Rosaleen went down the steps of the house with a strange feeling of
coldness. A hard, scheming woman, that’s what she was, determined to use
whatever advantage a niggardly fate had given her. Not a loving or
tender thought was in her head, nothing but her odious triumph.
She reached the street and was half-way along the block when she saw him
coming. She knew him, even in the dark, his heavy, vehement stride, the
soft hat pulled so low over his eyes, the unbuttoned overcoat swaying
from his big shoulders. And her frigidity suddenly melted, gave place to
a sort of alarm. She wanted to hide, to avoid him, an impossible desire
in that decorous and deserted street. There was nothing to do but to
advance. She came abreast of him, but he didn’t turn his head. It never
occurred to him that Rosaleen could be here, near his own home, at this
hour. It was simply a woman passerby. He went on.... And suddenly heard
her running after him.
“Mr. Landry,” she cried, with a little laugh. “Don’t you _know_ me?”
He wheeled about, startled.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said. “I’ve just come from your
sister’s. I waited there.... I wanted to see you.”
“Yes,” she said, “and _I_ wanted to see _you_. I’ve been having a talk
with your aunt.”
“What about?” he asked, hastily.
“Oh.... Let’s walk over into the Park and talk?”
He assented, rather ungraciously, because he would have preferred making
the suggestion himself, and they turned down the next cross street and
into a deserted and solitary walk in the Park. It was a harsh and
blustery night; no rain was falling, but the walks were wet and
glistening and the bare branches shook down chilly drops when the wind
blew. There was no one about; they had the place to themselves, and Nick
selected a bench near a light, where he could see her face--if he
wished. He took a newspaper from his overcoat pocket and spread it for
her to sit on.
“Now,” he said. “Let’s hear what you had to say to Aunt Emmie!”
His tone wasn’t pleasant; this visit had made him suspicious and uneasy.
“I wanted ... no, I’d rather not tell you....” said Rosaleen.
“Very well!” he said briefly.
He slouched down, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking at the
trees and shrubs before him absurdly illuminated by the electric light.
Like scenery on the stage, he thought, except that the colours were too
drab and indefinite.... He felt extraordinarily miserable, sorrowful,
irritated. He began to feel sorry for this partner of his dreary
romance.
“You’ll marry me at once, won’t you, Rosaleen?” he asked, with an
innocent sort of kindness. And instead of answering as he had expected,
she cried suddenly--
“_Why?_”
He tried his best to say “Because we love each other,” but he could not
utter the words. A gust of wind brought down a shower from the tree
behind them, pattering with sudden violence on his hat.
“Well...” he said, irresolutely, “I ... we’re too--mature to be very
sentimental, aren’t we, Rosaleen?... I mean--we _like_ each other ... we
get on well together....”
“How do you know? We’ve never tried.”
“We would, I’m sure.... There’s no use in talking and talking about the
thing. We wanted to get married, and now, at last, we can.”
“Perhaps--we don’t want to. Perhaps it’s too late.”
“Nonsense!” he said, brusquely, but horribly without conviction. He had
_nothing_ to say, really; he was unable to plead, to argue, even to
discuss. Another melancholy shower came down on them, and he rose.
“Better not sit here,” he said. “You’ll be drenched.”
She didn’t answer. He waited a few minutes, then he said, a little
impatiently:
“Come! You’d better not sit here!”
He was desperate to escape from this intolerable situation. He bent over
to take her by the hand and raise her to her feet, when he observed that
she was wiping her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, gently.
He could hardly believe his ears.
“_What!_” he cried, startled.
And she repeated her amazing phrase.
“You’ve _cheated_ me,” she sobbed.
“But how?” he demand. “In what way? What _do_ you mean?”
He had to sit down beside her again to hear her words.
“I wanted you ... to be ... dear ... and loving,” she sobbed.
“To be _dear_ and _loving_,” he repeated, in astonishment.
And suddenly she stretched out her arms toward him. He faltered, for an
instant, and then he caught her tightly in a compassionate embrace. He
was so sorry for the weeping and sorrowful woman. She strained herself
close against him, with her arms about his neck, still sobbing a little,
her soft hair brushed against his face.... His compassion began to go,
began to merge into a passionate tenderness. He kissed her with delight,
with rapture, this sweet and mysterious woman.... He drew her head down
on his breast, and looked at her in the strained, thin light high
overhead. He lost himself in the radiance of her eyes, the curves of her
patient and tender mouth; he kissed her again, and was startled at the
texture of her skin. Her hair was like a misty halo about her face; her
eyes met his with a look which he could not comprehend, but which
thrilled him beyond measure.... He had here the answer to all his
miserable perplexity. Never once during all the time he had known her
had he held her like this. He hadn’t even had the sense to realise that
he wished to do so. And not knowing this, he had known nothing. This
ecstasy was the reason, was the very core and heart of the situation.
“I love you,” he said, with absolute conviction, absolute sincerity. She
raised her head and gave him a sudden, fierce little kiss.
“What was the _matter_ with us this evening?” she cried. “How could we
have been so stupid, after we’ve loved each other so long?”
It was just that, the long thwarting and crushing of their love, that
had so wounded them both. That love, without a sign, without so much as
a hand-clasp, starved, chilled, denied, had grown morose and fearful. It
was only now, with her pitiful and lovely feminine gesture, that she had
broken down the barrier between them. Their love had nothing to do with
suitability and expediency, as known to them: it was suitable and
expedient according to a plan older and subtler than the social one of
which they were aware. They were the one man and the one woman. There
was something between them indestructible and inexplicable, something
sturdier and deeper than desire and yet whose root was in desire.
Rosaleen, thrilled and exultant as she was, was nevertheless a woman,
and forever anxious.
“You’re _sure_?” she asked. “You’re _sure_ I won’t ruin your life if I
marry you?”
“I’m sure you’ll ruin my life if you _don’t_!” he said.
They saw nothing but the life that lay before them: they had forgotten
all that had gone by: they had forgotten the past, as much a part of
their eternal existence as anything which might yet come.