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.
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.
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.
“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.”
Tillie’s pale eyes filled.
“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.”
She found opportunity for a word with K. while Christine went ahead of him out of the barn.
“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?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“The barkeeper says he carries a revolver around, and talks wild. I thought maybe Sidney Page could do something with him.”
“I think he’d not like her to know. I’ll do what I can.”
K.‘s face was thoughtful as he followed Christine to the road.
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.
It was late when they got home. Sidney was sitting on the low step, waiting for them.
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.
“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.
Christine went to her room, and, with a long breath of content, K. folded up his long length on the step below Sidney.
“Well, dear ministering angel,” he said, “how goes the world?”
“Things have been happening, K.”
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.
“I have gone into the operating-room.”
“Fine!”
“The costume is ugly. I look hideous in it.”
“Doubtless.”
He smiled up at her. There was relief in his eyes, and still a question.
“Is that all the news?”
“There is something else, K.”
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.
“I think I know what it is, Sidney.”
“You expected it, didn’t you?”
“I—it’s not an entire surprise.”
“Aren’t you going to wish me happiness?”
“If my wishing could bring anything good to you, you would have everything in the world.”
His voice was not entirely steady, but his eyes smiled into hers.
“Am I—are we going to lose you soon?”
“I shall finish my training. I made that a condition.”
Then, in a burst of confidence:—
“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?”
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.
Even that first evening he had been jealous.
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.
“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?”
“That’s a fact, isn’t it!” He managed to get some surprise into his voice.
“How Joe objected to your coming! Poor Joe!”
“Do you ever see him?”
“Hardly ever now. I think he hates me.”
“Why?”
“Because—well, you know, K. Why do men always hate a woman who just happens not to love them?”
“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.”
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.
“I shall be just across the Street,” she said at last. “Nearer than I am at the hospital.”
“You will be much farther away. You will be married.”
“But we will still be friends, K.?”
Her voice was anxious, a little puzzled. She was often puzzled with him.
“Of course.”
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—
“Shall you mind very much if I tell you that I am thinking of going away?”
“K.!”
“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?”
“That does not mean you are not wanted.”
“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.”