I
Ridiculous! He had said that he wanted to help Rosaleen, and now, as
soon as he had a chance, he was horribly upset.
He sat down that very evening and wrote her a note.
“Dear Rosaleen:
“You must not be offended when I say that I have noticed that you
are in straitened circumstances. I hope you look upon me, as I look
upon you, as an old friend, and you must allow me the privilege of
helping you. Do not hesitate to tell me at any time if you think I
can be of use.
“Always faithfully your friend,
“Nicholas Landry.”
And he enclosed a cheque.
When he had addressed and sealed the letter, he sat back in his chair
and contemplated his surroundings with a frown. He had been writing at a
little desk in the corner of the library; there beside the table in the
centre of the room sat his august and benevolent aunt, in her discreet
black dinner gown, embroidering. Through the open door he could see
young Caroline in the next room sitting before the piano, hands idle in
her lap, her face upturned to the young man standing beside her.... It
hurt him intolerably. Now, when he would have been able to give to his
wife--not a setting quite so luxurious as this, but at least peace,
dignity, and comfort, he was compelled to see this beloved creature in
degrading and sordid poverty.
He had done remarkably well. He had had a small legacy from an uncle.
His sister had whimpered a little when he refused to spare her the price
of one new dress from it, but she had soon been brought to approve his
severity. He had known where to place his money; it had gone into a
growing young firm of ship brokers, and himself with it, and he saw
ahead of him just the future he had planned.
The financial future, that is. But not the home he had imagined. He was
not a man easily attracted by women; in fact, he rather disliked them.
He was not impressionable, not emotional; he was one of those absurd and
incredible creatures capable of loving one woman all through life. And
not through any conscious and pompous effort, either. He saw plainly
that he would never want anyone but Rosaleen, and he saw, too, with
equal plainness, that he could not have her. The idea of intriguing to
win her from her husband never entered his head. He would not even say
to himself that he loved her; he simply said that he regretted her,
bitterly, profoundly. His point of view was either honourable or
sentimental, whichever way you choose to see it, but it was sincere. He
didn’t deceive himself; but he saw not the faintest danger of any
catastrophe. He knew he could trust himself to go on seeing Rosaleen,
just as he knew he could trust her. He was not at all afraid of this
woman who borrowed money from him. Instead, he said to himself--
“Thank God I’ve got something to give her!”