CHAPTER XX
Winter relaxed its clutch slowly that year. March was bitterly cold;even April found the roads still frozen and the hedgerows clustered withice. But at mid-day there was spring in the air. In the courtyard of thehospital, convalescents sat on the benches and watched for robins. Thefountain, which had frozen out, was being repaired. Here and there onward window-sills tulips opened their gaudy petals to the sun.
Harriet had gone abroad for a flying trip in March and came back ladenwith new ideas, model gowns, and fresh enthusiasm. She carried out andplanted flowers on her sister's grave, and went back to her work with afeeling of duty done. A combination of crocuses and snow on the groundhad given her an inspiration for a gown. She drew it in pencil on anenvelope on her way back in the street car.
Grace Irving, having made good during the white sales, had been sent tothe spring cottons. She began to walk with her head higher. The day shesold Sidney material for a simple white gown, she was very happy. Oncea customer brought her a bunch of primroses. All day she kept them underthe counter in a glass of water, and at evening she took them to JohnnyRosenfeld, still lying prone in the hospital.
On Sidney, on K., and on Christine the winter had left its mark heavily.Christine, readjusting her life to new conditions, was graver, morethoughtful. She was alone most of the time now. Under K.'s guidance, shehad given up the "Duchess" and was reading real books. She was thinkingreal thoughts, too, for the first time in her life.
Sidney, as tender as ever, had lost a little of the radiance from hereyes; her voice had deepened. Where she had been a pretty girl, shewas now lovely. She was back in the hospital again, this time in thechildren's ward. K., going in one day to take Johnny Rosenfeld a basketof fruit, saw her there with a child in her arms, and a light in hereyes that he had never seen before. It hurt him, rather--things being asthey were with him. When he came out he looked straight ahead.
With the opening of spring the little house at Hillfoot took on freshactivities. Tillie was house-cleaning with great thoroughness. Shescrubbed carpets, took down the clean curtains, and put them up againfreshly starched. It was as if she found in sheer activity and fatigue aremedy for her uneasiness.
Business had not been very good. The impeccable character of the littlehouse had been against it. True, Mr. Schwitter had a little bar andserved the best liquors he could buy; but he discouraged rowdiness--hadbeen known to refuse to sell to boys under twenty-one and to men who hadalready overindulged. The word went about that Schwitter's was no placefor a good time. Even Tillie's chicken and waffles failed against thishandicap.
By the middle of April the house-cleaning was done. One or two motorparties had come out, dined sedately and wined moderately, and had goneback to the city again. The next two weeks saw the weather clear. Theroads dried up, robins filled the trees with their noisy spring songs,and still business continued dull.
By the first day of May, Tillie's uneasiness had become certainty. Onthat morning Mr. Schwitter, coming in from the early milking, found hersitting in the kitchen, her face buried in her apron. He put down themilk-pails and, going over to her, put a hand on her head.
"I guess there's no mistake, then?"
"There's no mistake," said poor Tillie into her apron.
He bent down and kissed the back of her neck. Then, when she failed tobrighten, he tiptoed around the kitchen, poured the milk into pans,and rinsed the buckets, working methodically in his heavy way. Thetea-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'tthink I'm blaming you. I guess I don't really blame anybody. As far asthat goes, I've wanted a child right along. It isn't the trouble I amthinking of either."
He nodded. Words were unnecessary between them. He made some teaclumsily and browned her a piece of toast. When he had put them on oneend 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 ofwas trying to get a little happiness out of life. And,"--he strokedher arm,--"as far as I am concerned, it's been worth while, Tillie. Nomatter what I've had to do, I've always looked forward to coming backhere to you in the evening. Maybe I don't say it enough, but I guess youknow I feel it all right."
Without looking up, she placed her hand over his.
"I guess we started wrong," he went on. "You can't build happiness onwhat isn't right. You and I can manage well enough; but now that there'sgoing to be another, it looks different, somehow."
After that morning Tillie took up her burden stoically. The hope ofmotherhood alternated with black fits of depression. She sang at herwork, to burst out into sudden tears.
Other things were not going well. Schwitter had given up his nurserybusiness; but the motorists who came to Hillfoot did not come back.When, at last, he took the horse and buggy and drove about the countryfor orders, he was too late. Other nurserymen had been before him;shrubberies and orchards were already being set out. The second paymenton his mortgage would be due in July. By the middle of May they werefrankly up against it. Schwitter at last dared to put the situation intowords.
"We're not making good, Til," he said. "And I guess you know the reason.We are too decent; that's what's the matter with us." There was no ironyin his words.
With all her sophistication, Tillie was vastly ignorant of life. He hadto explain.
"We'll have to keep a sort of hotel," he said lamely. "Sell to everybodythat comes along, and--if parties want to stay over-night--"
Tillie's white face turned crimson.
He attempted a compromise. "If it's bad weather, and they're married--"
"How are we to know if they are married or not?"
He admired her very much for it. He had always respected her. But thesituation was not less acute. There were two or three unfurnished roomson the second floor. He began to make tentative suggestions as to theirfurnishing. Once he got a catalogue from an installment house, and triedto hide it from her. Tillie's eyes blazed. She burned it in the kitchenstove.
Schwitter himself was ashamed; but the idea obsessed him. Other peoplefattened on the frailties of human nature. Two miles away, on the otherroad, was a public house that had netted the owner ten thousand dollarsprofit 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 keepinghis wife--he had never allowed her to go into the charity ward at theasylum. Now that there was going to be a child, there would be threepeople dependent upon him. He was past fifty, and not robust.
One night, after Tillie was asleep, he slipped noiselessly into hisclothes and out to the barn, where he hitched up the horse with nervousfingers.
Tillie never learned of that midnight excursion to the "Climbing Rose,"two miles away. Lights blazed in every window; a dozen automobiles wereparked before the barn. Somebody was playing a piano. From the bar camethe jingle of glasses and loud, cheerful conversation.
When Schwitter turned the horse's head back toward Hillfoot, hismind was made up. He would furnish the upper rooms; he would bring abarkeeper from town--these people wanted mixed drinks; he could get asecond-hand piano somewhere.
Tillie's rebellion was instant and complete. When she found himdetermined, she made the compromise that her condition necessitated. Shecould not leave him, but she would not stay in the rehabilitated littlehouse. When, a week after Schwitter's visit to the "Climbing Rose," aninstallment van arrived from town with the new furniture, Tilliemoved out to what had been the harness-room of the old barn and thereestablished herself.
"I am not leaving you," she told him. "I don't even know that I amblaming you. But I am not going to have anything to do with it, andthat's flat."
So it happened that K., making a spring pilgrimage to see Tillie,stopped astounded in the road. The weather was warm, and he carriedhis Norfolk coat over his arm. The little house was bustling; a dozenautomobiles were parked in the barnyard. The bar
was crowded, and abarkeeper in a white coat was mixing drinks with the casual indifferenceof his kind. There were tables under the trees on the lawn, and a newsign on the gate.
Even Schwitter bore a new look of prosperity. Over his schooner of beerK. gathered something of the story.
"I'm not proud of it, Mr. Le Moyne. I've come to do a good many thingsthe last year or so that I never thought I would do. But one thing leadsto another. First I took Tillie away from her good position, and afterthat nothing went right. Then there were things coming on"--he looked atK. anxiously--"that meant more expense. I would be glad if you wouldn'tsay anything about it at Mrs. McKee's."
"I'll not speak of it, of course."
It was then, when K. asked for Tillie, that Mr. Schwitter's unhappinessbecame more apparent.
"She wouldn't stand for it," he said. "She moved out the day I furnishedthe rooms upstairs and got the piano."
"Do you mean she has gone?"
"As far as the barn. She wouldn't stay in the house. I--I'll take youout there, if you would like to see her."
K. shrewdly surmised that Tillie would prefer to see him alone, underthe circumstances.
"I guess I can find her," he said, and rose from the little table.
"If you--if you can say anything to help me out, sir, I'd appreciate it.Of course, she understands how I am driven. But--especially if you wouldtell her that the Street doesn't know--"
"I'll do all I can," K. promised, and followed the path to the barn.
Tillie received him with a certain dignity. The little harness-roomwas very comfortable. A white iron bed in a corner, a flat table witha mirror above it, a rocking-chair, and a sewing-machine furnished theroom.
"I wouldn't stand for it," she said simply; "so here I am. Come in, Mr.Le Moyne."
There being but one chair, she sat on the bed. The room was litteredwith small garments in the making. She made no attempt to conceal them;rather, she pointed to them with pride.
"I am making them myself. I have a lot of time these days. He's got ahired girl at the house. It was hard enough to sew at first, with memaking two right sleeves almost every time." Then, seeing his kindly eyeon her: "Well, it's happened, Mr. Le Moyne. What am I going to do? Whatam I going to be?"
"You're going to be a very good mother, Tillie."
She was manifestly in need of cheering. K., who also needed cheeringthat spring day, found his consolation in seeing her brighten under thesmall gossip of the Street. The deaf-and-dumb book agent had taken onlife insurance as a side issue, and was doing well; the grocery store atthe corner was going to be torn down, and over the new store therewere to be apartments; Reginald had been miraculously returned, and wasbuilding 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 shadowy, full ofempty spaces where later the hay would be stored; anxious mother hensled their broods about; underneath in the horse stable the restlesshorses pawed in their stalls. From where he sat, Le Moyne could see onlythe round breasts of the two hills, the fresh green of the orchard thecows in a meadow beyond.
Tillie followed his eyes.
"I like it here," she confessed. "I've had more time to think since Imoved out than I ever had in my life before. Them hills help. When thenoise is worst down at the house, I look at the hills there and--"
There were great thoughts in her mind--that the hills meant God, andthat in His good time perhaps it would all come right. But she wasinarticulate. "The hills help a lot," she repeated.
K. rose. Tillie's work-basket lay near him. He picked up one of thelittle garments. In his big hands it looked small, absurd.
"I--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. Le Moyne," she said. "I don't wish the poorsoul any harm, but--oh, my God! if she's going, let it be before thenext four months are over."
K. had fallen into the habit, after his long walks, of dropping intoChristine's little parlor for a chat before he went upstairs. Thoseearly spring days found Harriet Kennedy busy late in the evenings, and,save for Christine and K., the house was practically deserted.
The breach between Palmer and Christine was steadily widening. She wastoo proud to ask him to spend more of his evenings with her. On thoseoccasions when he voluntarily stayed at home with her, he was sodiscontented that he drove her almost to distraction. Although she wasconvinced that he was seeing nothing of the girl who had been withhim the night of the accident, she did not trust him. Not that girl,perhaps, but there were others. There would always be others.
Into Christine's little parlor, then, K. turned, the evening after hehad seen Tillie. She was reading by the lamp, and the door into the hallstood open.
"Come in," she said, as he hesitated in the doorway.
"I am frightfully dusty."
"There's a brush in the drawer of the hat-rack--although I don't reallymind how you look."
The little room always cheered K. Its warmth and light appealed to hisaesthetic sense; after the bareness of his bedroom, it spelled luxury.And perhaps, to be entirely frank, there was more than physical comfortand satisfaction in the evenings he spent in Christine's firelit parlor.He was entirely masculine, and her evident pleasure in his societygratified him. He had fallen into a way of thinking of himself as a sortof older brother to all the world because he was a sort of older brotherto Sidney. The evenings with her did something to reinstate him in hisown self-esteem. It was subtle, psychological, but also it was veryhuman.
"Come and sit down," said Christine. "Here's a chair, and here arecigarettes and there are matches. Now!"
But, for once, K. declined the chair. He stood in front of the fireplaceand looked down at her, his head bent slightly to one side.
"I wonder if you would like to do a very kind thing," he saidunexpectedly.
"Make you coffee?"
"Something much more trouble and not so pleasant."
Christine glanced up at him. When she was with him, when his steady eyeslooked down at her, small affectations fell away. She was more genuinewith K. 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, but she was shrewd. That LeMoyne's past held a secret she had felt from the beginning. She sat upwith eager curiosity.
"No, not mine. Is it a promise?"
"Of course."
"I've found Tillie, Christine. I want you to go out to see her."
Christine's red lips parted. The Street did not go out to see women inTillie's situation.
"But, K.!" 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 hus--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, K. Not,"she hastened to set herself right in his eyes--"not that I feel anyunwillingness to see her. I know you understand that. But--what in theworld shall I say to her?"
"Say what your own kind heart prompts."
It had been rather a long time since Christine had been accusedof having a kind heart. Not that she was unkind, but in all herself-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. Then Le Moyne spoke briskly:--
"I'll tell you how to get there; perhaps I would better write it."
He moved over to Christine's small writing-table and, seating hi
mself,proceeded to write out the directions for reaching Hillfoot.
Behind him, Christine had taken his place on the hearth-rug and stoodwatching his head in the light of the desk-lamp. "What a strong, quietface it is," she thought. Why did she get the impression of such atremendous reserve power in this man who was a clerk, and a clerk only?Behind him she made a quick, unconscious gesture of appeal, both handsout for an instant. She dropped them guiltily as K. rose with the paperin 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, K.," she said, "what a lucky woman the woman willbe who marries you?"
He laughed good-humoredly.
"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, withoutbitterness. "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 Tillie, of course," she consented. "It is like you tohave found her."
She sat down. Although she picked up the book that she had been readingwith the evident intention of discussing it, her thoughts were still onTillie, on Palmer, on herself. After a moment:--
"Has it ever occurred to you how terribly mixed up things are? Take thisStreet, for instance. Can you think of anybody on it that--that thingshave gone entirely right with?"
"It's a little world of its own, of course," said K., "and it has plentyof contact points with life. But wherever one finds people, many or few,one finds all the elements that make up life--joy and sorrow, birth anddeath, 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 ownfates. But when you think of the women on the Street,--Tillie,Harriet Kennedy, Sidney Page, myself, even Mrs. Rosenfeld back in thealley,--somebody else moulds things for us, and all we can do is to sitback and suffer. I am beginning to think the world is a terrible place,K. Why do people so often marry the wrong people? Why can't a mancare for one woman and only one all his life? Why--why is it all socomplicated?"
"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 fora 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, K., unless you stopit."
He tried to leaven the conversation with a little fun.
"If you're going to ask me to interfere between Mrs. McKee and thedeaf-and-dumb book and insurance agent, I shall do nothing of the sort.She can both speak and hear enough for both of them."
"I mean Sidney and Max Wilson. He's mad about her, K.; and, becauseshe's the sort she is, he'll probably be mad about her all his life,even if he marries her. But he'll not be true to her; I know the typenow."
K. leaned back with a flicker of pain in his eyes.
"What can I do about it?"
Astute as he was, he did not suspect that Christine was using thismethod to fathom his feeling for Sidney. Perhaps she hardly knew itherself.
"You might marry her yourself, K."
But he had himself in hand by this time, and she learned nothing fromeither 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. Evenif Sidney cared for me, which she doesn't, of course--"
"Then you don't intend to interfere? You're going to let the Street seeanother failure?"
"I think you can understand," said K. rather wearily, "that if I caredless, Christine, it would be easier to interfere."
After all, Christine had known this, or surmised it, for weeks. But ithurt like a fresh stab in an old wound. It was K. who spoke again aftera pause:--
"The deadly hard thing, of course, is to sit by and see things happeningthat one--that one would naturally try to prevent."
"I don't believe that you have always been of those who only stand andwait," said Christine. "Sometime, K., when you know me better and likeme better, I want you to tell me about it, will you?"
"There's very little to tell. I held a trust. When I discovered that Iwas unfit to hold that trust any longer, I quit. That's all."
His tone of finality closed the discussion. But Christine's eyes were onhim often that evening, puzzled, rather sad.
They talked of books, of music--Christine played well in a dashing way.K. had brought her soft, tender little things, and had stood over heruntil her noisy touch became gentle. She played for him a little, whilehe sat back in the big chair with his hand 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 youtell me I am a nuisance and send me off?"
Christine was still at the piano, her hands on the keys. She spokewithout looking at him:--
"You're never a nuisance, K., and--"
"You'll go out to see Tillie, won't you?"
"Yes. But I'll not go under false pretenses. I am going quite franklybecause you want me to."
Something in her tone caught his attention.
"I forgot to tell you," she went on. "Father has given Palmer fivethousand dollars. He's going to buy a share in a business."
"That's fine."
"Possibly. I don't believe much in Palmer's business ventures."
Her flat tone still held him. Underneath it he divined strain andrepression.
"I hate to go and leave you alone," he said at last from the door. "Haveyou any idea when Palmer will be back?"
"Not the slightest. K., will you come here a moment? Stand behind me; Idon'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 am spoiling the onlychance I have to get any happiness out of life. But I have got to sayit. It's stronger than I am. I was terribly unhappy, K., and then youcame into my life, and I--now I listen for your step in the hall. Ican't be a hypocrite any longer, K."
When he stood behind her, silent and not moving, she turned slowly aboutand faced him. He towered there in the little room, grave eyes on hers.
"It's a long time since I have had a woman friend, Christine," he saidsoberly. "Your friendship has meant a good deal. In a good manyways, I'd not care to look ahead if it were not for you. I value ourfriendship so much that I--"
"That you don't want me to spoil it," she finished for him. "I knowyou don't care for me, K., not the way I--But I wanted you to know. Itdoesn't hurt a good man to know such a thing. And it--isn't going tostop your coming here, is it?"
"Of course not," said K. heartily. "But to-morrow, when we are bothclear-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 justbecause I am always around, and all that sort of thing, you think thingsthat 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 every one; forperhaps K. would have taken her in his arms. He was heart-hungry enough,those days, for anything. And perhaps, too, being intuitive, Christinefelt this. But she had no mind to force him into a situation against hiswill.
"It is because you are good," she said, and held out her hand."Good-night."
Le Moyne took it and bent over and kissed it lightly. There was inthe kiss all that he could not say of respect, of affection andunderstanding.
"Good-night, Christine," he said, and went in
to the hall and upstairs.
The lamp was not lighted in his room, but the street light glowedthrough the windows. Once again the waving fronds of the ailanthus treeflung ghostly shadows on the walls. There was a faint sweet odor ofblossoms, so soon to become rank and heavy.
Over the floor in a wild zigzag darted a strip of white paper whichdisappeared under the bureau. Reginald was building another nest.