Page could not get back of Harriet's revolt to its cause. To her, Harriet was not an artist pleading for her art; she was a sister and a bread-winner deserting her trust.
“I'm sure,” she said stiffly, “we paid you back every cent we borrowed. If you stayed here after George died, it was because you offered to.”
Her chin worked. She fumbled for the handkerchief at her belt. But Sidney went around the table and flung a young arm over her aunt's shoulders.
“Why didn't you say all that a year ago? We've been selfish, but we're not as bad as you think. And if any one in this world is entitled to success you are. Of course we'll manage.”
Harriet's iron repression almost gave way. She covered her emotion with details:—
“Mrs. Lorenz is going to let me make Christine some things, and if they're all right I may make her trousseau.”
“Trousseau—for Christine!”
“She's not engaged, but her mother says it's only a matter of a short time. I'm going to take two rooms in the business part of town, and put a couch in the backroom to sleep on.”
Sidney's mind flew to Christine and her bright future, to a trousseau bought with the Lorenz money, to Christine settled down, a married woman, with Palmer Howe. She came back with an effort. Harriet had two triangular red spots in her sallow cheeks.
“I can get a few good models—that's the only way to start. And if you care to do hand work for me, Anna, I'll send it to you, and pay you the regular rates. There isn't the call for it there used to be, but just a touch gives dash.”
All of Mrs. Page's grievances had worked their way to the surface. Sidney and Harriet had made her world, such as it was, and her world was in revolt. She flung out her hands.
“I suppose I must do something. With you leaving, and Sidney renting her room and sleeping on a folding-bed in the sewing-room, everything seems upside down. I never thought I should live to see strange men running in and out of this house and carrying latch-keys.”
This in reference to Le Moyne, whose tall figure had made a hurried exit some time before.
Nothing could have symbolized Harriet's revolt more thoroughly than her going upstairs after a hurried breakfast, and putting on her hat and coat. She had heard of rooms, she said, and there was nothing urgent in the work-room. Her eyes were brighter already as she went out. Sidney, kissing her in the hall and wishing her luck, realized suddenly what a burden she and her mother must have been for the last few years. She threw her head up proudly. They would never be a burden again—never, as long as she had strength and health!
By evening Mrs. Page had worked herself into a state bordering on hysteria. Harriet was out most of the day. She came in at three o'clock, and Katie gave her a cup of tea. At the news of her sister's condition, she merely shrugged her shoulders.
“She'll not die, Katie,” she said calmly. “But see that Miss Sidney eats something, and if she is worried tell her I said to get Dr. Ed.”
Very significant of Harriet's altered outlook was this casual summoning of the Street's family doctor. She was already dealing in larger figures. A sort of recklessness had come over her since the morning. Already she was learning that peace of mind is essential to successful endeavor. Somewhere Harriet had read a quotation from a Persian poet; she could not remember it, but its sense had stayed with her: “What though we spill a few grains of corn, or drops of oil from the cruse? These be the price of peace.”
So Harriet, having spilled oil from her cruse in the shape of Dr. Ed, departed blithely. The recklessness of pure adventure was in her blood. She had taken rooms at a rental that she determinedly put out of her mind, and she was on her way to buy furniture. No pirate, fitting out a ship for the highways of the sea, ever experienced more guilty and delightful excitement.
The afternoon dragged away. Dr. Ed was out “on a case” and might not be in until evening. Sidney sat in the darkened room and waved a fan over her mother's rigid form.
At half after five, Johnny Rosenfeld from the alley, who worked for a florist after school, brought a box of roses to Sidney, and departed grinning impishly. He knew Joe, had seen him in the store. Soon the alley knew that Sidney had received a dozen Killarney roses at three dollars and a half, and was probably engaged to Joe Drummond.
“Dr. Ed,” said Sidney, as he followed her down the stairs, “can you spare the time to talk to me a little while?”
Perhaps the elder Wilson had a quick vision of the crowded office waiting across the Street; but his reply was prompt:
“Any amount of time.”
Sidney led the way into the small parlor, where Joe's roses, refused by the petulant invalid upstairs, bloomed alone.
“First of all,” said Sidney, “did you mean what you said upstairs?”
Dr. Ed thought quickly.
“Of course; but what?”
“You said I was a born nurse.”
The Street was very fond of Dr. Ed. It did not always approve of him. It said—which was perfectly true—that he had sacrificed himself to his brother's career: that, for the sake of that brilliant young surgeon, Dr. Ed had done without wife and children; that to send him abroad he had saved and skimped; that he still went shabby and drove the old buggy, while Max drove about in an automobile coupe. Sidney, not at all of the stuff martyrs are made of, sat in the scented parlor and, remembering all this, was ashamed of her rebellion.
“I'm going into a hospital,” said Sidney.
Dr. Ed waited. He liked to have all the symptoms before he made a diagnosis or ventured an opinion. So Sidney, trying to be cheerful, and quite unconscious of the anxiety in her voice, told her story.
“It's fearfully hard work, of course,” he commented, when she had finished.
“So is anything worth while. Look at the way you work!”
Dr. Ed rose and wandered around the room.
“You're too young.”
“I'll get older.”
“I don't think I like the idea,” he said at last. “It's splendid work for an older woman. But it's life, child—life in the raw. As we get along in years we lose our illusions—some of them, not all, thank God. But for you, at your age, to be brought face to face with things as they are, and not as we want them to be—it seems such an unnecessary sacrifice.”
“Don't you think,” said Sidney bravely, “that you are a poor person to talk of sacrifice? Haven't you always, all your life—”
Dr. Ed colored to the roots of his straw-colored hair.
“Certainly not,” he said almost irritably. “Max had genius; I had—ability. That's different. One real success is better than two halves. Not”—he smiled down at her—“not that I minimize my usefulness. Somebody has to do the hack-work, and, if I do say it myself, I'm a pretty good hack.”
“Very well,” said Sidney. “Then I shall be a hack, too. Of course, I had thought of
