CHAPTER XV
Palmer and Christine returned from their wedding trip the day K.discovered Tillie. Anna Page made much of the arrival, insisted ondinner for them that night at the little house, must help Christineunpack her trunks and arrange her wedding gifts about the apartment. Shewas brighter than she had been for days, more interested. The wonders ofthe trousseau filled her with admiration and a sort of jealous envy forSidney, who could have none of these things. In a pathetic sort of way,she mothered Christine in lieu of her own daughter.
And it was her quick eye that discerned something wrong. Christine wasnot quite happy. Under her excitement was an undercurrent of reserve.Anna, rich in maternity if in nothing else, felt it, and in reply tosome speech of Christine's that struck her as hard, not quite fitting,she gave her a gentle admonishing.
"Married life takes a little adjusting, my dear," she said. "After wehave lived to ourselves for a number of years, it is not easy to livefor some one else."
Christine straightened from the tea-table she was arranging.
"That's true, of course. But why should the woman do all the adjusting?"
"Men are more set," said poor Anna, who had never been set in anythingin her life. "It is harder for them to give in. And, of course, Palmeris older, and his habits--"
"The less said about Palmer's habits the better," flashed Christine. "Iappear to have married a bunch of habits."
She gave over her unpacking, and sat down listlessly by the fire, whileAnna moved about, busy with the small activities that delighted her.
Six weeks of Palmer's society in unlimited amounts had bored Christineto distraction. She sat with folded hands and looked into a future thatseemed to include nothing but Palmer: Palmer asleep with his mouth open;Palmer shaving before breakfast, and irritable until he had had hiscoffee; Palmer yawning over the newspaper.
And there was a darker side to the picture than that. There was a visionof Palmer slipping quietly into his room and falling into the heavysleep, not of drunkenness perhaps, but of drink. That had happenedtwice. She knew now that it would happen again and again, as long as helived. Drinking leads to other things. The letter she had received onher wedding day was burned into her brain. There would be that in thefuture too, probably.
Christine was not without courage. She was making a brave clutchat happiness. But that afternoon of the first day at home she wasterrified. She was glad when Anna went and left her alone by her fire.
But when she heard a step in the hall, she opened the door herself. Shehad 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 sheopened the door smiling.
But it was K. in the hall. She waited while, with his back to her, heshook himself like a great dog. When he turned, she was watching him.
"You!" said Le Moyne. "Why, welcome home."
He smiled down at her, his kindly eyes lighting.
"It's good to be home and to see you again. Won't you come in to myfire?"
"I'm wet."
"All the more reason why you should come," she cried gayly, and held thedoor wide.
The little parlor was cheerful with fire and soft lamps, bright withsilver vases full of flowers. K. stepped inside and took a criticalsurvey of the room.
"Well!" he said. "Between us we have made a pretty good job of this, Iwith the paper and the wiring, and you with your pretty furnishings andyour pretty self."
He glanced at her appreciatively. Christine saw his approval, and washappier than she had been for weeks. She put on the thousand little airsand graces that were a part of her--held her chin high, looked up athim with the little appealing glances that she had found were wasted onPalmer. She lighted the spirit-lamp to make tea, drew out the best chairfor him, and patted a cushion with her well-cared-for hands.
"A big chair for a big man!" she said. "And see, here's a footstool."
"I am ridiculously fond of being babied," said K., and quite basked inhis new atmosphere of well-being. This was better than his empty roomupstairs, than tramping along country roads, than his own thoughts.
"And now, how is everything?" asked Christine from across the fire. "Dotell me all the scandal of the Street."
"There has been no scandal since you went away," said K. And, becauseeach was glad not to be left to his own thoughts, they laughed at thisbit of unconscious humor.
"Seriously," said Le Moyne, "we have been very quiet. I have had mysalary raised and am now rejoicing in twenty-two dollars a week. Iam still not accustomed to it. Just when I had all my ideas fixed forfifteen, I get twenty-two and have to reassemble them. I am disgustinglyrich."
"It is very disagreeable when one's income becomes a burden," saidChristine gravely.
She was finding in Le Moyne something that she needed just then--asolidity, a sort of dependability, that had nothing to do withheaviness. She felt that here was a man she could trust, almost confidein. She liked his long hands, his shabby but well-cut clothes, his fineprofile with its strong chin. She left off her little affectations,--atribute to his own lack of them,--and sat back in her chair, watchingthe fire.
When K. chose, he could talk well. The Howes had been to Bermuda ontheir wedding trip. He knew Bermuda; that gave them a common ground.Christine relaxed under his steady voice. As for K., he frankly enjoyedthe little visit--drew himself at last with regret out of his chair.
"You've been very nice to ask me in, Mrs. Howe," he said. "I hope youwill allow me to come again. But, of course, you are going to be verygay."
It seemed to Christine she would never be gay again. She did notwant him to go away. The sound of his deep voice gave her a sense ofsecurity. She liked the clasp of the hand he held out to her, when atlast he made a move toward the door.
"Tell Mr. Howe I am sorry he missed our little party," said Le Moyne."And--thank you."
"Will you come again?" asked Christine rather wistfully.
"Just as often as you ask me."
As he closed the door behind him, there was a new light in Christine'seyes. Things were not right, but, after all, they were not hopeless. Onemight still have friends, big and strong, steady of eye and voice. WhenPalmer came home, the smile she gave him was not forced.
The day's exertion had been bad for Anna. Le Moyne found her on thecouch in the transformed sewing-room, and gave her a quick glance ofapprehension. She was propped up high with pillows, with a bottle ofaromatic ammonia beside her.
"Just--short of breath," she panted. "I--I must get down. Sidney--iscoming home--to supper; and--the others--Palmer and--"
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 hehurried into his room for amyl-nitrate. When he came back she was almostunconscious. There was no time even to call Katie. He broke the capsulein a towel, and held it over her face. After a time the spasm relaxed,but her condition remained alarming.
Harriet, who had come home by that time, sat by the couch and held hersister's hand. Only once in the next hour or so did she speak. They hadsent for Dr. Ed, but he had not come yet. Harriet was too wretched tonotice the professional manner in which K. set to work over Anna.
"I've been a very hard sister to her," she said. "If you can pull herthrough, I'll try to make up for it."
Christine sat on the stairs outside, frightened and helpless. They hadsent for Sidney; but the little house had no telephone, and the messagewas slow in getting off.
At six o'clock Dr. Ed came panting up the stairs and into the room. K.stood back.
"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 someamyl-nitrate--"
"I gave her some nitrate of amyl," said K. quietly. "There was really notime to send for anybody. She almost went under at half-past five."
Max had kept his word, and even Dr. Ed did not sus
pect K.'s secret. Hegave a quick glance at this tall young man who spoke so quietly of whathe had done for the sick woman, and went on with his work.
Sidney arrived a little after six, and from that moment the confusion inthe sick-room was at an end. She moved Christine from the stairs,where Katie on her numerous errands must crawl over her; set Harriet towarming her mother's bed and getting it ready; opened windows, broughtorder and quiet. And then, with death in her eyes, she took up herposition beside her mother. This was no time for weeping; that wouldcome later. Once she turned to K., standing watchfully beside her.
"I think you have known this for a long time," she said. And, when hedid not answer: "Why did you let me stay away from her? It would havebeen such a little time!"
"We were trying to do our best for both of you," he replied.
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 thegirl's new experience.
"She has had so little of life," she said, over and over. "So little!Just this Street. She never knew anything else."
And finally K. took it up.
"After all, Sidney," he said, "the Street IS life: the world is onlymany streets. She had a great deal. She had love and content, and shehad you."
Anna died a little after midnight, a quiet passing, so that only Sidneyand 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 ofsmall unkindnesses. The thorn of Anna's inefficiency had always rankledin her flesh. She had been hard, uncompromising, thwarted. And now itwas forever too late.
K. had watched Sidney carefully. Once he thought she was fainting, andwent to her. But she shook her head.
"I am all right. Do you think you could get them all out of the room andlet me have her alone for just a few minutes?"
He cleared the room, and took up his vigil outside the door. And, as hestood 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 andseparation; Harriet's starved life; Christine and Palmer beginning along and doubtful future together; himself, a failure, and an impostor.
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 shoulderlike a tired child.
"Take me away, K.," she said pitifully.
And, with his arm around her, he led her out of the room.
Outside of her small immediate circle Anna's death was hardly felt.The little house went on much as before. Harriet carried back to herbusiness a heaviness of spirit that made it difficult to bear withthe small irritations of her day. Perhaps Anna's incapacity, which hadalways annoyed her, had been physical. She must have had her trouble alongtime. She remembered other women of the Street who had crept throughinefficient days, and had at last laid down their burdens and closedtheir mild eyes, to the lasting astonishment of their families. What didthey think about, these women, as they pottered about? Did they resentthe impatience that met their lagging movements, the indifferencethat would not see how they were failing? Hot tears fell on Harriet'sfashion-book as it lay on her knee. Not only for Anna--for Anna'sprototypes everywhere.
On Sidney--and in less measure, of course, on K.--fell the real brunt ofthe disaster. Sidney kept up well until after the funeral, but went downthe next day with a low fever.
"Overwork and grief," Dr. Ed said, and sternly forbade the hospitalagain until Christmas. Morning and evening K. stopped at her door andinquired for her, and morning and evening came Sidney's reply:--
"Much better. I'll surely be up to-morrow!"
But the days dragged on and she did not get about.
Downstairs, Christine and Palmer had entered on the round of midwintergayeties. Palmer's "crowd" was a lively one. There were dinnersand dances, week-end excursions to country-houses. The Street grewaccustomed to seeing automobiles stop before the little house at allhours of the night. Johnny Rosenfeld, driving Palmer's car, took tofalling asleep at the wheel in broad daylight, and voiced his discontentto his mother.
"You never know where you are with them guys," he said briefly. "Westart out for half an hour's run in the evening, and get home with themilk-wagons. And the more some of them have had to drink, the more theywant to drive the machine. If I get a chance, I'm going to beat it whilethe wind's my way."
But, talk as he might, in Johnny Rosenfeld's loyal heart there was nothought of desertion. Palmer had given him a man's job, and he wouldstick by it, no matter what came.
There were some things that Johnny Rosenfeld did not tell his mother.There were evenings when the Howe car was filled, not with Christineand her friends, but with women of a different world; evenings when thedestination was not a country estate, but a road-house; evenings whenJohnny Rosenfeld, ousted from the driver's seat by some drunken youth,would hold tight to the swinging car and say such fragments of prayersas he could remember. Johnny Rosenfeld, who had started life with fewillusions, was in danger of losing such as he had.
One such night Christine put in, lying wakefully in her bed, while theclock on the mantel tolled hour after hour into the night. Palmer didnot come home at all. He sent a note from the office in the morning:
"I hope you are not worried, darling. The car broke down near theCountry Club last night, and there was nothing to do but to spend thenight there. I would have sent you word, but I did not want to rouseyou. What do you say to the theater to-night and supper afterward?"
Christine was learning. She telephoned the Country Club that morning,and found that Palmer had not been there. But, although she knew nowthat he was deceiving her, as he always had deceived her, as probablyhe always would, she hesitated to confront him with what she knew. Sheshrank, as many a woman has shrunk before, from confronting him with hislie.
But the second time it happened, she was roused. It was almost Christmasthen, and Sidney was well on the way to recovery, thinner and verywhite, but going slowly up and down the staircase on K.'s arm, andsitting with Harriet and K. at the dinner table. She was begging to beback on duty for Christmas, and K. felt that he would have to give herup soon.
At three o'clock one morning Sidney roused from a light sleep to hear arapping on her door.
"Is that you, Aunt Harriet?" she called.
"It's Christine. May I come in?"
Sidney unlocked her door. Christine slipped into the room. She carried acandle, and before she spoke she looked at Sidney's watch on the bedsidetable.
"I hoped my clock was wrong," she said. "I am sorry to waken you,Sidney, but I don't know what to do."
"Are you ill?"
"No. Palmer has not come home."
"What time is it?"
"After three o'clock."
Sidney had lighted the gas and was throwing on her dressing-gown.
"When he went out did he say--"
"He said nothing. We had been quarreling. Sidney, I am going home in themorning."
"You don't mean that, do you?"
"Don't I look as if I mean it? How much of this sort of thing is a womansupposed to endure?"
"Perhaps he has been delayed. These things always seem terrible in themiddle of the night, but by morning--"
Christine whirled on her.
"This isn't the first time. You remember the letter I got on my weddingday?"
"Yes."
"He's gone back to her."
"Christine! Oh, I am sure you're wrong. He's devoted to you. I don'tbelieve it!"
"Believe it or not," said Christine doggedly, "that's exactly what hashappened. I got something out of that little rat of a Rosenfeld boy, andthe rest I know because I know Palmer. He's out with her to-night."
The hospital had taught Sidney one thing: that it took many people tomake a world, and that out of these some were inevitably vicious. Butvice had remained for her a clear abstraction. There were such people,and because one was in the world for service one cared for them. Eventhe Savio
ur had been kind to the woman of the streets.
But here abruptly Sidney found the great injustice of the world--thatbecause of this vice the good suffer more than the wicked. Her youngspirit rose in hot rebellion.
"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!"
Christine was pacing nervously up and down the room. Mere companionshiphad soothed her. She was now, on the surface at least, less excited thanSidney.
"They are not all like Palmer, thank Heaven," she said. "There aredecent men. My father is one, and your K., here in the house, isanother."
At four o'clock in the morning Palmer Howe came home. Christine methim in the lower hall. He was rather pale, but entirely sober. Sheconfronted him in her straight white gown and waited for him to speak.
"I am sorry to be so late, Chris," he said. "The fact is, I am all in. Iwas driving the car out Seven Mile Run. We blew out a tire and the thingturned over."
Christine noticed then that his right arm was hanging inert by his side.
K Page 15
