Through the slit he could still see the figure of the woman, her head thrown a little back, her eyes following the bow of music as it rose and fell, and the lips smiling in happy content—He drew a quick breath.
Slowly a deep flush came into his face—How dared Rosalind come here! It was a respectable place—of course—but how dared she spend her time and money—his money and time that belonged to her home and her children—in a place like this?... Her hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes followed the music.
She had barely touched the glass on the table before her, he noted, or the plate of little biscuit. She seemed to sit in a dream.... His mind whirled. Six hours before he had said good-by to her at the breakfast table—a plain, drab woman in shabby clothes, with steel-rimmed spectacles that looked at him with a little line between the eyes and reminded him that he needed to order coal for the range and a new clothes-line.... He had ordered the coal, but he recalled suddenly that he had forgotten the clothes-line; he had intended to see if he could get one cheaper at a wholesale place he knew of; his memory held the clothes-line fast in the left lobe of his brain while the grey matter of the right lobe whirled excitedly about the woman in the alcove.
She had raised a lorgnette to her eyes and was looking at the boy violinist, a little, happy, wistful smile on her lips.... Eldridge had not seen her smile like that for years. His left lobe abandoned the clothes-line and recalled to him when it was he saw the little smile, half wistful, half happy, on her face.... They were standing by the gate, and he was saying good night; the moon had just come up, and there was a fragrant bush beside the path that gave out the smell of spring; the left lobe yielded up fragrance and moonlight and the little wistful smile while his quick eye followed the lorgnette; it had dropped to her lap, and her hands were folded on it.... Rosalind—! A gold lorgnette—and draperies, soft, gauzy lines and folds of silk—and a hat on her shining, lifted hair, like a vague coronet! Eldridge Walcott held his cigar grimly between his teeth; the cigar had gone out—both lobes had ceased to whirl.... A kind of frozen light held his face. His hand groped for his hat. Why should he not step across the aisle and sit down in the chair opposite her and confront her?—the green curtains would shut them in.... Both lobes stared at the thought and held it tight—to face Rosalind, a grey, frightened woman in her finery, behind the little green curtains! He shook himself loose and stood up. Softly his hand drew back the curtain, and he stepped out. They were clapping the boy violinist, who had played to the end, and Eldridge moved toward the swinging doors and passed out and stood in the lobby. He wiped his forehead.... A sound of moving chairs came from behind the doors, and he crossed the lobby quickly and plunged into the crowd. It was five o’clock, and the streets were filled with people hurrying home. Eldridge turned against the tide and crossed a side street and pressed east, his feet seeming to find a way of their own. He was not thinking where he would go—except that it must be away from her. He could not face her yet—Who was she? There was the drab woman of the morning, waiting for him to come home with the clothesline, and there was the woman of the alcove, splendid, gentle, with the little smile and the gold lorgnette.... Rosalind—Fifteen years he had lived with her, and he had known her ten years before that—there was nothing queer about Rosalind! He lifted his head a little proudly—The woman he had just left was very beautiful! It struck him for the first time that she was beautiful, and he half stopped.
He walked more slowly, taking it in—Rosalind was not beautiful; she had not been beautiful—even as a girl—only pretty, with a kind of freshness and freedom about her and something in her eyes that he had not understood—It was the look that had drawn him—He was always wondering about it. Sometimes he saw it in the night—as if it flitted when he woke. He had not thought of it for years. Something in the woman’s shoulder and the line of her head was like it. But the woman was very beautiful!—Suppose it were not Rosalind after all! He gave a quick breath, and his feet halted and went on. Then a thought surged at him, and he walked fast—he almost ran. No—No—! It was as if he put his hands over his ears to shut it out. Other women—but not his wife! She had children—three children! He tried to think of the children to steady himself. He pictured her putting them to bed at night, bending above Tommie and winding a flannel bandage tight around his throat for croup; he could see her quite plainly, the quick, efficient fingers and firm, roughened hands drawing the bed-clothes in place and tucking them in.... The woman’s hands had rested so quietly in her lap! Were they rough?—She had worn gloves—he remembered now—soft gloves, like the color in her gown.... He stared at the gloves—they were long—they came to the elbow—yes, there was a kind of soft, lacy stuff that fell away from them—yes, they were long gloves.... They must have cost——
He tried to think what the gloves must have cost, but he had nothing to go by. Rosalind had never worn such gloves, nor his mother or sisters. Only women who were very rich wore gloves like that—or women——
He faced the thought at last. He had come out where the salt air struck him; the town and its lights had fallen behind; there was the marsh to cross, and he was on a long beach, the wind in his face, the water rolling up in spray and sweeping slowly back—He strode forward, his head to the wind.... There was no one that she knew—no man.... How should she know any one that he did not know!