He was respectable—he was a married man.... And what had Rosalind to do with it? Perhaps it was Rosalind. He should never quiet down till he knew. There was something in his blood. The next time he was passing Merwin’s he would go in....
He passed Merwin’s that afternoon—and went in. But she was not there. He sat a little while in the quiet of the place, looking across to the alcove where the woman had been. There was no one in it and the curtains were drawn back. Each time a stir came from the swinging doors or a dress rustled beside him he half turned and held his breath till it passed and took its place at one of the little tables or in an alcove. But the third alcove on the right remained empty. No quiet figure moved with soft grace and seated itself there... no one but Eldridge saw the figure—the gentle, bending line of the neck, the little droop of the face.... If only she would lift it or turn to him a minute.... And then the still, clear emptiness of the place swept between; the green curtains framed it, as if it were a picture, a little antechamber leading somewhere....
Eldridge shook himself and took his hat and went out. The doors swung silently behind him—he would never go in there again! He was a fool—a soft fool! Then he almost stopped in the crowd of the street.... And he knew suddenly that he would go back. He would go—again and again—he could not help himself. But he was not in love—he had been in love—with Rosalind—and it was not like this.... A policeman thrust out an arm and stopped him, and he waited for the traffic to stream past.... He was not in love—only curious about the woman; it teased him not to know who she was... and why he had been so sure that she was Rosalind. If he could see her again—just a minute—long enough to make sure, he would not care if he never saw her again. He was loyal, of course, to Rosalind, more loyal than he had ever been. It seemed curious how the woman had made him see Rosalind—all the plainness of her filled with something strange and sweet—like moonlight or a quiet place.
V
THE next day he went again to Merwin’s. No use for him to say he would keep away. He knew, all through the drudging accounts in the morning, that he would go; and while he talked with clients and arranged sales and managed a real-estate deal—back in the corner of his mind, behind its green curtains, the little alcove waited.
He passed through the swinging doors and glanced quickly, and the hand holding his hat gripped it tight. The curtains of the third alcove to the right were half closed, but along the floor lay a fold of grey dress and over the end of the seat, thrown carelessly back, hung the edge of a fur-lined wrap.
Eldridge turned blindly toward his place. Some one was there. He had to take the alcove behind, and he could not see her from the alcove behind—not even if she should push back the curtain that shut her away—But he found himself, strangely, not caring to see her.... She was there, a little way off; it was she—no need to part the curtains and look in on her. He felt her presence through all the place. He was no longer guilty.... He was hardly curious to know her. He took up the card from the table before him and studied it blindly.... His heart seemed to lie out before him—a clear, white place.... Men and women were not so evil as he had dreamed. He was doing something that a week ago he would have condemned any one for; yet his heart, as he looked into it, was singularly clear and big—and the light shining in it puzzled him—like a charm—It was a place that he had never seen; he had dreamed of it, perhaps, as a child. He ordered something, at random, from the card and moved nearer the aisle.... No, he could not see her—only the fold of her dress and the bit of grey fur. He was glad she was warmly dressed. The weather was keener to-day. He must get Rosalind a wrap—something warm like that and lined with fur—soft and grey and deep. Everything the woman had he would like Rosalind to have—perhaps it might atone—a little—for the light in his heart. He had not felt like this for Rosalind.... But how should they have known. They were only a boy and girl—and some moonlight.... And all the time this other woman was waiting—somewhere.... No one had told him. If some one had said to him: “Wait, she is coming—you must wait!” But no one knew, no one had told him.... Did she know, across there in her place, did she know—had she waited—for him? He stirred a little. Some one might be with her now; or she might be waiting for some one. But he could not go to her.... And yet—why not—?—He had only to cross the aisle—and put back the curtains—and look at her.... He shook himself and lifted his glass and drank grimly. He was a lawyer; his name was Eldridge Walcott; he lived in a brick house and he had children—three children—That was the real world; this other thing was—madness.... So this was the way men felt! This was it, was it—very clean and whole—as if life were beginning for them—they had made mistakes, but they would try again; they saw something bigger and better than they had ever known—and they reached out to it. Men were not wicked, as he had thought—It was a strange world where you had to be wicked to do things—like this!... And there might be some one with her now! Under the voices and the music he fancied he could hear them talking in low tones; their voices seemed to come and go vaguely; half guessed, not constant, but quiet and happy.... Or was it his own heart that beat to her—the words it could speak?... He would not speak to her—but he would not go away.... He would wait till she moved back the curtain and stepped out.
Then he half remembered something—and looked at his watch—he had promised Rosalind to wait for the boys and take them to the dentist’s. She had said she could not go this afternoon and he had promised to wait at the office; he had not meant to come here.... He slipped back the watch and stood up and hesitated—and turned away. He might never see her now. Well, he had promised Rosalind. Somehow, the promise to Rosalind must be kept—now. The letter of the law must be kept!