“Sidney Page was one of the bridesmaids,” he said irrelevantly. “She was lovelier than the bride.”
“Pretty, but stupid,” said Carlotta. “I like her. I’ve really tried to teach her things, but—you know—” She shrugged her shoulders.
Dr. Max was learning wisdom. If there was a twinkle in his eye, he veiled it discreetly. But, once again in the machine, he bent over and put his cheek against hers.
“You little cat! You’re jealous,” he said exultantly.
Nevertheless, although he might smile, the image of Sidney lay very close to his heart those autumn days. And Carlotta knew it.
Sidney came off night duty the middle of November. The night duty had been a time of comparative peace to Carlotta. There were no evenings when Dr. Max could bring Sidney back to the hospital in his car.
Sidney’s half-days at home were occasions for agonies of jealousy on Carlotta’s part. On such an occasion, a month after the wedding, she could not contain herself. She pleaded her old excuse of headache, and took the trolley to a point near the end of the Street. After twilight fell, she slowly walked the length of the Street. Christine and Palmer had not returned from their wedding journey. The November evening was not cold, and on the little balcony sat Sidney and Dr. Max. K. was there, too, had she only known it, sitting back in the shadow and saying little, his steady eyes on Sidney’s profile.
But this Carlotta did not know. She went on down the Street in a frenzy of jealous anger.
After that two ideas ran concurrent in Carlotta’s mind: one was to get Sidney out of the way, the other was to make Wilson propose to her. In her heart she knew that on the first depended the second.
A week later she made the same frantic excursion, but with a different result. Sidney was not in sight, or Wilson. But standing on the wooden doorstep of the little house was Le Moyne. The ailanthus trees were bare at that time, throwing gaunt arms upward to the November sky. The street-lamp, which in the summer left the doorstep in the shadow, now shone through the branches and threw into strong relief Le Moyne’s tall figure and set face. Carlotta saw him too late to retreat. But he did not see her. She went on, startled, her busy brain scheming anew. Another element had entered into her plotting. It was the first time she had known that K. lived in the Page house. It gave her a sense of uncertainty and deadly fear.
She made her first friendly overture of many days to Sidney the following day. They met in the locker-room in the basement where the street clothing for the ward patients was kept. Here, rolled in bundles and ticketed, side by side lay the heterogeneous garments in which the patients had met accident or illness. Rags and tidiness, filth and cleanliness, lay almost touching.
Far away on the other side of the whitewashed basement, men were unloading gleaming cans of milk. Floods of sunlight came down the cellar-way, touching their white coats and turning the cans to silver. Everywhere was the religion of the hospital, which is order.
Sidney, harking back from recent slights to the staircase conversation of her night duty, smiled at Carlotta cheerfully.
“A miracle is happening,” she said. “Grace Irving is going out to-day. When one remembers how ill she was and how we thought she could not live, it’s rather a triumph, isn’t it?”
“Are those her clothes?”
Sidney examined with some dismay the elaborate negligee garments in her hand.
“She can’t go out in those; I shall have to lend her something.” A little of the light died out of her face. “She’s had a hard fight, and she has won,” she said. “But when I think of what she’s probably going back to—”
Carlotta shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s all in the day’s work,” she observed indifferently. “You can take them up into the kitchen and give them steady work paring potatoes, or put them in the laundry ironing. In the end it’s the same thing. They all go back.”
She drew a package from the locker and looked at it ruefully.
“Well, what do you know about this? Here’s a woman who came in in a nightgown and pair of slippers. And now she wants to go out in half an hour!”
She turned, on her way out of the locker-room, and shot a quick glance at Sidney.
“I happened to be on your street the other night,” she said. “You live across the street from Wilsons’, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so; I had heard you speak of the house. Your—your brother was standing on the steps.”
Sidney laughed.
“I have no brother. That’s a roomer, a Mr. Le Moyne. It isn’t really right to call him a roomer; he’s one of the family now.”
“Le Moyne!”
He had even taken another name. It had hit him hard, for sure.
K.‘s name had struck an always responsive chord in Sidney. The two girls went toward the elevator together. With a very little encouragement, Sidney talked of K. She was pleased at Miss Harrison’s friendly tone, glad that things were all right between them again. At her floor, she put a timid hand on the girl’s arm.
“I was afraid I had offended you or displeased you,” she said. “I’m so glad it isn’t so.”
Carlotta shivered under her hand.
Things were not going any too well with K. True, he had received his promotion at the office, and with this present affluence of twenty-two dollars a week he was able to do several things. Mrs. Rosenfeld now washed and ironed one day a week at the little house, so that Katie might have more time to look after Anna. He had increased also the amount of money that he periodically sent East.
