It was the first time in years that he had stopped away from his office.
But he was too sternly intent upon his new purpose to be able to think
of anything else. He sat in his study, smoking a cigar, until it seemed
to him a reasonable hour, and then set out.
He was very nervous; more so than he realised. And his descent into that
old neighbourhood revived a hundred memories to oppress him. He fancied
he saw her ghost, its arms full of bundles, running through Fourth
Street....
“The best of her life wasted!” he said to himself, over and over. It
gave him courage.
He needed courage, too. He was very much afraid of Lawrence; not, of
course, in a physical sense, but because Lawrence had any number of
mysterious advantages. Lawrence was blind and helpless, Lawrence was
Rosaleen’s lawful husband, Lawrence was infinitely more sophisticated
and subtle than himself.... A formidable adversary. He made no plan of
what he should say; with such a person it was not possible, for you
couldn’t know in what humour you would catch him. He resolved simply to
keep his temper and to flinch at nothing.
The front door was unlatched, as it had always been in the old days; he
entered and went upstairs, knocked on the familiar door. But a strange
voice answered him, a strange young man lived in there, who knew nothing
whatever of Lawrence Iverson.
He made a few other enquiries in the house, but without result.
He was on his way home, walking up Fifth Avenue while he watched for his
bus, when he passed a familiar corner, and he decided to call upon Miss
Waters. She was a link with the old days.
There at least nothing was changed. She sat as usual in the dusty old
studio, and she herself was as dusty, as wrinkled, as flustered as
before. And inordinately delighted to see him. She even wept.
“I hardly ever see Rosaleen,” she said. “Once in a great, great while,
on a Sunday, she drops in. But I don’t blame her, poor girl! She’s so
busy and so worried.... You don’t _know_----”
She was obliged to stop and dry her eyes.
“You don’t know how much I miss those old days!” she said. “I always
loved Rosaleen like my own child.... Poor girl! I never saw much of her
during her married life. Her husband and I were not--very congenial. But
there’s always been such a _bond_ between us, Mr. Landry! I can’t help
saying to _you_ that I think that marriage was a mistake!”
“Not much doubt about _that_! Do you happen to know where the--the
fellow’s gone?”
“No. I never enquired. And I haven’t kept track of the old crowd.”
Poor soul! Not one of the “old crowd” except Miss Mell had ever come
near her.
“I’m not up-to-date on news of the quarter!” she said, archly. “Don’t
come to me for _that_, Mr. Landry!”
“I didn’t. I came because I wanted to see you.”
She was pleased; she wished that she had put her least dusty velvet bow
in her hair instead of this gnawed little thing that now perched
there....
Perhaps his love for Rosaleen had given Nick a more understanding heart,
or perhaps it was that he was well-disposed toward everyone associated
with the beloved woman, but from whatever cause, he saw Miss Waters that
day in a new light. He saw her not as a comic old maid, but as a quite
admirable human being. She was a plucky old girl, struggling along with
art lessons, and a wonderful friend.
She began asking him about himself, but he became more and more
distrait. Suddenly he told her the whole story.
She was astonished, she was profoundly touched; she wept bitterly, but
she was delighted, both because the magnificent Mr. Landry had seen fit
to confide in her, and because it was a romantic history, such as she
loved.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, when he had finished. “I don’t know
how to help her. Can you suggest anything?”
And, to his surprise, she did.
“No, of course, _you_ can’t do anything,” she said. “But if you could
only get the ladies of your family interested in her.... _They_ could do
_anything_!”
“What could they do?”
“Oh, they’d think of all sorts of ways, if they really wanted to help!”
“They wouldn’t, though,” he said gloomily. “They’ve got all sorts of
prejudices....”
“If they could see her, and get to know her, it would be all right.”
“My aunt has seen her, you know!”
“Yes, but don’t you see! _Now_ she’s the wife of the distinguished
artist Lawrence Iverson! Think what a difference that makes!”
“I never thought of her--like that.... And you think they could help
her?”
“I’m sure of it! And you know, dear Mr. Landry, people love to be
associated with Artists. As Mrs. Lawrence Iverson, you know, she’s
really a most interesting figure. Someone might be induced to set her up
in an Antique Shop, or something like that.”
In the end they decided that Mrs. Allanby and Caroline should be
suddenly confronted with Rosaleen in this new and impressive rôle.
“But we can’t tell Rosaleen!” said Miss Waters. “She’d never consent.
She’s so retiring. I’ll tell you what! I’ll give a studio party, next
Saturday evening, and if you’ll bring them, I’ll get Rosaleen here. Will
you?”