 CHAPTER XVIII. K saw Sydney for only a moment on Christmas Day. This was when the gay little slay had stopped in front of the house. Sydney had hurried radiantly in for a moment. Christine's parlor was gay with firelight and noisy with chatter and with a clatter of her tea-cups. K, lounging indolently in front of the fire, had turned to see Sydney in the doorway and leapt to his feet. I can't come in, she cried. I'm only here for a moment. I'm out slay-riding with Dr. Wilson. It's perfectly delightful. Ask him in for a cup of tea. Christine called out. Here's Aunt Harriet and Mother and even Palmer. Christine had aged during the last weeks, but she was putting up a brave front. I'll ask him. Sydney ran to the front door and called. Will you come in for a cup of tea? Tea? Good heavens, no, hurry! As Sydney turned back into the house, she met Palmer. He had come out in the hall and had closed the door into the parlor behind him. His arm was still in splints and swung suspended in a gay silk sling. The sound of laughter came through the door faintly. How is he today? He met Johnny, of course. The boy's face was always with him. Better in some ways, but of course. When are they going to operate? When he's a little stronger. Why don't you come in to see him? I can't, that's the truth. I can't face the poor youngster. He doesn't seem to blame you. He says it's all in the game. Sydney, does Christine know that I was not alone that night? If she guesses it's not because of anything the boy has said, he has told nothing. Out of the firelight, away from the chatter and the laughter, Palmer's face showed worn and haggard. He put his free hand on Sydney's shoulder. I was thinking that perhaps if I went away, that would be cowardly, wouldn't it? If Christine would only say something and get it over with. She doesn't soak. I think she's really trying to be kind, but she hates me, Sydney. She turns pale every time I touch her hand. All the light had died out of Sydney's face. Life was terrible after all. Overwhelming. One did wrong things, and other people suffered. Or one was good, as her mother had been, and was left lonely, a widow, or like Aunt Harriet. Life was a sham, too. Things were so different from what they seemed to be. Christine beyond the door, pouring tea and laughing, with her heart in ashes. Palmer beside her, faultlessly dressed, and wretched. The only one she thought really contented was Kay. He seemed to move so calmly in his little orbit. He was always so steady, so balanced. If life held no heights for him, at least it held no depth. So Sydney thought, in her ignorance. There's only one thing, Palmer, she said gravely. Johnny Rosenfeld is going to have his chance. If anybody in the world can save him, Max Wilson can. The light of that speech was in her eyes, when she went out to the sleigh again. Kay followed her out, and tucked the robes in carefully about her. Warm enough? All right, thank you. Don't go too far. Is there any chance of having you home for supper? I think not. I'm to go on duty at six again. If there was a shadow in Kay's eyes, she did not see it. He waved them off smilingly from the pavement, and went rather heavily back into the house. Just how many men are in love with you, Sydney? asked Max, as Peggy started up the street. No one that I know of, unless. Exactly, unless. What I mean, she said with dignity, is that unless one counts very young men, and that isn't really love. We'll leave out Joe Drummond and myself, for of course I am very young. Who is in love with you besides Lemoine? Any of the interns at the hospital? Me? Lemoine is not in love with me. There was such sincerity in her voice that Wilson was relieved. Kay, older than himself and more grave, had always had an unattraction for women. He had been frankly bored by them, but the fact had remained. And Max, more than suspected that now at last he had been caught. Don't you really mean that you are in love with Lemoine? Please don't be absurd. I am not in love with anybody. I haven't time to be in love. I have my profession now. Bah! A woman's real profession is love. Sydney differed from this hotly, so warm to the argument become that they passed without seeing a middle-aged gentleman, short and rather heavy-set, struggling through a snow-drift on foot, and carrying in his hand a dilapidated leather bag. Dr. Ed hailed them, but the cutter slipped by and left him knee-deep, looking roofily after them. Young scamp, he said, so that's where Peggy is. Nevertheless, there was no anger in Dr. Ed's mind, only a vague and inarticulate regret. These things that came so easily to Max, the affection of women, gay little irresponsibilities, like the stealing of Peggy in the sleigh, had never been his. If there was any faint resentment, it was at himself. He had raised the boy wrong. He had taught him to be selfish. Holding the bag high out of the drifts, he made a slow progress up the street. Had something after two o'clock that night, Kay put down his pipe and listened. He had not been able to sleep since midnight. In his dressing-gown, he had sat by the small fire thinking, the content of his first few months on the street, who's rapidly giving way to unrest. He, who had meant to cut himself off from life, found himself again in close touch with it. His eddy was deep with it. For the first time he had begun to question the wisdom of what he had done. Had it been cowardice after all, it had to take encourage God knew to give up everything and come away. In a way it would have taken more courage to have stayed. Had he been right or wrong? And there was a new element. He had thought at first that he could fight down this love for Sydney. But it was increasingly hard, the innocent touch of her hand on his arm, the moment when he held her in his arms after his mother's death, the thousands more contacts of her returns to the little house. All these set his blood on fire, and it was fighting blood. Under his quiet exterior Kaye found many conflicts those winter days, over his desk and ledger at the office, in his room alone, with Harriet planning fresh triumphs beyond the partition, even by Christine's fire, with Christine just across, sitting in silence and watching his grave profile and steady eyes. He had a little picture of Sydney, a snapshot that he had taken himself. It showed Sydney minus a hand, which had been out of range when the camera had been snapped. In standing on a steep declivity, which would have been quite a level, had he held the camera straight. Nevertheless it was Sydney. Her hair blowing about her, eyes looking out, tender lips smiling. When she was not at home, it sat on Kaye's dresser, propped against his collar-box. When she was in the house, it lay under the pin cushion. Two o'clock in the morning then, and Kaye, in his dressing-cown, with the picture propped up, not against the collar-box, but against his lamp, where he could see it. He sat forward in his chair, his hands folded around his knee, and looked at it. He was trying to picture the Sydney of the photograph in his old life, trying to find a place for her, but it was difficult. There had been few women in his old life. His mother had died many years before. There had been women who cared for him, but he put them impatiently out of his mind. Then the bell rang. Christine was moving about below. He could hear her quick steps. Almost before he heaved his long legs out of the chair, she was tapping at his door outside. It's Mrs. Rosenfeld. She says she wants to see you. He went down the stairs. Mrs. Rosenfeld was standing in the lower hall, a shawl about her shoulders. Her face was white and drawn above it. I've had word to go to the hospital. She said, I thought maybe you'd go with me. It seems as if I can't stand it alone. Oh, Johnny, Johnny! Where's Palmer? Kay demanded of Christine. He's not in yet. Are you afraid to stay in the house alone? No, please go. He ran up the staircase to his room and flung on some clothing. In the lower hall Mrs. Rosenfeld's sobs had become low moans. Christine stood helplessly over her. I'm terribly sorry, she said terribly sorry. When I think whose fault all this is. Mrs. Rosenfeld put out a work-hardened hand and caught Christine's fingers. Never mind that, she said you didn't do it. I guess you and I understand each other. Only pray God you never have a child. Kay never forgot the scene in the small emergency ward to which Johnny had been taken. Under the white lights his boyish figure looked strangely long. There was a group around the bed, Max Wilson, two or three interns, the nightners on duty, the head, sitting just inside the door on a straight chair with Sydney, such a Sydney as he had never seen before, her face colorless, her eyes wide and unseeing, her hands clenched in her lap. When he stood beside her she did not move or look up. The group around the bed had parted to admit Mrs. Rosenfeld and closed again. Only Sydney and Kay remained by the door, isolated, alone. You must not take it like that, dear. It's sad, of course, but after all, in that condition. It was her first knowledge that he was there, but she did not turn. They say I poisoned him. Her voice was dreary, inflectionless. You what? They say I gave him the wrong medicine, that he's dying, that I murdered him, she shivered. Kay touched her hands, they were ice-cold. Tell me about it. There's nothing to tell. I came on duty at six o'clock and gave the medicines. When the nightners came on at seven everything was all right. The medicine tray was just as it should be. Johnny was asleep. I went to say good night to him and he. He was asleep. I didn't give him anything but what was on the tray. She finished piteously. I looked at the label. I always look. By a shifting of the group around the bed Kay's eyes looked up for a moment directly into Carlotta's. Just for a moment. Then the crowd closed up again. It was well for Carlotta that it did. She looked as if she had seen a ghost, closed her eyes, even reeled. Miss Harrison has worn out, Dr. Wilson said brusquely. Get someone to take her place. But Carlotta rallied. After all, the presence of this man in this room at such a time meant nothing. He was Sydney's friend, that was all. But her nerve was shaken, the thing had gone beyond her. She had not meant to kill. It was the boy's weakened condition that was turning her revenge into tragedy. I'm all right. She pleaded across the bed to the head. Let me stay, please. He's from my ward. I—I am responsible. Wilson was at his wit's end. He had done everything he knew without result. The boy, rousing for an instance, would lap again into stupor. With a healthy man they could have tried more vigorous measures. Could have forced him to his feet and walked him about. Could have beaten him with knotted towels, dipped in ice water. But the wrecked body on the bed could stand no such heroic treatment. It was Lemoine, after all, who saved Johnny Rosenfeld's life. For when staff and nurses had exhausted all their resources, he stepped forward with a quiet word that brought the interns to their feet, astonished. There was a new treatment for such cases it had been tried abroad. He looked at Max. Max had never heard of it. He threw out his hands. Try it for heaven's sake, he said. I'm all in. The apparatus was not in the house, must be extemporized indeed. At last, a vods and ends from the operating room. Kaye did the work, his long fingers deft and skillful, while Mrs. Rosenfeld knelt by the bed with her face buried, while Sydney sat dazed and bewildered on her little chair inside the door, while night nurses tiptoed along the corridor and the night watchmen steered incredulous from outside the door. When the two great rectangles that were the emergency ward windows had turned from mirrors reflecting the room to gray rectangles in the morning light, Johnny Rosenfeld opened his eyes and spoke the first words that marked his return from the dark valley. Gee! This is the life, he said, and smiled into Kaye's watchful face. When it was clear that the boy would live, Kaye rose stiffly from the bedside and went over to Sydney's chair. He's all right now, he said. As all right as he can be, poor lad. You did it. You! How strange that you should know such a thing. How am I to thank you? The interns talking among themselves had wandered down to their dining-room for early coffee. Wilson was giving a few last instructions as to the boy's care. Quite unexpectedly Sydney caught Kaye's hand and held it to her lips. The iron repression of the night of Mutz indeed fell away before her simple caress. My dear, my dear, he said huskily, anything that I can do for you at any time. It was after Sydney had crept like a broken thing to her room that Carlotta Harrison and Kaye came face to face. Johnny was quite conscious by that time, a little blue around the lips, but valiantly cheerful. More things can happen to a fellow than I ever knew there was, he said to his mother, and submitted rather sheepishly to her cheers and caresses. You were always a good boy, Johnny, she said. Just you get well enough to come home. I'll take care of you the rest of my life. We will get you a wheelchair, when you can be about, and I can take you out in the park when I come from work. I'll be passenger and you'll be chauffeur-mâ. Mr. Lemoine is going to get your father sent up again. With sixty-five cents a day, and what I make, we'll get along. You bet we will. Oh, Johnny, if I could see you coming in the door again and yelling, mother and supper in one breath. The meeting between Carlotta and Lemoine was very quiet. She had been making a sort of subconscious impression on the retina of his mind during all the night. It would be difficult to tell when he actually knew her. When the preparations for moving Johnny back to the big ward had been made, the other nurses left the room, and Carlotta and the boy were together. Johnny stopped her on the way to the door. Miss Harrison, yes, Dr. Edwards. I am not Dr. Edwards here. My name is Lemoine. Ah, I have not seen you since you left St. John's. No, I—I rested for a few months. I suppose they do not know that you were—that you have had any previous hospital experience. No, are you going to tell them? I shall not tell them, of course. And thus, by simple mutual consent, it was arranged that each should respect the other's confidence. Carlotta staggered to her room. There had been a time, just before dawn, when she had had one of those swift revelations that sometimes come at the end of a long night. She had seen herself as she was. The boy was very low, hardly breathing. Her past stretched behind her. A series of small revenges and passionate outbursts, swift yieldings, slow remorse. She dared not look ahead. She would have given every hope she had in the world, just then, for Sydney's stainless past. She hated herself with that deadly a-slothing that comes of complete self-revelation, and she carried to her room the knowledge that the night's struggle had been in vain, that although Donnie Rosenfeld would live, she had gained nothing by what he had suffered. The whole night had shown her the hopelessness of any strategy to win Wilson from his new allegiance. She had surprised him in the hallway, watching Sydney's slender figure as she made her way up the stairs to her room. Never, in all his past overtures to her, had she seen that look in his eyes. End of Chapter 18. Chapter 19 of K. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. K. By Mary Roberts Reinhart. Chapter 19 To Harriet Kennedy, Sydney's sentence of 30-day suspension came as a blow. K. broke the news to her that evening before the time for Sydney's arrival. The little household was sharing in Harriet's prosperity. Katie had a helper now, a little Austrian girl named Mimi, and Harriet had established on the street the innovation of after-dinner coffee. It was over the after-dinner coffee that K made his announcement. What do you mean by saying she is coming home for 30 days? Is the child ill? Not ill, although she is not quite well. The fact is, Harriet, for it was Harriet and K by this time, there has been a sort of semi-accident up at the hospital. It hasn't resulted seriously, but Harriet put down the apostle spoon in her hand and stared across at him. Then she has been suspended. What did she do? I don't believe she did anything. There was a mistake about the medicine and she was blamed. That's all. She'd better come home and stay home, said Harriet shortly. I hope it doesn't get in the papers. This dressmaking business is a funny sort of thing. One word against you or any of your family and the crowds off somewhere else. There's nothing against Sidney, K reminded her. Nothing in the world. I saw the superintendent myself this afternoon. It seems it's a mere matter of discipline. Somebody made a mistake and they cannot let such a thing go by. But he believes as I do that it was not Sidney. However, Harriet had hardened herself against the girl's arrival. All she had meant to say fled when she saw Sidney's circled eyes and pathetic mouth. You child, she said, you poor little girl and took her corseted bosom. For the time at least, Sidney's world had gone to pieces about her. All her brave vaunt of service faded before her disgrace. When Christine would have seen her, she kept her door locked and asked for just that one evening alone. But after Harriet had retired and Mimi the Austrian had crept out to the corner to mail a letter back to Gratz. Sidney unbolted her door and listened in the little upper hall. Harriet, her head in a towel, her face carefully cold-creamed, had gone to bed. But K's light, as usual, was shining over the transom. Sidney tiptoed to the door. K, almost immediately he opened the door. May I come in and talk to you? He turned and took a quick survey of the room. The picture was against the collar box, but he took the risk and held the door wide. Sidney came in and sat down by the fire. By being a droid, he managed to slip the little picture over and under the box before she saw it. It is doubtful if she would have realized its significance had she seen it. I've been thinking things over, she said. It seems to me I'd better not go back. He had left the door carefully open. Men are always more conventional than women. That would be foolish, wouldn't it, when you have done so well? And besides, since you are not guilty, Sidney. I didn't do it, she cried passionately. I know I didn't, but I've lost faith in myself. I can't keep on. That's all there is to it. All last night in the emergency ward, I felt it going. I clutched at it. I kept saying to myself, you didn't do it, you didn't do it. And all the time something inside of me was saying, not now perhaps, but sometime you may. Poor Kay, who had reasoned all this out for himself and had come to the same impasse. To go on like this, feeling that one has life and death in one's hand, and then perhaps someday to make a mistake like that. She looked up at him forlornly. I am just not brave enough, Kay. Wouldn't it be braver to keep on? Aren't you giving up very easily? Her world was in pieces about her. And she felt alone in a wide and empty place. And because her nerves were drawn taut until they were ready to snap, Sidney turned on him shrewishly. I think you are all afraid I will come back to stay. Nobody really wants me anywhere in all the world, not at the hospital, not here, not any place. I am no use when you say that nobody wants you, said Kay, not very steadily. I think you are making a mistake. Who, she demanded? Christine? Aunt Harriet? Katie? The only person who ever really wanted me was my mother. And I went away and left her. She scanned his face closely and reading there something she did not understand. She colored suddenly. I believe you mean Joe Drummond. No, I do not mean Joe Drummond. If he had found any encouragement in her face, he would have gone on recklessly, but her blank eyes warned him. If you mean Max Wilson, said Sidney, you are entirely wrong. He's not in love with me, not that is any more than he is in love with a dozen girls. He likes to be with me. Oh, I know that, but that doesn't mean anything else. Anyhow, after this disgrace, there is no disgraced child. He'll think me careless at the least, and his ideals are so high, Kay. You say he likes to be with you. What about you? Sidney had been sitting in a low chair by the fire. She rose with a sudden, passionate movement. In the informality of the household, she had visited Kay in her dressing gown and slippers, and now she stood before him, a tragic young figure clutching the folds of her gown across her breast. I worship him, Kay, she said tragically. When I see him coming, I want to get down and let him walk on me. I know his step in the hall. I know the very way he rings for the elevator. When I see him in the operating room, cool and calm, while everyone else is flustered and excited, he looks like a god. Then, half ashamed of her outburst, she turned her back to him and stood gazing at the small coal fire. It was as well for Kay that she did not see his face. For that one moment, the despair that was in him shown in his eyes. He glanced around the shabby little room, at the sagging bed, the collar box, the pin cushion, the old marble top bureau under which Reginald had formally made his nest, at his untidy table, littered with pipes and books, at the image in the mirror of his own tall figure, stooped and weary. It's real all this, he asked. After a pause, you're sure it's not just glamour, Sidney? It's real, terribly real. Her voice was muffled and he knew then that she was crying. She was mightily ashamed of it. Tears, of course, except in the privacy of one's closet, were not ethical on the street. Perhaps he cares very much too. Give me a handkerchief, said Sidney, in a muffled tone and the little scene was broken into while Kay searched through a bureau drawer. Then it's all over anyhow since this. If he'd really cared, he'd have come over tonight. When one is in trouble, one needs friends. Back in a circle, she came inevitably to her suspension. She would never go back, she said passionately. She was innocent, had been falsely accused. If they could think such a thing about her, she didn't want to be in their old hospital. Kay questioned her, alternately soothing and probing. You are positive about it? Absolutely. I have given him his medicines dozens of times. You looked at the label? I swear I did, Kay. Who else had access to the medicine closet? Carlotta Harrison carried the keys, of course. I was off duty from four to six. When Carlotta left the ward, the probationer would have them. Have you reason to think that either of these girls would wish you harm? None whatever began Sidney vehemently and then checking herself. Unless, but that's rather ridiculous. What is ridiculous? I've sometimes thought that Carlotta, but I'm sure she's perfectly fair with me. Even if she, if she, yes, even if she likes Dr. Wilson, I don't believe why Kay, she wouldn't. It would be murder. Murder, of course, said Kay in intention anyhow. Of course she didn't do it. I'm only trying to find out whose mistake it was. Soon after that, she said good night and went out. She turned in the doorway and smiled tremulously back at him. You have done me a lot of good. You almost make me believe in myself. That's because I believe in you. With a quick movement that was one of her charms, Sidney suddenly closed the door and slipped back into the room. Kay, hearing the door close, thought she had gone and dropped heavily into a chair. My best friend in all the world said Sidney suddenly from behind him and bending over she kissed him on the cheek. The next instant the door had closed behind her and Kay was left alone to such wretchedness and bliss as the evening had brought him. On toward morning Harriet, who slept but restlessly in her towel, wakened to the glare of his light over the transom. Kay, she called pettishly from her door, I wish you wouldn't go to sleep and let your light burn. Kay, surmising the towel and cold cream, had the tact not to open his door. I am not a sleep Harriet and I'm sorry about the light. It's going out now. Before he extinguished the light, he walked over to the old dresser and surveyed himself in the glass. Two nights without sleep and much anxiety had told on him. He looked old, haggard, infinitely tired. Mentally he compared himself with Wilson, flushed with success, erect, triumphant, almost insolent. Nothing had more certainly told him the hopelessness of his love for Sidney than her goodnight kiss. He was her brother, her friend. He would never be her lover. He drew a long breath and proceeded to undress in the dark. Joe Drummond came to see Sidney the next day. She would have avoided him if she could, but Mimi had ushered him up to the sewing-room bourgeois before she had time to escape. She had not seen the boy for two months and the change in him startled her. He was thinner, rather hectic, scrupulously well dressed. Why, Joe, she said, and then won't you sit down. He was still rather theatrical. He dramatized himself as he had that night the June before when he had asked Sidney to marry him. He stood just inside the doorway. He offered no conventional greeting whatever, but after surveying her briefly, her black gown, the lines around her eyes, you're not going back to that place, of course. I haven't decided. Then somebody's got to decide for you. The thing for you to do is stay right here, Sidney. People know you on the street. Nobody here would ever accuse you of trying to murder anybody. In spite of herself, Sidney smiled a little. Nobody thinks I tried to murder him. It was a mistake about the medicines. I didn't do it, Joe. His love was purely selfish for he brushed aside her protest as if she had not spoken. You give me the word and I'll go and get your things. I've got a car of my own now. But, Joe, they have only done what they thought was right. Whoever made it, there was a mistake. He stared at her incredulously. You don't mean that you're going to stand for this sort of thing. Every time some fool makes a mistake, are they going to blame it on you? Please don't be theatrical. Come in and sit down. I can't talk to you if you explode like a rocket all the time. Her matter of fact-tone had its effect. He advanced into the room, but he still scorned a chair. I guess you've been wondering why you haven't heard from me, he said. I've seen you more than you've seen me. Sidney looked uneasy. The idea of espionage is always repugnant, and to have a rejected lover always in the offing, as it were, was disconcerting. I wish you would be just a little bit sensible, Joe. It's so silly of you, really. It's not because you care for me. It's really because you care for yourself. You can't look at me and say that, Sid. He ran his finger around his collar, an old gesture, but the collar was very loose. He was thin. His neck showed it. I'm just eating my heart out for you, and that's the truth. And it isn't only that. Everywhere I go, people say, there's the fellow Sidney Page turned down when she went to the hospital. I've got so I keep off the street as much as I can. Sidney was half alarmed, half irritated. This wild, excited boy was not the doggedly faithful youth she had always known. It seemed to her that he was hardly sane, that underneath his quiet manner and carefully repressed voice there lurked something irrational, something she could not cope with. She looked up at him helplessly. But what do you want me to do? You almost frighten me if you'd only sit down. I want you to come home. I'm not asking anything else now. I just want you to come back so that things will be the way they used to be. Now that they've turned you out, they've done nothing of the sort. I've told you that. You're going back? Absolutely. Because you love the hospital or because you love somebody connected with the hospital? Sidney was thoroughly angry by this time, angry and reckless. She had come through so much that every nerve was crying and passionate protest. If it will make you understand things any better, she cried, I am going back for both reasons. She was sorry the next moment. But her words seemed surprisingly enough to steady him. For the first time he sat down. Then, as far as I'm concerned, it's all over, is it? Yes, Joe, I told you that long ago. He seemed hardly to be listening. His thoughts had ranged far ahead. Suddenly, you think Christine has her hands full with Palmer, don't you? Well, if you take Max Wilson, you're going to have more trouble than Christine ever dreamed of. I can tell you some things about him now that will make you think twice. But Sidney had reached her limit. She went over and flung open the door. Every word that you say shows me how right I am in not marrying you, Joe, she said. Real men do not say those things about each other under any circumstances. You're behaving like a bad boy. I don't want you to come back until you have grown up. He was very white, but he picked up his hat and went to the door. I guess I am crazy, he said. I've been wanting to go away, but mother raises such a fuss. I'll not annoy you anymore. He reached in his pocket and pulling out a small box held it toward her. The lid was punched full of holes. Reginald, he said solemnly. I've had him all winter. Some boys caught him in the park and I brought him home. He left her standing there speechless with surprise, with the box in her hand and ran down the stairs and out into the street. At the foot of the steps he almost collided with Dr. Ed. Back to see Sidney, said Dr. Ed genially. That's fine, Joe. I'm glad you've made it up. The boy went blindly down the street. K. by Mary Roberts Reinhardt, Chapter 20 Winter relaxed its clutch slowly that year. March was bitterly cold. Even April found the road still frozen and the head roads clustered with ice. But at midday there was spring in the air. In the courtyard of the hospital, convalescent sat on the benches and watched for robins. The fountain, which had frozen out, was being repaired. Here and there on ward windowsills, tulips opened their guardia petals to the sun. Harriet had gone abroad for a flying trip in March and came back laden with new ideas, model gowns, and fresh enthusiasm. She had carried out and planted flowers on her sister's grave and went back to her work with a feeling of duty done. A combination of crocuses and snow on the ground had given her an inspiration for her gown. She drew it in pencil on an envelope on her way back in the street car. Grace Irving, having made good during the white sales, had been sent to the Spring Cottons. She began to walk with her head higher. The day she sold Sydney material for a simple white gown, she was very happy. Once a customer brought her a bunch of primroses. All day she kept them under the counter in a glass of water, and that evening she took them to Johnny Rosenfeld, still lying prone in the hospital. On Sydney, on Kay, and on Christine, the winter had left its mark heavily. Christine readjusting her life to new conditions was graver, more thoughtful. She was alone most of the time now. Under Kay's guidance she had given up the duchess and was reading real books. She was thinking real thoughts, too, for the first time in her life. Sydney, as tender as ever, had lost a little of the radiance from her eyes. Her voice had deepened. Where she had been a pretty girl she was now lovely. She was back in the hospital again, this time in the children's ward. Kay, going in one day to take Johnny Rosenfeld a basket of fruit, saw her there with a child in her arms, and a light in her eyes that he had never seen before. It hurt him rather, things being as they were with him. When he came out he looked straight ahead. With the opening of the Spring, the little house that he'll foot took on fresh activities. Tilly was house-cleaning with great thoroughness. She scrubbed carpets, took down the clean curtains, and put them up again freshly starched. It was as if she found, in sheer activity and fatigue, a remedy for her uneasiness. Business had not been very good. The impeccable character of the little house had been against it. True, Mr. Schwitter had a little bar and served the best liquors he could buy, but he discouraged rowdiness, had been known to refuse to sell the boys under twenty-one, and the men who had already overindulged. The word went about that Schwitter's was no place for a good time. Even Tilly's chicken and waffles failed against this handicap. By the middle of April the house-cleaning was done. One or two more motor parties had come out, dine sedately and wine moderately, and had gone back to the city again. The next two weeks saw the weather clear. The roads dried up, robins filled the trees with their noisy spring songs, and still business continued dull. By the first day of May, Tilly's uneasiness had become a certainty. On that morning Mr. Schwitter came in from early milking, found her sitting in the kitchen, her face buried in her apron. He put down the milk-pales, and, going over to her, put a hand on her head. I guess there's no mistake, then. There's no mistake, said poor Tilly under her apron. He bent down and kissed the back of her neck. Then, when she failed to brighten, he tiptoed around the kitchen, poured the milk into pans, and rinsed the buckets, working methodically in his heavy way. The tea kettle had boiled dry. He filled that too. Then, Do you want to see a doctor? I'd better see somebody, she said, without looking up. And don't think I'm blaming you. I guess I don't really blame anybody. As far as that goes, I've wanted a child right along. It isn't the trouble I'm thinking of, either. He nodded. Words were unnecessary between them. He made some tea, clumsily, and browned her a piece of toast. When he put them on one end of the kitchen table, he went over to her again. I guess I'd ought to have thought of this before, but all I thought of was trying to get a little happiness out of life. And, he struck her arm. As far as I'm concerned, it's been worthwhile telling. No matter what I've had to do, I've always looked forward to coming back here to you in the evening. Maybe I don't say it enough, but I guess you know I feel it all right. Without looking up, she placed her hand over his. I guess we're starting wrong, he went on. You can't build happiness on what isn't right. You and I can manage well enough, but now that there's going to be another, it looks different, somehow. After that morning, till he took up her burden stoically, the hope of motherhood alternated with black fits of depression. She sang at her work to burst out into sudden tears. Other things were not going well. Schwitter had given up his nursery business. But the motorist who came to Hillfoot did not come back. When at last he took the horse and buggy and drove about the country for orders, he was too late. Other nurserymen had been before him. Shrubberies and orchards were already being set. The second payment on his mortgage would be due in July. By the middle of May, they were frankly up against it. Schwitter at last dared to put the situation into words. We're not making good till, he said, and I guess you know the reason. We are too decent. That's what's the matter with us. There was no irony in his words. With all her sophistication, till he was vastly ignorant of life, he had to explain. We'll have to keep a sort of hotel, he said lamely, sell to everybody that comes along, and if parties went to stay overnight, till his white face turned crimson. He attempted a compromise. If it's bad weather and they're married, how are we to know if they're married or not? He admired her very much for it. He had always respected her. But the situation was not less acute. There were two or three unfurnished rooms on the second floor. He began to make tentative suggestions as to their furnishings. Once he got a catalog from an installment house, he tried to hide it from her. Till his eyes blazed. She burned it in the kitchen stove. Schwitter himself was ashamed, but the idea obsessed him. Other people fattened on their frailties of human nature. Two miles away on the other road was a public house that had netted the owner ten thousand dollars profit the year before. They bought their beer from the same concern. He was not as young as he had been. There was the expense of keeping his wife. He had never allowed her to go into the charity ward at the asylum. Now that there was going to be a child, there would be three people dependent upon him. He was past fifty and not robust. One night after Tillie was asleep, he slipped noiselessly into his clothes and out to the barn, where he hitched up the horse with nervous fingers. Tillie never learned of that midnight excursion to the climbing rose, two miles away. Lights blazed in every window. A dozen automobiles were parked before the barn. Somebody was playing a piano. From the bar came the jungle of glasses and loud, cheerful conversation. When Schwitter turned his horses back toward hill-foot, his mind was made up. He would furnish the upper rooms. He would bring a barkeep from town. These people wanted mixed drinks. He could get a second-hand piano somewhere. Tillie's rebellion was instant and complete. When she found him determined, she made the compromise that her condition necessitated. She could not leave him, but she would not stay in the rehabilitated little house. When, a week after Schwitter's visit to the climbing rose, an installment van arrived from town with the new furniture, Tillie moved out to what had been the harness room of the old barn and there established herself. I'm not leaving you, she told him. I don't even know that I'm blaming you, but I'm not going to have anything to do with it, and that's flat. So it happened that Kay, making a spring pilgrimage to see Tillie, stopped astounded in the road. The weather was warm and he carried his Norfolk coat over his arm. The little house was bustling. A dozen automobiles were parked in the barnyard. The bar was crowded, and a barkeeper and white coat was mixing drinks with the casual indifference of his kind. There were tables under the trees and the lawn, and a new sign on the gate. Even Schwitter bore a new look of prosperity. Over his schooner of beer, Kay gathered something of this story. I'm not proud of it, Mr. Lemoine. I've come to do a good many things this last year or so that I've never thought I would do, but one thing leads to another. First, I took Tillie away from her good position, and after that nothing went right. Then there were things coming on. He looked at Kay anxiously. That meant more expense. I would be glad if you wouldn't say anything about it at Mrs. McKee's. I'll not speak of it, of course. It was then when Kay asked for Tillie that Mr. Schwitter's unhappiness became more apparent. She wouldn't stand for it, he said. She moved out the day and furnished the rooms upstairs and got the piano. You mean she is gone? Well, as far as the barn, she wouldn't stay in the house. I'll take you out there if you would like to see her. Kay shrewdly surmised that Tillie would prefer to see him alone under the circumstances. I guess I can find her, he said, and rose from the little table. If you can say anything to help me out, sir, I'd appreciate it. Of course, she understands how I'm driven, but especially if you would tell her that the street doesn't know. I'll do what I can, Kay promised and followed the path to the barn. Tillie received them with a certain dignity. The little harness room was very comfortable. A white iron bed in the corner, a flat table with a mirror above it, a rocking chair and a sewing machine furnished the room. I wouldn't stand for it, she said simply. So here I am. Come in, Mr. Lemoine. There, being but one chair, she sat on the bed. The room was littered with small garments in the making. She made no attempt to conceal them, rather she pointed to them with pride. I'm making them myself. I have a lot of time these days. He's got a hired girl at the house. It was hard enough to sew it first, with me making two white sleeves almost every time. Then seeing his kindly eye on her, well, it's happened, Mr. Lemoine. What am I going to do? What am I going to be? You're going to be a very good mother, Tillie. She was manifestly in need of cheering. Kay, who also needed cheering that spring day, found his consolation in seeing her brighten under the small gossip of this street. The deaf and dumb book agent had taken on life insurance as a side issue, and was doing well. The grocery store at the corner was going to be torn down, and over the new store there would be apartments. Reginald had been miraculously returned, and was building a new nest under his bureau. Harriet Kennedy had been to Paris, and had brought home six French words and a new figure. Outside the open door, the big barn loomed cool and shadowing, full of empty spaces where later the hay would be stored. Anxious mother-hands would lead their broods about. Underneath in the horse stables the restless horses pawed in their stalls. From where he sat, Lemoine could see only the round breast of the two hills, the fresh green of the orchard, the cows and the meadow beyond. Tillie followed his eyes. I like it here, she confessed. I've had more time to think since I've moved out than I ever had in my life before. Them hills help. When the noise is worth down at the house, I look at the hills there and— There were great thoughts in her mind, that the hills meant God, and that in his good time perhaps it would all come right, but she was inarticulate. The hills help a lot, she repeated. Kay Rose. Tillie's work basket lay near him. He picked up one of the little garments, in his big hands it looked small—absurd. I want to tell you something, Tillie. Don't count on it too much, but Mrs. Schwitter has been failing rapidly for the last month or two. Tillie caught his arm. You've seen her? I was interested. I wanted to see things work out right for you. All the color had faded from Tillie's face. You're very good to me, Mr. Lemoine, she said. I don't wish to poor soul any harm, but oh my God, if she's going, let it be before the next four months are over. Kay had fallen into the habit after his long walks of dropping into Christine's little parlor for a chat before he went upstairs. Those early spring days found Harriet Kennedy busy late in the evenings, and safe for Christine and Kay the house was practically deserted. The breach between Palmer and Christine was steadily widening. She was too proud to ask him to spend more of his evenings with her. On those occasions when he voluntarily stayed at home with her, he was so discontented that he drove her almost to distraction. Although she was convinced that he was seeing nothing of the girl who had been with him the night of the accident, she did not trust him. Not that girl, perhaps, but there were others. There would always be others. In Christine's little parlor, then, Kay turned, the evening after he had seen Tillie. She was reading by the lamp, and the door into the hall stood open. Come in, she said, as he hesitated in the doorway. I'm frightfully dusty. There was a brush and a drawer of the hat rack, although I don't really mind how you look. The little room always cheered Kay. Its warmth and light appealed to his aesthetic sense. After the bareness of his bedroom, it spelled luxury. And perhaps to be entirely frank, there was more than physical comfort and satisfaction in the evenings he spent in Christine's firelit parlor. He was entirely masculine, and her evident pleasure in his society gratified him. He had fallen into a way of thinking of himself as a sort of older brother to all the world because he was a sort of older brother to Sydney. The evenings with her did something to reinstate him in his own self-esteem. It was subtle, psychological, but also it was very human. Come and sit down, said Christine. Here's the chair, and here are cigarettes, and there are matches. Now! But for once Kay declined the chair. He stood in front of the fireplace and looked down at her, his head bent slightly to one side. I wonder if you would like to do a very kind thing, he said, unexpectedly. Make you coffee? Something much more trouble and not so pleasant. Christine glanced up at him. When she was with him, when his steady eyes looked down at her, small affectations fell away. She was more genuine with Kay than with anyone else, even herself. Tell me what it is, or shall I promise first? I want you to promise just one thing to keep a secret. Yours? Christine was not over-intelligent. Perhaps she was shrewd. That Lemoine's past held a secret she had felt from the beginning. She sat up with eager curiosity. No, not mine. Is it a promise? Of course. I've found Tilly, Christine. I want you to go out to see her. Christine's red lips parted. The street did not go out to see women in Tilly's situation. But Kay, she protested. She needs another woman just now. She's going to have a child, Christine, and she has had no one to talk to but her husband, but Mr. Schwitter and myself. She is depressed and not very well. But what shall I say to her? I'd really rather not go, Kay. Not. She hastened to set herself right in his eyes. Not that I feel any unwillingness to see her. I know you understand that. But what in the world shall I say to her? Say, what your own kind heart prompts. It had been rather a long time since Christine had been accused of having a kind heart. Not that she was unkind, but in all her self-centered young life there had been little call on her sympathies. Her eyes clouded. I wish I were as good as you think I am. There was a little silence between them. Dan Lemoine spoke briskly. I'll tell you how to get there. Perhaps I would better write it down. He moved over to Christine's small writing table and, seating himself, proceeded to write out the directions for reaching Hillfoot. Behind him, Christine had taken his place on the hearth rug and stood watching his head in the light of the desk lamp. What a strong, quiet face it is, she thought. Why did she get the impression of such a tremendous reserve power in this man who was a clerk and a clerk only? Behind him she made a quick, unconscious gesture of appeal, both hands out for an instant. She dropped him guiltily as Kay rose with the paper in his hand. I've drawn a sort of map of the roads he began. You see, this Christine was looking not at the paper, but up at him. I wonder if you know Kay, she said. What a lucky woman the woman will be who marries you. He laughed good-humidly. I wonder how long I could hypnotize her into thinking that. He was still holding out the paper. I've had time to do a little thinking lately, she said, without bitterness. Palmer is away so much now. I've been looking back, wondering if I ever thought that about him. I don't believe I ever did. I wonder. She checked herself abruptly and took the paper from his hand. I'll go to see Tilly, of course, she consented. It is like you to have found her. She sat down, although she picked up the book that she had been reading with the evident intention of discussing it, her thoughts were still on Tilly, on Palmer, on herself. After a moment. Has it ever occurred to you how terribly mixed up things are? Take this street, for instance. Can you think of anybody on it that these things have gone entirely right with? It's a little word of its own, of course, said Kay. It has plenty of contact points with life. But wherever one finds people, many are few. One finds all the elements that make up life, joy, sorrow, birth, death, and even tragedy. That's rather trite, isn't it? Christine was still pursuing her thoughts. Men are different, she said, to a certain extent, they make their own fates. But when you think of the women on the street, Tilly, Harriet, Kennedy, Sydney, Page, myself, even Mrs. Rosenfeld, back in the alley, somebody else molds things for us. And all we can do is sit back and suffer. I'm beginning to think the world is a terrible place, Kay. Why do you people so often marry the wrong people? Why can't a man care for one woman and only one all his life? Why is it all so complicated? There are men who care for only one woman all their lives. You're that sort, aren't you? I don't want to put myself on any pinnacle. If I cared enough for a woman to marry her, I'd hope to, but we are being very tragic, Christine. I feel tragic. There's going to be another mistake, Kay, unless you stop it. He tried to leaven the conversation with a little fun. If you're going to ask me to interfere between Mrs. McKee and the deaf dumb book insurance agent, I shall do nothing of this sort. She can both speak and hear enough for both of them. I mean Sydney and Max Wilson. He's mad about her, Kay, and because she's the sort she is, he'll probably be mad about her all his life, even if he marries her. But it'll not be true to her. I know this type now. Kay leaned back with a flicker of pain in his eyes. What can I do about it? As stewed as he was, he did not suspect that Christine was using this method to fathom his feeling for Sydney. Perhaps she hardly knew it herself. You might marry her yourself, Kay, but he had himself in hand by this time, and she learned nothing from either his voice or his eyes. On twenty dollars a week, and without so much as asking her consent, he dropped his light tone. I'm not in a position to marry anybody, even if Sydney cared for me, which she doesn't, of course. Then you don't intend to interfere. You're going to let Street see another failure. I think you can understand, said Kay wearily, that if I cared less, Christine, it would be easier to interfere. After all, Christine had known this or surmised it for weeks. But it hurt like a fresh stab in an old wound. It was Kay who spoke again after a pause. The deadly hard thing, of course, is to sit by and see things happening that one, that one would naturally try to prevent. I don't believe that you have always been of those who only stand and wait, said Christine. Sometime, Kay, when you know me better and like me better, I want you to tell me about it, will you? There's very little to tell, you know the trust. When I discovered that I was unfit to hold that trust any longer, I quit, that's all. His tone of finality closed the discussion, but Christine's eyes were on him often that evening puzzled rather sad. They talked of books, of music. Christine played well in a dashing way. Kay had brought her soft, tender little things, and had stood over her until her noisy touch became gentle. She played for him a little while he sat back in a big chair with his hands screening his eyes. When at last he rose and picked up his cap, it was nine o'clock. I've taken your whole evening, he said remorsefully. Why don't you tell me I'm a nuisance and send me off? Christine was still at the piano, her eyes on the keys. She spoke without looking at him. You're never a nuisance, Kay, and you'll go out to see Tillie, won't you? Yes, but I'll not go under false pretenses. I'm going quite frankly because you want me to. Something in her tone caught his attention. I forgot to tell you, she went on. Father has given Palmer five thousand dollars. He's going to buy a share in a business. Well, then it's fine. Possibly I don't believe much in Palmer's business ventures. Her flat tone still held him. Underneath it he devines strain and repression. I hate to go and leave you alone, he said at last from the door. Have you any idea when Palmer will be back? Not the slightest, Kay, will you come here a moment? Stand behind me. I don't want to see you and I want to tell you something. He did as she bade him, rather puzzled. Here I am. I think I am a fool for saying this. Perhaps I'm spoiling. The only chance I have to get any happiness out of life. But I have got to say it. It's stronger than I am. I was terribly unhappy, Kay, and then you came into my life, and I, well, now I listen for your step in the hall. I can't be a hypocrite any longer, Kay. When he stood behind her, silent and not moving, she turned slowly about and faced him. He towered there in a little green room, grave eyes on hers. It's a long time since I've had a woman friend, Christine, he said soberly. Your friendship has meant a good deal. In a good many ways, I'd not care to look ahead if it were not for you. I value our friendship so much that you don't want me to spoil it, she finished for him. I know you don't care for me, Kay. Not the way I am. But I want you to know. It doesn't hurt a good man to know such a thing. And it isn't going to stop you coming here, is it? Of course not, said Kay hardily. But tomorrow, when we are both clear-headed, we will talk this over. You are mistaken about this thing, Christine. I am sure of that. Things have not been going well, and just because I'm always around, and all that sort of thing, you think things that aren't really so. I'm only a reaction, Christine. He tried to make her smile up at him, but just then she could not smile. If she had cried, things might have been different for everyone, for perhaps Kay would have taken her into his arms. He was hard-hungry enough those days for anything, and perhaps too, being intuitive, Christine felt this. But she had no mind to force him into a situation against his will. It is because you are good, she said, and held out her hand. Good night. The morn took it and bent over and kissed it lightly. There was in the kiss all that he could not say of respect, of affection and understanding. Good night, Christine, he said, and went to the hall and upstairs. The lamp was not lighted in his room, but the street light glowed through the windows. Once again the waving fronds of the aliant thistree flown ghostly shadows on the wall. There was a faint sweet odor of blossoms, so soon to become rank and heavy. Over the floor and a wild zigzag darted a strip of white paper which disappeared under the bureau. Reginald was building another nest. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Kay This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Stephen Seidel Chapter 21 of Kay by Mary Robert Schreinhardt Sydney went into the operating room late in the spring as the result of a conversation between the younger Wilson and the head. When are you going to put my protege into the operating room? asked Wilson, meeting Miss Greg in a corridor one bright spring afternoon. That usually comes in the second year, Dr. Wilson. He smiled down at her. That isn't a rule, is it? Not exactly. Miss Page is very young, and of course there are other girls who have not yet had the experience, but if you make the request. Well, I'm going to have some good cases soon. I'll not make a request, of course, but if you see fit it would be good training for Miss Page. Miss Greg went on knowing perfectly that at his next operation Dr. Wilson would expect Sydney Page in the operating room. The other doctors were not so exigent. She would have liked to have had all the staff old and settled, like Dr. O'Hara or the older Wilson. These young men came in and tore things up. She sighed as she went on. There were so many things to go wrong. The butter had been bad. She must speak to the matron. The sterilizer in the operating room was out of order. That meant a quarrel with the chief engineer. Requisitions were too heavy. That meant going around to the wards and suggesting to the head nurses that lead pencils in bandages and adhesive plasters and safety pins cost money. It was particularly inconvenient to move Sydney just then. Carlotta Harrison was off duty, ill. She had been ailing for a month, and now she was down with the temperature. As the head went towards Sydney's ward, her busy mind was playing her nurses and their wards like pieces on a checkerboard. Sydney went into the operating room that afternoon. For her blue uniform, Kirchoff and Cap, she exchanged the hideous operating room garb. Long, straight white gown with short sleeves and mob cap, gray white for many sterilizations. But the ugly costume seemed to emphasize her beauty, as the habit of a nun often brings out the placid saintliness of her face. The relationship between Sydney and Max had reached the point that occurs in all relationships between men and women, when things must either go forward or go back, but cannot remain as they are. The condition had existed for the last three months. It exasperated the man. As a matter of fact, Wilson could not go ahead. The situation with Carlotta had become tense, irritating. He felt that she stood ready to block any move he made. He would not go back, and he dared not go forward. If Sydney was puzzled, she kept it bravely to herself. In her little room at night, with the door carefully locked, she tried to think things out. There were a few treasures that she looked over regularly. A dried flower from the Christmas roses, a label that he had pasted playfully on the back of her hand one day after the rush of surgical dressings was over, in which said, R. X, take once and forever. There was another piece of paper over which Sydney spent much time. It was a page torn out of an order-book, and it read, Sigsby may have light diet, rose and field, massage. Underneath was written, very small. You are the most beautiful person in the world. Two reasons had prompted Wilson to request to have Sydney in the operating room. He wanted her with him, and he wanted her to see him at work. The age-old instinct of the male to have his woman see him at his best. He was in high spirits that first day of Sydney's operating room experience. For the time, at least, Carlotta was out of the way. Her somber eyes no longer watched him. Once he looked up from his work and glanced at Sydney, where she stood at strained attention. Feeling faint, he said. She colored under the eyes that were turned to her. No, Dr. Wilson. A great many of them faint on the first day. We sometimes have them lying all over the floor. He challenged Miss Greg with his eyes, and she reproved him with the shake of her head, as she might a bad boy. One way or another he managed to turn the attention of the operating room to Sydney several times. It suited his whim, and it did more than that. It gave him a chance to speak to her in his teasing way. Sydney came through the operation as if she had been through fire, taught as a string, rather pale, but undaunted. But when the last case had been taken out, Max dropped his bantering manner. The interns were looking over their instruments. The nurses were busy on the one hundred and one tasks of clearing up, so he had a chance for a word with her alone. I am proud of you, Sydney. You came through it like a soldier. You made it very hard for me. A nurse was coming toward him. He had only a moment. I shall leave a note in the mail box, he said quickly, and proceeded with the scrubbing of his hands which signified the end of the day's work. The operations had lasted until late in the afternoon. The night nurses had taken up their stations, prayers were over. The interns were gathered in the smoking room, threshing over the day's work as was their custom. When Sydney was free, she went into the office for the note. It was very brief. I have something I want to say to you, dear. I think you know what it is. I never see you alone at home any more. If you can get off for an hour, won't you take the trolley to the end of Division Street? I'll be there with a car at 8.30, and I promise to have you back by ten o'clock. Max! The office was empty. No one saw her as she stood by the mail box. The ticking of the office clock, the heavy rumble of a gray outside, the roll of the ambulance as it went through the gateway, and in her hand the realization of what she had never confessed as a hope even to herself. He, the great one, was going to stoop to her. Had it been in his eyes that afternoon, it was there in his letter now. It was eight by the office clock to get out of her uniform and into street clothing fifteen minutes. On the trolley another fifteen she would need to hurry. But she did not meet him after all. Miss Wardell met her in the upper hall. Did you get my message? she asked anxiously. What message? Miss Harrison wants to see you. She has been moved to a private room. Sidney glanced at Kay's little watch. Must she see me tonight? She has been waiting for hours ever since she went into the operating room. Sidney sighed, but she went to Carlotta at once. The girl's condition was puzzling the staff. There was talk of TR, which is hospitaled for typhoid restrictions. But TR has apathy generally, and Carlotta was not apathetic. Sidney found her tossing restlessly on her high white bed, and put her cool hand over Carlotta's hot one. Did you send for me? Hours ago. Then seeing her operating room uniform. You've been there, have you? Is there anything I can do for you, Carlotta? Excitement had died Sidney's cheeks with color and made her eyes luminous. The girl in the bed eyed her, and then abruptly drew her hand away. Were you going out? Yes, but not right away. I'll not keep you, if you have an engagement. The engagement will have to wait. I'm sorry, you're ill. If you would like me to stay with you tonight. Carlotta shook her head on her pillow. Mercy, no, she said irritably. I am only worn out. I need a rest. Are you going home tonight? No, Sidney admitted, and flushed. Nothing escaped Carlotta's eyes. The younger girl's radiance, her confusion, even her operating room uniform, and what it signified. How she hated her with her youth and freshness, her wide eyes, her soft red lips, and this engagement she had the uncanny divination of fury. I was going to ask you to do something for me, she said shortly, but I've changed my mind about it. Go on and keep your engagement. To end the interview she turned over and lay with her face to the wall. Sidney stood waiting uncertainly. All her training had been to ignore the irritability of the sick, and Carlotta was very ill. She could see that. Just remember that I am ready to do anything I can, Carlotta, she said. Nothing will, will be a trouble. She waited a moment, but receiving no acknowledgment of her offer, she turned slowly and went toward the door. Then, Sidney, she went back to the bed. Yes, don't sit up, Carlotta, what is it? I'm frightened. You're feverish and nervous. There's nothing to be frightened about. If it's typhoid, I'm gone. That's childish. Of course you're not gone or anything like it. Besides, it's probably not typhoid. I'm afraid to sleep. I doze for a little, and when I wake in there are people in the room. They stand around the bed and talk about me. Sidney's precious minutes were flying, but Carlotta had gone into a paroxysm of terror, holding on to Sidney's hand and begging not to be left alone. I'm too young to die, she would whimper, and in the next breath, I want to die. I don't want to live. The hands of the little watch pointed to 8.30 when at last she lay quiet with closed eyes. Sidney, tiptoeing to the door, was brought up short by our name again, this time in a more normal voice. Sidney. Yes, dear. Perhaps you're right, and I'm going to get over this. Certainly you are. Your nerves are playing tricks with you tonight. I'll tell you now why I sent for you. I'm listening. But if I get very bad, you know what I mean. Will you promise to do exactly what I tell you? I promise, absolutely. My trunk key is in my pocketbook. There is a letter in the tray, just a name, no address on it. Promise to see that it is not delivered, that it is destroyed without being read. Sidney promised promptly, and because it was too late now for her meeting with Wilson, for the next hour she devoted herself to making Carlotta comfortable. So long as she was busy, a sort of exultation of service upheld her. But when at last the night assistant came to sit with a sick girl, and Sidney was free, all the life faded from her face. He had waited for her, and she had not come. Would he understand? Would he ask to meet her again? Perhaps, after all, his question had not been what she had thought. She went miserably to bed. Kay's little watch ticked under her pillow. Her stiff cap moved in the breeze as it swung from the corner of her mirror. Under her window passed and repast the nightlife of the city. Taxicabs, steltily painted women, tired office cleaners, trudging home at midnight. A city patrol wagon which rolled in through the gates to the hospital's always open door. When she could not sleep she got up and padded to the window and bare feet. The light from a passing machine showed a youthful figure that looked like Joe Drummond. Life that had always seemed so simple was growing very complicated for Sidney. Joe and Kay, Palmer and Christine, Johnny Rosenfeld, Carlotta, either lonely or tragic all of them or both. Life in the raw. Toward morning Carlotta wakened. The night assistant was still there. It had been a quiet night and she was asleep in her chair. To save her cap she had taken it off, and early streaks of silver showed in her hair. Carlotta roused her ruthlessly. I want something from my trunk, she said. The assistant wakened reluctantly and looked at her watch. Almost morning. She yawned and pinned on her cap. For having sakes, she protested, you don't want me to go to the trunk room at this hour. I could go myself, said Carlotta, and put her feet out of the bed. What is it you want? A letter on the top tray. If I wait my temperature will go up and I can't think. Shall I mail it for you? Bring it here, said Carlotta shortly. I want to destroy it. The young woman went without haste to show that a night assistant may do such things out of friendship, but not because she must. She stopped at the desk where the night nurse in charge of the rooms on that floor was filling out records. Give me the private patience to look after instead of one nurse like Carlotta Harrison, she complained. I've got to go to the trunk room for her at this hour, and it's next door to the mortuary. As the first rays of the summer sun came through the window, shadowing the fire escape like a lattice on the wall of the little gray-walled room, Carlotta sat up in her bed and lighted the candle on the stand. The night assistant, who dreamed some times of fire, stood nervously by. Why don't you let me do it, she asked irritably. Carlotta did not reply at once. The candle was in her hand and she was staring at the letter. Because I want to do it myself, she said at last, and thrust the envelope into the flame. It burned slowly, at first a thin blue flame tipped with yellow, then, eating its way with a small, fine crackling, a widening, destroying blaze that left behind it black ash in destruction. The acrid odor of burning filled the room. Not until it was consumed and the black ash fell into the saucer of the candlestick did Carlotta speak again. Then, if every fool of a woman who wrote a letter burnt it, there would be a lot less trouble in the world, she said, and lay back among her pillows. The assistant said nothing. She was sleepy and irritated, and she had crushed her best cap by letting the lid of Carlotta's trunk fall on her. She went out of the room with a disapproval in every line of her back. She burned it, she informed the night nurse at the desk. A letter to a man, one of her suitors, I suppose, the name was Caleb Moyne. The deepening and broadening of Sydney's character had become very noticeable in the last few months. She had gained in decision without becoming hard, had learned to see things as they are, not through the rose mist of early girlhood, and far from being daunted, had developed a philosophy that had for its basis God in his heaven and all well with the world. But her new theory of acceptance did not comprehend everything. She was in a state of wild revolt, for instance, as to Johnny Rosenfeld, and more remotely but not less deeply concerned over gray-serving. Soon she was to learn of Tilly's predicament and to take up the cudgels valiantly for her. But a revolt was to be for herself, too. On the day after her failure to keep her appointment with Wilson, she had her half-holiday. No word had come from him, and when, after a restless night, she went to her new station in the operating room. It was to learn that he had been called out of the city in consultation and would not operate that day. O'Hara would take advantage of the free afternoon to run in some odds and ends of cases. The operating room made gauze that morning and small packets of tampons. Absorbent cotton covered with sterilized gauze and fastened together, twelve by careful count in each bundle. Miss Grange, who had been kind to Sydney in her probation months, taught her the method. Used instead as sponges, she explained. If you noticed yesterday they were counted before and after each operation. One of these missing is worse than a bank clerk out a dollar at the end of the day. There's no closing up until it's found. Sydney eyed the small packet before her anxiously. What a hideous responsibility, she said. From that time on she handled the small gauze sponges almost reverentially. The operating room, all glass, white enamel, and shining nickel plate, first frightened and thrilled her. It was as if, having loved a great actor, she now trod the enchanted boards on which he achieved his triumphs. She was glad that it was her afternoon off, and that she would not see some lesser star, O'Hara, to it, usurping his place. But Max had not sent her any word, that hurt. He must have known that she had been delayed. The operating room was a hive of industry, and tongues kept pace with fingers. The hospital was a world, like the street. The nurses had come from many places, and, like cloistered nuns, seemed to have left the other world behind. A new president of the country was less real than a new intern. The country might wash its soil linen in public. What was that compared with enough sheets and towels for the wards? Big buildings were going up in the city. Ah! But the hospital took cognizance of that, gathering as it did a toll from each new story added. What news of the world came in through a great doors was translated at once into hospital terms. What the city forgot, the hospital remembered. It took up life where the town left it at its gates, and carried it on, or saw it ended as the case might be. So these young women knew the ending of many stories, the beginning of some, but of none did they know both the first and the last, the beginning and the end. By many small kindnesses, Sydney had made herself popular. And there was more to it than that. She never shirked. The other girls had the respect for her of one honest worker for another. The episode that had caused her suspension seemed almost entirely forgotten. They showed her carefully what she was to do, and because she must know the why of everything, they explained as best they could. It was while she was standing by the great sterilizer that she heard, through an open door, part of a conversation that sent her through her day with her world in revolt. The talkers were putting the anesthetizing room in readiness for the afternoon. Sydney, waiting for the time to open the sterilizer, was busy for the first time in a hurried morning with her own thoughts. Because she was very human, there was a little exultation in her mind. What would these girls say when they learned how things stood between her and their hero? That, out of all this world of society and clubs and beautiful women, he was going to choose her. Not shameful this, the honest pride of a woman in being chosen from many. The voices were very clear. Typhoid? Of course not. She's eating her heart out. Do you think he really has broken with her? Probably not. She knows it's coming, though. That's all. Sometimes I have wondered. So have others. She oughtn't to be here, of course, but among so many there is bound to be one now and then who isn't quite. She hesitated, at a loss for a word. Did you ever think over that trouble with Miss Page about the medicines? That would have been easy, and like her. She hates Miss Page, of course, but I hardly think, if that's true, it was nearly murder. There were two voices, a young one, full of soft southern inflections, and an older voice, a trifle hard as from disillusion. They were working as they talked. Sydney could hear the clatter of bottles on a tray, the scraping of a move table. He was crazy about her last fall. Miss Page, the younger voice, with a thrill in it. Carlotta, of course, this is confidential. Surely. I saw her with him in his car one evening, and on her vacation the last summer the voices dropped to a whisper. Sydney, standing cold and white by the sterilizer, put out a hand to steady herself. So that was it. No wonder Carlotta had hated her. And those whispering voices, what were they saying? How hateful life was, and men and women. Must there always be something hideous in the background? Until now she had only seen life. Now she felt its hot breath on her cheek. She was steady enough in a moment, cool and calm, moving about her work with ice-cold hands and slightly narrowed eyes. To a sort of physical nausea was succeeding anger, a blind fury of injured pride. He had been in love with Carlotta and had tired of her. He was bringing her his warmed-over emotions. She remembered the bitterness of her month's exile and that probable cause. Max had stood by her then. Well, he might if he suspected the truth. For just a moment she had an illuminating flash of Wilson as he really was. Selfish and self-indulgent, just a trifle too carefully dressed, daring as to eye and speech, with a carefully calculated, daring, frankly pleasure-loving. She put her hands over her eyes. The voices in the next room had risen above their whisper. Genius has its privileges, of course, said the older voice. He is a very great surgeon. Tomorrow he is to do the Edwards operation again. I am glad I am to see him do it. Sydney held her hands over her eyes. He was a great surgeon. In his hands he held the keys of life and death. And perhaps he had never cared for Carlotta. She might have thrown herself at him. He was a man at the mercy of any scheming woman. She tried to summon his image to her aid, but a curious thing happened. She could not visualize him. Instead there came, clear and distinct, a picture of Kay Lemoine in the hall of the little house, reaching one of his long arms to the chandelier over his head, and looking up at her as she stood on the stairs. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of Kay This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michael Fasio Kay by Mary Roberts Reinhardt Chapter 22 My God, Sydney, I am asking you to marry me. I know that. I am asking you something else, Max. I have never been in love with her. His voice was sulky. He had drawn the car close to a bank, and they were sitting in the shade on the grass. It was the Sunday afternoon after Sydney's experience in the operating room. You took her out, Max, didn't you? A few times, yes. She seemed to have no friends. I was sorry for her. That was all? Absolutely. Good heavens, you've put me through a catechism in the last ten minutes. If my father were living, or even mother, I—one of them would have done this for me, Max. I'm sorry I had to. I've been very wretched for several days. It was the first encouragement she'd given him. There was no coquetry about her aloofness. It was only that her faith in him had had a shock and was slow of reviving. You are very, very lovely, Sydney. I wonder if you have any idea what you mean to me. You meant a great deal to me, too, she said, frankly. Until a few days ago I thought you were the greatest man I had ever known, and the best. And then, I think I'd better tell you what I overheard. I didn't try to hear. It just happened that way. He listened doggedly to her account of the hospital gossip, doggedly and with a sinking sense of fear, not of the talk, but of Carlotta herself. Usually one might count on the woman's silence, her instinct for self-protection. But Carlotta was different. Damn the girl, anyhow. She had known from the start that the affair was a temporary one. He had never pretended anything else. There was a silence for a moment after Sydney finished. Then, you are not a child any longer, Sydney. You have learned a great deal in this last year. One of the things you know is that almost every man has small affairs, many of them sometimes, before he finds the woman he wants to marry. When he finds her, the others are all off. There's nothing to them. It's the real thing, then, instead of the sham. Palmer was very much in love with Christine, and yet Palmer's a cad. I don't want you to think I'm making terms. I'm not. But if this thing went on, and I found out afterward that you, that there was anyone else, it would kill me. Then you care, after all. There was something boyish in his triumph, in the very gesture with which he held out his arms like a child who has escaped a whipping. He stood up and, catching her hands, drew her to her feet. You love me, dear. I'm afraid I do, Max. Then I'm yours, and only yours, if you want me, he said, and took her in his arms. He was riotously happy. Must hold her off for the joy of drawing her to him again. Must pull off her gloves and kiss her soft bare palms. I love you, love you, he cried, and bent down to bury his face in the warm hollow of her neck. Sidney glowed under his caresses, was rather startled at his passion, a little ashamed. Tell me you love me a little bit, say it. I love you, said Sidney, and flushed scarlet. But even in his arms, with the warm sunlight on his radiant face, with his lips to her ear, whispering the divine absurdities of passion, in the back of her obstinate little head was the thought that, while she had given him her first embrace, he had held other women in his arms. It made her passive, prevented her complete surrender. And after a time he resented it. You're only letting me love you, he complained. I don't believe you care, after all. I freed her, took a step back from her. I'm afraid I'm jealous, she said simply. I keep thinking of… of Carlotta. Will it help any if I swear that it is off, absolutely? Don't be absurd, it is enough to have you say so. But he insisted on swearing, standing with one hand appraised, his eyes on her. The Sunday landscape was very still, save for the harm of busy insect life. A mile or so away, at the foot of two hills lay a white farmhouse with its barn and outbuildings. In a small room in the barn, a woman sat. And because it was Sunday, and she could not sew, she read her Bible. And that after this there will be only one woman for me, finished Max, and dropped his hand. He bent over and kissed Sidney on the lips. At the white farmhouse a little man stood in the doorway and surveyed the road with eyes shaded by a shirt-sleeved arm. Behind him, in a darkened room, a barkeeper was wiping the bar with a clean cloth. I guess I'll go and get my coat on, Bill. It's a little man heavily. They're starting to come now. I see a machine about a mile down the road. Sidney broke the news of her engagement to Kay herself, the evening of the same day. The little house was quiet when she got out of the car at the door. Harriet was asleep on the couch at the foot of her bed, and Christine's rooms were empty. She found Katie on the back porch, mountains of Sunday newspapers piled around her. I'd about give you up, said Katie. I was thinking, rather than see your ice cream that's left from dinner melt and go to waste. I take it around to the Rosenfelds. Please take it to them. I'd really rather they had it. She stood in front of Katie, drawing off her gloves. Aunt Harriet's asleep is Mr. Lemoine around. You're getting prettier every day, Miss Sidney. Is that the blue suit Miss Harriet said she made for you? It's right stylish. I'd like to see the back. Sidney obediently turned, and Katie admired. When I think how things have turned out, she reflected. You, in a hospital, doing God knows what for all sorts of people, and Miss Harriet making a suit like that and asking a hundred dollars for it. And that Tony that a person doesn't dare to speak to her when she's in the dining room. And your poor ma. Well, it's all in a lifetime. No, Mr. Kay's not here. He and Mrs. Howe are gallivanting around together. Katie. Well, that's what I call it. I'm not blind. Don't I hear her dressing up about four o'clock every afternoon, and when she's all ready, sitting in the parlor with the door open, and a book on her knee, as if she'd been reading all afternoon? If he doesn't stop, she's at the foot of the stairs, calling up to him. Kay, she says, Kay, I'm waiting to ask you something, or Kay, wouldn't you like a cup of tea? She's always feeding him tea and cake, so that when he comes to table he won't eat honest fixtures. Sidney had paused with one glove half off. Katie's tone carried conviction. Was life making another of its queer ears, and were Christine and Kay in love with each other? Kay had always been her friend, her confidant, to give him up to Christine. She shook herself impatiently. What had come over her? Why not be glad that he had some sort of companionship? She went upstairs to the room that had been her mother's, and took off her hat. She wanted to be alone, to realize what had happened to her. She did not belong to herself any more. It gave her an odd, lost feeling. She was going to be married. Not very soon, but ultimately. A year ago her half-promise to Joe had gratified her sense of romance. She was loved, and she had thrilled to it. But this was different. Marriage, that had been but a vision then, loomed large, almost menacing. She had learned the law of compensation, that for every joy one pays in suffering. Women who married went down into the valley of death for their children. One must love and be loved very tenderly to pay for that. The scale must balance. And there were other things. Women grew old, and age was not always lovely. This very maternity. Was it not fatal to beauty? Visions of child-bearing women in the hospitals, with sagging breasts and relaxed bodies, came to her. That was a part of the price. Harriet was stirring across the hall. Sydney could hear her moving about with flat, inelastic steps. That was the alternative. One married, happily or not, as the case may be, and took the risk. Or one stayed single, like Harriet, growing a little hard, exchanging slimness for leanness and austerity of figure. Flat-chested, thin-voiced. One blossomed and withered then, or one shriveled up without having flowered. All at once seemed very terrible to her. She felt as if she had been caught in an inexorable hand that had closed her out here. Harriet found her a little later, facedown on her mother's bed, crying as if her heart would break. She scolded her roundly. You've been overworking, she said. You've been getting thinner. Your measurements for that suit showed it. I have never approved of this hospital training. And after last January—she could hardly credit her senses when Sydney, still swollen with wheat, being told her of her engagement. But I don't understand. If you care for him, and he has asked you to marry him, why on earth are you crying your eyes out? I do care. I don't know why I cried. It just came over me, all at once, that I—it was just foolishness. I'm very happy, Aunt Harriet. Harriet thought she understood. The girl needed her mother, and she, Harriet, was a hard, middle-aged woman and a poor substitute. She patted Sydney's moist hand. I guess I understand, she said. I'll attend to your wedding-thing, Sydney. We'll show the street that even Christine Lorenz can be outdone. And as an afterthought. I hope Max Wilson will settle down now. He's been none too steady. Kay had taken Christine to see Tilly 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 Kay and Christine walked from the end of the trolley line, saying little, but under Kay'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 Tilly had been a disappointment to Kay. Christine, with the best and kindliest intentions, struck a wrong note. In her endeavor to cover the fact that everything in Tilly's world was wrong, she fell into the air of pretending that everything was right. Tilly, grotesque a figure and tragic eyed, listened to her patiently, while Kay 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, Tilly, 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. Tilly'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 Kay, while Christine went ahead of him out of the barn. I've been wanting to speak with you, Mr. Lemoine. 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. Kay'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, Kay 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 grace-leave. He 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, Kay folded up his long length on the step below Sidney. Well, dear ministering angel, he said, how goes the world? Things have been happening, Kay. 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, Kay. 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. Are you going to wish me happiness? If my wishing could bring anything good to you, you would have done 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, Kay, and he knows so much. I'm 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? Kay nodded. His mind refused to go forward to the unthinkable future. Instead he was looking back, back to those days when he had hoped, some time 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 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, okay, 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 will we still be friends, Kay? 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? Kay. My dear child, you do not need a rumor here anymore. I have always received infinitely more than I have paid for, even in the small services I have been able to render. Your antheriade 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 will 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. Where will you go? The Rosenfelds are rather in straits. I thought of helping them to get a small house somewhere and have taken a room with them. It is largely a matter of furniture. If they could furnish it even plainly, it could be done. I haven't saved anything. Do you ever think of yourself, she cried? Have you always gone through life helping people, Kay? Save anything? I should think not. You spend it all on others. She bent over and put her hand on his shoulder. It will not be home without you, Kay. To save him, he could not have spoken just then. A riot of rebellion surged up in him that he must let this best thing in his life go out of it. To go empty of heart through the rest of his days while his very arms ached to hold her. And she was so near, just above, with her hand on his shoulder, her wistful face so close that, without moving, he could have brushed her hair. You have not wished me happiness, Kay. Do you remember when I was going to the hospital and you gave me the little watch? Do you remember what she said? Yes. Huskily. Will you say it again? But that was goodbye. Isn't this, in a way? You're going to leave us, and I—say it, Kay. Goodbye, dear, and God bless you. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of Kay. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michael Fascio. Kay. By Mary Roberts Reinhardt. Chapter 23 The announcement of Sydney's engagement was not to be made for a year. Wilson, chafing under the delay, was obliged to admit to himself that it was best. Many things could happen in a year. Carlotta would have finished her training, and by that time would probably be reconciled to the ending of their relationship. He intended to end that. He had meant every word of what he had sworn to Sydney. He was genuinely in love, even unselfishly, as far as he could be unselfish. The secret was to be carefully kept also for Sydney's sake. The hospital did not approve of engagements between nurses and the staff. It was disorganizing. Bad for discipline. Sydney was very happy all that summer. She glowed with pride when her lover put through a difficult piece of work. Flushed and palpitated when she heard his praises sung, grew to know by a sort of intuition when he was in the house. She wore his ring on a fine chain around her neck, and grew prettier every day. Once or twice, however, when she was at home, away from the glamour, her early fears obsessed her. Would he always love her? He was so handsome, so gifted, and there were women who were mad about him. That was a gossip of the hospital. Suppose she married him, and he tired of her. In her humility, she thought that perhaps only her youth, and such charm as she had that belonged to youth, held him. And before her, always she saw the tragic women of the wards. Kay had postponed his leaving until fall. Sydney had been insistent, and Harriet had topped the argument in her business-like way. If you insist on being an idiot and adopting the Rosenfeld family, she said, wait until September. The season for borders doesn't begin until fall. So Kay waited for the season, and ate his heart out for Sydney in the interval. Johnny Rosenfeld still lay in his ward, inert from the waist down. Kay was his most frequent visitor. As a matter of fact, he was watching the boy closely, at Max Wilson's request. Tell me when I'm to do it, said Wilson, and when the time comes, for God's sake, stand by me. Come to the operation. He's got so much confidence that I'll help him that I don't dare to fail. So Kay came on visiting-days, and by special dispensation on Saturday afternoons. He was teaching the boy basket-making. Not that he knew anything about it himself, but by means of a blind teacher he kept just one lesson ahead. The ward was intensely interested. It found something absurd and rather touching in this tall, serious young man with the surprisingly deft fingers tying raffia knots. The first basket went by Johnny's rest to Sydney Page. I want her to have it, he said. She got corns on her fingers from rubbing me when I came in first, and besides, yes, said Kay, he was tying a most complicated knot, and could not look up. I know something, said Johnny. I'm not going to get in wrong by talking, but I know something. You give her the basket. Kay looked up then, and surprised Johnny's secret in his face. Ah, he said. If I'd squealed she'd have finished me for good. They've got me, you know. I'm not running in two forty these days. I'll not tell or make it uncomfortable for you. What do you know? Johnny looked around. The ward was in the somnolence of mid-afternoon. The nearest patient, a man in a wheelchair, was snoring heavily. It was the dark-eyed one that changed the medicine on me, he said. The one with the heels that were always tapping around, waking me up. She did it. I saw her. After all, it was only what Kay had suspected before, but a sense of impending danger to Sydney obsessed him. If Carlotta would do that, what would she do when she learned of the engagement? And he had known her before. He believed she was totally unscrupulous. The odd coincidence of their paths crossing again troubled him. Carlotta Harrison was well again and back on duty. Luckily for Sydney, her three-month service in the operating room kept them apart. For Carlotta was now not merely jealous. She found herself neglected, ignored. It ate her like a fever. But she did not yet suspect engagement. It had been her theory that Wilson would not marry easily, that, in a sense, he would not have to be coerced into marriage. Some clever woman would marry him some day, and no one would be more astonished than himself. She thought merely that Sydney was playing a game like her own, with different weapons. So she planned her battle, ignorant that she had lost already. Her method was simple enough. She stopped sulking, net-maxed with smiles, made no overtures toward the renewal of their relations. At first this annoyed him. Later it peaked him. To desert a woman was justifiable under certain circumstances. But to desert a woman and have her apparently not even know it was against the rules of the game. During a surgical dressing in a private room one day he allowed his fingers to touch hers, as on that day a year before when she had taken Miss Simpson's place in his office. He was rewarded by the same slow, smoldering glance that had caught his attention before. So she was only acting in difference. Then Carlotta made her second move. A new intern had come into the house, and was going through the process of learning that from a senior at the medical school to a half-paked junior intern is a long step back. He had to endure the good-humored contempt of the older men, the patronizing instructions of nurses as to rules. Carlotta alone treated him with deference. His uneasy rounds in Carlotta's precinct took on the state and form of staff visitations. She flattered, cajoled, looked up to him. After a time it dawned on Wilson that this junior cub was getting more attention than himself. That, wherever he happened to be, somewhere in the offing would be Carlotta and the lamb, the latter eyeing her with worship. Her indifference had only peaked him. The enthroning of a successor galled him. Between them the lamb suffered mightily, was subject to frequent bawling out, as he termed it, in the operating room as he assisted the anesthetist. He took his troubles to Carlotta, who soothed him in the corridor, in plain sight of her quarry, of course, by putting a sympathetic hand on his sleeve. Then one day Wilson was goaded to speech. For the love of heaven, Carlotta, he said impatiently, stop making love to that wretched boy. He wriggles like a worm if you look at him. I like him. He is thoroughly genuine. I respect him. And he respects me. It's rather a silly game, you know. What game? Do you think I don't understand? Perhaps you do. I don't really care a lot about him, Max. But I've been down-hearted. He cheers me up. Her attraction for him was almost gone. Not quite. He felt rather sorry for her. I'm sorry. Then you were not angry with me? Angry? No. She lifted her eyes to his, and for a once she was not acting. I knew it would end, of course. I have lost a lover. I expected that. But I wanted to keep a friend. It was the right note. Why, after all, should he not be her friend? He had treated her cruelly, hideously. If she still desired his friendship, there was no disloyalty to Sydney in giving it. And Carlotta was very careful. Not once again did she allow him to see what lay in her eyes. She told him of her worries. Her training was almost over. She had a chance to take up institutional work. She abhorred the thought of private duty. What would he advise? The lamb was hovering near. Hot eyes on them both. It was no place to talk. Come to the office and we'll talk it over. I don't like to go there. Miss Simpson is suspicious. The institution she spoke of was in another city. It occurred to Wilson that if she took it, the affair would have reached a graceful and legitimate end. Also, the thought of another stolen evening alone with her was not unpleasant. It would be the last, he promised himself. After all, it was owing to her. He had treated her badly. Sydney would be at a lecture that night. The evening loomed temptingly free. Suppose you meet me at the old corner. He said carelessly, eyes on the lamb, who was forgetting that he was only a junior intern and was glaring ferociously. We'll run into the country and talk things over. She demurred with her heart beating triumphantly. What's the use of going back to that? It's over, isn't it? Her objection made him determined. When at last she had yielded and he made his way down to the smoking-room, it was with the feeling that he had won a victory. Kay had been uneasy all that day. His ledgers irritated him. He had been sleeping badly since Sydney's announcement of her engagement. At five o'clock, when he left the office, he found Joe Drummond waiting outside on the pavement. Mother said you'd been up to see me a couple of times. I thought I'd come around. Kay looked at his watch. What do you say to a walk? Not out in the country. I'm not as muscular as you are. I'll go about town for a half hour or so. Thus forestalled Kay found his subject hard to lead up to. But here again Joe met him more than half way. Well, go on, he said, when they found themselves in the park. I don't suppose you were paying a call? No. I guess I know what you were going to say. I'm not going to preach, if you're expecting that. Ordinarily if a man insists on making a fool of himself, I let him alone. Why make an exception of me? One reason is that I happen to like you. The other reason is that, whether you admit it or not, you are acting like a young idiot and are putting the responsibility on the shoulders of someone else. She is responsible, isn't she? Not in the least. How old are you Joe? Twenty-three, almost. Exactly. You are a man, and you are acting like a bad boy. It's a disappointment to me. It's more than that to Sidney. Much she cares. She's going to marry Wilson, isn't she? There is no announcement of any engagement. She is, and you know it. Well, she'll be happy. Not. If I go to her tonight and tell her what I know, she'd never see him again. The idea, thus born in his overwrought brain, obsessed him. He returned to it again and again. Lemoine wasn't easy. He was not certain that the boy's statement had any basis in fact. His single determination was to save Sidney from any pain. When Joe suddenly announced his inclination to go out into the country after all, he suspected a ruse to get rid of him, and insisted on going along. Joe consented grudgingly. Cars at Bailey's garage, he said solemnly. I don't know when I'll get back. That won't matter. Case tone was cheerful. I'm not sleeping, anyhow. That passed unnoticed until they were on the high road, with the car running smoothly between yellowing fields of wheat. Then, so you've got it too, he said. We're a fine pair of fools. We'd be better off if I sent the car over a bank. He gave the wheel a reckless twist, and Lemoine called him to its time, sternly. They had supper at the Whitesprings Hotel, not on the terrace, but in the little room where Carlotta and Wilson had taken their first meal together. Kay ordered beer for them both, and Joe submitted with bad grace. But the meal cheered and steadied him. Kay found him more amenable to reason, and, gaining his confidence, learned of his desire to leave the city. I'm stuck here, he said. I'm the only one, and mother yells blue murder when I talk about it. I want to go to Cuba. My uncle owns a farm down there. Perhaps I can talk your mother over. I've been there. Joe was all interest. His dilated pupils became more normal. His restless hands grew quiet. Kay's even voice, the picture he drew of life on the island, the stillness of the little hotel in its mid-week dullness, seemed to quiet the boy's tortured nerves. He was nearer to peace than he had been for many days. But he smoked incessantly, lighting one cigarette from another. At ten o'clock he left Kay and went for the car. He paused for a moment, rather sheepishly, by Kay's chair. I'm feeling a lot better, he said. I haven't got the band around my head. You talk to mother. That was the last Kay saw of Joe Drummond until the next day. End of Chapter 23