K. (A Crime Thriller Novel). Mary Roberts Rinehart

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СКАЧАТЬ some curious way it preserved an air of distinction among its more pretentious neighbors, much as a very old lady may now and then lend tone to a smart gathering. On either side of it, the taller houses had an appearance of protection rather than of patronage. It was a matter of self-respect, perhaps. No windows on the Street were so spotlessly curtained, no doormat so accurately placed, no “yard” in the rear so tidy with morning-glory vines over the whitewashed fence.

      The June moon had risen, sending broken shafts of white light through the ailanthus to the house door. When the girl came at last, she stepped out into a world of soft lights and wavering shadows, fragrant with tree blossoms not yet overpowering, hushed of its daylight sounds of playing children and moving traffic.

      The house had been warm. Her brown hair lay moist on her forehead, her thin white dress was turned in at the throat. She stood on the steps, the door closed behind her, and threw out her arms in a swift gesture to the cool air. The moonlight clothed her as with a garment. From across the Street the boy watched her with adoring, humble eyes. All his courage was for those hours when he was not with her.

      “Hello, Joe.”

      “Hello, Sidney.”

      He crossed over, emerging out of the shadows into her enveloping radiance. His ardent young eyes worshiped her as he stood on the pavement.

      “I'm late. I was taking out bastings for mother.”

      “Oh, that's all right.”

      Sidney sat down on the doorstep, and the boy dropped at her feet.

      “I thought of going to prayer meeting, but mother was tired. Was Christine there?”

      “Yes; Palmer Howe took her home.”

      He was at his ease now. He had discarded his hat, and lay back on his elbows, ostensibly to look at the moon. Actually his brown eyes rested on the face of the girl above him. He was very happy. “He's crazy about Chris. She's good-looking, but she's not my sort.”

      “Pray, what IS your sort?”

      “You.”

      She laughed softly. “You're a goose, Joe!”

      She settled herself more comfortably on the doorstep and drew along breath.

      “How tired I am! Oh—I haven't told you. We've taken a roomer!”

      “A what?”

      “A roomer.” She was half apologetic. The Street did not approve of roomers. “It will help with the rent. It's my doing, really. Mother is scandalized.”

      “A woman?”

      “A man.”

      “What sort of man?”

      “How do I know? He is coming tonight. I'll tell you in a week.”

      Joe was sitting bolt upright now, a little white.

      “Is he young?”

      “He's a good bit older than you, but that's not saying he's old.”

      Joe was twenty-one, and sensitive of his youth.

      “He'll be crazy about you in two days.”

      She broke into delighted laughter.

      “I'll not fall in love with him—you can be certain of that. He is tall and very solemn. His hair is quite gray over his ears.”

      Joe cheered.

      “What's his name?”

      “K. Le Moyne.”

      “K.?”

      “That's what he said.”

      Interest in the roomer died away. The boy fell into the ecstasy of content that always came with Sidney's presence. His inarticulate young soul was swelling with thoughts that he did not know how to put into words. It was easy enough to plan conversations with Sidney when he was away from her. But, at her feet, with her soft skirts touching him as she moved, her eager face turned to him, he was miserably speechless.

      Unexpectedly, Sidney yawned. He was outraged.

      “If you're sleepy—”

      “Don't be silly. I love having you. I sat up late last night, reading. I wonder what you think of this: one of the characters in the book I was reading says that every man who—who cares for a woman leaves his mark on her! I suppose she tries to become what he thinks she is, for the time anyhow, and is never just her old self again.”

      She said “cares for” instead of “loves.” It is one of the traditions of youth to avoid the direct issue in life's greatest game. Perhaps “love” is left to the fervent vocabulary of the lover. Certainly, as if treading on dangerous ground, Sidney avoided it.

      “Every man! How many men are supposed to care for a woman, anyhow?”

      “Well, there's the boy who—likes her when they're both young.”

      A bit of innocent mischief this, but Joe straightened.

      “Then they both outgrow that foolishness. After that there are usually two rivals, and she marries one of them—that's three. And—”

      “Why do they always outgrow that foolishness?” His voice was unsteady.

      “Oh, I don't know. One's ideas change. Anyhow, I'm only telling you what the book said.”

      “It's a silly book.”

      “I don't believe it's true,” she confessed. “When I got started I just read on. I was curious.”

      More eager than curious, had she only known. She was fairly vibrant with the zest of living. Sitting on the steps of the little brick house, her busy mind was carrying her on to where, beyond the Street, with its dingy lamps and blossoming ailanthus, lay the world that was some day to lie to her hand. Not ambition called her, but life.

      The boy was different. Where her future lay visualized before her, heroic deeds, great ambitions, wide charity, he planned years with her, selfish, contented years. As different as smug, satisfied summer from visionary, palpitating spring, he was for her—but she was for all the world.

      By shifting his position his lips came close to her bare young arm. It tempted him.

      “Don't read that nonsense,” he said, his eyes on the arm. “And—I'll never outgrow my foolishness about you, Sidney.”

      Then, because he could not help it, he bent over and kissed her arm.

      She was just eighteen, and Joe's devotion was very pleasant. She thrilled to the touch of his lips on her flesh; but she drew her arm away.

      “Please—I don't like that sort of thing.”

      “Why not?” His voice was husky.

      “It СКАЧАТЬ