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, K. Do you
remember, when I was going to the hospital and you
gave me the little watch—do you remember
what you said?”
“Yes”—huskily.
“Will you say it again?”
“But that was good-bye.”
“Isn’t this, in a way? You are going
to leave us, and I—say it, K.”
“Good-bye, dear, and—God bless you.”
The announcement of Sidney’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 Sidney. He was
genuinely in love, even unselfishly—as far
as he could be unselfish. The secret was to
be carefully kept also for Sidney’s sake.
The hospital did not approve of engagements between
nurses and the staff. It was disorganizing, bad
for discipline.
Sidney 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
and so gifted, and there were women who were mad about
him. That was the 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.
K. had postponed his leaving until fall. Sidney
had been insistent, and Harriet had topped the argument
in her businesslike way. “If you insist
on being an idiot and adopting the Rosenfeld family,”
she said, “wait until September. The season
for boarders doesn’t begin until fall.”
So K. waited for “the season,” and ate
his heart out for Sidney in the interval.
Johnny Rosenfeld still lay in his ward, inert from
the waist down. K. 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.”
