Chapter THREE: I

He had never been so wretched before. It was the suffering of a vigourous and obstinate man entangled in a situation in which he is unable to move. He wished to lay everything at Rosaleen’s feet, and yet could give her nothing. He longed to relieve her intolerable burdens, and could not take a step toward doing so.

And, as always when he was not able to act, anger took possession of him. He was cool, resolute, self-controlled enough when there was anything for him to do, but tie his hands and his blood began to boil. His wrath began to descend upon Lawrence. He decided that he would go to see him, to threaten, to bully, to bribe, in some way to force him to free Rosaleen against her will. He refused to see the absurdity of this; directly he had made the decision he felt a sort of peace, and he was able to go home and to sleep.

He knew very well that there must be a reckoning at home, and he welcomed it. He wanted it. He blamed all the world for Rosaleen’s sufferings. He wished to defend her and to fight for her. Unaccountably and very unjustly he was angry at his aunt and at Caroline. (Or was it perhaps that he subconsciously wished to forestall their reproaches?).... However, he appeared at breakfast the next morning in a most unpleasant mood. He said “Good morning!” frigidly to Mrs. Allanby, and sat down at the table with a frown.

“I’d like to speak to you alone for a minute, if you please!” he said.

With a gesture his aunt dismissed the servant, and sat looking quietly at him.

“About last night,” he began. “I told Caroline it was a case of urgent necessity. She couldn’t--or _wouldn’t_ understand.”

“Ah think it would have been better to have made your excuses to Mr. Anson,” she said, evenly.

“I left that to--to you. You understand that sort of thing. You have so much tact....”

“You didn’t ask me, Nick!”

“I hadn’t time. Good Lord! Caroline isn’t a child. She ought to understand----”

“Understand just what? You didn’t tell her where you were going, or why. No! Please don’t interrupt me for a minute! Ah know you’re not accountable to us in any way. But we were just going to that dinner for your sake, because you asked us. And.... Ah’m disappointed in you. Ah can’t help it!”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not fair. It was an urgent matter. I was worried and upset, and perhaps I did neglect certain formalities. But under the circumstances, you ought to make allowances.”

“But what were the circumstances? You must remember we don’t know them.”

He was silent; then he asked, abruptly.

“What happened? What did you do?”

“Ah went. Ah thought if Ca’line went, too, it might make an odd number. Ah told Mr. Anson that an old friend of the family had met with an accident and that you and Ca’line had gone to him.”

“That was nice of you!” said Nick, gratefully. “Then it’s all right, is it?”

“As far as Mr. Anson goes. But Ah _do_ think.... Boy, you don’t know how you worry me.”

He looked at her, with quite his old smile.

“No!” he said. “I will _not_ tell you! Not yet!”

II

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?”

III

Never had Miss Waters been so excited. The moment Landry had left, she hurried out and bought a small plane. She desired that there should be dancing at her party, and to make that possible, she would have to “do” the studio floor. There were two pupils working in there, and it disturbed them very much when Miss Waters got down on her hands and knees in one corner and began to use her plane. However, it didn’t last long. An hour’s work convinced her that the whole floor would take her some years to finish. She employed the plane instead with great zest on those little shelves she had put up; she smoothed them off and painted them a very artistic orange, with a stencil of black tulips. She was, you must know, very handy with tools....

Her preparations were most extensive. She spent an outrageous amount of time and money, and she bought too much of everything. Two hundred cigarettes, among other things, and a plethora of flowers. She made little wreaths to put on the heads of her plaster statues, and she painted a little card for each guest to take home as a souvenir.

IV

Rosaleen had not been warned. She had come directly from the restaurant, in her threadbare suit and her faded black hat. And to be ushered into the midst of a chattering party of twelve or fifteen people was a terrible ordeal to her. She turned quite pale; she stood in the doorway, drawing off her gloves and smiling nervously. At first she didn’t quite grasp it....

It startled her, too, for Miss Waters to address her as “Mrs. Iverson,” and to present her so. At first she saw only one familiar face, and that was Miss Mell’s, the same, stout, bespectacled friend of the old studio days. And then suddenly she caught sight of a face from a nightmare.... Surely that lady who had sat in the Humberts’ kitchen....

She was hurried forward by Miss Waters, and Mrs. Lawrence Iverson was presented to Mrs. Allanby. Who instantly recognised her. And to Miss Caroline Allanby, who at once knew that this was the person who had beguiled Nick.... And Nick, who was standing behind them, and Miss Waters, both saw immediately that the experiment had failed. The two ladies didn’t care a fig for the wife of the distinguished artist; they greeted her politely, but with unmistakable chilliness. There was more in this than met the eye! They had suspected _something_ when Nick had been so insistent about bringing them to this “studio party.”

There were three lively rings at the door bell, and Miss Waters was glad to hasten away to admit the latest comer. It was Miss Gosorkus, more friendly, more exuberant than ever before. She beamed at everyone and sat down at the side of Dodo Mell.

“Hello, Mell!” she cried. “How are you? I haven’t seen you for ages upon ages!... Do you remember the larks we used to have up in your old studio?”

Miss Mell had never been enthusiastic regarding Miss Gosorkus; she remembered what a great nuisance she had been; she answered with moderation.

“And doesn’t it seem sort of sad?” Miss Gosorkus went on. “Enid gone to live abroad, and poor Lawrence Iverson gone!”

Everyone heard her; everyone looked up with interest. Dodo tried to whisper a warning, but it was not heard.

“You heard, didn’t you?” she went on. “It was the saddest thing! You know, of course, that the poor man went blind. And then, my dear, that heartless, awful woman he’d married deserted him. I believe she ran off with another man.”

“Shut up!” whispered Dodo. “Don’t you _see_ her?”

“Who?” asked Miss Gosorkus aloud, her babyish eyes searching the room. She didn’t recognise Rosaleen, even as a vaguely familiar face.

“And after that,” she continued, “the poor man went to Paris, and he was run over by a taxi. He’s been dead five years.”