His head sunk on his breast, K. covered miles of road
with his long, swinging pace, and fought his battle.
Was Tillie right, after all, and had he been wrong?
Why should he efface himself, if it meant Sidney’s
unhappiness? Why not accept Wilson’s offer
and start over again? Then if things went well—the
temptation was strong that stormy afternoon.
He put it from him at last, because of the conviction
that whatever he did would make no change in Sidney’s
ultimate decision. If she cared enough for Wilson,
she would marry him. He felt that she cared enough.
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.
