well. + </p> + <p> + She had taken Anna into business with her, but the burden of the + partnership had always been on Harriet. To give her credit, she had not + complained. She was past forty by that time, and her youth had slipped by + in that back room with its dingy wallpaper covered with paper patterns. + </p> + <p> + On the day after the arrival of the roomer, Harriet Kennedy came down to + breakfast a little late. Katie, the general housework girl, had tied a + small white apron over her generous gingham one, and was serving + breakfast. From the kitchen came the dump of an iron, and cheerful + singing. Sidney was ironing napkins. Mrs. Page, who had taken advantage of + Harriet's tardiness to read the obituary column in the morning paper, + dropped it. + </p> + <p> + But Harriet did not sit down. It was her custom to jerk her chair out and + drop into it, as if she grudged every hour spent on food. Sidney, not + hearing the jerk, paused with her iron in air. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Aunt Harriet.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come in, please?” + </p> + <p> + Katie took the iron from her. + </p> + <p> + “You go. She's all dressed up, and she doesn't want any coffee.” + </p> + <p> + So Sidney went in. It was to her that Harriet made her speech:— + </p> + <p> + “Sidney, when your father died, I promised to look after both you and your + mother until you were able to take care of yourself. That was five years + ago. Of course, even before that I had helped to support you.” + </p> + <p> + “If you would only have your coffee, Harriet!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Page sat with her hand on the handle of the old silver-plated + coffee-pot. Harriet ignored her. + </p> + <p> + “You are a young woman now. You have health and energy, and you have + youth, which I haven't. I'm past forty. In the next twenty years, at the + outside, I've got not only to support myself, but to save something to + keep me after that, if I live. I'll probably live to be ninety. I don't + want to live forever, but I've always played in hard luck.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney returned her gaze steadily. + </p> + <p> + “I see. Well, Aunt Harriet, you're quite right. You've been a saint to us, + but if you want to go away—” + </p> + <p> + “Harriet!” wailed Mrs. Page, “you're not thinking—” + </p> + <p> + “Please, mother.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet's eyes softened as she looked at the girl + </p> + <p> + “We can manage,” said Sidney quietly. “We'll miss you, but it's time we + learned to depend on ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + After that, in a torrent, came Harriet's declaration of independence. And, + mixed in with its pathetic jumble of recriminations, hostility to her + sister's dead husband, and resentment for her lost years, came poor + Harriet's hopes and ambitions, the tragic plea of a woman who must + substitute for the optimism and energy of youth the grim determination of + middle age. + </p> + <p> + “I can do good work,” she finished. “I'm full of ideas, if I could get a + chance to work them out. But there's no chance here. There isn't a woman + on the Street who knows real clothes when she sees them. They don't even + know how to wear their corsets. They send me bundles of hideous stuff, + with needles and shields and imitation silk for lining, and when I turn + out something worth while out of the mess they think the dress is queer!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Page could not get back of Harriet's revolt to its cause. To her, + Harriet was not an artist pleading for her art; she was a sister and a + bread-winner deserting her trust. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure,” she said stiffly, “we paid you back every cent we borrowed. If + you stayed here after George died, it was because you offered to.” + </p> + <p> + Her chin worked. She fumbled for the handkerchief at her belt. But Sidney + went around the table and flung a young arm over her aunt's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you say all that a year ago? We've been selfish, but we're not + as bad as you think. And if any one in this world is entitled to success + you are. Of course we'll manage.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet's iron repression almost gave way. She covered her emotion with + details:— + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Lorenz is going to let me make Christine some things, and if they're + all right I may make her trousseau.” + </p> + <p> + “Trousseau—for Christine!” + </p> + <p> + “She's not engaged, but her mother says it's only a matter of a short + time. I'm going to take two rooms in the business part of town, and put a + couch in the backroom to sleep on.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney's mind flew to Christine and her bright future, to a trousseau + bought with the Lorenz money, to Christine settled down, a married woman, + with Palmer Howe. She came back with an effort. Harriet had two triangular + red spots in her sallow cheeks. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I can get a few good models—that's the only way to start. And if you +care to do hand work for me, Anna, I'll send it to you, and pay you the +regular rates. There isn't the call for it there used to be, but just a +touch gives dash.” + + All of Mrs. Page's grievances had worked their way to the surface. Sidney +and Harriet had made her world, such as it was, and her world was in +revolt. She flung out her hands. +</pre> + <p> + “I suppose I must do something. With you leaving, and Sidney renting her + room and sleeping on a folding-bed in the sewing-room, everything seems + upside down. I never thought I should live to see strange men running in + and out of this house and carrying latch-keys.” + </p> + <p> + This in reference to Le Moyne, whose tall figure had made a hurried exit + some time before. + </p> + <p> + Nothing could have symbolized Harriet's revolt more thoroughly than her + going upstairs after a hurried breakfast, and putting on her hat and coat. + She had heard of rooms, she said, and there was nothing urgent in the + work-room. Her eyes were brighter already as she went out. Sidney, kissing + her in the hall and wishing her luck, realized suddenly what a burden she + and her mother must have been for the last few years. She threw her head + up proudly. They would never be a burden again—never, as long as she + had strength and health! + </p> + <p> + By evening Mrs. Page had worked herself into a state bordering on + hysteria. Harriet was out most of the day. She came in at three o'clock, + and Katie gave her a cup of tea. At the news of her sister's condition, + she merely shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “She'll not die, Katie,” she said calmly. “But see that Miss Sidney eats + something, and if she is worried tell her I said to get Dr. Ed.” + </p> + <p> + Very significant of Harriet's altered outlook was this casual summoning of + the Street's family doctor. She was already dealing in larger figures. A + sort of recklessness had come over her since the morning. Already she was + learning that peace of mind is essential to successful endeavor. Somewhere + Harriet had read a quotation from a Persian poet; she could not remember + it, but its sense had stayed with her: “What though we spill a few grains + of corn, or drops of oil from the cruse? These be the price of peace.” + </p> + <p> + So Harriet, having spilled oil from her cruse in the shape of Dr. Ed, + departed blithely. The recklessness of pure adventure was in her blood. + She had taken rooms at a rental that she determinedly put out of her mind, + and she was on her way to buy furniture. No pirate, fitting out a ship for + the highways of the sea, ever experienced more guilty and delightful + excitement. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon dragged away. Dr. Ed was out “on a case” and might not be in + until evening. Sidney sat in the darkened room and waved a fan over her + mother's rigid form. + </p> + <p> + At half after five, Johnny Rosenfeld from the alley, who worked for a + florist after school, brought a box of roses to Sidney, and departed + grinning impishly. He knew Joe, had seen him in the store. Soon the alley + knew that Sidney had received a dozen Killarney roses at three dollars and + a half, and was probably engaged to Joe Drummond. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Ed,” said Sidney, as he followed her down the stairs, “can you spare + the time to talk to me a little while?” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the elder Wilson had a quick vision of the crowded office waiting + across the Street; but his reply was prompt: + </p> + <p> + “Any amount of time.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney led the way into the small parlor, where Joe's roses, refused by + the petulant invalid upstairs, bloomed alone. + </p> + <p> + “First of all,” said Sidney, “did you mean what you said upstairs?” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed thought quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course; but what?” + </p> + <p> + “You said I was a born nurse.” + </p> + <p> + The Street was very fond of Dr. Ed. It did not always approve of him. It + said—which was perfectly true—that he had sacrificed himself + to his brother's career: that, for the sake of that brilliant young + surgeon, Dr. Ed had done without wife and children; that to send him + abroad he had saved and skimped; that he still went shabby and drove the + old buggy, while Max drove about in an automobile coupe. Sidney, not at + all of the stuff martyrs are made of, sat in the scented parlor and, + remembering all this, was ashamed of her rebellion. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going into a hospital,” said Sidney. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed waited. He liked to have all the symptoms before he made a + diagnosis or ventured an opinion. So Sidney, trying to be cheerful, and + quite unconscious of the anxiety in her voice, told her story. + </p> + <p> + “It's fearfully hard work, of course,” he commented, when she had + finished. + </p> + <p> + “So is anything worth while. Look at the way you work!” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed rose and wandered around the room. + </p> + <p> + “You're too young.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll get older.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think I like the idea,” he said at last. “It's splendid work for + an older woman. But it's life, child—life in the raw. As we get + along in years we lose our illusions—some of them, not all, thank + God. But for you, at your age, to be brought face to face with things as + they are, and not as we want them to be—it seems such an unnecessary + sacrifice.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think,” said Sidney bravely, “that you are a poor person to + talk of sacrifice? Haven't you always, all your life—” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed colored to the roots of his straw-colored hair. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” he said almost irritably. “Max had genius; I had—ability. + That's different. One real success is better than two halves. Not”—he + smiled down at her—“not that I minimize my usefulness. Somebody has + to do the hack-work, and, if I do say it myself, I'm a pretty good hack.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Sidney. “Then I shall be a hack, too. Of course, I had + thought of other things,—my father wanted me to go to college,—but + I'm strong and willing. And one thing I must make up my mind to, Dr. Ed; I + shall have to support my mother.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet passed the door on her way in to a belated supper. The man in the + parlor had a momentary glimpse of her slender, sagging shoulders, her thin + face, her undisguised middle age. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, when she was out of hearing. “It's hard, but I dare say + it's right enough, too. Your aunt ought to have her chance. Only—I + wish it didn't have to be.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney, left alone, stood in the little parlor beside the roses. She + touched them tenderly, absently. Life, which the day before had called her + with the beckoning finger of dreams, now reached out grim insistent hands. + Life—in the raw. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + K. Le Moyne had wakened early that first morning in his new quarters. When + he sat up and yawned, it was to see his worn cravat disappearing with + vigorous tugs under the bureau. He rescued it, gently but firmly. + </p> + <p> + “You and I, Reginald,” he apostrophized the bureau, “will have to come to + an understanding. What I leave on the floor you may have, but what blows + down is not to be touched.” + </p> + <p> + Because he was young and very strong, he wakened to a certain lightness of + spirit. The morning sun had always called him to a new day, and the sun + was shining. But he grew depressed as he prepared for the office. He told + himself savagely, as he put on his shabby clothing, that, having sought + for peace and now found it, he was an ass for resenting it. The trouble + was, of course, that he came of fighting stock: soldiers and explorers, + even a gentleman adventurer or two, had been his forefather. He loathed + peace with a deadly loathing. + </p> + <p> + Having given up everything else, K. Le Moyne had also given up the love of + woman. That, of course, is figurative. He had been too busy for women; and + now he was too idle. A small part of his brain added figures in the office + of a gas company daily, for the sum of two dollars and fifty cents per + eight-hour working day. But the real K. Le Moyne that had dreamed dreams, + had nothing to do with the figures, but sat somewhere in his head and + mocked him as he worked at his task. + </p> + <p> + “Time's going by, and here you are!” mocked the real person—who was, + of course, not K. Le Moyne at all. “You're the hell of a lot of use, + aren't you? Two and two are four and three are seven—take off the + discount. That's right. It's a man's work, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody's got to do this sort of thing,” protested the small part of his + brain that earned the two-fifty per working day. “And it's a great + anaesthetic. He can't think when he's doing it. There's something + practical about figures, and—rational.” + </p> + <p> + He dressed quickly, ascertaining that he had enough money to buy a + five-dollar ticket at Mrs. McKee's; and, having given up the love of woman + with other things, he was careful not to look about for Sidney on his way. + </p> + <p> + He breakfasted at Mrs. McKee's, and was initiated into the mystery of the + ticket punch. The food was rather good, certainly plentiful; and even his + squeamish morning appetite could find no fault with the self-respecting + tidiness of the place. Tillie proved to be neat and austere. He fancied it + would not be pleasant to be very late for one's meals—in fact, + Sidney had hinted as much. Some of the “mealers”—the Street's name + for them—ventured on various small familiarities of speech with + Tillie. K. Le Moyne himself was scrupulously polite, but reserved. He was + determined not to let the Street encroach on his wretchedness. Because he + had come to live there was no reason why it should adopt him. But he was + very polite. When the deaf-and-dumb book agent wrote something on a pencil + pad and pushed it toward him, he replied in kind. + </p> + <p> + “We are very glad to welcome you to the McKee family,” was what was + written on the pad. + </p> + <p> + “Very happy, indeed, to be with you,” wrote back Le Moyne—and + realized with a sort of shock that he meant it. + </p> + <p> + The kindly greeting had touched him. The greeting and the breakfast + cheered him; also, he had evidently made some headway with Tillie. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you want a toothpick?” she asked, as he went out. + </p> + <p> + In K.'s previous walk of life there had been no toothpicks; or, if there + were any, they were kept, along with the family scandals, in a closet. But + nearly a year of buffeting about had taught him many things. He took one, + and placed it nonchalantly in his waistcoat pocket, as he had seen the + others do. + </p> + <p> + Tillie, her rush hour over, wandered back into the kitchen and poured + herself a cup of coffee. Mrs. McKee was reweighing the meat order. + </p> + <p> + “Kind of a nice fellow,” Tillie said, cup to lips—“the new man.” + </p> + <p> + “Week or meal?” + </p> + <p> + “Week. He'd be handsome if he wasn't so grouchy-looking. Lit up some when + Mr. Wagner sent him one of his love letters. Rooms over at the Pages'.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McKee drew a long breath and entered the lamb stew in a book. + </p> + <p> + “When I think of Anna Page taking a roomer, it just about knocks me over, + Tillie. And where they'll put him, in that little house—he looked + thin, what I saw of him. Seven pounds and a quarter.” This last referred, + not to K. Le Moyne, of course, but to the lamb stew. + </p> + <p> + “Thin as a fiddle-string.” + </p> + <p> + “Just keep an eye on him, that he gets enough.” Then, rather ashamed of + her unbusinesslike methods: “A thin mealer's a poor advertisement. Do you + suppose this is the dog meat or the soup scraps?” + </p> + <p> + Tillie was a niece of Mrs. Rosenfeld. In such manner was most of the + Street and its environs connected; in such wise did its small gossip start + at one end and pursue its course down one side and up the other. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney Page is engaged to Joe Drummond,” announced Tillie. “He sent her a + lot of pink roses yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + There was no malice in her flat statement, no envy. Sidney and she, living + in the world of the Street, occupied different spheres. But the very + lifelessness in her voice told how remotely such things touched her, and + thus was tragic. “Mealers” came and went—small clerks, petty + tradesmen, husbands living alone in darkened houses during the summer + hegira of wives. Various and catholic was Tillie's male acquaintance, but + compounded of good fellowship only. Once, years before, romance had + paraded itself before her in the garb of a traveling nurseryman—had + walked by and not come back. + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Harriet's going into business for herself. She's taken rooms + downtown; she's going to be Madame Something or other.” + </p> + <p> + Now, at last, was Mrs. McKee's attention caught riveted. + </p> + <p> + “For the love of mercy! At her age! It's downright selfish. If she raises + her prices she can't make my new foulard.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie sat at the table, her faded blue eyes fixed on the back yard, where + her aunt, Mrs. Rosenfeld, was hanging out the week's wash of table linen. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know as it's so selfish,” she reflected. “We've only got one + life. I guess a body's got the right to live it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McKee eyed her suspiciously, but Tillie's face showed no emotion. + </p> + <p> + “You don't ever hear of Schwitter, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I guess she's still living.” + </p> + <p> + Schwitter, the nurseryman, had proved to have a wife in an insane asylum. + That was why Tillie's romance had only paraded itself before her and had + gone by. + </p> + <p> + “You got out of that lucky.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie rose and tied a gingham apron over her white one. + </p> + <p> + “I guess so. Only sometimes—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know as it would have been so wrong. He ain't young, and I ain't. + And we're not getting any younger. He had nice manners; he'd have been + good to me.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McKee's voice failed her. For a moment she gasped like a fish. Then: + </p> + <p> + “And him a married man!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm not going to do it,” Tillie soothed her. “I get to thinking + about it sometimes; that's all. This new fellow made me think of him. He's + got the same nice way about him.” + </p> + <p> + Aye, the new man had made her think of him, and June, and the lovers who + lounged along the Street in the moonlit avenues toward the park and love; + even Sidney's pink roses. Change was in the very air of the Street that + June morning. It was in Tillie, making a last clutch at youth, and + finding, in this pale flare of dying passion, courage to remember what she + had schooled herself to forget; in Harriet asserting her right to live her + life; in Sidney, planning with eager eyes a life of service which did not + include Joe; in K. Le Moyne, who had built up a wall between himself and + the world, and was seeing it demolished by a deaf-and-dumb book agent + whose weapon was a pencil pad! + </p> + <p> + And yet, for a week nothing happened: Joe came in the evenings and sat on + the steps with Sidney, his honest heart, in his eyes. She could not bring + herself at first to tell him about the hospital. She put it off from day + to day. Anna, no longer sulky, accepted with the childlike faith Sidney's + statement that “they'd get along; she had a splendid scheme,” and took to + helping Harriet in her preparations for leaving. Tillie, afraid of her + rebellious spirit, went to prayer meeting. And K. Le Moyne, finding his + little room hot in the evenings and not wishing to intrude on the two on + the doorstep, took to reading his paper in the park, and after twilight to + long, rapid walks out into the country. The walks satisfied the craving of + his active body for exercise, and tired him so he could sleep. On one such + occasion he met Mr. Wagner, and they carried on an animated conversation + until it was too dark to see the pad. Even then, it developed that Wagner + could write in the dark; and he secured the last word in a long argument + by doing this and striking a match for K. to read by. + </p> + <p> + When K. was sure that the boy had gone, he would turn back toward the + Street. Some of the heaviness of his spirit always left him at sight of + the little house. Its kindly atmosphere seemed to reach out and envelop + him. Within was order and quiet, the fresh-down bed, the tidiness of his + ordered garments. There was even affection—Reginald, waiting on the + fender for his supper, and regarding him with wary and bright-eyed + friendliness. + </p> + <p> + Life, that had seemed so simple, had grown very complicated for Sidney. + There was her mother to break the news to, and Joe. Harriet would approve, + she felt; but these others! To assure Anna that she must manage alone for + three years, in order to be happy and comfortable afterward—that was + hard enough to tell Joe she was planning a future without him, to destroy + the light in his blue eyes—that hurt. + </p> + <p> + After all, Sidney told K. first. One Friday evening, coming home late, as + usual, he found her on the doorstep, and Joe gone. She moved over + hospitably. The moon had waxed and waned, and the Street was dark. Even + the ailanthus blossoms had ceased their snow-like dropping. The colored + man who drove Dr. Ed in the old buggy on his daily rounds had brought out + the hose and sprinkled the street. Within this zone of freshness, of wet + asphalt and dripping gutters, Sidney sat, cool and silent. + </p> + <p> + “Please sit down. It is cool now. My idea of luxury is to have the Street + sprinkled on a hot night.” + </p> + <p> + K. disposed of his long legs on the steps. He was trying to fit his own + ideas of luxury to a garden hose and a city street. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you're working too hard.” + </p> + <p> + “I? I do a minimum of labor for a minimum of wage. + </p> + <p> + “But you work at night, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + K. was natively honest. He hesitated. Then: + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss Page.” + </p> + <p> + “But You go out every evening!” Suddenly the truth burst on her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear!” she said. “I do believe—why, how silly of you!” + </p> + <p> + K. was most uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Really, I like it,” he protested. “I hang over a desk all day, and in the + evening I want to walk. I ramble around the park and see lovers on benches—it's + rather thrilling. They sit on the same benches evening after evening. I + know a lot of them by sight, and if they're not there I wonder if they + have quarreled, or if they have finally got married and ended the romance. + You can see how exciting it is.” + </p> + <p> + Quite suddenly Sidney laughed. + </p> + <p> + “How very nice you are!” she said—“and how absurd! Why should their + getting married end the romance? And don't you know that, if you insist on + walking the streets and parks at night because Joe Drummond is here, I + shall have to tell him not to come?” + </p> + <p> + This did not follow, to K.'s mind. They had rather a heated argument over + it, and became much better acquainted. + </p> + <p> + “If I were engaged to him,” Sidney ended, her cheeks very pink, “I—I + might understand. But, as I am not—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said K., a trifle unsteadily. “So you are not?” + </p> + <p> + Only a week—and love was one of the things she had had to give up, + with others. Not, of course, that he was in love with Sidney then. But he + had been desperately lonely, and, for all her practical clearheadedness, + she was softly and appealingly feminine. By way of keeping his head, he + talked suddenly and earnestly of Mrs. McKee, and food, and Tillie, and of + Mr. Wagner and the pencil pad. + </p> + <p> + “It's like a game,” he said. “We disagree on everything, especially + Mexico. If you ever tried to spell those Mexican names—” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you think I was engaged?” she insisted. + </p> + <p> + Now, in K.'s walk of life—that walk of life where there are no + toothpicks, and no one would have believed that twenty-one meals could + have been secured for five dollars with a ticket punch thrown in—young + girls did not receive the attention of one young man to the exclusion of + others unless they were engaged. But he could hardly say that. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know. Those things get in the air. I am quite certain, for + instance, that Reginald suspects it.” + </p> + <p> + “It's Johnny Rosenfeld,” said Sidney, with decision. “It's horrible, the + way things get about. Because Joe sent me a box of roses—As a matter + of fact, I'm not engaged, or going to be, Mr. Le Moyne. I'm going into a + hospital to be a nurse.” + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne said nothing. For just a moment he closed his eyes. A man is in a + rather a bad way when, every time he closes his eyes, he sees the same + thing, especially if it is rather terrible. When it gets to a point where + he lies awake at night and reads, for fear of closing them— + </p> + <p> + “You're too young, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Ed—one of the Wilsons across the Street—is going to help + me about that. His brother Max is a big surgeon there. I expect you've + heard of him. We're very proud of him in the Street.” + </p> + <p> + Lucky for K. Le Moyne that the moon no longer shone on the low gray + doorstep, that Sidney's mind had traveled far away to shining floors and + rows of white beds. “Life—in the raw,” Dr. Ed had said that other + afternoon. Closer to her than the hospital was life in the raw that night. + </p> + <p> + So, even here, on this quiet street in this distant city, there was to be + no peace. Max Wilson just across the way! It—it was ironic. Was + there no place where a man could lose himself? He would have to move on + again, of course. + </p> + <p> + But that, it seemed, was just what he could not do. For: + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask you to do something, and I hope you'll be quite frank,” + said Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “Anything that I can do—” + </p> + <p> + “It's this. If you are comfortable, and—and like the room and all + that, I wish you'd stay.” She hurried on: “If I could feel that mother had + a dependable person like you in the house, it would all be easier.” + </p> + <p> + Dependable! That stung. + </p> + <p> + “But—forgive my asking; I'm really interested—can your mother + manage? You'll get practically no money during your training.” + </p> + <p> + “I've thought of that. A friend of mine, Christine Lorenz, is going to be + married. Her people are wealthy, but she'll have nothing but what Palmer + makes. She'd like to have the parlor and the sitting room behind. They + wouldn't interfere with you at all,” she added hastily. “Christine's + father would build a little balcony at the side for them, a sort of porch, + and they'd sit there in the evenings.” + </p> + <p> + Behind Sidney's carefully practical tone the man read appeal. Never before + had he realized how narrow the girl's world had been. The Street, with but + one dimension, bounded it! In her perplexity, she was appealing to him who + was practically a stranger. + </p> + <p> + And he knew then that he must do the thing she asked. He, who had fled so + long, could roam no more. Here on the Street, with its menace just across, + he must live, that she might work. In his world, men had worked that women + might live in certain places, certain ways. This girl was going out to + earn her living, and he would stay to make it possible. But no hint of all + this was in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I shall stay, of course,” he said gravely. “I—this is the nearest + thing to home that I've known for a long time. I want you to know that.” + </p> + <p> + So they moved their puppets about, Anna and Harriet, Christine and her + husband-to-be, Dr. Ed, even Tillie and the Rosenfelds; shifted and placed + them, and, planning, obeyed inevitable law. + </p> + <p> + “Christine shall come, then,” said Sidney forsooth, “and we will throw out + a balcony.” + </p> + <p> + So they planned, calmly ignorant that poor Christine's story and Tillie's + and Johnny Rosenfeld's and all the others' were already written among the + things that are, and the things that shall be hereafter. + </p> + <p> + “You are very good to me,” said Sidney. + </p> + <p> + When she rose, K. Le Moyne sprang to his feet. + </p> + <p> + Anna had noticed that he always rose when she entered his room,—with + fresh towels on Katie's day out, for instance,—and she liked him for + it. Years ago, the men she had known had shown this courtesy to their + women; but the Street regarded such things as affectation. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you would do me another favor? I'm afraid you'll take to + avoiding me, if I keep on.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think you need fear that.” + </p> + <p> + “This stupid story about Joe Drummond—I'm not saying I'll never + marry him, but I'm certainly not engaged. Now and then, when you are + taking your evening walks, if you would ask me to walk with you—” + </p> + <p> + K. looked rather dazed. + </p> + <p> + “I can't imagine anything pleasanter; but I wish you'd explain just how—” + </p> + <p> + Sidney smiled at him. As he stood on the lowest step, their eyes were + almost level. + </p> + <p> + “If I walk with you, they'll know I'm not engaged to Joe,” she said, with + engaging directness. + </p> + <p> + The house was quiet. He waited in the lower hall until she had reached the + top of the staircase. For some curious reason, in the time to come, that + was the way Sidney always remembered K. Le Moyne—standing in the + little hall, one hand upstretched to shut off the gas overhead, and his + eyes on hers above. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” said K. Le Moyne. And all the things he had put out of his + life were in his voice. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + On the morning after Sidney had invited K. Le Moyne to take her to walk, + Max Wilson came down to breakfast rather late. Dr. Ed had breakfasted an + hour before, and had already attended, with much profanity on the part of + the patient, to a boil on the back of Mr. Rosenfeld's neck. + </p> + <p> + “Better change your laundry,” cheerfully advised Dr. Ed, cutting a strip + of adhesive plaster. “Your neck's irritated from your white collars.” + </p> + <p> + Rosenfeld eyed him suspiciously, but, possessing a sense of humor also, he + grinned. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't my everyday things that bother me,” he replied. “It's my + blankety-blank dress suit. But if a man wants to be tony—” + </p> + <p> + “Tony” was not of the Street, but of its environs. Harriet was “tony” + because she walked with her elbows in and her head up. Dr. Max was “tony” + because he breakfasted late, and had a man come once a week and take away + his clothes to be pressed. He was “tony,” too, because he had brought back + from Europe narrow-shouldered English-cut clothes, when the Street was + still padding its shoulders. Even K. would have been classed with these + others, for the stick that he carried on his walks, for the fact that his + shabby gray coat was as unmistakably foreign in cut as Dr. Max's, had the + neighborhood so much as known him by sight. But K., so far, had remained + in humble obscurity, and, outside of Mrs. McKee's, was known only as the + Pages' roomer. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rosenfeld buttoned up the blue flannel shirt which, with a pair of Dr. + Ed's cast-off trousers, was his only wear; and fished in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “How much, Doc?” + </p> + <p> + “Two dollars,” said Dr. Ed briskly. + </p> + <p> + “Holy cats! For one jab of a knife! My old woman works a day and a half + for two dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess it's worth two dollars to you to be able to sleep on your back.” + He was imperturbably straightening his small glass table. He knew + Rosenfeld. “If you don't like my price, I'll lend you the knife the next + time, and you can let your wife attend to you.” + </p> + <p> + Rosenfeld drew out a silver dollar, and followed it reluctantly with a + limp and dejected dollar bill. + </p> + <p> + “There are times,” he said, “when, if you'd put me and the missus and a + knife in the same room, you wouldn't have much left but the knife.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed waited until he had made his stiff-necked exit. Then he took the + two dollars, and, putting the money into an envelope, indorsed it in his + illegible hand. He heard his brother's step on the stairs, and Dr. Ed made + haste to put away the last vestiges of his little operation. + </p> + <p> + Ed's lapses from surgical cleanliness were a sore trial to the younger + man, fresh from the clinics of Europe. In his downtown office, to which he + would presently make his leisurely progress, he wore a white coat, and + sterilized things of which Dr. Ed did not even know the names. + </p> + <p> + So, as he came down the stairs, Dr. Ed, who had wiped his tiny knife with + a bit of cotton,—he hated sterilizing it; it spoiled the edge,—thrust + it hastily into his pocket. He had cut boils without boiling anything for + a good many years, and no trouble. But he was wise with the wisdom of the + serpent and the general practitioner, and there was no use raising a + discussion. + </p> + <p> + Max's morning mood was always a cheerful one. Now and then the way of the + transgressor is disgustingly pleasant. Max, who sat up until all hours of + the night, drinking beer or whiskey-and-soda, and playing bridge, wakened + to a clean tongue and a tendency to have a cigarette between shoes, so to + speak. Ed, whose wildest dissipation had perhaps been to bring into the + world one of the neighborhood's babies, wakened customarily to the dark + hour of his day, when he dubbed himself failure and loathed the Street + with a deadly loathing. + </p> + <p> + So now Max brought his handsome self down the staircase and paused at the + office door. + </p> + <p> + “At it, already,” he said. “Or have you been to bed?” + </p> + <p> + “It's after nine,” protested Ed mildly. “If I don't start early, I never + get through.” + </p> + <p> + Max yawned. + </p> + <p> + “Better come with me,” he said. “If things go on as they've been doing, + I'll have to have an assistant. I'd rather have you than anybody, of + course.” He put his lithe surgeon's hand on his brother's shoulder. “Where + would I be if it hadn't been for you? All the fellows know what you've + done.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of himself, Ed winced. It was one thing to work hard that there + might be one success instead of two half successes. It was a different + thing to advertise one's mediocrity to the world. His sphere of the Street + and the neighborhood was his own. To give it all up and become his younger + brother's assistant—even if it meant, as it would, better hours and + more money—would be to submerge his identity. He could not bring + himself to it. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'll stay where I am,” he said. “They know me around here, and I + know them. By the way, will you leave this envelope at Mrs. McKee's? + Maggie Rosenfeld is ironing there to-day. It's for her.” + </p> + <p> + Max took the envelope absently. + </p> + <p> + “You'll go on here to the end of your days, working for a pittance,” he + objected. “Inside of ten years there'll be no general practitioners; then + where will you be?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll manage somehow,” said his brother placidly. “I guess there will + always be a few that can pay my prices better than what you specialists + ask.” + </p> + <p> + Max laughed with genuine amusement. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say, if this is the way you let them pay your prices.” + </p> + <p> + He held out the envelope, and the older man colored. + </p> + <p> + Very proud of Dr. Max was his brother, unselfishly proud, of his skill, of + his handsome person, of his easy good manners; very humble, too, of his + own knowledge and experience. If he ever suspected any lack of finer fiber + in Max, he put the thought away. Probably he was too rigid himself. Max + was young, a hard worker. He had a right to play hard. + </p> + <p> + He prepared his black bag for the day's calls—stethoscope, + thermometer, eye-cup, bandages, case of small vials, a lump of absorbent + cotton in a not over-fresh towel; in the bottom, a heterogeneous + collection of instruments, a roll of adhesive plaster, a bottle or two of + sugar-milk tablets for the children, a dog collar that had belonged to a + dead collie, and had put in the bag in some curious fashion and there + remained. + </p> + <p> + He prepared the bag a little nervously, while Max ate. He felt that modern + methods and the best usage might not have approved of the bag. On his way + out he paused at the dining-room door. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to the hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Operating at four—wish you could come in.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid not, Max. I've promised Sidney Page to speak about her to you. + She wants to enter the training-school.” + </p> + <p> + “Too young,” said Max briefly. “Why, she can't be over sixteen.” + </p> + <p> + “She's eighteen.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, even eighteen. Do you think any girl of that age is responsible + enough to have life and death put in her hands? Besides, although I + haven't noticed her lately, she used to be a pretty little thing. There is + no use filling up the wards with a lot of ornaments; it keeps the internes + all stewed up.” + </p> + <p> + “Since when,” asked Dr. Ed mildly, “have you found good looks in a girl a + handicap?” + </p> + <p> + In the end they compromised. Max would see Sidney at his office. It would + be better than having her run across the Street—would put things on + the right footing. For, if he did have her admitted, she would have to + learn at once that he was no longer “Dr. Max”; that, as a matter of fact, + he was now staff, and entitled to much dignity, to speech without + contradiction or argument, to clean towels, and a deferential interne at + his elbow. + </p> + <p> + Having given his promise, Max promptly forgot about it. The Street did not + interest him. Christine and Sidney had been children when he went to + Vienna, and since his return he had hardly noticed them. Society, always + kind to single men of good appearance and easy good manners, had taken him + up. He wore dinner or evening clothes five nights out of seven, and was + supposed by his conservative old neighbors to be going the pace. The rumor + had been fed by Mrs. Rosenfeld, who, starting out for her day's washing at + six o'clock one morning, had found Dr. Max's car, lamps lighted, and + engine going, drawn up before the house door, with its owner asleep at the + wheel. The story traveled the length of the Street that day. + </p> + <p> + “Him,” said Mrs. Rosenfeld, who was occasionally flowery, “sittin' up as + straight as this washboard, and his silk hat shinin' in the sun; but + exceptin' the car, which was workin' hard and gettin' nowhere, the whole + outfit in the arms of Morpheus.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lorenz, whose day it was to have Mrs. Rosenfeld, and who was + unfamiliar with mythology, gasped at the last word. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” she said. “Do you mean to say he's got that awful drug habit!” + </p> + <p> + Down the clean steps went Dr. Max that morning, a big man, almost as tall + as K. Le Moyne, eager of life, strong and a bit reckless, not fine, + perhaps, but not evil. He had the same zest of living as Sidney, but with + this difference—the girl stood ready to give herself to life: he + knew that life would come to him. All-dominating male was Dr. Max, that + morning, as he drew on his gloves before stepping into his car. It was + after nine o'clock. K. Le Moyne had been an hour at his desk. The McKee + napkins lay ironed in orderly piles. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, Dr. Max was suffering under a sense of defeat as he rode + downtown. The night before, he had proposed to a girl and had been + rejected. He was not in love with the girl,—she would have been a + suitable wife, and a surgeon ought to be married; it gives people + confidence,—but his pride was hurt. He recalled the exact words of + the rejection. + </p> + <p> + “You're too good-looking, Max,” she had said, “and that's the truth. Now + that operations are as popular as fancy dancing, and much less bother, + half the women I know are crazy about their surgeons. I'm too fond of my + peace of mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But, good Heavens! haven't you any confidence in me?” he had demanded. + </p> + <p> + “None whatever, Max dear.” She had looked at him with level, understanding + eyes. + </p> + <p> + He put the disagreeable recollection out of his mind as he parked his car + and made his way to his office. Here would be people who believed in him, + from the middle-aged nurse in her prim uniform to the row of patients + sitting stiffly around the walls of the waiting-room. Dr. Max, pausing in + the hall outside the door of his private office, drew a long breath. This + was the real thing—work and plenty of it, a chance to show the other + men what he could do, a battle to win! No humanitarian was he, but a + fighter: each day he came to his office with the same battle lust. + </p> + <p> + The office nurse had her back to him. When she turned, he faced an + agreeable surprise. Instead of Miss Simpson, he faced a young and + attractive girl, faintly familiar. + </p> + <p> + “We tried to get you by telephone,” she explained. “I am from the + hospital. Miss Simpson's father died this morning, and she knew you would + have to have some one. I was just starting for my vacation, so they sent + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather a poor substitute for a vacation,” he commented. + </p> + <p> + She was a very pretty girl. He had seen her before in the hospital, but he + had never really noticed how attractive she was. Rather stunning she was, + he thought. The combination of yellow hair and dark eyes was unusual. He + remembered, just in time, to express regret at Miss Simpson's bereavement. + </p> + <p> + “I am Miss Harrison,” explained the substitute, and held out his long + white coat. The ceremony, purely perfunctory with Miss Simpson on duty, + proved interesting, Miss Harrison, in spite of her high heels, being small + and the young surgeon tall. When he was finally in the coat, she was + rather flushed and palpitating. + </p> + <p> + “But I KNEW your name, of course,” lied Dr. Max. “And—I'm sorry + about the vacation.” + </p> + <p> + After that came work. Miss Harrison was nimble and alert, but the surgeon + worked quickly and with few words, was impatient when she could not find + the things he called for, even broke into restrained profanity now and + then. She went a little pale over her mistakes, but preserved her dignity + and her wits. Now and then he found her dark eyes fixed on him, with + something inscrutable but pleasing in their depths. The situation was + rather piquant. Consciously he was thinking only of what he was doing. + Subconsciously his busy ego was finding solace after last night's rebuff. + </p> + <p> + Once, during the cleaning up between cases, he dropped to a personality. + He was drying his hands, while she placed freshly sterilized instruments + on a glass table. + </p> + <p> + “You are almost a foreign type, Miss Harrison. Last year, in a London + ballet, I saw a blonde Spanish girl who looked like you.” + </p> + <p> + “My mother was a Spaniard.” She did not look up. + </p> + <p> + Where Miss Simpson was in the habit of clumping through the morning in + flat, heavy shoes, Miss Harrison's small heels beat a busy tattoo on the + tiled floor. With the rustling of her starched dress, the sound was + essentially feminine, almost insistent. When he had time to notice it, it + amused him that he did not find it annoying. + </p> + <p> + Once, as she passed him a bistoury, he deliberately placed his fine hand + over her fingers and smiled into her eyes. It was play for him; it + lightened the day's work. + </p> + <p> + Sidney was in the waiting-room. There had been no tedium in the morning's + waiting. Like all imaginative people, she had the gift of dramatizing + herself. She was seeing herself in white from head to foot, like this + efficient young woman who came now and then to the waiting-room door; she + was healing the sick and closing tired eyes; she was even imagining + herself proposed to by an aged widower with grown children and quantities + of money, one of her patients. + </p> + <p> + She sat very demurely in the waiting-room with a magazine in her lap, and + told her aged patient that she admired and respected him, but that she had + given herself to the suffering poor. + </p> + <p> + “Everything in the world that you want,” begged the elderly gentleman. + “You should see the world, child, and I will see it again through your + eyes. To Paris first for clothes and the opera, and then—” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not love you,” Sidney replied, mentally but steadily. “In all + the world I love only one man. He is—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated here. It certainly was not Joe, or K. Le Moyne of the gas + office. It seem to her suddenly very sad that there was no one she loved. + So many people went into hospitals because they had been disappointed in + love. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Wilson will see you now.” + </p> + <p> + She followed Miss Harrison into the consulting room. Dr. Max—not the + gloved and hatted Dr. Max of the Street, but a new person, one she had + never known—stood in his white office, tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, + competent, holding out his long, immaculate surgeon's hand, and smiling + down at her. + </p> + <p> + Men, like jewels, require a setting. A clerk on a high stool, poring over + a ledger, is not unimpressive, or a cook over her stove. But place the + cook on the stool, poring over the ledger! Dr. Max, who had lived all his + life on the edge of Sidney's horizon, now, by the simple changing of her + point of view, loomed large and magnificent. Perhaps he knew it. Certainly + he stood very erect. Certainly, too, there was considerable manner in the + way in which he asked Miss Harrison to go out and close the door behind + her. + </p> + <p> + Sidney's heart, considering what was happening to it, behaved very well. + </p> + <p> + “For goodness' sake, Sidney,” said Dr. Max, “here you are a young lady and + I've never noticed it!” + </p> + <p> + This, of course, was not what he had intended to say, being staff and all + that. But Sidney, visibly palpitant, was very pretty, much prettier than + the Harrison girl, beating a tattoo with her heels in the next room. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Max, belonging to the class of man who settles his tie every time he + sees an attractive woman, thrust his hands into the pockets of his long + white coat and surveyed her quizzically. + </p> + <p> + “Did Dr. Ed tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down. He said something about the hospital. How's your mother and + Aunt Harriet?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well—that is, mother's never quite well.” She was sitting + forward on her chair, her wide young eyes on him. “Is that—is your + nurse from the hospital here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But she's not my nurse. She's a substitute.” + </p> + <p> + “The uniform is so pretty.” Poor Sidney! with all the things she had meant + to say about a life of service, and that, although she was young, she was + terribly in earnest. + </p> + <p> + “It takes a lot of plugging before one gets the uniform. Look here, + Sidney; if you are going to the hospital because of the uniform, and with + any idea of soothing fevered brows and all that nonsense—” + </p> + <p> + She interrupted him, deeply flushed. Indeed, no. She wanted to work. She + was young and strong, and surely a pair of willing hands—that was + absurd about the uniform. She had no silly ideas. There was so much to do + in the world, and she wanted to help. Some people could give money, but + she couldn't. She could only offer service. And, partly through + earnestness and partly through excitement, she ended in a sort of nervous + sob, and, going to the window, stood with her back to him. + </p> + <p> + He followed her, and, because they were old neighbors, she did not resent + it when he put his hand on her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—of course, if you feel like that about it,” he said, + “we'll see what can be done. It's hard work, and a good many times it + seems futile. They die, you know, in spite of all we can do. And there are + many things that are worse than death—” + </p> + <p> + His voice trailed off. When he had started out in his profession, he had + had some such ideal of service as this girl beside him. For just a moment, + as he stood there close to her, he saw things again with the eyes of his + young faith: to relieve pain, to straighten the crooked, to hurt that he + might heal,—not to show the other men what he could do,—that + had been his early creed. He sighed a little as he turned away. + </p> + <p> + “I'll speak to the superintendent about you,” he said. “Perhaps you'd like + me to show you around a little.” + </p> + <p> + “When? To-day?” + </p> + <p> + He had meant in a month, or a year. It was quite a minute before he + replied:— + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to-day, if you say. I'm operating at four. How about three o'clock?” + </p> + <p> + She held out both hands, and he took them, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “You are the kindest person I ever met.” + </p> + <p> + “And—perhaps you'd better not say you are applying until we find out + if there is a vacancy.” + </p> + <p> + “May I tell one person?” + </p> + <p> + “Mother?” + </p> + <p> + “No. We—we have a roomer now. He is very much interested. I should + like to tell him.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped her hands and looked at her in mock severity. + </p> + <p> + “Much interested! Is he in love with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy, no!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it. I'm jealous. You know, I've always been more than + half in love with you myself!” + </p> + <p> + Play for him—the same victorious instinct that had made him touch + Miss Harrison's fingers as she gave him the instrument. And Sidney knew + how it was meant; she smiled into his eyes and drew down her veil briskly. + </p> + <p> + “Then we'll say at three,” she said calmly, and took an orderly and + unflurried departure. + </p> + <p> + But the little seed of tenderness had taken root. Sidney, passing in the + last week or two from girlhood to womanhood,—outgrowing Joe, had she + only known it, as she had outgrown the Street,—had come that day + into her first contact with a man of the world. True, there was K. Le + Moyne. But K. was now of the Street, of that small world of one dimension + that she was leaving behind her. + </p> + <p> + She sent him a note at noon, with word to Tillie at Mrs. McKee's to put it + under his plate:— + </p> + <p> + DEAR MR. LE MOYNE,—I am so excited I can hardly write. Dr. Wilson, + the surgeon, is going to take me through the hospital this afternoon. Wish + me luck. SIDNEY PAGE. + </p> + <p> + K. read it, and, perhaps because the day was hot and his butter soft and + the other “mealers” irritable with the heat, he ate little or no luncheon. + Before he went out into the sun, he read the note again. To his jealous + eyes came a vision of that excursion to the hospital. Sidney, all vibrant + eagerness, luminous of eye, quick of bosom; and Wilson, sardonically + smiling, amused and interested in spite of himself. He drew a long breath, + and thrust the note in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + The little house across the way sat square in the sun. The shades of his + windows had been lowered against the heat. K. Le Moyne made an impulsive + movement toward it and checked himself. + </p> + <p> + As he went down the Street, Wilson's car came around the corner. Le Moyne + moved quietly into the shadow of the church and watched the car go by. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Sidney and K. Le Moyne sat under a tree and talked. In Sidney's lap lay a + small pasteboard box, punched with many holes. It was the day of releasing + Reginald, but she had not yet been able to bring herself to the point of + separation. Now and then a furry nose protruded from one of the apertures + and sniffed the welcome scent of pine and buttonball, red and white + clover, the thousand spicy odors of field and woodland. + </p> + <p> + “And so,” said K. Le Moyne, “you liked it all? It didn't startle you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in one way, of course—you see, I didn't know it was quite + like that: all order and peace and quiet, and white beds and whispers, on + top,—you know what I mean,—and the misery there just the same. + Have you ever gone through a hospital?” + </p> + <p> + K. Le Moyne was stretched out on the grass, his arms under his head. For + this excursion to the end of the street-car line he had donned a pair of + white flannel trousers and a belted Norfolk coat. Sidney had been divided + between pride in his appearance and fear that the Street would deem him + overdressed. + </p> + <p> + At her question he closed his eyes, shutting out the peaceful arch and the + bit of blue heaven overhead. He did not reply at once. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, I believe he's asleep!” said Sidney to the pasteboard box. + </p> + <p> + But he opened his eyes and smiled at her. + </p> + <p> + “I've been around hospitals a little. I suppose now there is no question + about your going?” + </p> + <p> + “The superintendent said I was young, but that any protegee of Dr. + Wilson's would certainly be given a chance.” + </p> + <p> + “It is hard work, night and day.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I am afraid of work?” + </p> + <p> + “And—Joe?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney colored vigorously and sat erect. + </p> + <p> + “He is very silly. He's taken all sorts of idiotic notions in his head.” + </p> + <p> + “Such as—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he HATES the hospital, of course. As if, even if I meant to marry + him, it wouldn't be years before he can be ready.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you are quite fair to Joe?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't promised to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “But he thinks you mean to. If you have quite made up your mind not to, + better tell him, don't you think? What—what are these idiotic + notions?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney considered, poking a slim finger into the little holes in the box. + </p> + <p> + “You can see how stupid he is, and—and young. For one thing, he's + jealous of you!” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Of course that is silly, although your attitude toward his + suspicion is hardly flattering to me.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled up at her. + </p> + <p> + “I told him that I had asked you to bring me here to-day. He was furious. + And that wasn't all.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + “He said I was flirting desperately with Dr. Wilson. You see, the day we + went through the hospital, it was hot, and we went to Henderson's for + soda-water. And, of course, Joe was there. It was really dramatic.” + </p> + <p> + K. Le Moyne was daily gaining the ability to see things from the angle of + the Street. A month ago he could have seen no situation in two people, a + man and a girl, drinking soda-water together, even with a boy lover on the + next stool. Now he could view things through Joe's tragic eyes. And there + as more than that. All day he had noticed how inevitably the conversation + turned to the young surgeon. Did they start with Reginald, with the + condition of the morning-glory vines, with the proposition of taking up + the quaint paving-stones and macadamizing the Street, they ended with the + younger Wilson. + </p> + <p> + Sidney's active young brain, turned inward for the first time in her life, + was still on herself. + </p> + <p> + “Mother is plaintively resigned—and Aunt Harriet has been a trump. + She's going to keep her room. It's really up to you.” + </p> + <p> + “To me?” + </p> + <p> + “To your staying on. Mother trusts you absolutely. I hope you noticed that + you got one of the apostle spoons with the custard she sent up to you the + other night. And she didn't object to this trip to-day. Of course, as she + said herself, it isn't as if you were young, or at all wild.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of himself, K. was rather startled. He felt old enough, God knew, + but he had always thought of it as an age of the spirit. How old did this + child think he was? + </p> + <p> + “I have promised to stay on, in the capacity of watch-dog, burglar-alarm, + and occasional recipient of an apostle spoon in a dish of custard. + Lightning-conductor, too—your mother says she isn't afraid of storms + if there is a man in the house. I'll stay, of course.” + </p> + <p> + The thought of his age weighed on him. He rose to his feet and threw back + his fine shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Harriet and your mother and Christine and her husband-to-be, + whatever his name is—we'll be a happy family. But, I warn you, if I + ever hear of Christine's husband getting an apostle spoon—” + </p> + <p> + She smiled up at him. “You are looking very grand to-day. But you have + grass stains on your white trousers. Perhaps Katie can take them out.” + </p> + <p> + Quite suddenly K. felt that she thought him too old for such frivolity of + dress. It put him on his mettle. + </p> + <p> + “How old do you think I am, Miss Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + She considered, giving him, after her kindly way, the benefit of the + doubt. + </p> + <p> + “Not over forty, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm almost thirty. It is middle age, of course, but it is not senility.” + </p> + <p> + She was genuinely surprised, almost disturbed. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we'd better not tell mother,” she said. “You don't mind being + thought older?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all.” + </p> + <p> + Clearly the subject of his years did not interest her vitally, for she + harked back to the grass stains. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you're not saving, as you promised. Those are new clothes, + aren't they?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed. Bought years ago in England—the coat in London, the + trousers in Bath, on a motor tour. Cost something like twelve shillings. + Awfully cheap. They wear them for cricket.” + </p> + <p> + That was a wrong move, of course. Sidney must hear about England; and she + marveled politely, in view of his poverty, about his being there. Poor Le + Moyne floundered in a sea of mendacity, rose to a truth here and there, + clutched at luncheon, and achieved safety at last. + </p> + <p> + “To think,” said Sidney, “that you have really been across the ocean! I + never knew but one person who had been abroad. It is Dr. Max Wilson.” + </p> + <p> + Back again to Dr. Max! Le Moyne, unpacking sandwiches from a basket, was + aroused by a sheer resentment to an indiscretion. + </p> + <p> + “You like this Wilson chap pretty well, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You talk about him rather a lot.” + </p> + <p> + This was sheer recklessness, of course. He expected fury, annihilation. He + did not look up, but busied himself with the luncheon. When the silence + grew oppressive, he ventured to glance toward her. She was leaning + forward, her chin cupped in her palms, staring out over the valley that + stretched at their feet. + </p> + <p> + “Don't speak to me for a minute or two,” she said. “I'm thinking over what + you have just said.” + </p> + <p> + Manlike, having raised the issue, K. would have given much to evade it. + Not that he had owned himself in love with Sidney. Love was not for him. + But into his loneliness and despair the girl had came like a ray of light. + She typified that youth and hope that he had felt slipping away from him. + Through her clear eyes he was beginning to see a new world. Lose her he + must, and that he knew; but not this way. + </p> + <p> + Down through the valley ran a shallow river, making noisy pretensions to + both depth and fury. He remembered just such a river in the Tyrol, with + this same Wilson on a rock, holding the hand of a pretty Austrian girl, + while he snapped the shutter of a camera. He had that picture somewhere + now; but the girl was dead, and, of the three, Wilson was the only one who + had met life and vanquished it. + </p> + <p> + “I've known him all my life,” Sidney said at last. “You're perfectly right + about one thing: I talk about him and I think about him. I'm being candid, + because what's the use of being friends if we're not frank? I admire him—you'd + have to see him in the hospital, with every one deferring to him and all + that, to understand. And when you think of a man like that, who holds life + and death in his hands, of course you rather thrill. I—I honestly + believe that's all there is to it.” + </p> + <p> + “If that's the whole thing, that's hardly a mad passion.” He tried to + smile; succeeded faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course, there's this, too. I know he'll never look at me. I'll + be one of forty nurses; indeed, for three months I'll be only a + probationer. He'll probably never even remember I'm in the hospital at + all.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Then, if you thought he was in love with you, things would be + different?” + </p> + <p> + “If I thought Dr. Max Wilson was in love with me,” said Sidney solemnly, + “I'd go out of my head with joy.” + </p> + <p> + One of the new qualities that K. Le Moyne was cultivating was of living + each day for itself. Having no past and no future, each day was worth + exactly what it brought. He was to look back to this day with mingled + feelings: sheer gladness at being out in the open with Sidney; the memory + of the shock with which he realized that she was, unknown to herself, + already in the throes of a romantic attachment for Wilson; and, long, long + after, when he had gone down to the depths with her and saved her by his + steady hand, with something of mirth for the untoward happening that + closed the day. + </p> + <p> + Sidney fell into the river. + </p> + <p> + They had released Reginald, released him with the tribute of a shamefaced + tear on Sidney's part, and a handful of chestnuts from K. The little + squirrel had squeaked his gladness, and, tail erect, had darted into the + grass. + </p> + <p> + “Ungrateful little beast!” said Sidney, and dried her eyes. “Do you + suppose he'll ever think of the nuts again, or find them?” + </p> + <p> + “He'll be all right,” K. replied. “The little beggar can take care of + himself, if only—” + </p> + <p> + “If only what?” + </p> + <p> + “If only he isn't too friendly. He's apt to crawl into the pockets of any + one who happens around.” + </p> + <p> + She was alarmed at that. To make up for his indiscretion, K. suggested a + descent to the river. She accepted eagerly, and he helped her down. That + was another memory that outlasted the day—her small warm hand in + his; the time she slipped and he caught her; the pain in her eyes at one + of his thoughtless remarks. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to be pretty lonely,” he said, when she had paused in the + descent and was taking a stone out of her low shoe. “Reginald gone, and + you going! I shall hate to come home at night.” And then, seeing her + wince: “I've been whining all day. For Heaven's sake, don't look like + that. If there's one sort of man I detest more than another, it's a man + who is sorry for himself. Do you suppose your mother would object if we + stayed, out here at the hotel for supper? I've ordered a moon, + orange-yellow and extra size.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hate to have anything ordered and wasted.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we'll stay.” + </p> + <p> + “It's fearfully extravagant.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll be thrifty as to moons while you are in the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + So it was settled. And, as it happened, Sidney had to stay, anyhow. For, + having perched herself out in the river on a sugar-loaf rock, she slid, + slowly but with a dreadful inevitability, into the water. K. happened to + be looking in another direction. So it occurred that at one moment, Sidney + sat on a rock, fluffy white from head to feet, entrancingly pretty, and + knowing it, and the next she was standing neck deep in water, much too + startled to scream, and trying to be dignified under the rather trying + circumstances. K. had not looked around. The splash had been a gentle one. + </p> + <p> + “If you will be good enough,” said Sidney, with her chin well up, “to give + me your hand or a pole or something—because if the river rises an + inch I shall drown.” + </p> + <p> + To his undying credit, K. Le Moyne did not laugh when he turned and saw + her. He went out on the sugar-loaf rock, and lifted her bodily up its + slippery sides. He had prodigious strength, in spite of his leanness. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” said Sidney, when they were both on the rock, carefully balanced. + </p> + <p> + “Are you cold?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit. But horribly unhappy. I must look a sight.” Then, remembering + her manners, as the Street had it, she said primly:— + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for saving me.” + </p> + <p> + “There wasn't any danger, really, unless—unless the river had + risen.” + </p> + <p> + And then, suddenly, he burst into delighted laughter, the first, perhaps, + for months. He shook with it, struggled at the sight of her injured face + to restrain it, achieved finally a degree of sobriety by fixing his eyes + on the river-bank. + </p> + <p> + “When you have quite finished,” said Sidney severely, “perhaps you will + take me to the hotel. I dare say I shall have to be washed and ironed.” + </p> + <p> + He drew her cautiously to her feet. Her wet skirts clung to her; her shoes + were sodden and heavy. She clung to him frantically, her eyes on the river + below. With the touch of her hands the man's mirth died. He held her very + carefully, very tenderly, as one holds something infinitely precious. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + The same day Dr. Max operated at the hospital. It was a Wilson day, the + young surgeon having six cases. One of the innovations Dr. Max had made + was to change the hour for major operations from early morning to + mid-afternoon. He could do as well later in the day,—his nerves were + steady, and uncounted numbers of cigarettes did not make his hand shake,—and + he hated to get up early. + </p> + <p> + The staff had fallen into the way of attending Wilson's operations. His + technique was good; but technique alone never gets a surgeon anywhere. + Wilson was getting results. Even the most jealous of that most jealous of + professions, surgery, had to admit that he got results. + </p> + <p> + Operations were over for the afternoon. The last case had been wheeled out + of the elevator. The pit of the operating-room was in disorder—towels + everywhere, tables of instruments, steaming sterilizers. Orderlies were + going about, carrying out linens, emptying pans. At a table two nurses + were cleaning instruments and putting them away in their glass cases. + Irrigators were being emptied, sponges recounted and checked off on + written lists. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of the confusion, Wilson stood giving last orders to the + interne at his elbow. As he talked he scoured his hands and arms with a + small brush; bits of lather flew off on to the tiled floor. His speech was + incisive, vigorous. At the hospital they said his nerves were iron; there + was no let-down after the day's work. The internes worshiped and feared + him. He was just, but without mercy. To be able to work like that, so + certainly, with so sure a touch, and to look like a Greek god! Wilson's + only rival, a gynecologist named O'Hara, got results, too; but he sweated + and swore through his operations, was not too careful as to asepsis, and + looked like a gorilla. + </p> + <p> + The day had been a hard one. The operating room nurses were fagged. Two or + three probationers had been sent to help cleanup, and a senior nurse. + Wilson's eyes caught the nurse's eyes as she passed him. + </p> + <p> + “Here, too, Miss Harrison!” he said gayly. “Have they set you on my + trail?” + </p> + <p> + With the eyes of the room on her, the girl answered primly:— + </p> + <p> + “I'm to be in your office in the mornings, Dr. Wilson, and anywhere I am + needed in the afternoons.” + </p> + <p> + “And your vacation?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall take it when Miss Simpson comes back.” + </p> + <p> + Although he went on at once with his conversation with the interne, he + still heard the click of her heels about the room. He had not lost the + fact that she had flushed when he spoke to her. The mischief that was + latent in him came to the surface. When he had rinsed his hands, he + followed her, carrying the towel to where she stood talking to the + superintendent of the training school. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks very much, Miss Gregg,” he said. “Everything went off nicely.” + </p> + <p> + “I was sorry about that catgut. We have no trouble with what we prepare + ourselves. But with so many operations—” + </p> + <p> + He was in a magnanimous mood. He smiled at Miss Gregg, who was elderly + and gray, but visibly his creature. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right. It's the first time, and of course it will be the + last.” + </p> + <p> + “The sponge list, doctor.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced over it, noting accurately sponges prepared, used, turned in. + But he missed no gesture of the girl who stood beside Miss Gregg. + </p> + <p> + “All right.” He returned the list. “That was a mighty pretty probationer I + brought you yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + Two small frowning lines appeared between Miss Harrison's dark brows. He + caught them, caught her somber eyes too, and was amused and rather + stimulated. + </p> + <p> + “She is very young.” + </p> + <p> + “Prefer 'em young,” said Dr. Max. “Willing to learn at that age. You'll + have to watch her, though. You'll have all the internes buzzing around, + neglecting business.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Gregg rather fluttered. She was divided between her disapproval of + internes at all times and of young probationers generally, and her + allegiance to the brilliant surgeon whose word was rapidly becoming law in + the hospital. When an emergency of the cleaning up called her away, doubt + still in her eyes, Wilson was left alone with Miss Harrison. + </p> + <p> + “Tired?” He adopted the gentle, almost tender tone that made most women + his slaves. + </p> + <p> + “A little. It is warm.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do this evening? Any lectures?” + </p> + <p> + “Lectures are over for the summer. I shall go to prayers, and after that + to the roof for air.” + </p> + <p> + There was a note of bitterness in her voice. Under the eyes of the other + nurses, she was carefully contained. They might have been outlining the + morning's work at his office. + </p> + <p> + “The hand lotion, please.” + </p> + <p> + She brought it obediently and poured it into his cupped hands. The + solutions of the operating-room played havoc with the skin: the surgeons, + and especially Wilson, soaked their hands plentifully with a healing + lotion. + </p> + <p> + Over the bottle their eyes met again, and this time the girl smiled + faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you take a little ride to-night and cool off? I'll have the car + wherever you say. A ride and some supper—how does it sound? You + could get away at seven—” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Gregg is coming!” + </p> + <p> + With an impassive face, the girl took the bottle away. The workers of the + operating-room surged between them. An interne presented an order-book; + moppers had come in and waited to clean the tiled floor. There seemed no + chance for Wilson to speak to Miss Harrison again. + </p> + <p> + But he was clever with the guile of the pursuing male. Eyes of all on him, + he turned at the door of the wardrobe-room, where he would exchange his + white garments for street clothing, and spoke to her over the heads of a + dozen nurses. + </p> + <p> + “That patient's address that I had forgotten, Miss Harrison, is the corner + of the Park and Ellington Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She played the game well, was quite calm. He admired her coolness. + Certainly she was pretty, and certainly, too, she was interested in him. + The hurt to his pride of a few nights before was healed. He went whistling + into the wardrobe-room. As he turned he caught the interne's eye, and + there passed between them a glance of complete comprehension. The interne + grinned. + </p> + <p> + The room was not empty. His brother was there, listening to the comments + of O'Hara, his friendly rival. + </p> + <p> + “Good work, boy!” said O'Hara, and clapped a hairy hand on his shoulder. + “That last case was a wonder. I'm proud of you, and your brother here is + indecently exalted. It was the Edwardes method, wasn't it? I saw it done + at his clinic in New York.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad you liked it. Yes. Edwardes was a pal at mine in Berlin. A great + surgeon, too, poor old chap!” + </p> + <p> + “There aren't three men in the country with the nerve and the hand for + it.” + </p> + <p> + O'Hara went out, glowing with his own magnanimity. Deep in his heart was a + gnawing of envy—not for himself, but for his work. These young + fellows with no family ties, who could run over to Europe and bring back + anything new that was worth while, they had it all over the older men. Not + that he would have changed things. God forbid! + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed stood by and waited while his brother got into his street clothes. + He was rather silent. There were many times when he wished that their + mother could have lived to see how he had carried out his promise to “make + a man of Max.” This was one of them. Not that he took any credit for Max's + brilliant career—but he would have liked her to know that things + were going well. He had a picture of her over his office desk. Sometimes + he wondered what she would think of his own untidy methods compared with + Max's extravagant order—of the bag, for instance, with the dog's + collar in it, and other things. On these occasions he always determined to + clear out the bag. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'll be getting along,” he said. “Will you be home to dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not. I'll—I'm going to run out of town, and eat where it's + cool.” + </p> + <p> + The Street was notoriously hot in summer. When Dr. Max was newly home from + Europe, and Dr. Ed was selling a painfully acquired bond or two to furnish + the new offices downtown, the brothers had occasionally gone together, by + way of the trolley, to the White Springs Hotel for supper. Those had been + gala days for the older man. To hear names that he had read with awe, and + mispronounced, most of his life, roll off Max's tongue—“Old + Steinmetz” and “that ass of a Heydenreich”; to hear the medical and + surgical gossip of the Continent, new drugs, new technique, the small + heart-burnings of the clinics, student scandal—had brought into his + drab days a touch of color. But that was over now. Max had new friends, + new social obligations; his time was taken up. And pride would not allow + the older brother to show how he missed the early days. + </p> + <p> + Forty-two he was, and, what with sleepless nights and twenty years of + hurried food, he looked fifty. Fifty, then, to Max's thirty. + </p> + <p> + “There's a roast of beef. It's a pity to cook a roast for one.” + </p> + <p> + Wasteful, too, this cooking of food for two and only one to eat it. A + roast of beef meant a visit, in Dr. Ed's modest-paying clientele. He still + paid the expenses of the house on the Street. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, old man; I've made another arrangement.” + </p> + <p> + They left the hospital together. Everywhere the younger man received the + homage of success. The elevator-man bowed and flung the doors open, with a + smile; the pharmacy clerk, the doorkeeper, even the convalescent patient + who was polishing the great brass doorplate, tendered their tribute. Dr. + Ed looked neither to right nor left. + </p> + <p> + At the machine they separated. But Dr. Ed stood for a moment with his hand + on the car. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking, up there this afternoon,” he said slowly, “that I'm not + sure I want Sidney Page to become a nurse.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “There's a good deal in life that a girl need not know—not, at + least, until her husband tells her. Sidney's been guarded, and it's bound + to be a shock.” + </p> + <p> + “It's her own choice.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. A child reaches out for the fire.” + </p> + <p> + The motor had started. For the moment, at least, the younger Wilson had no + interest in Sidney Page. + </p> + <p> + “She'll manage all right. Plenty of other girls have taken the training + and come through without spoiling their zest for life.” + </p> + <p> + Already, as the car moved off, his mind was on his appointment for the + evening. + </p> + <p> + Sidney, after her involuntary bath in the river, had gone into temporary + eclipse at the White Springs Hotel. In the oven of the kitchen stove sat + her two small white shoes, stuffed with paper so that they might dry in + shape. Back in a detached laundry, a sympathetic maid was ironing various + soft white garments, and singing as she worked. + </p> + <p> + Sidney sat in a rocking-chair in a hot bedroom. She was carefully swathed + in a sheet from neck to toes, except for her arms, and she was being as + philosophic as possible. After all, it was a good chance to think things + over. She had very little time to think, generally. + </p> + <p> + She meant to give up Joe Drummond. She didn't want to hurt him. Well, + there was that to think over and a matter of probation dresses to be + talked over later with her Aunt Harriet. Also, there was a great deal of + advice to K. Le Moyne, who was ridiculously extravagant, before trusting + the house to him. She folded her white arms and prepared to think over all + these things. As a matter of fact, she went mentally, like an arrow to its + mark, to the younger Wilson—to his straight figure in its white + coat, to his dark eyes and heavy hair, to the cleft in his chin when he + smiled. + </p> + <p> + “You know, I have always been more than half in love with you myself...” + </p> + <p> + Some one tapped lightly at the door. She was back again in the stuffy + hotel room, clutching the sheet about her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “It's Le Moyne. Are you all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly. How stupid it must be for you!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm doing very well. The maid will soon be ready. What shall I order for + supper?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything. I'm starving.” + </p> + <p> + Whatever visions K. Le Moyne may have had of a chill or of a feverish cold + were dispelled by that. + </p> + <p> + “The moon has arrived, as per specifications. Shall we eat on the + terrace?” + </p> + <p> + “I have never eaten on a terrace in my life. I'd love it.” + </p> + <p> + “I think your shoes have shrunk.” + </p> + <p> + “Flatterer!” She laughed. “Go away and order supper. And I can see fresh + lettuce. Shall we have a salad?” + </p> + <p> + K. Le Moyne assured her through the door that he would order a salad, and + prepared to descend. + </p> + <p> + But he stood for a moment in front of the closed door, for the mere sound + of her moving, beyond it. Things had gone very far with the Pages' roomer + that day in the country; not so far as they were to go, but far enough to + let him see on the brink of what misery he stood. + </p> + <p> + He could not go away. He had promised her to stay: he was needed. He + thought he could have endured seeing her marry Joe, had she cared for the + boy. That way, at least, lay safety for her. The boy had fidelity and + devotion written large over him. But this new complication—her + romantic interest in Wilson, the surgeon's reciprocal interest in her, + with what he knew of the man—made him quail. + </p> + <p> + From the top of the narrow staircase to the foot, and he had lived a + year's torment! At the foot, however, he was startled out of his reverie. + Joe Drummond stood there waiting for him, his blue eyes recklessly alight. + </p> + <p> + “You—you dog!” said Joe. + </p> + <p> + There were people in the hotel parlor. Le Moyne took the frenzied boy by + the elbow and led him past the door to the empty porch. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” he said, “if you will keep your voice down, I'll listen to what you + have to say.” + </p> + <p> + “You know what I've got to say.” + </p> + <p> + This failing to draw from K. Le Moyne anything but his steady glance, Joe + jerked his arm free, and clenched his fist. + </p> + <p> + “What did you bring her out here for?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know that I owe you any explanation, but I am willing to give + you one. I brought her out here for a trolley ride and a picnic luncheon. + Incidentally we brought the ground squirrel out and set him free.” + </p> + <p> + He was sorry for the boy. Life not having been all beer and skittles to + him, he knew that Joe was suffering, and was marvelously patient with him. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she now?” + </p> + <p> + “She had the misfortune to fall in the river. She is upstairs.” And, + seeing the light of unbelief in Joe's eyes: “If you care to make a tour of + investigation, you will find that I am entirely truthful. In the laundry a + maid—” + </p> + <p> + “She is engaged to me”—doggedly. “Everybody in the neighborhood + knows it; and yet you bring her out here for a picnic! It's—it's + damned rotten treatment.” + </p> + <p> + His fist had unclenched. Before K. Le Moyne's eyes his own fell. He felt + suddenly young and futile; his just rage turned to blustering in his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Now, be honest with yourself. Is there really an engagement?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Even in that case, isn't it rather arrogant to say that—that the + young lady in question can accept no ordinary friendly attentions from + another man?” + </p> + <p> + Utter astonishment left Joe almost speechless. The Street, of course, + regarded an engagement as a setting aside of the affianced couple, an + isolation of two, than which marriage itself was not more a solitude a + deux. After a moment:— + </p> + <p> + “I don't know where you came from,” he said, “but around here decent men + cut out when a girl's engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “I see!” + </p> + <p> + “What's more, what do we know about you? Who are you, anyhow? I've looked + you up. Even at your office they don't know anything. You may be all + right, but how do I know it? And, even if you are, renting a room in the + Page house doesn't entitle you to interfere with the family. You get her + into trouble and I'll kill you!” + </p> + <p> + It took courage, that speech, with K. Le Moyne towering five inches above + him and growing a little white about the lips. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to say all these things to Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “Does she allow you to call her Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am. And I am going to find out why you were upstairs just now.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps never in his twenty-two years had young Drummond been so near a + thrashing. Fury that he was ashamed of shook Le Moyne. For very fear of + himself, he thrust his hands in the pockets of his Norfolk coat. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said. “You go to her with just one of these ugly + insinuations, and I'll take mighty good care that you are sorry for it. I + don't care to threaten. You're younger than I am, and lighter. But if you + are going to behave like a bad child, you deserve a licking, and I'll give + it to you.” + </p> + <p> + An overflow from the parlor poured out on the porch. Le Moyne had got + himself in hand somewhat. He was still angry, but the look in Joe's eyes + startled him. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You're wrong, old man,” he said. “You're insulting the girl you care for + by the things you are thinking. And, if it's any comfort to you, I have no + intention of interfering in any way. You can count me out. It's between + you and her.” Joe picked his straw hat from a chair and stood turning it + in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Even if you don't care for her, how do I know she isn't crazy about you?” + </p> + <p> + “My word of honor, she isn't.” + </p> + <p> + “She sends you notes to McKees'.” + </p> + <p> + “Just to clear the air, I'll show it to you. It's no breach of confidence. + It's about the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + Into the breast pocket of his coat he dived and brought up a wallet. The + wallet had had a name on it in gilt letters that had been carefully + scraped off. But Joe did not wait to see the note. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, damn the hospital!” he said—and went swiftly down the steps and + into the gathering twilight of the June night. + </p> + <p> + It was only when he reached the street-car, and sat huddled in a corner, + that he remembered something. + </p> + <p> + Only about the hospital—but Le Moyne had kept the note, treasured + it! Joe was not subtle, not even clever; but he was a lover, and he knew + the ways of love. The Pages' roomer was in love with Sidney whether he + knew it or not. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + Carlotta Harrison pleaded a headache, and was excused from the + operating-room and from prayers. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry about the vacation,” Miss Gregg said kindly, “but in a day or + two I can let you off. Go out now and get a little air.” + </p> + <p> + The girl managed to dissemble the triumph in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said languidly, and turned away. Then: “About the + vacation, I am not in a hurry. If Miss Simpson needs a few days to + straighten things out, I can stay on with Dr. Wilson.” + </p> + <p> + Young women on the eve of a vacation were not usually so reasonable. Miss + Gregg was grateful. + </p> + <p> + “She will probably need a week. Thank you. I wish more of the girls were + as thoughtful, with the house full and operations all day and every day.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the door of the anaesthetizing-room Miss Harrison's languor + vanished. She sped along corridors and up the stairs, not waiting for the + deliberate elevator. Inside of her room, she closed and bolted the door, + and, standing before her mirror, gazed long at her dark eyes and bright + hair. Then she proceeded briskly with her dressing. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta Harrison was not a child. Though she was only three years older + than Sidney, her experience of life was as of three to Sidney's one. The + product of a curious marriage,—when Tommy Harrison of Harrison's + Minstrels, touring Spain with his troupe, had met the pretty daughter of a + Spanish shopkeeper and eloped with her,—she had certain qualities of + both, a Yankee shrewdness and capacity that made her a capable nurse, + complicated by occasional outcroppings of southern Europe, furious bursts + of temper, slow and smouldering vindictiveness. A passionate creature, in + reality, smothered under hereditary Massachusetts caution. + </p> + <p> + She was well aware of the risks of the evening's adventure. The only dread + she had was of the discovery of her escapade by the hospital authorities. + Lines were sharply drawn. Nurses were forbidden more than the exchange of + professional conversation with the staff. In that world of her choosing, + of hard work and little play, of service and self-denial and vigorous + rules of conduct, discovery meant dismissal. + </p> + <p> + She put on a soft black dress, open at the throat, and with a wide white + collar and cuffs of some sheer material. Her yellow hair was drawn high + under her low black hat. From her Spanish mother she had learned to please + the man, not herself. She guessed that Dr. Max would wish her to be + inconspicuous, and she dressed accordingly. Then, being a cautious person, + she disarranged her bed slightly and thumped a hollow into her pillow. The + nurses' rooms were subject to inspection, and she had pleaded a headache. + </p> + <p> + She was exactly on time. Dr. Max, driving up to the corner five minutes + late, found her there, quite matter-of-fact but exceedingly handsome, and + acknowledged the evening's adventure much to his taste. + </p> + <p> + “A little air first, and then supper—how's that?” + </p> + <p> + “Air first, please. I'm very tired.” + </p> + <p> + He turned the car toward the suburbs, and then, bending toward her, smiled + into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is life!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm cool for the first time to-day.” + </p> + <p> + After that they spoke very little. Even Wilson's superb nerves had felt + the strain of the afternoon, and under the girl's dark eyes were purplish + shadows. She leaned back, weary but luxuriously content. + </p> + <p> + “Not uneasy, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not particularly. I'm too comfortable. But I hope we're not seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Even if we are, why not? You are going with me to a case. I've driven + Miss Simpson about a lot.” + </p> + <p> + It was almost eight when he turned the car into the drive of the White + Springs Hotel. The six-to-eight supper was almost over. One or two motor + parties were preparing for the moonlight drive back to the city. All + around was virgin country, sweet with early summer odors of new-cut grass, + of blossoming trees and warm earth. On the grass terrace over the valley, + where ran Sidney's unlucky river, was a magnolia full of creamy blossoms + among waxed leaves. Its silhouette against the sky was quaintly + heart-shaped. + </p> + <p> + Under her mask of languor, Carlotta's heart was beating wildly. What an + adventure! What a night! Let him lose his head a little; she could keep + hers. If she were skillful and played things right, who could tell? To + marry him, to leave behind the drudgery of the hospital, to feel safe as + she had not felt for years, that was a stroke to play for! + </p> + <p> + The magnolia was just beside her. She reached up and, breaking off one of + the heavy-scented flowers, placed it in the bosom of her black dress. + </p> + <p> + Sidney and K. Le Moyne were dining together. The novelty of the experience + had made her eyes shine like stars. She saw only the magnolia tree shaped + like a heart, the terrace edged with low shrubbery, and beyond the faint + gleam that was the river. For her the dish-washing clatter of the kitchen + was stilled, the noises from the bar were lost in the ripple of the river; + the scent of the grass killed the odor of stale beer that wafted out + through the open windows. The unshaded glare of the lights behind her in + the house was eclipsed by the crescent edge of the rising moon. Dinner was + over. Sidney was experiencing the rare treat of after-dinner coffee. + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne, grave and contained, sat across from her. To give so much + pleasure, and so easily! How young she was, and radiant! No wonder the boy + was mad about her. She fairly held out her arms to life. + </p> + <p> + Ah, that was too bad! Another table was being brought; they were not to be + alone. But, what roused him in violent resentment only appealed to + Sidney's curiosity. “Two places!” she commented. “Lovers, of course. Or + perhaps honeymooners.” + </p> + <p> + K. tried to fall into her mood. + </p> + <p> + “A box of candy against a good cigar, they are a stolid married couple.” + </p> + <p> + “How shall we know?” + </p> + <p> + “That's easy. If they loll back and watch the kitchen door, I win. If they + lean forward, elbows on the table, and talk, you get the candy.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney, who had been leaning forward, talking eagerly over the table, + suddenly straightened and flushed. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta Harrison came out alone. Although the tapping of her heels was + dulled by the grass, although she had exchanged her cap for the black hat, + Sidney knew her at once. A sort of thrill ran over her. It was the pretty + nurse from Dr. Wilson's office. Was it possible—but of course not! + The book of rules stated explicitly that such things were forbidden. + </p> + <p> + “Don't turn around,” she said swiftly. “It is the Miss Harrison I told you + about. She is looking at us.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta's eyes were blinded for a moment by the glare of the house + lights. She dropped into her chair, with a flash of resentment at the + proximity of the other table. She languidly surveyed its two occupants. + Then she sat up, her eyes on Le Moyne's grave profile turned toward the + valley. + </p> + <p> + Lucky for her that Wilson had stopped in the bar, that Sidney's + instinctive good manners forbade her staring, that only the edge of the + summer moon shone through the trees. She went white and clutched the edge + of the table, with her eyes closed. That gave her quick brain a chance. It + was madness, June madness. She was always seeing him even in her dreams. + This man was older, much older. She looked again. + </p> + <p> + She had not been mistaken. Here, and after all these months! K. Le Moyne, + quite unconscious of her presence, looked down into the valley. + </p> + <p> + Wilson appeared on the wooden porch above the terrace, and stood, his eyes + searching the half light for her. If he came down to her, the man at the + next table might turn, would see her— + </p> + <p> + She rose and went swiftly back toward the hotel. All the gayety was gone + out of the evening for her, but she forced a lightness she did not feel:— + </p> + <p> + “It is so dark and depressing out there—it makes me sad.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely you do not want to dine in the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you wish. This is your evening.” + </p> + <p> + But he was not pleased. The prospect of the glaring lights and soiled + linen of the dining-room jarred on his aesthetic sense. He wanted a + setting for himself, for the girl. Environment was vital to him. But when, + in the full light of the moon, he saw the purplish shadows under her eyes, + he forgot his resentment. She had had a hard day. She was tired. His easy + sympathies were roused. He leaned over and ran his and caressingly along + her bare forearm. + </p> + <p> + “Your wish is my law—to-night,” he said softly. + </p> + <p> + After all, the evening was a disappointment to him. The spontaneity had + gone out of it, for some reason. The girl who had thrilled to his glance + those two mornings in his office, whose somber eyes had met his fire for + fire, across the operating-room, was not playing up. She sat back in her + chair, eating little, starting at every step. Her eyes, which by every + rule of the game should have been gazing into his, were fixed on the + oilcloth-covered passage outside the door. + </p> + <p> + “I think, after all, you are frightened!” + </p> + <p> + “Terribly.” + </p> + <p> + “A little danger adds to the zest of things. You know what Nietzsche says + about that.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not fond of Nietzsche.” Then, with an effort: “What does he say?” + </p> + <p> + “Two things are wanted by the true man—danger and play. Therefore he + seeketh woman as the most dangerous of toys.” + </p> + <p> + “Women are dangerous only when you think of them as toys. When a man finds + that a woman can reason,—do anything but feel,—he regards her + as a menace. But the reasoning woman is really less dangerous than the + other sort.” + </p> + <p> + This was more like the real thing. To talk careful abstractions like this, + with beneath each abstraction its concealed personal application, to talk + of woman and look in her eyes, to discuss new philosophies with their + freedoms, to discard old creeds and old moralities—that was his + game. Wilson became content, interested again. The girl was nimble-minded. + She challenged his philosophy and gave him a chance to defend it. With the + conviction, as their meal went on, that Le Moyne and his companion must + surely have gone, she gained ease. + </p> + <p> + It was only by wild driving that she got back to the hospital by ten + o'clock. + </p> + <p> + Wilson left her at the corner, well content with himself. He had had the + rest he needed in congenial company. The girl stimulated his interest. She + was mental, but not too mental. And he approved of his own attitude. He + had been discreet. Even if she talked, there was nothing to tell. But he + felt confident that she would not talk. + </p> + <p> + As he drove up the Street, he glanced across at the Page house. Sidney was + there on the doorstep, talking to a tall man who stood below and looked up + at her. Wilson settled his tie, in the darkness. Sidney was a mighty + pretty girl. The June night was in his blood. He was sorry he had not + kissed Carlotta good-night. He rather thought, now he looked back, she had + expected it. + </p> + <p> + As he got out of his car at the curb, a young man who had been standing in + the shadow of the tree-box moved quickly away. + </p> + <p> + Wilson smiled after him in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “That you, Joe?” he called. + </p> + <p> + But the boy went on. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + Sidney entered the hospital as a probationer early in August. Christine + was to be married in September to Palmer Howe, and, with Harriet and K. in + the house, she felt that she could safely leave her mother. + </p> + <p> + The balcony outside the parlor was already under way. On the night before + she went away, Sidney took chairs out there and sat with her mother until + the dew drove Anna to the lamp in the sewing-room and her “Daily Thoughts” + reading. + </p> + <p> + Sidney sat alone and viewed her world from this new and pleasant angle. + She could see the garden and the whitewashed fence with its + morning-glories, and at the same time, by turning her head, view the + Wilson house across the Street. She looked mostly at the Wilson house. + </p> + <p> + K. Le Moyne was upstairs in his room. She could hear him tramping up and + down, and catch, occasionally, the bitter-sweet odor of his old brier + pipe. + </p> + <p> + All the small loose ends of her life were gathered up—except Joe. + She would have liked to get that clear, too. She wanted him to know how + she felt about it all: that she liked him as much as ever, that she did + not want to hurt him. But she wanted to make it clear, too, that she knew + now that she would never marry him. She thought she would never marry; + but, if she did, it would be a man doing a man's work in the world. Her + eyes turned wistfully to the house across the Street. + </p> + <p> + K.'s lamp still burned overhead, but his restless tramping about had + ceased. He must be reading—he read a great deal. She really ought to + go to bed. A neighborhood cat came stealthily across the Street, and + stared up at the little balcony with green-glowing eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Bill Taft,” she said. “Reginald is gone, so you are welcome. + Come on.” + </p> + <p> + Joe Drummond, passing the house for the fourth time that evening, heard + her voice, and hesitated uncertainly on the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “That you, Sid?” he called softly. + </p> + <p> + “Joe! Come in.” + </p> + <p> + “It's late; I'd better get home.” + </p> + <p> + The misery in his voice hurt her. + </p> + <p> + “I'll not keep you long. I want to talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + He came slowly toward her. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “You're not very kind to me, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” said poor Joe. “Kind to you! Isn't the kindest thing I can do to + keep out of your way?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you are hating me all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't hate you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why haven't you been to see me? If I have done anything—” Her + voice was a-tingle with virtue and outraged friendship. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't done anything but—show me where I get off.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down on the edge of the balcony and stared out blankly. + </p> + <p> + “If that's the way you feel about it—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not blaming you. I was a fool to think you'd ever care about me. I + don't know that I feel so bad—about the thing. I've been around + seeing some other girls, and I notice they're glad to see me, and treat me + right, too.” There was boyish bravado in his voice. “But what makes me + sick is to have everyone saying you've jilted me.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious! Why, Joe, I never promised.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we look at it in different ways; that's all. I took it for a + promise.” + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly all his carefully conserved indifference fled. He bent + forward quickly and, catching her hand, held it against his lips. + </p> + <p> + “I'm crazy about you, Sidney. That's the truth. I wish I could die!” + </p> + <p> + The cat, finding no active antagonism, sprang up on the balcony and rubbed + against the boy's quivering shoulders; a breath of air stroked the + morning-glory vine like the touch of a friendly hand. Sidney, facing for + the first time the enigma of love and despair sat, rather frightened, in + her chair. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean that!” + </p> + <p> + “I mean it, all right. If it wasn't for the folks, I'd jump in the river. + I lied when I said I'd been to see other girls. What do I want with other + girls? I want you!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not worth all that.” + </p> + <p> + “No girl's worth what I've been going through,” he retorted bitterly. “But + that doesn't help any. I don't eat; I don't sleep—I'm afraid + sometimes of the way I feel. When I saw you at the White Springs with that + roomer chap—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! You were there!” + </p> + <p> + “If I'd had a gun I'd have killed him. I thought—” So far, out of + sheer pity, she had left her hand in his. Now she drew it away. + </p> + <p> + “This is wild, silly talk. You'll be sorry to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the truth,” doggedly. + </p> + <p> + But he made a clutch at his self-respect. He was acting like a crazy boy, + and he was a man, all of twenty-two! + </p> + <p> + “When are you going to the hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that Wilson's hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Alas for his resolve! The red haze of jealousy came again. “You'll be + seeing him every day, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say. I shall also be seeing twenty or thirty other doctors, and a + hundred or so men patients, not to mention visitors. Joe, you're not + rational.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said heavily, “I'm not. If it's got to be someone, Sidney, I'd + rather have it the roomer upstairs than Wilson. There's a lot of talk + about Wilson.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't necessary to malign my friends.” He rose. + </p> + <p> + “I thought perhaps, since you are going away, you would let me keep + Reginald. He'd be something to remember you by.” + </p> + <p> + “One would think I was about to die! I set Reginald free that day in the + country. I'm sorry, Joe. You'll come to see me now and then, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + “If I do, do you think you may change your mind?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid not.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to fight this out alone, and the less I see of you the better.” + But his next words belied his intention. “And Wilson had better lookout. + I'll be watching. If I see him playing any of his tricks around you—well, + he'd better look out!” + </p> + <p> + That, as it turned out, was Joe's farewell. He had reached the + breaking-point. He gave her a long look, blinked, and walked rapidly out + to the Street. Some of the dignity of his retreat was lost by the fact + that the cat followed him, close at his heels. + </p> + <p> + Sidney was hurt, greatly troubled. If this was love, she did not want it—this + strange compound of suspicion and despair, injured pride and threats. + Lovers in fiction were of two classes—the accepted ones, who loved + and trusted, and the rejected ones, who took themselves away in despair, + but at least took themselves away. The thought of a future with Joe always + around a corner, watching her, obsessed her. She felt aggrieved, insulted. + She even shed a tear or two, very surreptitiously; and then, being human + and much upset, and the cat startling her by its sudden return and selfish + advances, she shooed it off the veranda and set an imaginary dog after it. + Whereupon, feeling somewhat better, she went in and locked the balcony + window and proceeded upstairs. + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne's light was still going. The rest of the household slept. She + paused outside the door. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sleepy?”—very softly. + </p> + <p> + There was a movement inside, the sound of a book put down. Then: “No, + indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “I may not see you in the morning. I leave to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute.” + </p> + <p> + From the sounds, she judged that he was putting on his shabby gray coat. + The next moment he had opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you had forgotten!” + </p> + <p> + “I? Certainly not. I started downstairs a while ago, but you had a + visitor.” + </p> + <p> + “Only Joe Drummond.” + </p> + <p> + He gazed down at her quizzically. + </p> + <p> + “And—is Joe more reasonable?” + </p> + <p> + “He will be. He knows now that I—that I shall not marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor chap! He'll buck up, of course. But it's a little hard just now.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you think I should have married him.” + </p> + <p> + “I am only putting myself in his place and realizing—When do you + leave?” + </p> + <p> + “Just after breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “I am going very early. Perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. Then, hurriedly:— + </p> + <p> + “I got a little present for you—nothing much, but your mother was + quite willing. In fact, we bought it together.” + </p> + <p> + He went back into his room, and returned with a small box. + </p> + <p> + “With all sorts of good luck,” he said, and placed it in her hands. + </p> + <p> + “How dear of you! And may I look now?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would. Because, if you would rather have something else—” + </p> + <p> + She opened the box with excited fingers. Ticking away on its satin bed was + a small gold watch. + </p> + <p> + “You'll need it, you see,” he explained nervously, “It wasn't extravagant + under the circumstances. Your mother's watch, which you had intended to + take, had no second-hand. You'll need a second-hand to take pulses, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “A watch,” said Sidney, eyes on it. “A dear little watch, to pin on and + not put in a pocket. Why, you're the best person!” + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid you might think it presumptuous,” he said. “I haven't any + right, of course. I thought of flowers—but they fade and what have + you? You said that, you know, about Joe's roses. And then, your mother + said you wouldn't be offended—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't apologize for making me so happy!” she cried. “It's wonderful, + really. And the little hand is for pulses! How many queer things you + know!” + </p> + <p> + After that she must pin it on, and slip in to stand before his mirror and + inspect the result. It gave Le Moyne a queer thrill to see her there in + the room among his books and his pipes. It make him a little sick, too, in + view of to-morrow and the thousand-odd to-morrows when she would not be + there. + </p> + <p> + “I've kept you up shamefully,'” she said at last, “and you get up so + early. I shall write you a note from the hospital, delivering a little + lecture on extravagance—because how can I now, with this joy shining + on me? And about how to keep Katie in order about your socks, and all + sorts of things. And—and now, good-night.” + </p> + <p> + She had moved to the door, and he followed her, stooping a little to pass + under the low chandelier. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” said Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye—and God bless you.” + </p> + <p> + She went out, and he closed the door softly behind her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Sidney never forgot her early impressions of the hospital, although they + were chaotic enough at first. There were uniformed young women coming and + going, efficient, cool-eyed, low of voice. There were medicine-closets + with orderly rows of labeled bottles, linen-rooms with great stacks of + sheets and towels, long vistas of shining floors and lines of beds. There + were brisk internes with duck clothes and brass buttons, who eyed her with + friendly, patronizing glances. There were bandages and dressings, and + great white screens behind which were played little or big dramas, baths + or deaths, as the case might be. And over all brooded the mysterious + authority of the superintendent of the training-school, dubbed the Head, + for short. + </p> + <p> + Twelve hours a day, from seven to seven, with the off-duty intermission, + Sidney labored at tasks which revolted her soul. She swept and dusted the + wards, cleaned closets, folded sheets and towels, rolled bandages—did + everything but nurse the sick, which was what she had come to do. + </p> + <p> + At night she did not go home. She sat on the edge of her narrow white bed + and soaked her aching feet in hot water and witch hazel, and practiced + taking pulses on her own slender wrist, with K.'s little watch. + </p> + <p> + Out of all the long, hot days, two periods stood out clearly, to be waited + for and cherished. One was when, early in the afternoon, with the ward in + spotless order, the shades drawn against the August sun, the tables + covered with their red covers, and the only sound the drone of the + bandage-machine as Sidney steadily turned it, Dr. Max passed the door on + his way to the surgical ward beyond, and gave her a cheery greeting. At + these times Sidney's heart beat almost in time with the ticking of the + little watch. + </p> + <p> + The other hour was at twilight, when, work over for the day, the night + nurse, with her rubber-soled shoes and tired eyes and jangling keys, + having reported and received the night orders, the nurses gathered in + their small parlor for prayers. It was months before Sidney got over the + exaltation of that twilight hour, and never did it cease to bring her + healing and peace. In a way, it crystallized for her what the day's work + meant: charity and its sister, service, the promise of rest and peace. + Into the little parlor filed the nurses, and knelt, folding their tired + hands. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord is my shepherd,” read the Head out of her worn Bible; “I shall + not want.” + </p> + <p> + And the nurses: “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me + beside the still waters.” + </p> + <p> + And so on through the psalm to the assurance at the end, “And I will dwell + in the house of the Lord forever.” Now and then there was a death behind + one of the white screens. It caused little change in the routine of the + ward. A nurse stayed behind the screen, and her work was done by the + others. When everything was over, the time was recorded exactly on the + record, and the body was taken away. + </p> + <p> + At first it seemed to Sidney that she could not stand this nearness to + death. She thought the nurses hard because they took it quietly. Then she + found that it was only stoicism, resignation, that they had learned. These + things must be, and the work must go on. Their philosophy made them no + less tender. Some such patient detachment must be that of the angels who + keep the Great Record. + </p> + <p> + On her first Sunday half-holiday she was free in the morning, and went to + church with her mother, going back to the hospital after the service. So + it was two weeks before she saw Le Moyne again. Even then, it was only for + a short time. Christine and Palmer Howe came in to see her, and to inspect + the balcony, now finished. + </p> + <p> + But Sidney and Le Moyne had a few words together first. + </p> + <p> + There was a change in Sidney. Le Moyne was quick to see it. She was a + trifle subdued, with a puzzled look in her blue eyes. Her mouth was + tender, as always, but he thought it drooped. There was a new atmosphere + of wistfulness about the girl that made his heart ache. + </p> + <p> + They were alone in the little parlor with its brown lamp and blue silk + shade, and its small nude Eve—which Anna kept because it had been a + gift from her husband, but retired behind a photograph of the minister, so + that only the head and a bare arm holding the apple appeared above the + reverend gentleman. + </p> + <p> + K. never smoked in the parlor, but by sheer force of habit he held the + pipe in his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “And how have things been going?” asked Sidney practically. + </p> + <p> + “Your steward has little to report. Aunt Harriet, who left you her love, + has had the complete order for the Lorenz trousseau. She and I have picked + out a stunning design for the wedding dress. I thought I'd ask you about + the veil. We're rather in a quandary. Do you like this new fashion of + draping the veil from behind the coiffure in the back—” + </p> + <p> + Sidney had been sitting on the edge of her chair, staring. + </p> + <p> + “There,” she said—“I knew it! This house is fatal! They're making an + old woman of you already.” Her tone was tragic. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Lorenz likes the new method, but my personal preference is for the + old way, with the bride's face covered.” + </p> + <p> + He sucked calmly at his dead pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Katie has a new prescription—recipe—for bread. It has more + bread and fewer air-holes. One cake of yeast—” + </p> + <p> + Sidney sprang to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “It's perfectly terrible!” she cried. “Because you rent a room in this + house is no reason why you should give up your personality and your—intelligence. + Not but that it's good for you. But Katie has made bread without masculine + assistance for a good many years, and if Christine can't decide about her + own veil she'd better not get married. Mother says you water the flowers + every evening, and lock up the house before you go to bed. I—I never + meant you to adopt the family!” + </p> + <p> + K. removed his pipe and gazed earnestly into the bowl. + </p> + <p> + “Bill Taft has had kittens under the porch,” he said. “And the groceryman + has been sending short weight. We've bought scales now, and weigh + everything.” + </p> + <p> + “You are evading the question.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear child, I am doing these things because I like to do them. For—for + some time I've been floating, and now I've got a home. Every time I lock + up the windows at night, or cut a picture out of a magazine as a + suggestion to your Aunt Harriet, it's an anchor to windward.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney gazed helplessly at his imperturbable face. He seemed older than + she had recalled him: the hair over his ears was almost white. And yet, he + was just thirty. That was Palmer Howe's age, and Palmer seemed like a boy. + But he held himself more erect than he had in the first days of his + occupancy of the second-floor front. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” he said cheerfully, “what about yourself? You've lost a lot of + illusions, of course, but perhaps you've gained ideals. That's a step.” + </p> + <p> + “Life,” observed Sidney, with the wisdom of two weeks out in the world, + “life is a terrible thing, K. We think we've got it, and—it's got + us.” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly.” + </p> + <p> + “When I think of how simple I used to think it all was! One grew up and + got married, and—and perhaps had children. And when one got very + old, one died. Lately, I've been seeing that life really consists of + exceptions—children who don't grow up, and grown-ups who die before + they are old. And”—this took an effort, but she looked at him + squarely—“and people who have children, but are not married. It all + rather hurts.” + </p> + <p> + “All knowledge that is worth while hurts in the getting.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney got up and wandered around the room, touching its little familiar + objects with tender hands. K. watched her. There was this curious element + in his love for her, that when he was with her it took on the guise of + friendship and deceived even himself. It was only in the lonely hours that + it took on truth, became a hopeless yearning for the touch of her hand or + a glance from her clear eyes. + </p> + <p> + Sidney, having picked up the minister's picture, replaced it absently, so + that Eve stood revealed in all her pre-apple innocence. + </p> + <p> + “There is something else,” she said absently. “I cannot talk it over with + mother. There is a girl in the ward—” + </p> + <p> + “A patient?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She is quite pretty. She has had typhoid, but she is a little + better. She's—not a good person.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “At first I couldn't bear to go near her. I shivered when I had to + straighten her bed. I—I'm being very frank, but I've got to talk + this out with someone. I worried a lot about it, because, although at + first I hated her, now I don't. I rather like her.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at K. defiantly, but there was no disapproval in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is the question. She's getting better. She'll be able to go + out soon. Don't you think something ought to be done to keep her from—going + back?” + </p> + <p> + There was a shadow in K.'s eyes now. She was so young to face all this; + and yet, since face it she must, how much better to have her do it + squarely. + </p> + <p> + “Does she want to change her mode of life?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, of course. There are some things one doesn't discuss. She + cares a great deal for some man. The other day I propped her up in bed and + gave her a newspaper, and after a while I found the paper on the floor, + and she was crying. The other patients avoid her, and it was some time + before I noticed it. The next day she told me that the man was going to + marry some one else. 'He wouldn't marry me, of course,' she said; 'but he + might have told me.'” + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne did his best, that afternoon in the little parlor, to provide + Sidney with a philosophy to carry her through her training. He told her + that certain responsibilities were hers, but that she could not reform the + world. Broad charity, tenderness, and healing were her province. + </p> + <p> + “Help them all you can,” he finished, feeling inadequate and hopelessly + didactic. “Cure them; send them out with a smile; and—leave the rest + to the Almighty.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney was resigned, but not content. Newly facing the evil of the world, + she was a rampant reformer at once. Only the arrival of Christine and her + fiance saved his philosophy from complete rout. He had time for a question + between the ring of the bell and Katie's deliberate progress from the + kitchen to the front door. + </p> + <p> + “How about the surgeon, young Wilson? Do you ever see him?” His tone was + carefully casual. + </p> + <p> + “Almost every day. He stops at the door of the ward and speaks to me. It + makes me quite distinguished, for a probationer. Usually, you know, the + staff never even see the probationers.” + </p> + <p> + “And—the glamour persists?” He smiled down at her. + </p> + <p> + “I think he is very wonderful,” said Sidney valiantly. + </p> + <p> + Christine Lorenz, while not large, seemed to fill the little room. Her + voice, which was frequent and penetrating, her smile, which was wide and + showed very white teeth that were a trifle large for beauty, her + all-embracing good nature, dominated the entire lower floor. K., who had + met her before, retired into silence and a corner. Young Howe smoked a + cigarette in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “You poor thing!” said Christine, and put her cheek against Sidney's. + “Why, you're positively thin! Palmer gives you a month to tire of it all; + but I said—” + </p> + <p> + “I take that back,” Palmer spoke indolently from the corridor. “There is + the look of willing martyrdom in her face. Where is Reginald? I've brought + some nuts for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Reginald is back in the woods again.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here,” he said solemnly. “When we arranged about these rooms, + there were certain properties that went with them—the lady next door + who plays Paderewski's 'Minuet' six hours a day, and K. here, and + Reginald. If you must take something to the woods, why not the minuet + person?” + </p> + <p> + Howe was a good-looking man, thin, smooth-shaven, aggressively well + dressed. This Sunday afternoon, in a cutaway coat and high hat, with an + English malacca stick, he was just a little out of the picture. The Street + said that he was “wild,” and that to get into the Country Club set + Christine was losing more than she was gaining. + </p> + <p> + Christine had stepped out on the balcony, and was speaking to K. just + inside. + </p> + <p> + “It's rather a queer way to live, of course,” she said. “But Palmer is a + pauper, practically. We are going to take our meals at home for a while. + You see, certain things that we want we can't have if we take a house—a + car, for instance. We'll need one for running out to the Country Club to + dinner. Of course, unless father gives me one for a wedding present, it + will be a cheap one. And we're getting the Rosenfeld boy to drive it. He's + crazy about machinery, and he'll come for practically nothing.” + </p> + <p> + K. had never known a married couple to take two rooms and go to the + bride's mother's for meals in order to keep a car. He looked faintly + dazed. Also, certain sophistries of his former world about a cheap + chauffeur being costly in the end rose in his mind and were carefully + suppressed. + </p> + <p> + “You'll find a car a great comfort, I'm sure,” he said politely. + </p> + <p> + Christine considered K. rather distinguished. She liked his graying hair + and steady eyes, and insisted on considering his shabbiness a pose. She + was conscious that she made a pretty picture in the French window, and + preened herself like a bright bird. + </p> + <p> + “You'll come out with us now and then, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it odd to think that we are going to be practically one family!” + </p> + <p> + “Odd, but very pleasant.” + </p> + <p> + He caught the flash of Christine's smile, and smiled back. Christine was + glad she had decided to take the rooms, glad that K. lived there. This + thing of marriage being the end of all things was absurd. A married woman + should have men friends; they kept her up. She would take him to the + Country Club. The women would be mad to know him. How clean-cut his + profile was! + </p> + <p> + Across the Street, the Rosenfeld boy had stopped by Dr. Wilson's car, and + was eyeing it with the cool, appraising glance of the street boy whose + sole knowledge of machinery has been acquired from the clothes-washer at + home. Joe Drummond, eyes carefully ahead, went up the Street. Tillie, at + Mrs. McKee's, stood in the doorway and fanned herself with her apron. Max + Wilson came out of the house and got into his car. For a minute, perhaps, + all the actors, save Carlotta and Dr. Ed, were on the stage. It was that + bete noir of the playwright, an ensemble; K. Le Moyne and Sidney, Palmer + Howe, Christine, Tillie, the younger Wilson, Joe, even young Rosenfeld, + all within speaking distance, almost touching distance, gathered within + and about the little house on a side street which K. at first grimly and + now tenderly called “home.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + On Monday morning, shortly after the McKee prolonged breakfast was over, a + small man of perhaps fifty, with iron-gray hair and a sparse goatee, made + his way along the Street. He moved with the air of one having a definite + destination but a by no means definite reception. + </p> + <p> + As he walked along he eyed with a professional glance the ailanthus and + maple trees which, with an occasional poplar, lined the Street. At the + door of Mrs. McKee's boarding-house he stopped. Owing to a slight change + in the grade of the street, the McKee house had no stoop, but one flat + doorstep. Thus it was possible to ring the doorbell from the pavement, and + this the stranger did. It gave him a curious appearance of being ready to + cut and run if things were unfavorable. + </p> + <p> + For a moment things were indeed unfavorable. Mrs. McKee herself opened the + door. She recognized him at once, but no smile met the nervous one that + formed itself on the stranger's face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's you, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's me, Mrs. McKee.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + He made a conciliatory effort. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking, as I came along,” he said, “that you and the neighbors + had better get after these here caterpillars. Look at them maples, now.” + </p> + <p> + “If you want to see Tillie, she's busy.” + </p> + <p> + “I only want to say how-d 'ye-do. I'm just on my way through town.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll say it for you.” + </p> + <p> + A certain doggedness took the place of his tentative smile. + </p> + <p> + “I'll say it to myself, I guess. I don't want any unpleasantness, but I've + come a good ways to see her and I'll hang around until I do.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McKee knew herself routed, and retreated to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “You're wanted out front,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. Only, my advice to you is, don't be a fool.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie went suddenly pale. The hands with which she tied a white apron + over her gingham one were shaking. + </p> + <p> + Her visitor had accepted the open door as permission to enter and was + standing in the hall. + </p> + <p> + He went rather white himself when he saw Tillie coming toward him down the + hall. He knew that for Tillie this visit would mean that he was free—and + he was not free. Sheer terror of his errand filled him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, here I am, Tillie.” + </p> + <p> + “All dressed up and highly perfumed!” said poor Tillie, with the question + in her eyes. “You're quite a stranger, Mr. Schwitter.” + </p> + <p> + “I was passing through, and I just thought I'd call around and tell you—My + God, Tillie, I'm glad to see you!” + </p> + <p> + She made no reply, but opened the door into the cool and shaded little + parlor. He followed her in and closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't help it. I know I promised.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she—?” + </p> + <p> + “She's still living. Playing with paper dolls—that's the latest.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie sat down suddenly on one of the stiff chairs. Her lips were as + white as her face. + </p> + <p> + “I thought, when I saw you—” + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid you'd think that.” + </p> + <p> + Neither spoke for a moment. Tillie's hands twisted nervously in her lap. + Mr. Schwitter's eyes were fixed on the window, which looked back on the + McKee yard. + </p> + <p> + “That spiraea back there's not looking very good. If you'll save the cigar + butts around here and put them in water, and spray it, you'll kill the + lice.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie found speech at last. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know why you come around bothering me,” she said dully. “I've + been getting along all right; now you come and upset everything.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Schwitter rose and took a step toward her. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll tell you why I came. Look at me. I ain't getting any younger, + am I? Time's going on, and I'm wanting you all the time. And what am I + getting? What've I got out of life, anyhow? I'm lonely, Tillie!” + </p> + <p> + “What's that got to do with me?” + </p> + <p> + “You're lonely, too, ain't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? I haven't got time to be. And, anyhow, there's always a crowd here.” + </p> + <p> + “You can be lonely in a crowd, and I guess—is there any one around + here you like better than me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what's the use!” cried poor Tillie. “We can talk our heads off and + not get anywhere. You've got a wife living, and, unless you intend to do + away with her, I guess that's all there is to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all, Tillie? Haven't you got a right to be happy?” + </p> + <p> + She was quick of wit, and she read his tone as well as his words. + </p> + <p> + “You get out of here—and get out quick!” + </p> + <p> + She had jumped to her feet; but he only looked at her with understanding + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” he said. “That's the way I thought of it at first. Maybe I've + just got used to the idea, but it doesn't seem so bad to me now. Here are + you, drudging for other people when you ought to have a place all your own—and + not gettin' younger any more than I am. Here's both of us lonely. I'd be a + good husband to you, Till—because, whatever it'd be in law, I'd be + your husband before God.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie cowered against the door, her eyes on his. Here before her, + embodied in this man, stood all that she had wanted and never had. He + meant a home, tenderness, children, perhaps. He turned away from the look + in her eyes and stared out of the front window. + </p> + <p> + “Them poplars out there ought to be taken away,” he said heavily. “They're + hell on sewers.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie found her voice at last:— + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't do it, Mr. Schwitter. I guess I'm a coward. Maybe I'll be + sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, if you got used to the idea—” + </p> + <p> + “What's that to do with the right and wrong of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I'm queer. It don't seem like wrongdoing to me. It seems to me that + the Lord would make an exception of us if He knew the circumstances. + Perhaps, after you get used to the idea—What I thought was like + this. I've got a little farm about seven miles from the city limits, and + the tenant on it says that nearly every Sunday somebody motors out from + town and wants a chicken-and-waffle supper. There ain't much in the + nursery business anymore. These landscape fellows buy their stuff direct, + and the middleman's out. I've got a good orchard, and there's a spring, so + I could put running water in the house. I'd be good to you, Tillie,—I + swear it. It'd be just the same as marriage. Nobody need know it.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd know it. You wouldn't respect me.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't a man respect a woman that's got courage enough to give up + everything for him?” + </p> + <p> + Tillie was crying softly into her apron. He put a work-hardened hand on + her head. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't as if I'd run around after women,” he said. “You're the only + one, since Maggie—” He drew a long breath. “I'll give you time to + think it over. Suppose I stop in to-morrow morning. It doesn't commit you + to anything to talk it over.” + </p> + <p> + There had been no passion in the interview, and there was none in the + touch of his hand. He was not young, and the tragic loneliness of + approaching old age confronted him. He was trying to solve his problem and + Tillie's, and what he had found was no solution, but a compromise. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow morning, then,” he said quietly, and went out the door. + </p> + <p> + All that hot August morning Tillie worked in a daze. Mrs. McKee watched + her and said nothing. She interpreted the girl's white face and set lips + as the result of having had to dismiss Schwitter again, and looked for + time to bring peace, as it had done before. + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne came late to his midday meal. For once, the mental anaesthesia of + endless figures had failed him. On his way home he had drawn his small + savings from the bank, and mailed them, in cash and registered, to a back + street in the slums of a distant city. He had done this before, and always + with a feeling of exaltation, as if, for a time at least, the burden he + carried was lightened. But to-day he experienced no compensatory relief. + Life was dull and stale to him, effort ineffectual. At thirty a man should + look back with tenderness, forward with hope. K. Le Moyne dared not look + back, and had no desire to look ahead into empty years. + </p> + <p> + Although he ate little, the dining-room was empty when he finished. + Usually he had some cheerful banter for Tillie, to which she responded in + kind. But, what with the heat and with heaviness of spirit, he did not + notice her depression until he rose. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you're not sick, are you, Tillie?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Oh, no. Low in my mind, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the heat. It's fearful. Look here. If I send you two tickets to a + roof garden where there's a variety show, can't you take a friend and go + to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks; I guess I'll not go out.” + </p> + <p> + Then, unexpectedly, she bent her head against a chair-back and fell to + silent crying. K. let her cry for a moment. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “Now—tell me about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm just worried; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see if we can't fix up the worries. Come, now, out with them!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm a wicked woman, Mr. Le Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'm the person to tell it to. I—I'm pretty much a lost soul + myself.” + </p> + <p> + He put an arm over her shoulders and drew her up, facing him. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we go into the parlor and talk it out. I'll bet things are not as + bad as you imagine.” + </p> + <p> + But when, in the parlor that had seen Mr. Schwitter's strange proposal of + the morning, Tillie poured out her story, K.'s face grew grave. + </p> + <p> + “The wicked part is that I want to go with him,” she finished. “I keep + thinking about being out in the country, and him coming into supper, and + everything nice for him and me cleaned up and waiting—O my God! I've + always been a good woman until now.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I understand a great deal better than you think I do. You're not + wicked. The only thing is—” + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Hit me with it.” + </p> + <p> + “You might go on and be very happy. And as for the—for his wife, it + won't do her any harm. It's only—if there are children.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I've thought of that. But I'm so crazy for children!” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. So you should be. But when they come, and you cannot give them a + name—don't you see? I'm not preaching morality. God forbid that I—But + no happiness is built on a foundation of wrong. It's been tried before, + Tillie, and it doesn't pan out.” + </p> + <p> + He was conscious of a feeling of failure when he left her at last. She had + acquiesced in what he said, knew he was right, and even promised to talk + to him again before making a decision one way or the other. But against + his abstractions of conduct and morality there was pleading in Tillie the + hungry mother-heart; law and creed and early training were fighting + against the strongest instinct of the race. It was a losing battle. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + The hot August days dragged on. Merciless sunlight beat in through the + slatted shutters of ward windows. At night, from the roof to which the + nurses retired after prayers for a breath of air, lower surrounding roofs + were seen to be covered with sleepers. Children dozed precariously on the + edge of eternity; men and women sprawled in the grotesque postures of + sleep. + </p> + <p> + There was a sort of feverish irritability in the air. Even the nurses, + stoically unmindful of bodily discomfort, spoke curtly or not at all. Miss + Dana, in Sidney's ward, went down with a low fever, and for a day or so + Sidney and Miss Grange got along as best they could. Sidney worked like + two or more, performed marvels of bed-making, learned to give alcohol + baths for fever with the maximum of result and the minimum of time, even + made rounds with a member of the staff and came through creditably. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed Wilson had sent a woman patient into the ward, and his visits were + the breath of life to the girl. + </p> + <p> + “How're they treating you?” he asked her, one day, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at me squarely. You're pretty and you're young. Some of them will + try to take it out of you. That's human nature. Has anyone tried it yet?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney looked distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Positively, no. It's been hot, and of course it's troublesome to tell me + everything. I—I think they're all very kind.” + </p> + <p> + He reached out a square, competent hand, and put it over hers. + </p> + <p> + “We miss you in the Street,” he said. “It's all sort of dead there since + you left. Joe Drummond doesn't moon up and down any more, for one thing. + What was wrong between you and Joe, Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't want to marry him; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “That's considerable. The boy's taking it hard.” + </p> + <p> + Then, seeing her face:— + </p> + <p> + “But you're right, of course. Don't marry anyone unless you can't live + without him. That's been my motto, and here I am, still single.” + </p> + <p> + He went out and down the corridor. He had known Sidney all his life. + During the lonely times when Max was at college and in Europe, he had + watched her grow from a child to a young girl. He did not suspect for a + moment that in that secret heart of hers he sat newly enthroned, in a glow + of white light, as Max's brother; that the mere thought that he lived in + Max's house (it was, of course Max's house to her), sat at Max's breakfast + table, could see him whenever he wished, made the touch of his hand on + hers a benediction and a caress. + </p> + <p> + Sidney finished folding linen and went back to the ward. It was Friday and + a visiting day. Almost every bed had its visitor beside it; but Sidney, + running an eye over the ward, found the girl of whom she had spoken to Le + Moyne quite alone. She was propped up in bed, reading; but at each new + step in the corridor hope would spring into her eyes and die again. + </p> + <p> + “Want anything, Grace?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? I'm all right. If these people would only get out and let me read in + peace—Say, sit down and talk to me, won't you? It beats the mischief + the way your friends forget you when you're laid up in a place like this.” + </p> + <p> + “People can't always come at visiting hours. Besides, it's hot.” + </p> + <p> + “A girl I knew was sick here last year, and it wasn't too hot for me to + trot in twice a week with a bunch of flowers for her. Do you think she's + been here once? She hasn't.” + </p> + <p> + Then, suddenly:— + </p> + <p> + “You know that man I told you about the other day?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney nodded. The girl's anxious eyes were on her. + </p> + <p> + “It was a shock to me, that's all. I didn't want you to think I'd break my + heart over any fellow. All I meant was, I wished he'd let me know.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes searched Sidney's. They looked unnaturally large and somber in + her face. Her hair had been cut short, and her nightgown, open at the + neck, showed her thin throat and prominent clavicles. + </p> + <p> + “You're from the city, aren't you, Miss Page?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You told me the street, but I've forgotten it.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney repeated the name of the Street, and slipped a fresh pillow under + the girl's head. + </p> + <p> + “The evening paper says there's a girl going to be married on your + street.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! Oh, I think I know. A friend of mine is going to be married. Was + the name Lorenz?” + </p> + <p> + “The girl's name was Lorenz. I—I don't remember the man's name.” + </p> + <p> + “She is going to marry a Mr. Howe,” said Sidney briskly. “Now, how do you + feel? More comfy?” + </p> + <p> + “Fine! I suppose you'll be going to that wedding?” + </p> + <p> + “If I ever get time to have a dress made, I'll surely go.” + </p> + <p> + Toward six o'clock the next morning, the night nurse was making out her + reports. On one record, which said at the top, “Grace Irving, age 19,” and + an address which, to the initiated, told all her story, the night nurse + wrote:— + </p> + <p> + “Did not sleep at all during night. Face set and eyes staring, but + complains of no pain. Refused milk at eleven and three.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta Harrison, back from her vacation, reported for duty the next + morning, and was assigned to E ward, which was Sidney's. She gave Sidney a + curt little nod, and proceeded to change the entire routine with the + thoroughness of a Central American revolutionary president. Sidney, who + had yet to learn that with some people authority can only assert itself by + change, found herself confused, at sea, half resentful. + </p> + <p> + Once she ventured a protest:— + </p> + <p> + “I've been taught to do it that way, Miss Harrison. If my method is wrong, + show me what you want, and I'll do my best.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not responsible for what you have been taught. And you will not + speak back when you are spoken to.” + </p> + <p> + Small as the incident was, it marked a change in Sidney's position in the + ward. She got the worst off-duty of the day, or none. Small humiliations + were hers: late meals, disagreeable duties, endless and often unnecessary + tasks. Even Miss Grange, now reduced to second place, remonstrated with + her senior. + </p> + <p> + “I think a certain amount of severity is good for a probationer,” she + said, “but you are brutal, Miss Harrison.” + </p> + <p> + “She's stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “She's not at all stupid. She's going to be one of the best nurses in the + house.” + </p> + <p> + “Report me, then. Tell the Head I'm abusing Dr. Wilson's pet probationer, + that I don't always say 'please' when I ask her to change a bed or take a + temperature.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Grange was not lacking in keenness. She did not go to the Head, + which is unethical under any circumstances; but gradually there spread + through the training-school a story that Carlotta Harrison was jealous of + the new Page girl, Dr. Wilson's protegee. Things were still highly + unpleasant in the ward, but they grew much better when Sidney was off + duty. She was asked to join a small class that was studying French at + night. As ignorant of the cause of her popularity as of the reason of her + persecution, she went steadily on her way. + </p> + <p> + And she was gaining every day. Her mind was forming. She was learning to + think for herself. For the first time, she was facing problems and + demanding an answer. Why must there be Grace Irvings in the world? Why + must the healthy babies of the obstetric ward go out to the slums and come + back, in months or years, crippled for the great fight by the handicap of + their environment, rickety, tuberculous, twisted? Why need the huge mills + feed the hospitals daily with injured men? + </p> + <p> + And there were other things that she thought of. Every night, on her knees + in the nurses' parlor at prayers, she promised, if she were accepted as a + nurse, to try never to become calloused, never to regard her patients as + “cases,” never to allow the cleanliness and routine of her ward to delay a + cup of water to the thirsty, or her arms to a sick child. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, the world was good, she found. And, of all the good things + in it, the best was service. True, there were hot days and restless + nights, weary feet, and now and then a heartache. There was Miss Harrison, + too. But to offset these there was the sound of Dr. Max's step in the + corridor, and his smiling nod from the door; there was a “God bless you” + now and then for the comfort she gave; there were wonderful nights on the + roof under the stars, until K.'s little watch warned her to bed. + </p> + <p> + While Sidney watched the stars from her hospital roof, while all around + her the slum children, on other roofs, fought for the very breath of life, + others who knew and loved her watched the stars, too. K. was having his + own troubles in those days. Late at night, when Anna and Harriet had + retired, he sat on the balcony and thought of many things. Anna Page was + not well. He had noticed that her lips were rather blue, and had called in + Dr. Ed. It was valvular heart disease. Anna was not to be told, or Sidney. + It was Harriet's ruling. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney can't help any,” said Harriet, “and for Heaven's sake let her have + her chance. Anna may live for years. You know her as well as I do. If you + tell her anything at all, she'll have Sidney here, waiting on her hand and + foot.” + </p> + <p> + And Le Moyne, fearful of urging too much because his own heart was crying + out to have the girl back, assented. + </p> + <p> + Then, K. was anxious about Joe. The boy did not seem to get over the thing + the way he should. Now and then Le Moyne, resuming his old habit of + wearying himself into sleep, would walk out into the country. On one such + night he had overtaken Joe, tramping along with his head down. + </p> + <p> + Joe had not wanted his company, had plainly sulked. But Le Moyne had + persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I'll not talk,” he said; “but, since we're going the same way, we might + as well walk together.” + </p> + <p> + But after a time Joe had talked, after all. It was not much at first—a + feverish complaint about the heat, and that if there was trouble in Mexico + he thought he'd go. + </p> + <p> + “Wait until fall, if you're thinking of it,” K. advised. “This is tepid + compared with what you'll get down there.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to get away from here.” + </p> + <p> + K. nodded understandingly. Since the scene at the White Springs Hotel, + both knew that no explanation was necessary. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't so much that I mind her turning me down,” Joe said, after a + silence. “A girl can't marry all the men who want her. But I don't like + this hospital idea. I don't understand it. She didn't have to go. + Sometimes”—he turned bloodshot eyes on Le Moyne—“I think she + went because she was crazy about somebody there.” + </p> + <p> + “She went because she wanted to be useful.” + </p> + <p> + “She could be useful at home.” + </p> + <p> + For almost twenty minutes they tramped on without speech. They had made a + circle, and the lights of the city were close again. K. stopped and put a + kindly hand on Joe's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “A man's got to stand up under a thing like this, you know. I mean, it + mustn't be a knockout. Keeping busy is a darned good method.” + </p> + <p> + Joe shook himself free, but without resentment. “I'll tell you what's + eating me up,” he exploded. “It's Max Wilson. Don't talk to me about her + going to the hospital to be useful. She's crazy about him, and he's as + crooked as a dog's hind leg.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But it's always up to the girl. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + He felt immeasurably old beside Joe's boyish blustering—old and + rather helpless. + </p> + <p> + “I'm watching him. Some of these days I'll get something on him. Then + she'll know what to think of her hero!” + </p> + <p> + “That's not quite square, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “He's not square.” + </p> + <p> + Joe had left him then, wheeling abruptly off into the shadows. K. had gone + home alone, rather uneasy. There seemed to be mischief in the very air. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + Tillie was gone. + </p> + <p> + Oddly enough, the last person to see her before she left was Harriet + Kennedy. On the third day after Mr. Schwitter's visit, Harriet's colored + maid had announced a visitor. + </p> + <p> + Harriet's business instinct had been good. She had taken expensive rooms + in a good location, and furnished them with the assistance of a decor + store. Then she arranged with a New York house to sell her models on + commission. + </p> + <p> + Her short excursion to New York had marked for Harriet the beginning of a + new heaven and a new earth. Here, at last, she found people speaking her + own language. She ventured a suggestion to a manufacturer, and found it + greeted, not, after the manner of the Street, with scorn, but with + approval and some surprise. + </p> + <p> + “About once in ten years,” said Mr. Arthurs, “we have a woman from out of + town bring us a suggestion that is both novel and practical. When we find + people like that, we watch them. They climb, madame,—climb.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet's climbing was not so rapid as to make her dizzy; but business was + coming. The first time she made a price of seventy-five dollars for an + evening gown, she went out immediately after and took a drink of water. + Her throat was parched. + </p> + <p> + She began to learn little quips of the feminine mind: that a woman who can + pay seventy-five will pay double that sum; that it is not considered good + form to show surprise at a dressmaker's prices, no matter how high they + may be; that long mirrors and artificial light help sales—no woman + over thirty but was grateful for her pink-and-gray room with its soft + lights. And Harriet herself conformed to the picture. She took a lesson + from the New York modistes, and wore trailing black gowns. She strapped + her thin figure into the best corset she could get, and had her black hair + marcelled and dressed high. And, because she was a lady by birth and + instinct, the result was not incongruous, but refined and rather + impressive. + </p> + <p> + She took her business home with her at night, lay awake scheming, and + wakened at dawn to find fresh color combinations in the early sky. She + wakened early because she kept her head tied up in a towel, so that her + hair need be done only three times a week. That and the corset were the + penalties she paid. Her high-heeled shoes were a torment, too; but in the + work-room she kicked them off. + </p> + <p> + To this new Harriet, then, came Tillie in her distress. Tillie was rather + overwhelmed at first. The Street had always considered Harriet “proud.” + But Tillie's urgency was great, her methods direct. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Tillie!” said Harriet. + </p> + <p> + “Yes'm.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you sit down?” + </p> + <p> + Tillie sat. She was not daunted now. While she worked at the fingers of + her silk gloves, what Harriet took for nervousness was pure abstraction. + </p> + <p> + “It's very nice of you to come to see me. Do you like my rooms?” + </p> + <p> + Tillie surveyed the rooms, and Harriet caught her first full view of her + face. + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything wrong? Have you left Mrs. McKee?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. I came to talk to you about it.” + </p> + <p> + It was Harriet's turn to be overwhelmed. + </p> + <p> + “She's very fond of you. If you have had any words—” + </p> + <p> + “It's not that. I'm just leaving. I'd like to talk to you, if you don't + mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie hitched her chair closer. + </p> + <p> + “I'm up against something, and I can't seem to make up my mind. Last night + I said to myself, 'I've got to talk to some woman who's not married, like + me, and not as young as she used to be. There's no use going to Mrs. + McKee: she's a widow, and wouldn't understand.'” + </p> + <p> + Harriet's voice was a trifle sharp as she replied. She never lied about + her age, but she preferred to forget it. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you'd tell me what you're getting at.” + </p> + <p> + “It ain't the sort of thing to come to too sudden. But it's like this. You + and I can pretend all we like, Miss Harriet; but we're not getting all out + of life that the Lord meant us to have. You've got them wax figures + instead of children, and I have mealers.” + </p> + <p> + A little spot of color came into Harriet's cheek. But she was interested. + Regardless of the corset, she bent forward. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe that's true. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm almost forty. Ten years more at the most, and I'm through. I'm + slowing up. Can't get around the tables as I used to. Why, yesterday I put + sugar into Mr. Le Moyne's coffee—well, never mind about that. Now + I've got a chance to get a home, with a good man to look after me—I + like him pretty well, and he thinks a lot of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy sake, Tillie! You are going to get married?” + </p> + <p> + “No'm,” said Tillie; “that's it.” And sat silent for a moment. + </p> + <p> + The gray curtains with their pink cording swung gently in the open + windows. From the work-room came the distant hum of a sewing-machine and + the sound of voices. Harriet sat with her hands in her lap and listened + while Tillie poured out her story. The gates were down now. She told it + all, consistently and with unconscious pathos: her little room under the + roof at Mrs. McKee's, and the house in the country; her loneliness, and + the loneliness of the man; even the faint stirrings of potential + motherhood, her empty arms, her advancing age—all this she knit into + the fabric of her story and laid at Harriet's feet, as the ancients put + their questions to their gods. + </p> + <p> + Harriet was deeply moved. Too much that Tillie poured out to her found an + echo in her own breast. What was this thing she was striving for but a + substitute for the real things of life—love and tenderness, + children, a home of her own? Quite suddenly she loathed the gray carpet on + the floor, the pink chairs, the shaded lamps. Tillie was no longer the + waitress at a cheap boarding-house. She loomed large, potential, + courageous, a woman who held life in her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you go to Mrs. Rosenfeld? She's your aunt, isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “She thinks any woman's a fool to take up with a man.” + </p> + <p> + “You're giving me a terrible responsibility, Tillie, if you're asking my + advice.” + </p> + <p> + “No'm. I'm asking what you'd do if it happened to you. Suppose you had no + people that cared anything about you, nobody to disgrace, and all your + life nobody had really cared anything about you. And then a chance like + this came along. What would you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said poor Harriet. “It seems to me—I'm afraid I'd be + tempted. It does seem as if a woman had the right to be happy, even if—” + </p> + <p> + Her own words frightened her. It was as if some hidden self, and not she, + had spoken. She hastened to point out the other side of the matter, the + insecurity of it, the disgrace. Like K., she insisted that no right can be + built out of a wrong. Tillie sat and smoothed her gloves. At last, when + Harriet paused in sheer panic, the girl rose. + </p> + <p> + “I know how you feel, and I don't want you to take the responsibility of + advising me,” she said quietly. “I guess my mind was made up anyhow. But + before I did it I just wanted to be sure that a decent woman would think + the way I do about it.” + </p> + <p> + And so, for a time, Tillie went out of the life of the Street as she went + out of Harriet's handsome rooms, quietly, unobtrusively, with calm purpose + in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + There were other changes in the Street. The Lorenz house was being painted + for Christine's wedding. Johnny Rosenfeld, not perhaps of the Street + itself, but certainly pertaining to it, was learning to drive Palmer + Howe's new car, in mingled agony and bliss. He walked along the Street, + not “right foot, left foot,” but “brake foot, clutch foot,” and took to + calling off the vintage of passing cars. “So-and-So 1910,” he would say, + with contempt in his voice. He spent more than he could afford on a large + streamer, meant to be fastened across the rear of the automobile, which + said, “Excuse our dust,” and was inconsolable when Palmer refused to let + him use it. + </p> + <p> + K. had yielded to Anna's insistence, and was boarding as well as rooming + at the Page house. The Street, rather snobbish to its occasional floating + population, was accepting and liking him. It found him tender, infinitely + human. And in return he found that this seemingly empty eddy into which he + had drifted was teeming with life. He busied himself with small things, + and found his outlook gradually less tinged with despair. When he found + himself inclined to rail, he organized a baseball club, and sent down to + everlasting defeat the Linburgs, consisting of cash-boys from Linden and + Hofburg's department store. + </p> + <p> + The Rosenfelds adored him, with the single exception of the head of the + family. The elder Rosenfeld having been “sent up,” it was K. who + discovered that by having him consigned to the workhouse his family would + receive from the county some sixty-five cents a day for his labor. As this + was exactly sixty-five cents a day more than he was worth to them free, + Mrs. Rosenfeld voiced the pious hope that he be kept there forever. + </p> + <p> + K. made no further attempt to avoid Max Wilson. Some day they would meet + face to face. He hoped, when it happened, they two might be alone; that + was all. Even had he not been bound by his promise to Sidney, flight would + have been foolish. The world was a small place, and, one way and another, + he had known many people. Wherever he went, there would be the same + chance. + </p> + <p> + And he did not deceive himself. Other things being equal,—the eddy + and all that it meant—, he would not willingly take himself out of + his small share of Sidney's life. + </p> + <p> + She was never to know what she meant to him, of course. He had scourged + his heart until it no longer shone in his eyes when he looked at her. But + he was very human—not at all meek. There were plenty of days when + his philosophy lay in the dust and savage dogs of jealousy tore at it; + more than one evening when he threw himself face downward on the bed and + lay without moving for hours. And of these periods of despair he was + always heartily ashamed the next day. + </p> + <p> + The meeting with Max Wilson took place early in September, and under + better circumstances than he could have hoped for. + </p> + <p> + Sidney had come home for her weekly visit, and her mother's condition had + alarmed her for the first time. When Le Moyne came home at six o'clock, he + found her waiting for him in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “I am just a little frightened, K.,” she said. “Do you think mother is + looking quite well?” + </p> + <p> + “She has felt the heat, of course. The summer—I often think—” + </p> + <p> + “Her lips are blue!” + </p> + <p> + “It's probably nothing serious.” + </p> + <p> + “She says you've had Dr. Ed over to see her.” + </p> + <p> + She put her hands on his arm and looked up at him with appeal and + something of terror in her face. + </p> + <p> + Thus cornered, he had to acknowledge that Anna had been out of sorts. + </p> + <p> + “I shall come home, of course. It's tragic and absurd that I should be + caring for other people, when my own mother—” + </p> + <p> + She dropped her head on his arm, and he saw that she was crying. If he + made a gesture to draw her to him, she never knew it. After a moment she + looked up. + </p> + <p> + “I'm much braver than this in the hospital. But when it's one's own!” + </p> + <p> + K. was sorely tempted to tell her the truth and bring her back to the + little house: to their old evenings together, to seeing the younger + Wilson, not as the white god of the operating-room and the hospital, but + as the dandy of the Street and the neighbor of her childhood—back + even to Joe. + </p> + <p> + But, with Anna's precarious health and Harriet's increasing engrossment in + her business, he felt it more and more necessary that Sidney go on with + her training. A profession was a safeguard. And there was another point: + it had been decided that Anna was not to know her condition. If she was + not worried she might live for years. There was no surer way to make her + suspect it than by bringing Sidney home. + </p> + <p> + Sidney sent Katie to ask Dr. Ed to come over after dinner. With the sunset + Anna seemed better. She insisted on coming downstairs, and even sat with + them on the balcony until the stars came out, talking of Christine's + trousseau, and, rather fretfully, of what she would do without the + parlors. + </p> + <p> + “You shall have your own boudoir upstairs,” said Sidney valiantly. “Katie + can carry your tray up there. We are going to make the sewing-room into + your private sitting-room, and I shall nail the machine-top down.” + </p> + <p> + This pleased her. When K. insisted on carrying her upstairs, she went in a + flutter. + </p> + <p> + “He is so strong, Sidney!” she said, when he had placed her on her bed. + “How can a clerk, bending over a ledger, be so muscular? When I have + callers, will it be all right for Katie to show them upstairs?” + </p> + <p> + She dropped asleep before the doctor came; and when, at something after + eight, the door of the Wilson house slammed and a figure crossed the + street, it was not Ed at all, but the surgeon. + </p> + <p> + Sidney had been talking rather more frankly than usual. Lately there had + been a reserve about her. K., listening intently that night, read between + words a story of small persecutions and jealousies. But the girl minimized + them, after her way. + </p> + <p> + “It's always hard for probationers,” she said. “I often think Miss + Harrison is trying my mettle.” + </p> + <p> + “Harrison!” + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta Harrison. And now that Miss Gregg has said she will accept me, + it's really all over. The other nurses are wonderful—so kind and so + helpful. I hope I shall look well in my cap.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta Harrison was in Sidney's hospital! A thousand contingencies + flashed through his mind. Sidney might grow to like her and bring her to + the house. Sidney might insist on the thing she always spoke of—that + he visit the hospital; and he would meet her, face to face. He could have + depended on a man to keep his secret. This girl with her somber eyes and + her threat to pay him out for what had happened to her—she meant + danger of a sort that no man could fight. + </p> + <p> + “Soon,” said Sidney, through the warm darkness, “I shall have a cap, and + be always forgetting it and putting my hat on over it—the new ones + always do. One of the girls slept in hers the other night! They are tulle, + you know, and quite stiff, and it was the most erratic-looking thing the + next day!” + </p> + <p> + It was then that the door across the street closed. Sidney did not hear + it, but K. bent forward. There was a part of his brain always + automatically on watch. + </p> + <p> + “I shall get my operating-room training, too,” she went on. “That is the + real romance of the hospital. A—a surgeon is a sort of hero in a + hospital. You wouldn't think that, would you? There was a lot of + excitement to-day. Even the probationers' table was talking about it. Dr. + Max Wilson did the Edwardes operation.” + </p> + <p> + The figure across the Street was lighting a cigarette. Perhaps, after all— + </p> + <p> + “Something tremendously difficult—I don't know what. It's going into + the medical journals. A Dr. Edwardes invented it, or whatever they call + it. They took a picture of the operating-room for the article. The + photographer had to put on operating clothes and wrap the camera in + sterilized towels. It was the most thrilling thing, they say—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice died away as her eyes followed K.'s. Max, cigarette in hand, was + coming across, under the ailanthus tree. He hesitated on the pavement, his + eyes searching the shadowy balcony. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “Here! Right back here!” + </p> + <p> + There was vibrant gladness in her tone. He came slowly toward them. + </p> + <p> + “My brother is not at home, so I came over. How select you are, with your + balcony!” + </p> + <p> + “Can you see the step?” + </p> + <p> + “Coming, with bells on.” + </p> + <p> + K. had risen and pushed back his chair. His mind was working quickly. Here + in the darkness he could hold the situation for a moment. If he could get + Sidney into the house, the rest would not matter. Luckily, the balcony was + very dark. + </p> + <p> + “Is any one ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Mother is not well. This is Mr. Le Moyne, and he knows who you are very + well, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + The two men shook hands. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard a lot of Mr. Le Moyne. Didn't the Street beat the Linburgs the + other day? And I believe the Rosenfelds are in receipt of sixty-five cents + a day and considerable peace and quiet through you, Mr. Le Moyne. You're + the most popular man on the Street.” + </p> + <p> + “I've always heard that about YOU. Sidney, if Dr. Wilson is here to see + your mother—” + </p> + <p> + “Going,” said Sidney. “And Dr. Wilson is a very great person, K., so be + polite to him.” + </p> + <p> + Max had roused at the sound of Le Moyne's voice, not to suspicion, of + course, but to memory. Without any apparent reason, he was back in Berlin, + tramping the country roads, and beside him— + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful night!” + </p> + <p> + “Great,” he replied. “The mind's a curious thing, isn't it. In the instant + since Miss Page went through that window I've been to Berlin and back! + Will you have a cigarette?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks; I have my pipe here.” + </p> + <p> + K. struck a match with his steady hands. Now that the thing had come, he + was glad to face it. In the flare, his quiet profile glowed against the + night. Then he flung the match over the rail. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps my voice took you back to Berlin.” + </p> + <p> + Max stared; then he rose. Blackness had descended on them again, except + for the dull glow of K.'s old pipe. + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake!” + </p> + <p> + “Sh! The neighbors next door have a bad habit of sitting just inside the + curtains.” + </p> + <p> + “But—you!” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down. Sidney will be back in a moment. I'll talk to you, if you'll + sit still. Can you hear me plainly?” + </p> + <p> + After a moment—“Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I've been here—in the city, I mean—for a year. Name's Le + Moyne. Don't forget it—Le Moyne. I've got a position in the gas + office, clerical. I get fifteen dollars a week. I have reason to think I'm + going to be moved up. That will be twenty, maybe twenty-two.” + </p> + <p> + Wilson stirred, but he found no adequate words. Only a part of what K. + said got to him. For a moment he was back in a famous clinic, and this man + across from him—it was not believable! + </p> + <p> + “It's not hard work, and it's safe. If I make a mistake there's no life + hanging on it. Once I made a blunder, a month or two ago. It was a big + one. It cost me three dollars out of my own pocket. But—that's all + it cost.” + </p> + <p> + Wilson's voice showed that he was more than incredulous; he was profoundly + moved. + </p> + <p> + “We thought you were dead. There were all sorts of stories. When a year + went by—the Titanic had gone down, and nobody knew but what you were + on it—we gave up. I—in June we put up a tablet for you at the + college. I went down for the—for the services.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it stay,” said K. quietly. “I'm dead as far as the college goes, + anyhow. I'll never go back. I'm Le Moyne now. And, for Heaven's sake, + don't be sorry for me. I'm more contented than I've been for a long time.” + </p> + <p> + The wonder in Wilson's voice was giving way to irritation. + </p> + <p> + “But—when you had everything! Why, good Heavens, man, I did your + operation to-day, and I've been blowing about it ever since.” + </p> + <p> + “I had everything for a while. Then I lost the essential. When that + happened I gave up. All a man in our profession has is a certain method, + knowledge—call it what you like,—and faith in himself. I lost + my self-confidence; that's all. Certain things happened; kept on + happening. So I gave it up. That's all. It's not dramatic. For about a + year I was damned sorry for myself. I've stopped whining now.” + </p> + <p> + “If every surgeon gave up because he lost cases—I've just told you I + did your operation to-day. There was just a chance for the man, and I took + my courage in my hands and tried it. The poor devil's dead.” + </p> + <p> + K. rose rather wearily and emptied his pipe over the balcony rail. + </p> + <p> + “That's not the same. That's the chance he and you took. What happened to + me was—different.” + </p> + <p> + Pipe in hand, he stood staring out at the ailanthus tree with its crown of + stars. Instead of the Street with its quiet houses, he saw the men he had + known and worked with and taught, his friends who spoke his language, who + had loved him, many of them, gathered about a bronze tablet set in a wall + of the old college; he saw their earnest faces and grave eyes. He heard— + </p> + <p> + He heard the soft rustle of Sidney's dress as she came into the little + room behind them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + A few days after Wilson's recognition of K., two most exciting things + happened to Sidney. One was that Christine asked her to be maid of honor + at her wedding. The other was more wonderful. She was accepted, and given + her cap. + </p> + <p> + Because she could not get home that night, and because the little house + had no telephone, she wrote the news to her mother and sent a note to Le + Moyne: + </p> + <p> + DEAR K.,—I am accepted, and IT is on my head at this minute. I am as + conscious of it as if it were a halo, and as if I had done something to + deserve it, instead of just hoping that someday I shall. I am writing this + on the bureau, so that when I lift my eyes I may see It. I am afraid just + now I am thinking more of the cap than of what it means. It IS becoming! + </p> + <p> + Very soon I shall slip down and show it to the ward. I have promised. I + shall go to the door when the night nurse is busy somewhere, and turn all + around and let them see it, without saying a word. They love a little + excitement like that. + </p> + <p> + You have been very good to me, dear K. It is you who have made possible + this happiness of mine to-night. I am promising myself to be very good, + and not so vain, and to love my enemies—, although I have none now. + Miss Harrison has just congratulated me most kindly, and I am sure poor + Joe has both forgiven and forgotten. + </p> + <p> + Off to my first lecture! + </p> + <p> + SIDNEY. + </p> + <p> + K. found the note on the hall table when he got home that night, and + carried it upstairs to read. Whatever faint hope he might have had that + her youth would prevent her acceptance he knew now was over. With the + letter in his hand, he sat by his table and looked ahead into the empty + years. Not quite empty, of course. She would be coming home. + </p> + <p> + But more and more the life of the hospital would engross her. He surmised, + too, very shrewdly, that, had he ever had a hope that she might come to + care for him, his very presence in the little house militated against him. + There was none of the illusion of separation; he was always there, like + Katie. When she opened the door, she called “Mother” from the hall. If + Anna did not answer, she called him, in much the same voice. + </p> + <p> + He had built a wall of philosophy that had withstood even Wilson's + recognition and protest. But enduring philosophy comes only with time; and + he was young. Now and then all his defenses crumbled before a passion + that, when he dared to face it, shook him by its very strength. And that + day all his stoicism went down before Sidney's letter. Its very frankness + and affection hurt—not that he did not want her affection; but he + craved so much more. He threw himself face down on the bed, with the paper + crushed in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Sidney's letter was not the only one he received that day. When, in + response to Katie's summons, he rose heavily and prepared for dinner, he + found an unopened envelope on the table. It was from Max Wilson:— + </p> + <p> + DEAR LE MOYNE,—I have been going around in a sort of haze all day. + The fact that I only heard your voice and scarcely saw you last night has + made the whole thing even more unreal. + </p> + <p> + I have a feeling of delicacy about trying to see you again so soon. I'm + bound to respect your seclusion. But there are some things that have got + to be discussed. + </p> + <p> + You said last night that things were “different” with you. I know about + that. You'd had one or two unlucky accidents. Do you know any man in our + profession who has not? And, for fear you think I do not know what I am + talking about, the thing was threshed out at the State Society when the + question of the tablet came up. Old Barnes got up and said: “Gentlemen, + all of us live more or less in glass houses. Let him who is without guilt + among us throw the first stone!” By George! You should have heard them! + </p> + <p> + I didn't sleep last night. I took my little car and drove around the + country roads, and the farther I went the more outrageous your position + became. I'm not going to write any rot about the world needing men like + you, although it's true enough. But our profession does. You working in a + gas office, while old O'Hara bungles and hacks, and I struggle along on + what I learned from you! + </p> + <p> + It takes courage to step down from the pinnacle you stood on. So it's not + cowardice that has set you down here. It's wrong conception. And I've + thought of two things. The first, and best, is for you to go back. No one + has taken your place, because no one could do the work. But if that's out + of the question,—and only you know that, for only you know the + facts,—the next best thing is this, and in all humility I make the + suggestion. + </p> + <p> + Take the State exams under your present name, and when you've got your + certificate, come in with me. This isn't magnanimity. I'll be getting a + damn sight more than I give. + </p> + <p> + Think it over, old man. + </p> + <p> + M.W. + </p> + <p> + It is a curious fact that a man who is absolutely untrustworthy about + women is often the soul of honor to other men. The younger Wilson, taking + his pleasures lightly and not too discriminatingly, was making an offer + that meant his ultimate eclipse, and doing it cheerfully, with his eyes + open. + </p> + <p> + K. was moved. It was like Max to make such an offer, like him to make it + as if he were asking a favor and not conferring one. But the offer left + him untempted. He had weighed himself in the balance, and found himself + wanting. No tablet on the college wall could change that. And when, late + that night, Wilson found him on the balcony and added appeal to argument, + the situation remained unchanged. He realized its hopelessness when K. + lapsed into whimsical humor. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not absolutely useless where I am, you know, Max,” he said. “I've + raised three tomato plants and a family of kittens this summer, helped to + plan a trousseau, assisted in selecting wall-paper for the room just + inside,—did you notice it?—and developed a boy pitcher with a + ball that twists around the bat like a Colles fracture around a splint!” + </p> + <p> + “If you're going to be humorous—” + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow,” said K. quietly, “if I had no sense of humor, I should + go upstairs to-night, turn on the gas, and make a stertorous entrance into + eternity. By the way, that's something I forgot!” + </p> + <p> + “Eternity?” “No. Among my other activities, I wired the parlor for + electric light. The bride-to-be expects some electroliers as wedding + gifts, and—” + </p> + <p> + Wilson rose and flung his cigarette into the grass. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to God I understood you!” he said irritably. + </p> + <p> + K. rose with him, and all the suppressed feeling of the interview was + crowded into his last few words. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not as ungrateful as you think, Max,” he said. “I—you've helped + a lot. Don't worry about me. I'm as well off as I deserve to be, and + better. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Wilson's unexpected magnanimity put K. in a curious position—left + him, as it were, with a divided allegiance. Sidney's frank infatuation for + the young surgeon was growing. He was quick to see it. And where before he + might have felt justified in going to the length of warning her, now his + hands were tied. + </p> + <p> + Max was interested in her. K. could see that, too. More than once he had + taken Sidney back to the hospital in his car. Le Moyne, handicapped at + every turn, found himself facing two alternatives, one but little better + than the other. The affair might run a legitimate course, ending in + marriage—a year of happiness for her, and then what marriage with + Max, as he knew him, would inevitably mean: wanderings away, remorseful + returns to her, infidelities, misery. Or, it might be less serious but + almost equally unhappy for her. Max might throw caution to the winds, + pursue her for a time,—K. had seen him do this,—and then, + growing tired, change to some new attraction. In either case, he could + only wait and watch, eating his heart out during the long evenings when + Anna read her “Daily Thoughts” upstairs and he sat alone with his pipe on + the balcony. + </p> + <p> + Sidney went on night duty shortly after her acceptance. All of her orderly + young life had been divided into two parts: day, when one played or + worked, and night, when one slept. Now she was compelled to a + readjustment: one worked in the night and slept in the day. Things seemed + unnatural, chaotic. At the end of her first night report Sidney added what + she could remember of a little verse of Stevenson's. She added it to the + end of her general report, which was to the effect that everything had + been quiet during the night except the neighborhood. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And does it not seem hard to you, + When all the sky is clear and blue, + And I should like so much to play, + To have to go to bed by day?” + </pre> + <p> + The day assistant happened on the report, and was quite scandalized. + </p> + <p> + “If the night nurses are to spend their time making up poetry,” she said + crossly, “we'd better change this hospital into a young ladies' seminary. + If she wants to complain about the noise in the street, she should do so + in proper form.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think she made it up,” said the Head, trying not to smile. “I've + heard something like it somewhere, and, what with the heat and the noise + of traffic, I don't see how any of them get any sleep.” + </p> + <p> + But, because discipline must be observed, she wrote on the slip the + assistant carried around: “Please submit night reports in prose.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney did not sleep much. She tumbled into her low bed at nine o'clock in + the morning, those days, with her splendid hair neatly braided down her + back and her prayers said, and immediately her active young mind filled + with images—Christine's wedding, Dr. Max passing the door of her old + ward and she not there, Joe—even Tillie, whose story was now the + sensation of the Street. A few months before she would not have cared to + think of Tillie. She would have retired her into the land of + things-one-must-forget. But the Street's conventions were not holding + Sidney's thoughts now. She puzzled over Tillie a great deal, and over + Grace and her kind. + </p> + <p> + On her first night on duty, a girl had been brought in from the Avenue. + She had taken a poison—nobody knew just what. When the internes had + tried to find out, she had only said: “What's the use?” + </p> + <p> + And she had died. + </p> + <p> + Sidney kept asking herself, “Why?” those mornings when she could not get + to sleep. People were kind—men were kind, really,—and yet, for + some reason or other, those things had to be. Why? + </p> + <p> + After a time Sidney would doze fitfully. But by three o'clock she was + always up and dressing. After a time the strain told on her. Lack of sleep + wrote hollows around her eyes and killed some of her bright color. Between + three and four o'clock in the morning she was overwhelmed on duty by a + perfect madness of sleep. There was a penalty for sleeping on duty. The + old night watchman had a way of slipping up on one nodding. The night + nurses wished they might fasten a bell on him! + </p> + <p> + Luckily, at four came early-morning temperatures; that roused her. And + after that came the clatter of early milk-wagons and the rose hues of dawn + over the roofs. Twice in the night, once at supper and again toward dawn, + she drank strong black coffee. But after a week or two her nerves were + stretched taut as a string. + </p> + <p> + Her station was in a small room close to her three wards. But she sat very + little, as a matter of fact. Her responsibility was heavy on her; she made + frequent rounds. The late summer nights were fitful, feverish; the + darkened wards stretched away like caverns from the dim light near the + door. And from out of these caverns came petulant voices, uneasy + movements, the banging of a cup on a bedside, which was the signal of + thirst. + </p> + <p> + The older nurses saved themselves when they could. To them, perhaps just a + little weary with time and much service, the banging cup meant not so much + thirst as annoyance. They visited Sidney sometimes and cautioned her. + </p> + <p> + “Don't jump like that, child; they're not parched, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you have a fever and are thirsty—” + </p> + <p> + “Thirsty nothing! They get lonely. All they want is to see somebody.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” Sidney would say, rising resolutely, “they are going to see me.” + </p> + <p> + Gradually the older girls saw that she would not save herself. They liked + her very much, and they, too, had started in with willing feet and tender + hands; but the thousand and one demands of their service had drained them + dry. They were efficient, cool-headed, quick-thinking machines, doing + their best, of course, but differing from Sidney in that their service was + of the mind, while hers was of the heart. To them, pain was a thing to be + recorded on a report; to Sidney, it was written on the tablets of her + soul. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta Harrison went on night duty at the same time—her last night + service, as it was Sidney's first. She accepted it stoically. She had + charge of the three wards on the floor just below Sidney, and of the ward + into which all emergency cases were taken. It was a difficult service, + perhaps the most difficult in the house. Scarcely a night went by without + its patrol or ambulance case. Ordinarily, the emergency ward had its own + night nurse. But the house was full to overflowing. Belated vacations and + illness had depleted the training-school. Carlotta, given double duty, + merely shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I've always had things pretty hard here,” she commented briefly. “When I + go out, I'll either be competent enough to run a whole hospital + singlehanded, or I'll be carried out feet first.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney was glad to have her so near. She knew her better than she knew the + other nurses. Small emergencies were constantly arising and finding her at + a loss. Once at least every night, Miss Harrison would hear a soft hiss + from the back staircase that connected the two floors, and, going out, + would see Sidney's flushed face and slightly crooked cap bending over the + stair-rail. + </p> + <p> + “I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you,” she would say, “but So-and-So won't + have a fever bath”; or, “I've a woman here who refuses her medicine.” Then + would follow rapid questions and equally rapid answers. Much as Carlotta + disliked and feared the girl overhead, it never occurred to her to refuse + her assistance. Perhaps the angels who keep the great record will put that + to her credit. + </p> + <p> + Sidney saw her first death shortly after she went on night duty. It was + the most terrible experience of all her life; and yet, as death goes, it + was quiet enough. So gradual was it that Sidney, with K.'s little watch in + hand, was not sure exactly when it happened. The light was very dim behind + the little screen. One moment the sheet was quivering slightly under the + struggle for breath, the next it was still. That was all. But to the girl + it was catastrophe. That life, so potential, so tremendous a thing, could + end so ignominiously, that the long battle should terminate always in this + capitulation—it seemed to her that she could not stand it. Added to + all her other new problems of living was this one of dying. + </p> + <p> + She made mistakes, of course, which the kindly nurses forgot to report—basins + left about, errors on her records. She rinsed her thermometer in hot water + one night, and startled an interne by sending him word that Mary McGuire's + temperature was a hundred and ten degrees. She let a delirious patient + escape from the ward another night and go airily down the fire-escape + before she discovered what had happened! Then she distinguished herself by + flying down the iron staircase and bringing the runaway back + single-handed. + </p> + <p> + For Christine's wedding the Street threw off its drab attire and assumed a + wedding garment. In the beginning it was incredulous about some of the + details. + </p> + <p> + “An awning from the house door to the curbstone, and a policeman!” + reported Mrs. Rosenfeld, who was finding steady employment at the Lorenz + house. “And another awning at the church, with a red carpet!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rosenfeld had arrived home and was making up arrears of rest and + recreation. + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” he said. “Suppose it don't rain. What then?” His Jewish father + spoke in him. + </p> + <p> + “And another policeman at the church!” said Mrs. Rosenfeld triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “Why do they ask 'em if they don't trust 'em?” + </p> + <p> + But the mention of the policemen had been unfortunate. It recalled to him + many things that were better forgotten. He rose and scowled at his wife. + </p> + <p> + “You tell Johnny something for me,” he snarled. “You tell him when he sees + his father walking down street, and he sittin' up there alone on that + automobile, I want him to stop and pick me up when I hail him. Me walking, + while my son swells around in a car! And another thing.” He turned + savagely at the door. “You let me hear of him road-housin', and I'll kill + him!” + </p> + <p> + The wedding was to be at five o'clock. This, in itself, defied all + traditions of the Street, which was either married in the very early + morning at the Catholic church or at eight o'clock in the evening at the + Presbyterian. There was something reckless about five o'clock. The Street + felt the dash of it. It had a queer feeling that perhaps such a marriage + was not quite legal. + </p> + <p> + The question of what to wear became, for the men, an earnest one. Dr. Ed + resurrected an old black frock-coat and had a “V” of black cambric set in + the vest. Mr. Jenkins, the grocer, rented a cutaway, and bought a new + Panama to wear with it. The deaf-and-dumb book agent who boarded at + McKees', and who, by reason of his affliction, was calmly ignorant of the + excitement around him, wore a borrowed dress-suit, and considered himself + to the end of his days the only properly attired man in the church. + </p> + <p> + The younger Wilson was to be one of the ushers. When the newspapers came + out with the published list and this was discovered, as well as that + Sidney was the maid of honor, there was a distinct quiver through the + hospital training-school. A probationer was authorized to find out + particulars. It was the day of the wedding then, and Sidney, who had not + been to bed at all, was sitting in a sunny window in the Dormitory Annex, + drying her hair. + </p> + <p> + The probationer was distinctly uneasy. + </p> + <p> + “I—I just wonder,” she said, “if you would let some of the girls + come in to see you when you're dressed?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course I will.” + </p> + <p> + “It's awfully thrilling, isn't it? And—isn't Dr. Wilson going to be + an usher?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney colored. “I believe so.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to walk down the aisle with him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. They had a rehearsal last night, but of course I was not + there. I—I think I walk alone.” + </p> + <p> + The probationer had been instructed to find out other things; so she set + to work with a fan at Sidney's hair. + </p> + <p> + “You've known Dr. Wilson a long time, haven't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ages.” + </p> + <p> + “He's awfully good-looking, isn't he?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney considered. She was not ignorant of the methods of the school. If + this girl was pumping her— + </p> + <p> + “I'll have to think that over,” she said, with a glint of mischief in her + eyes. “When you know a person terribly well, you hardly know whether he's + good-looking or not.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said the probationer, running the long strands of Sidney's + hair through her fingers, “that when you are at home you see him often.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney got off the window-sill, and, taking the probationer smilingly by + the shoulders, faced her toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “You go back to the girls,” she said, “and tell them to come in and see me + when I am dressed, and tell them this: I don't know whether I am to walk + down the aisle with Dr. Wilson, but I hope I am. I see him very often. I + like him very much. I hope he likes me. And I think he's handsome.” + </p> + <p> + She shoved the probationer out into the hall and locked the door behind + her. + </p> + <p> + That message in its entirety reached Carlotta Harrison. Her smouldering + eyes flamed. The audacity of it startled her. Sidney must be very sure of + herself. + </p> + <p> + She, too, had not slept during the day. When the probationer who had + brought her the report had gone out, she lay in her long white night-gown, + hands clasped under her head, and stared at the vault-like ceiling of her + little room. + </p> + <p> + She saw there Sidney in her white dress going down the aisle of the + church; she saw the group around the altar; and, as surely as she lay + there, she knew that Max Wilson's eyes would be, not on the bride, but on + the girl who stood beside her. + </p> + <p> + The curious thing was that Carlotta felt that she could stop the wedding + if she wanted to. She'd happened on a bit of information—many a + wedding had been stopped for less. It rather obsessed her to think of + stopping the wedding, so that Sidney and Max would not walk down the aisle + together. + </p> + <p> + There came, at last, an hour before the wedding, a lull in the feverish + activities of the previous month. Everything was ready. In the Lorenz + kitchen, piles of plates, negro waiters, ice-cream freezers, and Mrs. + Rosenfeld stood in orderly array. In the attic, in the center of a sheet, + before a toilet-table which had been carried upstairs for her benefit, + sat, on this her day of days, the bride. All the second story had been + prepared for guests and presents. + </p> + <p> + Florists were still busy in the room below. Bridesmaids were clustered on + the little staircase, bending over at each new ring of the bell and + calling reports to Christine through the closed door:— + </p> + <p> + “Another wooden box, Christine. It looks like more plates. What will you + ever do with them all?” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! Here's another of the neighbors who wants to see how you + look. Do say you can't have any visitors now.” + </p> + <p> + Christine sat alone in the center of her sheet. The bridesmaids had been + sternly forbidden to come into her room. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't had a chance to think for a month,” she said. “And I've got + some things I've got to think out.” + </p> + <p> + But, when Sidney came, she sent for her. Sidney found her sitting on a + stiff chair, in her wedding gown, with her veil spread out on a small + stand. + </p> + <p> + “Close the door,” said Christine. And, after Sidney had kissed her:— + </p> + <p> + “I've a good mind not to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “You're tired and nervous, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “I am, of course. But that isn't what's wrong with me. Throw that veil + some place and sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Christine was undoubtedly rouged, a very delicate touch. Sidney thought + brides should be rather pale. But under her eyes were lines that Sidney + had never seen there before. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to be foolish, Sidney. I'll go through with it, of course. + It would put mamma in her grave if I made a scene now.” + </p> + <p> + She suddenly turned on Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “Palmer gave his bachelor dinner at the Country Club last night. They all + drank more than they should. Somebody called father up to-day and said + that Palmer had emptied a bottle of wine into the piano. He hasn't been + here to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll be along. And as for the other—perhaps it wasn't Palmer who + did it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's not it, Sidney. I'm frightened.” + </p> + <p> + Three months before, perhaps, Sidney could not have comforted her; but + three months had made a change in Sidney. The complacent sophistries of + her girlhood no longer answered for truth. She put her arms around + Christine's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “A man who drinks is a broken reed,” said Christine. “That's what I'm + going to marry and lean on the rest of my life—a broken reed. And + that isn't all!” + </p> + <p> + She got up quickly, and, trailing her long satin train across the floor, + bolted the door. Then from inside her corsage she brought out and held to + Sidney a letter. “Special delivery. Read it.” + </p> + <p> + It was very short; Sidney read it at a glance:— + </p> + <p> + Ask your future husband if he knows a girl at 213 —— Avenue. + </p> + <p> + Three months before, the Avenue would have meant nothing to Sidney. Now + she knew. Christine, more sophisticated, had always known. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” she said. “That's what I'm up against.” + </p> + <p> + Quite suddenly Sidney knew who the girl at 213 —— Avenue was. + The paper she held in her hand was hospital paper with the heading torn + off. The whole sordid story lay before her: Grace Irving, with her thin + face and cropped hair, and the newspaper on the floor of the ward beside + her! + </p> + <p> + One of the bridesmaids thumped violently on the door outside. + </p> + <p> + “Another electric lamp,” she called excitedly through the door. “And + Palmer is downstairs.” + </p> + <p> + “You see,” Christine said drearily. “I have received another electric + lamp, and Palmer is downstairs! I've got to go through with it, I suppose. + The only difference between me and other brides is that I know what I'm + getting. Most of them do not.” + </p> + <p> + “You're going on with it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's too late to do anything else. I am not going to give this + neighborhood anything to talk about.” + </p> + <p> + She picked up her veil and set the coronet on her head. Sidney stood with + the letter in her hands. One of K.'s answers to her hot question had been + this:— + </p> + <p> + “There is no sense in looking back unless it helps us to look ahead. What + your little girl of the ward has been is not so important as what she is + going to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Even granting this to be true,” she said to Christine slowly,—“and + it may only be malicious after all, Christine,—it's surely over and + done with. It's not Palmer's past that concerns you now; it's his future + with you, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Christine had finally adjusted her veil. A band of duchesse lace rose like + a coronet from her soft hair, and from it, sweeping to the end of her + train, fell fold after fold of soft tulle. She arranged the coronet + carefully with small pearl-topped pins. Then she rose and put her hands on + Sidney's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “The simple truth is,” she said quietly, “that I might hold Palmer if I + cared—terribly. I don't. And I'm afraid he knows it. It's my pride + that's hurt, nothing else.” + </p> + <p> + And thus did Christine Lorenz go down to her wedding. + </p> + <p> + Sidney stood for a moment, her eyes on the letter she held. Already, in + her new philosophy, she had learned many strange things. One of them was + this: that women like Grace Irving did not betray their lovers; that the + code of the underworld was “death to the squealer”; that one played the + game, and won or lost, and if he lost, took his medicine. If not Grace, + then who? Somebody else in the hospital who knew her story, of course. But + who? And again—why? + </p> + <p> + Before going downstairs, Sidney placed the letter in a saucer and set fire + to it with a match. Some of the radiance had died out of her eyes. + </p> + <p> + The Street voted the wedding a great success. The alley, however, was + rather confused by certain things. For instance, it regarded the awning as + essentially for the carriage guests, and showed a tendency to duck in + under the side when no one was looking. Mrs. Rosenfeld absolutely refused + to take the usher's arm which was offered her, and said she guessed she + was able to walk up alone. + </p> + <p> + Johnny Rosenfeld came, as befitted his position, in a complete chauffeur's + outfit of leather cap and leggings, with the shield that was his State + license pinned over his heart. + </p> + <p> + The Street came decorously, albeit with a degree of uncertainty as to + supper. Should they put something on the stove before they left, in case + only ice cream and cake were served at the house? Or was it just as well + to trust to luck, and, if the Lorenz supper proved inadequate, to sit down + to a cold snack when they got home? + </p> + <p> + To K., sitting in the back of the church between Harriet and Anna, the + wedding was Sidney—Sidney only. He watched her first steps down the + aisle, saw her chin go up as she gained poise and confidence, watched the + swinging of her young figure in its gauzy white as she passed him and went + forward past the long rows of craning necks. Afterward he could not + remember the wedding party at all. The service for him was Sidney, rather + awed and very serious, beside the altar. It was Sidney who came down the + aisle to the triumphant strains of the wedding march, Sidney with Max + beside her! + </p> + <p> + On his right sat Harriet, having reached the first pinnacle of her new + career. The wedding gowns were successful. They were more than that—they + were triumphant. Sitting there, she cast comprehensive eyes over the + church, filled with potential brides. + </p> + <p> + To Harriet, then, that October afternoon was a future of endless lace and + chiffon, the joy of creation, triumph eclipsing triumph. But to Anna, + watching the ceremony with blurred eyes and ineffectual bluish lips, was + coming her hour. Sitting back in the pew, with her hands folded over her + prayer-book, she said a little prayer for her straight young daughter, + facing out from the altar with clear, unafraid eyes. + </p> + <p> + As Sidney and Max drew near the door, Joe Drummond, who had been standing + at the back of the church, turned quickly and went out. He stumbled, + rather, as if he could not see. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + The supper at the White Springs Hotel had not been the last supper + Carlotta Harrison and Max Wilson had taken together. Carlotta had selected + for her vacation a small town within easy motoring distance of the city, + and two or three times during her two weeks off duty Wilson had gone out + to see her. He liked being with her. She stimulated him. For once that he + could see Sidney, he saw Carlotta twice. + </p> + <p> + She had kept the affair well in hand. She was playing for high stakes. She + knew quite well the kind of man with whom she was dealing—that he + would pay as little as possible. But she knew, too, that, let him want a + thing enough, he would pay any price for it, even marriage. + </p> + <p> + She was very skillful. The very ardor in her face was in her favor. Behind + her hot eyes lurked cold calculation. She would put the thing through, and + show those puling nurses, with their pious eyes and evening prayers, a + thing or two. + </p> + <p> + During that entire vacation he never saw her in anything more elaborate + than the simplest of white dresses modestly open at the throat, sleeves + rolled up to show her satiny arms. There were no other boarders at the + little farmhouse. She sat for hours in the summer evenings in the square + yard filled with apple trees that bordered the highway, carefully posed + over a book, but with her keen eyes always on the road. She read Browning, + Emerson, Swinburne. Once he found her with a book that she hastily + concealed. He insisted on seeing it, and secured it. It was a book on + brain surgery. Confronted with it, she blushed and dropped her eyes. + </p> + <p> + His delighted vanity found in it the most insidious of compliments, as she + had intended. + </p> + <p> + “I feel such an idiot when I am with you,” she said. “I wanted to know a + little more about the things you do.” + </p> + <p> + That put their relationship on a new and advanced basis. Thereafter he + occasionally talked surgery instead of sentiment. He found her responsive, + intelligent. His work, a sealed book to his women before, lay open to her. + </p> + <p> + Now and then their professional discussions ended in something different. + The two lines of their interest converged. + </p> + <p> + “Gad!” he said one day. “I look forward to these evenings. I can talk shop + with you without either shocking or nauseating you. You are the most + intelligent woman I know—and one of the prettiest.” + </p> + <p> + He had stopped the machine on the crest of a hill for the ostensible + purpose of admiring the view. + </p> + <p> + “As long as you talk shop,” she said, “I feel that there is nothing wrong + in our being together; but when you say the other thing—” + </p> + <p> + “Is it wrong to tell a pretty woman you admire her?” + </p> + <p> + “Under our circumstances, yes.” + </p> + <p> + He twisted himself around in the seat and sat looking at her. + </p> + <p> + “The loveliest mouth in the world!” he said, and kissed her suddenly. + </p> + <p> + She had expected it for at least a week, but her surprise was well done. + Well done also was her silence during the homeward ride. + </p> + <p> + No, she was not angry, she said. It was only that he had set her thinking. + When she got out of the car, she bade him good-night and good-bye. He only + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you trust me?” he said, leaning out to her. + </p> + <p> + She raised her dark eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It is not that. I do not trust myself.” + </p> + <p> + After that nothing could have kept him away, and she knew it. + </p> + <p> + “Man demands both danger and play; therefore he selects woman as the most + dangerous of toys.” A spice of danger had entered into their relationship. + It had become infinitely piquant. + </p> + <p> + He motored out to the farm the next day, to be told that Miss Harrison had + gone for a long walk and had not said when she would be back. That pleased + him. Evidently she was frightened. Every man likes to think that he is a + bit of a devil. Dr. Max settled his tie, and, leaving his car outside the + whitewashed fence, departed blithely on foot in the direction Carlotta had + taken. + </p> + <p> + She knew her man, of course. He found her, face down, under a tree, + looking pale and worn and bearing all the evidence of a severe mental + struggle. She rose in confusion when she heard his step, and retreated a + foot or two, with her hands out before her. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you follow me! I—I have got to + have a little time alone. I have got to think things out.” + </p> + <p> + He knew it was play-acting, but rather liked it; and, because he was quite + as skillful as she was, he struck a match on the trunk of the tree and + lighted a cigarette before he answered. + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid of this,” he said, playing up. “You take it entirely too + hard. I am not really a villain, Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + It was the first time he had used her name. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down and let us talk things over.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down at a safe distance, and looked across the little clearing to + him with the somber eyes that were her great asset. + </p> + <p> + “You can afford to be very calm,” she said, “because this is only play to + you; I know it. I've known it all along. I'm a good listener and not—unattractive. + But what is play for you is not necessarily play for me. I am going away + from here.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time, he found himself believing in her sincerity. Why, the + girl was white. He didn't want to hurt her. If she cried—he was at + the mercy of any woman who cried. + </p> + <p> + “Give up your training?” + </p> + <p> + “What else can I do? This sort of thing cannot go on, Dr. Max.” + </p> + <p> + She did cry then—real tears; and he went over beside her and took + her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Don't do that,” he said. “Please don't do that. You make me feel like a + scoundrel, and I've only been taking a little bit of happiness. That's + all. I swear it.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her head from his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You mean you are happy with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Very, very happy,” said Dr. Max, and kissed her again on the lips. + </p> + <p> + The one element Carlotta had left out of her calculations was herself. She + had known the man, had taken the situation at its proper value. But she + had left out this important factor in the equation,—that factor + which in every relationship between man and woman determines the equation,—the + woman. + </p> + <p> + Into her calculating ambition had come a new and destroying element. She + who, like K. in his little room on the Street, had put aside love and the + things thereof, found that it would not be put aside. By the end of her + short vacation Carlotta Harrison was wildly in love with the younger + Wilson. + </p> + <p> + They continued to meet, not as often as before, but once a week, perhaps. + The meetings were full of danger now; and if for the girl they lost by + this quality, they gained attraction for the man. She was shrewd enough to + realize her own situation. The thing had gone wrong. She cared, and he did + not. It was all a game now, not hers. + </p> + <p> + All women are intuitive; women in love are dangerously so. As well as she + knew that his passion for her was not the real thing, so also she realized + that there was growing up in his heart something akin to the real thing + for Sidney Page. Suspicion became certainty after a talk they had over the + supper table at a country road-house the day after Christine's wedding. + </p> + <p> + “How was the wedding—tiresome?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Thrilling! There's always something thrilling to me in a man tying + himself up for life to one woman. It's—it's so reckless.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes narrowed. “That's not exactly the Law and the Prophets, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's the truth. To think of selecting out of all the world one woman, and + electing to spend the rest of one's days with her! Although—” + </p> + <p> + His eyes looked past Carlotta into distance. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney Page was one of the bridesmaids,” he said irrelevantly. “She was + lovelier than the bride.” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty, but stupid,” said Carlotta. “I like her. I've really tried to + teach her things, but—you know—” She shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Max was learning wisdom. If there was a twinkle in his eye, he veiled + it discreetly. But, once again in the machine, he bent over and put his + cheek against hers. + </p> + <p> + “You little cat! You're jealous,” he said exultantly. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, although he might smile, the image of Sidney lay very close + to his heart those autumn days. And Carlotta knew it. + </p> + <p> + Sidney came off night duty the middle of November. The night duty had been + a time of comparative peace to Carlotta. There were no evenings when Dr. + Max could bring Sidney back to the hospital in his car. + </p> + <p> + Sidney's half-days at home were occasions for agonies of jealousy on + Carlotta's part. On such an occasion, a month after the wedding, she could + not contain herself. She pleaded her old excuse of headache, and took the + trolley to a point near the end of the Street. After twilight fell, she + slowly walked the length of the Street. Christine and Palmer had not + returned from their wedding journey. The November evening was not cold, + and on the little balcony sat Sidney and Dr. Max. K. was there, too, had + she only known it, sitting back in the shadow and saying little, his + steady eyes on Sidney's profile. + </p> + <p> + But this Carlotta did not know. She went on down the Street in a frenzy of + jealous anger. + </p> + <p> + After that two ideas ran concurrent in Carlotta's mind: one was to get + Sidney out of the way, the other was to make Wilson propose to her. In her + heart she knew that on the first depended the second. + </p> + <p> + A week later she made the same frantic excursion, but with a different + result. Sidney was not in sight, or Wilson. But standing on the wooden + doorstep of the little house was Le Moyne. The ailanthus trees were bare + at that time, throwing gaunt arms upward to the November sky. The + street-lamp, which in the summer left the doorstep in the shadow, now + shone through the branches and threw into strong relief Le Moyne's tall + figure and set face. Carlotta saw him too late to retreat. But he did not + see her. She went on, startled, her busy brain scheming anew. Another + element had entered into her plotting. It was the first time she had known + that K. lived in the Page house. It gave her a sense of uncertainty and + deadly fear. + </p> + <p> + She made her first friendly overture of many days to Sidney the following + day. They met in the locker-room in the basement where the street clothing + for the ward patients was kept. Here, rolled in bundles and ticketed, side + by side lay the heterogeneous garments in which the patients had met + accident or illness. Rags and tidiness, filth and cleanliness, lay almost + touching. + </p> + <p> + Far away on the other side of the white-washed basement, men were + unloading gleaming cans of milk. Floods of sunlight came down the + cellar-way, touching their white coats and turning the cans to silver. + Everywhere was the religion of the hospital, which is order. + </p> + <p> + Sidney, harking back from recent slights to the staircase conversation of + her night duty, smiled at Carlotta cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “A miracle is happening,” she said. “Grace Irving is going out to-day. + When one remembers how ill she was and how we thought she could not live, + it's rather a triumph, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Are those her clothes?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney examined with some dismay the elaborate negligee garments in her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “She can't go out in those; I shall have to lend her something.” A little + of the light died out of her face. “She's had a hard fight, and she has + won,” she said. “But when I think of what she's probably going back to—” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “It's all in the day's work,” she observed indifferently. “You can take + them up into the kitchen and give them steady work paring potatoes, or put + them in the laundry ironing. In the end it's the same thing. They all go + back.” + </p> + <p> + She drew a package from the locker and looked at it ruefully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you know about this? Here's a woman who came in in a + nightgown and pair of slippers. And now she wants to go out in half an + hour!” + </p> + <p> + She turned, on her way out of the locker-room, and shot a quick glance at + Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “I happened to be on your street the other night,” she said. “You live + across the street from Wilsons', don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so; I had heard you speak of the house. Your—your brother + was standing on the steps.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I have no brother. That's a roomer, a Mr. Le Moyne. It isn't really right + to call him a roomer; he's one of the family now.” + </p> + <p> + “Le Moyne!” + </p> + <p> + He had even taken another name. It had hit him hard, for sure. + </p> + <p> + K.'s name had struck an always responsive chord in Sidney. The two girls + went toward the elevator together. With a very little encouragement, + Sidney talked of K. She was pleased at Miss Harrison's friendly tone, glad + that things were all right between them again. At her floor, she put a + timid hand on the girl's arm. + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid I had offended you or displeased you,” she said. “I'm so + glad it isn't so.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta shivered under her hand. + </p> + <p> + Things were not going any too well with K. True, he had received his + promotion at the office, and with this present affluence of twenty-two + dollars a week he was able to do several things. Mrs. Rosenfeld now washed + and ironed one day a week at the little house, so that Katie might have + more time to look after Anna. He had increased also the amount of money + that he periodically sent East. + </p> + <p> + So far, well enough. The thing that rankled and filled him with a sense of + failure was Max Wilson's attitude. It was not unfriendly; it was, indeed, + consistently respectful, almost reverential. But he clearly considered Le + Moyne's position absurd. + </p> + <p> + There was no true comradeship between the two men; but there was beginning + to be constant association, and lately a certain amount of friction. They + thought differently about almost everything. + </p> + <p> + Wilson began to bring all his problems to Le Moyne. There were long + consultations in that small upper room. Perhaps more than one man or woman + who did not know of K.'s existence owed his life to him that fall. + </p> + <p> + Under K.'s direction, Max did marvels. Cases began to come in to him from + the surrounding towns. To his own daring was added a new and remarkable + technique. But Le Moyne, who had found resignation if not content, was + once again in touch with the work he loved. There were times when, having + thrashed a case out together and outlined the next day's work for Max, he + would walk for hours into the night out over the hills, fighting his + battle. The longing was on him to be in the thick of things again. The + thought of the gas office and its deadly round sickened him. + </p> + <p> + It was on one of his long walks that K. found Tillie. + </p> + <p> + It was December then, gray and raw, with a wet snow that changed to rain + as it fell. The country roads were ankle-deep with mud, the wayside paths + thick with sodden leaves. The dreariness of the countryside that Saturday + afternoon suited his mood. He had ridden to the end of the street-car + line, and started his walk from there. As was his custom, he wore no + overcoat, but a short sweater under his coat. Somewhere along the road he + had picked up a mongrel dog, and, as if in sheer desire for human society, + it trotted companionably at his heels. + </p> + <p> + Seven miles from the end of the car line he found a road-house, and + stopped in for a glass of Scotch. He was chilled through. The dog went in + with him, and stood looking up into his face. It was as if he submitted, + but wondered why this indoors, with the scents of the road ahead and the + trails of rabbits over the fields. + </p> + <p> + The house was set in a valley at the foot of two hills. Through the mist + of the December afternoon, it had loomed pleasantly before him. The door + was ajar, and he stepped into a little hall covered with ingrain carpet. + To the right was the dining-room, the table covered with a white cloth, + and in its exact center an uncompromising bunch of dried flowers. To the + left, the typical parlor of such places. It might have been the parlor of + the White Springs Hotel in duplicate, plush self-rocker and all. Over + everything was silence and a pervading smell of fresh varnish. The house + was aggressive with new paint—the sagging old floors shone with it, + the doors gleamed. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” called K. + </p> + <p> + There were slow footsteps upstairs, the closing of a bureau drawer, the + rustle of a woman's dress coming down the stairs. K., standing uncertainly + on a carpet oasis that was the center of the parlor varnish, stripped off + his sweater. + </p> + <p> + “Not very busy here this afternoon!” he said to the unseen female on the + staircase. Then he saw her. It was Tillie. She put a hand against the + doorframe to steady herself. Tillie surely, but a new Tillie! With her + hair loosened around her face, a fresh blue chintz dress open at the + throat, a black velvet bow on her breast, here was a Tillie fuller, + infinitely more attractive, than he had remembered her. But she did not + smile at him. There was something about her eyes not unlike the dog's + expression, submissive, but questioning. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you've found me, Mr. Le Moyne.” And, when he held out his hand, + smiling: “I just had to do it, Mr. K.” + </p> + <p> + “And how's everything going? You look mighty fine and—happy, + Tillie.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right. Mr. Schwitter's gone to the postoffice. He'll be back at + five. Will you have a cup of tea, or will you have something else?” + </p> + <p> + The instinct of the Street was still strong in Tillie. The Street did not + approve of “something else.” + </p> + <p> + “Scotch-and-soda,” said Le Moyne. “And shall I buy a ticket for you to + punch?” + </p> + <p> + But she only smiled faintly. He was sorry he had made the blunder. + Evidently the Street and all that pertained was a sore subject. + </p> + <p> + So this was Tillie's new home! It was for this that she had exchanged the + virginal integrity of her life at Mrs. McKee's—for this wind-swept + little house, tidily ugly, infinitely lonely. There were two crayon + enlargements over the mantel. One was Schwitter, evidently. The other was + the paper-doll wife. K. wondered what curious instinct of self-abnegation + had caused Tillie to leave the wife there undisturbed. Back of its + position of honor he saw the girl's realization of her own situation. On a + wooden shelf, exactly between the two pictures, was another vase of dried + flowers. + </p> + <p> + Tillie brought the Scotch, already mixed, in a tall glass. K. would have + preferred to mix it himself, but the Scotch was good. He felt a new + respect for Mr. Schwitter. + </p> + <p> + “You gave me a turn at first,” said Tillie. “But I am right glad to see + you, Mr. Le Moyne. Now that the roads are bad, nobody comes very much. + It's lonely.” + </p> + <p> + Until now, K. and Tillie, when they met, had met conversationally on the + common ground of food. They no longer had that, and between them both lay + like a barrier their last conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Are you happy, Tillie?” said K. suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I expected you'd ask me that. I've been thinking what to say.” + </p> + <p> + Her reply set him watching her face. More attractive it certainly was, but + happy? There was a wistfulness about Tillie's mouth that set him + wondering. + </p> + <p> + “Is he good to you?” + </p> + <p> + “He's about the best man on earth. He's never said a cross word to me—even + at first, when I was panicky and scared at every sound.” + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne nodded understandingly. + </p> + <p> + “I burned a lot of victuals when I first came, running off and hiding when + I heard people around the place. It used to seem to me that what I'd done + was written on my face. But he never said a word.” + </p> + <p> + “That's over now?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't run. I am still frightened.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it has been worth while?” + </p> + <p> + Tillie glanced up at the two pictures over the mantel. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes it is—when he comes in tired, and I've a chicken ready or + some fried ham and eggs for his supper, and I see him begin to look + rested. He lights his pipe, and many an evening he helps me with the + dishes. He's happy; he's getting fat.” + </p> + <p> + “But you?” Le Moyne persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't go back to where I was, but I am not happy, Mr. Le Moyne. + There's no use pretending. I want a baby. All along I've wanted a baby. He + wants one. This place is his, and he'd like a boy to come into it when + he's gone. But, my God! if I did have one; what would it be?” + </p> + <p> + K.'s eyes followed hers to the picture and the everlastings underneath. + </p> + <p> + “And she—there isn't any prospect of her—?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + There was no solution to Tillie's problem. Le Moyne, standing on the + hearth and looking down at her, realized that, after all, Tillie must work + out her own salvation. He could offer her no comfort. + </p> + <p> + They talked far into the growing twilight of the afternoon. Tillie was + hungry for news of the Street: must know of Christine's wedding, of + Harriet, of Sidney in her hospital. And when he had told her all, she sat + silent, rolling her handkerchief in her fingers. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “Take the four of us,” she said suddenly,—“Christine Lorenz and + Sidney Page and Miss Harriet and me,—and which one would you have + picked to go wrong like this? I guess, from the looks of things, most + folks would have thought it would be the Lorenz girl. They'd have picked + Harriet Kennedy for the hospital, and me for the dressmaking, and it would + have been Sidney Page that got married and had an automobile. Well, that's + life.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at K. shrewdly. + </p> + <p> + “There were some people out here lately. They didn't know me, and I heard + them talking. They said Sidney Page was going to marry Dr. Max Wilson.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. I believe there is no engagement yet.” + </p> + <p> + He had finished with his glass. Tillie rose to take it away. As she stood + before him she looked up into his face. + </p> + <p> + “If you like her as well as I think you do, Mr. Le Moyne, you won't let + him get her.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid that's not up to me, is it? What would I do with a wife, + Tillie?” + </p> + <p> + “You'd be faithful to her. That's more than he would be. I guess, in the + long run, that would count more than money.” + </p> + <p> + That was what K. took home with him after his encounter with Tillie. He + pondered it on his way back to the street-car, as he struggled against the + wind. The weather had changed. Wagon-tracks along the road were filled + with water and had begun to freeze. The rain had turned to a driving sleet + that cut his face. Halfway to the trolley line, the dog turned off into a + by-road. K. did not miss him. The dog stared after him, one foot raised. + Once again his eyes were like Tillie's, as she had waved good-bye from the + porch. + </p> + <p> + His head sunk on his breast, K. covered miles of road with his long, + swinging pace, and fought his battle. Was Tillie right, after all, and had + he been wrong? Why should he efface himself, if it meant Sidney's + unhappiness? Why not accept Wilson's offer and start over again? Then if + things went well—the temptation was strong that stormy afternoon. He + put it from him at last, because of the conviction that whatever he did + would make no change in Sidney's ultimate decision. If she cared enough + for Wilson, she would marry him. He felt that she cared enough. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + Palmer and Christine returned from their wedding trip the day K. + discovered Tillie. Anna Page made much of the arrival, insisted on dinner + for them that night at the little house, must help Christine unpack her + trunks and arrange her wedding gifts about the apartment. She was brighter + than she had been for days, more interested. The wonders of the trousseau + filled her with admiration and a sort of jealous envy for Sidney, who + could have none of these things. In a pathetic sort of way, she mothered + Christine in lieu of her own daughter. + </p> + <p> + And it was her quick eye that discerned something wrong. Christine was not + quite happy. Under her excitement was an undercurrent of reserve. Anna, + rich in maternity if in nothing else, felt it, and in reply to some speech + of Christine's that struck her as hard, not quite fitting, she gave her a + gentle admonishing. + </p> + <p> + “Married life takes a little adjusting, my dear,” she said. “After we have + lived to ourselves for a number of years, it is not easy to live for some + one else.” + </p> + <p> + Christine straightened from the tea-table she was arranging. + </p> + <p> + “That's true, of course. But why should the woman do all the adjusting?” + </p> + <p> + “Men are more set,” said poor Anna, who had never been set in anything in + her life. “It is harder for them to give in. And, of course, Palmer is + older, and his habits—” + </p> + <p> + “The less said about Palmer's habits the better,” flashed Christine. “I + appear to have married a bunch of habits.” + </p> + <p> + She gave over her unpacking, and sat down listlessly by the fire, while + Anna moved about, busy with the small activities that delighted her. + </p> + <p> + Six weeks of Palmer's society in unlimited amounts had bored Christine to + distraction. She sat with folded hands and looked into a future that + seemed to include nothing but Palmer: Palmer asleep with his mouth open; + Palmer shaving before breakfast, and irritable until he had had his + coffee; Palmer yawning over the newspaper. + </p> + <p> + And there was a darker side to the picture than that. There was a vision + of Palmer slipping quietly into his room and falling into the heavy sleep, + not of drunkenness perhaps, but of drink. That had happened twice. She + knew now that it would happen again and again, as long as he lived. + Drinking leads to other things. The letter she had received on her wedding + day was burned into her brain. There would be that in the future too, + probably. + </p> + <p> + Christine was not without courage. She was making a brave clutch at + happiness. But that afternoon of the first day at home she was terrified. + She was glad when Anna went and left her alone by her fire. + </p> + <p> + But when she heard a step in the hall, she opened the door herself. She + had determined to meet Palmer with a smile. Tears brought nothing; she had + learned that already. Men liked smiling women and good cheer. “Daughters + of joy,” they called girls like the one on the Avenue. So she opened the + door smiling. + </p> + <p> + But it was K. in the hall. She waited while, with his back to her, he + shook himself like a great dog. When he turned, she was watching him. + </p> + <p> + “You!” said Le Moyne. “Why, welcome home.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled down at her, his kindly eyes lighting. + </p> + <p> + “It's good to be home and to see you again. Won't you come in to my fire?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm wet.” + </p> + <p> + “All the more reason why you should come,” she cried gayly, and held the + door wide. + </p> + <p> + The little parlor was cheerful with fire and soft lamps, bright with + silver vases full of flowers. K. stepped inside and took a critical survey + of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” he said. “Between us we have made a pretty good job of this, I + with the paper and the wiring, and you with your pretty furnishings and + your pretty self.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at her appreciatively. Christine saw his approval, and was + happier than she had been for weeks. She put on the thousand little airs + and graces that were a part of her—held her chin high, looked up at + him with the little appealing glances that she had found were wasted on + Palmer. She lighted the spirit-lamp to make tea, drew out the best chair + for him, and patted a cushion with her well-cared-for hands. + </p> + <p> + “A big chair for a big man!” she said. “And see, here's a footstool.” + </p> + <p> + “I am ridiculously fond of being babied,” said K., and quite basked in his + new atmosphere of well-being. This was better than his empty room + upstairs, than tramping along country roads, than his own thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “And now, how is everything?” asked Christine from across the fire. “Do + tell me all the scandal of the Street.” + </p> + <p> + “There has been no scandal since you went away,” said K. And, because each + was glad not to be left to his own thoughts, they laughed at this bit of + unconscious humor. + </p> + <p> + “Seriously,” said Le Moyne, “we have been very quiet. I have had my salary + raised and am now rejoicing in twenty-two dollars a week. I am still not + accustomed to it. Just when I had all my ideas fixed for fifteen, I get + twenty-two and have to reassemble them. I am disgustingly rich.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very disagreeable when one's income becomes a burden,” said + Christine gravely. + </p> + <p> + She was finding in Le Moyne something that she needed just then—a + solidity, a sort of dependability, that had nothing to do with heaviness. + She felt that here was a man she could trust, almost confide in. She liked + his long hands, his shabby but well-cut clothes, his fine profile with its + strong chin. She left off her little affectations,—a tribute to his + own lack of them,—and sat back in her chair, watching the fire. + </p> + <p> + When K. chose, he could talk well. The Howes had been to Bermuda on their + wedding trip. He knew Bermuda; that gave them a common ground. Christine + relaxed under his steady voice. As for K., he frankly enjoyed the little + visit—drew himself at last with regret out of his chair. + </p> + <p> + “You've been very nice to ask me in, Mrs. Howe,” he said. “I hope you will + allow me to come again. But, of course, you are going to be very gay.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to Christine she would never be gay again. She did not want him + to go away. The sound of his deep voice gave her a sense of security. She + liked the clasp of the hand he held out to her, when at last he made a + move toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Tell Mr. Howe I am sorry he missed our little party,” said Le Moyne. “And—thank + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come again?” asked Christine rather wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Just as often as you ask me.” + </p> + <p> + As he closed the door behind him, there was a new light in Christine's + eyes. Things were not right, but, after all, they were not hopeless. One + might still have friends, big and strong, steady of eye and voice. When + Palmer came home, the smile she gave him was not forced. + </p> + <p> + The day's exertion had been bad for Anna. Le Moyne found her on the couch + in the transformed sewing-room, and gave her a quick glance of + apprehension. She was propped up high with pillows, with a bottle of + aromatic ammonia beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Just—short of breath,” she panted. “I—I must get down. Sidney—is + coming home—to supper; and—the others—Palmer and—” + </p> + <p> + That was as far as she got. K., watch in hand, found her pulse thin, + stringy, irregular. He had been prepared for some such emergency, and he + hurried into his room for amyl-nitrate. When he came back she was almost + unconscious. There was no time even to call Katie. He broke the capsule in + a towel, and held it over her face. After a time the spasm relaxed, but + her condition remained alarming. + </p> + <p> + Harriet, who had come home by that time, sat by the couch and held her + sister's hand. Only once in the next hour or so did she speak. They had + sent for Dr. Ed, but he had not come yet. Harriet was too wretched to + notice the professional manner in which K. set to work over Anna. + </p> + <p> + “I've been a very hard sister to her,” she said. “If you can pull her + through, I'll try to make up for it.” + </p> + <p> + Christine sat on the stairs outside, frightened and helpless. They had + sent for Sidney; but the little house had no telephone, and the message + was slow in getting off. + </p> + <p> + At six o'clock Dr. Ed came panting up the stairs and into the room. K. + stood back. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is sad, Harriet,” said Dr. Ed. “Why in the name of Heaven, + when I wasn't around, didn't you get another doctor. If she had had some + amyl-nitrate—” + </p> + <p> + “I gave her some nitrate of amyl,” said K. quietly. “There was really no + time to send for anybody. She almost went under at half-past five.” + </p> + <p> + Max had kept his word, and even Dr. Ed did not suspect K.'s secret. He + gave a quick glance at this tall young man who spoke so quietly of what he + had done for the sick woman, and went on with his work. + </p> + <p> + Sidney arrived a little after six, and from that moment the confusion in + the sick-room was at an end. She moved Christine from the stairs, where + Katie on her numerous errands must crawl over her; set Harriet to warming + her mother's bed and getting it ready; opened windows, brought order and + quiet. And then, with death in her eyes, she took up her position beside + her mother. This was no time for weeping; that would come later. Once she + turned to K., standing watchfully beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I think you have known this for a long time,” she said. And, when he did + not answer: “Why did you let me stay away from her? It would have been + such a little time!” + </p> + <p> + “We were trying to do our best for both of you,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + Anna was unconscious and sinking fast. One thought obsessed Sidney. She + repeated it over and over. It came as a cry from the depths of the girl's + new experience. + </p> + <p> + “She has had so little of life,” she said, over and over. “So little! Just + this Street. She never knew anything else.” + </p> + <p> + And finally K. took it up. + </p> + <p> + “After all, Sidney,” he said, “the Street IS life: the world is only many + streets. She had a great deal. She had love and content, and she had you.” + </p> + <p> + Anna died a little after midnight, a quiet passing, so that only Sidney + and the two men knew when she went away. It was Harriet who collapsed. + During all that long evening she had sat looking back over years of small + unkindnesses. The thorn of Anna's inefficiency had always rankled in her + flesh. She had been hard, uncompromising, thwarted. And now it was forever + too late. + </p> + <p> + K. had watched Sidney carefully. Once he thought she was fainting, and + went to her. But she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I am all right. Do you think you could get them all out of the room and + let me have her alone for just a few minutes?” + </p> + <p> + He cleared the room, and took up his vigil outside the door. And, as he + stood there, he thought of what he had said to Sidney about the Street. It + was a world of its own. Here in this very house were death and separation; + Harriet's starved life; Christine and Palmer beginning a long and doubtful + future together; himself, a failure, and an impostor. + </p> + <p> + When he opened the door again, Sidney was standing by her mother's bed. He + went to her, and she turned and put her head against his shoulder like a + tired child. + </p> + <p> + “Take me away, K.,” she said pitifully. + </p> + <p> + And, with his arm around her, he led her out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Outside of her small immediate circle Anna's death was hardly felt. The + little house went on much as before. Harriet carried back to her business + a heaviness of spirit that made it difficult to bear with the small + irritations of her day. Perhaps Anna's incapacity, which had always + annoyed her, had been physical. She must have had her trouble a longtime. + She remembered other women of the Street who had crept through inefficient + days, and had at last laid down their burdens and closed their mild eyes, + to the lasting astonishment of their families. What did they think about, + these women, as they pottered about? Did they resent the impatience that + met their lagging movements, the indifference that would not see how they + were failing? Hot tears fell on Harriet's fashion-book as it lay on her + knee. Not only for Anna—for Anna's prototypes everywhere. + </p> + <p> + On Sidney—and in less measure, of course, on K.—fell the real + brunt of the disaster. Sidney kept up well until after the funeral, but + went down the next day with a low fever. + </p> + <p> + “Overwork and grief,” Dr. Ed said, and sternly forbade the hospital again + until Christmas. Morning and evening K. stopped at her door and inquired + for her, and morning and evening came Sidney's reply:— + </p> + <p> + “Much better. I'll surely be up to-morrow!” + </p> + <p> + But the days dragged on and she did not get about. + </p> + <p> + Downstairs, Christine and Palmer had entered on the round of midwinter + gayeties. Palmer's “crowd” was a lively one. There were dinners and + dances, week-end excursions to country-houses. The Street grew accustomed + to seeing automobiles stop before the little house at all hours of the + night. Johnny Rosenfeld, driving Palmer's car, took to falling asleep at + the wheel in broad daylight, and voiced his discontent to his mother. + </p> + <p> + “You never know where you are with them guys,” he said briefly. “We start + out for half an hour's run in the evening, and get home with the + milk-wagons. And the more some of them have had to drink, the more they + want to drive the machine. If I get a chance, I'm going to beat it while + the wind's my way.” + </p> + <p> + But, talk as he might, in Johnny Rosenfeld's loyal heart there was no + thought of desertion. Palmer had given him a man's job, and he would stick + by it, no matter what came. + </p> + <p> + There were some things that Johnny Rosenfeld did not tell his mother. + There were evenings when the Howe car was filled, not with Christine and + her friends, but with women of a different world; evenings when the + destination was not a country estate, but a road-house; evenings when + Johnny Rosenfeld, ousted from the driver's seat by some drunken youth, + would hold tight to the swinging car and say such fragments of prayers as + he could remember. Johnny Rosenfeld, who had started life with few + illusions, was in danger of losing such as he had. + </p> + <p> + One such night Christine put in, lying wakefully in her bed, while the + clock on the mantel tolled hour after hour into the night. Palmer did not + come home at all. He sent a note from the office in the morning: + </p> + <p> + “I hope you are not worried, darling. The car broke down near the Country + Club last night, and there was nothing to do but to spend the night there. + I would have sent you word, but I did not want to rouse you. What do you + say to the theater to-night and supper afterward?” + </p> + <p> + Christine was learning. She telephoned the Country Club that morning, and + found that Palmer had not been there. But, although she knew now that he + was deceiving her, as he always had deceived her, as probably he always + would, she hesitated to confront him with what she knew. She shrank, as + many a woman has shrunk before, from confronting him with his lie. + </p> + <p> + But the second time it happened, she was roused. It was almost Christmas + then, and Sidney was well on the way to recovery, thinner and very white, + but going slowly up and down the staircase on K.'s arm, and sitting with + Harriet and K. at the dinner table. She was begging to be back on duty for + Christmas, and K. felt that he would have to give her up soon. + </p> + <p> + At three o'clock one morning Sidney roused from a light sleep to hear a + rapping on her door. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Aunt Harriet?” she called. + </p> + <p> + “It's Christine. May I come in?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney unlocked her door. Christine slipped into the room. She carried a + candle, and before she spoke she looked at Sidney's watch on the bedside + table. + </p> + <p> + “I hoped my clock was wrong,” she said. “I am sorry to waken you, Sidney, + but I don't know what to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Palmer has not come home.” + </p> + <p> + “What time is it?” + </p> + <p> + “After three o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney had lighted the gas and was throwing on her dressing-gown. + </p> + <p> + “When he went out did he say—” + </p> + <p> + “He said nothing. We had been quarreling. Sidney, I am going home in the + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean that, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't I look as if I mean it? How much of this sort of thing is a woman + supposed to endure?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he has been delayed. These things always seem terrible in the + middle of the night, but by morning—” + </p> + <p> + Christine whirled on her. + </p> + <p> + “This isn't the first time. You remember the letter I got on my wedding + day?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He's gone back to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Christine! Oh, I am sure you're wrong. He's devoted to you. I don't + believe it!” + </p> + <p> + “Believe it or not,” said Christine doggedly, “that's exactly what has + happened. I got something out of that little rat of a Rosenfeld boy, and + the rest I know because I know Palmer. He's out with her to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The hospital had taught Sidney one thing: that it took many people to make + a world, and that out of these some were inevitably vicious. But vice had + remained for her a clear abstraction. There were such people, and because + one was in the world for service one cared for them. Even the Saviour had + been kind to the woman of the streets. + </p> + <p> + But here abruptly Sidney found the great injustice of the world—that + because of this vice the good suffer more than the wicked. Her young + spirit rose in hot rebellion. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't fair!” she cried. “It makes me hate all the men in the world. + Palmer cares for you, and yet he can do a thing like this!” + </p> + <p> + Christine was pacing nervously up and down the room. Mere companionship + had soothed her. She was now, on the surface at least, less excited than + Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “They are not all like Palmer, thank Heaven,” she said. “There are decent + men. My father is one, and your K., here in the house, is another.” + </p> + <p> + At four o'clock in the morning Palmer Howe came home. Christine met him in + the lower hall. He was rather pale, but entirely sober. She confronted him + in her straight white gown and waited for him to speak. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to be so late, Chris,” he said. “The fact is, I am all in. I + was driving the car out Seven Mile Run. We blew out a tire and the thing + turned over.” + </p> + <p> + Christine noticed then that his right arm was hanging inert by his side. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + Young Howe had been firmly resolved to give up all his bachelor habits + with his wedding day. In his indolent, rather selfish way, he was much in + love with his wife. + </p> + <p> + But with the inevitable misunderstandings of the first months of marriage + had come a desire to be appreciated once again at his face value. Grace + had taken him, not for what he was, but for what he seemed to be. With + Christine the veil was rent. She knew him now—all his small + indolences, his affectations, his weaknesses. Later on, like other women + since the world began, she would learn to dissemble, to affect to believe + him what he was not. + </p> + <p> + Grace had learned this lesson long ago. It was the ABC of her knowledge. + And so, back to Grace six weeks after his wedding day came Palmer Howe, + not with a suggestion to renew the old relationship, but for comradeship. + </p> + <p> + Christine sulked—he wanted good cheer; Christine was intolerant—he + wanted tolerance; she disapproved of him and showed her disapproval—he + wanted approval. He wanted life to be comfortable and cheerful, without + recriminations, a little work and much play, a drink when one was thirsty. + Distorted though it was, and founded on a wrong basis, perhaps, deep in + his heart Palmer's only longing was for happiness; but this happiness must + be of an active sort—not content, which is passive, but enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + “Come on out,” he said. “I've got a car now. No taxi working its head off + for us. Just a little run over the country roads, eh?” + </p> + <p> + It was the afternoon of the day before Christine's night visit to Sidney. + The office had been closed, owing to a death, and Palmer was in possession + of a holiday. + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” he coaxed. “We'll go out to the Climbing Rose and have supper.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to go.” + </p> + <p> + “That's not true, Grace, and you know it.” + </p> + <p> + “You and I are through.” + </p> + <p> + “It's your doing, not mine. The roads are frozen hard; an hour's run into + the country will bring your color back.” + </p> + <p> + “Much you care about that. Go and ride with your wife,” said the girl, and + flung away from him. + </p> + <p> + The last few weeks had filled out her thin figure, but she still bore + traces of her illness. Her short hair was curled over her head. She looked + curiously boyish, almost sexless. + </p> + <p> + Because she saw him wince when she mentioned Christine, her ill temper + increased. She showed her teeth. + </p> + <p> + “You get out of here,” she said suddenly. “I didn't ask you to come back. + I don't want you.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens, Grace! You always knew I would have to marry some day.” + </p> + <p> + “I was sick; I nearly died. I didn't hear any reports of you hanging + around the hospital to learn how I was getting along.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed rather sheepishly. + </p> + <p> + “I had to be careful. You know that as well as I do. I know half the staff + there. Besides, one of—” He hesitated over his wife's name. “A girl + I know very well was in the training-school. There would have been the + devil to pay if I'd as much as called up.” + </p> + <p> + “You never told me you were going to get married.” + </p> + <p> + Cornered, he slipped an arm around her. But she shook him off. + </p> + <p> + “I meant to tell you, honey; but you got sick. Anyhow, I—I hated to + tell you, honey.” + </p> + <p> + He had furnished the flat for her. There was a comfortable feeling of + coming home about going there again. And, now that the worst minute of + their meeting was over, he was visibly happier. But Grace continued to + stand eyeing him somberly. + </p> + <p> + “I've got something to tell you,” she said. “Don't have a fit, and don't + laugh. If you do, I'll—I'll jump out of the window. I've got a place + in a store. I'm going to be straight, Palmer.” + </p> + <p> + “Good for you!” + </p> + <p> + He meant it. She was a nice girl and he was fond of her. The other was a + dog's life. And he was not unselfish about it. She could not belong to + him. He did not want her to belong to any one else. + </p> + <p> + “One of the nurses in the hospital, a Miss Page, has got me something to + do at Lipton and Homburg's. I am going on for the January white sale. If I + make good they will keep me.” + </p> + <p> + He had put her aside without a qualm; and now he met her announcement with + approval. He meant to let her alone. They would have a holiday together, + and then they would say good-bye. And she had not fooled him. She still + cared. He was getting off well, all things considered. She might have + raised a row. + </p> + <p> + “Good work!” he said. “You'll be a lot happier. But that isn't any reason + why we shouldn't be friends, is it? Just friends; I mean that. I would + like to feel that I can stop in now and then and say how do you do.” + </p> + <p> + “I promised Miss Page.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind Miss Page.” + </p> + <p> + The mention of Sidney's name brought up in his mind Christine as he had + left her that morning. He scowled. Things were not going well at home. + There was something wrong with Christine. She used to be a good sport, but + she had never been the same since the day of the wedding. He thought her + attitude toward him was one of suspicion. It made him uncomfortable. But + any attempt on his part to fathom it only met with cold silence. That had + been her attitude that morning. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what we'll do,” he said. “We won't go to any of the old + places. I've found a new roadhouse in the country that's respectable + enough to suit anybody. We'll go out to Schwitter's and get some dinner. + I'll promise to get you back early. How's that?” + </p> + <p> + In the end she gave in. And on the way out he lived up to the letter of + their agreement. The situation exhilarated him: Grace with her new air of + virtue, her new aloofness; his comfortable car; Johnny Rosenfeld's + discreet back and alert ears. + </p> + <p> + The adventure had all the thrill of a new conquest in it. He treated the + girl with deference, did not insist when she refused a cigarette, felt + glowingly virtuous and exultant at the same time. + </p> + <p> + When the car drew up before the Schwitter place, he slipped a five-dollar + bill into Johnny Rosenfeld's not over-clean hand. + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind the ears,” he said. “Just watch your tongue, lad.” And + Johnny stalled his engine in sheer surprise. + </p> + <p> + “There's just enough of the Jew in me,” said Johnny, “to know how to talk + a lot and say nothing, Mr. Howe.” + </p> + <p> + He crawled stiffly out of the car and prepared to crank it. + </p> + <p> + “I'll just give her the 'once over' now and then,” he said. “She'll freeze + solid if I let her stand.” + </p> + <p> + Grace had gone up the narrow path to the house. She had the gift of + looking well in her clothes, and her small hat with its long quill and her + motor-coat were chic and becoming. She never overdressed, as Christine was + inclined to do. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately for Palmer, Tillie did not see him. A heavy German maid waited + at the table in the dining-room, while Tillie baked waffles in the + kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Johnny Rosenfeld, going around the side path to the kitchen door with + visions of hot coffee and a country supper for his frozen stomach, saw her + through the window bending flushed over the stove, and hesitated. Then, + without a word, he tiptoed back to the car again, and, crawling into the + tonneau, covered himself with rugs. In his untutored mind were certain + great qualities, and loyalty to his employer was one. The five dollars in + his pocket had nothing whatever to do with it. + </p> + <p> + At eighteen he had developed a philosophy of four words. It took the place + of the Golden Rule, the Ten Commandments, and the Catechism. It was: “Mind + your own business.” + </p> + <p> + The discovery of Tillie's hiding-place interested but did not thrill him. + Tillie was his cousin. If she wanted to do the sort of thing she was + doing, that was her affair. Tillie and her middle-aged lover, Palmer Howe + and Grace—the alley was not unfamiliar with such relationships. It + viewed them with tolerance until they were found out, when it raised its + hands. + </p> + <p> + True to his promise, Palmer wakened the sleeping boy before nine o'clock. + Grace had eaten little and drunk nothing; but Howe was slightly + stimulated. + </p> + <p> + “Give her the 'once over,'” he told Johnny, “and then go back and crawl + into the rugs again. I'll drive in.” + </p> + <p> + Grace sat beside him. Their progress was slow and rough over the country + roads, but when they reached the State road Howe threw open the throttle. + He drove well. The liquor was in his blood. He took chances and got away + with them, laughing at the girl's gasps of dismay. + </p> + <p> + “Wait until I get beyond Simkinsville,” he said, “and I'll let her out. + You're going to travel tonight, honey.” + </p> + <p> + The girl sat beside him with her eyes fixed ahead. He had been drinking, + and the warmth of the liquor was in his voice. She was determined on one + thing. She was going to make him live up to the letter of his promise to + go away at the house door; and more and more she realized that it would be + difficult. His mood was reckless, masterful. Instead of laughing when she + drew back from a proffered caress, he turned surly. Obstinate lines that + she remembered appeared from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. She + was uneasy. + </p> + <p> + Finally she hit on a plan to make him stop somewhere in her neighborhood + and let her get out of the car. She would not come back after that. + </p> + <p> + There was another car going toward the city. Now it passed them, and as + often they passed it. It became a contest of wits. Palmer's car lost on + the hills, but gained on the long level stretches, which gleamed with a + coating of thin ice. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you'd let them get ahead, Palmer. It's silly and it's reckless.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you we'd travel to-night.” + </p> + <p> + He turned a little glance at her. What the deuce was the matter with + women, anyhow? Were none of them cheerful any more? Here was Grace as + sober as Christine. He felt outraged, defrauded. + </p> + <p> + His light car skidded and struck the big car heavily. On a smooth road + perhaps nothing more serious than broken mudguards would have been the + result. But on the ice the small car slewed around and slid over the edge + of the bank. At the bottom of the declivity it turned over. + </p> + <p> + Grace was flung clear of the wreckage. Howe freed himself and stood erect, + with one arm hanging at his side. There was no sound at all from the boy + under the tonneau. + </p> + <p> + The big car had stopped. Down the bank plunged a heavy, gorilla-like + figure, long arms pushing aside the frozen branches of trees. When he + reached the car, O'Hara found Grace sitting unhurt on the ground. In the + wreck of the car the lamps had not been extinguished, and by their light + he made out Howe, swaying dizzily. + </p> + <p> + “Anybody underneath?” + </p> + <p> + “The chauffeur. He's dead, I think. He doesn't answer.” + </p> + <p> + The other members of O'Hara's party had crawled down the bank by that + time. With the aid of a jack, they got the car up. Johnny Rosenfeld lay + doubled on his face underneath. When he came to and opened his eyes, Grace + almost shrieked with relief. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right,” said Johnny Rosenfeld. And, when they offered him + whiskey: “Away with the fire-water. I am no drinker. I—I—” A + spasm of pain twisted his face. “I guess I'll get up.” With his arms he + lifted himself to a sitting position, and fell back again. + </p> + <p> + “God!” he said. “I can't move my legs.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + By Christmas Day Sidney was back in the hospital, a little wan, but + valiantly determined to keep her life to its mark of service. She had a + talk with K. the night before she left. + </p> + <p> + Katie was out, and Sidney had put the dining-room in order. K. sat by the + table and watched her as she moved about the room. + </p> + <p> + The past few weeks had been very wonderful to him: to help her up and down + the stairs, to read to her in the evenings as she lay on the couch in the + sewing-room; later, as she improved, to bring small dainties home for her + tray, and, having stood over Katie while she cooked them, to bear them in + triumph to that upper room—he had not been so happy in years. + </p> + <p> + And now it was over. He drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you don't feel as if you must stay on,” she said anxiously. “Not + that we don't want you—you know better than that.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no place else in the whole world that I want to go to,” he said + simply. + </p> + <p> + “I seem to be always relying on somebody's kindness to—to keep + things together. First, for years and years, it was Aunt Harriet; now it + is you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you realize that, instead of your being grateful to me, it is I who + am undeniably grateful to you? This is home now. I have lived around—in + different places and in different ways. I would rather be here than + anywhere else in the world.” + </p> + <p> + But he did not look at her. There was so much that was hopeless in his + eyes that he did not want her to see. She would be quite capable, he told + himself savagely, of marrying him out of sheer pity if she ever guessed. + And he was afraid—afraid, since he wanted her so much—that he + would be fool and weakling enough to take her even on those terms. So he + looked away. + </p> + <p> + Everything was ready for her return to the hospital. She had been out that + day to put flowers on the quiet grave where Anna lay with folded hands; + she had made her round of little visits on the Street; and now her + suit-case, packed, was in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “In one way, it will be a little better for you than if Christine and + Palmer were not in the house. You like Christine, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much.” + </p> + <p> + “She likes you, K. She depends on you, too, especially since that night + when you took care of Palmer's arm before we got Dr. Max. I often think, + K., what a good doctor you would have been. You knew so well what to do + for mother.” + </p> + <p> + She broke off. She still could not trust her voice about her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Palmer's arm is going to be quite straight. Dr. Ed is so proud of Max + over it. It was a bad fracture.” + </p> + <p> + He had been waiting for that. Once at least, whenever they were together, + she brought Max into the conversation. She was quite unconscious of it. + </p> + <p> + “You and Max are great friends. I knew you would like him. He is + interesting, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Very,” said K. + </p> + <p> + To save his life, he could not put any warmth into his voice. He would be + fair. It was not in human nature to expect more of him. + </p> + <p> + “Those long talks you have, shut in your room—what in the world do + you talk about? Politics?” + </p> + <p> + “Occasionally.” + </p> + <p> + She was a little jealous of those evenings, when she sat alone, or when + Harriet, sitting with her, made sketches under the lamp to the + accompaniment of a steady hum of masculine voices from across the hall. + Not that she was ignored, of course. Max came in always, before he went, + and, leaning over the back of a chair, would inform her of the absolute + blankness of life in the hospital without her. + </p> + <p> + “I go every day because I must,” he would assure her gayly; “but, I tell + you, the snap is gone out of it. When there was a chance that every cap + was YOUR cap, the mere progress along a corridor became thrilling.” He had + a foreign trick of throwing out his hands, with a little shrug of the + shoulders. “Cui bono?” he said—which, being translated, means: “What + the devil's the use!” + </p> + <p> + And K. would stand in the doorway, quietly smoking, or go back to his room + and lock away in his trunk the great German books on surgery with which he + and Max had been working out a case. + </p> + <p> + So K. sat by the dining-room table and listened to her talk of Max that + last evening together. + </p> + <p> + “I told Mrs. Rosenfeld to-day not to be too much discouraged about Johnny. + I had seen Dr. Max do such wonderful things. Now that you are such + friends,”—she eyed him wistfully,—“perhaps some day you will + come to one of his operations. Even if you didn't understand exactly, I + know it would thrill you. And—I'd like you to see me in my uniform, + K. You never have.” + </p> + <p> + She grew a little sad as the evening went on. She was going to miss K. + very much. While she was ill she had watched the clock for the time to + listen for him. She knew the way he slammed the front door. Palmer never + slammed the door. She knew too that, just after a bang that threatened the + very glass in the transom, K. would come to the foot of the stairs and + call:— + </p> + <p> + “Ahoy, there!” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, aye,” she would answer—which was, he assured her, the proper + response. + </p> + <p> + Whether he came up the stairs at once or took his way back to Katie had + depended on whether his tribute for the day was fruit or sweetbreads. + </p> + <p> + Now that was all over. They were such good friends. He would miss her, + too; but he would have Harriet and Christine and—Max. Back in a + circle to Max, of course. + </p> + <p> + She insisted, that last evening, on sitting up with him until midnight + ushered in Christmas Day. Christine and Palmer were out; Harriet, having + presented Sidney with a blouse that had been left over in the shop from + the autumn's business, had yawned herself to bed. + </p> + <p> + When the bells announced midnight, Sidney roused with a start. She + realized that neither of them had spoken, and that K.'s eyes were fixed on + her. The little clock on the shelf took up the burden of the churches, and + struck the hour in quick staccato notes. + </p> + <p> + Sidney rose and went over to K., her black dress in soft folds about her. + </p> + <p> + “He is born, K.” + </p> + <p> + “He is born, dear.” + </p> + <p> + She stooped and kissed his cheek lightly. + </p> + <p> + Christmas Day dawned thick and white. Sidney left the little house at six, + with the street light still burning through a mist of falling snow. + </p> + <p> + The hospital wards and corridors were still lighted when she went on duty + at seven o'clock. She had been assigned to the men's surgical ward, and + went there at once. She had not seen Carlotta Harrison since her mother's + death; but she found her on duty in the surgical ward. For the second time + in four months, the two girls were working side by side. + </p> + <p> + Sidney's recollection of her previous service under Carlotta made her + nervous. But the older girl greeted her pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “We were all sorry to hear of your trouble,” she said. “I hope we shall + get on nicely.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney surveyed the ward, full to overflowing. At the far end two cots had + been placed. + </p> + <p> + “The ward is heavy, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Very. I've been almost mad at dressing hour. There are three of us—you, + myself, and a probationer.” + </p> + <p> + The first light of the Christmas morning was coming through the windows. + Carlotta put out the lights and turned in a business-like way to her + records. + </p> + <p> + “The probationer's name is Wardwell,” she said. “Perhaps you'd better help + her with the breakfasts. If there's any way to make a mistake, she makes + it.” + </p> + <p> + It was after eight when Sidney found Johnny Rosenfeld. + </p> + <p> + “You here in the ward, Johnny!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Suffering had refined the boy's features. His dark, heavily fringed eyes + looked at her from a pale face. But he smiled up at her cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “I was in a private room; but it cost thirty plunks a week, so I moved. + Why pay rent?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney had not seen him since his accident. She had wished to go, but K. + had urged against it. She was not strong, and she had already suffered + much. And now the work of the ward pressed hard. She had only a moment. + She stood beside him and stroked his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, Johnny.” + </p> + <p> + He pretended to think that her sympathy was for his fall from the estate + of a private patient to the free ward. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm all right, Miss Sidney,” he said. “Mr. Howe is paying six dollars + a week for me. The difference between me and the other fellows around here + is that I get a napkin on my tray and they don't.” + </p> + <p> + Before his determined cheerfulness Sidney choked. + </p> + <p> + “Six dollars a week for a napkin is going some. I wish you'd tell Mr. Howe + to give ma the six dollars. She'll be needing it. I'm no bloated + aristocrat; I don't have to have a napkin.” + </p> + <p> + “Have they told you what the trouble is?” + </p> + <p> + “Back's broke. But don't let that worry you. Dr. Max Wilson is going to + operate on me. I'll be doing the tango yet.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney's eyes shone. Of course, Max could do it. What a thing it was to be + able to take this life-in-death of Johnny Rosenfeld's and make it life + again! + </p> + <p> + All sorts of men made up Sidney's world: the derelicts who wandered + through the ward in flapping slippers, listlessly carrying trays; the + unshaven men in the beds, looking forward to another day of boredom, if + not of pain; Palmer Howe with his broken arm; K., tender and strong, but + filling no especial place in the world. Towering over them all was the + younger Wilson. He meant for her, that Christmas morning, all that the + other men were not—to their weakness strength, courage, daring, + power. + </p> + <p> + Johnny Rosenfeld lay back on the pillows and watched her face. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a kid,” he said, “and ran along the Street, calling Dr. Max a + dude, I never thought I'd lie here watching that door to see him come in. + You have had trouble, too. Ain't it the hell of a world, anyhow? It ain't + much of a Christmas to you, either.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney fed him his morning beef tea, and, because her eyes filled up with + tears now and then at his helplessness, she was not so skillful as she + might have been. When one spoonful had gone down his neck, he smiled up at + her whimsically. + </p> + <p> + “Run for your life. The dam's burst!” he said. + </p> + <p> + As much as was possible, the hospital rested on that Christmas Day. The + internes went about in fresh white ducks with sprays of mistletoe in their + buttonholes, doing few dressings. Over the upper floors, where the + kitchens were located, spread toward noon the insidious odor of roasting + turkeys. Every ward had its vase of holly. In the afternoon, services were + held in the chapel downstairs. + </p> + <p> + Wheel-chairs made their slow progress along corridors and down elevators. + Convalescents who were able to walk flapped along in carpet slippers. + </p> + <p> + Gradually the chapel filled up. Outside the wide doors of the corridor the + wheel-chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Behind them, dressed for the + occasion, were the elevator-men, the orderlies, and Big John, who drove + the ambulance. + </p> + <p> + On one side of the aisle, near the front, sat the nurses in rows, in crisp + caps and fresh uniforms. On the other side had been reserved a place for + the staff. The internes stood back against the wall, ready to run out + between rejoicings, as it were—for a cigarette or an ambulance call, + as the case might be. + </p> + <p> + Over everything brooded the after-dinner peace of Christmas afternoon. + </p> + <p> + The nurses sang, and Sidney sang with them, her fresh young voice rising + above the rest. Yellow winter sunlight came through the stained-glass + windows and shone on her lovely flushed face, her smooth kerchief, her + cap, always just a little awry. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Max, lounging against the wall, across the chapel, found his eyes + straying toward her constantly. How she stood out from the others! What a + zest for living and for happiness she had! + </p> + <p> + The Episcopal clergyman read the Epistle: + </p> + <p> + “Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity; therefore God, even + thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows.” + </p> + <p> + That was Sidney. She was good, and she had been anointed with the oil of + gladness. And he— + </p> + <p> + His brother was singing. His deep bass voice, not always true, boomed out + above the sound of the small organ. Ed had been a good brother to him; he + had been a good son. + </p> + <p> + Max's vagrant mind wandered away from the service to the picture of his + mother over his brother's littered desk, to the Street, to K., to the girl + who had refused to marry him because she did not trust him, to Carlotta + last of all. He turned a little and ran his eyes along the line of nurses. + </p> + <p> + Ah, there she was. As if she were conscious of his scrutiny, she lifted + her head and glanced toward him. Swift color flooded her face. + </p> + <p> + The nurses sang:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O holy Child of Bethlehem! + Descend to us, we pray; + Cast out our sin, and enter in, + Be born in us to-day.” + </pre> + <p> + The wheel-chairs and convalescents quavered the familiar words. Dr. Ed's + heavy throat shook with earnestness. + </p> + <p> + The Head, sitting a little apart with her hands folded in her lap and + weary with the suffering of the world, closed her eyes and listened. + </p> + <p> + The Christmas morning had brought Sidney half a dozen gifts. K. sent her a + silver thermometer case with her monogram, Christine a toilet mirror. But + the gift of gifts, over which Sidney's eyes had glowed, was a great box of + roses marked in Dr. Max's copper-plate writing, “From a neighbor.” + </p> + <p> + Tucked in the soft folds of her kerchief was one of the roses that + afternoon. + </p> + <p> + Services over, the nurses filed out. Max was waiting for Sidney in the + corridor. + </p> + <p> + “Merry Christmas!” he said, and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Merry Christmas!” she said. “You see!”—she glanced down to the rose + she wore. “The others make the most splendid bit of color in the ward.” + </p> + <p> + “But they were for you!” + </p> + <p> + “They are not any the less mine because I am letting other people have a + chance to enjoy them.” + </p> + <p> + Under all his gayety he was curiously diffident with her. All the pretty + speeches he would have made to Carlotta under the circumstances died + before her frank glance. + </p> + <p> + There were many things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to tell her that + he was sorry her mother had died; that the Street was empty without her; + that he looked forward to these daily meetings with her as a holy man to + his hour before his saint. What he really said was to inquire politely + whether she had had her Christmas dinner. + </p> + <p> + Sidney eyed him, half amused, half hurt. + </p> + <p> + “What have I done, Max? Is it bad for discipline for us to be good + friends?” + </p> + <p> + “Damn discipline!” said the pride of the staff. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta was watching them from the chapel. Something in her eyes roused + the devil of mischief that always slumbered in him. + </p> + <p> + “My car's been stalled in a snowdrift downtown since early this morning, + and I have Ed's Peggy in a sleigh. Put on your things and come for a + ride.” + </p> + <p> + He hoped Carlotta could hear what he said; to be certain of it, he + maliciously raised his voice a trifle. + </p> + <p> + “Just a little run,” he urged. “Put on your warmest things.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney protested. She was to be free that afternoon until six o'clock; but + she had promised to go home. + </p> + <p> + “K. is alone.” + </p> + <p> + “K. can sit with Christine. Ten to one, he's with her now.” + </p> + <p> + The temptation was very strong. She had been working hard all day. The + heavy odor of the hospital, mingled with the scent of pine and evergreen + in the chapel; made her dizzy. The fresh outdoors called her. And, + besides, if K. were with Christine— + </p> + <p> + “It's forbidden, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it is.” He smiled at her. + </p> + <p> + “And yet, you continue to tempt me and expect me to yield!” + </p> + <p> + “One of the most delightful things about temptation is yielding now and + then.” + </p> + <p> + After all, the situation seemed absurd. Here was her old friend and + neighbor asking to take her out for a daylight ride. The swift rebellion + of youth against authority surged up in Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; I'll go.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta had gone by that time—gone with hate in her heart and black + despair. She knew very well what the issue would be. Sidney would drive + with him, and he would tell her how lovely she looked with the air on her + face and the snow about her. The jerky motion of the little sleigh would + throw them close together. How well she knew it all! He would touch + Sidney's hand daringly and smile in her eyes. That was his method: to play + at love-making like an audacious boy, until quite suddenly the cloak + dropped and the danger was there. + </p> + <p> + The Christmas excitement had not died out in the ward when Carlotta went + back to it. On each bedside table was an orange, and beside it a pair of + woolen gloves and a folded white handkerchief. There were sprays of holly + scattered about, too, and the after-dinner content of roast turkey and + ice-cream. + </p> + <p> + The lame girl who played the violin limped down the corridor into the + ward. She was greeted with silence, that truest tribute, and with the + instant composing of the restless ward to peace. + </p> + <p> + She was pretty in a young, pathetic way, and because to her Christmas was + a festival and meant hope and the promise of the young Lord, she played + cheerful things. + </p> + <p> + The ward sat up, remembered that it was not the Sabbath, smiled across + from bed to bed. + </p> + <p> + The probationer, whose name was Wardwell, was a tall, lean girl with a + long, pointed nose. She kept up a running accompaniment of small talk to + the music. + </p> + <p> + “Last Christmas,” she said plaintively, “we went out into the country in a + hay-wagon and had a real time. I don't know what I am here for, anyhow. I + am a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Turkey and goose, mince pie and pumpkin pie, four kinds of cake; that's + the sort of spread we have up in our part of the world. When I think of + what I sat down to to-day—!” + </p> + <p> + She had a profound respect for Carlotta, and her motto in the hospital + differed from Sidney's in that it was to placate her superiors, while + Sidney's had been to care for her patients. + </p> + <p> + Seeing Carlotta bored, she ventured a little gossip. She had idly glued + the label of a medicine bottle on the back of her hand, and was scratching + a skull and cross-bones on it. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you have noticed something,” she said, eyes on the label. + </p> + <p> + “I have noticed that the three-o'clock medicines are not given,” said + Carlotta sharply; and Miss Wardwell, still labeled and adorned, made the + rounds of the ward. + </p> + <p> + When she came back she was sulky. + </p> + <p> + “I'm no gossip,” she said, putting the tray on the table. “If you won't + see, you won't. That Rosenfeld boy is crying.” + </p> + <p> + As it was not required that tears be recorded on the record, Carlotta paid + no attention to this. + </p> + <p> + “What won't I see?” + </p> + <p> + It required a little urging now. Miss Wardwell swelled with importance and + let her superior ask her twice. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Wilson's crazy about Miss Page.” + </p> + <p> + A hand seemed to catch Carlotta's heart and hold it. + </p> + <p> + “They're old friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Piffle! Being an old friend doesn't make you look at a girl as if you + wanted to take a bite out of her. Mark my word, Miss Harrison, she'll + never finish her training; she'll marry him. I wish,” concluded the + probationer plaintively, “that some good-looking fellow like that would + take a fancy to me. I'd do him credit. I am as ugly as a mud fence, but + I've got style.” + </p> + <p> + She was right, probably. She was long and sinuous, but she wore her lanky, + ill-fitting clothes with a certain distinction. Harriet Kennedy would have + dressed her in jade green to match her eyes, and with long jade earrings, + and made her a fashion. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta's lips were dry. The violinist had seen the tears on Johnny + Rosenfeld's white cheeks, and had rushed into rollicking, joyous music. + The ward echoed with it. “I'm twenty-one and she's eighteen,” hummed the + ward under its breath. Miss Wardwell's thin body swayed. + </p> + <p> + “Lord, how I'd like to dance! If I ever get out of this charnel-house!” + </p> + <p> + The medicine-tray lay at Carlotta's elbow; beside it the box of labels. + This crude girl was right—right. Carlotta knew it down to the depths + of her tortured brain. As inevitably as the night followed the day, she + was losing her game. She had lost already, unless— + </p> + <p> + If she could get Sidney out of the hospital, it would simplify things. She + surmised shrewdly that on the Street their interests were wide apart. It + was here that they met on common ground. + </p> + <p> + The lame violin-player limped out of the ward; the shadows of the early + winter twilight settled down. At five o'clock Carlotta sent Miss Wardwell + to first supper, to the surprise of that seldom surprised person. The ward + lay still or shuffled abut quietly. Christmas was over, and there were no + evening papers to look forward to. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta gave the five-o'clock medicines. Then she sat down at the table + near the door, with the tray in front of her. There are certain thoughts + that are at first functions of the brain; after a long time the spinal + cord takes them up and converts them into acts almost automatically. + Perhaps because for the last month she had done the thing so often in her + mind, its actual performance was almost without conscious thought. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta took a bottle from her medicine cupboard, and, writing a new + label for it, pasted it over the old one. Then she exchanged it for one of + the same size on the medicine tray. + </p> + <p> + In the dining-room, at the probationers' table, Miss Wardwell was talking. + </p> + <p> + “Believe me,” she said, “me for the country and the simple life after + this. They think I'm only a probationer and don't see anything, but I've + got eyes in my head. Harrison is stark crazy over Dr. Wilson, and she + thinks I don't see it. But never mind; I paid, her up to-day for a few of + the jolts she has given me.” + </p> + <p> + Throughout the dining-room busy and competent young women came and ate, + hastily or leisurely as their opportunity was, and went on their way + again. In their hands they held the keys, not always of life and death + perhaps, but of ease from pain, of tenderness, of smooth pillows, and cups + of water to thirsty lips. In their eyes, as in Sidney's, burned the light + of service. + </p> + <p> + But here and there one found women, like Carlotta and Miss Wardwell, who + had mistaken their vocation, who railed against the monotony of the life, + its limitations, its endless sacrifices. They showed it in their eyes. + </p> + <p> + Fifty or so against two—fifty who looked out on the world with the + fearless glance of those who have seen life to its depths, and, with the + broad understanding of actual contact, still found it good. Fifty who were + learning or had learned not to draw aside their clean starched skirts from + the drab of the streets. And the fifty, who found the very scum of the + gutters not too filthy for tenderness and care, let Carlotta and, in + lesser measure, the new probationer alone. They could not have voiced + their reasons. + </p> + <p> + The supper-room was filled with their soft voices, the rustle of their + skirts, the gleam of their stiff white caps. + </p> + <p> + When Carlotta came in, she greeted none of them. They did not like her, + and she knew it. + </p> + <p> + Before her, instead of the tidy supper-table, she was seeing the + medicine-tray as she had left it. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I've fixed her,” she said to herself. + </p> + <p> + Her very soul was sick with fear of what she had done. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + K. saw Sidney for only a moment on Christmas Day. This was when the gay + little sleigh had stopped in front of the house. + </p> + <p> + Sidney had hurried radiantly in for a moment. Christine's parlor was gay + with firelight and noisy with chatter and with the clatter of her + tea-cups. + </p> + <p> + K., lounging indolently in front of the fire, had turned to see Sidney in + the doorway, and leaped to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “I can't come in,” she cried. “I am only here for a moment. I am out + sleigh-riding with Dr. Wilson. It's perfectly delightful.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask him in for a cup of tea,” Christine called out. “Here's Aunt Harriet + and mother and even Palmer!” + </p> + <p> + Christine had aged during the last weeks, but she was putting up a brave + front. + </p> + <p> + “I'll ask him.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney ran to the front door and called: “Will you come in for a cup of + tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Tea! Good Heavens, no. Hurry.” + </p> + <p> + As Sidney turned back into the house, she met Palmer. He had come out in + the hall, and had closed the door into the parlor behind him. His arm was + still in splints, and swung suspended in a gay silk sling. + </p> + <p> + The sound of laughter came through the door faintly. + </p> + <p> + “How is he to-day?” He meant Johnny, of course. The boy's face was always + with him. + </p> + <p> + “Better in some ways, but of course—” + </p> + <p> + “When are they going to operate?” + </p> + <p> + “When he is a little stronger. Why don't you come into see him?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't. That's the truth. I can't face the poor youngster.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn't seem to blame you; he says it's all in the game.” + </p> + <p> + “Sidney, does Christine know that I was not alone that night?” + </p> + <p> + “If she guesses, it is not because of anything the boy has said. He has + told nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Out of the firelight, away from the chatter and the laughter, Palmer's + face showed worn and haggard. He put his free hand on Sidney's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking that perhaps if I went away—” + </p> + <p> + “That would be cowardly, wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “If Christine would only say something and get it over with! She doesn't + sulk; I think she's really trying to be kind. But she hates me, Sidney. + She turns pale every time I touch her hand.” + </p> + <p> + All the light had died out of Sidney's face. Life was terrible, after all—overwhelming. + One did wrong things, and other people suffered; or one was good, as her + mother had been, and was left lonely, a widow, or like Aunt Harriet. Life + was a sham, too. Things were so different from what they seemed to be: + Christine beyond the door, pouring tea and laughing with her heart in + ashes; Palmer beside her, faultlessly dressed and wretched. The only one + she thought really contented was K. He seemed to move so calmly in his + little orbit. He was always so steady, so balanced. If life held no + heights for him, at least it held no depths. + </p> + <p> + So Sidney thought, in her ignorance! + </p> + <p> + “There's only one thing, Palmer,” she said gravely. “Johnny Rosenfeld is + going to have his chance. If anybody in the world can save him, Max Wilson + can.” + </p> + <p> + The light of that speech was in her eyes when she went out to the sleigh + again. K. followed her out and tucked the robes in carefully about her. + </p> + <p> + “Warm enough?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't go too far. Is there any chance of having you home for supper?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not. I am to go on duty at six again.” + </p> + <p> + If there was a shadow in K.'s eyes, she did not see it. He waved them off + smilingly from the pavement, and went rather heavily back into the house. + </p> + <p> + “Just how many men are in love with you, Sidney?” asked Max, as Peggy + started up the Street. + </p> + <p> + “No one that I know of, unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. Unless—” + </p> + <p> + “What I meant,” she said with dignity, “is that unless one counts very + young men, and that isn't really love.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll leave out Joe Drummond and myself—for, of course, I am very + young. Who is in love with you besides Le Moyne? Any of the internes at + the hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Me! Le Moyne is not in love with me.” + </p> + <p> + There was such sincerity in her voice that Wilson was relieved. + </p> + <p> + K., older than himself and more grave, had always had an odd attraction + for women. He had been frankly bored by them, but the fact had remained. + And Max more than suspected that now, at last, he had been caught. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you really mean that you are in love with Le Moyne?” + </p> + <p> + “Please don't be absurd. I am not in love with anybody; I haven't time to + be in love. I have my profession now.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah! A woman's real profession is love.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney differed from this hotly. So warm did the argument become that they + passed without seeing a middle-aged gentleman, short and rather heavy set, + struggling through a snowdrift on foot, and carrying in his hand a + dilapidated leather bag. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed hailed them. But the cutter slipped by and left him knee-deep, + looking ruefully after them. + </p> + <p> + “The young scamp!” he said. “So that's where Peggy is!” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, there was no anger in Dr. Ed's mind, only a vague and + inarticulate regret. These things that came so easily to Max, the + affection of women, gay little irresponsibilities like the stealing of + Peggy and the sleigh, had never been his. If there was any faint + resentment, it was at himself. He had raised the boy wrong—he had + taught him to be selfish. Holding the bag high out of the drifts, he made + his slow progress up the Street. + </p> + <p> + At something after two o'clock that night, K. put down his pipe and + listened. He had not been able to sleep since midnight. In his + dressing-gown he had sat by the small fire, thinking. The content of his + first few months on the Street was rapidly giving way to unrest. He who + had meant to cut himself off from life found himself again in close touch + with it; his eddy was deep with it. + </p> + <p> + For the first time, he had begun to question the wisdom of what he had + done. Had it been cowardice, after all? It had taken courage, God knew, to + give up everything and come away. In a way, it would have taken more + courage to have stayed. Had he been right or wrong? + </p> + <p> + And there was a new element. He had thought, at first, that he could fight + down this love for Sidney. But it was increasingly hard. The innocent + touch of her hand on his arm, the moment when he had held her in his arms + after her mother's death, the thousand small contacts of her returns to + the little house—all these set his blood on fire. And it was + fighting blood. + </p> + <p> + Under his quiet exterior K. fought many conflicts those winter days—over + his desk and ledger at the office, in his room alone, with Harriet + planning fresh triumphs beyond the partition, even by Christine's fire, + with Christine just across, sitting in silence and watching his grave + profile and steady eyes. + </p> + <p> + He had a little picture of Sidney—a snap-shot that he had taken + himself. It showed Sidney minus a hand, which had been out of range when + the camera had been snapped, and standing on a steep declivity which would + have been quite a level had he held the camera straight. Nevertheless it + was Sidney, her hair blowing about her, eyes looking out, tender lips + smiling. When she was not at home, it sat on K.'s dresser, propped against + his collar-box. When she was in the house, it lay under the pin-cushion. + </p> + <p> + Two o'clock in the morning, then, and K. in his dressing-gown, with the + picture propped, not against the collar-box, but against his lamp, where + he could see it. + </p> + <p> + He sat forward in his chair, his hands folded around his knee, and looked + at it. He was trying to picture the Sidney of the photograph in his old + life—trying to find a place for her. But it was difficult. There had + been few women in his old life. His mother had died many years before. + There had been women who had cared for him, but he put them impatiently + out of his mind. + </p> + <p> + Then the bell rang. + </p> + <p> + Christine was moving about below. He could hear her quick steps. Almost + before he had heaved his long legs out of the chair, she was tapping at + his door outside. + </p> + <p> + “It's Mrs. Rosenfeld. She says she wants to see you.” + </p> + <p> + He went down the stairs. Mrs. Rosenfeld was standing in the lower hall, a + shawl about her shoulders. Her face was white and drawn above it. + </p> + <p> + “I've had word to go to the hospital,” she said. “I thought maybe you'd go + with me. It seems as if I can't stand it alone. Oh, Johnny, Johnny!” + </p> + <p> + “Where's Palmer?” K. demanded of Christine. + </p> + <p> + “He's not in yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid to stay in the house alone?” + </p> + <p> + “No; please go.” + </p> + <p> + He ran up the staircase to his room and flung on some clothing. In the + lower hall, Mrs. Rosenfeld's sobs had become low moans; Christine stood + helplessly over her. + </p> + <p> + “I am terribly sorry,” she said—“terribly sorry! When I think whose + fault all this is!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rosenfeld put out a work-hardened hand and caught Christine's + fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that,” she said. “You didn't do it. I guess you and I + understand each other. Only pray God you never have a child.” + </p> + <p> + K. never forgot the scene in the small emergency ward to which Johnny had + been taken. Under the white lights his boyish figure looked strangely + long. There was a group around the bed—Max Wilson, two or three + internes, the night nurse on duty, and the Head. + </p> + <p> + Sitting just inside the door on a straight chair was Sidney—such a + Sidney as he never had seen before, her face colorless, her eyes wide and + unseeing, her hands clenched in her lap. When he stood beside her, she did + not move or look up. The group around the bed had parted to admit Mrs. + Rosenfeld, and closed again. Only Sidney and K. remained by the door, + isolated, alone. + </p> + <p> + “You must not take it like that, dear. It's sad, of course. But, after + all, in that condition—” + </p> + <p> + It was her first knowledge that he was there. But she did not turn. + </p> + <p> + “They say I poisoned him.” Her voice was dreary, inflectionless. + </p> + <p> + “You—what?” + </p> + <p> + “They say I gave him the wrong medicine; that he's dying; that I murdered + him.” She shivered. + </p> + <p> + K. touched her hands. They were ice-cold. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about it.” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to tell. I came on duty at six o'clock and gave the + medicines. When the night nurse came on at seven, everything was all + right. The medicine-tray was just as it should be. Johnny was asleep. I + went to say good-night to him and he—he was asleep. I didn't give + him anything but what was on the tray,” she finished piteously. “I looked + at the label; I always look.” + </p> + <p> + By a shifting of the group around the bed, K.'s eyes looked for a moment + directly into Carlotta's. Just for a moment; then the crowd closed up + again. It was well for Carlotta that it did. She looked as if she had seen + a ghost—closed her eyes, even reeled. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Harrison is worn out,” Dr. Wilson said brusquely. “Get some one to + take her place.” + </p> + <p> + But Carlotta rallied. After all, the presence of this man in this room at + such a time meant nothing. He was Sidney's friend, that was all. + </p> + <p> + But her nerve was shaken. The thing had gone beyond her. She had not meant + to kill. It was the boy's weakened condition that was turning her revenge + into tragedy. + </p> + <p> + “I am all right,” she pleaded across the bed to the Head. “Let me stay, + please. He's from my ward. I—I am responsible.” + </p> + <p> + Wilson was at his wits' end. He had done everything he knew without + result. The boy, rousing for an instant, would lapse again into stupor. + With a healthy man they could have tried more vigorous measures—could + have forced him to his feet and walked him about, could have beaten him + with knotted towels dipped in ice-water. But the wrecked body on the bed + could stand no such heroic treatment. + </p> + <p> + It was Le Moyne, after all, who saved Johnny Rosenfeld's life. For, when + staff and nurses had exhausted all their resources, he stepped forward + with a quiet word that brought the internes to their feet astonished. + </p> + <p> + There was a new treatment for such cases—it had been tried abroad. + He looked at Max. + </p> + <p> + Max had never heard of it. He threw out his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Try it, for Heaven's sake,” he said. “I'm all in.” + </p> + <p> + The apparatus was not in the house—must be extemporized, indeed, at + last, of odds and ends from the operating-room. K. did the work, his long + fingers deft and skillful—while Mrs. Rosenfeld knelt by the bed with + her face buried; while Sidney sat, dazed and bewildered, on her little + chair inside the door; while night nurses tiptoed along the corridor, and + the night watchman stared incredulous from outside the door. + </p> + <p> + When the two great rectangles that were the emergency ward windows had + turned from mirrors reflecting the room to gray rectangles in the morning + light; Johnny Rosenfeld opened his eyes and spoke the first words that + marked his return from the dark valley. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, this is the life!” he said, and smiled into K.'s watchful face. + </p> + <p> + When it was clear that the boy would live, K. rose stiffly from the + bedside and went over to Sidney's chair. + </p> + <p> + “He's all right now,” he said—“as all right as he can be, poor lad!” + </p> + <p> + “You did it—you! How strange that you should know such a thing. How + am I to thank you?” + </p> + <p> + The internes, talking among themselves, had wandered down to their + dining-room for early coffee. Wilson was giving a few last instructions as + to the boy's care. Quite unexpectedly, Sidney caught K.'s hand and held it + to her lips. The iron repression of the night, of months indeed, fell away + before her simple caress. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, my dear,” he said huskily. “Anything that I can do—for you—at + any time—” + </p> + <p> + It was after Sidney had crept like a broken thing to her room that + Carlotta Harrison and K. came face to face. Johnny was quite conscious by + that time, a little blue around the lips, but valiantly cheerful. + </p> + <p> + “More things can happen to a fellow than I ever knew there was!” he said + to his mother, and submitted rather sheepishly to her tears and caresses. + </p> + <p> + “You were always a good boy, Johnny,” she said. “Just you get well enough + to come home. I'll take care of you the rest of my life. We will get you a + wheel-chair when you can be about, and I can take you out in the park when + I come from work.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll be passenger and you'll be chauffeur, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Le Moyne is going to get your father sent up again. With sixty-five + cents a day and what I make, we'll get along.” + </p> + <p> + “You bet we will!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Johnny, if I could see you coming in the door again and yelling + 'mother' and 'supper' in one breath!” + </p> + <p> + The meeting between Carlotta and Le Moyne was very quiet. She had been + making a sort of subconscious impression on the retina of his mind during + all the night. It would be difficult to tell when he actually knew her. + </p> + <p> + When the preparations for moving Johnny back to the big ward had been + made, the other nurses left the room, and Carlotta and the boy were + together. K. stopped her on her way to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Harrison!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dr. Edwardes.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not Dr. Edwardes here; my name is Le Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “I have not seen you since you left St. John's.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I—I rested for a few months.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they do not know that you were—that you have had any + previous hospital experience.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Are you going to tell them?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not tell them, of course.” + </p> + <p> + And thus, by simple mutual consent, it was arranged that each should + respect the other's confidence. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta staggered to her room. There had been a time, just before dawn, + when she had had one of those swift revelations that sometimes come at the + end of a long night. She had seen herself as she was. The boy was very + low, hardly breathing. Her past stretched behind her, a series of small + revenges and passionate outbursts, swift yieldings, slow remorse. She + dared not look ahead. She would have given every hope she had in the + world, just then, for Sidney's stainless past. + </p> + <p> + She hated herself with that deadliest loathing that comes of complete + self-revelation. + </p> + <p> + And she carried to her room the knowledge that the night's struggle had + been in vain—that, although Johnny Rosenfeld would live, she had + gained nothing by what he had suffered. The whole night had shown her the + hopelessness of any stratagem to win Wilson from his new allegiance. She + had surprised him in the hallway, watching Sidney's slender figure as she + made her way up the stairs to her room. Never, in all his past overtures + to her, had she seen that look in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + To Harriet Kennedy, Sidney's sentence of thirty days' suspension came as a + blow. K. broke the news to her that evening before the time for Sidney's + arrival. + </p> + <p> + The little household was sharing in Harriet's prosperity. Katie had a + helper now, a little Austrian girl named Mimi. And Harriet had established + on the Street the innovation of after-dinner coffee. It was over the + after-dinner coffee that K. made his announcement. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by saying she is coming home for thirty days? Is the + child ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Not ill, although she is not quite well. The fact is, Harriet,”—for + it was “Harriet” and “K.” by this time,—“there has been a sort of + semi-accident up at the hospital. It hasn't resulted seriously, but—” + </p> + <p> + Harriet put down the apostle-spoon in her hand and stared across at him. + </p> + <p> + “Then she has been suspended? What did she do? I don't believe she did + anything!” + </p> + <p> + “There was a mistake about the medicine, and she was blamed; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “She'd better come home and stay home,” said Harriet shortly. “I hope it + doesn't get in the papers. This dressmaking business is a funny sort of + thing. One word against you or any of your family, and the crowd's off + somewhere else.” + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing against Sidney,” K. reminded her. “Nothing in the world. + I saw the superintendent myself this afternoon. It seems it's a mere + matter of discipline. Somebody made a mistake, and they cannot let such a + thing go by. But he believes, as I do, that it was not Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + However Harriet had hardened herself against the girl's arrival, all she + had meant to say fled when she saw Sidney's circled eyes and pathetic + mouth. + </p> + <p> + “You child!” she said. “You poor little girl!” And took her corseted + bosom. + </p> + <p> + For the time at least, Sidney's world had gone to pieces about her. All + her brave vaunt of service faded before her disgrace. + </p> + <p> + When Christine would have seen her, she kept her door locked and asked for + just that one evening alone. But after Harriet had retired, and Mimi, the + Austrian, had crept out to the corner to mail a letter back to Gratz, + Sidney unbolted her door and listened in the little upper hall. Harriet, + her head in a towel, her face carefully cold-creamed, had gone to bed; but + K.'s light, as usual, was shining over the transom. Sidney tiptoed to the + door. + </p> + <p> + “K.!” + </p> + <p> + Almost immediately he opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “May I come in and talk to you?” + </p> + <p> + He turned and took a quick survey of the room. The picture was against the + collar-box. But he took the risk and held the door wide. + </p> + <p> + Sidney came in and sat down by the fire. By being adroit he managed to + slip the little picture over and under the box before she saw it. It is + doubtful if she would have realized its significance, had she seen it. + </p> + <p> + “I've been thinking things over,” she said. “It seems to me I'd better not + go back.” + </p> + <p> + He had left the door carefully open. Men are always more conventional than + women. + </p> + <p> + “That would be foolish, wouldn't it, when you have done so well? And, + besides, since you are not guilty, Sidney—” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't do it!” she cried passionately. “I know I didn't. But I've lost + faith in myself. I can't keep on; that's all there is to it. All last + night, in the emergency ward, I felt it going. I clutched at it. I kept + saying to myself: 'You didn't do it, you didn't do it'; and all the time + something inside of me was saying, 'Not now, perhaps; but sometime you + may.'” + </p> + <p> + Poor K., who had reasoned all this out for himself and had come to the + same impasse! + </p> + <p> + “To go on like this, feeling that one has life and death in one's hand, + and then perhaps some day to make a mistake like that!” She looked up at + him forlornly. “I am just not brave enough, K.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't it be braver to keep on? Aren't you giving up very easily?” + </p> + <p> + Her world was in pieces about her, and she felt alone in a wide and empty + place. And, because her nerves were drawn taut until they were ready to + snap, Sidney turned on him shrewishly. + </p> + <p> + “I think you are all afraid I will come back to stay. Nobody really wants + me anywhere—in all the world! Not at the hospital, not here, not + anyplace. I am no use.” + </p> + <p> + “When you say that nobody wants you,” said K., not very steadily, “I—I + think you are making a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” she demanded. “Christine? Aunt Harriet? Katie? The only person who + ever really wanted me was my mother, and I went away and left her!” + </p> + <p> + She scanned his face closely, and, reading there something she did not + understand, she colored suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you mean Joe Drummond.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I do not mean Joe Drummond.” + </p> + <p> + If he had found any encouragement in her face, he would have gone on + recklessly; but her blank eyes warned him. + </p> + <p> + “If you mean Max Wilson,” said Sidney, “you are entirely wrong. He's not + in love with me—not, that is, any more than he is in love with a + dozen girls. He likes to be with me—oh, I know that; but that + doesn't mean—anything else. Anyhow, after this disgrace—” + </p> + <p> + “There is no disgrace, child.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll think me careless, at the least. And his ideals are so high, K.” + </p> + <p> + “You say he likes to be with you. What about you?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney had been sitting in a low chair by the fire. She rose with a sudden + passionate movement. In the informality of the household, she had visited + K. in her dressing-gown and slippers; and now she stood before him, a + tragic young figure, clutching the folds of her gown across her breast. + </p> + <p> + “I worship him, K.,” she said tragically. “When I see him coming, I want + to get down and let him walk on me. I know his step in the hall. I know + the very way he rings for the elevator. When I see him in the + operating-room, cool and calm while every one else is flustered and + excited, he—he looks like a god.” + </p> + <p> + Then, half ashamed of her outburst, she turned her back to him and stood + gazing at the small coal fire. It was as well for K. that she did not see + his face. For that one moment the despair that was in him shone in his + eyes. He glanced around the shabby little room, at the sagging bed, the + collar-box, the pincushion, the old marble-topped bureau under which + Reginald had formerly made his nest, at his untidy table, littered with + pipes and books, at the image in the mirror of his own tall figure, + stooped and weary. + </p> + <p> + “It's real, all this?” he asked after a pause. “You're sure it's not just—glamour, + Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “It's real—terribly real.” Her voice was muffled, and he knew then + that she was crying. + </p> + <p> + She was mightily ashamed of it. Tears, of course, except in the privacy of + one's closet, were not ethical on the Street. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he cares very much, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a handkerchief,” said Sidney in a muffled tone, and the little + scene was broken into while K. searched through a bureau drawer. Then: + </p> + <p> + “It's all over, anyhow, since this. If he'd really cared he'd have come + over to-night. When one is in trouble one needs friends.” + </p> + <p> + Back in a circle she came inevitably to her suspension. She would never go + back, she said passionately. She was innocent, had been falsely accused. + If they could think such a thing about her, she didn't want to be in their + old hospital. + </p> + <p> + K. questioned her, alternately soothing and probing. + </p> + <p> + “You are positive about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. I have given him his medicines dozens of times.” + </p> + <p> + “You looked at the label?” + </p> + <p> + “I swear I did, K.” + </p> + <p> + “Who else had access to the medicine closet?” + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta Harrison carried the keys, of course. I was off duty from four + to six. When Carlotta left the ward, the probationer would have them.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you reason to think that either one of these girls would wish you + harm?” + </p> + <p> + “None whatever,” began Sidney vehemently; and then, checking herself,—“unless—but + that's rather ridiculous.” + </p> + <p> + “What is ridiculous?” + </p> + <p> + “I've sometimes thought that Carlotta—but I am sure she is perfectly + fair with me. Even if she—if she—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Even if she likes Dr. Wilson, I don't believe—Why, K., she + wouldn't! It would be murder.” + </p> + <p> + “Murder, of course,” said K., “in intention, anyhow. Of course she didn't + do it. I'm only trying to find out whose mistake it was.” + </p> + <p> + Soon after that she said good-night and went out. She turned in the + doorway and smiled tremulously back at him. + </p> + <p> + “You have done me a lot of good. You almost make me believe in myself.” + </p> + <p> + “That's because I believe in you.” + </p> + <p> + With a quick movement that was one of her charms, Sidney suddenly closed + the door and slipped back into the room. K., hearing the door close, + thought she had gone, and dropped heavily into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “My best friend in all the world!” said Sidney suddenly from behind him, + and, bending over, she kissed him on the cheek. + </p> + <p> + The next instant the door had closed behind her, and K. was left alone to + such wretchedness and bliss as the evening had brought him. + </p> + <p> + On toward morning, Harriet, who slept but restlessly in her towel, wakened + to the glare of his light over the transom. + </p> + <p> + “K.!” she called pettishly from her door. “I wish you wouldn't go to sleep + and let your light burn!” + </p> + <p> + K., surmising the towel and cold cream, had the tact not to open his door. + </p> + <p> + “I am not asleep, Harriet, and I am sorry about the light. It's going out + now.” + </p> + <p> + Before he extinguished the light, he walked over to the old dresser and + surveyed himself in the glass. Two nights without sleep and much anxiety + had told on him. He looked old, haggard; infinitely tired. Mentally he + compared himself with Wilson, flushed with success, erect, triumphant, + almost insolent. Nothing had more certainly told him the hopelessness of + his love for Sidney than her good-night kiss. He was her brother, her + friend. He would never be her lover. He drew a long breath and proceeded + to undress in the dark. + </p> + <p> + Joe Drummond came to see Sidney the next day. She would have avoided him + if she could, but Mimi had ushered him up to the sewing-room boudoir + before she had time to escape. She had not seen the boy for two months, + and the change in him startled her. He was thinner, rather hectic, + scrupulously well dressed. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Joe!” she said, and then: “Won't you sit down?” + </p> + <p> + He was still rather theatrical. He dramatized himself, as he had that + night the June before when he had asked Sidney to marry him. He stood just + inside the doorway. He offered no conventional greeting whatever; but, + after surveying her briefly, her black gown, the lines around her eyes:— + </p> + <p> + “You're not going back to that place, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I haven't decided.” + </p> + <p> + “Then somebody's got to decide for you. The thing for you to do is to stay + right here, Sidney. People know you on the Street. Nobody here would ever + accuse you of trying to murder anybody.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of herself, Sidney smiled a little. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody thinks I tried to murder him. It was a mistake about the + medicines. I didn't do it, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + His love was purely selfish, for he brushed aside her protest as if she + had not spoken. + </p> + <p> + “You give me the word and I'll go and get your things; I've got a car of + my own now.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Joe, they have only done what they thought was right. Whoever made + it, there was a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean that you are going to stand for this sort of thing? Every + time some fool makes a mistake, are they going to blame it on you?” + </p> + <p> + “Please don't be theatrical. Come in and sit down. I can't talk to you if + you explode like a rocket all the time.” + </p> + <p> + Her matter-of-fact tone had its effect. He advanced into the room, but he + still scorned a chair. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you've been wondering why you haven't heard from me,” he said. + “I've seen you more than you've seen me.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney looked uneasy. The idea of espionage is always repugnant, and to + have a rejected lover always in the offing, as it were, was disconcerting. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would be just a little bit sensible, Joe. It's so silly of + you, really. It's not because you care for me; it's really because you + care for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't look at me and say that, Sid.” + </p> + <p> + He ran his finger around his collar—an old gesture; but the collar + was very loose. He was thin; his neck showed it. + </p> + <p> + “I'm just eating my heart out for you, and that's the truth. And it isn't + only that. Everywhere I go, people say, 'There's the fellow Sidney Page + turned down when she went to the hospital.' I've got so I keep off the + Street as much as I can.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney was half alarmed, half irritated. This wild, excited boy was not + the doggedly faithful youth she had always known. It seemed to her that he + was hardly sane—that underneath his quiet manner and carefully + repressed voice there lurked something irrational, something she could not + cope with. She looked up at him helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “But what do you want me to do? You—you almost frighten me. If you'd + only sit down—” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to come home. I'm not asking anything else now. I just want + you to come back, so that things will be the way they used to be. Now that + they have turned you out—” + </p> + <p> + “They've done nothing of the sort. I've told you that.” + </p> + <p> + “You're going back?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you love the hospital, or because you love somebody connected + with the hospital?” + </p> + <p> + Sidney was thoroughly angry by this time, angry and reckless. She had come + through so much that every nerve was crying in passionate protest. + </p> + <p> + “If it will make you understand things any better,” she cried, “I am going + back for both reasons!” + </p> + <p> + She was sorry the next moment. But her words seemed, surprisingly enough, + to steady him. For the first time, he sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Then, as far as I am concerned, it's all over, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Joe. I told you that long ago.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed hardly to be listening. His thoughts had ranged far ahead. + Suddenly:— + </p> + <p> + “You think Christine has her hands full with Palmer, don't you? Well, if + you take Max Wilson, you're going to have more trouble than Christine ever + dreamed of. I can tell you some things about him now that will make you + think twice.” + </p> + <p> + But Sidney had reached her limit. She went over and flung open the door. + </p> + <p> + “Every word that you say shows me how right I am in not marrying you, + Joe,” she said. “Real men do not say those things about each other under + any circumstances. You're behaving like a bad boy. I don't want you to + come back until you have grown up.” + </p> + <p> + He was very white, but he picked up his hat and went to the door. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I AM crazy,” he said. “I've been wanting to go away, but mother + raises such a fuss—I'll not annoy you any more.” + </p> + <p> + He reached in his pocket and, pulling out a small box, held it toward her. + The lid was punched full of holes. + </p> + <p> + “Reginald,” he said solemnly. “I've had him all winter. Some boys caught + him in the park, and I brought him home.” + </p> + <p> + He left her standing there speechless with surprise, with the box in her + hand, and ran down the stairs and out into the Street. At the foot of the + steps he almost collided with Dr. Ed. + </p> + <p> + “Back to see Sidney?” said Dr. Ed genially. “That's fine, Joe. I'm glad + you've made it up.” + </p> + <p> + The boy went blindly down the Street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + Winter relaxed its clutch slowly that year. March was bitterly cold; even + April found the roads still frozen and the hedgerows clustered with ice. + But at mid-day there was spring in the air. In the courtyard of the + hospital, convalescents sat on the benches and watched for robins. The + fountain, which had frozen out, was being repaired. Here and there on ward + window-sills tulips opened their gaudy petals to the sun. + </p> + <p> + Harriet had gone abroad for a flying trip in March and came back laden + with new ideas, model gowns, and fresh enthusiasm. She carried out and + planted flowers on her sister's grave, and went back to her work with a + feeling of duty done. A combination of crocuses and snow on the ground had + given her an inspiration for a gown. She drew it in pencil on an envelope + on her way back in the street car. + </p> + <p> + Grace Irving, having made good during the white sales, had been sent to + the spring cottons. She began to walk with her head higher. The day she + sold Sidney material for a simple white gown, she was very happy. Once a + customer brought her a bunch of primroses. All day she kept them under the + counter in a glass of water, and at evening she took them to Johnny + Rosenfeld, still lying prone in the hospital. + </p> + <p> + On Sidney, on K., and on Christine the winter had left its mark heavily. + Christine, readjusting her life to new conditions, was graver, more + thoughtful. She was alone most of the time now. Under K.'s guidance, she + had given up the “Duchess” and was reading real books. She was thinking + real thoughts, too, for the first time in her life. + </p> + <p> + Sidney, as tender as ever, had lost a little of the radiance from her + eyes; her voice had deepened. Where she had been a pretty girl, she was + now lovely. She was back in the hospital again, this time in the + children's ward. K., going in one day to take Johnny Rosenfeld a basket of + fruit, saw her there with a child in her arms, and a light in her eyes + that he had never seen before. It hurt him, rather—things being as + they were with him. When he came out he looked straight ahead. + </p> + <p> + With the opening of spring the little house at Hillfoot took on fresh + activities. Tillie was house-cleaning with great thoroughness. She + scrubbed carpets, took down the clean curtains, and put them up again + freshly starched. It was as if she found in sheer activity and fatigue a + remedy for her uneasiness. + </p> + <p> + Business had not been very good. The impeccable character of the little + house had been against it. True, Mr. Schwitter had a little bar and served + the best liquors he could buy; but he discouraged rowdiness—had been + known to refuse to sell to boys under twenty-one and to men who had + already overindulged. The word went about that Schwitter's was no place + for a good time. Even Tillie's chicken and waffles failed against this + handicap. + </p> + <p> + By the middle of April the house-cleaning was done. One or two motor + parties had come out, dined sedately and wined moderately, and had gone + back to the city again. The next two weeks saw the weather clear. The + roads dried up, robins filled the trees with their noisy spring songs, and + still business continued dull. + </p> + <p> + By the first day of May, Tillie's uneasiness had become certainty. On that + morning Mr. Schwitter, coming in from the early milking, found her sitting + in the kitchen, her face buried in her apron. He put down the milk-pails + and, going over to her, put a hand on her head. + </p> + <p> + “I guess there's no mistake, then?” + </p> + <p> + “There's no mistake,” said poor Tillie into her apron. + </p> + <p> + He bent down and kissed the back of her neck. Then, when she failed to + brighten, he tiptoed around the kitchen, poured the milk into pans, and + rinsed the buckets, working methodically in his heavy way. The tea-kettle + had boiled dry. He filled that, too. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to see a doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd better see somebody,” she said, without looking up. “And—don't + think I'm blaming you. I guess I don't really blame anybody. As far as + that goes, I've wanted a child right along. It isn't the trouble I am + thinking of either.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. Words were unnecessary between them. He made some tea clumsily + and browned her a piece of toast. When he had put them on one end of the + kitchen table, he went over to her again. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'd ought to have thought of this before, but all I thought of + was trying to get a little happiness out of life. And,”—he stroked + her arm,—“as far as I am concerned, it's been worth while, Tillie. + No matter what I've had to do, I've always looked forward to coming back + here to you in the evening. Maybe I don't say it enough, but I guess you + know I feel it all right.” + </p> + <p> + Without looking up, she placed her hand over his. + </p> + <p> + “I guess we started wrong,” he went on. “You can't build happiness on what + isn't right. You and I can manage well enough; but now that there's going + to be another, it looks different, somehow.” + </p> + <p> + After that morning Tillie took up her burden stoically. The hope of + motherhood alternated with black fits of depression. She sang at her work, + to burst out into sudden tears. + </p> + <p> + Other things were not going well. Schwitter had given up his nursery + business; but the motorists who came to Hillfoot did not come back. When, + at last, he took the horse and buggy and drove about the country for + orders, he was too late. Other nurserymen had been before him; shrubberies + and orchards were already being set out. The second payment on his + mortgage would be due in July. By the middle of May they were frankly up + against it. Schwitter at last dared to put the situation into words. + </p> + <p> + “We're not making good, Til,” he said. “And I guess you know the reason. + We are too decent; that's what's the matter with us.” There was no irony + in his words. + </p> + <p> + With all her sophistication, Tillie was vastly ignorant of life. He had to + explain. + </p> + <p> + “We'll have to keep a sort of hotel,” he said lamely. “Sell to everybody + that comes along, and—if parties want to stay over-night—” + </p> + <p> + Tillie's white face turned crimson. + </p> + <p> + He attempted a compromise. “If it's bad weather, and they're married—” + </p> + <p> + “How are we to know if they are married or not?” + </p> + <p> + He admired her very much for it. He had always respected her. But the + situation was not less acute. There were two or three unfurnished rooms on + the second floor. He began to make tentative suggestions as to their + furnishing. Once he got a catalogue from an installment house, and tried + to hide it from her. Tillie's eyes blazed. She burned it in the kitchen + stove. + </p> + <p> + Schwitter himself was ashamed; but the idea obsessed him. Other people + fattened on the frailties of human nature. Two miles away, on the other + road, was a public house that had netted the owner ten thousand dollars + profit the year before. They bought their beer from the same concern. He + was not as young as he had been; there was the expense of keeping his wife—he + had never allowed her to go into the charity ward at the asylum. Now that + there was going to be a child, there would be three people dependent upon + him. He was past fifty, and not robust. + </p> + <p> + One night, after Tillie was asleep, he slipped noiselessly into his + clothes and out to the barn, where he hitched up the horse with nervous + fingers. + </p> + <p> + Tillie never learned of that midnight excursion to the “Climbing Rose,” + two miles away. Lights blazed in every window; a dozen automobiles were + parked before the barn. Somebody was playing a piano. From the bar came + the jingle of glasses and loud, cheerful conversation. + </p> + <p> + When Schwitter turned the horse's head back toward Hillfoot, his mind was + made up. He would furnish the upper rooms; he would bring a barkeeper from + town—these people wanted mixed drinks; he could get a second-hand + piano somewhere. + </p> + <p> + Tillie's rebellion was instant and complete. When she found him + determined, she made the compromise that her condition necessitated. She + could not leave him, but she would not stay in the rehabilitated little + house. When, a week after Schwitter's visit to the “Climbing Rose,” an + installment van arrived from town with the new furniture, Tillie moved out + to what had been the harness-room of the old barn and there established + herself. + </p> + <p> + “I am not leaving you,” she told him. “I don't even know that I am blaming + you. But I am not going to have anything to do with it, and that's flat.” + </p> + <p> + So it happened that K., making a spring pilgrimage to see Tillie, stopped + astounded in the road. The weather was warm, and he carried his Norfolk + coat over his arm. The little house was bustling; a dozen automobiles were + parked in the barnyard. The bar was crowded, and a barkeeper in a white + coat was mixing drinks with the casual indifference of his kind. There + were tables under the trees on the lawn, and a new sign on the gate. + </p> + <p> + Even Schwitter bore a new look of prosperity. Over his schooner of beer K. + gathered something of the story. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not proud of it, Mr. Le Moyne. I've come to do a good many things the + last year or so that I never thought I would do. But one thing leads to + another. First I took Tillie away from her good position, and after that + nothing went right. Then there were things coming on”—he looked at + K. anxiously—“that meant more expense. I would be glad if you + wouldn't say anything about it at Mrs. McKee's.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not speak of it, of course.” + </p> + <p> + It was then, when K. asked for Tillie, that Mr. Schwitter's unhappiness + became more apparent. + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn't stand for it,” he said. “She moved out the day I furnished + the rooms upstairs and got the piano.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean she has gone?” + </p> + <p> + “As far as the barn. She wouldn't stay in the house. I—I'll take you + out there, if you would like to see her.” + </p> + <p> + K. shrewdly surmised that Tillie would prefer to see him alone, under the + circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I can find her,” he said, and rose from the little table. + </p> + <p> + “If you—if you can say anything to help me out, sir, I'd appreciate + it. Of course, she understands how I am driven. But—especially if + you would tell her that the Street doesn't know—” + </p> + <p> + “I'll do all I can,” K. promised, and followed the path to the barn. + </p> + <p> + Tillie received him with a certain dignity. The little harness-room was + very comfortable. A white iron bed in a corner, a flat table with a mirror + above it, a rocking-chair, and a sewing-machine furnished the room. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't stand for it,” she said simply; “so here I am. Come in, Mr. Le + Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + There being but one chair, she sat on the bed. The room was littered with + small garments in the making. She made no attempt to conceal them; rather, + she pointed to them with pride. + </p> + <p> + “I am making them myself. I have a lot of time these days. He's got a + hired girl at the house. It was hard enough to sew at first, with me + making two right sleeves almost every time.” Then, seeing his kindly eye + on her: “Well, it's happened, Mr. Le Moyne. What am I going to do? What am + I going to be?” + </p> + <p> + “You're going to be a very good mother, Tillie.” + </p> + <p> + She was manifestly in need of cheering. K., who also needed cheering that + spring day, found his consolation in seeing her brighten under the small + gossip of the Street. The deaf-and-dumb book agent had taken on life + insurance as a side issue, and was doing well; the grocery store at the + corner was going to be torn down, and over the new store there were to be + apartments; Reginald had been miraculously returned, and was building a + new nest under his bureau; Harriet Kennedy had been to Paris, and had + brought home six French words and a new figure. + </p> + <p> + Outside the open door the big barn loomed cool and shadowy, full of empty + spaces where later the hay would be stored; anxious mother hens led their + broods about; underneath in the horse stable the restless horses pawed in + their stalls. From where he sat, Le Moyne could see only the round breasts + of the two hills, the fresh green of the orchard the cows in a meadow + beyond. + </p> + <p> + Tillie followed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I like it here,” she confessed. “I've had more time to think since I + moved out than I ever had in my life before. Them hills help. When the + noise is worst down at the house, I look at the hills there and—” + </p> + <p> + There were great thoughts in her mind—that the hills meant God, and + that in His good time perhaps it would all come right. But she was + inarticulate. “The hills help a lot,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + K. rose. Tillie's work-basket lay near him. He picked up one of the little + garments. In his big hands it looked small, absurd. + </p> + <p> + “I—I want to tell you something, Tillie. Don't count on it too much; + but Mrs. Schwitter has been failing rapidly for the last month or two.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie caught his arm. + </p> + <p> + “You've seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “I was interested. I wanted to see things work out right for you.” + </p> + <p> + All the color had faded from Tillie's face. + </p> + <p> + “You're very good to me, Mr. Le Moyne,” she said. “I don't wish the poor + soul any harm, but—oh, my God! if she's going, let it be before the + next four months are over.” + </p> + <p> + K. had fallen into the habit, after his long walks, of dropping into + Christine's little parlor for a chat before he went upstairs. Those early + spring days found Harriet Kennedy busy late in the evenings, and, save for + Christine and K., the house was practically deserted. + </p> + <p> + The breach between Palmer and Christine was steadily widening. She was too + proud to ask him to spend more of his evenings with her. On those + occasions when he voluntarily stayed at home with her, he was so + discontented that he drove her almost to distraction. Although she was + convinced that he was seeing nothing of the girl who had been with him the + night of the accident, she did not trust him. Not that girl, perhaps, but + there were others. There would always be others. + </p> + <p> + Into Christine's little parlor, then, K. turned, the evening after he had + seen Tillie. She was reading by the lamp, and the door into the hall stood + open. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” she said, as he hesitated in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “I am frightfully dusty.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a brush in the drawer of the hat-rack—although I don't + really mind how you look.” + </p> + <p> + The little room always cheered K. Its warmth and light appealed to his + aesthetic sense; after the bareness of his bedroom, it spelled luxury. And + perhaps, to be entirely frank, there was more than physical comfort and + satisfaction in the evenings he spent in Christine's firelit parlor. He + was entirely masculine, and her evident pleasure in his society gratified + him. He had fallen into a way of thinking of himself as a sort of older + brother to all the world because he was a sort of older brother to Sidney. + The evenings with her did something to reinstate him in his own + self-esteem. It was subtle, psychological, but also it was very human. + </p> + <p> + “Come and sit down,” said Christine. “Here's a chair, and here are + cigarettes and there are matches. Now!” + </p> + <p> + But, for once, K. declined the chair. He stood in front of the fireplace + and looked down at her, his head bent slightly to one side. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you would like to do a very kind thing,” he said + unexpectedly. + </p> + <p> + “Make you coffee?” + </p> + <p> + “Something much more trouble and not so pleasant.” + </p> + <p> + Christine glanced up at him. When she was with him, when his steady eyes + looked down at her, small affectations fell away. She was more genuine + with K. than with anyone else, even herself. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what it is, or shall I promise first?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to promise just one thing: to keep a secret.” + </p> + <p> + “Yours?” + </p> + <p> + Christine was not over-intelligent, perhaps, but she was shrewd. That Le + Moyne's past held a secret she had felt from the beginning. She sat up + with eager curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “No, not mine. Is it a promise?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I've found Tillie, Christine. I want you to go out to see her.” + </p> + <p> + Christine's red lips parted. The Street did not go out to see women in + Tillie's situation. + </p> + <p> + “But, K.!” she protested. + </p> + <p> + “She needs another woman just now. She's going to have a child, Christine; + and she has had no one to talk to but her hus—but Mr. Schwitter and + myself. She is depressed and not very well.” + </p> + <p> + “But what shall I say to her? I'd really rather not go, K. Not,” she + hastened to set herself right in his eyes—“not that I feel any + unwillingness to see her. I know you understand that. But—what in + the world shall I say to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Say what your own kind heart prompts.” + </p> + <p> + It had been rather a long time since Christine had been accused of having + a kind heart. Not that she was unkind, but in all her self-centered young + life there had been little call on her sympathies. Her eyes clouded. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I were as good as you think I am.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little silence between them. Then Le Moyne spoke briskly:— + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you how to get there; perhaps I would better write it.” + </p> + <p> + He moved over to Christine's small writing-table and, seating himself, + proceeded to write out the directions for reaching Hillfoot. + </p> + <p> + Behind him, Christine had taken his place on the hearth-rug and stood + watching his head in the light of the desk-lamp. “What a strong, quiet + face it is,” she thought. Why did she get the impression of such a + tremendous reserve power in this man who was a clerk, and a clerk only? + Behind him she made a quick, unconscious gesture of appeal, both hands out + for an instant. She dropped them guiltily as K. rose with the paper in his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “I've drawn a sort of map of the roads,” he began. “You see, this—” + </p> + <p> + Christine was looking, not at the paper, but up at him. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you know, K.,” she said, “what a lucky woman the woman will + be who marries you?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed good-humoredly. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder how long I could hypnotize her into thinking that.” + </p> + <p> + He was still holding out the paper. + </p> + <p> + “I've had time to do a little thinking lately,” she said, without + bitterness. “Palmer is away so much now. I've been looking back, wondering + if I ever thought that about him. I don't believe I ever did. I wonder—” + </p> + <p> + She checked herself abruptly and took the paper from his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go to see Tillie, of course,” she consented. “It is like you to have + found her.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down. Although she picked up the book that she had been reading + with the evident intention of discussing it, her thoughts were still on + Tillie, on Palmer, on herself. After a moment:— + </p> + <p> + “Has it ever occurred to you how terribly mixed up things are? Take this + Street, for instance. Can you think of anybody on it that—that + things have gone entirely right with?” + </p> + <p> + “It's a little world of its own, of course,” said K., “and it has plenty + of contact points with life. But wherever one finds people, many or few, + one finds all the elements that make up life—joy and sorrow, birth + and death, and even tragedy. That's rather trite, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Christine was still pursuing her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “Men are different,” she said. “To a certain extent they make their own + fates. But when you think of the women on the Street,—Tillie, + Harriet Kennedy, Sidney Page, myself, even Mrs. Rosenfeld back in the + alley,—somebody else moulds things for us, and all we can do is to + sit back and suffer. I am beginning to think the world is a terrible + place, K. Why do people so often marry the wrong people? Why can't a man + care for one woman and only one all his life? Why—why is it all so + complicated?” + </p> + <p> + “There are men who care for only one woman all their lives.” + </p> + <p> + “You're that sort, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to put myself on any pinnacle. If I cared enough for a woman + to marry her, I'd hope to—But we are being very tragic, Christine.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel tragic. There's going to be another mistake, K., unless you stop + it.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to leaven the conversation with a little fun. + </p> + <p> + “If you're going to ask me to interfere between Mrs. McKee and the + deaf-and-dumb book and insurance agent, I shall do nothing of the sort. + She can both speak and hear enough for both of them.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean Sidney and Max Wilson. He's mad about her, K.; and, because she's + the sort she is, he'll probably be mad about her all his life, even if he + marries her. But he'll not be true to her; I know the type now.” + </p> + <p> + K. leaned back with a flicker of pain in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do about it?” + </p> + <p> + Astute as he was, he did not suspect that Christine was using this method + to fathom his feeling for Sidney. Perhaps she hardly knew it herself. + </p> + <p> + “You might marry her yourself, K.” + </p> + <p> + But he had himself in hand by this time, and she learned nothing from + either his voice or his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “On twenty dollars a week? And without so much as asking her consent?” He + dropped his light tone. “I'm not in a position to marry anybody. Even if + Sidney cared for me, which she doesn't, of course—” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't intend to interfere? You're going to let the Street see + another failure?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you can understand,” said K. rather wearily, “that if I cared + less, Christine, it would be easier to interfere.” + </p> + <p> + After all, Christine had known this, or surmised it, for weeks. But it + hurt like a fresh stab in an old wound. It was K. who spoke again after a + pause:— + </p> + <p> + “The deadly hard thing, of course, is to sit by and see things happening + that one—that one would naturally try to prevent.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe that you have always been of those who only stand and + wait,” said Christine. “Sometime, K., when you know me better and like me + better, I want you to tell me about it, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “There's very little to tell. I held a trust. When I discovered that I was + unfit to hold that trust any longer, I quit. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + His tone of finality closed the discussion. But Christine's eyes were on + him often that evening, puzzled, rather sad. + </p> + <p> + They talked of books, of music—Christine played well in a dashing + way. K. had brought her soft, tender little things, and had stood over her + until her noisy touch became gentle. She played for him a little, while he + sat back in the big chair with his hand screening his eyes. + </p> + <p> + When, at last, he rose and picked up his cap; it was nine o'clock. + </p> + <p> + “I've taken your whole evening,” he said remorsefully. “Why don't you tell + me I am a nuisance and send me off?” + </p> + <p> + Christine was still at the piano, her hands on the keys. She spoke without + looking at him:— + </p> + <p> + “You're never a nuisance, K., and—” + </p> + <p> + “You'll go out to see Tillie, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I'll not go under false pretenses. I am going quite frankly + because you want me to.” + </p> + <p> + Something in her tone caught his attention. + </p> + <p> + “I forgot to tell you,” she went on. “Father has given Palmer five + thousand dollars. He's going to buy a share in a business.” + </p> + <p> + “That's fine.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. I don't believe much in Palmer's business ventures.” + </p> + <p> + Her flat tone still held him. Underneath it he divined strain and + repression. + </p> + <p> + “I hate to go and leave you alone,” he said at last from the door. “Have + you any idea when Palmer will be back?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the slightest. K., will you come here a moment? Stand behind me; I + don't want to see you, and I want to tell you something.” + </p> + <p> + He did as she bade him, rather puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Here I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I am a fool for saying this. Perhaps I am spoiling the only + chance I have to get any happiness out of life. But I have got to say it. + It's stronger than I am. I was terribly unhappy, K., and then you came + into my life, and I—now I listen for your step in the hall. I can't + be a hypocrite any longer, K.” + </p> + <p> + When he stood behind her, silent and not moving, she turned slowly about + and faced him. He towered there in the little room, grave eyes on hers. + </p> + <p> + “It's a long time since I have had a woman friend, Christine,” he said + soberly. “Your friendship has meant a good deal. In a good many ways, I'd + not care to look ahead if it were not for you. I value our friendship so + much that I—” + </p> + <p> + “That you don't want me to spoil it,” she finished for him. “I know you + don't care for me, K., not the way I—But I wanted you to know. It + doesn't hurt a good man to know such a thing. And it—isn't going to + stop your coming here, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” said K. heartily. “But to-morrow, when we are both + clear-headed, we will talk this over. You are mistaken about this thing, + Christine; I am sure of that. Things have not been going well, and just + because I am always around, and all that sort of thing, you think things + that aren't really so. I'm only a reaction, Christine.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to make her smile up at him. But just then she could not smile. + </p> + <p> + If she had cried, things might have been different for every one; for + perhaps K. would have taken her in his arms. He was heart-hungry enough, + those days, for anything. And perhaps, too, being intuitive, Christine + felt this. But she had no mind to force him into a situation against his + will. + </p> + <p> + “It is because you are good,” she said, and held out her hand. + “Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Le Moyne took it and bent over and kissed it lightly. There was in the + kiss all that he could not say of respect, of affection and understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Christine,” he said, and went into the hall and upstairs. + </p> + <p> + The lamp was not lighted in his room, but the street light glowed through + the windows. Once again the waving fronds of the ailanthus tree flung + ghostly shadows on the walls. There was a faint sweet odor of blossoms, so + soon to become rank and heavy. + </p> + <p> + Over the floor in a wild zigzag darted a strip of white paper which + disappeared under the bureau. Reginald was building another nest. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + Sidney went into the operating-room late in the spring as the result of a + conversation between the younger Wilson and the Head. + </p> + <p> + “When are you going to put my protegee into the operating-room?” asked + Wilson, meeting Miss Gregg in a corridor one bright, spring afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “That usually comes in the second year, Dr. Wilson.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled down at her. “That isn't a rule, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. Miss Page is very young, and of course there are other girls + who have not yet had the experience. But, if you make the request—” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to have some good cases soon. I'll not make a request, of + course; but, if you see fit, it would be good training for Miss Page.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Gregg went on, knowing perfectly that at his next operation Dr. + Wilson would expect Sidney Page in the operating-room. The other doctors + were not so exigent. She would have liked to have all the staff old and + settled, like Dr. O'Hara or the older Wilson. These young men came in and + tore things up. + </p> + <p> + She sighed as she went on. There were so many things to go wrong. The + butter had been bad—she must speak to the matron. The sterilizer in + the operating-room was out of order—that meant a quarrel with the + chief engineer. Requisitions were too heavy—that meant going around + to the wards and suggesting to the head nurses that lead pencils and + bandages and adhesive plaster and safety-pins cost money. + </p> + <p> + It was particularly inconvenient to move Sidney just then. Carlotta + Harrison was off duty, ill. She had been ailing for a month, and now she + was down with a temperature. As the Head went toward Sidney's ward, her + busy mind was playing her nurses in their wards like pieces on a + checkerboard. + </p> + <p> + Sidney went into the operating-room that afternoon. For her blue uniform, + kerchief, and cap she exchanged the hideous operating-room garb: long, + straight white gown with short sleeves and mob-cap, gray-white from many + sterilizations. But the ugly costume seemed to emphasize her beauty, as + the habit of a nun often brings out the placid saintliness of her face. + </p> + <p> + The relationship between Sidney and Max had reached that point that occurs + in all relationships between men and women: when things must either go + forward or go back, but cannot remain as they are. The condition had + existed for the last three months. It exasperated the man. + </p> + <p> + As a matter of fact, Wilson could not go ahead. The situation with + Carlotta had become tense, irritating. He felt that she stood ready to + block any move he made. He would not go back, and he dared not go forward. + </p> + <p> + If Sidney was puzzled, she kept it bravely to herself. In her little room + at night, with the door carefully locked, she tried to think things out. + There were a few treasures that she looked over regularly: a dried flower + from the Christmas roses; a label that he had pasted playfully on the back + of her hand one day after the rush of surgical dressings was over and + which said “Rx, Take once and forever.” + </p> + <p> + There was another piece of paper over which Sidney spent much time. It was + a page torn out of an order book, and it read: “Sigsbee may have light + diet; Rosenfeld massage.” Underneath was written, very small: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You are the most beautiful person in the world.” + </pre> + <p> + Two reasons had prompted Wilson to request to have Sidney in the + operating-room. He wanted her with him, and he wanted her to see him at + work: the age-old instinct of the male to have his woman see him at his + best. + </p> + <p> + He was in high spirits that first day of Sidney's operating-room + experience. For the time at least, Carlotta was out of the way. Her somber + eyes no longer watched him. Once he looked up from his work and glanced at + Sidney where she stood at strained attention. + </p> + <p> + “Feeling faint?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She colored under the eyes that were turned on her. + </p> + <p> + “No, Dr. Wilson.” + </p> + <p> + “A great many of them faint on the first day. We sometimes have them lying + all over the floor.” + </p> + <p> + He challenged Miss Gregg with his eyes, and she reproved him with a shake + of her head, as she might a bad boy. + </p> + <p> + One way and another, he managed to turn the attention of the + operating-room to Sidney several times. It suited his whim, and it did + more than that: it gave him a chance to speak to her in his teasing way. + </p> + <p> + Sidney came through the operation as if she had been through fire—taut + as a string, rather pale, but undaunted. But when the last case had been + taken out, Max dropped his bantering manner. The internes were looking + over instruments; the nurses were busy on the hundred and one tasks of + clearing up; so he had a chance for a word with her alone. + </p> + <p> + “I am proud of you, Sidney; you came through it like a soldier.” + </p> + <p> + “You made it very hard for me.” + </p> + <p> + A nurse was coming toward him; he had only a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I shall leave a note in the mail-box,” he said quickly, and proceeded + with the scrubbing of his hands which signified the end of the day's work. + </p> + <p> + The operations had lasted until late in the afternoon. The night nurses + had taken up their stations; prayers were over. The internes were gathered + in the smoking-room, threshing over the day's work, as was their custom. + When Sidney was free, she went to the office for the note. It was very + brief:— + </p> + <p> + I have something I want to say to you, dear. I think you know what it is. + I never see you alone at home any more. If you can get off for an hour, + won't you take the trolley to the end of Division Street? I'll be there + with the car at eight-thirty, and I promise to have you back by ten + o'clock. + </p> + <p> + MAX. + </p> + <p> + The office was empty. No one saw her as she stood by the mail-box. The + ticking of the office clock, the heavy rumble of a dray outside, the roll + of the ambulance as it went out through the gateway, and in her hand the + realization of what she had never confessed as a hope, even to herself! + He, the great one, was going to stoop to her. It had been in his eyes that + afternoon; it was there, in his letter, now. + </p> + <p> + It was eight by the office clock. To get out of her uniform and into + street clothing, fifteen minutes; on the trolley, another fifteen. She + would need to hurry. + </p> + <p> + But she did not meet him, after all. Miss Wardwell met her in the upper + hall. + </p> + <p> + “Did you get my message?” she asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “What message?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Harrison wants to see you. She has been moved to a private room.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney glanced at K.'s little watch. + </p> + <p> + “Must she see me to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “She has been waiting for hours—ever since you went to the + operating-room.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney sighed, but she went to Carlotta at once. The girl's condition was + puzzling the staff. There was talk of “T.R.”—which is hospital for + “typhoid restrictions.” But T.R. has apathy, generally, and Carlotta was + not apathetic. Sidney found her tossing restlessly on her high white bed, + and put her cool hand over Carlotta's hot one. + </p> + <p> + “Did you send for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Hours ago.” Then, seeing her operating-room uniform: “You've been THERE, + have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything I can do, Carlotta?” + </p> + <p> + Excitement had dyed Sidney's cheeks with color and made her eyes luminous. + The girl in the bed eyed her, and then abruptly drew her hand away. + </p> + <p> + “Were you going out?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but not right away.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not keep you if you have an engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “The engagement will have to wait. I'm sorry you're ill. If you would like + me to stay with you tonight—” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta shook her head on her pillow. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy, no!” she said irritably. “I'm only worn out. I need a rest. Are + you going home to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Sidney admitted, and flushed. + </p> + <p> + Nothing escaped Carlotta's eyes—the younger girl's radiance, her + confusion, even her operating room uniform and what it signified. How she + hated her, with her youth and freshness, her wide eyes, her soft red lips! + And this engagement—she had the uncanny divination of fury. + </p> + <p> + “I was going to ask you to do something for me,” she said shortly; “but + I've changed my mind about it. Go on and keep your engagement.” + </p> + <p> + To end the interview, she turned over and lay with her face to the wall. + Sidney stood waiting uncertainly. All her training had been to ignore the + irritability of the sick, and Carlotta was very ill; she could see that. + </p> + <p> + “Just remember that I am ready to do anything I can, Carlotta,” she said. + “Nothing will—will be a trouble.” + </p> + <p> + She waited a moment, but, receiving no acknowledgement of her offer, she + turned slowly and went toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney!” + </p> + <p> + She went back to the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Don't sit up, Carlotta. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm frightened!” + </p> + <p> + “You're feverish and nervous. There's nothing to be frightened about.” + </p> + <p> + “If it's typhoid, I'm gone.” + </p> + <p> + “That's childish. Of course you're not gone, or anything like it. Besides, + it's probably not typhoid.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid to sleep. I doze for a little, and when I waken there are + people in the room. They stand around the bed and talk about me.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney's precious minutes were flying; but Carlotta had gone into a + paroxysm of terror, holding to Sidney's hand and begging not to be left + alone. + </p> + <p> + “I'm too young to die,” she would whimper. And in the next breath: “I want + to die—I don't want to live!” + </p> + <p> + The hands of the little watch pointed to eight-thirty when at last she lay + quiet, with closed eyes. Sidney, tiptoeing to the door, was brought up + short by her name again, this time in a more normal voice:— + </p> + <p> + “Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right and I'm going to get over this.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly you are. Your nerves are playing tricks with you to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you now why I sent for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm listening.” + </p> + <p> + “If—if I get very bad,—you know what I mean,—will you + promise to do exactly what I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “I promise, absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + “My trunk key is in my pocket-book. There is a letter in the tray—just + a name, no address on it. Promise to see that it is not delivered; that it + is destroyed without being read.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney promised promptly; and, because it was too late now for her meeting + with Wilson, for the next hour she devoted herself to making Carlotta + comfortable. So long as she was busy, a sort of exaltation of service + upheld her. But when at last the night assistant came to sit with the sick + girl, and Sidney was free, all the life faded from her face. He had waited + for her and she had not come. Would he understand? Would he ask her to + meet him again? Perhaps, after all, his question had not been what she had + thought. + </p> + <p> + She went miserably to bed. K.'s little watch ticked under her pillow. Her + stiff cap moved in the breeze as it swung from the corner of her mirror. + Under her window passed and repassed the night life of the city—taxicabs, + stealthy painted women, tired office-cleaners trudging home at midnight, a + city patrol-wagon which rolled in through the gates to the hospital's + always open door. When she could not sleep, she got up and padded to the + window in bare feet. The light from a passing machine showed a youthful + figure that looked like Joe Drummond. + </p> + <p> + Life, that had always seemed so simple, was growing very complicated for + Sidney: Joe and K., Palmer and Christine, Johnny Rosenfeld, Carlotta—either + lonely or tragic, all of them, or both. Life in the raw. + </p> + <p> + Toward morning Carlotta wakened. The night assistant was still there. It + had been a quiet night and she was asleep in her chair. To save her cap + she had taken it off, and early streaks of silver showed in her hair. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta roused her ruthlessly. + </p> + <p> + “I want something from my trunk,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The assistant wakened reluctantly, and looked at her watch. Almost + morning. She yawned and pinned on her cap. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake,” she protested. “You don't want me to go to the + trunk-room at this hour!” + </p> + <p> + “I can go myself,” said Carlotta, and put her feet out of bed. + </p> + <p> + “What is it you want?” + </p> + <p> + “A letter on the top tray. If I wait my temperature will go up and I can't + think.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I mail it for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Bring it here,” said Carlotta shortly. “I want to destroy it.” + </p> + <p> + The young woman went without haste, to show that a night assistant may do + such things out of friendship, but not because she must. She stopped at + the desk where the night nurse in charge of the rooms on that floor was + filling out records. + </p> + <p> + “Give me twelve private patients to look after instead of one nurse like + Carlotta Harrison!” she complained. “I've got to go to the trunk-room for + her at this hour, and it next door to the mortuary!” + </p> + <p> + As the first rays of the summer sun came through the window, shadowing the + fire-escape like a lattice on the wall of the little gray-walled room, + Carlotta sat up in her bed and lighted the candle on the stand. The night + assistant, who dreamed sometimes of fire, stood nervously by. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you let me do it?” she asked irritably. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta did not reply at once. The candle was in her hand, and she was + staring at the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Because I want to do it myself,” she said at last, and thrust the + envelope into the flame. It burned slowly, at first a thin blue flame + tipped with yellow, then, eating its way with a small fine crackling, a + widening, destroying blaze that left behind it black ash and destruction. + The acrid odor of burning filled the room. Not until it was consumed, and + the black ash fell into the saucer of the candlestick, did Carlotta speak + again. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “If every fool of a woman who wrote a letter burnt it, there would be less + trouble in the world,” she said, and lay back among her pillows. + </p> + <p> + The assistant said nothing. She was sleepy and irritated, and she had + crushed her best cap by letting the lid of Carlotta's trunk fall on her. + She went out of the room with disapproval in every line of her back. + </p> + <p> + “She burned it,” she informed the night nurse at her desk. “A letter to a + man—one of her suitors, I suppose. The name was K. Le Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + The deepening and broadening of Sidney's character had been very + noticeable in the last few months. She had gained in decision without + becoming hard; had learned to see things as they are, not through the rose + mist of early girlhood; and, far from being daunted, had developed a + philosophy that had for its basis God in His heaven and all well with the + world. + </p> + <p> + But her new theory of acceptance did not comprehend everything. She was in + a state of wild revolt, for instance, as to Johnny Rosenfeld, and more + remotely but not less deeply concerned over Grace Irving. Soon she was to + learn of Tillie's predicament, and to take up the cudgels valiantly for + her. + </p> + <p> + But her revolt was to be for herself too. On the day after her failure to + keep her appointment with Wilson she had her half-holiday. No word had + come from him, and when, after a restless night, she went to her new + station in the operating-room, it was to learn that he had been called out + of the city in consultation and would not operate that day. O'Hara would + take advantage of the free afternoon to run in some odds and ends of + cases. + </p> + <p> + The operating-room made gauze that morning, and small packets of tampons: + absorbent cotton covered with sterilized gauze, and fastened together—twelve, + by careful count, in each bundle. + </p> + <p> + Miss Grange, who had been kind to Sidney in her probation months, taught + her the method. + </p> + <p> + “Used instead of sponges,” she explained. “If you noticed yesterday, they + were counted before and after each operation. One of these missing is + worse than a bank clerk out a dollar at the end of the day. There's no + closing up until it's found!” + </p> + <p> + Sidney eyed the small packet before her anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “What a hideous responsibility!” she said. + </p> + <p> + From that time on she handled the small gauze sponges almost reverently. + </p> + <p> + The operating-room—all glass, white enamel, and shining nickel-plate—first + frightened, then thrilled her. It was as if, having loved a great actor, + she now trod the enchanted boards on which he achieved his triumphs. She + was glad that it was her afternoon off, and that she would not see some + lesser star—O'Hara, to wit—usurping his place. + </p> + <p> + But Max had not sent her any word. That hurt. He must have known that she + had been delayed. + </p> + <p> + The operating-room was a hive of industry, and tongues kept pace with + fingers. The hospital was a world, like the Street. The nurses had come + from many places, and, like cloistered nuns, seemed to have left the other + world behind. A new President of the country was less real than a new + interne. The country might wash its soiled linen in public; what was that + compared with enough sheets and towels for the wards? Big buildings were + going up in the city. Ah! but the hospital took cognizance of that, + gathering as it did a toll from each new story added. What news of the + world came in through the great doors was translated at once into hospital + terms. What the city forgot the hospital remembered. It took up life where + the town left it at its gates, and carried it on or saw it ended, as the + case might be. So these young women knew the ending of many stories, the + beginning of some; but of none did they know both the first and last, the + beginning and the end. + </p> + <p> + By many small kindnesses Sidney had made herself popular. And there was + more to it than that. She never shirked. The other girls had the respect + for her of one honest worker for another. The episode that had caused her + suspension seemed entirely forgotten. They showed her carefully what she + was to do; and, because she must know the “why” of everything, they + explained as best they could. + </p> + <p> + It was while she was standing by the great sterilizer that she heard, + through an open door, part of a conversation that sent her through the day + with her world in revolt. + </p> + <p> + The talkers were putting the anaesthetizing-room in readiness for the + afternoon. Sidney, waiting for the time to open the sterilizer, was busy, + for the first time in her hurried morning, with her own thoughts. Because + she was very human, there was a little exultation in her mind. What would + these girls say when they learned of how things stood between her and + their hero—that, out of all his world of society and clubs and + beautiful women, he was going to choose her? + </p> + <p> + Not shameful, this: the honest pride of a woman in being chosen from many. + </p> + <p> + The voices were very clear. + </p> + <p> + “Typhoid! Of course not. She's eating her heart out.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he has really broken with her?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. She knows it's coming; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I have wondered—” + </p> + <p> + “So have others. She oughtn't to be here, of course. But among so many + there is bound to be one now and then who—who isn't quite—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, at a loss for a word. + </p> + <p> + “Did you—did you ever think over that trouble with Miss Page about + the medicines? That would have been easy, and like her.” + </p> + <p> + “She hates Miss Page, of course, but I hardly think—If that's true, + it was nearly murder.” + </p> + <p> + There were two voices, a young one, full of soft southern inflections, and + an older voice, a trifle hard, as from disillusion. + </p> + <p> + They were working as they talked. Sidney could hear the clatter of bottles + on the tray, the scraping of a moved table. + </p> + <p> + “He was crazy about her last fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Page?” (The younger voice, with a thrill in it.) + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta. Of course this is confidential.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw her with him in his car one evening. And on her vacation last + summer—” + </p> + <p> + The voices dropped to a whisper. Sidney, standing cold and white by the + sterilizer, put out a hand to steady herself. So that was it! No wonder + Carlotta had hated her. And those whispering voices! What were they + saying? How hateful life was, and men and women. Must there always be + something hideous in the background? Until now she had only seen life. Now + she felt its hot breath on her cheek. + </p> + <p> + She was steady enough in a moment, cool and calm, moving about her work + with ice-cold hands and slightly narrowed eyes. To a sort of physical + nausea was succeeding anger, a blind fury of injured pride. He had been in + love with Carlotta and had tired of her. He was bringing her his + warmed-over emotions. She remembered the bitterness of her month's exile, + and its probable cause. Max had stood by her then. Well he might, if he + suspected the truth. + </p> + <p> + For just a moment she had an illuminating flash of Wilson as he really + was, selfish and self-indulgent, just a trifle too carefully dressed, + daring as to eye and speech, with a carefully calculated daring, frankly + pleasure-loving. She put her hands over her eyes. + </p> + <p> + The voices in the next room had risen above their whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Genius has privileges, of course,” said the older voice. “He is a very + great surgeon. To-morrow he is to do the Edwardes operation again. I am + glad I am to see him do it.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney still held her hands over her eyes. He WAS a great surgeon: in his + hands he held the keys of life and death. And perhaps he had never cared + for Carlotta: she might have thrown herself at him. He was a man, at the + mercy of any scheming woman. + </p> + <p> + She tried to summon his image to her aid. But a curious thing happened. + She could not visualize him. Instead, there came, clear and distinct, a + picture of K. Le Moyne in the hall of the little house, reaching one of + his long arms to the chandelier over his head and looking up at her as she + stood on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> + <p> + “My God, Sidney, I'm asking you to marry me!” + </p> + <p> + “I—I know that. I am asking you something else, Max.” + </p> + <p> + “I have never been in love with her.” + </p> + <p> + His voice was sulky. He had drawn the car close to a bank, and they were + sitting in the shade, on the grass. It was the Sunday afternoon after + Sidney's experience in the operating-room. + </p> + <p> + “You took her out, Max, didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “A few times, yes. She seemed to have no friends. I was sorry for her.” + </p> + <p> + “That was all?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. Good Heavens, you've put me through a catechism in the last + ten minutes!” + </p> + <p> + “If my father were living, or even mother, I—one of them would have + done this for me, Max. I'm sorry I had to. I've been very wretched for + several days.” + </p> + <p> + It was the first encouragement she had given him. There was no coquetry + about her aloofness. It was only that her faith in him had had a shock and + was slow of reviving. + </p> + <p> + “You are very, very lovely, Sidney. I wonder if you have any idea what you + mean to me?” + </p> + <p> + “You meant a great deal to me, too,” she said frankly, “until a few days + ago. I thought you were the greatest man I had ever known, and the best. + And then—I think I'd better tell you what I overheard. I didn't try + to hear. It just happened that way.” + </p> + <p> + He listened doggedly to her account of the hospital gossip, doggedly and + with a sinking sense of fear, not of the talk, but of Carlotta herself. + Usually one might count on the woman's silence, her instinct for + self-protection. But Carlotta was different. Damn the girl, anyhow! She + had known from the start that the affair was a temporary one; he had never + pretended anything else. + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment after Sidney finished. Then: + </p> + <p> + “You are not a child any longer, Sidney. You have learned a great deal in + this last year. One of the things you know is that almost every man has + small affairs, many of them sometimes, before he finds the woman he wants + to marry. When he finds her, the others are all off—there's nothing + to them. It's the real thing then, instead of the sham.” + </p> + <p> + “Palmer was very much in love with Christine, and yet—” + </p> + <p> + “Palmer is a cad.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want you to think I'm making terms. I'm not. But if this thing + went on, and I found out afterward that you—that there was anyone + else, it would kill me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you care, after all!” + </p> + <p> + There was something boyish in his triumph, in the very gesture with which + he held out his arms, like a child who has escaped a whipping. He stood up + and, catching her hands, drew her to her feet. “You love me, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I do, Max.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'm yours, and only yours, if you want me,” he said, and took her in + his arms. + </p> + <p> + He was riotously happy, must hold her off for the joy of drawing her to + him again, must pull off her gloves and kiss her soft bare palms. + </p> + <p> + “I love you, love you!” he cried, and bent down to bury his face in the + warm hollow of her neck. + </p> + <p> + Sidney glowed under his caresses—was rather startled at his passion, + a little ashamed. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me you love me a little bit. Say it.” + </p> + <p> + “I love you,” said Sidney, and flushed scarlet. + </p> + <p> + But even in his arms, with the warm sunlight on his radiant face, with his + lips to her ear, whispering the divine absurdities of passion, in the back + of her obstinate little head was the thought that, while she had given him + her first embrace, he had held other women in his arms. It made her + passive, prevented her complete surrender. + </p> + <p> + And after a time he resented it. “You are only letting me love you,” he + complained. “I don't believe you care, after all.” + </p> + <p> + He freed her, took a step back from her. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I am jealous,” she said simply. “I keep thinking of—of + Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it help any if I swear that that is off absolutely?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be absurd. It is enough to have you say so.” + </p> + <p> + But he insisted on swearing, standing with one hand upraised, his eyes on + her. The Sunday landscape was very still, save for the hum of busy insect + life. A mile or so away, at the foot of two hills, lay a white farmhouse + with its barn and outbuildings. In a small room in the barn a woman sat; + and because it was Sunday, and she could not sew, she read her Bible. + </p> + <p> + “—and that after this there will be only one woman for me,” finished + Max, and dropped his hand. He bent over and kissed Sidney on the lips. + </p> + <p> + At the white farmhouse, a little man stood in the doorway and surveyed the + road with eyes shaded by a shirt-sleeved arm. Behind him, in a darkened + room, a barkeeper was wiping the bar with a clean cloth. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'll go and get my coat on, Bill,” said the little man heavily. + “They're starting to come now. I see a machine about a mile down the + road.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney broke the news of her engagement to K. herself, the evening of the + same day. The little house was quiet when she got out of the car at the + door. Harriet was asleep on the couch at the foot of her bed, and + Christine's rooms were empty. She found Katie on the back porch, mountains + of Sunday newspapers piled around her. + </p> + <p> + “I'd about give you up,” said Katie. “I was thinking, rather than see your + ice-cream that's left from dinner melt and go to waste, I'd take it around + to the Rosenfelds.” + </p> + <p> + “Please take it to them. I'd really rather they had it.” + </p> + <p> + She stood in front of Katie, drawing off her gloves. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Harriet's asleep. Is—is Mr. Le Moyne around?” + </p> + <p> + “You're gettin' prettier every day, Miss Sidney. Is that the blue suit + Miss Harriet said she made for you? It's right stylish. I'd like to see + the back.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney obediently turned, and Katie admired. + </p> + <p> + “When I think how things have turned out!” she reflected. “You in a + hospital, doing God knows what for all sorts of people, and Miss Harriet + making a suit like that and asking a hundred dollars for it, and that tony + that a person doesn't dare to speak to her when she's in the dining-room. + And your poor ma...well, it's all in a lifetime! No; Mr. K.'s not here. He + and Mrs. Howe are gallivanting around together.” + </p> + <p> + “Katie!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's what I call it. I'm not blind. Don't I hear her dressing up + about four o'clock every afternoon, and, when she's all ready, sittin' in + the parlor with the door open, and a book on her knee, as if she'd been + reading all afternoon? If he doesn't stop, she's at the foot of the + stairs, calling up to him. 'K.,' she says, 'K., I'm waiting to ask you + something!' or, 'K., wouldn't you like a cup of tea?' She's always feedin' + him tea and cake, so that when he comes to table he won't eat honest + victuals.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney had paused with one glove half off. Katie's tone carried + conviction. Was life making another of its queer errors, and were + Christine and K. in love with each other? K. had always been HER friend, + HER confidant. To give him up to Christine—she shook herself + impatiently. What had come over her? Why not be glad that he had some sort + of companionship? + </p> + <p> + She went upstairs to the room that had been her mother's, and took off her + hat. She wanted to be alone, to realize what had happened to her. She did + not belong to herself any more. It gave her an odd, lost feeling. She was + going to be married—not very soon, but ultimately. A year ago her + half promise to Joe had gratified her sense of romance. She was loved, and + she had thrilled to it. + </p> + <p> + But this was different. Marriage, that had been but a vision then, loomed + large, almost menacing. She had learned the law of compensation: that for + every joy one pays in suffering. Women who married went down into the + valley of death for their children. One must love and be loved very + tenderly to pay for that. The scale must balance. + </p> + <p> + And there were other things. Women grew old, and age was not always + lovely. This very maternity—was it not fatal to beauty? Visions of + child-bearing women in the hospitals, with sagging breasts and relaxed + bodies, came to her. That was a part of the price. + </p> + <p> + Harriet was stirring, across the hall. Sidney could hear her moving about + with flat, inelastic steps. + </p> + <p> + That was the alternative. One married, happily or not as the case might + be, and took the risk. Or one stayed single, like Harriet, growing a + little hard, exchanging slimness for leanness and austerity of figure, + flat-chested, thin-voiced. One blossomed and withered, then, or one + shriveled up without having flowered. All at once it seemed very terrible + to her. She felt as if she had been caught in an inexorable hand that had + closed about her. + </p> + <p> + Harriet found her a little later, face down on her mother's bed, crying as + if her heart would break. She scolded her roundly. + </p> + <p> + “You've been overworking,” she said. “You've been getting thinner. Your + measurements for that suit showed it. I have never approved of this + hospital training, and after last January—” + </p> + <p> + She could hardly credit her senses when Sidney, still swollen with + weeping, told her of her engagement. + </p> + <p> + “But I don't understand. If you care for him and he has asked you to marry + him, why on earth are you crying your eyes out?” + </p> + <p> + “I do care. I don't know why I cried. It just came over me, all at once, + that I—It was just foolishness. I am very happy, Aunt Harriet.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet thought she understood. The girl needed her mother, and she, + Harriet, was a hard, middle-aged woman and a poor substitute. She patted + Sidney's moist hand. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I understand,” she said. “I'll attend to your wedding things, + Sidney. We'll show this street that even Christine Lorenz can be outdone.” + And, as an afterthought: “I hope Max Wilson will settle down now. He's + been none too steady.” + </p> + <p> + K. had taken Christine to see Tillie that Sunday afternoon. Palmer had the + car out—had, indeed, not been home since the morning of the previous + day. He played golf every Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the Country + Club, and invariably spent the night there. So K. and Christine walked + from the end of the trolley line, saying little, but under K.'s keen + direction finding bright birds in the hedgerows, hidden field flowers, a + dozen wonders of the country that Christine had never dreamed of. + </p> + <p> + The interview with Tillie had been a disappointment to K. Christine, with + the best and kindliest intentions, struck a wrong note. In her endeavor to + cover the fact that everything in Tillie's world was wrong, she fell into + the error of pretending that everything was right. + </p> + <p> + Tillie, grotesque of figure and tragic-eyed, listened to her patiently, + while K. stood, uneasy and uncomfortable, in the wide door of the hay-barn + and watched automobiles turning in from the road. When Christine rose to + leave, she confessed her failure frankly. + </p> + <p> + “I've meant well, Tillie,” she said. “I'm afraid I've said exactly what I + shouldn't. I can only think that, no matter what is wrong, two wonderful + pieces of luck have come to you. Your husband—that is, Mr. Schwitter—cares + for you,—you admit that,—and you are going to have a child.” + </p> + <p> + Tillie's pale eyes filled. + </p> + <p> + “I used to be a good woman, Mrs. Howe,” she said simply. “Now I'm not. + When I look in that glass at myself, and call myself what I am, I'd give a + good bit to be back on the Street again.” + </p> + <p> + She found opportunity for a word with K. while Christine went ahead of him + out of the barn. + </p> + <p> + “I've been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Le Moyne.” She lowered her voice. + “Joe Drummond's been coming out here pretty regular. Schwitter says he's + drinking a little. He don't like him loafing around here: he sent him home + last Sunday. What's come over the boy?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll talk to him.” + </p> + <p> + “The barkeeper says he carries a revolver around, and talks wild. I + thought maybe Sidney Page could do something with him.” + </p> + <p> + “I think he'd not like her to know. I'll do what I can.” + </p> + <p> + K.'s face was thoughtful as he followed Christine to the road. + </p> + <p> + Christine was very silent, on the way back to the city. More than once K. + found her eyes fixed on him, and it puzzled him. Poor Christine was only + trying to fit him into the world she knew—a world whose men were + strong but seldom tender, who gave up their Sundays to golf, not to + visiting unhappy outcasts in the country. How masculine he was, and yet + how gentle! It gave her a choking feeling in her throat. She took + advantage of a steep bit of road to stop and stand a moment, her fingers + on his shabby gray sleeve. + </p> + <p> + It was late when they got home. Sidney was sitting on the low step, + waiting for them. + </p> + <p> + Wilson had come across at seven, impatient because he must see a case that + evening, and promising an early return. In the little hall he had drawn + her to him and kissed her, this time not on the lips, but on the forehead + and on each of her white eyelids. + </p> + <p> + “Little wife-to-be!” he had said, and was rather ashamed of his own + emotion. From across the Street, as he got into his car, he had waved his + hand to her. + </p> + <p> + Christine went to her room, and, with a long breath of content, K. folded + up his long length on the step below Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear ministering angel,” he said, “how goes the world?” + </p> + <p> + “Things have been happening, K.” + </p> + <p> + He sat erect and looked at her. Perhaps because she had a woman's instinct + for making the most of a piece of news, perhaps—more likely, indeed—because + she divined that the announcement would not be entirely agreeable, she + delayed it, played with it. + </p> + <p> + “I have gone into the operating-room.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine!” + </p> + <p> + “The costume is ugly. I look hideous in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Doubtless.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled up at her. There was relief in his eyes, and still a question. + </p> + <p> + “Is that all the news?” + </p> + <p> + “There is something else, K.” + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before he spoke. He sat looking ahead, his face set. + Apparently he did not wish to hear her say it; for when, after a moment, + he spoke, it was to forestall her, after all. + </p> + <p> + “I think I know what it is, Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “You expected it, didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I—it's not an entire surprise.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you going to wish me happiness?” + </p> + <p> + “If my wishing could bring anything good to you, you would have everything + in the world.” + </p> + <p> + His voice was not entirely steady, but his eyes smiled into hers. + </p> + <p> + “Am I—are we going to lose you soon?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall finish my training. I made that a condition.” + </p> + <p> + Then, in a burst of confidence:— + </p> + <p> + “I know so little, K., and he knows so much! I am going to read and study, + so that he can talk to me about his work. That's what marriage ought to + be, a sort of partnership. Don't you think so?” + </p> + <p> + K. nodded. His mind refused to go forward to the unthinkable future. + Instead, he was looking back—back to those days when he had hoped + sometime to have a wife to talk to about his work, that beloved work that + was no longer his. And, finding it agonizing, as indeed all thought was + that summer night, he dwelt for a moment on that evening, a year before, + when in the same June moonlight, he had come up the Street and had seen + Sidney where she was now, with the tree shadows playing over her. + </p> + <p> + Even that first evening he had been jealous. + </p> + <p> + It had been Joe then. Now it was another and older man, daring, + intelligent, unscrupulous. And this time he had lost her absolutely, lost + her without a struggle to keep her. His only struggle had been with + himself, to remember that he had nothing to offer but failure. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” said Sidney suddenly, “that it is almost a year since that + night you came up the Street, and I was here on the steps?” + </p> + <p> + “That's a fact, isn't it!” He managed to get some surprise into his voice. + </p> + <p> + “How Joe objected to your coming! Poor Joe!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever see him?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly ever now. I think he hates me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—well, you know, K. Why do men always hate a woman who just + happens not to love them?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe they do. It would be much better for them if they could. + As a matter of fact, there are poor devils who go through life trying to + do that very thing, and failing.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney's eyes were on the tall house across. It was Dr. Ed's evening + office hour, and through the open window she could see a line of people + waiting their turn. They sat immobile, inert, doggedly patient, until the + opening of the back office door promoted them all one chair toward the + consulting-room. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be just across the Street,” she said at last. “Nearer than I am + at the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + “You will be much farther away. You will be married.” + </p> + <p> + “But we will still be friends, K.?” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was anxious, a little puzzled. She was often puzzled with him. + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + But, after another silence, he astounded her. She had fallen into the way + of thinking of him as always belonging to the house, even, in a sense, + belonging to her. And now— + </p> + <p> + “Shall you mind very much if I tell you that I am thinking of going away?” + </p> + <p> + “K.!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, you do not need a roomer here any more. I have always + received infinitely more than I have paid for, even in the small services + I have been able to render. Your Aunt Harriet is prosperous. You are away, + and some day you are going to be married. Don't you see—I am not + needed?” + </p> + <p> + “That does not mean you are not wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not go far. I'll always be near enough, so that I can see you”—he + changed this hastily—“so that we can still meet and talk things + over. Old friends ought to be like that, not too near, but to be turned on + when needed, like a tap.” + </p> + <p> + “Where will you go?” + </p> + <p> + “The Rosenfelds are rather in straits. I thought of helping them to get a + small house somewhere and of taking a room with them. It's largely a + matter of furniture. If they could furnish it even plainly, it could be + done. I—haven't saved anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever think of yourself?” she cried. “Have you always gone through + life helping people, K.? Save anything! I should think not! You spend it + all on others.” She bent over and put her hand on his shoulder. “It will + not be home without you, K.” + </p> + <p> + To save him, he could not have spoken just then. A riot of rebellion + surged up in him, that he must let this best thing in his life go out of + it. To go empty of heart through the rest of his days, while his very arms + ached to hold her! And she was so near—just above, with her hand on + his shoulder, her wistful face so close that, without moving, he could + have brushed her hair. + </p> + <p> + “You have not wished me happiness, K. Do you remember, when I was going to + the hospital and you gave me the little watch—do you remember what + you said?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes”—huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Will you say it again?” + </p> + <p> + “But that was good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't this, in a way? You are going to leave us, and I—say it, K.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, dear, and—God bless you.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + The announcement of Sidney's engagement was not to be made for a year. + Wilson, chafing under the delay, was obliged to admit to himself that it + was best. Many things could happen in a year. Carlotta would have finished + her training, and by that time would probably be reconciled to the ending + of their relationship. + </p> + <p> + He intended to end that. He had meant every word of what he had sworn to + Sidney. He was genuinely in love, even unselfishly—as far as he + could be unselfish. The secret was to be carefully kept also for Sidney's + sake. The hospital did not approve of engagements between nurses and the + staff. It was disorganizing, bad for discipline. + </p> + <p> + Sidney was very happy all that summer. She glowed with pride when her + lover put through a difficult piece of work; flushed and palpitated when + she heard his praises sung; grew to know, by a sort of intuition, when he + was in the house. She wore his ring on a fine chain around her neck, and + grew prettier every day. + </p> + <p> + Once or twice, however, when she was at home, away from the glamour, her + early fears obsessed her. Would he always love her? He was so handsome and + so gifted, and there were women who were mad about him. That was the + gossip of the hospital. Suppose she married him and he tired of her? In + her humility she thought that perhaps only her youth, and such charm as + she had that belonged to youth, held him. And before her, always, she saw + the tragic women of the wards. + </p> + <p> + K. had postponed his leaving until fall. Sidney had been insistent, and + Harriet had topped the argument in her businesslike way. “If you insist on + being an idiot and adopting the Rosenfeld family,” she said, “wait until + September. The season for boarders doesn't begin until fall.” + </p> + <p> + So K. waited for “the season,” and ate his heart out for Sidney in the + interval. + </p> + <p> + Johnny Rosenfeld still lay in his ward, inert from the waist down. K. was + his most frequent visitor. As a matter of fact, he was watching the boy + closely, at Max Wilson's request. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me when I'm to do it,” said Wilson, “and when the time comes, for + God's sake, stand by me. Come to the operation. He's got so much + confidence that I'll help him that I don't dare to fail.” + </p> + <p> + So K. came on visiting days, and, by special dispensation, on Saturday + afternoons. He was teaching the boy basket-making. Not that he knew + anything about it himself; but, by means of a blind teacher, he kept just + one lesson ahead. The ward was intensely interested. It found something + absurd and rather touching in this tall, serious young man with the + surprisingly deft fingers, tying raffia knots. + </p> + <p> + The first basket went, by Johnny's request, to Sidney Page. + </p> + <p> + “I want her to have it,” he said. “She got corns on her fingers from + rubbing me when I came in first; and, besides—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said K. He was tying a most complicated knot, and could not look + up. + </p> + <p> + “I know something,” said Johnny. “I'm not going to get in wrong by + talking, but I know something. You give her the basket.” + </p> + <p> + K. looked up then, and surprised Johnny's secret in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If I'd squealed she'd have finished me for good. They've got me, you + know. I'm not running in 2.40 these days.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not tell, or make it uncomfortable for you. What do you know?” + </p> + <p> + Johnny looked around. The ward was in the somnolence of mid-afternoon. The + nearest patient, a man in a wheel-chair, was snoring heavily. + </p> + <p> + “It was the dark-eyed one that changed the medicine on me,” he said. “The + one with the heels that were always tapping around, waking me up. She did + it; I saw her.” + </p> + <p> + After all, it was only what K. had suspected before. But a sense of + impending danger to Sidney obsessed him. If Carlotta would do that, what + would she do when she learned of the engagement? And he had known her + before. He believed she was totally unscrupulous. The odd coincidence of + their paths crossing again troubled him. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta Harrison was well again, and back on duty. Luckily for Sidney, + her three months' service in the operating-room kept them apart. For + Carlotta was now not merely jealous. She found herself neglected, ignored. + It ate her like a fever. + </p> + <p> + But she did not yet suspect an engagement. It had been her theory that + Wilson would not marry easily—that, in a sense, he would have to be + coerced into marriage. Some clever woman would marry him some day, and no + one would be more astonished than himself. She thought merely that Sidney + was playing a game like her own, with different weapons. So she planned + her battle, ignorant that she had lost already. + </p> + <p> + Her method was simple enough. She stopped sulking, met Max with smiles, + made no overtures toward a renewal of their relations. At first this + annoyed him. Later it piqued him. To desert a woman was justifiable, under + certain circumstances. But to desert a woman, and have her apparently not + even know it, was against the rules of the game. + </p> + <p> + During a surgical dressing in a private room, one day, he allowed his + fingers to touch hers, as on that day a year before when she had taken + Miss Simpson's place in his office. He was rewarded by the same slow, + smouldering glance that had caught his attention before. So she was only + acting indifference! + </p> + <p> + Then Carlotta made her second move. A new interne had come into the house, + and was going through the process of learning that from a senior at the + medical school to a half-baked junior interne is a long step back. He had + to endure the good-humored contempt of the older men, the patronizing + instructions of nurses as to rules. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta alone treated him with deference. His uneasy rounds in Carlotta's + precinct took on the state and form of staff visitations. She flattered, + cajoled, looked up to him. + </p> + <p> + After a time it dawned on Wilson that this junior cub was getting more + attention than himself: that, wherever he happened to be, somewhere in the + offing would be Carlotta and the Lamb, the latter eyeing her with worship. + Her indifference had only piqued him. The enthroning of a successor galled + him. Between them, the Lamb suffered mightily—was subject to + frequent “bawling out,” as he termed it, in the operating-room as he + assisted the anaesthetist. He took his troubles to Carlotta, who soothed + him in the corridor—in plain sight of her quarry, of course—by + putting a sympathetic hand on his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + Then, one day, Wilson was goaded to speech. + </p> + <p> + “For the love of Heaven, Carlotta,” he said impatiently, “stop making love + to that wretched boy. He wriggles like a worm if you look at him.” + </p> + <p> + “I like him. He is thoroughly genuine. I respect him, and—he + respects me.” + </p> + <p> + “It's rather a silly game, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “What game?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I don't understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you do. I—I don't really care a lot about him, Max. But + I've been down-hearted. He cheers me up.” + </p> + <p> + Her attraction for him was almost gone—not quite. He felt rather + sorry for her. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry. Then you are not angry with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Angry? No.” She lifted her eyes to his, and for once she was not acting. + “I knew it would end, of course. I have lost a—a lover. I expected + that. But I wanted to keep a friend.” + </p> + <p> + It was the right note. Why, after all, should he not be her friend? He had + treated her cruelly, hideously. If she still desired his friendship, there + was no disloyalty to Sidney in giving it. And Carlotta was very careful. + Not once again did she allow him to see what lay in her eyes. She told him + of her worries. Her training was almost over. She had a chance to take up + institutional work. She abhorred the thought of private duty. What would + he advise? + </p> + <p> + The Lamb was hovering near, hot eyes on them both. It was no place to + talk. + </p> + <p> + “Come to the office and we'll talk it over.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like to go there; Miss Simpson is suspicious.” + </p> + <p> + The institution she spoke of was in another city. It occurred to Wilson + that if she took it the affair would have reached a graceful and + legitimate end. + </p> + <p> + Also, the thought of another stolen evening alone with her was not + unpleasant. It would be the last, he promised himself. After all, it was + owing to her. He had treated her badly. + </p> + <p> + Sidney would be at a lecture that night. The evening loomed temptingly + free. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you meet me at the old corner,” he said carelessly, eyes on the + Lamb, who was forgetting that he was only a junior interne and was glaring + ferociously. “We'll run out into the country and talk things over.” + </p> + <p> + She demurred, with her heart beating triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of going back to that? It's over, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Her objection made him determined. When at last she had yielded, and he + made his way down to the smoking-room, it was with the feeling that he had + won a victory. + </p> + <p> + K. had been uneasy all that day; his ledgers irritated him. He had been + sleeping badly since Sidney's announcement of her engagement. At five + o'clock, when he left the office, he found Joe Drummond waiting outside on + the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “Mother said you'd been up to see me a couple of times. I thought I'd come + around.” + </p> + <p> + K. looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say to a walk?” + </p> + <p> + “Not out in the country. I'm not as muscular as you are. I'll go about + town for a half-hour or so.” + </p> + <p> + Thus forestalled, K. found his subject hard to lead up to. But here again + Joe met him more than halfway. + </p> + <p> + “Well, go on,” he said, when they found themselves in the park; “I don't + suppose you were paying a call.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I know what you are going to say.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to preach, if you're expecting that. Ordinarily, if a man + insists on making a fool of himself, I let him alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Why make an exception of me?” + </p> + <p> + “One reason is that I happen to like you. The other reason is that, + whether you admit it or not, you are acting like a young idiot, and are + putting the responsibility on the shoulders of some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “She is responsible, isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. How old are you, Joe?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-three, almost.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. You are a man, and you are acting like a bad boy. It's a + disappointment to me. It's more than that to Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “Much she cares! She's going to marry Wilson, isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no announcement of any engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “She is, and you know it. Well, she'll be happy—not! If I'd go to + her to-night and tell her what I know, she'd never see him again.” The + idea, thus born in his overwrought brain, obsessed him. He returned to it + again and again. Le Moyne was uneasy. He was not certain that the boy's + statement had any basis in fact. His single determination was to save + Sidney from any pain. + </p> + <p> + When Joe suddenly announced his inclination to go out into the country + after all, he suspected a ruse to get rid of him, and insisted on going + along. Joe consented grudgingly. + </p> + <p> + “Car's at Bailey's garage,” he said sullenly. “I don't know when I'll get + back.” + </p> + <p> + “That won't matter.” K.'s tone was cheerful. “I'm not sleeping, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + That passed unnoticed until they were on the highroad, with the car + running smoothly between yellowing fields of wheat. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “So you've got it too!” he said. “We're a fine pair of fools. We'd both be + better off if I sent the car over a bank.” + </p> + <p> + He gave the wheel a reckless twist, and Le Moyne called him to time + sternly. + </p> + <p> + They had supper at the White Springs Hotel—not on the terrace, but + in the little room where Carlotta and Wilson had taken their first meal + together. K. ordered beer for them both, and Joe submitted with bad grace. + </p> + <p> + But the meal cheered and steadied him. K. found him more amenable to + reason, and, gaining his confidence, learned of his desire to leave the + city. + </p> + <p> + “I'm stuck here,” he said. “I'm the only one, and mother yells blue murder + when I talk about it. I want to go to Cuba. My uncle owns a farm down + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I can talk your mother over. I've been there.” + </p> + <p> + Joe was all interest. His dilated pupils became more normal, his restless + hands grew quiet. K.'s even voice, the picture he drew of life on the + island, the stillness of the little hotel in its mid-week dullness, seemed + to quiet the boy's tortured nerves. He was nearer to peace than he had + been for many days. But he smoked incessantly, lighting one cigarette from + another. + </p> + <p> + At ten o'clock he left K. and went for the car. He paused for a moment, + rather sheepishly, by K.'s chair. + </p> + <p> + “I'm feeling a lot better,” he said. “I haven't got the band around my + head. You talk to mother.” + </p> + <p> + That was the last K. saw of Joe Drummond until the next day. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> + <p> + Carlotta dressed herself with unusual care—not in black this time, + but in white. She coiled her yellow hair in a soft knot at the back of her + head, and she resorted to the faintest shading of rouge. She intended to + be gay, cheerful. The ride was to be a bright spot in Wilson's memory. He + expected recriminations; she meant to make him happy. That was the secret + of the charm some women had for men. They went to such women to forget + their troubles. She set the hour of their meeting at nine, when the late + dusk of summer had fallen; and she met him then, smiling, a faintly + perfumed white figure, slim and young, with a thrill in her voice that was + only half assumed. + </p> + <p> + “It's very late,” he complained. “Surely you are not going to be back at + ten.” + </p> + <p> + “I have special permission to be out late.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” And then, recollecting their new situation: “We have a lot to talk + over. It will take time.” + </p> + <p> + At the White Springs Hotel they stopped to fill the gasolene tank of the + car. Joe Drummond saw Wilson there, in the sheet-iron garage alongside of + the road. The Wilson car was in the shadow. It did not occur to Joe that + the white figure in the car was not Sidney. He went rather white, and + stepped out of the zone of light. The influence of Le Moyne was still on + him, however, and he went on quietly with what he was doing. But his hands + shook as he filled the radiator. + </p> + <p> + When Wilson's car had gone on, he went automatically about his + preparations for the return trip—lifted a seat cushion to + investigate his own store of gasolene, replacing carefully the revolver he + always carried under the seat and packed in waste to prevent its + accidental discharge, lighted his lamps, examined a loose brake-band. + </p> + <p> + His coolness gratified him. He had been an ass: Le Moyne was right. He'd + get away—to Cuba if he could—and start over again. He would + forget the Street and let it forget him. + </p> + <p> + The men in the garage were talking. + </p> + <p> + “To Schwitter's, of course,” one of them grumbled. “We might as well go + out of business.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no money in running a straight place. Schwitter and half a dozen + others are getting rich.” + </p> + <p> + “That was Wilson, the surgeon in town. He cut off my brother-in-law's leg—charged + him as much as if he had grown a new one for him. He used to come here. + Now he goes to Schwitter's, like the rest. Pretty girl he had with him. + You can bet on Wilson.” + </p> + <p> + So Max Wilson was taking Sidney to Schwitter's, making her the butt of + garage talk! The smiles of the men were evil. Joe's hands grew cold, his + head hot. A red mist spread between him and the line of electric lights. + He knew Schwitter's, and he knew Wilson. + </p> + <p> + He flung himself into his car and threw the throttle open. The car jerked, + stalled. + </p> + <p> + “You can't start like that, son,” one of the men remonstrated. “You let + 'er in too fast.” + </p> + <p> + “You go to hell!” Joe snarled, and made a second ineffectual effort. + </p> + <p> + Thus adjured, the men offered neither further advice nor assistance. The + minutes went by in useless cranking—fifteen. The red mist grew + heavier. Every lamp was a danger signal. But when K., growing uneasy, came + out into the yard, the engine had started at last. He was in time to see + Joe run his car into the road and turn it viciously toward Schwitter's. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta's nearness was having its calculated effect on Max Wilson. His + spirits rose as the engine, marking perfect time, carried them along the + quiet roads. + </p> + <p> + Partly it was reaction—relief that she should be so reasonable, so + complaisant—and a sort of holiday spirit after the day's hard work. + Oddly enough, and not so irrational as may appear, Sidney formed a part of + the evening's happiness—that she loved him; that, back in the + lecture-room, eyes and even mind on the lecturer, her heart was with him. + </p> + <p> + So, with Sidney the basis of his happiness, he made the most of his + evening's freedom. He sang a little in his clear tenor—even, once + when they had slowed down at a crossing, bent over audaciously and kissed + Carlotta's hand in the full glare of a passing train. + </p> + <p> + “How reckless of you!” + </p> + <p> + “I like to be reckless,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + His boyishness annoyed Carlotta. She did not want the situation to get out + of hand. Moreover, what was so real for her was only too plainly a lark + for him. She began to doubt her power. + </p> + <p> + The hopelessness of her situation was dawning on her. Even when the touch + of her beside him and the solitude of the country roads got in his blood, + and he bent toward her, she found no encouragement in his words:—“I + am mad about you to-night.” + </p> + <p> + She took her courage in her hands:—“Then why give me up for some one + else?” + </p> + <p> + “That's—different.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is it different? I am a woman. I—I love you, Max. No one else + will ever care as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “You are in love with the Lamb!” + </p> + <p> + “That was a trick. I'm sorry, Max. I don't care for anyone else in the + world. If you let me go I'll want to die.” + </p> + <p> + Then, as he was silent:— + </p> + <p> + “If you'll marry me, I'll be true to you all my life. I swear it. There + will be nobody else, ever.” + </p> + <p> + The sense, if not the words, of what he had sworn to Sidney that Sunday + afternoon under the trees, on this very road! Swift shame overtook him, + that he should be here, that he had allowed Carlotta to remain in + ignorance of how things really stood between them. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, Carlotta. It's impossible. I'm engaged to marry some one + else.” + </p> + <p> + “Sidney Page?”—almost a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He was ashamed at the way she took the news. If she had stormed or wept, + he would have known what to do. But she sat still, not speaking. + </p> + <p> + “You must have expected it, sooner or later.” + </p> + <p> + Still she made no reply. He thought she might faint, and looked at her + anxiously. Her profile, indistinct beside him, looked white and drawn. But + Carlotta was not fainting. She was making a desperate plan. If their + escapade became known, it would end things between Sidney and him. She was + sure of that. She needed time to think it out. It must become known + without any apparent move on her part. If, for instance, she became ill, + and was away from the hospital all night, that might answer. The thing + would be investigated, and who knew— + </p> + <p> + The car turned in at Schwitter's road and drew up before the house. The + narrow porch was filled with small tables, above which hung rows of + electric lights enclosed in Japanese paper lanterns. Midweek, which had + found the White Springs Hotel almost deserted, saw Schwitter's crowded + tables set out under the trees. Seeing the crowd, Wilson drove directly to + the yard and parked his machine. + </p> + <p> + “No need of running any risk,” he explained to the still figure beside + him. “We can walk back and take a table under the trees, away from those + infernal lanterns.” + </p> + <p> + She reeled a little as he helped her out. + </p> + <p> + “Not sick, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm dizzy. I'm all right.” + </p> + <p> + She looked white. He felt a stab of pity for her. She leaned rather + heavily on him as they walked toward the house. The faint perfume that had + almost intoxicated him, earlier, vaguely irritated him now. + </p> + <p> + At the rear of the house she shook off his arm and preceded him around the + building. She chose the end of the porch as the place in which to drop, + and went down like a stone, falling back. + </p> + <p> + There was a moderate excitement. The visitors at Schwitter's were too much + engrossed with themselves to be much interested. She opened her eyes + almost as soon as she fell—to forestall any tests; she was shrewd + enough to know that Wilson would detect her malingering very quickly—and + begged to be taken into the house. “I feel very ill,” she said, and her + white face bore her out. + </p> + <p> + Schwitter and Bill carried her in and up the stairs to one of the newly + furnished rooms. The little man was twittering with anxiety. He had a + horror of knockout drops and the police. They laid her on the bed, her hat + beside her; and Wilson, stripping down the long sleeve of her glove, felt + her pulse. + </p> + <p> + “There's a doctor in the next town,” said Schwitter. “I was going to send + for him, anyhow—my wife's not very well.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it anything serious?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing serious.” + </p> + <p> + He closed the door behind the relieved figure of the landlord, and, going + back to Carlotta, stood looking down at her. + </p> + <p> + “What did you mean by doing that?” + </p> + <p> + “Doing what?” + </p> + <p> + “You were no more faint than I am.” + </p> + <p> + She closed her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I don't remember. Everything went black. The lanterns—” + </p> + <p> + He crossed the room deliberately and went out, closing the door behind + him. He saw at once where he stood—in what danger. If she insisted + that she was ill and unable to go back, there would be a fuss. The story + would come out. Everything would be gone. Schwitter's, of all places! + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the stairs, Schwitter pulled himself together. After all, + the girl was only ill. There was nothing for the police. He looked at his + watch. The doctor ought to be here by this time. It was sooner than they + had expected. Even the nurse had not come. Tillie was alone, out in the + harness-room. He looked through the crowded rooms, at the overflowing + porch with its travesty of pleasure, and he hated the whole thing with a + desperate hatred. + </p> + <p> + Another car. Would they never stop coming! But perhaps it was the doctor. + A young man edged his way into the hall and confronted him. + </p> + <p> + “Two people just arrived here. A man and a woman—in white. Where are + they?” + </p> + <p> + It was trouble then, after all! + </p> + <p> + “Upstairs—first bedroom to the right.” His teeth chattered. Surely, + as a man sowed he reaped. + </p> + <p> + Joe went up the staircase. At the top, on the landing, he confronted + Wilson. He fired at him without a word—saw him fling up his arms and + fall back, striking first the wall, then the floor. + </p> + <p> + The buzz of conversation on the porch suddenly ceased. Joe put his + revolver in his pocket and went quietly down the stairs. The crowd parted + to let him through. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta, crouched in her room, listening, not daring to open the door, + heard the sound of a car as it swung out into the road. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> + <p> + On the evening of the shooting at Schwitter's, there had been a late + operation at the hospital. Sidney, having duly transcribed her lecture + notes and said her prayers, was already asleep when she received the + insistent summons to the operating-room. She dressed again with flying + fingers. These night battles with death roused all her fighting blood. + There were times when she felt as if, by sheer will, she could force + strength, life itself, into failing bodies. Her sensitive nostrils + dilated, her brain worked like a machine. + </p> + <p> + That night she received well-deserved praise. When the Lamb, telephoning + hysterically, had failed to locate the younger Wilson, another staff + surgeon was called. His keen eyes watched Sidney—felt her capacity, + her fiber, so to speak; and, when everything was over, he told her what + was in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Don't wear yourself out, girl,” he said gravely. “We need people like + you. It was good work to-night—fine work. I wish we had more like + you.” + </p> + <p> + By midnight the work was done, and the nurse in charge sent Sidney to bed. + </p> + <p> + It was the Lamb who received the message about Wilson; and because he was + not very keen at the best, and because the news was so startling, he + refused to credit his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this at the 'phone?” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn't matter. Le Moyne's my name. Get the message to Dr. Ed Wilson + at once. We are starting to the city.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me again. I mustn't make a mess of this.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Wilson, the surgeon, has been shot,” came slowly and distinctly. “Get + the staff there and have a room ready. Get the operating-room ready, too.” + </p> + <p> + The Lamb wakened then, and roused the house. He was incoherent, rather, so + that Dr. Ed got the impression that it was Le Moyne who had been shot, and + only learned the truth when he got to the hospital. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” he demanded. He liked K., and his heart was sore within + him. + </p> + <p> + “Not in yet, sir. A Mr. Le Moyne is bringing him. Staff's in the executive + committee room, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “But—who has been shot? I thought you said—” + </p> + <p> + The Lamb turned pale at that, and braced himself. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry—I thought you understood. I believe it's not—not + serious. It's Dr. Max, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed, who was heavy and not very young, sat down on an office chair. Out + of sheer habit he had brought the bag. He put it down on the floor beside + him, and moistened his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Is he living?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, sir. I gathered that Mr. Le Moyne did not think it serious.” + </p> + <p> + He lied, and Dr. Ed knew he lied. + </p> + <p> + The Lamb stood by the door, and Dr. Ed sat and waited. The office clock + said half after three. Outside the windows, the night world went by—taxi-cabs + full of roisterers, women who walked stealthily close to the buildings, a + truck carrying steel, so heavy that it shook the hospital as it rumbled + by. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed sat and waited. The bag with the dog-collar in it was on the floor. + He thought of many things, but mostly of the promise he had made his + mother. And, having forgotten the injured man's shortcomings, he was + remembering his good qualities—his cheerfulness, his courage, his + achievements. He remembered the day Max had done the Edwardes operation, + and how proud he had been of him. He figured out how old he was—not + thirty-one yet, and already, perhaps—There he stopped thinking. Cold + beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “I think I hear them now, sir,” said the Lamb, and stood back respectfully + to let him pass out of the door. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta stayed in the room during the consultation. No one seemed to + wonder why she was there, or to pay any attention to her. The staff was + stricken. They moved back to make room for Dr. Ed beside the bed, and then + closed in again. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta waited, her hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. + Surely they would operate; they wouldn't let him die like that! + </p> + <p> + When she saw the phalanx break up, and realized that they would not + operate, she went mad. She stood against the door, and accused them of + cowardice—taunted them. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he would let any of you die like that?” she cried. “Die like + a hurt dog, and none of you to lift a hand?” + </p> + <p> + It was Pfeiffer who drew her out of the room and tried to talk reason and + sanity to her. + </p> + <p> + “It's hopeless,” he said. “If there was a chance, we'd operate, and you + know it.” + </p> + <p> + The staff went hopelessly down the stairs to the smoking-room, and smoked. + It was all they could do. The night assistant sent coffee down to them, + and they drank it. Dr. Ed stayed in his brother's room, and said to his + mother, under his breath, that he'd tried to do his best by Max, and that + from now on it would be up to her. + </p> + <p> + K. had brought the injured man in. The country doctor had come, too, + finding Tillie's trial not imminent. On the way in he had taken it for + granted that K. was a medical man like himself, and had placed his + hypodermic case at his disposal. + </p> + <p> + When he missed him,—in the smoking-room, that was,—he asked + for him. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see the chap who came in with us,” he said. “Clever fellow. Like + to know his name.” + </p> + <p> + The staff did not know. + </p> + <p> + K. sat alone on a bench in the hall. He wondered who would tell Sidney; he + hoped they would be very gentle with her. He sat in the shadow, waiting. + He did not want to go home and leave her to what she might have to face. + There was a chance she would ask for him. He wanted to be near, in that + case. + </p> + <p> + He sat in the shadow, on the bench. The night watchman went by twice and + stared at him. At last he asked K. to mind the door until he got some + coffee. + </p> + <p> + “One of the staff's been hurt,” he explained. “If I don't get some coffee + now, I won't get any.” + </p> + <p> + K. promised to watch the door. + </p> + <p> + A desperate thing had occurred to Carlotta. Somehow, she had not thought + of it before. Now she wondered how she could have failed to think of it. + If only she could find him and he would do it! She would go down on her + knees—would tell him everything, if only he would consent. + </p> + <p> + When she found him on his bench, however, she passed him by. She had a + terrible fear that he might go away if she put the thing to him first. He + clung hard to his new identity. + </p> + <p> + So first she went to the staff and confronted them. They were men of + courage, only declining to undertake what they considered hopeless work. + The one man among them who might have done the thing with any chance of + success lay stricken. Not one among them but would have given of his best—only + his best was not good enough. + </p> + <p> + “It would be the Edwardes operation, wouldn't it?” demanded Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + The staff was bewildered. There were no rules to cover such conduct on the + part of a nurse. One of them—Pfeiffer again, by chance—replied + rather heavily:— + </p> + <p> + “If any, it would be the Edwardes operation.” + </p> + <p> + “Would Dr. Edwardes himself be able to do anything?” + </p> + <p> + This was going a little far. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. One chance in a thousand, perhaps. But Edwardes is dead. How + did this thing happen, Miss Harrison?” + </p> + <p> + She ignored his question. Her face was ghastly, save for the trace of + rouge; her eyes were red-rimmed. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Edwardes is sitting on a bench in the hall outside!” she announced. + </p> + <p> + Her voice rang out. K. heard her and raised his head. His attitude was + weary, resigned. The thing had come, then! He was to take up the old + burden. The girl had told. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed had sent for Sidney. Max was still unconscious. Ed remembered about + her when, tracing his brother's career from his babyhood to man's estate + and to what seemed now to be its ending, he had remembered that Max was + very fond of Sidney. He had hoped that Sidney would take him and do for + him what he, Ed, had failed to do. + </p> + <p> + So Sidney was summoned. + </p> + <p> + She thought it was another operation, and her spirit was just a little + weary. But her courage was indomitable. She forced her shoes on her tired + feet, and bathed her face in cold water to rouse herself. + </p> + <p> + The night watchman was in the hall. He was fond of Sidney; she always + smiled at him; and, on his morning rounds at six o'clock to waken the + nurses, her voice was always amiable. So she found him in the hall, + holding a cup of tepid coffee. He was old and bleary, unmistakably dirty + too—but he had divined Sidney's romance. + </p> + <p> + “Coffee! For me?” She was astonished. + </p> + <p> + “Drink it. You haven't had much sleep.” + </p> + <p> + She took it obediently, but over the cup her eyes searched his. + </p> + <p> + “There is something wrong, daddy.” + </p> + <p> + That was his name, among the nurses. He had had another name, but it was + lost in the mists of years. + </p> + <p> + “Get it down.” + </p> + <p> + So she finished it, not without anxiety that she might be needed. But + daddy's attentions were for few, and not to be lightly received. + </p> + <p> + “Can you stand a piece of bad news?” + </p> + <p> + Strangely, her first thought was of K. + </p> + <p> + “There has been an accident. Dr. Wilson—” + </p> + <p> + “Which one?” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Max—has been hurt. It ain't much, but I guess you'd like to + know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Downstairs, in Seventeen.” + </p> + <p> + So she went down alone to the room where Dr. Ed sat in a chair, with his + untidy bag beside him on the floor, and his eyes fixed on a straight + figure on the bed. When he saw Sidney, he got up and put his arms around + her. His eyes told her the truth before he told her anything. She hardly + listened to what he said. The fact was all that concerned her—that + her lover was dying there, so near that she could touch him with her hand, + so far away that no voice, no caress of hers, could reach him. + </p> + <p> + The why would come later. Now she could only stand, with Dr. Ed's arms + about her, and wait. + </p> + <p> + “If they would only do something!” Sidney's voice sounded strange to her + ears. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to do.” + </p> + <p> + But that, it seemed, was wrong. For suddenly Sidney's small world, which + had always sedately revolved in one direction, began to move the other + way. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and the staff came in. But where before they had moved + heavily, with drooped heads, now they came quickly, as men with a purpose. + There was a tall man in a white coat with them. He ordered them about like + children, and they hastened to do his will. At first Sidney only knew that + now, at last, they were going to do something—the tall man was going + to do something. He stood with his back to Sidney, and gave orders. + </p> + <p> + The heaviness of inactivity lifted. The room buzzed. The nurses stood by, + while the staff did nurses' work. The senior surgical interne, essaying + assistance, was shoved aside by the senior surgical consultant, and stood + by, aggrieved. + </p> + <p> + It was the Lamb, after all, who brought the news to Sidney. The new + activity had caught Dr. Ed, and she was alone now, her face buried against + the back of a chair. + </p> + <p> + “There'll be something doing now, Miss Page,” he offered. + </p> + <p> + “What are they going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Going after the bullet. Do you know who's going to do it?” + </p> + <p> + His voice echoed the subdued excitement of the room—excitement and + new hope. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever hear of Edwardes, the surgeon?—the Edwardes operation, + you know. Well, he's here. It sounds like a miracle. They found him + sitting on a bench in the hall downstairs.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney raised her head, but she could not see the miraculously found + Edwardes. She could see the familiar faces of the staff, and that other + face on the pillow, and—she gave a little cry. There was K.! How + like him to be there, to be wherever anyone was in trouble! Tears came to + her eyes—the first tears she had shed. + </p> + <p> + As if her eyes had called him, he looked up and saw her. He came toward + her at once. The staff stood back to let him pass, and gazed after him. + The wonder of what had happened was growing on them. + </p> + <p> + K. stood beside Sidney, and looked down at her. Just at first it seemed as + if he found nothing to say. Then: + </p> + <p> + “There's just a chance, Sidney dear. Don't count too much on it.” + </p> + <p> + “I have got to count on it. If I don't, I shall die.” + </p> + <p> + If a shadow passed over his face, no one saw it. + </p> + <p> + “I'll not ask you to go back to your room. If you will wait somewhere + near, I'll see that you have immediate word.” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to the operating-room.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to the operating-room. Somewhere near.” + </p> + <p> + His steady voice controlled her hysteria. But she resented it. She was not + herself, of course, what with strain and weariness. + </p> + <p> + “I shall ask Dr. Edwardes.” + </p> + <p> + He was puzzled for a moment. Then he understood. After all, it was as + well. Whether she knew him as Le Moyne or as Edwardes mattered very + little, after all. The thing that really mattered was that he must try to + save Wilson for her. If he failed—It ran through his mind that if he + failed she might hate him the rest of her life—not for himself, but + for his failure; that, whichever way things went, he must lose. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Edwardes says you are to stay away from the operation, but to remain + near. He—he promises to call you if—things go wrong.” + </p> + <p> + She had to be content with that. + </p> + <p> + Nothing about that night was real to Sidney. She sat in the + anaesthetizing-room, and after a time she knew that she was not alone. + There was somebody else. She realized dully that Carlotta was there, too, + pacing up and down the little room. She was never sure, for instance, + whether she imagined it, or whether Carlotta really stopped before her and + surveyed her with burning eyes. + </p> + <p> + “So you thought he was going to marry you!” said Carlotta—or the + dream. “Well, you see he isn't.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney tried to answer, and failed—or that was the way the dream + went. + </p> + <p> + “If you had enough character, I'd think you did it. How do I know you + didn't follow us, and shoot him as he left the room?” + </p> + <p> + It must have been reality, after all; for Sidney's numbed mind grasped the + essential fact here, and held on to it. He had been out with Carlotta. He + had promised—sworn that this should not happen. It had happened. It + surprised her. It seemed as if nothing more could hurt her. + </p> + <p> + In the movement to and from the operating room, the door stood open for a + moment. A tall figure—how much it looked like K.!—straightened + and held out something in its hand. + </p> + <p> + “The bullet!” said Carlotta in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Then more waiting, a stir of movement in the room beyond the closed door. + Carlotta was standing, her face buried in her hands, against the door. + Sidney suddenly felt sorry for her. She cared a great deal. It must be + tragic to care like that! She herself was not caring much; she was too + numb. + </p> + <p> + Beyond, across the courtyard, was the stable. Before the day of the motor + ambulances, horses had waited there for their summons, eager as fire + horses, heads lifted to the gong. When Sidney saw the outline of the + stable roof, she knew that it was dawn. The city still slept, but the + torturing night was over. And in the gray dawn the staff, looking gray + too, and elderly and weary, came out through the closed door and took + their hushed way toward the elevator. They were talking among themselves. + Sidney, straining her ears, gathered that they had seen a miracle, and + that the wonder was still on them. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta followed them out. + </p> + <p> + Almost on their heels came K. He was in the white coat, and more and more + he looked like the man who had raised up from his work and held out + something in his hand. Sidney's head was aching and confused. + </p> + <p> + She sat there in her chair, looking small and childish. The dawn was + morning now—horizontal rays of sunlight on the stable roof and + across the windowsill of the anaesthetizing-room, where a row of bottles + sat on a clean towel. + </p> + <p> + The tall man—or was it K.?—looked at her, and then reached up + and turned off the electric light. Why, it was K., of course; and he was + putting out the hall light before he went upstairs. When the light was out + everything was gray. She could not see. She slid very quietly out of her + chair, and lay at his feet in a dead faint. + </p> + <p> + K. carried her to the elevator. He held her as he had held her that day at + the park when she fell in the river, very carefully, tenderly, as one + holds something infinitely precious. Not until he had placed her on her + bed did she open her eyes. But she was conscious before that. She was so + tired, and to be carried like that, in strong arms, not knowing where one + was going, or caring— + </p> + <p> + The nurse he had summoned hustled out for aromatic ammonia. Sidney, lying + among her pillows, looked up at K. + </p> + <p> + “How is he?” + </p> + <p> + “A little better. There's a chance, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been so mixed up. All the time I was sitting waiting, I kept + thinking that it was you who were operating! Will he really get well?” + </p> + <p> + “It looks promising.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to thank Dr. Edwardes.” + </p> + <p> + The nurse was a long time getting the ammonia. There was so much to talk + about: that Dr. Max had been out with Carlotta Harrison, and had been shot + by a jealous woman; the inexplicable return to life of the great Edwardes; + and—a fact the nurse herself was willing to vouch for, and that + thrilled the training-school to the core—that this very Edwardes, + newly risen, as it were, and being a miracle himself as well as performing + one, this very Edwardes, carrying Sidney to her bed and putting her down, + had kissed her on her white forehead. + </p> + <p> + The training-school doubted this. How could he know Sidney Page? And, + after all, the nurse had only seen it in the mirror, being occupied at the + time in seeing if her cap was straight. The school, therefore, accepted + the miracle, but refused the kiss. + </p> + <p> + The miracle was no miracle, of course. But something had happened to K. + that savored of the marvelous. His faith in himself was coming back—not + strongly, with a rush, but with all humility. He had been loath to take up + the burden; but, now that he had it, he breathed a sort of inarticulate + prayer to be able to carry it. + </p> + <p> + And, since men have looked for signs since the beginning of time, he too + asked for a sign. Not, of course, that he put it that way, or that he was + making terms with Providence. It was like this: if Wilson got well, he'd + keep on working. He'd feel that, perhaps, after all, this was meant. If + Wilson died—Sidney held out her hand to him. + </p> + <p> + “What should I do without you, K.?” she asked wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “All you have to do is to want me.” + </p> + <p> + His voice was not too steady, and he took her pulse in a most businesslike + way to distract her attention from it. + </p> + <p> + “How very many things you know! You are quite professional about pulses.” + </p> + <p> + Even then he did not tell her. He was not sure, to be frank, that she'd be + interested. Now, with Wilson as he was, was no time to obtrude his own + story. There was time enough for that. + </p> + <p> + “Will you drink some beef tea if I send it to you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not hungry. I will, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “And—will you try to sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Sleep, while he—” + </p> + <p> + “I promise to tell you if there is any change. I shall stay with him.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll try to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + But, as he rose from the chair beside her low bed, she put out her hand to + him. + </p> + <p> + “K.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “He was out with Carlotta. He promised, and he broke his promise.” + </p> + <p> + “There may have been reasons. Suppose we wait until he can explain.” + </p> + <p> + “How can he explain?” And, when he hesitated: “I bring all my troubles to + you, as if you had none. Somehow, I can't go to Aunt Harriet, and of + course mother—Carlotta cares a great deal for him. She said that I + shot him. Does anyone really think that?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Please stop thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “But who did, K.? He had so many friends, and no enemies that I knew of.” + </p> + <p> + Her mind seemed to stagger about in a circle, making little excursions, + but always coming back to the one thing. + </p> + <p> + “Some drunken visitor to the road-house.” + </p> + <p> + He could have killed himself for the words the moment they were spoken. + </p> + <p> + “They were at a road-house?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not just to judge anyone before you hear the story.” + </p> + <p> + She stirred restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “What time is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-past six.” + </p> + <p> + “I must get up and go on duty.” + </p> + <p> + He was glad to be stern with her. He forbade her rising. When the nurse + came in with the belated ammonia, she found K. making an arbitrary ruling, + and Sidney looking up at him mutinously. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Page is not to go on duty to-day. She is to stay in bed until + further orders.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Dr. Edwardes.” + </p> + <p> + The confusion in Sidney's mind cleared away suddenly. K. was Dr. Edwardes! + It was K. who had performed the miracle operation—K. who had dared + and perhaps won! Dear K., with his steady eyes and his long surgeon's + fingers! Then, because she seemed to see ahead as well as back into the + past in that flash that comes to the drowning and to those recovering from + shock, and because she knew that now the little house would no longer be + home to K., she turned her face into her pillow and cried. Her world had + fallen indeed. Her lover was not true and might be dying; her friend would + go away to his own world, which was not the Street. + </p> + <p> + K. left her at last and went back to Seventeen, where Dr. Ed still sat by + the bed. Inaction was telling on him. If Max would only open his eyes, so + he could tell him what had been in his mind all these years—his + pride in him and all that. + </p> + <p> + With a sort of belated desire to make up for where he had failed, he put + the bag that had been Max's bete noir on the bedside table, and began to + clear it of rubbish—odd bits of dirty cotton, the tubing from a long + defunct stethoscope, glass from a broken bottle, a scrap of paper on which + was a memorandum, in his illegible writing, to send Max a check for his + graduating suit. When K. came in, he had the old dog-collar in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Belonged to an old collie of ours,” he said heavily. “Milkman ran over + him and killed him. Max chased the wagon and licked the driver with his + own whip.” + </p> + <p> + His face worked. + </p> + <p> + “Poor old Bobby Burns!” he said. “We'd raised him from a pup. Got him in a + grape-basket.” + </p> + <p> + The sick man opened his eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI + </h2> + <p> + Max had rallied well, and things looked bright for him. His patient did + not need him, but K. was anxious to find Joe; so he telephoned the gas + office and got a day off. The sordid little tragedy was easy to + reconstruct, except that, like Joe, K. did not believe in the innocence of + the excursion to Schwitter's. His spirit was heavy with the conviction + that he had saved Wilson to make Sidney ultimately wretched. + </p> + <p> + For the present, at least, K.'s revealed identity was safe. Hospitals keep + their secrets well. And it is doubtful if the Street would have been + greatly concerned even had it known. It had never heard of Edwardes, of + the Edwardes clinic or the Edwardes operation. Its medical knowledge + comprised the two Wilsons and the osteopath around the corner. When, as + would happen soon, it learned of Max Wilson's injury, it would be more + concerned with his chances of recovery than with the manner of it. That + was as it should be. + </p> + <p> + But Joe's affair with Sidney had been the talk of the neighborhood. If the + boy disappeared, a scandal would be inevitable. Twenty people had seen him + at Schwitter's and would know him again. + </p> + <p> + To save Joe, then, was K.'s first care. + </p> + <p> + At first it seemed as if the boy had frustrated him. He had not been home + all night. Christine, waylaying K. in the little hall, told him that. + “Mrs. Drummond was here,” she said. “She is almost frantic. She says Joe + has not been home all night. She says he looks up to you, and she thought + if you could find him and would talk to him—” + </p> + <p> + “Joe was with me last night. We had supper at the White Springs Hotel. + Tell Mrs. Drummond he was in good spirits, and that she's not to worry. I + feel sure she will hear from him to-day. Something went wrong with his + car, perhaps, after he left me.” + </p> + <p> + He bathed and shaved hurriedly. Katie brought his coffee to his room, and + he drank it standing. He was working out a theory about the boy. Beyond + Schwitter's the highroad stretched, broad and inviting, across the State. + Either he would have gone that way, his little car eating up the miles all + that night, or—K. would not formulate his fear of what might have + happened, even to himself. + </p> + <p> + As he went down the Street, he saw Mrs. McKee in her doorway, with a + little knot of people around her. The Street was getting the night's news. + </p> + <p> + He rented a car at a local garage, and drove himself out into the country. + He was not minded to have any eyes on him that day. He went to Schwitter's + first. Schwitter himself was not in sight. Bill was scrubbing the porch, + and a farmhand was gathering bottles from the grass into a box. The dead + lanterns swung in the morning air, and from back on the hill came the + staccato sounds of a reaping-machine. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Schwitter?” + </p> + <p> + “At the barn with the missus. Got a boy back there.” + </p> + <p> + Bill grinned. He recognized K., and, mopping dry a part of the porch, + shoved a chair on it. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down. Well, how's the man who got his last night? Dead?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “County detectives were here bright and early. After the lady's husband. I + guess we lose our license over this.” + </p> + <p> + “What does Schwitter say?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, him!” Bill's tone was full of disgust. “He hopes we do. He hates the + place. Only man I ever knew that hated money. That's what this house is—money.” + </p> + <p> + “Bill, did you see the man who fired that shot last night?” + </p> + <p> + A sort of haze came over Bill's face, as if he had dropped a curtain + before his eyes. But his reply came promptly: + </p> + <p> + “Surest thing in the world. Close to him as you are to me. Dark man, about + thirty, small mustache—” + </p> + <p> + “Bill, you're lying, and I know it. Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + The barkeeper kept his head, but his color changed. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know anything about him.” He thrust his mop into the pail. K. + rose. + </p> + <p> + “Does Schwitter know?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn't know nothing. He's been out at the barn all night.” + </p> + <p> + The farmhand had filled his box and disappeared around the corner of the + house. K. put his hand on Bill's shirt-sleeved arm. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to get him away from here, Bill.” + </p> + <p> + “Get who away?” + </p> + <p> + “You know. The county men may come back to search the premises.” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know you aren't one of them?” + </p> + <p> + “I guess you know I'm not. He's a friend of mine. As a matter of fact, I + followed him here; but I was too late. Did he take the revolver away with + him?” + </p> + <p> + “I took it from him. It's under the bar.” + </p> + <p> + “Get it for me.” + </p> + <p> + In sheer relief, K.'s spirits rose. After all, it was a good world: Tillie + with her baby in her arms; Wilson conscious and rallying; Joe safe, and, + without the revolver, secure from his own remorse. Other things there + were, too—the feel of Sidney's inert body in his arms, the way she + had turned to him in trouble. It was not what he wanted, this last, but it + was worth while. The reaping-machine was in sight now; it had stopped on + the hillside. The men were drinking out of a bucket that flashed in the + sun. + </p> + <p> + There was one thing wrong. What had come over Wilson, to do so reckless a + thing? K., who was a one-woman man, could not explain it. + </p> + <p> + From inside the bar Bill took a careful survey of Le Moyne. He noted his + tall figure and shabby suit, the slight stoop, the hair graying over his + ears. Barkeepers know men: that's a part of the job. After his survey he + went behind the bar and got the revolver from under an overturned pail. + </p> + <p> + K. thrust it into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” he said quietly, “where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “In my room—top of the house.” + </p> + <p> + K. followed Bill up the stairs. He remembered the day when he had sat + waiting in the parlor, and had heard Tillie's slow step coming down. And + last night he himself had carried down Wilson's unconscious figure. Surely + the wages of sin were wretchedness and misery. None of it paid. No one got + away with it. + </p> + <p> + The room under the eaves was stifling. An unmade bed stood in a corner. + From nails in the rafters hung Bill's holiday wardrobe. A tin cup and a + cracked pitcher of spring water stood on the window-sill. + </p> + <p> + Joe was sitting in the corner farthest from the window. When the door + swung open, he looked up. He showed no interest on seeing K., who had to + stoop to enter the low room. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were the police.” + </p> + <p> + “Not much. Open that window, Bill. This place is stifling.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he dead?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I'd killed him!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you don't. You're damned glad you didn't, and so am I.” + </p> + <p> + “What will they do with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing until they find you. I came to talk about that. They'd better not + find you.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” + </p> + <p> + “It's easier than it sounds.” + </p> + <p> + K. sat down on the bed. + </p> + <p> + “If I only had some money!” he said. “But never mind about that, Joe; I'll + get some.” + </p> + <p> + Loud calls from below took Bill out of the room. As he closed the door + behind him, K.'s voice took on a new tone: “Joe, why did you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “You know.” + </p> + <p> + “You saw him with somebody at the White Springs, and followed them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who was with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and so do you. Don't go into that. I did it, and I'll stand by it.” + </p> + <p> + “Has it occurred to you that you made a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “Go and tell that to somebody who'll believe you!” he sneered. “They came + here and took a room. I met him coming out of it. I'd do it again if I had + a chance, and do it better.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, chuck it!” + </p> + <p> + “It's a fact. I got here not two minutes after you left. The girl was + still there. It was some one else. Sidney was not out of the hospital last + night. She attended a lecture, and then an operation.” + </p> + <p> + Joe listened. It was undoubtedly a relief to him to know that it had not + been Sidney; but if K. expected any remorse, he did not get it. + </p> + <p> + “If he is that sort, he deserves what he got,” said the boy grimly. + </p> + <p> + And K. had no reply. But Joe was glad to talk. The hours he had spent + alone in the little room had been very bitter, and preceded by a time that + he shuddered to remember. K. got it by degrees—his descent of the + staircase, leaving Wilson lying on the landing above; his resolve to walk + back and surrender himself at Schwitter's, so that there could be no + mistake as to who had committed the crime. + </p> + <p> + “I intended to write a confession and then shoot myself,” he told K. “But + the barkeeper got my gun out of my pocket. And—” + </p> + <p> + After a pause: “Does she know who did it?” + </p> + <p> + “Sidney? No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, if he gets better, she'll marry him anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. That's not up to us, Joe. The thing we've got to do is to hush + the thing up, and get you away.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd go to Cuba, but I haven't the money.” + </p> + <p> + K. rose. “I think I can get it.” + </p> + <p> + He turned in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney need never know who did it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not ashamed of it.” But his face showed relief. + </p> + <p> + There are times when some cataclysm tears down the walls of reserve + between men. That time had come for Joe, and to a lesser extent for K. The + boy rose and followed him to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you tell her the whole thing?—the whole filthy story?” he + asked. “She'd never look at him again. You're crazy about her. I haven't + got a chance. It would give you one.” + </p> + <p> + “I want her, God knows!” said K. “But not that way, boy.” + </p> + <p> + Schwitter had taken in five hundred dollars the previous day. + </p> + <p> + “Five hundred gross,” the little man hastened to explain. “But you're + right, Mr. Le Moyne. And I guess it would please HER. It's going hard with + her, just now, that she hasn't any women friends about. It's in the safe, + in cash; I haven't had time to take it to the bank.” He seemed to + apologize to himself for the unbusinesslike proceeding of lending an + entire day's gross receipts on no security. “It's better to get him away, + of course. It's good business. I have tried to have an orderly place. If + they arrest him here—” + </p> + <p> + His voice trailed off. He had come a far way from the day he had walked + down the Street, and eyed its poplars with appraising eyes—a far + way. Now he had a son, and the child's mother looked at him with tragic + eyes. It was arranged that K. should go back to town, returning late that + night to pick up Joe at a lonely point on the road, and to drive him to a + railroad station. But, as it happened, he went back that afternoon. + </p> + <p> + He had told Schwitter he would be at the hospital, and the message found + him there. Wilson was holding his own, conscious now and making a hard + fight. The message from Schwitter was very brief:— + </p> + <p> + “Something has happened, and Tillie wants you. I don't like to trouble you + again, but she—wants you.” + </p> + <p> + K. was rather gray of face by that time, having had no sleep and little + food since the day before. But he got into the rented machine again—its + rental was running up; he tried to forget it—and turned it toward + Hillfoot. But first of all he drove back to the Street, and walked without + ringing into Mrs. McKee's. + </p> + <p> + Neither a year's time nor Mrs. McKee's approaching change of state had + altered the “mealing” house. The ticket-punch still lay on the hat-rack in + the hall. Through the rusty screen of the back parlor window one viewed + the spiraea, still in need of spraying. Mrs. McKee herself was in the + pantry, placing one slice of tomato and three small lettuce leaves on each + of an interminable succession of plates. + </p> + <p> + K., who was privileged, walked back. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a car at the door,” he announced, “and there's nothing so + extravagant as an empty seat in an automobile. Will you take a ride?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McKee agreed. Being of the class who believe a boudoir cap the ideal + headdress for a motor-car, she apologized for having none. + </p> + <p> + “If I'd known you were coming I would have borrowed a cap,” she said. + “Miss Tripp, third floor front, has a nice one. If you'll take me in my + toque—” + </p> + <p> + K. said he'd take her in her toque, and waited with some anxiety, having + not the faintest idea what a toque was. He was not without other + anxieties. What if the sight of Tillie's baby did not do all that he + expected? Good women could be most cruel. And Schwitter had been very + vague. But here K. was more sure of himself: the little man's voice had + expressed as exactly as words the sense of a bereavement that was not a + grief. + </p> + <p> + He was counting on Mrs. McKee's old fondness for the girl to bring them + together. But, as they neared the house with its lanterns and tables, its + whitewashed stones outlining the drive, its small upper window behind + which Joe was waiting for night, his heart failed him, rather. He had a + masculine dislike for meddling, and yet—Mrs. McKee had suddenly seen + the name in the wooden arch over the gate: “Schwitter's.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going in there, Mr. Le Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + “Tillie's not in the house. She's back in the barn.” + </p> + <p> + “In the barn!” + </p> + <p> + “She didn't approve of all that went on there, so she moved out. It's very + comfortable and clean; it smells of hay. You'd be surprised how nice it + is.” + </p> + <p> + “The like of her!” snorted Mrs. McKee. “She's late with her conscience, + I'm thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Last night,” K. remarked, hands on the wheel, but car stopped, “she had a + child there. It—it's rather like very old times, isn't it? A + man-child, Mrs. McKee, not in a manger, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to do?” Mrs. McKee's tone, which had been fierce at + the beginning, ended feebly. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to go in and visit her, as you would any woman who'd had a new + baby and needed a friend. Lie a little—” Mrs. McKee gasped. “Tell + her the baby's pretty. Tell her you've been wanting to see her.” His tone + was suddenly stern. “Lie a little, for your soul's sake.” + </p> + <p> + She wavered, and while she wavered he drove her in under the arch with the + shameful name, and back to the barn. But there he had the tact to remain + in the car, and Mrs. McKee's peace with Tillie was made alone. When, five + minutes later, she beckoned him from the door of the barn, her eyes were + red. + </p> + <p> + “Come in, Mr. K.,” she said. “The wife's dead, poor thing. They're going + to be married right away.” + </p> + <p> + The clergyman was coming along the path with Schwitter at his heels. K. + entered the barn. At the door to Tillie's room he uncovered his head. The + child was asleep at her breast. + </p> + <p> + The five thousand dollar check from Mr. Lorenz had saved Palmer Howe's + credit. On the strength of the deposit, he borrowed a thousand at the bank + with which he meant to pay his bills, arrears at the University and + Country Clubs, a hundred dollars lost throwing aces with poker dice, and + various small obligations of Christine's. + </p> + <p> + The immediate result of the money was good. He drank nothing for a week, + went into the details of the new venture with Christine's father, sat at + home with Christine on her balcony in the evenings. With the knowledge + that he could pay his debts, he postponed the day. He liked the feeling of + a bank account in four figures. + </p> + <p> + The first evening or two Christine's pleasure in having him there + gratified him. He felt kind, magnanimous, almost virtuous. On the third + evening he was restless. It occurred to him that his wife was beginning to + take his presence as a matter of course. He wanted cold bottled beer. When + he found that the ice was out and the beer warm and flat, he was furious. + </p> + <p> + Christine had been making a fight, although her heart was only half in it. + She was resolutely good-humored, ignored the past, dressed for Palmer in + the things he liked. They still took their dinners at the Lorenz house up + the street. When she saw that the haphazard table service there irritated + him, she coaxed her mother into getting a butler. + </p> + <p> + The Street sniffed at the butler behind his stately back. Secretly and in + its heart, it was proud of him. With a half-dozen automobiles, and + Christine Howe putting on low neck in the evenings, and now a butler, not + to mention Harriet Kennedy's Mimi, it ceased to pride itself on its + commonplaceness, ignorant of the fact that in its very lack of affectation + had lain its charm. + </p> + <p> + On the night that Joe shot Max Wilson, Palmer was noticeably restless. He + had seen Grace Irving that day for the first time but once since the motor + accident. To do him justice, his dissipation of the past few months had + not included women. + </p> + <p> + The girl had a strange fascination for him. Perhaps she typified the + care-free days before his marriage; perhaps the attraction was deeper, + fundamental. He met her in the street the day before Max Wilson was shot. + The sight of her walking sedately along in her shop-girl's black dress had + been enough to set his pulses racing. When he saw that she meant to pass + him, he fell into step beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you were going to cut me!” + </p> + <p> + “I was in a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “Still in the store?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” And, after a second's hesitation: “I'm keeping straight, too.” + </p> + <p> + “How are you getting along?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty well. I've had my salary raised.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you have to walk as fast as this?” + </p> + <p> + “I said I was in a hurry. Once a week I get off a little early. I—” + </p> + <p> + He eyed her suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “Early! What for?” + </p> + <p> + “I go to the hospital. The Rosenfeld boy is still there, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + But a moment later he burst out irritably:— + </p> + <p> + “That was an accident, Grace. The boy took the chance when he engaged to + drive the car. I'm sorry, of course. I dream of the little devil + sometimes, lying there. I'll tell you what I'll do,” he added + magnanimously. “I'll stop in and talk to Wilson. He ought to have done + something before this.” + </p> + <p> + “The boy's not strong enough yet. I don't think you can do anything for + him, unless—” + </p> + <p> + The monstrous injustice of the thing overcame her. Palmer and she walking + about, and the boy lying on his hot bed! She choked. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “He worries about his mother. If you could give her some money, it would + help.” + </p> + <p> + “Money! Good Heavens—I owe everybody.” + </p> + <p> + “You owe him too, don't you? He'll never walk again.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't give them ten dollars. I don't see that I'm under any obligation, + anyhow. I paid his board for two months in the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + When she did not acknowledge this generosity,—amounting to + forty-eight dollars,—his irritation grew. Her silence was an + accusation. Her manner galled him, into the bargain. She was too calm in + his presence, too cold. Where she had once palpitated visibly under his + warm gaze, she was now self-possessed and quiet. Where it had pleased his + pride to think that he had given her up, he found that the shoe was on the + other foot. + </p> + <p> + At the entrance to a side street she stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I turn off here.” + </p> + <p> + “May I come and see you sometime?” + </p> + <p> + “No, please.” + </p> + <p> + “That's flat, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is, Palmer.” + </p> + <p> + He swung around savagely and left her. + </p> + <p> + The next day he drew the thousand dollars from the bank. A good many of + his debts he wanted to pay in cash; there was no use putting checks + through, with incriminating indorsements. Also, he liked the idea of + carrying a roll of money around. The big fellows at the clubs always had a + wad and peeled off bills like skin off an onion. He took a couple of + drinks to celebrate his approaching immunity from debt. + </p> + <p> + He played auction bridge that afternoon in a private room at one of the + hotels with the three men he had lunched with. Luck seemed to be with him. + He won eighty dollars, and thrust it loose in his trousers pocket. Money + seemed to bring money! If he could carry the thousand around for a day or + so, something pretty good might come of it. + </p> + <p> + He had been drinking a little all afternoon. When the game was over, he + bought drinks to celebrate his victory. The losers treated, too, to show + they were no pikers. Palmer was in high spirits. He offered to put up the + eighty and throw for it. The losers mentioned dinner and various + engagements. + </p> + <p> + Palmer did not want to go home. Christine would greet him with raised + eyebrows. They would eat a stuffy Lorenz dinner, and in the evening + Christine would sit in the lamplight and drive him mad with soft music. He + wanted lights, noise, the smiles of women. Luck was with him, and he + wanted to be happy. + </p> + <p> + At nine o'clock that night he found Grace. She had moved to a cheap + apartment which she shared with two other girls from the store. The others + were out. It was his lucky day, surely. + </p> + <p> + His drunkenness was of the mind, mostly. His muscles were well controlled. + The lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth were slightly + accentuated, his eyes open a trifle wider than usual. That and a slight + paleness of the nostrils were the only evidences of his condition. But + Grace knew the signs. + </p> + <p> + “You can't come in.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I'm coming in.” + </p> + <p> + She retreated before him, her eyes watchful. Men in his condition were apt + to be as quick with a blow as with a caress. But, having gained his point, + he was amiable. + </p> + <p> + “Get your things on and come out. We can take in a roof-garden.” + </p> + <p> + “I've told you I'm not doing that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + He was ugly in a flash. + </p> + <p> + “You've got somebody else on the string.” + </p> + <p> + “Honestly, no. There—there has never been anybody else, Palmer.” + </p> + <p> + He caught her suddenly and jerked her toward him. + </p> + <p> + “You let me hear of anybody else, and I'll cut the guts out of him!” + </p> + <p> + He held her for a second, his face black and fierce. Then, slowly and + inevitably, he drew her into his arms. He was drunk, and she knew it. But, + in the queer loyalty of her class, he was the only man she had cared for. + She cared now. She took him for that moment, felt his hot kisses on her + mouth, her throat, submitted while his rather brutal hands bruised her + arms in fierce caresses. Then she put him from her resolutely. + </p> + <p> + “Now you're going.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell I'm going!” + </p> + <p> + But he was less steady than he had been. The heat of the little flat + brought more blood to his head. He wavered as he stood just inside the + door. + </p> + <p> + “You must go back to your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn't want me. She's in love with a fellow at the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Palmer, hush!” + </p> + <p> + “Lemme come in and sit down, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + She let him pass her into the sitting-room. He dropped into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “You've turned me down, and now Christine—she thinks I don't know. + I'm no fool; I see a lot of things. I'm no good. I know that I've made her + miserable. But I made a merry little hell for you too, and you don't kick + about it.” + </p> + <p> + “You know that.” + </p> + <p> + She was watching him gravely. She had never seen him just like this. + Nothing else, perhaps, could have shown her so well what a broken reed he + was. + </p> + <p> + “I got you in wrong. You were a good girl before I knew you. You're a good + girl now. I'm not going to do you any harm, I swear it. I only wanted to + take you out for a good time. I've got money. Look here!” He drew out the + roll of bills and showed it to her. Her eyes opened wide. She had never + known him to have much money. + </p> + <p> + “Lots more where that comes from.” + </p> + <p> + A new look flashed into her eyes, not cupidity, but purpose. + </p> + <p> + She was instantly cunning. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you going to give me some of that?” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I want some clothes.” + </p> + <p> + The very drunk have the intuition sometimes of savages or brute beasts. + </p> + <p> + “You lie.” + </p> + <p> + “I want it for Johnny Rosenfeld.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust it back into his pocket, but his hand retained its grasp of it. + </p> + <p> + “That's it,” he complained. “Don't lemme be happy for a minute! Throw it + all up to me!” + </p> + <p> + “You give me that for the Rosenfeld boy, and I'll go out with you.” + </p> + <p> + “If I give you all that, I won't have any money to go out with!” + </p> + <p> + But his eyes were wavering. She could see victory. + </p> + <p> + “Take off enough for the evening.” + </p> + <p> + But he drew himself up. + </p> + <p> + “I'm no piker,” he said largely. “Whole hog or nothing. Take it.” + </p> + <p> + He held it out to her, and from another pocket produced the eighty + dollars, in crushed and wrinkled notes. + </p> + <p> + “It's my lucky day,” he said thickly. “Plenty more where this came from. + Do anything for you. Give it to the little devil. I—” He yawned. + “God, this place is hot!” + </p> + <p> + His head dropped back on his chair; he propped his sagging legs on a + stool. She knew him—knew that he would sleep almost all night. She + would have to make up something to tell the other girls; but no matter—she + could attend to that later. + </p> + <p> + She had never had a thousand dollars in her hands before. It seemed + smaller than that amount. Perhaps he had lied to her. She paused, in + pinning on her hat, to count the bills. It was all there. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII + </h2> + <p> + K. spent all of the evening of that day with Wilson. He was not to go for + Joe until eleven o'clock. The injured man's vitality was standing him in + good stead. He had asked for Sidney and she was at his bedside. Dr. Ed had + gone. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going, Max. The office is full, they tell me,” he said, bending over + the bed. “I'll come in later, and if they'll make me a shakedown, I'll + stay with you to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The answer was faint, broken but distinct. “Get some sleep...I've been a + poor stick...try to do better—” His roving eyes fell on the dog + collar on the stand. He smiled, “Good old Bob!” he said, and put his hand + over Dr. Ed's, as it lay on the bed. + </p> + <p> + K. found Sidney in the room, not sitting, but standing by the window. The + sick man was dozing. One shaded light burned in a far corner. She turned + slowly and met his eyes. It seemed to K. that she looked at him as if she + had never really seen him before, and he was right. Readjustments are + always difficult. + </p> + <p> + Sidney was trying to reconcile the K. she had known so well with this new + K., no longer obscure, although still shabby, whose height had suddenly + become presence, whose quiet was the quiet of infinite power. + </p> + <p> + She was suddenly shy of him, as he stood looking down at her. He saw the + gleam of her engagement ring on her finger. It seemed almost defiant. As + though she had meant by wearing it to emphasize her belief in her lover. + </p> + <p> + They did not speak beyond their greeting, until he had gone over the + record. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “We can't talk here. I want to talk to you, K.” + </p> + <p> + He led the way into the corridor. It was very dim. Far away was the night + nurse's desk, with its lamp, its annunciator, its pile of records. The + passage floor reflected the light on glistening boards. + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking until I am almost crazy, K. And now I know how it + happened. It was Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “The principal thing is, not how it happened, but that he is going to get + well, Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + She stood looking down, twisting her ring around her finger. + </p> + <p> + “Is Joe in any danger?” + </p> + <p> + “We are going to get him away to-night. He wants to go to Cuba. He'll get + off safely, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “WE are going to get him away! YOU are, you mean. You shoulder all our + troubles, K., as if they were your own.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” He was genuinely surprised. “Oh, I see. You mean—but my part in + getting Joe off is practically nothing. As a matter of fact, Schwitter has + put up the money. My total capital in the world, after paying the taxicab + to-day, is seven dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “The taxicab?” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, I was forgetting! Best news you ever heard of! Tillie married + and has a baby—all in twenty-four hours! Boy—they named it Le + Moyne. Squalled like a maniac when the water went on its head. I—I + took Mrs. McKee out in a hired machine. That's what happened to my + capital.” He grinned sheepishly. “She said she would have to go in her + toque. I had awful qualms. I thought it was a wrapper.” + </p> + <p> + “You, of course,” she said. “You find Max and save him—don't look + like that! You did, didn't you? And you get Joe away, borrowing money to + send him. And as if that isn't enough, when you ought to have been getting + some sleep, you are out taking a friend to Tillie, and being godfather to + the baby.” + </p> + <p> + He looked uncomfortable, almost guilty. + </p> + <p> + “I had a day off. I—” + </p> + <p> + “When I look back and remember how all these months I've been talking + about service, and you said nothing at all, and all the time you were + living what I preached—I'm so ashamed, K.” + </p> + <p> + He would not allow that. It distressed him. She saw that, and tried to + smile. + </p> + <p> + “When does Joe go?” + </p> + <p> + “To-night. I'm to take him across the country to the railroad. I was + wondering—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd better explain first what happened, and why it happened. Then if you + are willing to send him a line, I think it would help. He saw a girl in + white in the car and followed in his own machine. He thought it was you, + of course. He didn't like the idea of your going to Schwitter's. Carlotta + was taken ill. And Schwitter and—and Wilson took her upstairs to a + room.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe that, K.?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. He saw Max coming out and misunderstood. He fired at him then.” + </p> + <p> + “He did it for me. I feel very guilty, K., as if it all comes back to me. + I'll write to him, of course. Poor Joe!” + </p> + <p> + He watched her go down the hall toward the night nurse's desk. He would + have given everything just then for the right to call her back, to take + her in his arms and comfort her. She seemed so alone. He himself had gone + through loneliness and heartache, and the shadow was still on him. He + waited until he saw her sit down at the desk and take up a pen. Then he + went back into the quiet room. + </p> + <p> + He stood by the bedside, looking down. Wilson was breathing quietly: his + color was coming up, as he rallied from the shock. In K.'s mind now was + just one thought—to bring him through for Sidney, and then to go + away. He might follow Joe to Cuba. There were chances there. He could do + sanitation work, or he might try the Canal. + </p> + <p> + The Street would go on working out its own salvation. He would have to + think of something for the Rosenfelds. And he was worried about Christine. + But there again, perhaps it would be better if he went away. Christine's + story would have to work itself out. His hands were tied. + </p> + <p> + He was glad in a way that Sidney had asked no questions about him, had + accepted his new identity so calmly. It had been overshadowed by the night + tragedy. It would have pleased him if she had shown more interest, of + course. But he understood. It was enough, he told himself, that he had + helped her, that she counted on him. But more and more he knew in his + heart that it was not enough. “I'd better get away from here,” he told + himself savagely. + </p> + <p> + And having taken the first step toward flight, as happens in such cases, + he was suddenly panicky with fear, fear that he would get out of hand, and + take her in his arms, whether or no; a temptation to run from temptation, + to cut everything and go with Joe that night. But there his sense of humor + saved him. That would be a sight for the gods, two defeated lovers flying + together under the soft September moon. + </p> + <p> + Some one entered the room. He thought it was Sidney and turned with the + light in his eyes that was only for her. It was Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + She was not in uniform. She wore a dark skirt and white waist and her high + heels tapped as she crossed the room. She came directly to him. + </p> + <p> + “He is better, isn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “He is rallying. Of course it will be a day or two before we are quite + sure.” + </p> + <p> + She stood looking down at Wilson's quiet figure. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you know I've been crazy about him,” she said quietly. “Well, + that's all over. He never really cared for me. I played his game and I—lost. + I've been expelled from the school.” + </p> + <p> + Quite suddenly she dropped on her knees beside the bed, and put her cheek + close to the sleeping man's hand. When after a moment she rose, she was + controlled again, calm, very white. + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell him, Dr. Edwardes, when he is conscious, that I came in and + said good-bye?” + </p> + <p> + “I will, of course. Do you want to leave any other message?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, as if the thought tempted her. Then she shrugged her + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “What would be the use? He doesn't want any message from me.” + </p> + <p> + She turned toward the door. But K. could not let her go like that. Her + face frightened him. It was too calm, too controlled. He followed her + across the room. + </p> + <p> + “What are your plans?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't any. I'm about through with my training, but I've lost my + diploma.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like to see you going away like this.” + </p> + <p> + She avoided his eyes, but his kindly tone did what neither the Head nor + the Executive Committee had done that day. It shook her control. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter to you? You don't owe me anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. One way and another I've known you a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “You never knew anything very good.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you where I live, and—” + </p> + <p> + “I know where you live.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come to see me there? We may be able to think of something.” + </p> + <p> + “What is there to think of? This story will follow me wherever I go! I've + tried twice for a diploma and failed. What's the use?” + </p> + <p> + But in the end he prevailed on her to promise not to leave the city until + she had seen him again. It was not until she had gone, a straight figure + with haunted eyes, that he reflected whimsically that once again he had + defeated his own plans for flight. + </p> + <p> + In the corridor outside the door Carlotta hesitated. Why not go back? Why + not tell him? He was kind; he was going to do something for her. But the + old instinct of self-preservation prevailed. She went on to her room. + </p> + <p> + Sidney brought her letter to Joe back to K. She was flushed with the + effort and with a new excitement. + </p> + <p> + “This is the letter, K., and—I haven't been able to say what I + wanted, exactly. You'll let him know, won't you, how I feel, and how I + blame myself?” + </p> + <p> + K. promised gravely. + </p> + <p> + “And the most remarkable thing has happened. What a day this has been! + Somebody has sent Johnny Rosenfeld a lot of money. The ward nurse wants + you to come back.” + </p> + <p> + The ward had settled for the night. The well-ordered beds of the daytime + were chaotic now, torn apart by tossing figures. The night was hot and an + electric fan hummed in a far corner. Under its sporadic breezes, as it + turned, the ward was trying to sleep. + </p> + <p> + Johnny Rosenfeld was not asleep. An incredible thing had happened to him. + A fortune lay under his pillow. He was sure it was there, for ever since + it came his hot hand had clutched it. + </p> + <p> + He was quite sure that somehow or other K. had had a hand in it. When he + disclaimed it, the boy was bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house, anyhow,” he said. + “But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want no + charity.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe Mr. Howe sent it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can bet your last match he didn't.” + </p> + <p> + In some unknown way the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend, + Mr. Le Moyne, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “He works in the gas office,” he said, “I've seen him there. If he's a + surgeon, what's he doing in the gas office. If he's a surgeon, what's he + doing teaching me raffia-work? Why isn't he on his job?” + </p> + <p> + But the story had seized on his imagination. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Mr. Le Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Jack.” + </p> + <p> + He called him “Jack.” The boy liked it. It savored of man to man. After + all, he was a man, or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have a + state license? + </p> + <p> + “They've got a queer story about you here in the ward.” + </p> + <p> + “Not scandal, I trust, Jack!” + </p> + <p> + “They say that you're a surgeon; that you operated on Dr. Wilson and saved + his life. They say that you're the king pin where you came from.” He eyed + K. wistfully. “I know it's a damn lie, but if it's true—” + </p> + <p> + “I used to be a surgeon. As a matter of fact I operated on Dr. Wilson + to-day. I—I am rather apologetic, Jack, because I didn't explain to + you sooner. For—various reasons—I gave up that—that line + of business. To-day they rather forced my hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think you could do something for me, sir?” + </p> + <p> + When K. did not reply at once, he launched into an explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I've been lying here a good while. I didn't say much because I knew I'd + have to take a chance. Either I'd pull through or I wouldn't, and the odds + were—well, I didn't say much. The old lady's had a lot of trouble. + But now, with THIS under my pillow for her, I've got a right to ask. I'll + take a chance, if you will.” + </p> + <p> + “It's only a chance, Jack.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that. But lie here and watch these soaks off the street. Old, a + lot of them, and gettin' well to go out and starve, and—My God! Mr. + Le Moyne, they can walk, and I can't.” + </p> + <p> + K. drew a long breath. He had started, and now he must go on. Faith in + himself or no faith, he must go on. Life, that had loosed its hold on him + for a time, had found him again. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go over you carefully to-morrow, Jack. I'll tell you your chances + honestly.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a thousand dollars. Whatever you charge—” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take it out of my board bill in the new house!” + </p> + <p> + At four o'clock that morning K. got back from seeing Joe off. The trip had + been without accident. + </p> + <p> + Over Sidney's letter Joe had shed a shamefaced tear or two. And during the + night ride, with K. pushing the car to the utmost, he had felt that the + boy, in keeping his hand in his pocket, had kept it on the letter. When + the road was smooth and stretched ahead, a gray-white line into the night, + he tried to talk a little courage into the boy's sick heart. + </p> + <p> + “You'll see new people, new life,” he said. “In a month from now you'll + wonder why you ever hung around the Street. I have a feeling that you're + going to make good down there.” + </p> + <p> + And once, when the time for parting was very near,—“No matter what + happens, keep on believing in yourself. I lost my faith in myself once. It + was pretty close to hell.” + </p> + <p> + Joe's response showed his entire self-engrossment. + </p> + <p> + “If he dies, I'm a murderer.” + </p> + <p> + “He's not going to die,” said K. stoutly. + </p> + <p> + At four o'clock in the morning he left the car at the garage and walked + around to the little house. He had had no sleep for forty-five hours; his + eyes were sunken in his head; the skin over his temples looked drawn and + white. His clothes were wrinkled; the soft hat he habitually wore was + white with the dust of the road. + </p> + <p> + As he opened the hall door, Christine stirred in the room beyond. She came + out fully dressed. + </p> + <p> + “K., are you sick?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather tired. Why in the world aren't you in bed?” + </p> + <p> + “Palmer has just come home in a terrible rage. He says he's been robbed of + a thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + Christine shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn't know, or says he doesn't. I'm glad of it. He seems thoroughly + frightened. It may be a lesson.” + </p> + <p> + In the dim hall light he realized that her face was strained and set. She + looked on the verge of hysteria. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little woman,” he said. “I'm sorry, Christine.” + </p> + <p> + The tender words broke down the last barrier of her self-control. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, K.! Take me away. Take me away! I can't stand it any longer.” + </p> + <p> + She held her arms out to him, and because he was very tired and lonely, + and because more than anything else in the world just then he needed a + woman's arms, he drew her to him and held her close, his cheek to her + hair. + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” he said. “Poor Christine! Surely there must be some happiness + for us somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + But the next moment he let her go and stepped back. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry.” Characteristically he took the blame. “I shouldn't have done + that—You know how it is with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it always be Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid it will always be Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII + </h2> + <p> + Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K.'s skill had not sufficed to save him. + The operation had been a marvel, but the boy's long-sapped strength failed + at the last. + </p> + <p> + K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was + going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot,” he said. “Look and see.” + </p> + <p> + K. lifted the light covering. + </p> + <p> + “You're right, old man. It's moving.” + </p> + <p> + “Brake foot, clutch foot,” said Johnny, and closed his eyes again. + </p> + <p> + K. had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time + enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy. + </p> + <p> + The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below + came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did not open + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you whenever I + get a chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, put in a word for me,” said K. huskily. + </p> + <p> + He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator—that whatever he, K., + had done of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal + would count. + </p> + <p> + The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished a + secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the + hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and + played “The Holy City.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very + comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Tell her nix on the sob stuff,” he complained. “Ask her to play 'I'm + twenty-one and she's eighteen.'” + </p> + <p> + She was rather outraged, but on K.'s quick explanation she changed to the + staccato air. + </p> + <p> + “Ask her if she'll come a little nearer; I can't hear her.” + </p> + <p> + So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny + began his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: “Are you sure I'm + going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?” + </p> + <p> + “I give you my solemn word,” said K. huskily, “that you are going to be + better than you have ever been in your life.” + </p> + <p> + It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be + set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the boy's + hands over his breast. + </p> + <p> + The violin-player stood by uncertainly. + </p> + <p> + “How very young he is! Was it an accident?” + </p> + <p> + “It was the result of a man's damnable folly,” said K. grimly. “Somebody + always pays.” + </p> + <p> + And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid. + </p> + <p> + The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some of his + faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset by his + old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powers of life + and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no + carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he had + taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and begged + for it. + </p> + <p> + The old doubts came back. + </p> + <p> + And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson would be + out of commission for several months, probably. He was gaining, but + slowly. And he wanted K. to take over his work. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” he demanded, half irritably. “The secret is out. Everybody + knows who you are. You're not thinking about going back to that ridiculous + gas office, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I had some thought of going to Cuba.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm damned if I understand you. You've done a marvelous thing; I lie here + and listen to the staff singing your praises until I'm sick of your name! + And now, because a boy who wouldn't have lived anyhow—” + </p> + <p> + “That's not it,” K. put in hastily. “I know all that. I guess I could do + it and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me—I've + never told you, have I, why I gave up before?” + </p> + <p> + Wilson was propped up in his bed. K. was walking restlessly about the + room, as was his habit when troubled. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard the gossip; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “When you recognized me that night on the balcony, I told you I'd lost my + faith in myself, and you said the whole affair had been gone over at the + State Society. As a matter of fact, the Society knew of only two cases. + There had been three.” + </p> + <p> + “Even at that—” + </p> + <p> + “You know what I always felt about the profession, Max. We went into that + more than once in Berlin. Either one's best or nothing. I had done pretty + well. When I left Lorch and built my own hospital, I hadn't a doubt of + myself. And because I was getting results I got a lot of advertising. Men + began coming to the clinics. I found I was making enough out of the + patients who could pay to add a few free wards. I want to tell you now, + Wilson, that the opening of those free wards was the greatest + self-indulgence I ever permitted myself. I'd seen so much careless + attention given the poor—well, never mind that. It was almost three + years ago that things began to go wrong. I lost a big case.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. All this doesn't influence me, Edwardes.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment. We had a system in the operating-room as perfect as I + could devise it. I never finished an operation without having my first + assistant verify the clip and sponge count. But that first case died + because a sponge had been left in the operating field. You know how those + things go; you can't always see them, and one goes by the count, after + reasonable caution. Then I lost another case in the same way—a free + case. + </p> + <p> + “As well as I could tell, the precautions had not been relaxed. I was + doing from four to six cases a day. After the second one I almost went + crazy. I made up my mind, if there was ever another, I'd give up and go + away.” + </p> + <p> + “There was another?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for several months. When the last case died, a free case again, I + performed my own autopsy. I allowed only my first assistant in the room. + He was almost as frenzied as I was. It was the same thing again. When I + told him I was going away, he offered to take the blame himself, to say he + had closed the incision. He tried to make me think he was responsible. I + knew—better.” + </p> + <p> + “It's incredible.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly; but it's true. The last patient was a laborer. He left a family. + I've sent them money from time to time. I used to sit and think about the + children he left, and what would become of them. The ironic part of it was + that, for all that had happened, I was busier all the time. Men were + sending me cases from all over the country. It was either stay and keep on + working, with that chance, or—quit. I quit.” “But if you had stayed, + and taken extra precautions—” + </p> + <p> + “We'd taken every precaution we knew.” + </p> + <p> + Neither of the men spoke for a time. K. stood, his tall figure outlined + against the window. Far off, in the children's ward, children were + laughing; from near by a very young baby wailed a thin cry of protest + against life; a bell rang constantly. K.'s mind was busy with the past—with + the day he decided to give up and go away, with the months of wandering + and homelessness, with the night he had come upon the Street and had seen + Sidney on the doorstep of the little house. + </p> + <p> + “That's the worst, is it?” Max Wilson demanded at last. + </p> + <p> + “That's enough.” + </p> + <p> + “It's extremely significant. You had an enemy somewhere—on your + staff, probably. This profession of ours is a big one, but you know its + jealousies. Let a man get his shoulders above the crowd, and the pack is + after him.” He laughed a little. “Mixed figure, but you know what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + K. shook his head. He had had that gift of the big man everywhere, in + every profession, of securing the loyalty of his followers. He would have + trusted every one of them with his life. + </p> + <p> + “You're going to do it, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Take up your work?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He stirred restlessly. To stay on, to be near Sidney, perhaps to stand by + as Wilson's best man when he was married—it turned him cold. But he + did not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growing + fretful; it would not do to irritate him. + </p> + <p> + “Give me another day on it,” he said at last. And so the matter stood. + </p> + <p> + Max's injury had been productive of good, in one way. It had brought the + two brothers closer together. In the mornings Max was restless until Dr. + Ed arrived. When he came, he brought books in the shabby bag—his + beloved Burns, although he needed no book for that, the “Pickwick Papers,” + Renan's “Lives of the Disciples.” Very often Max world doze off; at the + cessation of Dr. Ed's sonorous voice the sick man would stir fretfully and + demand more. But because he listened to everything without discrimination, + the older man came to the conclusion that it was the companionship that + counted. It pleased him vastly. It reminded him of Max's boyhood, when he + had read to Max at night. For once in the last dozen years, he needed him. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Ed. What in blazes makes you stop every five minutes?” Max + protested, one day. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Ed, who had only stopped to bite off the end of a stogie to hold in + his cheek, picked up his book in a hurry, and eyed the invalid over it. + </p> + <p> + “Stop bullying. I'll read when I'm ready. Have you any idea what I'm + reading?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I haven't. For ten minutes I've been reading across both pages!” + </p> + <p> + Max laughed, and suddenly put out his hand. Demonstrations of affection + were so rare with him that for a moment Dr. Ed was puzzled. Then, rather + sheepishly, he took it. + </p> + <p> + “When I get out,” Max said, “we'll have to go out to the White Springs + again and have supper.” + </p> + <p> + That was all; but Ed understood. + </p> + <p> + Morning and evening, Sidney went to Max's room. In the morning she only + smiled at him from the doorway. In the evening she went to him after + prayers. She was allowed an hour with him then. + </p> + <p> + The shooting had been a closed book between them. At first, when he began + to recover, he tried to talk to her about it. But she refused to listen. + She was very gentle with him, but very firm. + </p> + <p> + “I know how it happened, Max,” she said—“about Joe's mistake and all + that. The rest can wait until you are much better.” + </p> + <p> + If there had been any change in her manner to him, he would not have + submitted so easily, probably. But she was as tender as ever, unfailingly + patient, prompt to come to him and slow to leave. After a time he began to + dread reopening the subject. She seemed so effectually to have closed it. + Carlotta was gone. And, after all, what good could he do his cause by + pleading it? The fact was there, and Sidney knew it. + </p> + <p> + On the day when K. had told Max his reason for giving up his work, Max was + allowed out of bed for the first time. It was a great day. A box of red + roses came that day from the girl who had refused him a year or more ago. + He viewed them with a carelessness that was half assumed. + </p> + <p> + The news had traveled to the Street that he was to get up that day. Early + that morning the doorkeeper had opened the door to a gentleman who did not + speak, but who handed in a bunch of early chrysanthemums and proceeded to + write, on a pad he drew from his pocket:— + </p> + <p> + “From Mrs. McKee's family and guests, with their congratulations on your + recovery, and their hope that they will see you again soon. If their ends + are clipped every day and they are placed in ammonia water, they will last + indefinitely.” Sidney spent her hour with Max that evening as usual. His + big chair had been drawn close to a window, and she found him there, + looking out. She kissed him. But this time, instead of letting her draw + away, he put out his arms and caught her to him. + </p> + <p> + “Are you glad?” + </p> + <p> + “Very glad, indeed,” she said soberly. + </p> + <p> + “Then smile at me. You don't smile any more. You ought to smile; your + mouth—” + </p> + <p> + “I am almost always tired; that's all, Max.” + </p> + <p> + She eyed him bravely. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you going to let me make love to you at all? You get away beyond + my reach.” + </p> + <p> + “I was looking for the paper to read to you.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden suspicion flamed in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't like me to touch you any more. Come here where I can see you.” + </p> + <p> + The fear of agitating him brought her quickly. For a moment he was + appeased. + </p> + <p> + “That's more like it. How lovely you are, Sidney!” He lifted first one + hand and then the other to his lips. “Are you ever going to forgive me?” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean about Carlotta, I forgave that long ago.” + </p> + <p> + He was almost boyishly relieved. What a wonder she was! So lovely, and so + sane. Many a woman would have held that over him for years—not that + he had done anything really wrong on that nightmare excursion. But so many + women are exigent about promises. + </p> + <p> + “When are you going to marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “We needn't discuss that to-night, Max.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you so very much. I don't want to wait, dear. Let me tell Ed that + you will marry me soon. Then, when I go away, I'll take you with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't we talk things over when you are stronger?” + </p> + <p> + Her tone caught his attention, and turned him a little white. He faced her + to the window, so that the light fell full on her. + </p> + <p> + “What things? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + He had forced her hand. She had meant to wait; but, with his keen eyes on + her, she could not dissemble. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to make you very unhappy for a little while.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I've had a lot of time to think. If you had really wanted me, Max—” + </p> + <p> + “My God, of course I want you!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't that I am angry. I am not even jealous. I was at first. It isn't + that. It's hard to make you understand. I think you care for me—” + </p> + <p> + “I love you! I swear I never loved any other woman as I love you.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he remembered that he had also sworn to put Carlotta out of his + life. He knew that Sidney remembered, too; but she gave no sign. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that's true. You might go on caring for me. Sometimes I think you + would. But there would always be other women, Max. You're like that. + Perhaps you can't help it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you loved me you could do anything with me.” He was half sullen. + </p> + <p> + By the way her color leaped, he knew he had struck fire. All his + conjectures as to how Sidney would take the knowledge of his entanglement + with Carlotta had been founded on one major premise—that she loved + him. The mere suspicion made him gasp. + </p> + <p> + “But, good Heavens, Sidney, you do care for me, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I don't, Max; not enough.” + </p> + <p> + She tried to explain, rather pitifully. After one look at his face, she + spoke to the window. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so wretched about it. I thought I cared. To me you were the best and + greatest man that ever lived. I—when I said my prayers, I—But + that doesn't matter. You were a sort of god to me. When the Lamb—that's + one of the internes, you know—nicknamed you the 'Little Tin God,' I + was angry. You could never be anything little to me, or do anything that + wasn't big. Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + He groaned under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “No man could live up to that, Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I see that now. But that's the way I cared. Now I know that I didn't + care for you, really, at all. I built up an idol and worshiped it. I + always saw you through a sort of haze. You were operating, with everybody + standing by, saying how wonderful it was. Or you were coming to the wards, + and everything was excitement, getting ready for you. I blame myself + terribly. But you see, don't you? It isn't that I think you are wicked. + It's just that I never loved the real you, because I never knew you.” + </p> + <p> + When he remained silent, she made an attempt to justify herself. + </p> + <p> + “I'd known very few men,” she said. “I came into the hospital, and for a + time life seemed very terrible. There were wickednesses I had never heard + of, and somebody always paying for them. I was always asking, Why? Why? + Then you would come in, and a lot of them you cured and sent out. You gave + them their chance, don't you see? Until I knew about Carlotta, you always + meant that to me. You were like K.—always helping.” + </p> + <p> + The room was very silent. In the nurses' parlor, a few feet down the + corridor, the nurses were at prayers. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” read the Head, her voice calm + with the quiet of twilight and the end of the day. + </p> + <p> + “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the + still waters.” + </p> + <p> + The nurses read the response a little slowly, as if they, too, were weary. + </p> + <p> + “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—” + </p> + <p> + The man in the chair stirred. He had come through the valley of the + shadow, and for what? He was very bitter. He said to himself savagely that + they would better have let him die. “You say you never loved me because + you never knew me. I'm not a rotter, Sidney. Isn't it possible that the + man you, cared about, who—who did his best by people and all that—is + the real me?” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him thoughtfully. He missed something out of her eyes, the + sort of luminous, wistful look with which she had been wont to survey his + greatness. Measured by this new glance, so clear, so appraising, he sank + back into his chair. + </p> + <p> + “The man who did his best is quite real. You have always done the best in + your work; you always will. But the other is a part of you too, Max. Even + if I cared, I would not dare to run the risk.” + </p> + <p> + Under the window rang the sharp gong of a city patrol-wagon. It rumbled + through the gates back to the courtyard, where its continued clamor + summoned white-coated orderlies. + </p> + <p> + An operating-room case, probably. Sidney, chin lifted, listened carefully. + If it was a case for her, the elevator would go up to the operating-room. + With a renewed sense of loss, Max saw that already she had put him out of + her mind. The call to service was to her a call to battle. Her sensitive + nostrils quivered; her young figure stood erect, alert. + </p> + <p> + “It has gone up!” + </p> + <p> + She took a step toward the door, hesitated, came back, and put a light + hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, dear Max.” + </p> + <p> + She had kissed him lightly on the cheek before he knew what she intended + to do. So passionless was the little caress that, perhaps more than + anything else, it typified the change in their relation. + </p> + <p> + When the door closed behind her, he saw that she had left her ring on the + arm of his chair. He picked it up. It was still warm from her finger. He + held it to his lips with a quick gesture. In all his successful young life + he had never before felt the bitterness of failure. The very warmth of the + little ring hurt. + </p> + <p> + Why hadn't they let him die? He didn't want to live—he wouldn't + live. Nobody cared for him! He would— + </p> + <p> + His eyes, lifted from the ring, fell on the red glow of the roses that had + come that morning. Even in the half light, they glowed with fiery color. + </p> + <p> + The ring was in his right hand. With the left he settled his collar and + soft silk tie. + </p> + <p> + K. saw Carlotta that evening for the last time. Katie brought word to him, + where he was helping Harriet close her trunk,—she was on her way to + Europe for the fall styles,—that he was wanted in the lower hall. + </p> + <p> + “A lady!” she said, closing the door behind her by way of caution. “And a + good thing for her she's not from the alley. The way those people beg off + you is a sin and a shame, and it's not at home you're going to be to them + from now on.” + </p> + <p> + So K. had put on his coat and, without so much as a glance in Harriet's + mirror, had gone down the stairs. Carlotta was in the lower hall. She + stood under the chandelier, and he saw at once the ravages that trouble + had made in her. She was a dead white, and she looked ten years older than + her age. + </p> + <p> + “I came, you see, Dr. Edwardes.” + </p> + <p> + Now and then, when some one came to him for help, which was generally + money, he used Christine's parlor, if she happened to be out. So now, + finding the door ajar, and the room dark, he went in and turned on the + light. + </p> + <p> + “Come in here; we can talk better.” + </p> + <p> + She did not sit down at first; but, observing that her standing kept him + on his feet, she sat finally. Evidently she found it hard to speak. + </p> + <p> + “You were to come,” K. encouraged her, “to see if we couldn't plan + something for you. Now, I think I've got it.” + </p> + <p> + “If it's another hospital—and I don't want to stay here, in the + city.” + </p> + <p> + “You like surgical work, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't care for anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Before we settle this, I'd better tell you what I'm thinking of. You + know, of course, that I closed my hospital. I—a series of things + happened, and I decided I was in the wrong business. That wouldn't be + important, except for what it leads to. They are trying to persuade me to + go back, and—I'm trying to persuade myself that I'm fit to go back. + You see,”—his tone was determinedly cheerful, “my faith in myself + has been pretty nearly gone. When one loses that, there isn't much left.” + </p> + <p> + “You had been very successful.” She did not look up. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I had and I hadn't. I'm not going to worry you about that. My offer + is this: We'll just try to forget about—about Schwitter's and all + the rest, and if I go back I'll take you on in the operating-room.” + </p> + <p> + “You sent me away once!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can ask you to come back, can't I?” He smiled at her + encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you understand about Max Wilson and myself?” + </p> + <p> + “I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think you are taking a risk?” + </p> + <p> + “Every one makes mistakes now and then, and loving women have made + mistakes since the world began. Most people live in glass houses, Miss + Harrison. And don't make any mistake about this: people can always come + back. No depth is too low. All they need is the willpower.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled down at her. She had come armed with confession. But the offer + he made was too alluring. It meant reinstatement, another chance, when she + had thought everything was over. After all, why should she damn herself? + She would go back. She would work her finger-ends off for him. She would + make it up to him in other ways. But she could not tell him and lose + everything. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said. “Shall we go back and start over again?” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX + </h2> + <p> + Late September had come, with the Street, after its summer indolence + taking up the burden of the year. At eight-thirty and at one the school + bell called the children. Little girls in pig-tails, carrying freshly + sharpened pencils, went primly toward the school, gathering, comet + fashion, a tail of unwilling brothers as they went. + </p> + <p> + An occasional football hurtled through the air. Le Moyne had promised the + baseball club a football outfit, rumor said, but would not coach them + himself this year. A story was going about that Mr. Le Moyne intended to + go away. + </p> + <p> + The Street had been furiously busy for a month. The cobblestones had gone, + and from curb to curb stretched smooth asphalt. The fascination of writing + on it with chalk still obsessed the children. Every few yards was a + hop-scotch diagram. Generally speaking, too, the Street had put up new + curtains, and even, here and there, had added a coat of paint. + </p> + <p> + To this general excitement the strange case of Mr. Le Moyne had added its + quota. One day he was in the gas office, making out statements that were + absolutely ridiculous. (What with no baking all last month, and every + Sunday spent in the country, nobody could have used that amount of gas. + They could come and take their old meter out!) And the next there was the + news that Mr. Le Moyne had been only taking a holiday in the gas office,—paying + off old scores, the barytone at Mrs. McKee's hazarded!—and that he + was really a very great surgeon and had saved Dr. Max Wilson. + </p> + <p> + The Street, which was busy at the time deciding whether to leave the old + sidewalks or to put down cement ones, had one evening of mad excitement + over the matter,—of K., not the sidewalks,—and then had + accepted the new situation. + </p> + <p> + But over the news of K.'s approaching departure it mourned. What was the + matter with things, anyhow? Here was Christine's marriage, which had + promised so well,—awnings and palms and everything,—turning + out badly. True, Palmer Howe was doing better, but he would break out + again. And Johnny Rosenfeld was dead, so that his mother came on + washing-days, and brought no cheery gossip; but bent over her tubs + dry-eyed and silent—even the approaching move to a larger house + failed to thrill her. There was Tillie, too. But one did not speak of her. + She was married now, of course; but the Street did not tolerate such a + reversal of the usual processes as Tillie had indulged in. It censured + Mrs. McKee severely for having been, so to speak, and accessory after the + fact. + </p> + <p> + The Street made a resolve to keep K., if possible. If he had shown any + “high and mightiness,” as they called it, since the change in his estate, + it would have let him go without protest. But when a man is the real + thing,—so that the newspapers give a column to his having been in + the city almost two years,—and still goes about in the same shabby + clothes, with the same friendly greeting for every one, it demonstrates + clearly, as the barytone put it, that “he's got no swelled head on him; + that's sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Anybody can see by the way he drives that machine of Wilson's that he's + been used to a car—likely a foreign one. All the swells have foreign + cars.” Still the barytone, who was almost as fond of conversation as of + what he termed “vocal.” “And another thing. Do you notice the way he takes + Dr. Ed around? Has him at every consultation. The old boy's tickled to + death.” + </p> + <p> + A little later, K., coming up the Street as he had that first day, heard + the barytone singing:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Home is the hunter, home from the hill, + And the sailor, home from sea.” + </pre> + <p> + Home! Why, this WAS home. The Street seemed to stretch out its arms to + him. The ailanthus tree waved in the sunlight before the little house. + Tree and house were old; September had touched them. Christine sat sewing + on the balcony. A boy with a piece of chalk was writing something on the + new cement under the tree. He stood back, head on one side, when he had + finished, and inspected his work. K. caught him up from behind, and, + swinging him around— + </p> + <p> + “Hey!” he said severely. “Don't you know better than to write all over the + street? What'll I do to you? Give you to a policeman?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, lemme down, Mr. K.” + </p> + <p> + “You tell the boys that if I find this street scrawled over any more, the + picnic's off.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, Mr. K.!” + </p> + <p> + “I mean it. Go and spend some of that chalk energy of yours in school.” + </p> + <p> + He put the boy down. There was a certain tenderness in his hands, as in + his voice, when he dealt with children. All his severity did not conceal + it. “Get along with you, Bill. Last bell's rung.” + </p> + <p> + As the boy ran off, K.'s eye fell on what he had written on the cement. At + a certain part of his career, the child of such a neighborhood as the + Street “cancels” names. It is a part of his birthright. He does it as he + whittles his school desk or tries to smoke the long dried fruit of the + Indian cigar tree. So K. read in chalk an the smooth street:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Max Wilson Marriage. Sidney Page Love. +</pre> + <p> + [Note: the a, l, s, and n of “Max Wilson” are crossed through, as are the + S, d, n, and a of “Sidney Page”] + </p> + <p> + The childish scrawl stared up at him impudently, a sacred thing profaned + by the day. K. stood and looked at it. The barytone was still singing; but + now it was “I'm twenty-one, and she's eighteen.” It was a cheerful air, as + should be the air that had accompanied Johnny Rosenfeld to his long sleep. + The light was gone from K.'s face again. After all, the Street meant for + him not so much home as it meant Sidney. And now, before very long, that + book of his life, like others, would have to be closed. + </p> + <p> + He turned and went heavily into the little house. + </p> + <p> + Christine called to him from her little balcony:— + </p> + <p> + “I thought I heard your step outside. Have you time to come out?” + </p> + <p> + K. went through the parlor and stood in the long window. His steady eyes + looked down at her. + </p> + <p> + “I see very little of you now,” she complained. And, when he did not reply + immediately: “Have you made any definite plans, K.?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall do Max's work until he is able to take hold again. After that—” + </p> + <p> + “You will go away?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. I am getting a good many letters, one way and another. I + suppose, now I'm back in harness, I'll stay. My old place is closed. I'd + go back there—they want me. But it seems so futile, Christine, to + leave as I did, because I felt that I had no right to go on as things + were; and now to crawl back on the strength of having had my hand forced, + and to take up things again, not knowing that I've a bit more right to do + it than when I left!” + </p> + <p> + “I went to see Max yesterday. You know what he thinks about all that.” + </p> + <p> + He took an uneasy turn up and down the balcony. + </p> + <p> + “But who?” he demanded. “Who would do such a thing? I tell you, Christine, + it isn't possible.” + </p> + <p> + She did not pursue the subject. Her thoughts had flown ahead to the little + house without K., to days without his steps on the stairs or the heavy + creak of his big chair overhead as he dropped into it. + </p> + <p> + But perhaps it would be better if he went. She had her own life to live. + She had no expectation of happiness, but, somehow or other, she must build + on the shaky foundation of her marriage a house of life, with resignation + serving for content, perhaps with fear lurking always. That she knew. But + with no active misery. Misery implied affection, and her love for Palmer + was quite dead. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney will be here this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Good.” His tone was non-committal. + </p> + <p> + “Has it occurred to you, K., that Sidney is not very happy?” + </p> + <p> + He stopped in front of her. + </p> + <p> + “She's had a great anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + “She has no anxiety now. Max is doing well.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not quite sure, but I think I know. She's lost faith in Max, and + she's not like me. I—I knew about Palmer before I married him. I got + a letter. It's all rather hideous—I needn't go into it. I was afraid + to back out; it was just before my wedding. But Sidney has more character + than I have. Max isn't what she thought he was, and I doubt whether she'll + marry him.” + </p> + <p> + K. glanced toward the street where Sidney's name and Max's lay open to the + sun and to the smiles of the Street. Christine might be right, but that + did not alter things for him. + </p> + <p> + Christine's thoughts went back inevitably to herself; to Palmer, who was + doing better just now; to K., who was going away—went back with an + ache to the night K. had taken her in his arms and then put her away. How + wrong things were! What a mess life was! + </p> + <p> + “When you go away,” she said at last, “I want you to remember this. I'm + going to do my best, K. You have taught me all I know. All my life I'll + have to overlook things; I know that. But, in his way, Palmer cares for + me. He will always come back, and perhaps sometime—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice trailed off. Far ahead of her she saw the years stretching out, + marked, not by days and months, but by Palmer's wanderings away, his + remorseful returns. + </p> + <p> + “Do a little more than forgetting,” K. said. “Try to care for him, + Christine. You did once. And that's your strongest weapon. It's always a + woman's strongest weapon. And it wins in the end.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall try, K.,” she answered obediently. + </p> + <p> + But he turned away from the look in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Harriet was abroad. She had sent cards from Paris to her “trade.” It was + an innovation. The two or three people on the Street who received her + engraved announcement that she was there, “buying new chic models for the + autumn and winter—afternoon frocks, evening gowns, reception + dresses, and wraps, from Poiret, Martial et Armand, and others,” left the + envelopes casually on the parlor table, as if communications from Paris + were quite to be expected. + </p> + <p> + So K. lunched alone, and ate little. After luncheon he fixed a broken + ironing-stand for Katie, and in return she pressed a pair of trousers for + him. He had it in mind to ask Sidney to go out with him in Max's car, and + his most presentable suit was very shabby. + </p> + <p> + “I'm thinking,” said Katie, when she brought the pressed garments up over + her arm and passed them in through a discreet crack in the door, “that + these pants will stand more walking than sitting, Mr. K. They're getting + mighty thin.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take a duster along in case of accident,” he promised her; “and + to-morrow I'll order a suit, Katie.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll believe it when I see it,” said Katie from the stairs. “Some fool of + a woman from the alley will come in to-night and tell you she can't pay + her rent, and she'll take your suit away in her pocket-book—as like + as not to pay an installment on a piano. There's two new pianos in the + alley since you came here.” + </p> + <p> + “I promise it, Katie.” + </p> + <p> + “Show it to me,” said Katie laconically. “And don't go to picking up + anything you drop!” + </p> + <p> + Sidney came home at half-past two—came delicately flushed, as if she + had hurried, and with a tremulous smile that caught Katie's eye at once. + </p> + <p> + “Bless the child!” she said. “There's no need to ask how he is to-day. + You're all one smile.” + </p> + <p> + The smile set just a trifle. + </p> + <p> + “Katie, some one has written my name out on the street, in chalk. It's + with Dr. Wilson's, and it looks so silly. Please go out and sweep it off.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm about crazy with their old chalk. I'll do it after a while.” + </p> + <p> + “Please do it now. I don't want anyone to see it. Is—is Mr. K. + upstairs?” + </p> + <p> + But when she learned that K. was upstairs, oddly enough, she did not go up + at once. She stood in the lower hall and listened. Yes, he was there. She + could hear him moving about. Her lips parted slightly as she listened. + </p> + <p> + Christine, looking in from her balcony, saw her there, and, seeing + something in her face that she had never suspected, put her hand to her + throat. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—hello, Chris.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you come and sit with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't much time—that is, I want to speak to K.” + </p> + <p> + “You can see him when he comes down.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney came slowly through the parlor. It occurred to her, all at once, + that Christine must see a lot of K., especially now. No doubt he was in + and out of the house often. And how pretty Christine was! She was unhappy, + too. All that seemed to be necessary to win K.'s attention was to be + unhappy enough. Well, surely, in that case— + </p> + <p> + “How is Max?” + </p> + <p> + “Still better.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney sat down on the edge of the railing; but she was careful, Christine + saw, to face the staircase. There was silence on the balcony. Christine + sewed; Sidney sat and swung her feet idly. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Ed says Max wants you to give up your training and marry him now.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to marry him at all, Chris.” + </p> + <p> + Upstairs, K.'s door slammed. It was one of his failings that he always + slammed doors. Harriet used to be quite disagreeable about it. + </p> + <p> + Sidney slid from the railing. + </p> + <p> + “There he is now.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, in all her frivolous, selfish life, Christine had never had a + bigger moment than the one that followed. She could have said nothing, + and, in the queer way that life goes, K. might have gone away from the + Street as empty of heart as he had come to it. + </p> + <p> + “Be very good to him, Sidney,” she said unsteadily. “He cares so much.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX + </h2> + <p> + K. was being very dense. For so long had he considered Sidney as + unattainable that now his masculine mind, a little weary with much + wretchedness, refused to move from its old attitude. + </p> + <p> + “It was glamour, that was all, K.,” said Sidney bravely. + </p> + <p> + “But, perhaps,” said K., “it's just because of that miserable incident + with Carlotta. That wasn't the right thing, of course, but Max has told me + the story. It was really quite innocent. She fainted in the yard, and—” + </p> + <p> + Sidney was exasperated. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to marry him, K.?” + </p> + <p> + K. looked straight ahead. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to be happy, dear.” + </p> + <p> + They were on the terrace of the White Springs Hotel again. K. had ordered + dinner, making a great to-do about getting the dishes they both liked. But + now that it was there, they were not eating. K. had placed his chair so + that his profile was turned toward her. He had worn the duster religiously + until nightfall, and then had discarded it. It hung limp and dejected on + the back of his chair. Past K.'s profile Sidney could see the magnolia + tree shaped like a heart. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me,” said Sidney suddenly, “that you are kind to every one + but me, K.” + </p> + <p> + He fairly stammered his astonishment:— + </p> + <p> + “Why, what on earth have I done?” + </p> + <p> + “You are trying to make me marry Max, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + She was very properly ashamed of that, and, when he failed of reply out of + sheer inability to think of one that would not say too much, she went + hastily to something else: + </p> + <p> + “It is hard for me to realize that you—that you lived a life of your + own, a busy life, doing useful things, before you came to us. I wish you + would tell me something about yourself. If we're to be friends when you go + away,”—she had to stop there, for the lump in her throat—“I'll + want to know how to think of you,—who your friends are,—all + that.” + </p> + <p> + He made an effort. He was thinking, of course, that he would be + visualizing her, in the hospital, in the little house on its side street, + as she looked just then, her eyes like stars, her lips just parted, her + hands folded before her on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be working,” he said at last. “So will you.” + </p> + <p> + “Does that mean you won't have time to think of me?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I'm stupider than usual to-night. You can think of me as never + forgetting you or the Street, working or playing.” + </p> + <p> + Playing! Of course he would not work all the time. And he was going back + to his old friends, to people who had always known him, to girls— + </p> + <p> + He did his best then. He told her of the old family house, built by one of + his forebears who had been a king's man until Washington had put the case + for the colonies, and who had given himself and his oldest son then to the + cause that he made his own. He told of old servants who had wept when he + decided to close the house and go away. When she fell silent, he thought + he was interesting her. He told her the family traditions that had been + the fairy tales of his childhood. He described the library, the choice + room of the house, full of family paintings in old gilt frames, and of his + father's collection of books. Because it was home, he waxed warm over it + at last, although it had rather hurt him at first to remember. It brought + back the other things that he wanted to forget. + </p> + <p> + But a terrible thing was happening to Sidney. Side by side with the + wonders he described so casually, she was placing the little house. What + an exile it must have been for him! How hopelessly middle-class they must + have seemed! How idiotic of her to think, for one moment, that she could + ever belong in this new-old life of his! + </p> + <p> + What traditions had she? None, of course, save to be honest and good and + to do her best for the people around her. Her mother's people, the + Kennedys went back a long way, but they had always been poor. A library + full of paintings and books! She remembered the lamp with the blue-silk + shade, the figure of Eve that used to stand behind the minister's + portrait, and the cherry bookcase with the Encyclopaedia in it and “Beacon + Lights of History.” When K., trying his best to interest her and to + conceal his own heaviness of spirit, told her of his grandfather's old + carriage, she sat back in the shadow. + </p> + <p> + “Fearful old thing,” said K.,—“regular cabriolet. I can remember yet + the family rows over it. But the old gentleman liked it—used to have + it repainted every year. Strangers in the city used to turn around and + stare at it—thought it was advertising something!” + </p> + <p> + “When I was a child,” said Sidney quietly, “and a carriage drove up and + stopped on the Street, I always knew some one had died!” + </p> + <p> + There was a strained note in her voice. K., whose ear was attuned to every + note in her voice, looked at her quickly. “My great-grandfather,” said + Sidney in the same tone, “sold chickens at market. He didn't do it + himself; but the fact's there, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + K. was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “What about it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + But Sidney's agile mind had already traveled on. This K. she had never + known, who had lived in a wonderful house, and all the rest of it—he + must have known numbers of lovely women, his own sort of women, who had + traveled and knew all kinds of things: girls like the daughters of the + Executive Committee who came in from their country places in summer with + great armfuls of flowers, and hurried off, after consulting their jeweled + watches, to luncheon or tea or tennis. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” said Sidney dully. “Tell me about the women you have known, your + friends, the ones you liked and the ones who liked you.” + </p> + <p> + K. was rather apologetic. + </p> + <p> + “I've always been so busy,” he confessed. “I know a lot, but I don't think + they would interest you. They don't do anything, you know—they + travel around and have a good time. They're rather nice to look at, some + of them. But when you've said that you've said it all.” + </p> + <p> + Nice to look at! Of course they would be, with nothing else to think of in + all the world but of how they looked. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Sidney felt very tired. She wanted to go back to the hospital, + and turn the key in the door of her little room, and lie with her face + down on the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind very much if I asked you to take me back?” + </p> + <p> + He did mind. He had a depressed feeling that the evening had failed. And + his depression grew as he brought the car around. He understood, he + thought. She was grieving about Max. After all, a girl couldn't care as + she had for a year and a half, and then give a man up because of another + woman, without a wrench. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really want to go home, Sidney, or were you tired of sitting + there? In that case, we could drive around for an hour or two. I'll not + talk if you'd like to be quiet.” Being with K. had become an agony, now + that she realized how wrong Christine had been, and that their worlds, + hers and K.'s, had only touched for a time. Soon they would be separated + by as wide a gulf as that which lay between the cherry bookcase—for + instance,—and a book-lined library hung with family portraits. But + she was not disposed to skimp as to agony. She would go through with it, + every word a stab, if only she might sit beside K. a little longer, might + feel the touch of his old gray coat against her arm. “I'd like to ride, if + you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + K. turned the automobile toward the country roads. He was remembering + acutely that other ride after Joe in his small car, the trouble he had had + to get a machine, the fear of he knew not what ahead, and his arrival at + last at the road-house, to find Max lying at the head of the stairs and + Carlotta on her knees beside him. + </p> + <p> + “K.” “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Was there anybody you cared about,—any girl,—when you left + home?” + </p> + <p> + “I was not in love with anyone, if that's what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “You knew Max before, didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “If you knew things about him that I should have known, why didn't you + tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't do that, could I? Anyhow—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought everything would be all right. It seemed to me that the mere + fact of your caring for him—” That was shaky ground; he got off it + quickly. “Schwitter has closed up. Do you want to stop there?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night, please.” + </p> + <p> + They were near the white house now. Schwitter's had closed up, indeed. The + sign over the entrance was gone. The lanterns had been taken down, and in + the dusk they could see Tillie rocking her baby on the porch. As if to + cover the last traces of his late infamy, Schwitter himself was watering + the worn places on the lawn with the garden can. + </p> + <p> + The car went by. Above the low hum of the engine they could hear Tillie's + voice, flat and unmusical, but filled with the harmonies of love as she + sang to the child. + </p> + <p> + When they had left the house far behind, K. was suddenly aware that Sidney + was crying. She sat with her head turned away, using her handkerchief + stealthily. He drew the car up beside the road, and in a masterful fashion + turned her shoulders about until she faced him. + </p> + <p> + “Now, tell me about it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It's just silliness. I'm—I'm a little bit lonely.” + </p> + <p> + “Lonely!” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Harriet's in Paris, and with Joe gone and everybody—” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Harriet!” + </p> + <p> + He was properly dazed, for sure. If she had said she was lonely because + the cherry bookcase was in Paris, he could not have been more bewildered. + And Joe! “And with you going away and never coming back—” + </p> + <p> + “I'll come back, of course. How's this? I'll promise to come back when you + graduate, and send you flowers.” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said Sidney, “that I'll become an army nurse.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you won't do that.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't know, K. You'll be back with your old friends. You'll have + forgotten the Street and all of us.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really think that?” + </p> + <p> + “Girls who have been everywhere, and have lovely clothes, and who won't + know a T bandage from a figure eight!” + </p> + <p> + “There will never be anybody in the world like you to me, dear.” + </p> + <p> + His voice was husky. + </p> + <p> + “You are saying that to comfort me.” + </p> + <p> + “To comfort you! I—who have wanted you so long that it hurts even to + think about it! Ever since the night I came up the Street, and you were + sitting there on the steps—oh, my dear, my dear, if you only cared a + little!” + </p> + <p> + Because he was afraid that he would get out of hand and take her in his + arms,—which would be idiotic, since, of course, she did not care for + him that way,—he gripped the steering-wheel. It gave him a curious + appearance of making a pathetic appeal to the wind-shield. + </p> + <p> + “I have been trying to make you say that all evening!” said Sidney. “I + love you so much that—K., won't you take me in your arms?” + </p> + <p> + Take her in his arms! He almost crushed her. He held her to him and + muttered incoherencies until she gasped. It was as if he must make up for + long arrears of hopelessness. He held her off a bit to look at her, as if + to be sure it was she and no changeling, and as if he wanted her eyes to + corroborate her lips. There was no lack of confession in her eyes; they + showed him a new heaven and a new earth. + </p> + <p> + “It was you always, K.,” she confessed. “I just didn't realize it. But + now, when you look back, don't you see it was?” + </p> + <p> + He looked back over the months when she had seemed as unattainable as the + stars, and he did not see it. He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I never had even a hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Not when I came to you with everything? I brought you all my troubles, + and you always helped.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes filled. She bent down and kissed one of his hands. He was so + happy that the foolish little caress made his heart hammer in his ears. + </p> + <p> + “I think, K., that is how one can always tell when it is the right one, + and will be the right one forever and ever. It is the person—one + goes to in trouble.” + </p> + <p> + He had no words for that, only little caressing touches of her arm, her + hand. Perhaps, without knowing it, he was formulating a sort of prayer + that, since there must be troubles, she would always come to him and he + would always be able to help her. + </p> + <p> + And Sidney, too, fell silent. She was recalling the day she became engaged + to Max, and the lost feeling she had had. She did not feel the same at all + now. She felt as if she had been wandering, and had come home to the arms + that were about her. She would be married, and take the risk that all + women took, with her eyes open. She would go through the valley of the + shadow, as other women did; but K. would be with her. Nothing else + mattered. Looking into his steady eyes, she knew that she was safe. She + would never wither for him. + </p> + <p> + Where before she had felt the clutch of inexorable destiny, the woman's + fate, now she felt only his arms about her, her cheek on his shabby coat. + </p> + <p> + “I shall love you all my life,” she said shakily. + </p> + <p> + His arms tightened about her. + </p> + <p> + The little house was dark when they got back to it. The Street, which had + heard that Mr. Le Moyne approved of night air, was raising its windows for + the night and pinning cheesecloth bags over its curtains to keep them + clean. + </p> + <p> + In the second-story front room at Mrs. McKee's, the barytone slept + heavily, and made divers unvocal sounds. He was hardening his throat, and + so slept with a wet towel about it. + </p> + <p> + Down on the doorstep, Mrs. McKee and Mr. Wagner sat and made love with the + aid of a lighted match and the pencil-pad. + </p> + <p> + The car drew up at the little house, and Sidney got out. Then it drove + away, for K. must take it to the garage and walk back. + </p> + <p> + Sidney sat on the doorstep and waited. How lovely it all was! How + beautiful life was! If one did one's best by life, it did its best too. + How steady K.'s eyes were! She saw the flicker of the match across the + street, and knew what it meant. Once she would have thought that that was + funny; now it seemed very touching to her. + </p> + <p> + Katie had heard the car, and now she came heavily along the hall. “A woman + left this for Mr. K.,” she said. “If you think it's a begging letter, + you'd better keep it until he's bought his new suit to-morrow. Almost any + moment he's likely to bust out.” + </p> + <p> + But it was not a begging letter. K. read it in the hall, with Sidney's + shining eyes on him. It began abruptly:— + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to Africa with one of my cousins. She is a medical missionary. + Perhaps I can work things out there. It is a bad station on the West + Coast. I am not going because I feel any call to the work, but because I + do not know what else to do. + </p> + <p> + “You were kind to me the other day. I believe, if I had told you then, you + would still have been kind. I tried to tell you, but I was so terribly + afraid. + </p> + <p> + “If I caused death, I did not mean to. You will think that no excuse, but + it is true. In the hospital, when I changed the bottles on Miss Page's + medicine-tray, I did not care much what happened. But it was different + with you. + </p> + <p> + “You dismissed me, you remember. I had been careless about a sponge count. + I made up my mind to get back at you. It seemed hopeless—you were so + secure. For two or three days I tried to think of some way to hurt you. I + almost gave up. Then I found the way. + </p> + <p> + “You remember the packets of gauze sponges we made and used in the + operating-room? There were twelve to each package. When we counted them as + we got them out, we counted by packages. On the night before I left, I + went to the operating-room and added one sponge every here and there. Out + of every dozen packets, perhaps, I fixed one that had thirteen. The next + day I went away. + </p> + <p> + “Then I was terrified. What if somebody died? I had meant to give you + trouble, so you would have to do certain cases a second time. I swear that + was all. I was so frightened that I went down sick over it. When I got + better, I heard you had lost a case and the cause was being whispered + about. I almost died of terror. + </p> + <p> + “I tried to get back into the hospital one night. I went up the + fire-escape, but the windows were locked. Then I left the city. I couldn't + stand it. I was afraid to read a newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to sign this letter. You know who it is from. And I am not + going to ask your forgiveness, or anything of that sort. I don't expect + it. But one thing hurt me more than anything else, the other night. You + said you'd lost your faith in yourself. This is to tell you that you need + not. And you said something else—that any one can 'come back.' I + wonder!” + </p> + <p> + K. stood in the hall of the little house with the letter in his hand. Just + beyond on the doorstep was Sidney, waiting for him. His arms were still + warm from the touch of her. Beyond lay the Street, and beyond that lay the + world and a man's work to do. Work, and faith to do it, a good woman's + hand in the dark, a Providence that made things right in the end. + </p> + <p> + “Are you coming, K.?” + </p> + <p> + “Coming,” he said. And, when he was beside her, his long figure folded to + the short measure of the step, he stooped humbly and kissed the hem of her + soft white dress. + </p> + <p> + Across the Street, Mr. Wagner wrote something in the dark and then lighted + a match. + </p> + <p> + “So K. is in love with Sidney Page, after all!” he had written. “She is a + sweet girl, and he is every inch a man. But, to my mind, a certain lady—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McKee flushed and blew out the match. + </p> + <p> + Late September now on the Street, with Joe gone and his mother eyeing the + postman with pitiful eagerness; with Mrs. Rosenfeld moving heavily about + the setting-up of the new furniture; and with Johnny driving heavenly + cars, brake and clutch legs well and Strong. Late September, with Max + recovering and settling his tie for any pretty nurse who happened along, + but listening eagerly for Dr. Ed's square tread in the hall; with Tillie + rocking her baby on the porch at Schwitter's, and Carlotta staring + westward over rolling seas; with Christine taking up her burden and Grace + laying hers down; with Joe's tragic young eyes growing quiet with the + peace of the tropics. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord is my shepherd,” she reads. “I shall not want.”... “Yea, though I + walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney, on her knees in the little parlor, repeats the words with the + others. K. has gone from the Street, and before long she will join him. + With the vision of his steady eyes before her, she adds her own prayer to + the others—that the touch of his arms about her may not make her + forget the vow she has taken, of charity and its sister, service, of a cup + of water to the thirsty, of open arms to a tired child. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of K, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK K *** + +***** This file should be named 9931-h.htm or 9931-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/9/3/9931/ + +Produced by David Brannan, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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