"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."
"Reginald is back in the woods again."
"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?"
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.
Christine had stepped out on the balcony, and was speaking to K. just inside.
"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."
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.
"You'll find a car a great comfort, I'm sure," he said politely.
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.
"You'll come out with us now and then, I hope."
"Thank you."
"Isn't it odd to think that we are going to be practically one family!"
"Odd, but very pleasant."
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!
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."
CHAPTER X
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.
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.
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.
"Oh, it's you, is it?"
"It's me, Mrs. McKee."
"Well?"
He made a conciliatory effort.
"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."
"If you want to see Tillie, she's busy."
"I only want to say how-d 'ye-do. I'm just on my way through town."
"I'll say it for you."
A certain doggedness took the place of his tentative smile.
"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."
Mrs. McKee knew herself routed, and retreated to the kitchen.
"You're wanted out front," she said.
"Who is it?"
"Never mind. Only, my advice to you is, don't be a fool."
Tillie went suddenly pale. The hands with which she tied a white apron over her gingham one were shaking.
Her visitor had accepted the open door as permission to enter and was standing in the hall.
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.
"Well, here I am, Tillie."
"All dressed up and highly perfumed!" said poor Tillie, with the question in her eyes. "You're quite a stranger, Mr. Schwitter."
"I was passing through, and I just thought I'd call around and tell you--My God, Tillie, I'm glad to see you!"
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.
"I couldn't help it. I know I promised."
"Then she--?"
"She's still living. Playing with paper dolls--that's the latest."
Tillie sat down suddenly on one of the stiff chairs. Her lips were as white as her face.
"I thought, when I saw you--"
"I was afraid you'd think that."
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.
"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."
Tillie found speech at last.
"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."
Mr. Schwitter rose and took a step toward her.
"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!"
"What's that got to do with me?"
"You're lonely, too, ain't you?"
"Me? I haven't got time to be. And, anyhow, there's always a crowd here."
"You can be lonely in a crowd, and I guess--is there any one around here you like better than me?"
"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."
"Is that all, Tillie? Haven't you got a right to be happy?"
She was quick of wit, and she read his tone as well as his words.
"You get out of here--and get out quick!"
She had jumped to her feet; but he only looked at her with understanding eyes.
"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."
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.
"Them poplars out there ought to be taken away," he said heavily. "They're hell on sewers."
Tillie found her voice at last:--
"I couldn't do it, Mr. Schwitter. I guess I'm a coward. Maybe I'll be sorry."
"Perhaps, if you got used to the idea--"
"What's that to do with the right and wrong of it?"
"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."
"You'd know it. You wouldn't respect me."
"Don't a man respect a woman that's got courage enough to give up everything for him?"
Tillie was crying softly into her apron. He put a work-hardened hand on her head.
"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."
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.
"To-morrow morning, then," he said quietly, and went out the door.
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.
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.
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.
"Why, you're not sick, are you, Tillie?"
"Me? Oh, no. Low in my mind, I guess."
"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?"
"Thanks; I guess I'll not go out."
Then, unexpectedly, she bent her head against a chair-back and fell to silent crying. K. let her cry for a moment. Then:--
"Now--tell me about it."
"I'm just worried; that's all."
"Let's see if we can't fix up the worries. Come, now, out with them!"
"I'm a wicked woman, Mr. Le Moyne."
"Then I'm the person to tell it to. I--I'm pretty much a lost soul myself."
He put an arm over her shoulders and drew her up, facing him.
"Suppose we go into the parlor and talk it out. I'll bet things are not as bad as you imagine."
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.
"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."
"I--I understand a great deal better than you think I do. You're not wicked. The only thing is--"
"Go on. Hit me with it."
"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."
"I know. I've thought of that. But I'm so crazy for children!"
"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."
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.
CHAPTER XI
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.
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.
Dr. Ed Wilson had sent a woman patient into the ward, and his visits were the breath of life to the girl.
"How're they treating you?" he asked her, one day, abruptly.
"Very well."
"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?"
Sidney looked distressed.
"Positively, no. It's been hot, and of course it's troublesome to tell me everything. I--I think they're all very kind."
He reached out a square, competent hand, and put it over hers.
"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?"
"I didn't want to marry him; that's all."
"That's considerable. The boy's taking it hard."
Then, seeing her face:--
"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."
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.
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.
"Want anything, Grace?"
"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."
"People can't always come at visiting hours. Besides, it's hot."
"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."
Then, suddenly:--
"You know that man I told you about the other day?"
Sidney nodded. The girl's anxious eyes were on her.
"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."
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.
"You're from the city, aren't you, Miss Page?"
"Yes."
"You told me the street, but I've forgotten it."
Sidney repeated the name of the Street, and slipped a fresh pillow under the girl's head.
"The evening paper says there's a girl going to be married on your street."
"Really! Oh, I think I know. A friend of mine is going to be married. Was the name Lorenz?"
"The girl's name was Lorenz. I--I don't remember the man's name."
"She is going to marry a Mr. Howe," said Sidney briskly. "Now, how do you feel? More comfy?"
"Fine! I suppose you'll be going to that wedding?"
"If I ever get time to have a dress made, I'll surely go."
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:--
"Did not sleep at all during night. Face set and eyes staring, but complains of no pain. Refused milk at eleven and three."
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