CHAPTER XV
Palmer and Christine returned from their wedding trip the day K.
discovered Tillie. Anna Page made much of the arrival, insisted on dinner for them that night at the little house, must help Christine unpack her trunks and arrange her wedding gifts about the apartment. She was brighter than she had been for days, more interested. The wonders of the trousseau filled her with admiration and a sort of jealous envy for Sidney, who could have none of these things. In a pathetic sort of way, she mothered Christine in lieu of her own daughter.
And it was her quick eye that discerned something wrong. Christine was not quite happy. Under her excitement was an undercurrent of reserve.
Anna, rich in maternity if in nothing else, felt it, and in reply to some speech of Christine"s that struck her as hard, not quite fitting, she gave her a gentle admonishing.
"Married life takes a little adjusting, my dear," she said. "After we have lived to ourselves for a number of years, it is not easy to live for some one else."
Christine straightened from the tea-table she was arranging.
"That"s true, of course. But why should the woman do all the adjusting?"
"Men are more set," said poor Anna, who had never been set in anything in her life. "It is harder for them to give in. And, of course, Palmer is older, and his habits--"
"The less said about Palmer"s habits the better," flashed Christine. "I appear to have married a bunch of habits."
She gave over her unpacking, and sat down listlessly by the fire, while Anna moved about, busy with the small activities that delighted her.
Six weeks of Palmer"s society in unlimited amounts had bored Christine to distraction. She sat with folded hands and looked into a future that seemed to include nothing but Palmer: Palmer asleep with his mouth open; Palmer shaving before breakfast, and irritable until he had had his coffee; Palmer yawning over the newspaper.
And there was a darker side to the picture than that. There was a vision of Palmer slipping quietly into his room and falling into the heavy sleep, not of drunkenness perhaps, but of drink. That had happened twice. She knew now that it would happen again and again, as long as he lived. Drinking leads to other things. The letter she had received on her wedding day was burned into her brain. There would be that in the future too, probably.
Christine was not without courage. She was making a brave clutch at happiness. But that afternoon of the first day at home she was terrified. She was glad when Anna went and left her alone by her fire.
But when she heard a step in the hall, she opened the door herself. She had determined to meet Palmer with a smile. Tears brought nothing; she had learned that already. Men liked smiling women and good cheer.
"Daughters of joy," they called girls like the one on the Avenue. So she opened the door smiling.
But it was K. in the hall. She waited while, with his back to her, he shook himself like a great dog. When he turned, she was watching him.
"You!" said Le Moyne. "Why, welcome home."
He smiled down at her, his kindly eyes lighting.
"It"s good to be home and to see you again. Won"t you come in to my fire?"
"I"m wet."
"All the more reason why you should come," she cried gayly, and held the door wide.
The little parlor was cheerful with fire and soft lamps, bright with silver vases full of flowers. K. stepped inside and took a critical survey of the room.
"Well!" he said. "Between us we have made a pretty good job of this, I with the paper and the wiring, and you with your pretty furnishings and your pretty self."
He glanced at her appreciatively. Christine saw his approval, and was happier than she had been for weeks. She put on the thousand little airs and graces that were a part of her--held her chin high, looked up at him with the little appealing glances that she had found were wasted on Palmer. She lighted the spirit-lamp to make tea, drew out the best chair for him, and patted a cushion with her well-cared-for hands.
"A big chair for a big man!" she said. "And see, here"s a footstool."
"I am ridiculously fond of being babied," said K., and quite basked in his new atmosphere of well-being. This was better than his empty room upstairs, than tramping along country roads, than his own thoughts.
"And now, how is everything?" asked Christine from across the fire. "Do tell me all the scandal of the Street."
"There has been no scandal since you went away," said K. And, because each was glad not to be left to his own thoughts, they laughed at this bit of unconscious humor.
"Seriously," said Le Moyne, "we have been very quiet. I have had my salary raised and am now rejoicing in twenty-two dollars a week. I am still not accustomed to it. Just when I had all my ideas fixed for fifteen, I get twenty-two and have to rea.s.semble them. I am disgustingly rich."
"It is very disagreeable when one"s income becomes a burden," said Christine gravely.
She was finding in Le Moyne something that she needed just then--a solidity, a sort of dependability, that had nothing to do with heaviness. She felt that here was a man she could trust, almost confide in. She liked his long hands, his shabby but well-cut clothes, his fine profile with its strong chin. She left off her little affectations,--a tribute to his own lack of them,--and sat back in her chair, watching the fire.
When K. chose, he could talk well. The Howes had been to Bermuda on their wedding trip. He knew Bermuda; that gave them a common ground.
Christine relaxed under his steady voice. As for K., he frankly enjoyed the little visit--drew himself at last with regret out of his chair.
"You"ve been very nice to ask me in, Mrs. Howe," he said. "I hope you will allow me to come again. But, of course, you are going to be very gay."
It seemed to Christine she would never be gay again. She did not want him to go away. The sound of his deep voice gave her a sense of security. She liked the clasp of the hand he held out to her, when at last he made a move toward the door.
"Tell Mr. Howe I am sorry he missed our little party," said Le Moyne.
"And--thank you."
"Will you come again?" asked Christine rather wistfully.
"Just as often as you ask me."
As he closed the door behind him, there was a new light in Christine"s eyes. Things were not right, but, after all, they were not hopeless. One might still have friends, big and strong, steady of eye and voice. When Palmer came home, the smile she gave him was not forced.
The day"s exertion had been bad for Anna. Le Moyne found her on the couch in the transformed sewing-room, and gave her a quick glance of apprehension. She was propped up high with pillows, with a bottle of aromatic ammonia beside her.
"Just--short of breath," she panted. "I--I must get down. Sidney--is coming home--to supper; and--the others--Palmer and--"
That was as far as she got. K., watch in hand, found her pulse thin, stringy, irregular. He had been prepared for some such emergency, and he hurried into his room for amyl-nitrate. When he came back she was almost unconscious. There was no time even to call Katie. He broke the capsule in a towel, and held it over her face. After a time the spasm relaxed, but her condition remained alarming.
Harriet, who had come home by that time, sat by the couch and held her sister"s hand. Only once in the next hour or so did she speak. They had sent for Dr. Ed, but he had not come yet. Harriet was too wretched to notice the professional manner in which K. set to work over Anna.
"I"ve been a very hard sister to her," she said. "If you can pull her through, I"ll try to make up for it."
Christine sat on the stairs outside, frightened and helpless. They had sent for Sidney; but the little house had no telephone, and the message was slow in getting off.
At six o"clock Dr. Ed came panting up the stairs and into the room. K.
stood back.
"Well, this is sad, Harriet," said Dr. Ed. "Why in the name of Heaven, when I wasn"t around, didn"t you get another doctor. If she had had some amyl-nitrate--"
"I gave her some nitrate of amyl," said K. quietly. "There was really no time to send for anybody. She almost went under at half-past five."