Chapter ONE: I

An afternoon of unparalleled gloominess. It had been dark all the day long, and now toward evening a savage rain had come on, driven by a cold March wind. In his rain-coat and waterproofed boots he could in a way defy the storm, but it affected him nevertheless; it depressed him horribly.

He had been on his way home, a bit earlier than usual, sitting in the Elevated train and staring morosely out of the window at the drenched city, finding it uglier, colder, more sordid than ever before. When that curious impulse seized him, that longing he knew so well; it was a sort of spiritual thirst, an intangible desire to be assuaged by an intangible satisfaction. He got out of the train at Thirty-Eighth Street, instead of at Seventy-Second, where he belonged, and hurried east.

His destination was a little restaurant on Fourth Avenue, a compromise between the severe, white tiled cafeterias and Dairy Lunches, and the more luxurious sort. It had separate tables and table cloths, curtains across the windows and a carpet on the floor. But was, nevertheless, very cheap, and, it must be admitted, somewhat nasty. Not the place one would have picked out for a man as prosperous, as fastidious as this one.

It was very early, and the place was empty. He opened the glass door and entered, went at once to a table in a corner and took off his dripping hat and his overcoat and hung them on a brass hat-rack beside which stood a great Japanese jar for umbrellas. A man of thirty-five or so, with a neat black moustache and a dark and saturnine face, well-dressed, in a conservative sort of way.

He didn’t sit down when he had taken off his coat; he remained standing, looking about him. And in a moment a waitress came hurrying over to him, a hollow-cheeked, brown haired young woman of thirty, her fragile grace encased in a stiffly-starched white apron.

“Hello!” she said, with a serious smile.

“Hello!” he answered. “I felt I had to see you.... How _are_ you?”

“All right, thank you! What will you have?”

“Sit down for a while!” he said. “It’s too early to eat. Anyway I’ll have to go home for dinner.”

“You must take something!” she said. “They won’t like it if you just sit here without ordering.”

He picked up the menu, but after a frowning scrutiny, threw it down.

“Anything that’s not too poisonous,” he said. “And hurry back, Rosaleen, before the place begins to fill up.”

She returned presently with her tray, set his dishes before him, and sat down opposite him, leaning her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands.

“You must have known I wanted to see you to-day!” she said.

“Don’t you always?”

“Yes, of course. But specially to-day. Because little Petey’s sick, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Have you had a doctor?”

“Yes; but I don’t like him. I don’t think he’s much good. I want a better one.”

“I’ll see you get one.... What’s the trouble?”

“Fever,” she said. “And headache, and he’s sick all the time.... Poor little fellow!”

She stared ahead of her with troubled eyes.

“I can’t help being worried,” she went on. “The doctor says it’s just a bilious attack, but he’s been sick for four days, and he seems to be growing worse. Katie’s dreadfully upset.... I did wish I could speak to _you_.”

“Why didn’t you telephone or write?”

She shook her head.

“I wouldn’t like to do that!” she said. “But I did hope you’d come soon.”

It was curious that they practically never looked at each other, these two. The proprietress, who had witnessed this friendship for the past five years, and with favor, because of the trade it brought, had often observed that. She had so often seen them sitting thus, at a table, looking past each other, and not speaking very much. It was her theory that they met outside, and that the man was a millionaire with a jealous wife, and that he adored her waitress. A romantic and delightful theory; she was not above recounting it as a true tale to certain friends. And it was especially nice because this most flattering attention didn’t at all unsettle Rosaleen; she was invariably prompt, careful and good-tempered, a little aloof, but that was no fault.

He didn’t touch his dinner to-night. He got up and thrust his arms into his overcoat again.

“Telephone to Doctor Denz as soon as you go out,” he said. “I’ll stop on my way home and arrange with him.... Try not to worry, old girl.... And you could telephone me at the office to-morrow, if you wanted.”

“Thank you, Mr. Landry!” she answered.

As he always did, he put the money for his meal and the tip under his plate in a guilty way, and went off. But at the door he turned again, and raised his hat. And Rosaleen returned a slight wave of the hand.

II

It was a day marked by Fate as an important one--as the beginning of a new phase. Landry, however, was not in the least aware of this. He went on his way, absorbed in thought, still very serious, but unreasonably consoled, as he always was by these absurd and inarticulate interviews with Rosaleen.

He still lived in his aunt’s house. He had, as he became more prosperous, made an attempt to set up an individual establishment with his mother and sister, but they didn’t like New York; they weren’t happy there; they pined for Charleston, and he had sent them back. And, in spite of his independence and his fastidious bachelor habits, he was very much alarmed at the idea of setting up for himself. He had pretended to his aunt and to himself that he wished to find a cosy little flat and a good valet, but he had never really looked for either. His aunt wished for nothing better than to keep him with her forever, the house revolved about him; he had a bedroom and a study, and he was waited upon like a Sultan.

By minute degrees and in a quite incomprehensible manner, he had become accountable to his cousin Caroline. If he came in late, he explained to her why, and where he had been. If he went to a dance or a dinner without her, he returned prepared to give her all the details. He even made an effort to observe and remember things about which he knew he would be asked.

Caroline was now twenty-seven, and as far as ever from getting married. She was a chilly, languid young Southron with a pallid, freckled face and beautiful fine gold hair; she had a sort of frigid charm which sufficed to attract men, but which couldn’t hold them. She had innumerable “beaux,” but she had never had a man seriously in love with her. It was a severe misfortune for her; she had no other aim, no other interest in life except marriage; her days were becoming flat and weary beyond toleration to her, and a fatal resentment against men was creeping over her. Her cousin Nick was perfectly well aware that she would have married him if he had offered, but that did not flatter him, because there were several others whom she would just as soon have had, and at least one whom she would have preferred. He certainly didn’t love Caroline; he didn’t even admire her, but he had for her a genuine enough sort of brotherly affection and a small secret fear. He was never quite sure what she would do.

Everything went just as usual during dinner that evening; there was the same effort to entertain and distract the man which he had grown to consider a matter of course. If either his aunt or Caroline had sat at the table preoccupied or melancholy, he would have resented it deeply. Even a headache, if it permitted the sufferer to appear at all, must be accompanied by a wan smile and an air of interest. Then after dinner they went into the library, and as usual his aunt implored him not to work, but to rest and amuse himself, and complained that they saw so little of him. He was distrait, though, and anxious to get away to his little study where he could think in peace; he excused himself on the plea of work, and was making his escape when Caroline beckoned him into the little music room.

“Come here, Nickie!” she called, imperiously.

He obeyed, and she made him sit down beside her on the sofa.

“Ah’ve been hearing tales about you!” she said severely.

He smiled at her.

“Let’s have them!”

“Jim saw you. Ah’m shocked!... He was over on Fou’th Avenue last week, surveying, and he says he stopped in at a funny little place there for a bite of lunch. And there he saw you in a corner with one of the waitresses----”

“Pshaw!” said Nick. “If that’s the worst he can do----”

“He said she was a right pretty girl. And sitting down at the table with you....”

“Very likely. Why not?”

Now Caroline had considered this tale of absolutely no importance, when she began. She had simply wished to bring it up so that they might have a little gallant badinage. But now it looked otherwise. Nick was really annoyed, and something more than annoyed. He evidently wished to get away from her and not to speak of this episode. Nick and a _waitress_! It hardly seemed credible; and yet Caroline was ready to believe the worst where men were concerned.

She went over to the piano and began to play; her one sure refuge from any difficult situation, and while she played, Nick slipped out of the room. He was curiously disturbed. This was the first time in five years that anyone had got word of his interviews with Rosaleen. He shrank with passionate sensitiveness from any intrusion into this secret world, this intangible, ineffable companionship.

Five years! He lighted a cigar and sat down to contemplate it, with pain, with limitless regret, and yet finding a sweet consolation in their silent fidelity.

For five years he had had to watch Rosaleen living that barren and difficult life....

He recalled that day, when the parlourmaid had waked him up to tell him that there was “a lady downstairs to see you, sir.” A hatless, very pale lady, who had been pushed in at the door by a man who immediately disappeared. There was no trace of her when he got downstairs; he had gone out on the front steps in his dressing gown to look up and down the street, but without seeing anything. Directly he was dressed, he had gone to Lawrence, and Lawrence had lied impudently and borrowed money. He had said he didn’t know where Rosaleen had gone, or why, or if she would ever return.

He recalled his tremendous two weeks’ battle with Miss Waters. Day after day he had gone to entreat her, to bully, to cajole, to trick her into giving him Rosaleen’s address. And she had always wept bitterly and refused.

“I _promised_ her I wouldn’t tell _anyone_!” she said, over and over. “And you above all! Oh, Mr. Landry! I can’t!”

“Don’t you trust me?” he had demanded. “Do you think I’d annoy or persecute Rosaleen?”

“Of course I don’t!”

“If you’re really her friend,--if you’re thinking of her welfare, you’ll tell me where she is. She may need help.”

In the end he made use of a shameful device--a theatric threat which even now made him blush. He told Miss Waters that if she wouldn’t help him to see Rosaleen, he was going to kill himself; he had even brought an old revolver with him. And to save the life of this young hero, Miss Waters had told him the name of the restaurant where Rosaleen worked.

He recalled his first visit there; how he had sat at one of the tables, watching Rosaleen hurrying about, taking orders, carrying her heavy tray, submissive and alert....

He had waited outside for her for hours. But she wouldn’t let him take her home.

“I’m living with a married sister,” she had told him. “I’m perfectly all right there. But I don’t want _you_ to come there, Mr. Landry!”

They had walked down Fourth Avenue and over into Madison Square Park, where they had wandered for hours that windy Autumn night. She had spoken quite freely about her own people, about her mother in Philadelphia, about this sister, the only member of the family with whom she had kept in touch. She was married to a shipping clerk, and there were three small children, the youngest of whom was Petey. And they were very poor.

“You must let me help you!” said Nick. “There’s no reason--no sense in your living this way.”

“No,” she said, very resolutely. “I wouldn’t! Not for _anything_! I dare say you didn’t believe me when I told you--that time--that for myself I wouldn’t have thought of--borrowing. But it was true. I’d rather be as poor as poor, and be independent. And have my self-respect.”

“But you don’t want to go on like this? Being a--waitress, and living like this. You don’t want to lose all that you’ve gained--to slip out of the class where you belong....”

“I don’t belong to any class,” she answered. “That’s the whole trouble. I don’t belong anywhere. I wish I’d been let alone. I wish I’d stayed like Katie.”

“But you----” he began, and ended by murmuring something about “education” and “advantages.”

“What good does it do?” she asked. “I’m not happy and I’m not useful. And in my heart I don’t want anything better--or even anything different--to what Katie wants.”

“And what is that?” he asked.

“Oh,--a nice home and not too much worry--and a family, I suppose,” she answered.

“Then you expect to go like this, indefinitely, although you admit you’re neither happy nor useful?”

“I am a little bit useful--to Katie.”

“But I can’t stand it, Rosaleen, if you’re not happy. I’m going to make you happy. I’m going to arrange for a divorce for you----”

“No, you’re not!” she cried. “I wouldn’t have it!”

“_Why?_”

“Because it’s a horrid, wrong idea,” she had insisted. “With his being blind--and everything....”

You could never argue with that confounded woman. She never listened to the voice of reason; she listened to something else--God knows what. And every act in her life had to be in conformity with this subtle and rigid authority. She never thought, she never puzzled, about what was right and what was wrong; she simply knew at once, by instinct. And that was the end of it. She lived by the rule of a beautiful propriety; she would never do anything which did not befit her.

Nick had given up, long ago. And now, he had almost come to believe that her way, if not _the_ right way, was certainly one of the right ways of living, and that Rosaleen divorced would not have been quite Rosaleen. Sometimes, when he grew intolerably lonely for her, or when the sight of her in her white apron flying about waiting on other men incensed and distressed him more than usual, he would rail at her “obstinate, petty conventionality.” But she had none the less succeeded in making him comprehend her point of view; not with words, because she was not gifted with speech, but in some way of her own, her feeling that in divorcing Lawrence and marrying Nick she would lose her own especial quality.

“It’s all right for lots of people,” she said. “I haven’t got any particular prejudice against it. It’s only a _feeling_.... I--well, I just _can’t_, that’s all.”