A few days after Wilson's recognition of K., two most exciting things
happened to Sidney. One was that Christine asked her to be maid of honor
at her wedding. The other was more wonderful. She was accepted, and given
her cap.
Because she could not get home that night, and because the little house had
no telephone, she wrote the news to her mother and sent a note to Le Moyne: DEAR K.,--I am accepted, and IT is on my head at this minute. I am as
conscious of it as if it were a halo, and as if I had done something to
deserve it, instead of just hoping that someday I shall. I am writing this
on the bureau, so that when I lift my eyes I may see It. I am afraid just
now I am thinking more of the cap than of what it means. It IS becoming!
Very soon I shall slip down and show it to the ward. I have promised. I
shall go to the door when the night nurse is busy somewhere, and turn all
around and let them see it, without saying a word. They love a little
excitement like that.
You have been very good to me, dear K. It is you who have made possible
this happiness of mine to-night. I am promising myself to be very good,
and not so vain, and to love my enemies--, although I have none now. Miss
Harrison has just congratulated me most kindly, and I am sure poor Joe has
both forgiven and forgotten.
Off to my first lecture!
SIDNEY.
K. found the note on the hall table when he got home that night, and
carried it upstairs to read. Whatever faint hope he might have had that
her youth would prevent her acceptance he knew now was over. With the
letter in his hand, he sat by his table and looked ahead into the empty
years. Not quite empty, of course. She would be coming home.
But more and more the life of the hospital would engross her. He surmised,
too, very shrewdly, that, had he ever had a hope that she might come to
care for him, his very presence in the little house militated against him.
There was none of the illusion of separation; he was always there, like
Katie. When she opened the door, she called "Mother" from the hall. If
Anna did not answer, she called him, in much the same voice.
He had built a wall of philosophy that had withstood even Wilson's
recognition and protest. But enduring philosophy comes only with time; and
he was young. Now and then all his defenses crumbled before a passion
that, when he dared to face it, shook him by its very strength. And that
day all his stoicism went down before Sidney's letter. Its very frankness
and affection hurt--not that he did not want her affection; but he craved
so much more. He threw himself face down on the bed, with the paper
crushed in his hand.