were going to a new world--and the car was taking them.... Bits of
talk--color--drifting fragrance as the coats fell back.... The woman
across the aisle had a bunch of violets....
Why had he not thought to get violets for Rosalind! Would she have liked
flowers--? She seemed a strange Rosalind, sitting beside him in the
car in her grey dress--her eyes like little stars.... They had three
children... and a brick house....
The car jolted on. Eldridge would have wished that it might never
stop.... There would not be another night like this. He could put out
his hand and touch mystery.... Then he was helping her over the crowded
street and they were in the hall--with flowers everywhere--and something
close about you that touched you when you moved.
*****
For years afterward he looked back to that Symphony with Rosalind. He
had come blindly to a door--as blindly as, when a boy, he had walked in
the moonlight--and they had gone in together. They were like children in
its strangeness. And as children explore a new field, they went
forward. It belonged to them--the lights and people, and vibrations
everywhere.... They would go till they came to the end--but there would
be no end--always hills stretching beyond, and a wood--something deep,
mysterious in that wood.... They came to it softly, looking in, and
turned back.... Once Rosalind had turned and looked at him.
He held that fast--through the weeks and months that went by, through
the dull brick streets, he held it fast--for a moment the hidden
Rosalind had come to her window and looked out at him and smiled--before
she turned away.
XI
THE next day Gordon Barstow had come to see him. The divorce had
dragged on. It had not been contested, but there had been delays and
consultations and Eldridge had come to know Gordon Barstow well.
He had a kind of keen, vicarious pity for Barstow. Sometimes, as he
talked with him and the simple lovableness of the man’s nature came up
through the uncouthness, he wondered whether Gordon Barstow might not
have regained his wife--if he had been determined. But he had let her
go; and after the first day he had seemed to take a kind of pleasure in
the proceedings.
“I’ve been foolish about her,” he said, sitting in Eldridge’s office.
“But I don’t want her to suffer because I’ve been foolish--and I want to
make her an allowance--a good one. I don’t want Cordelia should ever
be poor.” Eldridge looked at him. “Won’t Tower take care of that?” he
suggested.
The old man seemed to hold it--“He’ll mean to. He’s honest toward her.
I shouldn’t let him marry her if he wasn’t straight. But I want Cordelia
provided for.”
And Eldridge suddenly saw that he was thinking of her as a man thinks of
his daughter--protectingly. The soreness seemed to have gone out of his
hurt. And there was something big in his attitude toward the two who had
wronged him. “Cordelia’s only a child,” he said. “I don’t believe
I’d ’a’ minded so much--if they’d trusted me. It’s that that hurts,
I guess--thinking of the times they must ’a’ lied--and I not knowing
enough to see anything was wrong.”
Yes--it was that that hurt--the times Rosalind had slipped away from
him, before he knew--when he hadn’t eyes enough to see. He did not mind
that she went to Merwin’s. Sometimes he was impatient that she did not
go oftener. He would watch eagerly for the look in her face that told
him that to-day was a Merwin day.... He did not mind her going, now that
he knew. It was the not knowing that hurt.
Sometimes, lately, he had begun to wonder whether Rosalind knew that he
was there, whether she guessed who it was that came through the swinging
doors and sat across the aisle, always a little behind her, and went
away before she left her place.... He liked to fancy that she knew--and
did not mind.
Men and women were not so small as he had made them in his thought.
There was room in them generally for life to turn round.
It was this that Gordon Barstow had taught him, he thought. He watched
the old man’s simple preparations to make Cordelia “well off” with quiet
understanding. It was not reparation with him; it was only a steady,
clear intention in the old man’s thought that the woman he had loved and
who had gone from him should not suffer.... “I might have kept her--if
I’d understood quick enough, I guess. I’m slow--about women,” he said.
Then one day he came into the office. Eldridge had sent him word that
there were last papers to sign--and the business would be done. He came
in slowly, a little pinched with the cold. The wart in the grey-black
beard had a bluish look. Eldridge had learned not to look at the
half-hidden lump of flesh. He had fancied one day, as his eye rested on
it, that the man shrank a little. He had been surprised and he had never
looked at it again. It was the curious bluish look to-day that caught
his eye an instant.
The old man signed the papers and pushed them back. “Well, I’m
glad--it’s done.” He sat looking at them a minute. “It’s taught me
more than I ever knew before,” he said. He lifted his eyes a minute to
Eldridge. “I’ve learned things--thinking about it--and about her--”
He sat without speaking a little time. He had come to trust Eldridge,
and he seemed to like to sit quiet like this, at times, without
speaking. “I saw a woman to-day,” he said, “that made me
understand--more than Cordelia has--a woman in at Merwins.”--Eldridge
leaned forward--“She was sitting there alone,” said the old man, “and I
see her face--one of these quiet faces--not old and not young. I
could ’a’ loved her if I’d known her when I was younger--I see how
she was--she sat so quiet there. Well”--he got up and reached for his
hat--“you’ve seen me through. Thank you--for what you’ve done.” And
then he went out and Eldridge looked at his watch--Too late. She would
be gone. It was the first time he had missed her--since he knew. He had
not thought that Barstow’s business would take so long. He gathered up
the papers, filing certain ones and addressing others to be mailed....
He should miss the old man. He had a feeling underneath his thought, as
he sorted the papers and filed them, that he was glad Barstow had sat
so long even though he had missed Rosalind.... He had seemed to want to
stay.
Eldridge filed the last of the papers and looked again at his watch. It
was late, but not too late, he decided, to begin the piece of work that
had been put off for nearly a week. He became absorbed in it, and it was
seven o’clock before he left the office.
The newsboys were shouting extras--as he came out--and he put one in his
pocket. He did not open it. Some one took a seat by him in the car and
they talked till the car reached home. Then the children claimed him;
and after supper he talked a little while with Rosalind.
There was a maid now in the kitchen and Rosalind’s hands, he was
thinking, as they lay in her lap, were not red and roughened; they had a
delicate look. She sat sometimes without any sewing in them or any fussy
work--talking with him or sitting quiet. The first time she had sat
so, without speaking, he had felt as if the silence were calling
out--shouting his happiness--telling the world that Rosalind trusted
him.
He opened the paper and glanced at it--and dropped it--as if he were
seeing something.
She looked up. “What is it?” she asked.
He took it up again slowly. “It’s a man--I know--Gordon Barstow. They
found him dead--in his car this afternoon. It’s some one you never
knew.”
XII
WEEKS passed and she had not gone to Merwin’s. For a while Eldridge
watched her face and waited for the Merwin look to come.... Then he
forgot it--for weeks he did not think of it. There had been another
concert; they had gone to a play and then to another; and as the spring
came on he took her for long drives into the country; sometimes they
went with the children, but more often alone. They drove far out in the
country and came back at early dusk, the brick houses softly outlined
about them.
She could not fail to see that he was devoted to her. Sometimes he
brought a flower and left it on her table; he never gave it to her
directly, and there was no response to it. Beyond the one quiet look at
the concert, she had given no sign--only that now she would sit with him
silent, a long time, as if she did not repel him.
He was working hard and the business had grown. A new class of clients
was coming to him--men with big interests--and the work often kept him
late at the office. Sometimes he would take supper in town and work far
into the evening.
It was late in June that he came home one night and found her sitting
alone in the porch--a shadowy figure--as he came up the brick walk.
The day had been warm, but the air had grown cool now and the moon
glimmered over the houses and roofs and on the few trees and shrubs in
the yard.
They sat a long time in the porch, talking of the children and of the
work he had stayed for and a little about going away for the summer;
they had never been away in the summer, but they were going next week.
He had tried to send her earlier, when the children were through
school, but she had waited, and he had arranged for them all to get away
together.
The moon rose high over the roofs and picked out the little lines of
vines on the porch and touched her face and hair. She was wearing a
light dress, something filmy, that was half in shadow, and his eyes
traced the lines of it. She was always mysterious, but often now as he
looked at her he felt that her guard was down. There were only a
few steps more to cross--he began to wonder if he should ever take
them--to-night perhaps? Or was he not, after all, the man to win her?
She did not hold him back. It was something in him that waited. He
watched, through the moonlight, the vine shadows on her face--and
he remembered the night when she lay asleep--and he had watched her
face--the stranger’s face--close to him... and a boy and girl stood in
the moonlight and looked at him mistily--and drew back--and his wife
swayed a little, rocking in her chair, and her shadow moved on the
floor....
If he should speak--to her--now--what would she do? Would the gentle
rocking cease?...
Then, slowly, a face grew before him. He watched it shape and fade--with
its grimness and kindness and a look of pain that lay behind it--old
Barstow’s face!... He knew now--he had come out of the moonlight....
To-morrow he would speak to Rosalind--face to face, in the clear light
of every day.... The wonder of life was hidden in the sun--not in half
lights--or moonlight.... He was not afraid now. They would go for a long
drive--and he would tell her in the sun.
But when he looked at her in the morning he knew that he was not to take
her with him out into the country. It was the Merwin look--a little look
of quiet intentness as if she dreamed and would not wake....
He looked at it and turned away. He had not seen the look for weeks, but
he knew that he should find her there when he pushed open the swinging
doors and went in.
The curtains were drawn a little back and he knew, before he sat down,
that she was there--waiting for some one.... He had never seen her like
this--he had not been sure. He had put the thought from him when it
came. But now he knew--she was there waiting for some one, full of
happiness.... He knew her so well! She could not have a happiness he did
not share--and no one should hurt her! His hands half clinched.
He had not thought she would come--again.... Why had she come? And this
was _his_ day--under the sky!... He had not thought this day she would
come to Merwin’s!
Then he waited with her. Whatever Rosalind chose--she should not
separate herself from him--or from love.... He would wait with her and
be glad with her.... The strange face--the moonlight face--did not shut
him out now....
The swinging doors opened and closed and the man and the woman waited.
The curtains to her alcove were closed; she had reached a hand to them
and drawn them together.... But she could not shut herself away; he
could see her as clearly as if he were there with her--the bent head and
gentle face. The curtains should not shut him out.
He could not have told when it was that it came to him--He lifted
his head a minute and looked at it.... She was there waiting for some
one--she had been waiting, a long time, in her alcove--and he had not
stirred!
He got up slowly and looked across to the green curtain--He moved toward
it--and put out his hand and--drew back the curtain.... She was looking
up, smiling--“You were--a long time!” she said.
Her hand motioned to the seat across the table--but he did not take it.
He stood looking down at her--He laid his hat on the table and bent and
kissed her.
Her lip trembled a little but she did not speak.
He sat down in the chair opposite and looked at her-----“Well--?” he
said.
She shook the tears from her eyes and smiled through them. “It was a
long while!” she said.
XIII
THE man and the woman in the alcove on the right had been talking a
long while. Three times the waiter had looked in and withdrawn. If he
had stopped long enough he would have seen that it seemed to be the
woman who was talking. The man sat silent, one hand shading his eyes and
the eyes looking out at her as she talked.
The waiter knew the woman. He had served her--many times. He remembered
very well the first day she came to Merwin’s--a year ago--more than a
year, perhaps. She was alone, and she had stood just inside the
swinging door--looking about her as if she were not used to places like
Merwin’s--or as if she were afraid. Something had made him think that
she was looking for some one--and he had shown her into the third alcove
on the right. But no one had come that day. She had come again many
times since, and always alone, and there was always a coin on the table
in the third alcove waiting for him.
The waiter was a little disappointed to-day.... He knew the
man--Eldridge Walcott--a lawyer--a good enough sort; but the waiter
somehow felt that they had not met until today. He had served them both
alone--but not together--until to-day.... He pushed aside the curtain
and looked in.
She was still talking.... The man made a little gesture of refusal, and
he withdrew....
“It was when Tom sent me the five hundred--” the waiter heard her say as
the curtain fell in place.
The man in the alcove behind the curtain was looking at her--“When did
Tom send you--five hundred?”
“A year ago--a little more than a year, I think--” She paused to think
it out. “He had not sent us anything, you know--not since little Tom was
born--?” She was looking at him, straight----
His own look did not flinch. “I know--I put it into the business--called
it investing it--for Tommie--at six per cent.”
She nodded. “Tom never liked it. I suppose mother told him--that we had
not used it to buy things with--the way he meant us to.”
“For things you needed,” said the man. “I know--I knew then--but I took
it.” He did not excuse himself--and his eyes did not look away from her.
“I was blind,” he said softly.
“That was what Tom wrote--when he sent the five hundred. He said that I
must spend it on myself--or return it to him.... And that I was to
tell him just what I bought with it--every penny of it--” She waited a
minute.
“Did he say anything else?” asked the man. “Better tell me everything,
wouldn’t you--Rosalind?”
“He said that he was not setting Eldridge Walcott up in business,” she
added after a little minute--and she smiled at him tenderly.
Eldridge returned the look--“We don’t mind--now.”
“No.”... They were silent a few minutes. “I thought--at first--I
_would_ send it back. I wrote to Tom how many things we needed--for the
house--and the children--and for everything--”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me if you would _let_ me spend it for the house and for the
children and for everything--if you knew about it?”
The man’s eyes were looking at Mr. Eldridge Walcott, regarding him
impartially. “I am glad that you did not let me know.”
“Yes. I sent it back--once. But Tom wrote again--all about when we were
children and when he gave me the biggest bites of candy and filled my
pail up to the top when we went berrying-----He said it was what had
made a man of him--keeping my pail full.”
Eldridge winced a little. But she did not stop. “He said he wanted me to
spend the money for the little girl _he_ knew.
“I didn’t spend it--not for a long time, you know. But I kept it and
I looked at it--sometimes--and wondered.... Then one day I saw a
dress--that I liked. I thought it was like me, a little--?” She looked
at him------
He nodded.
“So I got it--and that was the end, I guess.” She laughed tremulously.
“Everything kept coming after that. The dress seemed to make me need--
_everything!_” She spread out her hands.
Then she sat thinking--and looking at the dress that needed everything.
“I wore it at first just at home--when I was alone. I would put it on
and sit down and fold my hands--and think of things... about Tom and
about being a little girl--and about mother. I was always rested when
I took it off... and when the children came in from school and you came
home, I could bear things better.”....
He reached out a hand and touched hers where it lay on the table.... He
had said that he should touch it--some time. He stroked it a minute and
she went on.
“Then I came here--” She made a little gesture. “I didn’t know what it
was like--I didn’t even know there was a place like this.” She
glanced around the alcove that sheltered them--with its folds of green
curtain--“But as soon as I came, I knew I should come again. I knew it
would take care of me--the way Tom wanted for me. So I spent the money.”
She lifted the little linked purse from the table--she laughed. “Only
fifty cents left--You ’re here just in time!”
Eldridge held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
She looked at him.
“I want it--yes. Aren’t you willing to give me fifty cents--of your five
hundred?”
She handed it to him with a little sigh of relief.
He took it and balanced it thoughtfully in his hand--“Why did you come
to-day?” he asked.
“This is my anniversary day.”
“To-day?”
She nodded--as if she saw a vision. “It is a year to-day that I came
here--the first time.”
“Alone--?” The word breathed itself--and stopped, and Eldridge put out a
hand. “Don’t tell me! I did not ask it.”
“Don’t you know?” She was looking at him.
“Yes, I know. I do not understand--but I know.”
She smiled and sat silent.... “I was frightened to come!” It seemed as
if she were looking at the strangeness of it. “I was afraid--the first
day--”
“You should have asked me to come,” he urged.
“Would you have come?”
“No--not then.”
“And I had to come! I could not wait--and there was--no one.... You
would not have come--not even if I had waited.”
“No--I should not have come--except to find you.... Tell me, have you
never been afraid of me--of what I would do?”
“The first day--yes--I was terribly frightened when you came in and sat
over there,” she moved her hand. “I wanted to scream out--to go to you
and tell you what it meant, and beg you not to be angry.... I had never
done anything without you before. I was like a child! Then you went out
and I hurried home. I tore off the things. I did not mind your
knowing. I only wanted you to understand. I was afraid you might
not--understand.”
“I didn’t--”
“No--I know. But after a while--I knew you were trying to.... Then I
knew that some day we should be here--together.”
The little alcove seemed to expand and become a wide place--Eldridge
caught a glimpse of something fine and sincere--it passed like a breath
over her face and was gone.
She lifted the face--“I have waited for it,” she said. “I have prayed
for it every day, I think.” Her lips barely moved the words--“I did not
want to feel alone here.”
He pushed back the curtain and beckoned to the waiter. “We will drink to
the day,” he said.
Eldridge gave his order and looked on, smiling, while the waiter placed
the slender-necked flask on the table and brought out the glasses and
withdrew.
They lifted the glasses. “To the day--you left me,” he said. “And to the
day I followed you,” he added slowly.
The glass paused in her hand. “That was the Symphony--?”
“Yes--And to your anniversary!”
She set down the glass. “I have not told you everything. It was not--my
anniversary--made me come--to-day.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “I came--to meet--you!” she said.
He looked at her slowly--“And when did you know that I would come?” he
asked.
“Last night--in the moonlight. I was so afraid you would speak there--in
the moon! I did not want the moon to get in,” she said. “I wanted you to
speak in real, plain daylight--and then, of course, you know, it’s Tom’s
gown and not the moon. Everybody has the moon!” she laughed.
“This is a very little place, this alcove,” said Eldridge. He was
looking about him at the green walls of the alcove--thinking of the sun
and the fields and of the road up through the hills----
“But it’s where I went berrying with Tom,” she laughed.
He smiled at her. “Then it is as big as the world--and the sun and all
the fields of the sun!” he said.
Outside the curtain the music tinkled dimly, and there was a lower
music still of all the glasses and words--and there was a silence in the
alcove.
“So there has never been any one--any one but me--” he said, “in your
alcove!” He was looking at her hap-pily.
“No.” Her lip waited on it--and closed. “There _was_ some one--” she
spoke slowly. “It seems a queer thing to tell. It had no beginning
and no end!” She waited, still looking at it.... “It was a man--an old
man--that used to sit over there to the left, at a table by himself. I
could see him through the curtains. Even when they were almost closed
I could see him. He always sat there, and always alone.... I did not
notice him at first.... I do not think any one would have noticed
him--at first. He was almost ugly--or he seemed ugly.” She was smiling
at her thought.... “And one day suddenly I saw him as he really was, as
he was inside--very gentle and strong and wise--and not wanting to hurt
any one or to let any one suffer--more than they had to. I knew, some
way, if I should go up to him and speak to him, that he would understand
me--and help me. I should have liked to--speak to him. Of course it
is really the same as if I did.”... She seemed thinking of it. “But I
didn’t. I never saw him more than a dozen times, I suppose. But I
used to think about him, and it helped me. I should have trusted him
anywhere--and been willing to go with him--anywhere in the world. I
don’t believe he was very clever--but it rested me to think of him--just
as a big, homely field rests you--and the way the music did that first
night--when we knew each other-----”
After a minute she went on. “I have not seen him for a long time. He
stopped coming suddenly....”