It was one of Nick’s old-fashioned ideas--that a man must always be the
first to appear at a tryst, must unfailingly be found waiting by the
beloved woman when she arrived. He had made a point of being at least
fifteen minutes in advance of the appointed time, so that Rosaleen
should see him there, in chivalrous if somewhat irritable patience. He
was always ready to wait for a woman, to defer to her, to serve her; he
believed it to be his duty as a gentleman; and yet so fierce and haughty
was his spirit that he was never without an inward resentment.
He was waiting for her now in the corridor of the Fifth Avenue library.
It was a wet October afternoon; he sat on a stone bench with his coat
collar still turned up, the brim of his hat still turned down, just as
he had come in from the street. He hadn’t even taken off his tan gloves,
soaked black by the rain; he didn’t care how he looked, and he knew
Rosaleen wouldn’t care either. He had certainly not the look of an
expectant lover, this lean and shabby young man with his haughty glance,
his ready-made overcoat too large for him, his big rubber overshoes over
old and shapeless boots. And yet more than one girl stole a glance at
him.
Quarter of an hour late! He only wished that he could smoke. He was
beginning to feel chilly, too, and terribly depressed. Wet people going
past him and past him, some alone, some in couples, treading and talking
quietly. He regarded them with morose interest. All of them after
books!... Hadn’t he too tried to live that way, vicariously, through
books? All very well as a substitute; but there came back to him now,
very vividly, the bitter restlessness, the torment that would seize him
when he read of some enchanting foreign land, of fierce and desperate
adventures. Of course he knew that his life wouldn’t be, and couldn’t
be, at all like any other life ever lived in this world; and yet, in
spite of his faith in his own destiny, he fretted so, he chafed so at
these slow years, these hours so wasted. What was the matter? Why didn’t
life begin?
He was pleased enough with this romance with Rosaleen. This was quite as
good as anything in books. Only, to be really perfect, love should have
been mixed up with peril, with terror, with gallant rescues. It should
have been a drama, and it was nothing but an emotion. He was still so
young that he could not imagine death; it seemed to him inevitable that
he should live and that Rosaleen should live, until they were
old--granted, of course, the absurd premise that young people really
_do_ become old. He saw no shadow over life, no fear of change or loss.
He stirred uneasily. Twenty minutes late! This was abusing her feminine
privilege! Doubly unfortunate, too, because he had come prepared to
remonstrate with Rosaleen, and the longer she kept him waiting, the
chillier and damper he grew, the more severe would the remonstrance be.
At last he saw her coming, and her sweetness almost disarmed him. And
then made him even more severe. A girl like that, to be meeting a man
about in public places! A girl so pretty, so charming, that people
stared at her.... The damp air and her haste had given her a lovely
colour, and as she hurried toward him, he found for her a pitifully
time-worn simile which nevertheless struck him as startlingly novel and
true--she was like a wild rose.
She had very little “style”; her clothes were rather cheap, he observed.
But she was superlatively ladylike, refined, modest. He wouldn’t have
had anything changed, from her sturdy little boots to her plain dark
hat.
He rose and came toward her, hat in hand, and for a moment they looked
at each other, speechlessly.
“Suppose we have tea?” he said, at last. “There’s a nice place near here
where they have very good waffles.”
“I’m not a bit hungry,” said Rosaleen.
Nick was. He had gone without lunch in order to have enough money for
tea.
“You ought to be, at your age,” he said.
“It isn’t age that makes you hungry,” said Rosaleen. “It’s what you’ve
had for lunch.”
Nick said no more, but took her by the arm. And was surprised and
shocked to feel how fragile an arm it was. He determined that she should
eat a great deal.
He stopped near the door to reclaim their umbrellas, and they went out
together into the chilly and misty twilight. The crowds on Fifth Avenue
jostled them, but Nick, tall and grim, held his umbrella high over
Rosaleen’s head, and led her to the quiet little tea room he had
selected.
“Now, then!” he said, when they were seated opposite each other at a
small table, and tea and waffles and honey had been ordered. And he
began.
He told her first of all what was expected of a young girl:
By the world in general.
By men.
By himself.
He told her how easy it was to be misjudged.
And how serious.
Then he told her how he particularly didn’t want _her_ to be misjudged.
“You _must_ let me come to see you in your own home!” he said. “You’re
so young that you don’t realize how indiscreet and--how dangerous it is
to be meeting a strange man this way. You don’t know anything about me.
And you ought to. I want you to. There isn’t anything I want to--to
conceal. I want you to know me and all about me. And I want to know all
about you.”
Once more he was horribly disturbed at seeing her eyes fill with tears.
He leaned across the table.
“Look here!” he assured her. “Please! Don’t _care_! Don’t imagine
that--if there’s anything you think I might....”
He didn’t know how to proceed. He stopped a moment, frowning, to arrange
his ideas.
“I don’t care _where_ you live, or _how_ you live, or _what_ your people
are,” he said. “It can’t make any difference to me. It’s only for your
sake. I wish you’d believe me. It’s only because it’s not fair to you to
go on meeting you like this. Because I mean to go on. I’m _going_ to see
you. And I want it to be in your home. Please let me, Rosaleen.”
It was the first time he had used her name.
“Please let me!” he entreated.
She gave up. She told him yes, to-morrow evening; for Miss Amy would not
be home then.