He was counting on Mrs. McKee's old fondness for the girl to bring them
together. But, as they neared the house with its lanterns and tables, its
whitewashed stones outlining the drive, its small upper window behind which
Joe was waiting for night, his heart failed him, rather. He had a
masculine dislike for meddling, and yet--Mrs. McKee had suddenly seen the
name in the wooden arch over the gate: "Schwitter's."
"I'm not going in there, Mr. Le Moyne."
"Tillie's not in the house. She's back in the barn."
"In the barn!"
"She didn't approve of all that went on there, so she moved out. It's very
comfortable and clean; it smells of hay. You'd be surprised how nice it
is."
"The like of her!" snorted Mrs. McKee. "She's late with her conscience,
I'm thinking."
"Last night," K. remarked, hands on the wheel, but car stopped, "she had a
child there. It--it's rather like very old times, isn't it? A man-child,
Mrs. McKee, not in a manger, of course."
"What do you want me to do?" Mrs. McKee's tone, which had been fierce at
the beginning, ended feebly.
"I want you to go in and visit her, as you would any woman who'd had a new
baby and needed a friend. Lie a little--" Mrs. McKee gasped. "Tell her
the baby's pretty. Tell her you've been wanting to see her." His tone was
suddenly stern. "Lie a little, for your soul's sake."
She wavered, and while she wavered he drove her in under the arch with the
shameful name, and back to the barn. But there he had the tact to remain
in the car, and Mrs. McKee's peace with Tillie was made alone. When, five
minutes later, she beckoned him from the door of the barn, her eyes were
red.
"Come in, Mr. K.," she said. "The wife's dead, poor thing. They're going
to be married right away."
The clergyman was coming along the path with Schwitter at his heels. K.
entered the barn. At the door to Tillie's room he uncovered his head. The
child was asleep at her breast.
The five thousand dollar check from Mr. Lorenz had saved Palmer Howe's
credit. On the strength of the deposit, he borrowed a thousand at the bank
with which he meant to pay his bills, arrears at the University and Country
Clubs, a hundred dollars lost throwing aces with poker dice, and various
small obligations of Christine's.
The immediate result of the money was good. He drank nothing for a week,
went into the details of the new venture with Christine's father, sat at
home with Christine on her balcony in the evenings. With the knowledge
that he could pay his debts, he postponed the day. He liked the feeling of
a bank account in four figures.