Chapter TWO: I

Ridiculous! He had said that he wanted to help Rosaleen, and now, as soon as he had a chance, he was horribly upset.

He sat down that very evening and wrote her a note.

“Dear Rosaleen:

“You must not be offended when I say that I have noticed that you
are in straitened circumstances. I hope you look upon me, as I look
upon you, as an old friend, and you must allow me the privilege of
helping you. Do not hesitate to tell me at any time if you think I
can be of use.

“Always faithfully your friend,

“Nicholas Landry.”

And he enclosed a cheque.

When he had addressed and sealed the letter, he sat back in his chair and contemplated his surroundings with a frown. He had been writing at a little desk in the corner of the library; there beside the table in the centre of the room sat his august and benevolent aunt, in her discreet black dinner gown, embroidering. Through the open door he could see young Caroline in the next room sitting before the piano, hands idle in her lap, her face upturned to the young man standing beside her.... It hurt him intolerably. Now, when he would have been able to give to his wife--not a setting quite so luxurious as this, but at least peace, dignity, and comfort, he was compelled to see this beloved creature in degrading and sordid poverty.

He had done remarkably well. He had had a small legacy from an uncle. His sister had whimpered a little when he refused to spare her the price of one new dress from it, but she had soon been brought to approve his severity. He had known where to place his money; it had gone into a growing young firm of ship brokers, and himself with it, and he saw ahead of him just the future he had planned.

The financial future, that is. But not the home he had imagined. He was not a man easily attracted by women; in fact, he rather disliked them. He was not impressionable, not emotional; he was one of those absurd and incredible creatures capable of loving one woman all through life. And not through any conscious and pompous effort, either. He saw plainly that he would never want anyone but Rosaleen, and he saw, too, with equal plainness, that he could not have her. The idea of intriguing to win her from her husband never entered his head. He would not even say to himself that he loved her; he simply said that he regretted her, bitterly, profoundly. His point of view was either honourable or sentimental, whichever way you choose to see it, but it was sincere. He didn’t deceive himself; but he saw not the faintest danger of any catastrophe. He knew he could trust himself to go on seeing Rosaleen, just as he knew he could trust her. He was not at all afraid of this woman who borrowed money from him. Instead, he said to himself--

“Thank God I’ve got something to give her!”

II

No answer came to his letter; in fact, it was never answered and never mentioned by either of them. The cheque dropped into that bottomless pit which was their household exchequer.

A week later he decided to stroll down to the Square, and perhaps to visit Rosaleen.... It was a wonderful Spring evening, filled with that cruel promise, that hope never defined, never fulfilled, that wayward melancholy that is the spirit of every such hour. It touched Landry profoundly; the cries of the children at play sounded plaintive in his ears; he even saw a futile pathos in the street lights that glowed so blatantly against a sky not yet entirely darkened. There was a faint breeze blowing, and in the little park the swelling branches of the bare young trees swayed mildly.

He went upstairs, to find the studio door open and a party going on, the room crowded and turbulent. Lawrence recognised him at once, and welcomed him with delight.

“Just in time!” he cried. “Put your hat and stick in the back room and come in and get a drink!”

Still aloof and enchanted by the Spring night, Landry somewhat reluctantly obeyed, and pushing aside the curtain, entered that private apartment into which he had observed Rosaleen disappearing from time to time. A horrible little black hole with nothing in it but a wide bed with sagging springs that nearly touched the floor, and, all round the walls, hooks upon which hung the motley clothes of the household. Nothing else; no rug on the floor, nor a chair; evidently all the rest of their earthly possessions had gone into the big studio.

He laid his hat and stick on the ragged white counterpane, and returned to the party. The key to the situation was not in his hands; he saw none of the pathos of it; he saw merely a crowd of noisy and vulgar people who were drinking too much, making too much of a row, dancing with abandon to the music of a wretched phonograph. Rosaleen hurried about, an anxious hostess, changing records, filling glasses, talking to this one and that; now and then she danced, but perfunctorily. No one paid much attention to her. She wore the same dark red silk smock and bronze slippers she had worn on the evening of his first visit, but by the garish light of four gas jets, he could see now how worn and shabby this finery was.

But there was a great deal which he could not see. He could not see the frightful fear of solitude in Lawrence’s heart which made him welcome this riff-raff, these people who could be raked in at an hour’s notice, lured by whiskey, by the perfect freedom allowed them. None of his old friends came any more, or Rosaleen’s. They had lost their footing, and they knew it well. But Lawrence didn’t care, so long as there was noise and life about him, so long as he was not alone. And Rosaleen, in her unbounded pity for him, would have watched devils dancing there with joy if it had given him comfort.

Landry was completely out of his element. He was really miserable. The punch was not good, the floor was sticky, the girls were hectic and peculiar; he was very anxious to get away, but without offending Rosaleen. He saw her hurry into the back room and, as he was standing near the curtains, it was easy to slip in after her, unnoticed.

“Rosaleen,” he began, but stopped in surprise. “Why are you putting on your hat?”

“I’m going out,” she said.

“It’s nearly eleven. Where are you going?”

“Oh!... To the delicatessen!” she cried, with the first trace of irritability he had yet seen in her.

“_Now?_”

“Yes, now!” she cried, and he was amazed to see tears in her eyes. “Why do you _bother_ me so? Let me alone!”

“I don’t want to bother you, Rosaleen,” he said. “But--if you’re going alone, let me come.”

“No,” she said. “You can’t. They’d all notice.”

“Let them! You surely don’t care for the opinion of that crew! And anyway, they’ll think I’ve gone home.”

She had got her hat on now.

“Come on, then!” she said, and led him through a door hidden by hanging coats and wraps, into the hall.

She went furiously fast, and they didn’t exchange a word all the way to Sixth Avenue. She entered a brilliantly lighted shop with a white tiled floor and advanced to the high glass counter. And began ordering the most amazing list--soap, bread, pickles, salad, cake, bacon. It made a huge bundle. Landry tried to take it from her.

“No!” she said. “You said you were going home!”

“I’ll take you to the door first. Rosaleen, give me that package and don’t be so disagreeable! What’s the trouble?”

“I’m _tired_!” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nasty, Mr. Landry!”

She let him take the bundle, and they began to retrace their steps.

“You _are_ an extraordinary girl!” he said. “I can’t understand you. Do you always do your marketing a little before midnight?”

“I do it when I can!” she answered, with a sigh. “When I can get the money for it.”

“But--” he began, but stopped short. Had she got the money at that party? And from whom?

III

He couldn’t help talking about it. He began at breakfast the next morning, to his aunt.

“I’ve come across a very sad case,” he said. “Girl I used to know some time ago. And now she’s married to an artist--rather prominent in the past, but now he’s going blind. And they’re as poor as possible. What can you do to help, in a case like that?”

Mrs. Allanby reflected.

“Aren’t there societies, dear, to help needy artists?”

“They don’t want charity!” he said, with his quick frown.

“What _do_ they want?”

He regretted having brought up the subject now. But his aunt could not be stopped.

“Can’t the wife do something to help? Perhaps Ah could get someone interested in the case. If you’ll give me the name and address, Nick....”

“No! That’s not what I meant. I wanted you to think of some way that _I_ could do something for them.”

“I don’t suppose they’d care where the help came from, dear boy....”

“But _I_ would!” he said, angrily.

“_You_ would?” she said, and then was silent, with a tact a shade too obvious. He was heartily sorry he had ever mentioned the thing.

His food seemed to choke him, when he thought of Rosaleen in want. He felt gross, decadent, pampered, when he thought of her running through the streets in her slippers, carrying immense packages. He began, ridiculously, to deprive himself of things. It somehow gave him consolation to make himself less comfortable.

He wrote to her again, and enclosed a larger cheque. (He the prudent, the practical!)

“Dear Rosaleen:

“You must let me help you. If you won’t think of yourself, think of
others. You will wear yourself out, living like this. Tell me how I
can be of service.”

This letter, too, was never answered, and when four days had gone by, he decided to go down there and see for himself how things were going. It was a bright, quiet Sunday and he had contemplated asking her to go for a walk, so that they could have a serious talk. But he found Lawrence sitting alone in the studio.

“Rosaleen’s gone out,” he said. “I’m alone, and you can’t imagine how I dislike being alone. Sit down and talk to me, won’t you? Of course I quite realise that I’m not the magnet, and so on, but nevertheless.... Eh?”

In common decency, Nick was obliged to comply.

“Do you know,” Lawrence went on, “one of the worst things about this thing is the monstrous jealousy it brings out. I’m jealous of Rosaleen. Not as a husband, you understand; I’m not capable of that. I’ve never been able to understand it. Why distress oneself so inordinately for the frail creatures? Why not expect the worst? No, I’m jealous of her because she can see and I can’t. And she doesn’t need to see.... I hate her for it, sometimes.... Good God!... I’m growing worse and worse. Everything is hazy now, as if there were a film over my eyes. It--maddens me. I’m always trying to brush it away....”

He groaned, and drew his hand across his forehead.

“Let me grumble, young man!” he said. “Try to listen to me with a little human compassion. Try to think what it means--not to _see_.”

“Yes,” said Landry. “I knew two or three chaps in the army....”

“Oh, asses! Young, healthy lustful animals, filled with their illusion that they’ve saved the world with their blindness. But _me_! What comfort have I? Landry, if I were God Himself, I couldn’t invent anything more exquisitely hideous than that--to make an _artist_ blind! An artist, who lives--who feeds himself on colour, whose ecstasy is in a line, whose heart and soul are only to be reached through his eyes.... What an idea, eh?”

“Yes,” said Landry. “It must be pretty bad.”

But still he couldn’t help feeling more sorry for those young chaps he had known, blinded in the war, who had had to renounce all the pleasant ways of life. A fellow like Lawrence, with a brain, a fellow who could _talk_, didn’t, somehow, seem as pitiful to him as those inarticulate, suffering boys. Lawrence was queer, he was eccentric, and he no doubt had queer and eccentric consolations unknown to those others. He sympathised with Lawrence; certainly. But his mind strayed to Rosaleen.

Where had she gone? And with whom? He thought about it with growing uneasiness. At last he took the bull by the horns.

“Where has Rosaleen gone?” he asked, in a tone as Bohemian and casual as he could make it.

“With a new man,” said Lawrence. “A gentlemanly illustrator. Ah, well!... What can one expect?”

Just as Lawrence was beginning one of his terrible dissertations on cooking, there was a knock at the door, and a curly haired young man entered. He asked for Rosaleen without ceremony.

“Out with Brindell, taking a walk,” said Lawrence. “Sit down, Matthews, and have a drink!”

His manner was a curious blend of contempt and a terribly anxious hospitality. He despised these two young men, but he wished above all things to keep them there to talk to. Ambrose Matthews was a little more to his liking than Landry; he was able to see his point of view, and to discuss in all its subtle intricacies the anguish of the unfortunate artist. This never failed to astound Landry. He didn’t see what possible comfort it could be to Lawrence to dissect his sufferings, to describe so vividly as to re-live his most horrible moments.

“I should think you’d rather try to forget it,” he observed, rather bluntly.

Ambrose Matthews explained.

“My dear fellow, that’s the worst possible course. To repress, to conceal, and all that sort of thing.... What we need is to drag everything out into the sunlight. There the weeds will perish and the hardy plants thrive.”

“Sunlight doesn’t kill weeds,” said Lawrence. “I don’t talk for the benefit of my psyche, or my subconscious self, or my soul; I talk because it interests me.”

Landry got up.

“I’ll have to be getting along!” he said. “Will you tell Rosaleen I’m sorry I missed her?... Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

“You might run in next door and get me a package of cigarettes,” said Lawrence. “I’ve begun to smoke.”

Resentful and sulky, Landry did this, and when he returned with them, he found Ambrose Matthews waiting for him.

“I’ll walk a part of the way with you,” he said, and, as was his habit, took his companion’s arm.

“You haven’t seen Rosaleen’s latest, have you?” he asked.

“Latest what?” demanded Landry, stiffly.

“Latest--I don’t know what to call us. Latest One to Be Borrowed From. He’s the fifth, to my knowledge. And why do we do it? She’s not even grateful. It’s an interesting case.”

Landry withdrew his arm, under the pretext of lighting a cigarette.

“Not so interesting for _her_,” he said. “Poor girl!”

“It’s a sort of perverted sex instinct,” said Ambrose. “Her training has been so repressive that she’s afraid to accept love, so she substitutes money----”

“Rot!” said Landry, violently. “It’s nothing but an ‘instinct’ to get something to eat for herself and her husband.”

Then Ambrose said that it was perhaps a perverted maternal instinct.

“She ought to have had children,” he said. “As it is, she lavishes on him the maternal love she would have given to them.”

“She’s not perverted at all,” said Landry. “What you choose to call perverted is what _I_ call--good.”

IV

But it worried him frightfully. He made up his mind to remonstrate with Rosaleen, and he wrote her another note.

“Will you meet me at the Ritz at four to-morrow? I want to talk to
you alone for a few minutes, please.”

At breakfast the next morning came her answer.

“Dear Mr. Landry: Please don’t ask me to do that. I never do. You
can always see me here whenever you like.

R. I.”

This astonished him. He hadn’t expected any objection. He felt suddenly desolate and unhappy; he felt that he was not Rosaleen’s own particular friend, who could be permitted all privileges; she was treating him as she would any man; he was simply one of a crowd....

But he went, that same evening. The studio was crowded with people, most of whom he had seen there before. But there was one man whom he did not know, but whom he knew must be the gentlemanly illustrator. A well-dressed, nice-looking young chap, with a silent air of observing, not too favourably, all that went on before him. And his eyes followed Rosaleen all the time, and for her and her only he had a quick and subtle smile.

A feeling which he refused to recognise took possession of Landry, a rage that shook the very foundation of his self-control. He went over to the corner where they stood talking.

“You promised to talk to me alone!” he said, with a manner he had never used before in his life--an outrageous insolence. “Come out and walk round the park, will you?”

Brindell looked at him, at first astonished, and then very angry.

“Who the devil is _this_?” he asked, turning to Rosaleen.

“An old, old friend,” said Rosaleen, hastily. “Excuse me, please, Mr. Brindell, just for a few minutes?”

“Come on! Put on your hat and coat!” said Landry.

Rosaleen shook her head.

“No; we can talk in here,” she said, and led him into the back room. “Mr. Landry, what made you so rude?”

“Do you borrow money from that--popinjay?” he demanded.

He was glad to see the shocked colour that rose in her thin face; he wanted and intended to be outrageous.

“You--haven’t any right to talk like that!” she cried. “I----”

“I have. I’ve lent you money. You’re under obligations to me.... I _won’t have_ you doing this! Haven’t you any pride? Any self-respect?”

“Hush! Don’t talk so loud!... Oh, Mr. Landry, how _can_ you!”

“Haven’t you any decency?” he went on, furiously. “You’re common talk, you and your ‘friends.’ I’m ashamed of you!”

“Mr. Landry!” she cried, amazed. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m disgusted!” he said. “I’m....”

He looked at her, standing before him, the harassed and solitary creature who had endured so much, who suffered such indignities without being overwhelmed. There she was, in her mountebank costume, her red smock, her bronze slippers, with her pale and anxious face.... He thought of the complexity, the mystery of these dealings she had had with men, and he hated her.

“I’m _through_ with you!” he said.

He pulled down his hat from the hook where he always left it, and opened the door into the hall.

“No!... Mr. Landry!” she whispered, clutching at his coat. “Don’t! Please don’t go like this!”

But he looked at her with a glance so scornful and full of loathing that she dropped her hands hastily.

But before he had got to the street door, she came running down the stairs after him; he heard the clop-clop of her slippers, which were too large and left her foot at every step.

“Mr. Landry!” she cried. “Please!... I don’t want you to misjudge me.... I thought you would understand!”

“I don’t!” he said, briefly.

“But what else can I do? How can we live?”

“Does your husband know that you do--this?”

“Of course!” she cried, astonished. “He’s the one who--he asks me to.”

They were standing outside the door of what had been Lawrence’s old studio; the hall was entirely dark; he couldn’t see her at all. That made her voice seem quite different; it reached him a disembodied sound, miraculously sad.

“I never meant to tell anyone,” she said. “But now I’d like to tell you. It’s wrong. It’s weak. I ought just to do what I think right and not care if I _am_ misunderstood. But I can’t.”

She was still a moment.

“Let’s go into the tea room downstairs. Miss Gosorkus is upstairs and I don’t think there’ll be anyone there.”