K

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER VIII

  Sidney entered the hospital as a probationer early in August. Christinewas 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 nightbefore she went away, Sidney took chairs out there and sat with hermother 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 pleasantangle. She could see the garden and the whitewashed fence with itsmorning-glories, and at the same time, by turning her head, view theWilson 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 anddown, and catch, occasionally, the bitter-sweet odor of his old brierpipe.

  All the small loose ends of her life were gathered up--except Joe. Shewould have liked to get that clear, too. She wanted him to know how shefelt about it all: that she liked him as much as ever, that she did notwant to hurt him. But she wanted to make it clear, too, that she knewnow 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. Hereyes turned wistfully to the house across the Street.

  K.'s lamp still burned overhead, but his restless tramping about hadceased. He must be reading--he read a great deal. She really ought to goto bed. A neighborhood cat came stealthily across the Street, and staredup 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, heardher 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 doto keep out of your way?"

  "Not if you are hating me all the time."

  "I don't hate you."

  "Then why haven't you been to see me? If I have done anything--" Hervoice was a-tingle with virtue and outraged friendship.

  "You haven't done anything but--show me where I get off."

  He sat down on the edge of the balcony and stared out blankly.

  "If that's the way you feel about it--"

  "I'm not blaming you. I was a fool to think you'd ever care about me. Idon't know that I feel so bad--about the thing. I've been around seeingsome other girls, and I notice they're glad to see me, and treat meright, too." There was boyish bravado in his voice. "But what makes mesick is to have everyone saying you've jilted me."

  "Good gracious! Why, Joe, I never promised."

  "Well, we look at it in different ways; that's all. I took it for apromise."

  Then suddenly all his carefully conserved indifference fled. He bentforward quickly and, catching her hand, held it against his lips.

  "I'm crazy about you, Sidney. That's the truth. I wish I could die!"

  The cat, finding no active antagonism, sprang up on the balcony andrubbed against the boy's quivering shoulders; a breath of air strokedthe morning-glory vine like the touch of a friendly hand. Sidney,facing for the first time the enigma of love and despair sat, ratherfrightened, in her chair.

  "You don't mean that!"

  "I mean it, all right. If it wasn't for the folks, I'd jump in theriver. I lied when I said I'd been to see other girls. What do I wantwith other girls? I want you!"

  "I'm not worth all that."

  "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 afraidsometimes of the way I feel. When I saw you at the White Springs withthat roomer chap--"

  "Ah! You were there!"

  "If I'd had a gun I'd have killed him. I thought--" So far, out of sheerpity, she had left her hand in his. Now she drew it away.

  "This is wild, silly talk. You'll be sorry to-morrow."

  "It's the truth," doggedly.

  But he made a clutch at his self-respect. He was acting like a crazyboy, and he was a man, all of twenty-two!

  "When are you going to the hospital?"

  "To-morrow."

  "Is that Wilson's hospital?"

  "Yes."

  Alas for his resolve! The red haze of jealousy came again. "You'll beseeing him every day, I suppose."

  "I dare say. I shall also be seeing twenty or thirty other doctors, anda hundred or so men patients, not to mention visitors. Joe, you're notrational."

  "No," he said heavily, "I'm not. If it's got to be someone, Sidney, I'drather have it the roomer upstairs than Wilson. There's a lot of talkabout Wilson."

  "It isn't necessary to malign my friends." He rose.

  "I thought perhaps, since you are going away, you would let me keepReginald. He'd be something to remember you by."

  "One would think I was about to die! I set Reginald free that day in thecountry. I'm sorry, Joe. You'll come to see me now and then, won't you?"

  "If I do, do you think you may change your mind?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "I've got to fight this out alone, and the less I see of you thebetter." But his next words belied his intention. "And Wilson had betterlookout. I'll be watching. If I see him playing any of his tricks aroundyou--well, he'd better look out!"

  That, as it turned out, was Joe's farewell. He had reached thebreaking-point. He gave her a long look, blinked, and walked rapidly outto the Street. Some of the dignity of his retreat was lost by the factthat the cat followed him, close at his heels.

  Sidney was hurt, greatly troubled. If this was love, she did not wantit--this strange compound of suspicion and despair, injured pride andthreats. Lovers in fiction were of two classes--the accepted ones, wholoved and trusted, and the rejected ones, who took themselves away indespair, but at least took themselves away. The thought of a futurewith Joe always around a corner, watching her, obsessed her. She feltaggrieved, insulted. She even shed a tear or two, very surreptitiously;and then, being human and much upset, and the cat startling her by itssudden return and selfish advances, she shooed it off the veranda andset an imaginary dog after it. Whereupon, feeling somewhat better, shewent in and locked the balcony window and proceeded upstairs.

  Le Moyne's light was still going. The rest of the household slept. Shepaused outside the door.

  "Are you sleepy?"--very softly.

  There was a movement inside, the sound of a book put down. Then: "No,indeed."

  "I may not see you in the morning. I leave to-morrow."

  "Just a minute."

  From the sounds, she judged that he was putting on his shabby graycoat. The next moment he had opened the door and stepped out into thecorridor.

  "I believe you had forgotten!"

  "I? Certainly not. I started downstairs a while ago, but you had avisitor."

  "Only Joe Drummond."

  He gazed down at her quizzically.

  "And--is Joe more reasonable?"

  "He will be. He knows now that I--that I shall not marry him."

  "Poor chap! He'll buck up, of course. But it's a little hard just now."

  "I believe you think I should have married him."

  "I am only putting myself in his place and realizing--When do youleave?"

  "Just after breakfast."

  "I am going very early. Perhaps--"

  He hesitated. Then, hurriedly:--

  "I got a little present for you--nothing much, but your mother was quitewilling. In fact, we bought it together."

  He went back into his room, and returned with a small box.

  "With all sorts of good luck," he said, and placed it in her hands.
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  "How dear of you! And may I look now?"

  "I wish you would. Because, if you would rather have something else--"

  She opened the box with excited fingers. Ticking away on its satin bedwas a small gold watch.

  "You'll need it, you see," he explained nervously, "It wasn'textravagant under the circumstances. Your mother's watch, which you hadintended to take, had no second-hand. You'll need a second-hand to takepulses, you know."

  "A watch," said Sidney, eyes on it. "A dear little watch, to pin on andnot put in a pocket. Why, you're the best person!"

  "I was afraid you might think it presumptuous," he said. "I haven't anyright, 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 saidyou wouldn't be offended--"

  "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 youknow!"

  After that she must pin it on, and slip in to stand before his mirrorand inspect the result. It gave Le Moyne a queer thrill to see her therein 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 wouldnot be there.

  "I've kept you up shamefully,'" she said at last, "and you get up soearly. I shall write you a note from the hospital, delivering a littlelecture on extravagance--because how can I now, with this joy shining onme? And about how to keep Katie in order about your socks, and all sortsof things. And--and now, good-night."

  She had moved to the door, and he followed her, stooping a little topass under the low chandelier.

  "Good-night," said Sidney.

  "Good-bye--and God bless you."

  She went out, and he closed the door softly behind her.