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216 pages

English

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This emotionally gripping novel blends Mary Roberts Rinehart's two fortes -- mystery and romance. When a mysterious stranger who calls himself 'K' enters her life, nurse-in-training Sidney can sense that he's running away from something. But before she can learn more about his tragic past, the pair find themselves falling hopelessly in love. Can their romance transcend his troubles?

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776530090
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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K
* * *
MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

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K First published in 1915 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-009-0 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-010-6 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX
Chapter I
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The Street stretched away north and south in two lines of ancienthouses that seemed to meet in the distance. The man found it infinitelyinviting. It had the well-worn look of an old coat, shabby butcomfortable. The thought of coming there to live pleased him. Surelyhere would be peace—long evenings in which to read, quiet nights inwhich to sleep and forget. It was an impression of home, really, thatit gave. The man did not know that, or care particularly. He had beenwandering about a long time—not in years, for he was less than thirty.But it seemed a very long time.
At the little house no one had seemed to think about references. Hecould have given one or two, of a sort. He had gone to considerabletrouble to get them; and now, not to have them asked for—
There was a house across and a little way down the Street, with a cardin the window that said: "Meals, twenty-five cents." Evidently themidday meal was over; men who looked like clerks and small shopkeeperswere hurrying away. The Nottingham curtains were pinned back, and justinside the window a throaty barytone was singing:
"Home is the hunter, home from the hill: And the sailor, home from sea."
Across the Street, the man smiled grimly—Home!
For perhaps an hour Joe Drummond had been wandering up and down theStreet. His straw hat was set on the back of his head, for the eveningwas warm; his slender shoulders, squared and resolute at eight, by ninehad taken on a disconsolate droop. Under a street lamp he consulted hiswatch, but even without that he knew what the hour was. Prayer meetingat the corner church was over; boys of his own age were rangingthemselves along the curb, waiting for the girl of the moment. When shecame, a youth would appear miraculously beside her, and the world-oldpairing off would have taken place.
The Street emptied. The boy wiped the warm band of his hat and slappedit on his head again. She was always treating him like this—keeping himhanging about, and then coming out, perfectly calm and certain thathe would still be waiting. By George, he'd fool her, for once: he'd goaway, and let her worry. She WOULD worry. She hated to hurt anyone. Ah!
Across the Street, under an old ailanthus tree, was the house hewatched, a small brick, with shallow wooden steps and—curiousarchitecture of Middle West sixties—a wooden cellar door beside thesteps.
In some curious way it preserved an air of distinction among its morepretentious neighbors, much as a very old lady may now and then lendtone to a smart gathering. On either side of it, the taller houses hadan appearance of protection rather than of patronage. It was a matterof self-respect, perhaps. No windows on the Street were so spotlesslycurtained, no doormat so accurately placed, no "yard" in the rear sotidy with morning-glory vines over the whitewashed fence.
The June moon had risen, sending broken shafts of white light throughthe ailanthus to the house door. When the girl came at last, she steppedout into a world of soft lights and wavering shadows, fragrant with treeblossoms not yet overpowering, hushed of its daylight sounds of playingchildren and moving traffic.
The house had been warm. Her brown hair lay moist on her forehead, herthin 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 tothe cool air. The moonlight clothed her as with a garment. From acrossthe Street the boy watched her with adoring, humble eyes. All hiscourage was for those hours when he was not with her.
"Hello, Joe."
"Hello, Sidney."
He crossed over, emerging out of the shadows into her envelopingradiance. His ardent young eyes worshiped her as he stood on thepavement.
"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. WasChristine there?"
"Yes; Palmer Howe took her home."
He was at his ease now. He had discarded his hat, and lay back on hiselbows, ostensibly to look at the moon. Actually his brown eyes restedon the face of the girl above him. He was very happy. "He's crazy aboutChris. 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 alongbreath.
"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 ofroomers. "It will help with the rent. It's my doing, really. Mother isscandalized."
"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 talland 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 ofcontent that always came with Sidney's presence. His inarticulate youngsoul was swelling with thoughts that he did not know how to put intowords. It was easy enough to plan conversations with Sidney when he wasaway from her. But, at her feet, with her soft skirts touching him asshe 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 wasreading says that every man who—who cares for a woman leaves his markon her! I suppose she tries to become what he thinks she is, for thetime anyhow, and is never just her old self again."
She said "cares for" instead of "loves." It is one of the traditions ofyouth to avoid the direct issue in life's greatest game. Perhaps"love" is left to the fervent vocabulary of the lover. Certainly, as iftreading 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 usuallytwo 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 whatthe book said."
"It's a silly book."
"I don't believe it's true," she confessed. "When I got started I justread on. I was curious."
More eager than curious, had she only known. She was fairly vibrant withthe 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 itsdingy lamps and blossoming ailanthus, lay the world that was some day tolie 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 fromvisionary, palpitating spring, he was for her—but she was for all theworld.
By shifting his position his lips came close to her bare young arm. Ittempted him.
"Don't read that nonsense," he said, his eyes on the arm. "And—I'llnever 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. Shethrilled to the touch of his lips on her flesh; but she drew her armaway.
"Please—I don't like that sort of thing."
"Why not?" His voice was husky.
"It isn't right. Besides, the neighbors are always looking out thewindows."
The drop from her high standard of right and wrong to the neighbors'curiosity appealed suddenly to her sense of humor. She threw back herhead and laughed. He joined her, after an uncomfortable moment. But hewas very much in earnest. He sat, bent forward, turning his new strawhat in his hands.
"I guess you know how I feel. Some of the fellows have crushes on girlsand get over them. I'm not like that. Since the first day I saw you I'venever looked at another girl. Books can say what they like: there arepeople like that, and I'm one of them."
There was a touch of dogged pathos in his voice. He was that sort, andSidney knew it. Fidelity and tenderness—those would be hers if shemarried him. He would always be there when she wanted him, looking ather with loving eyes, a trifle wistful sometimes because of his lack ofth