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<h2> CHAPTER VIII </h2> Sidney entered the hospital as a probationer early in August. Christine was to be married in September to Palmer Howe, and, with Harriet and K. in the house, she felt that she could safely leave her mother. The balcony outside the parlor was already under way. On the night before she went away, Sidney took chairs out there and sat with her mother until the dew drove Anna to the lamp in the sewing-room and her “Daily Thoughts” reading. Sidney sat alone and viewed her world from this new and pleasant angle. She could see the garden and the whitewashed fence with its morning-glories, and at the same time, by turning her head, view the Wilson house across the Street. She looked mostly at the Wilson house. K. Le Moyne was upstairs in his room. She could hear him tramping up and down, and catch, occasionally, the bitter-sweet odor of his old brier pipe. All the small loose ends of her life were gathered up—except Joe. She would have liked to get that clear, too. She wanted him to know how she felt about it all: that she liked him as much as ever, that she did not want to hurt him. But she wanted to make it clear, too, that she knew now that she would never marry him. She thought she would never marry; but, if she did, it would be a man doing a man's work in the world. Her eyes turned wistfully to the house across the Street. K.'s lamp still burned overhead, but his restless tramping about had ceased. He must be reading—he read a great deal. She really ought to go to bed. A neighborhood cat came stealthily across the Street, and stared up at the little balcony with green-glowing eyes. “Come on, Bill Taft,” she said. “Reginald is gone, so you are welcome. Come on.” Joe Drummond, passing the house for the fourth time that evening, heard her voice, and hesitated uncertainly on the pavement. “That you, Sid?” he called softly. “Joe! Come in.” “It's late; I'd better get home.” The misery in his voice hurt her. “I'll not keep you long. I want to talk to you.” He came slowly toward her. “Well?” he said hoarsely. “You're not very kind to me, Joe.” “My God!” said poor Joe. “Kind to you! Isn't the kindest thing I can do to keep out of your way?” “Not if you are hating me all the time.” “I don't hate you.” “Then why haven't you been to see me? If I have done anything—” Her voice was a-tingle with virtue and outraged friendship. “You haven't done anything but—show me where I get off.” He sat down on the edge of the balcony and stared out blankly. “If that's the way you feel about it—” “I'm not blaming you. I was a fool to think you'd ever care about me. I don't know that I feel so bad—about the thing. I've been around seeing some other girls, and I notice they're glad to see me, and treat me right, too.” There was boyish bravado in his voice. “But what makes me sick is to have everyone saying you've jilted me.” “Good gracious! Why, Joe, I never promised.” “Well, we look at it in different ways; that's all. I took it for a promise.” Then suddenly all his carefully conserved indifference fled. He bent forward quickly and, catching her hand, held it against his lips. “I'm crazy about you, Sidney. That's the truth. I wish I could die!” The cat, finding no active antagonism, sprang up on the balcony and rubbed against the boy's quivering shoulders; a breath of air stroked the morning-glory vine like the touch of a friendly hand. Sidney, facing for the first time the enigma of love and despair sat, rather frightened, in her chair. “You don't mean that!” “I mean it, all right. If it wasn't for the folks, I'd jump in the river. I lied when I said I'd been to see other girls. What do I want with other girls? I want you!” “I'm not worth all that.” “No girl's worth what I've been going through,” he retorted bitterly. “But that doesn't help any. I don't eat; I don't sleep—I'm afraid sometimes of the way I feel. When I saw you at the White Springs with that roomer chap—” “Ah! You were there!” “If I'd had a gun I'd have killed him. I thought—” So far, out of sheer pity, she had left her hand in his. Now she drew it away. “This is wild, silly talk. You'll be sorry to-morrow.” “It's the truth,” doggedly. But he made a clutch at his self-respect. He was acting like a crazy boy, and he was a man, all of twenty-two! “When are you going to the hospital?” “To-morrow.” “Is that Wilson's hospital?” “Yes.” Alas for his resolve! The red haze of jealousy came again. “You'll be seeing him every day, I suppose.” “I dare say. I shall also be seeing twenty or thirty other doctors, and a hundred or so men patients, not to mention visitors. Joe, you're not rational.” “No,” he said heavily, “I'm not. If it's got to be someone, Sidney, I'd rather have it the roomer upstairs than Wilson. There's a lot of talk about Wilson.” “It isn't necessary to malign my friends.” He rose. “I thought perhaps, since you are going away, you would let me keep Reginald. He'd be something to remember you by.” “One would think I was about to die! I set Reginald free that day in the country. I'm sorry, Joe. You'll come to see me now and then, won't you?” “If I do, do you think you may change your mind?” “I'm afraid not.” “I've got to fight this out alone, and the less I see of you the better.” But his next words belied his intention. “And Wilson had better lookout. I'll be watching. If I see him playing any of his tricks around you—well, he'd better look out!” That, as it turned out, was Joe's farewell. He had reached the breaking-point. He gave her a long look, blinked, and walked rapidly out to the Street. Some of the dignity of his retreat was lost by the fact that the cat followed him, close at his heels. Sidney was hurt, greatly troubled. If this was love, she did not want it—this strange compound of suspicion and despair, injured pride and threats. Lovers in fiction were of two classes—the accepted ones, who loved and trusted, and the rejected ones, who took themselves away in despair, but at least took themselves away. The thought of a future with Joe always around a corner, watching her, obsessed her. She felt aggrieved, insulted. She even shed a tear or two, very surreptitiously; and then, being human and much upset, and the cat startling her by its sudden return and selfish advances, she shooed it off the veranda and set an imaginary dog after it. Whereupon, feeling somewhat better, she went in and locked the balcony window and proceeded upstairs. Le Moyne's light was still going. The rest of the household slept. She paused outside the door. “Are you sleepy?”—very softly. There was a movement inside, the sound of a book put down. Then: “No, indeed.” “I may not see you in the morning. I leave to-morrow.” “Just a minute.” From the sounds, she judged that he was putting on his shabby gray coat. The next moment he had opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. “I believe you had forgotten!” “I? Certainly not. I started downstairs a while ago, but you had a visitor.” “Only Joe Drummond.” He gazed down at her quizzically. “And—is Joe more reasonable?” “He will be. He knows now that I—that I shall not marry him.” “Poor chap! He'll buck up, of course. But it's a little hard just now.” “I believe you think I should have married him.” “I am only putting myself in his place and realizing—When do you leave?” “Just after breakfast.” “I am going very early. Perhaps—” He hesitated. Then, hurriedly:— “I got a little present for you—nothing much, but your mother was quite willing. In fact, we bought it together.” He went back into his room, and returned with a small box. “With all sorts of good luck,” he said, and placed it in her hands. “How dear of you! And may I look now?” “I wish you would. Because, if you would rather have something else—” She opened the box with excited fingers. Ticking away on its satin bed was a small gold watch. “You'll need it, you see,” he explained nervously, “It wasn't extravagant under the circumstances. Your mother's watch, which you had intended to take, had no second-hand. You'll need a second-hand to take pulses, you know.” “A watch,” said Sidney, eyes on it. “A dear little watch, to pin on and not put in a pocket. Why, you're the best person!” “I was afraid you might think it presumptuous,” he said. “I haven't any right, of course. I thought of flowers—but they fade and what have you? You said that, you know, about Joe's roses. And then, your mother said you wouldn't be offended—” “Don't apologize for making me so happy!” she cried. “It's wonderful, really. And the little hand is for pulses! How many queer things you know!” After that she must pin it on, and slip in to stand before his mirror and inspect the result. It gave Le Moyne a queer thrill to see her there in the room among his books and his pipes. It make him a little sick, too, in view of to-morrow and the thousand-odd to-morrows when she would not be there. “I've kept you up shamefully,'” she said at last, “and you get up so early. I shall write you a note from the hospital, delivering a little lecture on extravagance—because how can I now, with this joy shining on me? And about how to keep Katie in order about your socks, and all sorts of things. And—and now, good-night.” She had moved to the door, and he followed her, stooping a little to pass under the low chandelier. “Good-night,” said Sidney. “Good-bye—and God bless you.” She went out, and he closed the door softly behind her. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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