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.
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.
"You--you dog!" said Joe.
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.
"Now," he said, "if you will keep your voice down, I'll listen to what you have to say."
"You know what I've got to say."
This failing to draw from K. Le Moyne anything but his steady glance, Joe jerked his arm free, and clenched his fist.
"What did you bring her out here for?"
"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."
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.
"Where is she now?"
"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--"
"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."
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.
"Now, be honest with yourself. Is there really an engagement?"
"Yes," doggedly.
"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?"
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:--
"I don't know where you came from," he said, "but around here decent men cut out when a girl's engaged."
"I see!"
"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!"
It took courage, that speech, with K. Le Moyne towering five inches above him and growing a little white about the lips.
"Are you going to say all these things to Sidney?"
"Does she allow you to call her Sidney?"
"Are you?"
"I am. And I am going to find out why you were upstairs just now."
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.
"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."
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.
"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.
"Even if you don't care for her, how do I know she isn't crazy about you?"
"My word of honor, she isn't."
"She sends you notes to McKees'."
"Just to clear the air, I'll show it to you. It's no breach of confidence. It's about the hospital."
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.
"Oh, damn the hospital!" he said--and went swiftly down the steps and into the gathering twilight of the June night.
It was only when he reached the street-car, and sat huddled in a corner, that he remembered something.
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.
CHAPTER VII
Carlotta Harrison pleaded a headache, and was excused from the operating-room and from prayers.
"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."
The girl managed to dissemble the triumph in her eyes.
"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."
Young women on the eve of a vacation were not usually so reasonable. Miss Gregg was grateful.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"A little air first, and then supper--how's that?"
"Air first, please. I'm very tired."
He turned the car toward the suburbs, an
d then, bending toward her, smiled into her eyes.
"Well, this is life!"
"I'm cool for the first time to-day."
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.
"Not uneasy, are you?"
"Not particularly. I'm too comfortable. But I hope we're not seen."
"Even if we are, why not? You are going with me to a case. I've driven Miss Simpson about a lot."
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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."
K. tried to fall into her mood.
"A box of candy against a good cigar, they are a stolid married couple."
"How shall we know?"
"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."
Sidney, who had been leaning forward, talking eagerly over the table, suddenly straightened and flushed.
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.
"Don't turn around," she said swiftly. "It is the Miss Harrison I told you about. She is looking at us."
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.
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.
She had not been mistaken. Here, and after all these months! K. Le Moyne, quite unconscious of her presence, looked down into the valley.
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--
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:--
"It is so dark and depressing out there--it makes me sad."
"Surely you do not want to dine in the house?"
"Do you mind?"
"Just as you wish. This is your evening."
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.
"Your wish is my law--to-night," he said softly.
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.
"I think, after all, you are frightened!"
"Terribly."
"A little danger adds to the zest of things. You know what Nietzsche says about that."
"I am not fond of Nietzsche." Then, with an effort: "What does he say?"
"Two things are wanted by the true man--danger and play. Therefore he seeketh woman as the most dangerous of toys."
"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."
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.
It was only by wild driving that she got back to the hospital by ten o'clock.
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.
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.
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.
Wilson smiled after him in the darkness.
"That you, Joe?" he called.
But the boy went on.
CHAPTER VIII
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Come on, Bill Taft," she said. "Reginald is gone, so you are welcome. Come on."
Joe Drummond, passing the house for the fourth time that evening, heard her voice, and hesitated uncertainly on the pavement.
"That you, Sid?" he called softly.
"Joe! Come in."
"It's late; I'd better get home."
The misery in his voice hurt her.
"I'll not keep you long. I want to talk to you."
He came slowly toward her.
"Well?" he said hoarsely.
"You're not very kind to me, Joe."
"My God!" said poor Joe. "Kind to you! Isn't the kindest thing I can do to keep out of your way?"
"Not if you are hating me all the time."
The Best of Mary Roberts Rinehart Page 129
