Chapter FOUR: I

Nick crossed the room and sat down beside Miss Gosorkus, scowling and pale.

“You’re _sure_?” he asked.

“Sure?” she repeated, enquiringly.

“About Iverson. About his being dead?”

“Why, of course, I am! I....”

“How did you hear of it?”

“A friend of mine in Paris....”

“Will you give me the address and let me write to her?”

“_Him._ It’s a gentleman,” said Miss Gosorkus with a smirk.

“Give me _his_ address then.”

He had taken out a note-book and a fountain pen, and sat waiting while Miss Gosorkus somewhat reluctantly gave the information. Then he got up and looked about for Rosaleen. She was not there. He approached his aunt.

“Order a taxi when you’re ready to go,” he said, in a tone designed to discourage questions. Then said good-bye curtly to Miss Waters, and hurried off.

It was raining fiercely when he reached the street, but he felt nevertheless obliged to walk. He set off across the Square and up Fifth Avenue, a solitary figure in the broad and deserted street.

The barriers were all demolished. She was free--after all these years; no obstacles separated them. And instead of joy, terror and alarm had seized him. The idea of marrying her seemed monstrous. He didn’t want to! And the more he didn’t want to, the more inexorably did he feel obliged, compelled to do so without delay. It was a debt of honour, to be paid instantly, without reflection.

He was determined to follow her home to that squalid and horrible flat, and insist upon the earliest possible wedding. She would, of course, have all sorts of tiresome and irritating objections which he would have to override. He would have to be masterful, resolute, fervent, and there was nothing of that sort in him. He felt singularly cold and aloof; he felt the strongest sort of inclination to run away from the whole affair. He said to himself that he wanted a “chance to think it over,” but really he did not. He wished, on the contrary, to forget it, never to think of it again. Romance had departed from his Rosaleen. She was no longer tragic, pitiful, inaccessible. She was nothing more or less than a very obscure and ordinary woman whom he was in honour bound to marry. Quite suddenly he saw his folly, the outrageous thing this was, to waste and ruin his life through this profoundly unsuitable marriage, which would bring him nothing but unhappiness. What was he going to do with her? He remembered her in the studio days, shabby, worn with humiliation and distress, he remembered the shocking scene in the Humberts’ kitchen; he remembered her--most painful memory of all--in the restaurant, in her white apron, carrying her big tray.... He was ashamed of her....

He clenched his hands as he walked along, and his face was grim and desperate. He remembered how he had loved Rosaleen, and love appeared to him as something intangible and silly. What the devil did it amount to? _Why_ must he do this? He had got on very well without her thus far.... Now he would have to change his life completely; he would have to leave his comfortable quarters at his aunt’s and go off to live somewhere alone with Rosaleen. As he was prepared to make this immense sacrifice for her, he felt justified in dwelling upon the small and intolerable details. What would his friends say, his business associates?... He would be ashamed of her.... Barren and disgusting duty, flat and insipid beyond measure....

He had reached the house on Third Avenue and entered it, rang the bell in the vestibule and ascended the dirty stairs, in the dark and the foul air. Katie opened the door for him, and admitted him grudgingly, almost with hostility. She did not like him, and, like Rosaleen, her favour was not to be won by benefits. No matter what he did for her and for her family, she would _never_ like him, because he was condescending and superior. She took him into the parlour, and he sat there for an hour, quite alone, with one dim, ghastly jet of gas burning inside a fluted blue china globe. At intervals the elevated trains came rushing past, and blotted out every other sound and perception from his startled and affronted brain; then in the lull he would hear Katie’s voice in the kitchen talking to the little children. It was ten o’clock, but there was no air of its being bedtime, or evening. The woman was still working, the children still playing; one might have imagined their days to be endless.

Sickened and depressed, and utterly disheartened, Landry got up.

“Please tell Rosaleen I’ll come again to-morrow,” he called.

It had cleared when he came out into the street again. He set off homeward, wondering where Rosaleen might be. Did she, too, feel it necessary to walk and to be alone? He was certainly not sorry to have missed her; he was glad that he was to have an opportunity for planning a proper, gentlemanly speech. He felt that if he were to come face to face with her now he could say nothing better than--

“I suppose there’s no reason why we shouldn’t get married now.”

It never occurred to him to wonder how she was feeling, what she was thinking. He was simply convinced that her attitude would be irritating.

II

If he could have seen where she was! Meek, patient, quiet, her feet crossed, her hands in her lap, she was sitting in his aunt’s drawing-room, waiting for Mrs. Allanby’s return. Her face was inexpressive; it was a face incapable of expression, like her voice and her gestures. She was inarticulate, forever cut off from her fellows by this queer helplessness. Nothing that went on in her brain or her heart could ever be known by other people; she couldn’t show it, and she couldn’t tell it. She sat there now without the least shadow on her face of the dread and misery she was enduring.

She had hurried out ahead of Nick because she wanted to cry; because she was obliged to cry, and she was afraid that this inexplicable weeping would annoy him. She had run down the front steps and into the shelter of the basement door and had stood there sobbing frantically and silently for some time.... Oh, if she could only draw a great, free breath, and go where she wanted and do as she pleased, and have no duties and obligations toward anyone! If only, for one week even, she could behave as she liked, without implicating any other person in her behaviour! No: she was eternally bound to please people and to help people. She was mortally weary of it. The tyranny of the Humberts, the tyranny of Enid, the tyranny of Lawrence, were all about to be succeeded and swallowed up in a tyranny a thousand times more exacting and difficult. To satisfy Nick she would have to make herself over, and at thirty that is not at all easy or pleasant, even for a loving woman. For Nick she would have to keep young and cheerful, when she felt immeasurably old and discouraged. She would have to make a place for herself in his world, and to maintain it.

She dried her eyes and straightened her hat. She waited for a few moments in her dark little niche, looking out at the rain, and reflecting. She gave her attention to Miss Gosorkus, to Nick, to the aunt, to the cousin. And a very great resentment grew up in her, a stern and almost ferocious determination. _She_ was going to get some profit from this situation; why not? Why should she always give, and sacrifice, and efface herself? She made up her mind to begin her new life under the most favourable possible circumstances, to eliminate all possible disadvantages. She was filled with anger against all these people, and a strong proletarian desire to retaliate, to repay their indifference, their ignorance of her life and of her heart, with arrogance, with bitterness. It was not a new feeling; she had had it often before, for Miss Amy, for Lawrence, for other people less important to her. It was the immeasurable resentment of a gentle and fine spirit against the inferior people who oppress it.

* * * * *

* * * * *

She heard the sound of a motor drawing up outside, then the bell rang, and she saw the parlour maid hurry through the hall to open the door.

“There’s a lady waiting to see you, ma’am,” she heard her say, and Caroline said:

“Ma gracious! At _this_ time of night!”

Then, from where she sat, she could see the slim feet and ankles of Caroline ascending the stairs, and in a moment Mrs. Allanby entered.

She actually turned pale, perhaps for the first time in her life.

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh ... you ... Mrs. Iverson.... Please sit down!”

Rosaleen was glad to do so, because her knees were weak. And for some time they sat opposite each other, their eyes averted, saying not a word. Mrs. Allanby grey haired and elegant, in her black crêpe de chine, Rosaleen dejected, pensive, worn.

“I wanted to speak to you before I saw Nick,” she said, suddenly. “I wanted to see....”

“Yes?” said Mrs. Allanby, encouragingly. A wild hope had sprung up in her that perhaps Rosaleen didn’t _wish_ to marry Nick, that perhaps she had fallen in love with some undesirable person like herself.

“I suppose you’d like to make the best of a bad bargain?” said Rosaleen.

These words struck Mrs. Allanby forcibly; they destroyed her hope completely. She murmured:

“If it’s a bad bargain, why make it?”

Rosaleen ignored this.

“He’ll ask me to marry him,” she said, “and I’ll say ‘yes’.... But there are--a lot of difficulties....”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Allanby, quickly. “You are frank with me, Mrs. Iverson, and Ah shall be frank with you. There _are_ a great many difficulties. It’s not ... no; it’s not a suitable match for either of you. Ah don’t think--in fact, Ah’m _sure_ you’d neither of you be happy. If you will weigh the disadvantages....”

“Nobody could possibly know the disadvantages better than I do!” said Rosaleen. “But ... we’ve ... liked each other for a long time, and nothing can stop us now. We’re surely going to be married.... And it needn’t be so bad, if you’ll help me. That’s what I came for--to ask you to help me. Will you, Mrs. Allanby?”

Mrs. Allanby was astounded.

“But ... Ah don’t see how you can expect me to help you!” she said, “when--Ah would prefer--for it not to take place.”

“But it _will_ take place! That’s just the point! You’re fond of Nick. You want things to go well for him. That’s what I meant by making the best of a bad bargain.”

“Ma dear,” said Mrs. Allanby. “Ah wish you would listen to me. Ah’m so much older than you. Ah know--the world. Marriages like this _can’t_ be happy. It’s been tried over and over again; people like you and Nick----”

“There never were two people _just_ like us. Everybody’s different,” said Rosaleen, struggling with her thought. “Anyway, really and truly, Mrs. Allanby, it’s no use pointing out all that. You couldn’t say anything I don’t know. And, after all, _I’m_ the one it’ll be hardest for. _I’m_ the one who’ll have to struggle, and learn, and change myself. _I’m_ the one with all the handicaps.”

She paused for a moment. She thought of her barren and desolate life, of the terrible future stretching before her. And this woman was asking her to give up her unique solace and hope, was ready to argue with this perishing creature as to whether it should seize the rope flung out as it drowned.

“Why!” she cried, appalled, outraged. “Can’t you think of _me_ for an instant? What could I do? How could I go on--without him?... Why should I give him up? How can you possibly ask me to?”

“For his sake,” said Mrs. Allanby. “If you love him, you must be willing to sacrifice yourself.”

“I’ve been sacrificing myself until there’s hardly anything _left_ of me!” she cried passionately. “And it’s never done anyone any good. People just ask me as a matter of course.... But _not_ this time.... Why should I? He’s known me for years and years. He hasn’t cared for anyone else. Well, have I done him any harm? Have I had a bad influence?”

“No, ma dear, of cou’se not. Ah’m not saying anything whatever against _you_.”

“Except that I’m not good enough.... Now then, _please_, Mrs. Allanby, won’t you look at it this way for a minute? I could just as well marry Nick to-morrow----”

She stopped for an instant.

“And I _will_,” she went on, with downcast eyes, “if I can’t get you to help me.... But I want to make the best of it. I want us to--to have our chance....”

Mrs. Allanby was beaten. She saw that she couldn’t stop this thing. She had either to make a futile struggle which would certainly antagonise Nick, or she must, as Rosaleen said, make the best of a bad bargain.

“What did you think Ah would do?” she asked with a smothered sigh.

A flush came into Rosaleen’s pallid face. She had won! And at once she grew gentler.

“First of all, if you’d lend me enough money to send my sister and her family to Philadelphia, and get them settled there,” she said. “I don’t mean that I’m--trying to get rid of them, or anything like that. I want to help them always, and I’m sure Nick will, too. But it’s far better for them not to be here--for him not to see them again.”

“And what else?”

“And then ... if you’ll teach me things--show me how to dress, and to act and all that...? Before I marry Nick?”

Mrs. Allanby was silent for a while, struggling with her profound disappointment. At last, with a long, inward sigh:

“He might have done worse!” she said to herself, and held out her hand to Rosaleen with a charming smile.

III

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.

THE END

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