IN THE 
 ALCOVE 
 
 JENNETTE LEE
 
 E. 
 
 W
 
 THE WOMAN 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELA
 
 Wrapped in the coat, she seemed for a moment the woman 
 of the alcove [Page 103]
 
 THE WOMAN 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 BY 
 JENNETTE LEE 
 
 /<u- ^ 1~ 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY A. I. KELLER 
 AND ARTHUR E. BECHER 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK : : : : : 1914
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published September, 1914
 
 TO 
 GERALD STANLEY LEE 
 
 'I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!' 
 
 21.3084 S
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Wrapped in the coat, she seemed for a mo- 
 ment the woman of the alcove . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 She seemed to sit in a dream 10 
 
 She was weeping, deep silent sobs .... 40 
 
 So she was like this very still and happy 
 
 and he was shut out 108
 
 I 
 
 "Room after room, 
 I hunt the house through 
 We inhabit together. 
 
 Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her 
 Next time, herself! not the trouble behind her 
 Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume! 
 As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew; 
 Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. 
 
 II 
 
 "Yet the day wears 
 And door succeeds door; 
 I try the fresh fortune 
 
 Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. 
 Still the same chance! She goes out as I enter. 
 Spend my whole day in the quest, who cares? 
 But 'tis twilight, you see with such suites to explore, 
 Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune."
 
 T^LDRIDGE WALCOTT paused 
 * ' in front of the great building; he 
 looked up and hesitated and went in. 
 He crossed the marble lobby and passed 
 through the silent, swinging doors on 
 the opposite side and stepped into 
 a softly lighted cafe. He had never 
 been in Merwin's before, though he 
 had often heard of it, and he was curi- 
 ous as to what it would be like. There 
 was a sound of music somewhere and 
 low voices and the tinkle of silver and 
 glass behind the little green curtains. 
 He entered an alcove at the left and 
 sat down. The restfulness of the place
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 soothed him. and he sat listening to 
 the distant music and looking out be- 
 tween the parted curtains of the alcove 
 to the room with its little tables filling 
 the space beyond the green-curtained 
 alcoves on either side and the people 
 seated at the tables. They were laugh- 
 ing and eating and talking and drink- 
 ing from delicate cups or turning slen- 
 der-stemmed glasses in their fingers as 
 they talked. Beyond the tables rose 
 a small platform; a woman had just 
 mounted it and was bowing to the 
 scattered tables. The sound of voices 
 ceased an instant and hands clapped 
 faintly here and there. The woman on 
 the platform bowed again and looked 
 at the accompanist, who struck the 
 opening bars. It was a light, trivial 
 song with more personality than art
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 in the singing of it, and the audience 
 applauded perfunctorily, hardly break- 
 ing off its talk to acknowledge that it 
 was done. The woman stepped down 
 from the platform and joined a group 
 at a table near by, and waiters moved 
 among the tables, refilling cups and 
 glasses and taking orders. 
 
 A waiter paused by the alcove where 
 Eldridge Walcott was sitting and 
 pushed back the little curtain and 
 looked in and waited. Eldridge took 
 up the card on the table before him; 
 he fingered it a little awkwardly and 
 laid it down. "Bring me cigars," he 
 said. 
 
 The waiter scribbled on a card and 
 passed on. When he had completed 
 the alcoves on the left he turned and 
 went back along the right, pausing be-
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 fore each one and bending forward to 
 listen and take the order on his card. 
 As he approached the third alcove he 
 pushed back the curtain that half 
 concealed it at the back and bent for- 
 ward. When he passed on the curtain 
 did not fall into place; it remained 
 caught on the back of the seat. From 
 where Eldridge sat he could see the 
 woman seated in the alcove. She was 
 alone, her back to him, her head a 
 little bent as if in thought. 
 
 He glanced at her carelessly and 
 along the row of green curtains to the 
 tables beyond. It was all much as he 
 had imagined it a place where one 
 could spend time and money without 
 too much exertion. It was the money 
 part of it that interested Eldridge. 
 His client had asked him to look into 
 
 4
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 it for him as an investment, and he 
 had decided on this informal way of 
 appraising it. To-morrow he was to 
 go over the books and accounts. The 
 owners wanted a stiff price for the good- 
 will. It was probably worth what 
 they were asking he decided as he 
 watched the careless, happy crowd. 
 People who came here were not think- 
 ing how much they could save. . . . 
 It was not the sort of place he should 
 care to come to often himself. Life 
 to Eldridge was a serious, drab affair 
 compared with Merwin's. He liked to 
 think how much he could save; and 
 when he had saved it he liked to in- 
 vest it where it would breed more. 
 . . . He might take a few shares of the 
 capital stock himself his client had 
 suggested it.
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 The waiter brought the cigars and 
 Eldridge lighted one and leaned back, 
 smoking and enjoying the relaxed air 
 of the place. He could understand 
 dimly how people liked this sort of 
 thing and would come day after day 
 for music and talk and the purpose- 
 lessness of it all; it was a kind of huge, 
 informal club with a self-elected mem- 
 bership. 
 
 As a prospective investor the charm 
 of it pleased him. They ought to be 
 able to make a good thing of it. He 
 fell to making little calculations; it 
 was part of his power as a successful 
 man of business that he understood 
 detail and the value of small things. 
 
 He was not a financier, but he han- 
 dled small interests well and he had 
 built up a comfortable fortune. From 
 
 6
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 being in debt before he married, he 
 had advanced slowly until now his in- 
 vestments made a good showing. He 
 could probably live on the income 
 to-morrow if he chose. ... He blew 
 a little ring of smoke. . . . His in- 
 vestments and what they were mount- 
 ing to was a kind of epic poem to El- 
 dridge's slow-moving mind. . . . Yes 
 he would take a few shares of the 
 cafe stock. He looked thoughtfully at 
 his cigar and calculated how many, and 
 what they would be worth. . . . The 
 music had taken the form of a young 
 boy with a violin who stood absorbed 
 in his playing, a kind of quick fervor 
 in his face and figure. The voices had 
 ceased and only now and then a cup 
 clicked. 
 
 Eldridge lifted his eyes from the 
 
 7
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 cigar. The woman in the alcove had 
 moved nearer the end of the seat and 
 was watching the boy, her lips parted 
 on a half smile. 
 
 The cigar dropped from Eldridge's 
 fingers. He stared at the woman 
 stared and stirred vaguely. 
 
 She turned a little and Eldridge 
 reached out his hand and drew a quick 
 curtain between them. 
 
 Through the slit he could still see 
 the figure of the woman, her head 
 thrown a little back, her eyes follow- 
 ing the bow of music as it rose and 
 fell, and the lips smiling in happy con- 
 tent 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
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 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 
 
 9
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 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 vio- 
 linist, 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 fra- 
 
 10
 
 She seemed to sit in a dream
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 grance and moonlight and the little 
 wistful smile while his quick eye fol- 
 lowed 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 fin-
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 ery, 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 clap- 
 ping the boy violinist, who had played 
 to the end, and Eldridge moved to- 
 ward the swinging doors and passed 
 out and stood in the lobby. He wiped 
 his forehead. ... A sound of mov- 
 ing 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 seem- 
 ing 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
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 Who was she? There was the drab 
 woman of the morning, waiting for 
 him to come home with the clothes- 
 line, 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 hertenyears 
 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 under- 
 13
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 stood 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. Some- 
 thing in the woman's shoulder and the 
 line of her head was like it. But the 
 woman was very beautiful! Sup- 
 pose 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 pic- 
 tured her putting them to bed at 
 14
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 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
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 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! 
 She was never away. . . . But was 
 he sure ! How did he know what 
 went on all day . . . half past seven 
 till seven at night? In the evenings 
 she mended the children's clothes and 
 he looked over the paper. Sometimes 
 they talked about things and planned 
 
 16
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 how they could get along. Rosalind 
 was a good manager. He saw her 
 sitting beside the lamp, in her cheap 
 dress, her head bent over the figures, 
 working it out with him and he saw 
 the woman in the alcove the clothes 
 she wore he drew back before it 
 more than the whole family spent in 
 a year! . . . The gloves alone might 
 have bought her Sunday suit Sun- 
 day was, after all, the only day he 
 knew where she was in church with 
 him and, in the afternoon, lying down 
 in her room while he took the chil- 
 dren for a walk. ... He was a good 
 father he set his teeth to it defiantly, 
 against the wind. She could not ac- 
 cuse him of neglect. . . . Suddenly a 
 hurt feeling stirred somewhere deep 
 
 down He did not look at it; he 
 17
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 did not know it was there. But the 
 first shock had passed. He was not 
 bewildered any more. He could think 
 steadily, putting point to point, build- 
 ing up the "case". . . . Then, sud- 
 denly, he would see her in the great 
 spectacles, reminding him of the 
 clothes-line and his "case" collapsed 
 like a foolish little card house. . . . 
 Not Rosalind other women, perhaps 
 but not Rosalind. . . . He turned 
 slowly back, the wind behind him urg- 
 ing him on. He would go home to 
 her. Perhaps when he saw her he 
 should know what to think. . . . But 
 perhaps she had not yet come home. 
 If he hurried he might get there be- 
 fore her and face her as she came in. 
 He hurried fast, he almost ran, and 
 when he reached the streets he signalled 
 
 18
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 a cab; he had not used a cab for years; 
 it would cost a dollar, at least He 
 looked out at the half-deserted street 
 the crowd had thinned. He held 
 his watch where the light of the street 
 arc flashed across it six-thirty. Half 
 an hour before his usual time. He 
 paid the fare and went quickly up the 
 steps. . . . The children were talk- 
 ing in the dining-room. There was 
 no other sound. He opened the door 
 and looked in. She was standing by 
 the table looking at Tommie's coat 
 There was a rent in the shoulder and 
 the face bent above it had a look of 
 quiet patience The grey-drab hair 
 was parted exactly in the middle and 
 combed smoothly down; the eyes be- 
 hind the spectacles looked up with 
 
 the little line between them. When 
 19
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 she saw who it was she glanced for a 
 moment at the clock and then back at 
 him "Did you bring the clothes- 
 line?" she asked. 
 
 He stared at her a moment at her 
 plain, cheap dress and homely face. 
 Then he turned away. "I forgot," 
 he said. 
 
 20
 
 II 
 
 TT7HEN supper was done and the 
 * children in bed she moved about 
 the room for a few minutes putting 
 things to rights. Eldridge, sitting by 
 the table, held his newspaper in his 
 hand and now and then he rustled it 
 and turned it over; his eyes did not 
 leave the little black printed marks, 
 but his real eyes were not following the 
 marks; they were watching the wo- 
 man; they tried to dart upon her in her 
 plainness and make her speak. There 
 was something monstrous to him 
 that they should be here together, in 
 this room he could have touched 
 her with his hand as she moved past 
 
 21
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 him yet they were a thousand miles 
 apart. He cleared his throat; he 
 would force her, accuse her, make her 
 reveal what was going on behind the 
 earnest-looking glasses. . . . He turned 
 the paper and began another page. . . . 
 If he were another man he might 
 spring at her take her by the throat 
 force her back back against the 
 wall and make her speak! She had 
 finished tidying the room and came 
 over to the table, the torn coat in her 
 hand; she was looking down at the 
 frayed threads in the rent, the little 
 line between her eyes; he did not look 
 up or move; he could hear her breath- 
 ing then she gave a little sigh and 
 laid the coat on the table. . . . She 
 was leaving the room. His eyes leaped 
 after her and came back. 
 
 22
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 When she returned she spread the 
 roll of pieces on the table and selected 
 one, slipping it in beneath the rent; 
 he could see without taking his eyes 
 from the page he could see the 
 anxious, faintly red knuckles and her 
 fingers fitting the piece in place with 
 deft, roughened tips. She had a kind 
 of special skill at mending, making old 
 things new. When they were first 
 married it had been one of their little 
 jokes how lucky she was to have 
 married a poor man. He had kissed 
 her fingers one day he recalled it 
 when she had shown him the little skil- 
 ful darn in his coat; he had called it 
 a kind of poem and he had kissed her. 
 It seemed almost shameless to him, 
 behind his paper the foolishness was 
 
 shameless of kissing her for that. . . . 
 
 23
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 She was sewing swiftly now with the 
 short, still movements that came and 
 went like breaths; her head was bent 
 over the coat and he could see the 
 parting of her hair; he dropped his 
 eye to it for a minute and rustled the 
 paper and turned it vaguely. "I was 
 in at Merwin's this afternoon," he 
 said. 
 
 The needle paused a dart and 
 went on rhythmically, in and out. 
 "Did you like it?" she asked. She 
 had not lifted her head from her 
 work. 
 
 He turned a casual page and read 
 on "Oh, so-so." It was the sort 
 of absent-minded talk they often had 
 a kind of thinking out loud with- 
 out interest in one another. 
 
 "It is a popular place, isn't it?" 
 
 24
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 She was smoothing the edges of the 
 patch thoughtfully; there was a little 
 smile on her lip. 
 
 He folded his paper. "I'm going to 
 bed," he announced. 
 
 She glanced quickly at the clock and 
 resumed her work. "I must finish 
 this. He hasn't any other to wear." 
 The needle went in and out. 
 
 Eldridge rose and stretched himself 
 above her. He looked down at her 
 at the swift-moving hands and grey 
 closeness of her dress. He would like 
 to take her in his hands and crush out 
 of her the thoughts make her speak 
 out the thoughts that followed the 
 swift-going needle; he did not know 
 that he wanted this he was only 
 feeling over and over, in some deep, 
 
 angry place "What the devil was 
 
 25
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 she doing there ? What the " 
 
 over and over. 
 
 He moved about the room a min- 
 ute and went out. The woman by 
 the table sewed on. A bolt shot in the 
 front hall and Eldridge's feet mounted 
 the stairs slowly. Then the room was 
 quiet only the clock and the needle. 
 
 Presently the needle stopped the 
 woman's hands lay folded in her lap. 
 The figure was motionless, the head 
 bent only across her face moved the 
 little smile. . . . The clock travelled 
 round and whirred its warning note 
 and struck, and she only stirred a lit- 
 tle, as if a breath escaped her, and took 
 up her work, looking at it blindly. 
 
 A sound came in the hall and she 
 looked up. 
 
 He stood in the doorway, his old 
 
 26
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 dressing-gown wrapped around him, 
 his hands gaunt, with the little hairs 
 at the wrist uncovered by cuffs. 
 
 She looked at him, smiling absently. 
 There was something almost beautiful 
 in her face as she lifted it to him 
 
 "When are you coming to bed?" 
 he asked harshly. 
 
 "Why, right now, Eldridge I must 
 have been dreaming/' She gathered 
 up the work from her lap. "I hope I 
 haven't kept you awake." 
 
 He stood looking at her a minute. 
 Then he wheeled about without re- 
 sponse. His feet beneath the bath 
 gown moved awkwardly. But the 
 spine in the bath gown had a cold, 
 dignified, offended look a kind of 
 grotesque stateliness as it disappeared 
 
 through the doorway. 
 
 27
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 The woman looked after it, the lit- 
 tle, gathering smile still on her face. 
 Then she turned toward the lamp and 
 put it out, and the radiant smile close 
 to the lamp became a part of the dark.
 
 Ill 
 
 BY morning it had become a dream. 
 Eldridge was late and he hurried 
 from the house and hurried all the 
 morning to catch up. By luncheon 
 time he was in another world. He 
 took plenty of time for his luncheon; 
 it was one of the things he had learned 
 
 to eat his luncheon slowly and take 
 time to digest it. Sometimes he read 
 the paper, sometimes he dropped into 
 a moving-picture show for a few min- 
 utes afterward. But to-day he did 
 neither. He sat in the restaurant 
 
 it was a crowded restaurant, all 
 America coming and going and he 
 
 watched it idly. He had a rested, 
 29
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 comfortable feeling, as if he had es- 
 caped some calamity. It seemed fool- 
 ish now, as he looked back a kind of 
 fever in the blood that had twisted the 
 commonest things into queer shape. 
 He looked back over it dispassionately 
 
 it was the woman in Merwin's who 
 had started it, of course; there was 
 something about her something like 
 Rosalind curiously like her it was 
 like what Rosalind might have been, 
 more than what she was a kind 
 of spirited-up Rosalind! He smiled 
 grimly. 
 
 He called for his check; and while 
 he waited he saw her again, the figure 
 of the woman not in the restaurant 
 
 but in a kind of vision in the al- 
 cove behind the curtain, her head a 
 little bent, her hands folded quietly 
 
 3
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 in her lap ... who was she ? His 
 heart gave a sudden twist and stopped 
 
 He had never felt like this about 
 
 any one had he ? He looked down 
 at a red check, with its stamped black 
 figures, and fumbled in his pocket 
 and brought out a coin and laid it be- 
 side the check and stared at it. ... 
 The check and the coin slipped away 
 and he stared at the marble top. 
 Suppose he saw her again . . . some 
 time. . . . Two coins reappeared on 
 the table and he picked them up. Then 
 he put back one and felt for his hat 
 and went out. . . . The traffic shrieked 
 at him and people jostled him with 
 their elbows and hurried him, and he 
 jostled back and woke up and shook 
 off the queerness and went about his 
 
 work. ... He was forty-one years 
 31
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 old and his property was all well in- 
 vested. It had never occurred to him 
 that he could be different from him- 
 self. ... He read in the paper of 
 people who did things did things 
 different from themselves, suddenly 
 people who squandered fortunes in a 
 day, or murdered and ran away from 
 business and their wives people 
 who committed suicide. Vicariously, 
 he knew all about how queer men 
 could be ... and his chief experi- 
 ence with it all, with this world that 
 his newspaper rolled before him every 
 day, was a kind of wonder that people 
 would do such things and a knowledge, 
 deeper than faith or conviction, that 
 Eldridge Walcott would never do any 
 of them. He explained such men if 
 
 he explained them at all by saying 
 
 32
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 that they must have a screw loose 
 somewhere. Perhaps he thought of 
 men, vaguely, as put together with 
 works inside, carefully adjusted and 
 screwed in place, warranted, with good 
 usage, to run so long; certainly it had 
 not occurred to him that a man could 
 change much after he was forty years 
 old. 
 
 He went back to business refreshed, 
 more refreshed than his luncheon often 
 left him. He thought of Rosalind, 
 now and then, with a kind of thank- 
 fulness Rosalind waiting for him at 
 night with the children, life moving 
 on in the same comfortable way. He 
 had even a moment's flash of thankful- 
 ness to the unknown woman that she 
 had made him see how comfortable he 
 was, how much he had to be thankful 
 
 33
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 for in his quiet life. It was a profit- 
 able afternoon the best stroke of 
 business in six months; and he flat- 
 tered himself that he handled it well. 
 He felt unusually alive, alert. On the 
 way home he passed a florist's and 
 half stopped, looking down at a beau- 
 tiful plant that flamed on a bench out- 
 side the door; he did not know what 
 it was; they were all "plants" to him, 
 except roses he knew a rose this 
 was not a rose; he looked at it a mo- 
 ment and hurried on. ... She would 
 think it strange if he brought her any- 
 thing like a plant. 
 
 The idea grew with him the next 
 day and the next. Why should he not 
 give her something? She deserved it. 
 There seemed always some good rea- 
 son why her clothes were the last to 
 
 34
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 be bought and the plainest and shab- 
 biest and a woman's clothes could 
 always be made over. . . . Suppose 
 she had a new suit something that 
 was really good Suppose he got it 
 for her would she be in the least like 
 that other one ? He had long 
 ago abandoned the idea that there was 
 a real resemblance between them. He 
 knew now that he must have been 
 overwrought, excited in some mysteri- 
 ous way the woman herself seemed 
 to have excited him. 
 
 The wrong that he had done Rosa- 
 lind even in his thought made 
 him tender of her. He did not buy a 
 crimson flower to take home to her. 
 But a week later he called one day at 
 his bank and in the evening he handed 
 her a little, twisted roll of something. 
 
 35
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 She had finished her work and was 
 sitting for a minute before she brought 
 her sewing basket. He laid the roll in 
 the curve of her fingers in her lap. 
 
 When she glanced down at it she 
 took it up in short-sighted surprise and 
 looked at the new, crisp bills and 
 then at him - 
 
 He nodded. "For you," he said. 
 "It's a new suit you need it." He 
 balanced a little on his toes, looking 
 down at her. 
 
 Her face flushed red; it grew from 
 neck to chin and flooded up to him. 
 "What do you mean?" she said under 
 her breath. 
 
 " I want you to get a good one 
 good stuff, good dressmaker It 's 
 enough, isn't it?" 
 
 "It is more than enough " The 
 
 36
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 red had flooded her face again as if 
 she would cry. But she said nothing 
 for a minute. She was looking down 
 at the bills. 
 
 Then she looked up. The plain face 
 had a smile like light from somewhere 
 far away. "May I get just what I 
 like--?" 
 
 He nodded proudly. She was al- 
 most beautiful . . . perhaps in the 
 new gown He pulled himself to- 
 gether. . . . She had looked down 
 again and was fingering the bills hap- 
 pily. . . . "There is a little muff and 
 fur " she said. 
 
 He nodded, encouraging 
 
 "A muff and fur and a little fur cap 
 that I wanted so much for Mary 
 - and overcoats for the boys they 're 
 so shabby and your hat is really not 
 
 37
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 fit, you know " She was looking up 
 now and smiling and checking them 
 off- 
 
 He stopped her with a gesture. 
 "You are to spend it on yourself," he 
 said almost harshly. 
 
 "On myself ! Why do you say 
 that?" She almost confronted him 
 as if she caught her breath 
 
 "You never have things and you 
 always get out of spending things on 
 yourself." He half muttered the words. 
 
 "Oh oh ! I shall get some- 
 thing for myself. You will see!" 
 
 He held out his hand. He was a 
 good man of business. No one got 
 far ahead of him. "When you have 
 bought the dress I will pay for it," he 
 said. "Give them to me. I cannot 
 
 trust you with them." 
 
 38
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 She looked at him and at the bills 
 
 and they dropped from her hand 
 into his slowly and her arms fell; her 
 shoulders rose and trembled and the 
 hands covered her face. She was 
 weeping, deep, silent sobs 
 
 He bent over her ashamed. "You 
 must not do that," he said. ''You 
 needn't feel bad. I wanted you to 
 have it " 
 
 She took down her hands and looked 
 at him. "It seemed so good to have 
 
 enough more than enough ! to 
 be extravagant!" She threw out her 
 hands with a little wasteful gesture. 
 
 He was looking at her closely. A 
 suspicion leaped at him. Her face was 
 so free and the tears had made it 
 mysterious and sweet she was as 
 wonderful as that other she was 
 
 39
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 She was He stopped with a quick 
 jerk. "I want you to be extravagant 
 on yourself !" he said. He was watch- 
 ing her face. 
 
 It flamed again but it did not drop 
 before him. Only the eyes sent back 
 a look on guard, it seemed to him. 
 "I do not need so much for myself," 
 she said quietly, "part of it will be 
 quite enough." 
 
 He put the bills in his pocket. "All 
 or nothing," he said easily. 
 
 All the next day he turned it in his 
 mind the look in her eyes, the beauty 
 something deep within her, shining 
 out. . . . He no longer went peace- 
 fully about his work. Could it have 
 been Rosalind, after all ? . . . He had 
 never seen her look like that he had 
 
 40
 
 She was weeping, deep silent sobs
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 not dreamed. . . . But when he came 
 home at night the look was not there; 
 he fancied that she was more worn 
 and a little troubled. Certainly, no 
 one could think of her as beautiful . . . 
 and why should a man want to think 
 his wife beautiful? ... It was the 
 woman in the alcove that had done 
 the mischief. He should never get 
 over the woman in the alcove. She 
 had got into his life whether or not. 
 He could not be comfortable about 
 Rosalind. There was something about 
 her that he had not known or sus- 
 pected before. He fell to watching 
 her when she was not aware. He 
 had thought he knew her so well and 
 now she was a stranger. . . . But 
 perhaps it was himself the woman 
 
 had done something to him. Rosa- 
 41
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 lind was the same but was she? 
 He looked at her a long time one night 
 as she lay asleep. The moonlight had 
 come in and was on her face. He 
 watched it as if a breath might 
 speak to him it was not Rosalind's 
 face. Some stranger was there, out of 
 a strange land; a great yearning came 
 to him to waken her, to ask her whence 
 she came, what it was that she knew 
 what made her face so peaceful in 
 the moonlight calling to him ? He 
 got up softly and closed the blind. 
 He remembered he had heard that it 
 was not good for people to sleep with 
 the moon shining on them it was 
 only superstition, of course. But su- 
 perstition had suddenly changed its 
 bounds for him. . . . Were there 
 
 things, perhaps, that people knew, 
 
 42
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 that they guessed true things that 
 they could not explain and did not 
 talk about? . 
 
 43
 
 IV 
 
 HE could not bring himself to 
 speak to Rosalind about the wo- 
 man in the alcove. He wanted to speak 
 
 to do away, once for all, with the 
 strangeness and the spell she seemed 
 to have cast about him, to speak of 
 her casually as that woman I saw the 
 other day at Merwin's; but he could 
 not do it. It was as if he were afraid 
 
 or bashful. He had not felt like 
 this since not since he was in love 
 
 with Rosalind! He looked at the 
 thought and turned it over slowly. 
 He was not in love with the woman 
 certainly he was not in love with her! 
 He would not know her again if he 
 
 44
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 met her on the street. . . . Would he 
 not! Suddenly he felt that he had 
 known her always longer than he 
 had known Rosalind longer than he 
 had been alive! He found himself 
 wondering about the world how it 
 was the world got into existence 
 what were men doing in it and wo- 
 men and his mind travelled out 
 into space great stars swung away 
 mistily what did it mean all his 
 world and stars? . . . Perhaps if he 
 saw her again, just a few minutes, he 
 would feel like himself again. ... It 
 was worth trying and how he wanted 
 to see her ! Well, what of that ? 
 There was nothing wrong in being cu- 
 rious about a woman like that. If 
 she had some uncanny power over him 
 he might as well find it out fight it ! 
 
 45
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 He was respectable he was a mar- 
 ried man. . . . And what had Rosa- 
 lind 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 pass- 
 ing 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 
 
 4 6
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 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 cur- 
 tains framed it, as if it were a pic- 
 ture, a little antechamber leading some- 
 where. . . . 
 
 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 
 
 47
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 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 rilled 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 ar- 
 ranged sales and managed a real-es- 
 tate 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 
 
 49
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 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 be- 
 hind 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 
 
 50
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 had dreamed. He was doing some- 
 thing 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 ran- 
 dom, 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 
 
 51
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 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
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 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 be- 
 ginning 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 
 
 S3
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 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 after- 
 noon 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 Rosa- 
 lind. Somehow, the promise to Rosa- 
 
 54
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 lind must be kept now. The letter 
 of the law must be kept! 
 
 They were waiting for him in the 
 hall by his office door, sitting at the 
 top of the flight of stairs and peering 
 down into the elevator-shaft as the 
 elevator shot up and down. He saw 
 them as he stepped out, and smiled 
 at them. They were fresh, wholesome 
 boys, and he had a sense, as he fitted 
 the key in the lock and they stood 
 waiting behind his bent back, that 
 they belonged to him. He had al- 
 ways thought of them as Rosalind's 
 boys! 
 
 He threw open the door and they 
 went in, looking about them almost 
 shyly; they were not shy boys, but fa- 
 ther was a big man and they looked 
 ss
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 at the place where he worked. . . . 
 Some time they would be men and 
 have an office. . . . 
 
 Eldridge Walcott turned back from 
 the desk that he had opened. He had 
 taken out a little roll of paper and 
 slipped it into his pocket. Their eyes 
 followed him gravely. He looked at 
 them standing half in their world, 
 half in his and smiled to them. 
 
 "You had to wait a good while, 
 didn't you?" he said. 
 
 They nodded together. "Most an 
 hour," said Tommie. 
 
 "Well, that's all right- Some- 
 thing kept me. Come on." 
 
 When they reached home that eve- 
 ning he handed the little roll of paper 
 he had taken from the desk to Rosa- 
 lind. "I have doubled it," he said. 
 56
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 "There will be enough for everything 
 you want/* 
 
 For a minute she did not speak. 
 Then she took it. "Thank you," she 
 said slowly. 
 
 "I want you to get a suit, you 
 know a good one " He paused. 
 " And you need something warm 
 a fur-lined wrap or something don't 
 you?" 
 
 She wrinkled the little line between 
 her eyes. " It is so late the win- 
 ter is half gone already." Then her 
 face cleared. "I think I '11 wait till 
 spring," she said. 
 
 He could almost fancy something 
 danced at him, mocked him behind the 
 still face. 
 
 He turned away, the deep, hurt feel- 
 ing coming close. "Get what you 
 
 57
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 like," he said. "I want you to have 
 enough." 
 
 The money lay in her hand, and 
 her fingers opened on it and closed on 
 it. Then she breathed softly, like a 
 sigh, and went to her desk and put it 
 away.
 
 VI 
 
 THROUGH the .weeks that fol- 
 lowed Eldridge watched the 
 things money could buy quietly taking 
 their place in the house. Little com- 
 forts that he had not missed had not 
 known any one could miss were at 
 hand. The children looked somehow 
 subtly different. He had a sense of 
 expansion, softly breaking threads 
 of habit, expectancy. Only Rosalind 
 seemed unchanged. Yet each time he 
 looked at her he fancied that she had 
 changed more than all of them. 
 He could not keep his eyes from 
 her. Something was hidden in her 
 Something he did not know that he 
 
 59
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 would never know. Perhaps he should 
 die and not know it. ... Did the 
 dead know things everything ? He 
 seemed to remember hazily from Sun- 
 day-school something If he were 
 dead, he might come close to her as 
 close as the little thoughts behind her 
 eyes 
 
 The cold grew keener, and Eldridge, 
 shivering home from the office, re- 
 membered a pair of fur gloves in the 
 attic. He had not worn them for years. 
 But after supper he took a light and 
 went to look for them. 
 
 It was cold there, in the attic, and 
 he shivered a little, looking about the 
 dusty place. There were boxes stacked 
 along under the eaves and garments 
 hanging grotesquely from the beams. 
 
 He knew where Rosalind kept the 
 60
 
 gloves; he had seen them one day last 
 summer when he was looking for win- 
 dow netting. It had not seemed to 
 him then, in the hot attic, that any 
 one could ever need gloves. He set 
 down the lamp on a box and drew out 
 a trunk and looked in it; they were 
 not there. She must have changed 
 the place of things he would have 
 to go down and ask her. 
 
 Then his eye sought out a box pushed 
 far back under the eaves he did not 
 remember that he had ever seen that 
 box; he glanced at it and half turned 
 away to pick up the lamp and turned 
 back. He could not have told why he 
 felt that he must open it. He had 
 set the light on a box a little above 
 him, and it glimmered down on the 
 box that he drew out and opened 
 
 61
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 and on a smooth piece of tissue-paper 
 under the cover A faint per- 
 fume came from beneath the paper, 
 and he lifted it. There was a pair of 
 long grey gloves with the shape of 
 a woman's hand still softly held in the 
 finger-tips. . . . He lifted them and 
 stared and moistened his lips and ran 
 his hand down inside the box to the 
 bottom soft, filmy stuff that yielded 
 and sprang back. ... He kneeled be- 
 fore it, half on his heels, peering down. 
 He bent forward and lifted the things 
 out white things with threaded rib- 
 bon and lace things such as El- 
 dridge Walcott had never seen 
 delicate, web-like things then a fur- 
 lined coat and a grey dress and, at the 
 bottom, a little linked something. He 
 
 lifted it and peered at it and at the 
 
 62
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 coins shining through the meshes and 
 dropped it back. 
 
 He stood up and looked about him 
 vaguely . . . after a minute he shiv- 
 ered a little. It was very cold in the 
 attic. He knelt down and tried to put 
 the things back; but his fingers shook, 
 and the things took queer shapes and 
 fell apart, and a soft perfume came 
 from them that confused him. He 
 tried to steady himself he began 
 at the bottom, putting each thing 
 carefully in place . . . smoothing it 
 down. 
 
 The door below creaked. A voice 
 listened. . . . "You up there, El- 
 dridge?" 
 
 He straightened himself . . . out of 
 a thousand thoughts and questions. 
 
 "Where are my fur gloves?" he said 
 63
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 quietly. He took the light from its 
 box and came over to the stairs. 
 
 Her face, lifted to him, was in the 
 light and he could see the rays of light 
 falling on it and on the stillness, like 
 a pool. . . . 
 
 "They're in the black trunk," said 
 Rosalind. Her foot moved to the stair 
 "I'll get them for you." 
 
 "No Don't come up," he said. 
 "It 's cold here. I know I was just 
 looking there." 
 
 So she went back, closing the door 
 behind her to keep out the cold. 
 
 When Eldridge came down he did 
 not look at her. He blew out the light 
 and put the gloves with his hat in the 
 hall and came over with his paper and 
 sat down. 
 
 She was standing by the fire, bend- 
 6 4
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 ing over a pair of socks that she had 
 been washing out. She was hanging 
 them in front of the fire, pulling out 
 the toes. Her eyes looked at him 
 inquiringly as her fingers went on 
 stretching the little toes. 
 
 "Did you find them?" 
 
 "Yes." He opened his paper slowly. 
 
 She went on fussing at the socks, a 
 little, absent smile on her face. "If 
 it keeps on like this I must get heavier 
 flannels for them," she said. The look 
 in her face was very sweet as she bent 
 over the small socks. 
 
 He looked up and glanced away. 
 " Money enough have you ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes plenty of money. I will 
 get them to-morrow if I can go in 
 to town " she said. 
 
 His mind flashed to the attic above 
 65
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 them and to the quiet alcove with the 
 little green curtains that shut it off. 
 " Better dress warm if you do go," he 
 said carelessly. "It is pretty cold, you 
 know." He took up the paper and 
 stared at it. 
 
 66
 
 VII 
 
 SO it was Rosalind ! He sat in 
 his office and stared at the blot- 
 ter on his desk. ... It was a green 
 
 blotter For years after Eldridge 
 
 Walcott could not see a green blotter 
 without a little, sudden sense of up- 
 heaval; he would walk into a plain 
 commercial office suddenly the walls 
 hovered, the furniture moved subtly 
 even the floor grew a little unsteady 
 before he could come with a jerk to a 
 green blotter on the roller-top desk 
 and face it squarely. The blotter on 
 his own desk was exchanged for a crim- 
 son one the next day. He would 
 
 have liked to change everything in the 
 67
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 room. The very furniture seemed to 
 mock him to question. . . . 
 
 So it was Rosalind ! Rosalind 
 was like that ! His heart gave a 
 quick beat like a boy's and stood 
 still. . . . Rosalind was like that for 
 
 somebody else. . . . He stared at 
 the blotter and drew a pad absently 
 toward him. 
 
 The office boy stuck his head in the 
 door and drew it back. He shook it 
 at a short, heavy man with a thinnish, 
 black-grey beard who was hovering 
 near. "He told me not to disturb him 
 
 not for anybody," the boy said im- 
 portantly. 
 
 The man took a card from his pocket 
 and wrote on it. "Take him that." 
 
 The boy glanced at the name and 
 at the thin, blackish beard. There was 
 
 68
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 a large wart on the man's chin where 
 the beard did not grow. The boy's 
 eyes rested on it and looked away 
 to the card. "I '11 ask him " he 
 said. 
 
 The man nodded. "Take him that 
 first." 
 
 The boy went in. 
 
 The man walked to the window and 
 looked down; the thick flesh at the 
 back of his neck overlapped a little on 
 the collar of his well-cut coat and the 
 heavy shoulders seemed to shrug them- 
 selves under the smooth fit. 
 
 The boy's eyes surveyed the back 
 respectfully. "You're to come in," he 
 says. 
 
 The man turned and went in and 
 Eldridge Walcott looked up. "I'm 
 
 sorry to have kept you waiting." 
 69
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 "That's all right." The man sat 
 down a little heavily as if he were 
 tired. "That's all right. I waited 
 because I wanted to see you. I want 
 some one to do a piece of work 
 for me " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I don't care to have my regular 
 man on it " 
 
 "You have Clarkson, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes I have Clarkson." The man 
 waited. " Clarkson 's all right for 
 business," he said. "I want a differ- 
 ent sort for this." 
 
 He felt in the pocket of his coat and 
 drew out a letter, and then another, 
 and held them, looking down at them 
 absently, turning them over in his 
 hand. 
 
 "It's a divorce he said. He 
 
 70
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 went on turning the letters in his hand 
 but not looking at them. " I 've waited 
 as long as I could," he added after a 
 minute. " It 's no use " He laid the 
 letters on the desk. "It took a detec- 
 tive and money to get 'em. I 
 reckon they'll do the business," he 
 said. 
 
 Eldridge reached out his hand for 
 them. The man's errand startled him 
 a little. He had been going over di- 
 vorce on the green blotter when the 
 boy came in. He opened the letters 
 slowly. A little faint perfume drifted 
 up and between him and the words 
 came a sense of the blackish-grey 
 beard and the wart in among it. He had 
 stared at it, fascinated, while the man 
 talked. . . . He could imagine what 
 
 it might mean to a woman, day after 
 71
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 day. He focussed his attention on the 
 letter and read it and took up the 
 other and laid it down. . . . 
 
 "Yes Those are sufficient," he 
 said almost curtly. He took up his 
 pen. " Your "middle initial is J?" 
 
 "Gordon J.," said the man. 
 
 Eldridge traced the name. "And 
 your wife?" 
 
 The man stared at him. 
 
 "Her full name- said Eldridge. 
 
 "Her name is Cordelia Rose Bar- 
 stow," said the man. 
 
 Eldridge wrote it efficiently. "Do 
 you name any one as co-respondent?" 
 
 "I name his name is " The 
 man gulped and his puffy face was 
 grim. "John E. Tower is his name," 
 he said slowly. 
 
 Eldridge filled in the paper before 
 
 72
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 him and laid a blotter across it. "That 
 is sufficient. I will file the application 
 to-morrow. There will be no trouble. 
 She will not contest it ?" 
 
 The man swallowed a little. " No 
 She wants to be free " He ended 
 the words defiantly, but with a kind 
 of shame. 
 
 Eldridge made no reply. He was 
 seeing a quiet figure, with bent head, 
 smiling at something something that 
 shut him out. He looked across to the 
 man. 
 
 The man's eyes met his. "That 's 
 all you need is it?" He seemed a 
 little disappointed. "No more to it 
 than this?" 
 
 "That's all," said Eldridge. 
 
 But the man did not get up. "I 
 don't know how it happened," he 
 
 73
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 said. "You see, I never guessed 
 not till two weeks ten days ago or 
 so." 
 
 "I see" 
 
 " I 'd always trusted Cordelia I 
 hadn't ever thought as she could do 
 anything like that not my wife!" 
 
 "One doesn't usually expect it of 
 one's own wife." Eldridge laughed 
 a little, but it was not unkindly, 
 and the man seemed to draw toward 
 him. 
 
 " I 've never mentioned it except 
 to that detective, and I didn't tell him 
 any more than I had to He 
 didn't seem to need much telling " he 
 said dryly. "He seemed to sense just 
 about what had been going on with- 
 out telling." 
 
 "Yes ?" Eldridge was looking 
 
 74
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 thoughtfully into the greyish-black 
 beard with the round lump in it. 
 
 " He 's got the facts. It took him 
 just two weeks to get 'em." His 
 hand motioned toward the letters, but 
 there was something in the face a 
 kind of puffy appeal. 
 
 Eldridge nodded. " They know what 
 to do," he said quietly. 
 
 "I hadn't even mistrusted," said the 
 man. His eyes were looking at some- 
 thing that Eldridge could not see 
 something that seemed to come from 
 a faint perfume in the room. ... "I 
 can see it plain enough now look- 
 ing back. . . . You don't mind my 
 telling you a little about it." 
 
 Eldridge shook his head. The man 
 seemed a kind of lumbering boy, yet 
 he was a shrewd, keen man in business. 
 
 75
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 "It might help you know " he 
 said. "I thought you'd ask me, prob- 
 ably I 'd kind of planned to tell you, 
 I guess." He laughed a little awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 "Go ahead," said Eldridge. 
 
 " He was my friend, you see. And I 
 brought him home with me and made 
 'em friends. ... I can see now, look- 
 ing back, what a fool I was about 
 it. But I didn't see it then. I 
 don't know now what it was about 
 him. ... He's old as I be and I Ve 
 got the money. I can give her every- 
 thing she wants more than he can. 
 But I know now that from the first 
 day she see him she was curious about 
 him. ... I 'd brought him home to 
 dinner one night - It was just after 
 
 we were married. ... I always kind 
 
 76
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 of think of him that night the way 
 he looked at table he 's tall You 
 know him ?" 
 
 Eldridge nodded. He was seeing 
 the tall, distinguished figure and 
 beside it a humped-up one across his 
 desk. 
 
 "We had red lamp-shades and can- 
 dles and flowers Everything shin- 
 ing, you know Cordelia likes 'em 
 that way. . . . When I try to think 
 how it started I see 'em the way they 
 looked that first night. I was proud 
 of 'em both. I felt as if Cordelia be- 
 longed to me and as if he did, too 
 in a way " He looked at Eldridge. 
 " I 'd put him on to a good thing in 
 business !" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He and Cordelia laughed and talked 
 
 77
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 the whole evening kind o* took it up 
 back and forth the way you 'd 
 play ball. I could see Cordelia liked 
 him. I was a fool. I 'd waited about 
 getting married till I had money enough 
 to give a woman to give her every- 
 thing and when she 'd got it I never 
 see there might be something else 
 she 'd want. ... I don't just know 
 what now " He shook his head. 
 " Some days, since I Ve got sure of it, 
 I Ve felt as if it couldn't be so as if 
 she couldn't have gone on living with 
 me and having that other life I 
 didn't know about shut away from 
 me and I loving her. ..." The 
 little, clear alcove moved before El- 
 dridge and moved away. He was 
 making absent marks on the edge of 
 
 the pad before him. 
 
 78
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 The man sighed. "Well It isn't 
 any use! That's all, I guess " 
 
 Eldridge looked up. "Had you 
 thought of winning her back?" 
 
 The man shook his head. "I 
 couldn't do it." He looked at him 
 as if wondering whether he would un- 
 derstand. "There 's something about 
 her I don't get at," he said slowly. 
 
 "Isn't there something about any 
 woman you don't get at?" said El- 
 dridge. 
 
 "That 's it!" assented the man. "It 
 isn't just Cordelia. It 's all of them 
 in back of 'em, somehow. I can't tell 
 you just how it is, but I 've thought of 
 it a lot I guess there isn't anything 
 I haven't thought of since I knew 
 lying awake nights and thinking. 
 Somehow, I knew, the first day it came 
 
 79
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 to me I knew there wasn't any use 
 . . . since the day I come on 'em at 
 Merwin's." 
 
 The lawyer's hand, making its little 
 marks, stopped and went on. "They 
 were at Merwin's together?" he said. 
 
 " Everybody goes to Merwin's," said 
 the man. "It wasn't their being there; 
 it was the way they looked when I saw 
 'em. . . . They were sitting in one of 
 them little alcove places, you know " 
 
 Eldridge nodded. Yes he knew. 
 
 "The curtains were open wide 
 open," said the man. "Anybody could 
 'a' looked in. There wasn't anything 
 wrong about it. But I saw their faces 
 both of 'em and I knew. . . . 
 They were just sitting quiet the way 
 people do when they 're alone. . . . 
 
 There 's something different about the 
 80
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 way people sit when they 're alone 
 by themselves I don't know as 
 you Ve ever noticed it?" 
 
 "I have noticed it," said Eldridge. 
 
 "Quiet and happy " said the man, 
 "and not talking and not needing to 
 talk." He took up his hat. "Well- 
 you know where to find me. I shan't 
 
 bother you like this again " He 
 
 stood up. 
 
 Eldridge held out a hand. "I am 
 glad you told me. It helps to un- 
 derstand the case." 
 
 The man's thick face looked at him. 
 "7 don't understand it myself," he 
 said, " but I Ve got to go through with 
 
 it." 
 
 81
 
 VIII 
 
 Tj^LDRIDGE went on making little 
 * ' marks on the edge of the paper. 
 He no longer stared at the blotter; he 
 was seeing things. Gordon Barstow's 
 recital had shown things to him in per- 
 spective and his own trouble seemed 
 moved far away from him to a kind of 
 clear place. He sat and looked at it 
 making little marks on the paper. 
 Rosalind was not to blame. A woman 
 like Rosalind had the right she could 
 do what she wanted! What had he 
 ever done to win her to keep her ? 
 Not even money. He had kept it for 
 himself and built up a comfortable 
 
 fortune. ... He had the fortune 
 
 82
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 yes. And he had lost Rosalind. . . . 
 He suddenly saw himself in the clear 
 light he was not lovable like old 
 Barstow. The vision grew before him 
 
 all his saving closeness, his dulness 
 
 a lifeless prig! . . . And then the 
 picture of Rosalind, the vision of her 
 in her alcove "the way people sit 
 when they are alone I don't know 
 as you ever noticed ?" old Barstow 
 had said. 
 
 Well, then what was to be done ? 
 His shoulders squared a little. No man 
 was going to win Rosalind with- 
 out a fight! The man who would win 
 her should reckon with him. ... He 
 had never known Rosalind. Perhaps 
 Rosalind had never known him. . . . 
 What had he given her to know him 
 
 by? She had had the right to work 
 
 83
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 for him, to sweep his floors and make 
 his bed and take care of the chil- 
 dren. . . . She should have money 
 now. She should become a partner 
 in all his plans and suddenly El- 
 dridge Walcott saw that money would 
 not win her money would not buy 
 the gracious presence in the alcove; 
 she did not need money. . . . He 
 must give his soul to win her 
 
 Then he took out his soul and 
 looked at it the shrunken, dry, rat- 
 tling thing and flicked it from him 
 with a finger-nail. 
 
 The office boy put his head in cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 "What do you want?" said Eldridge 
 harshly. 
 
 "It's Mr. Dutton," said the boy. 
 
 "Well, show him in." 
 8 4
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 And while Mr. Button talked of real 
 estate, Eldridge's soul peeped out at 
 the man. He wanted to stop the flow 
 of facts and figures and put a straight 
 question to him. "How do you get 
 on with your wife, Mr. Button?" he 
 wanted to say to him. He could see 
 the man's startled face checked in its 
 flow of fact. ... It would not do; 
 of course it would not do to ask him 
 how he got on with his wife. Probably 
 he got on with her as Eldridge Walcott 
 had done sewing, sweeping, eating, 
 saving 
 
 "So I have decided," the man was 
 saying, "to take the entire block if 
 the title is good." 
 
 Eldridge Walcott bowed him out 
 and turned back from the door. But 
 he did not sit down. He would go to 
 85
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 Merwin's. Perhaps she was there 
 she had said she might come in to 
 town. . . . But, with his hand on the 
 
 door, he paused Suppose he found 
 
 her What then? and the man 
 with her? What then? Suppose 
 he found her! There was nothing he 
 could do not yet ! He would win 
 her back. . . . But the man he had 
 to reckon with was not the man sit- 
 ting with her now, perhaps, in the 
 alcove. The man he had to reckon 
 with was Eldridge Walcott the lit- 
 tle, shrunken, undersized Eldridge Wal- 
 cott. 
 
 He saw it standing with his hand 
 on the door, looking down and he 
 looked at it a long minute. 
 
 Then he opened the door. 
 
 The office boy wheeled about from 
 
 86
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 the window-shade that was stuck half- 
 way up. 
 
 "I am ready to see anybody that 
 comes, Burton," he said. 
 
 "All right," said the boy. "This 
 old thing gets stuck every other day!" 
 He jerked at it. 
 
 Eldridge came across and looked at 
 the cord and straightened it and went 
 back to his room. The little inci- 
 dent strengthened him subtly. He had 
 never yet failed in anything he under- 
 took, big or little he had always suc- 
 ceeded in what he undertook And 
 suddenly he saw that Eldridge Walcott 
 had never in his life undertaken any- 
 thing that was not small. ... He 
 had done small, safe things. He had 
 straightened window-shades all his life 
 
 and he had never failed ! 
 
 87
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 He had always had a half-veiled con- 
 tempt for men who ran risks. Find a 
 safe thing and hold on to it had been 
 his policy. It had brought him through 
 smugly. He had never made a mis- 
 take. . . . The nearest he had ever 
 come to a risk was before he asked 
 Rosalind to marry him. There had 
 been something about her that he 
 could not fathom, something that drew 
 him and made him afraid a kind 
 of sweet mystery . . . that would not 
 let him be safe. Then it had seemed 
 so safe afterward; they had lived to- 
 gether quietly without a break. The 
 young Rosalind who had taught him 
 to be afraid he had forgotten and 
 now young Rosalind had come back 
 . . . she had come back to him and 
 with deeper mystery. . . . This was
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 the real Rosalind, the other was only 
 a shadowy promise. . . . The young 
 Rosalind would try him for his soul 
 and he had no soul ! 
 
 Who was that other man in the al- 
 cove with her the man who had won 
 her? Who was it she had found to 
 understand the mystery to look up 
 to her and worship her as he had 
 worshipped Rosalind, the girl; as he 
 had worshipped Rosalind and let her 
 go! 
 
 And he had been thinking about di- 
 vorce! Thinking of the grounds for it 
 and how he should get grounds of di- 
 vorce as Gordon Barstow had done. 
 He glanced at the two letters on his 
 desk and at the little, jotted notes of 
 the Barstow case and a smile flitted to 
 
 them grounds for divorce from Ros- 
 8 9
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 alind! He saw her, in her freedom, 
 moving from him. . . . His teeth set 
 a little. She should never leave him! 
 She should stay with him. She should 
 stay because he wanted her and be- 
 cause she wanted him! 
 
 And through the rest of the day, as 
 clients came and went, he saw some- 
 thing new. He saw cases differently. 
 Men were accustomed to come to him 
 because he was a "safe" man. . . . 
 Well, he was not quite safe to-day 
 But he knew underneath, as he worked, 
 that his advice had never been so worth 
 while.
 
 IX 
 
 HE had left the office early and had 
 caught a car that was passing 
 the corner as he came out. As soon 
 as he entered he knew that Rosalind 
 was in the car, three seats ahead. He 
 gave a little start, a quick flash he 
 did not want to catch Rosalind off 
 guard Then he smiled; it was not 
 Rosalind of the alcove it was the 
 plain, every-day Rosalind, her lap 
 heaped with bundles, and bundles on 
 the seat beside her. Rosalind's flan- 
 nels, he thought, probably. 
 
 He moved down the aisle and stood 
 beside the seat, lifting his hat and 
 looking down at her. 
 
 91
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 "Why, Eldridge!" She looked up 
 with the little peering smile and made 
 a place for him among the bundles, 
 trying to gather them up into her lap. 
 
 But he swept them away. " I '11 
 take these," he said. 
 
 The little distressed look came be- 
 tween her eyes. Eldridge couldn't 
 bear bundles. "I thought I wouldn't 
 wait to have them sent," she apolo- 
 gized. "It 's so cold and they need 
 them right off." 
 
 "Yes " He looked at her jacket; 
 it was thin, with the shabby lining 
 showing at the edge. "Did you get 
 yourself a warm wrap?" he asked. 
 
 She was looking out of the window, 
 and the line of her cheek flushed 
 swiftly. "No I " 
 
 "I want you to do it at once." 
 92
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 She glanced at him a little ques- 
 tioning look in her face. "I have 
 seen something I like " she said. 
 
 "Get it to-morrow. I will order it 
 for you when I go in." 
 
 Her hands made a gesture above 
 the bundles. "Please don't, Eldridge. 
 I would rather do it myself." 
 
 "Very well. But remember to get it." 
 
 "Yes I will get it." She sighed 
 softly. 
 
 Deceitful Rosalind! If he had not 
 seen for himself the box in the attic 
 with its overflowing soft colors and the 
 grey fur, he would not have believed 
 the deceit of her face. . . . 
 
 Not that he was blaming anybody. 
 He was not blaming Rosalind. The 
 picture of Mr. Eldridge Walcott re- 
 mained with him. ... He was not 
 
 93
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 likely to forget how Mr. Eldridge Wal- 
 cott had looked to him in the flash 
 of light. 
 
 Perhaps he looked like that to Rosa- 
 lind to both Rosalinds! Returned 
 a little in the seat and glanced down 
 at her Yes, they were both there 
 the plain little figure in its shabby 
 jacket and the reticent, beautiful wo- 
 man of the alcove. 
 
 The fingers in cheap gloves were 
 fussing at a parcel. "I got fleece-lined 
 shirts for Tommie his skin is so sen- 
 sitive I thought I would try fleece- 
 lined ones for him." 
 
 Damn fleece-lined ones! Would she 
 never talk to him except of undershirts 
 and coal-hods ? He took the paper 
 from his pocket and glanced casually 
 at it. 
 
 94
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 (C 
 
 'Has coal gone up?" she asked. 
 "They said it would go up if it 
 stayed cold." The anxious lines were 
 in her face. 
 
 He put down the paper and leaned 
 toward her. He felt nearer to her, in 
 a street car, than in his own home. 
 "Don't you worry about coal, Ros- 
 alind ! We shall not freeze nor 
 
 starve." 
 
 She stared a little. "Of course, we 
 shall not freeze, Eldridge!" 
 
 "I mean there is plenty to be 
 comfortable with. You are not to 
 worry and pinch." 
 
 A quick look flooded out at him 
 a look of the Rosalind within. "You 
 mean we can afford not to worry?" 
 
 He saw the prig Eldridge Walcott, 
 walking in serene knowledge of a com- 
 
 95
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 fortable income while the little lines 
 had gathered in her face. He longed 
 to kick the respectable Mr. Eldridge 
 Walcott from behind. 
 
 "There is quite enough money," he 
 said. "I am doing better than I have 
 and I shall do better yet." 
 
 She looked down at the bundles. "I 
 might have got a better quality," she 
 said. 
 
 "Take them all back," said Eldridge. 
 "I'll take them" 
 
 But she shook her head. "No, they 
 need them to-morrow and these will 
 do- She smiled at them. "It's 
 really more the feeling that you can 
 get better ones, isn't it? You don't 
 mind wearing old things if you know 
 you could have better ones if you 
 
 wanted to " She broke off vaguely. 
 96
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 He saw the box in the attic all 
 the filmy softness and he saw the ill- 
 fitting, cheap gloves resting in her 
 lap 
 
 That was what had saved her the 
 real Rosalind. Some one had seen that 
 her soul should be in its own clothes, 
 now and then, and happy and free. 
 You could not quite be jealous of a 
 man who had done that for you 
 who had clothed Rosalind's soul, could 
 you? 
 
 He could not think of the man 
 who had clothed Rosalind's soul who 
 had kept alive something that was pre- 
 cious. He could not hate the man. But 
 there was no place in his thoughts for 
 him. 
 
 Suppose, after all, Rosalind be- 
 longed to the man who saw her soul 
 
 97
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 and clothed it? Suppose Rosalind be- 
 longed to him ! . . . Very well he 
 should not have her! 
 
 He helped her from the car with her 
 bundles, and as he fitted the key in 
 the door the wind struck them fiercely; 
 they were almost blown in with the 
 force of it as the door opened. They 
 stood in the hall, laughing, safe the 
 
 wind shut out There was a quick 
 
 color in her face, and it lifted to him, 
 laughing freshly, like a girl's. 
 
 They were together. She had not 
 looked at him like that for years. 
 
 He pondered on the look as she went 
 about getting supper. He watched her 
 come and go and wondered awkwardly 
 whether he might not offer to go out 
 and help. He went at last into the 
 
 kitchen; she was putting coal on the 
 
 9 8
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 fire and he took the hod from her, 
 throwing on the coal. 
 
 She looked at him, puzzled. "Are 
 you in a hurry for supper, Eldridge?" 
 
 "Oh No." He went back to the 
 living-room, and talked a little with 
 the children, amusing them quietly. 
 He had a home sense, a feeling that 
 the room was a kind of presence; the 
 wind howling outside could not touch 
 them. 
 
 And when Rosalind came in and 
 they sat at the table and he looked 
 across to her shyly, almost like a boy, 
 he wished he knew what would please 
 her best. He could not keep his eyes 
 off her hand as it grasped the handle 
 of the teapot and poured his tea. It 
 seemed such a mysterious hand with 
 the roughened finger pricks and the 
 
 99
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 little gentle hand inside that did no 
 work. He wanted to take the hand, to 
 touch it. ... Of course, a man would 
 not take his wife's hand like that. 
 He could see the startled look in Rosa- 
 lind's eyes if he should reach out. . . . 
 There was a long road to travel and 
 he did not know the way. 
 
 But he could begin softly with 
 clothes and touch her hand later 
 perhaps. She should have beautiful 
 
 things He had told her to buy 
 
 the fur-lined coat. 
 
 He pictured her in it the coat that 
 his money should buy he saw her 
 wrapped in it, and he sat still thinking 
 of her and of the coat his money should 
 buy. Then the door opened and he 
 looked up. 
 
 She was standing in the door and
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 about her was a long grey coat lined 
 with fur the coat of the alcove. Her 
 eyes looked at him over the soft fur of 
 the collar. 
 
 He sprang to his feet then he 
 checked the word on his lip. 
 
 He must not let her speak. It was 
 the coat of the alcove. She would wear 
 it silently. But she would not tell 
 him. She must not be frightened into 
 saying something that was not true. 
 He came over to her and touched the 
 edge of the fur, as if questioning it, 
 and she smiled and opened it out. 
 "Is it warm enough?" she asked 
 proudly. 
 
 She stood with the garment ex- 
 tended like wings, and he held his 
 breath. 
 
 Then she drew it together softly. 
 
 101
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 "I have had it some time," she said. 
 "I was keeping it to surprise you!" 
 
 His breath came quick. How much 
 would she tell him? He looked at it 
 critically. "Was it a bargain?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No Not a bargain." And she 
 stroked the edge of the fur. "I saw it 
 and liked it and I got it." 
 
 "That 's right. That J s the way to 
 buy all your clothes." He looked at 
 it a minute lightly and turned away. 
 
 She could not have guessed from his 
 gesture that he was disappointed, but 
 her eyes followed him. "I hope you 
 won't think I paid too much for 
 it?" 
 
 "What did you pay?" he asked. 
 His back was toward her. 
 
 " I paid two hundred dollars," she
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 said. The words came lightly, and 
 there was a little pause. 
 
 "No, I don't think that was too 
 much." He had turned and was look- 
 ing at her straight. " I would have 
 paid more than two hundred to give 
 it to you," he said slowly. 
 
 She made no reply, but her eyes re- 
 garded him gravely over the edge of 
 the collar. Wrapped in the coat, she 
 seemed for a moment the woman of 
 the alcove. 
 
 He looked at her blindly. 
 
 She returned the look a minute 
 and turned away slowly and went out. 
 
 Eldridge walked to the table and 
 stood looking down. . . . He had 
 given her, in all, not more than two 
 hundred and fifty dollars. Did she 
 
 expect him to believe that all the 
 
 103
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 things that had come into the house 
 since had not cost more than fifty 
 dollars ? 
 
 It was as if she flaunted it at him 
 as if she wanted him to know that it 
 could not have been his money that 
 bought it! ... So that was it! She 
 had seen she had guessed the change 
 in him and this was her guard ? 
 She would force him to know to 
 accuse her. 
 
 Old Barstow's words came to him 
 mockingly: "No she will not con- 
 test it. She wants to be free." 
 
 104
 
 X 
 
 BUT if she wished him to know 
 she gave no other sign. 
 
 She spent the money that he gave 
 her, and when it was gone she asked 
 him for more. 
 
 Only once she had said as she took 
 it: "You are sure it is right for me to 
 spend this?" 
 
 And he had replied: "When you ask 
 for anything I cannot give you I will 
 let you know." 
 
 She had said nothing. She had not 
 even glanced at him. But somehow he 
 fancied that she understood him. 
 
 .He grew to know, by intuition, the 
 
 days when she would go to Merwin's. 
 105
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 As he left the house he would say: 
 "She will be there " And when he 
 dropped in, in the afternoon, he did 
 not even need to glance at the alcove 
 on the right. He would sit down 
 quietly in his place across the aisle, 
 glad to be with her. 
 
 He never saw her come and go and 
 he did not know whether any one was 
 with her behind her curtain. He 
 tried not to know. ... He was try- 
 ing to understand Rosalind. What 
 was it drew her? Was it music or 
 the quiet place? Or was there ? 
 
 He could easily have known. . . . 
 Gordon Barstow's detective would have 
 made sure for him in a day. . . . But 
 Eldridge did not want to know any- 
 thing that a detective could tell him. 
 He did not want to be told by detec- 
 
 106
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 tives or told things detectives could 
 tell. He was studying Rosalind's ev- 
 ery wish as if he were a boy. 
 
 He did not go to Merwin's till he 
 felt sure that she would be there in the 
 alcove, and he left before she drew the 
 little curtain and came out. He did 
 not want to know. ... He only 
 wanted her to be there and to sit 
 with her a little while, quietly. . . . 
 
 He would wait and understand. 
 
 A piano had come into the house 
 and the boys were taking lessons. 
 One day he discovered that Rosalind 
 was learning, too. 
 
 He had come home early, wondering 
 whether he would ask her to go for a 
 walk with him. He had asked her 
 
 once or twice and they had gone for a 
 
 107
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 little while before supper, walking aim- 
 lessly through the suburban streets, 
 saying very little; he had fancied that 
 Rosalind liked it but he could not 
 be sure. 
 
 He opened the door with his latch- 
 key and stepped in. Some one was 
 playing softly, stopping to sing a lit- 
 tle, and then playing again. . . . Ros- 
 alind was alone. 
 
 He stood very quiet in the dark hall; 
 only a little light from above the door 
 shining on the stair rail and on a 
 lamp that hung above it. ... She 
 was playing with the lightest touch 
 a few notes, as if feeling her way, and 
 then the little singing voice answering 
 it. ... So she was like this very 
 still and happy and he was shut 
 
 out. His hand groped behind him for 
 
 1 08
 
 So she was like this very still and happy and he was shut out
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 the latch and found it and opened 
 the door, and he stepped outside and 
 closed the door softly. 
 
 He stood a moment in the wind. 
 Behind his door he heard the music 
 playing to itself. . . . 
 
 He walked for a long time that 
 afternoon along the dull streets, 
 staring at brick houses and at children 
 running past him on brick walks. . . . 
 It was all brick walks and long rows 
 of houses and dulness; he could not 
 reach Rosalind. He could buy clothes 
 for her more bricks . . . and there 
 was the music his mind halted 
 and went on. 
 
 Music made her happy like that! 
 He bought an evening paper and stud- 
 ied it awhile, standing by the news- 
 stand, with the cars and taxis shooting 
 109
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 past. Presently he folded the paper 
 and took a car that was going toward 
 town. There was something he could 
 do for Rosalind something that no 
 one had thought of something that 
 she would like! 
 
 He was as eager and as ignorant as 
 a boy, standing in front of the barred 
 ticket window and looking in. 
 
 "Tickets for the Symphony?" The 
 man glanced out at him. "House 
 sold out." 
 
 Eldridge stared back. "You mean 
 I cannot get them!" 
 
 "Something may come in. You can 
 leave your name." The man pushed 
 paper and pencil toward him. 
 
 Eldridge wrote his name slowly. 
 "I want good ones." 
 
 "Can't say " said the man. 
 
 no
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 "There are six ahead of you " He 
 took up the paper and made a note. 
 
 Eldridge stepped outside. A man 
 looked at him and moved up, falling 
 into step beside him. "I have a 
 couple of tickets " he said softly. 
 
 He did not know that he was speak- 
 ing to a man on a quest, a man who 
 would have paid whatever he might 
 ask for the slips of paper in his hand 
 They were not mere symphony tick- 
 ets he sold. They were tickets to the 
 fields of the sun. He asked five dol- 
 lars for them; he might have got 
 fifty. 
 
 Eldridge slipped them into his 
 pocket. He stepped back into the 
 hall. "I shall not need those tickets," 
 he said. 
 
 The man in the window glanced at
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 him, indifferent, and crossed out a 
 name. 
 
 All the way home Eldridge's heart 
 laughed. Would she like it ? ... She 
 had played so softly . . . she would 
 listen like that and he would be 
 with her. ... He could not keep 
 the tickets in his pocket. He took 
 them out and looked at them two, 
 plain blue slips with a few black marks 
 on them. . . . And he had thought 
 of it himself! It was not Mr. El- 
 dridge Walcott's money that bought 
 them for her. . . . Would she un- 
 derstand it was not money ? 
 
 She took them from him with half- 
 pleased face " For the Symphony ? " 
 she said. 
 
 "I thought you might we 
 might like it " 
 
 112
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 She looked at them a minute. "I 
 never went to a symphony " 
 
 "Nor I" He laughed a little. 
 "I thought we might try it." 
 
 She was still regarding them thought- 
 fully. " I haven't anything to wear 
 have I ?" She looked up with the 
 wrinkled line between her eyes. 
 
 "Wear your " He checked it 
 on his tongue. "Get something 
 There 's a week, you know. You can 
 get something, can't you?" 
 
 "Yes, if you think I ought - 
 
 "Of course get what you need." 
 
 She waited thoughtfully. ... "I 
 have a dress that might do with 
 a little changing " she said. 
 
 He saw with a flash, suddenly, the 
 dark attic above them and a man 
 on his knees staring down at the grey 
 
 "3
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 and shimmering whiteness. "Better 
 get something new, wouldn't you?" 
 said Eldridge. 
 
 " Perhaps I will think about 
 
 it. 53 
 
 He could not have told which he 
 
 wished But when, the night of the 
 
 concert, she came down to him wearing 
 the grey dress and long grey gloves, 
 with the lace falling softly back he 
 knew in the flash, as he looked at her, 
 that he was glad. . . . 
 
 She was buttoning one of the gloves 
 and the long grey coat hung from her 
 arm. She did not look up. 
 
 He took it from her and wrapped 
 her in it. 
 
 They were going to another world 
 together. She was going with 
 
 him. 
 
 114
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 There was a little, quiet flush in her 
 face as she sat in the car. Other peo- 
 ple were going to the concert, and she 
 looked at them as they came in and 
 sat down. 
 
 And Eldridge looked at Rosalind. 
 He did not speak to her. . . . They 
 were going to a new world and 
 the car was taking them. . . . Bits 
 of talk color drifting fragrance 
 as the coats fell back. . . . The wo- 
 man across the aisle had a bunch of 
 violets. . . . 
 
 Why had he not thought to get 
 violets for Rosalind! Would she have 
 liked flowers ? She seemed a strange 
 Rosalind, sitting beside him in the car 
 in her grey dress her eyes like little 
 stars. . . . They had three children 
 . . . and a brick house. . . .
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 The car jolted on. Eldridge would 
 have wished that it might never stop. 
 . . . There would not be another 
 night like this. He could put out his 
 hand and touch mystery. . . . Then 
 he was helping her over the crowded 
 street and they were in the hall 
 with flowers everywhere and some- 
 thing close about you that touched 
 you when you moved. 
 
 For years afterward he looked back 
 to that Symphony with Rosalind. He 
 had come blindly to a door as 
 blindly as, when a boy, he had walked 
 in the moonlight and they had gone 
 in together. They were like children 
 in its strangeness. And as children ex- 
 plore a new field, they went forward. 
 It belonged to them the lights and 
 
 116
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 people, and vibrations everywhere. . . . 
 They would go till they came to the 
 end but there would be no end 
 always hills stretching beyond, and a 
 wood something deep, mysterious 
 in that wood. . . . They came to it 
 softly, looking in, and turned back. . . . 
 Once Rosalind had turned and looked 
 at him. 
 
 He held that fast through the 
 weeks and months that went by, 
 through the dull brick streets, he held 
 it fast for a moment the hidden 
 Rosalind had come to her window and 
 looked out at him and smiled be- 
 fore she turned away. 
 
 117
 
 XI 
 
 THE next day Gordon Barstow had 
 come to see him. The divorce 
 had dragged on. It had not been con- 
 tested, but there had been delays and 
 consultations and Eldridge had come 
 to know Gordon Barstow well. 
 
 He had a kind of keen, vicarious pity 
 for Barstow. Sometimes, as he talked 
 with him and the simple lovableness 
 of the man's nature came up through 
 the uncouthness, he wondered whether 
 Gordon Barstow might not have re- 
 gained his wife if he had been de- 
 termined. But he had let her go; and 
 after the first day he had seemed to 
 take a kind of pleasure in the proceed- 
 ings. 
 
 118
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 "I've been foolish about her," he 
 said, sitting in Eldridge's office. " But 
 I don't want her to suffer because I Ve 
 been foolish and I want to make her 
 an allowance a good one. I don't 
 want Cordelia should ever be poor." 
 
 Eldridge looked at him. "Won't 
 Tower take care of that?" he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 The old man seemed to hold it 
 "He '11 mean to. He 's honest toward 
 her. I shouldn't let him marry her if 
 he wasn't straight. But I want Cor- 
 delia provided for." 
 
 And Eldridge suddenly saw that he 
 was thinking of her as a man thinks 
 of his daughter protectingly. The 
 soreness seemed to have gone out of 
 his hurt. And there was something 
 
 big in his attitude toward the two who 
 119
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 had wronged him. " Cordelia *s only a 
 child," he said. "I don't believe I 'd 
 V minded so much if they 'd trusted 
 me. It 's that that hurts, I guess 
 thinking of the times they must V lied 
 and I not knowing enough to see 
 anything was wrong." 
 
 Yes it was that that hurt the 
 times Rosalind had slipped away from 
 him, before he knew when he hadn't 
 eyes enough to see. He did not mind 
 that she went to Merwin's. Some- 
 times he was impatient that she did 
 not go oftener. He would watch ea- 
 gerly for the look in her face that 
 told him that to-day was a Merwin 
 day. ... He did not mind her going, 
 now that he knew. It was the not 
 knowing that hurt. 
 
 Sometimes, lately, he had begun to
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 wonder whether Rosalind knew that 
 he was there, whether she guessed who 
 it was that came through the swinging 
 doors and sat across the aisle, always 
 a little behind her, and went away be- 
 fore she left her place. . . . He liked 
 to fancy that she knew and did 
 not mind. 
 
 Men and women were not so small 
 as he had made them in his thought. 
 There was room in them generally for 
 life to turn round. 
 
 It was this that Gordon Barstow 
 had taught him, he thought. He 
 watched the old man's simple prepa- 
 rations to make Cordelia "well off" 
 with quiet understanding. It was not 
 reparation with him; it was only a 
 steady, clear intention in the old man's 
 thought that the woman he had loved 
 
 121
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 and who had gone from him should 
 not suffer. ... "I might have kept 
 her if I 'd understood quick enough, 
 I guess. I 'm slow about women," 
 he said. 
 
 Then one day he came into the office. 
 Eldridge had sent him word that there 
 were last papers to sign and the 
 business would be done. He came in 
 slowly, a little pinched with the cold. 
 The wart in the grey-black beard had 
 a bluish look. Eldridge had learned 
 not to look at the half-hidden lump of 
 flesh. He had fancied one day, as his 
 eye rested on it, that the man shrank 
 a little. He had been surprised and 
 he had never looked at it again. It 
 was the curious bluish look to-day 
 that caught his eye an instant. 
 
 The old man signed the papers and 
 
 122
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 pushed them back. "Well, I'm glad 
 it 's done." He sat looking at them 
 a minute. "It 's taught me more than 
 I ever knew before," he said. He 
 lifted his eyes a minute to Eldridge. 
 " I Ve learned things thinking about 
 it and about her " 
 
 He sat without speaking a little 
 time. He had come to trust Eldridge, 
 and he seemed to like to sit quiet like 
 this, at times, without speaking. "I 
 saw a woman to-day," he said, "that 
 made me understand more than 
 Cordelia has a woman in at Mer- 
 win's " 
 
 Eldridge leaned forward 
 "She was sitting there alone," said 
 the old man, " and I see her face - 
 one of these quiet faces not old and 
 
 not young. I could 'a' loved her if I 'd 
 
 123
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 known her when I was younger I 
 see how she was she sat so quiet 
 there. Well" he got up and reached 
 for his hat "you Ve seen me through. 
 Thank you for what you Ve done." 
 And then he went out and Eldridge 
 looked at his watch Too late. 
 She would be gone. It was the first 
 time he had missed heir since he 
 knew. He had not thought that Bar- 
 stow's business would take so long. 
 He gathered up the papers, filing cer- 
 tain ones and addressing others to be 
 mailed. ... He should miss the old 
 man. He had a feeling underneath 
 his thought, as he sorted the papers 
 and filed them, that he was glad Bar- 
 stow had sat so long even though he 
 had missed Rosalind. ... He had 
 
 seemed to want to stay. 
 124
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 Eldridge filed the last of the papers 
 and looked again at his watch. It 
 was late, but not too late, he decided, 
 to begin the piece of work that had 
 been put off for nearly a week. He be- 
 came absorbed in it, and it was seven 
 o'clock before he left the office. 
 
 The newsboys were shouting extras 
 as he came out and he put one 
 in his pocket. He did not open it. 
 Some one took a seat by him in the car 
 and they talked till the car reached 
 home. Then the children claimed him; 
 and after supper he talked a little 
 while with Rosalind. 
 
 There was a maid now in the kitchen 
 and Rosalind's hands, he was think- 
 ing, as they lay in her lap, were not 
 red and roughened; they had a deli- 
 cate look. She sat sometimes without 
 125
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 any sewing in them or any fussy work 
 talking with him or sitting quiet. 
 The first time she had sat so, without 
 speaking, he had felt as if the silence 
 were calling out shouting his hap- 
 piness telling the world that Rosa- 
 lind trusted him. 
 
 He opened the paper and glanced at 
 it and ^dropped it as if he were 
 seeing something. 
 
 She looked up. "What is it?" she 
 asked. 
 
 He took it up again slowly. "It's 
 a man I know Gordon Barstow. 
 They found him dead in his car 
 this afternoon. It J s some one you 
 never knew." 
 
 126
 
 XII 
 
 WEEKS passed and she had not 
 gone to Merwin's. For a while 
 Eldridge watched her face and waited 
 for the Merwin look to come. . . . 
 Then he forgot it for weeks he did 
 not think of it. There had been an- 
 other concert; they had gone to a play 
 and then to another; and as the spring 
 came on he took her for long drives 
 into the country; sometimes they went 
 with the children, but more often alone. 
 They drove far out in the country and 
 came back at early dusk, the brick 
 houses softly outlined about them. 
 She could not fail to see that he was 
 
 devoted to her. Sometimes he brought 
 
 127
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 a flower and left it on her table; he 
 never gave it to her directly, and there 
 was no response to it. Beyond the 
 one quiet look at the concert, she had 
 given no sign only that now she 
 would sit with him silent, a long time, 
 as if she did not repel him. 
 
 He was working hard and the busi- 
 ness had grown. A new class of clients 
 was coming to him men with big 
 interests and the work often kept 
 him late at the office. Sometimes he 
 would take supper in town and work 
 far into the evening. 
 
 It was late in June that he came 
 home one night and found her sitting 
 alone in the porch a shadowy fig- 
 ure as he came up the brick walk. 
 
 The day had been warm, but the 
 
 air had grown cool now and the moon 
 
 128
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 glimmered over the houses and roofs 
 and on the few trees and shrubs in the 
 yard. 
 
 They sat a long time in the porch, 
 talking of the children and of the work 
 he had stayed for and a little about 
 going away for the summer; they had 
 never been away in the summer, but 
 they were going next week. He had 
 tried to send her earlier, when the 
 children were through school, but she 
 had waited, and he had arranged for 
 them all to get away together. 
 
 The moon rose high over the roofs 
 and picked out the little lines of vines 
 on the porch and touched her face 
 and hair. She was wearing a light 
 dress, something filmy, that was half 
 in shadow, and his eyes traced the 
 
 lines of it. She was always myste- 
 129
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 rious, but often now as he looked at 
 her he felt that her guard was down. 
 There were only a few steps more 
 to cross he began to wonder if he 
 should ever take them to-night per- 
 haps? Or was he not, after all, the 
 man to win her? 
 
 She did not hold him back. It was 
 something in him that waited. He 
 watched, through the moonlight, the 
 vine shadows on her face and he 
 remembered the night when she lay 
 asleep and he had watched her face 
 the stranger's face close to him 
 . . . and a boy and girl stood in the 
 moonlight and looked at him mist- 
 ily and drew back and his wife 
 swayed a little, rocking in her chair, 
 and her shadow moved on the floor. . . . 
 
 If he should speak to her now 
 
 130
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 what would she do? Would the gen- 
 tle rocking cease? . . . 
 
 Then, slowly, a face grew before him. 
 He watched it shape and fade with 
 its grimness and kindness and a look 
 of pain that lay behind it old Bar- 
 stow' s face ! . . . He knew now he 
 had come out of the moonlight. . . . 
 To-morrow he would speak to Rosa- 
 lind face to face, in the clear light 
 of every day. . . . The wonder of life 
 was hidden in the sun not in half 
 lights or moonlight. . . . He was 
 not afraid now. They would go for a 
 long drive and he would tell her in 
 the sun. 
 
 But when he looked at her in the 
 morning he knew that he was not to 
 
 take her with him out into the coun- 
 131
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 try. It was the Merwin look a lit- 
 tle look of quiet intentness as if she 
 dreamed and would not wake. . . . 
 
 He looked at it and turned away. 
 He had not seen the look for weeks, 
 but he knew that he should find her 
 there when he pushed open the swing- 
 ing doors and went in. 
 
 The curtains were drawn a little 
 back and he knew, before he sat down, 
 that she was there waiting for some 
 one. . . . He had never seen her like 
 this he had not been sure. He had 
 put the thought from him when it 
 came. But now he knew she was 
 there waiting for some one, full of hap- 
 piness. . . . He knew her so well! 
 She could not have a happiness he did 
 not share and no one should hurt 
 
 her! His hands half clinched. 
 
 132
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 He had not thought she would come 
 again. . . . Why had she come? 
 And this was his day under the 
 sky! . . . He had not thought this 
 day she would come to Merwin's! 
 
 Then he waited with her. What- 
 ever Rosalind chose she should not 
 separate herself from him or from 
 love. . . . He would wait with her 
 and be glad with her. . . . The strange 
 face the moonlight face did not 
 shut him out now. . . . 
 
 The swinging doors opened and 
 closed and the man and the woman 
 waited. 
 
 The curtains to her alcove were 
 closed; she had reached a hand to 
 them and drawn them together. . . . 
 But she could not shut herself away; 
 
 he could see her as clearly as if he were 
 
 133
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 there with her the bent head and 
 gentle face. The curtains should not 
 shut him out. 
 
 He could not have told when it was 
 that it came to him He lifted his 
 head a minute and looked at it. ... 
 She was there waiting for some one 
 she had been waiting, a long time, in 
 her alcove and he had not stirred ! 
 
 He got up slowly and looked across 
 to the green curtain He moved 
 toward it and put out his hand and 
 
 drew back the curtain. . . . She 
 was looking up, smiling " You were 
 
 a long time!" she said. 
 
 Her hand motioned to the seat across 
 the table but he did not take it. 
 He stood looking down at her 
 
 He laid his hat on the table and bent 
 
 and kissed her. 
 
 134
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 Her lip trembled a little but she did 
 not speak. 
 
 He sat down in the chair opposite 
 
 and looked at her "Well?" 
 
 he said. 
 
 She shook the tears from her eyes 
 and smiled through them. "It was a 
 long while!" she said. 
 
 135
 
 XIII 
 
 THE man and the woman in the 
 alcove on the right had been 
 talking a long while. Three times the 
 waiter had looked in and withdrawn. 
 If he had stopped long enough he 
 would have seen that it seemed to 
 be the woman who was talking. The 
 man sat silent, one hand shading his 
 eyes and the eyes looking out at her 
 as she talked. 
 
 The waiter knew the woman. He 
 had served her many times. He 
 remembered very well the first day 
 she came to Merwin's a year ago 
 more than a year, perhaps. She was 
 
 alone, and she had stood just inside the 
 
 136
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 swinging door looking about her as 
 if she were not used to places like 
 Merwin's or as if she were afraid. 
 Something had made him think that 
 she was looking for some one and he 
 had shown her into the third alcove on 
 the right. But no one had come that 
 day. She had come again many times 
 since, and always alone, and there was 
 always a coin on the table in the third 
 alcove waiting for him. 
 
 The waiter was a little disappointed 
 to-day. . . . He knew the man - 
 Eldridge Walcott a lawyer a good 
 enough sort; but the waiter somehow 
 felt that they had not met until to- 
 day, He had served them both alone 
 but not together until to-day. . . . 
 He pushed aside the curtain and looked 
 
 in. 
 
 137
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 She was still talking. . . . The man 
 made a little gesture of refusal, and he 
 withdrew. . . . 
 
 "It was when Tom sent me the five 
 hundred " the waiter heard her say 
 as the curtain fell in place. 
 
 The man in the alcove behind the 
 curtain was looking at her "When 
 did Tom send you five hundred?" 
 
 "A year ago a little more than a 
 year, I think " She paused to think 
 it out. " He had not sent us anything, 
 you know not since little Tom was 
 born ?" She was looking at him, 
 straight 
 
 His own look did not flinch. "I 
 know I put it into the business 
 called it investing it for Tommie 
 at six per cent." 
 
 She nodded. "Tom never liked it. 
 
 138
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 I suppose mother told him that we 
 had not used it to buy things with 
 the way he meant us to." 
 
 "For things you needed,'* said the 
 man. "I know I knew then but 
 I took it." He did not excuse himself 
 
 and his eyes did not look away from 
 her. "I was blind," he said softly. 
 
 "That was what Tom wrote when 
 he sent the five hundred. He said 
 that I must spend it on myself or 
 return it to him. . . . And that I was 
 to tell him just what I bought with it 
 
 every penny of it " She waited 
 a minute. 
 
 "Did he say anything else?" asked 
 the man. "Better tell me everything,, 
 wouldn't you Rosalind?" 
 
 "He said that he was not setting 
 
 Eldridge Walcott up in business," she 
 139
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 added after a little minute and she 
 smiled at him tenderly. 
 
 Eldridge returned the look "We 
 don't mind now." 
 
 "No." . . . They were silent a few 
 minutes. "I thought at first I 
 would send it back. I wrote to Tom 
 how many things we needed for the 
 house and the children and for 
 everything " 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He asked me if you would let me 
 spend it for the house and for the chil- 
 dren and for everything if you knew 
 about it?" 
 
 The man's eyes were looking at Mr. 
 Eldridge Walcott, regarding him im- 
 partially. "I am glad that you did 
 not let me know." 
 
 "Yes. I sent it back once. But 
 
 140
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 Tom wrote again all about when we 
 were children and when he gave me 
 the biggest bites of candy and filled 
 my pail up to the top when we went 
 
 berrying He said it was what had 
 
 made a man of him keeping my pail 
 full." 
 
 Eldridge winced a little. But she 
 did not stop. "He said he wanted me 
 to spend the money for the little girl 
 he knew. 
 
 " I didn't spend it not for a long 
 time, you know. But I kept it and I 
 looked at it sometimes and won- 
 dered. . . . Then one day I saw a 
 dress that I liked. I thought it was 
 like me, a little ?" She looked at 
 him 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " So I got it and that was the end, 
 141
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 I guess." She laughed tremulously. 
 "Everything kept coming after that. 
 The dress seemed to make me need 
 
 everything!" She spread out her 
 hands. 
 
 Then she sat thinking and look- 
 ing at the dress that needed every- 
 thing. "I wore it at first just at home 
 
 when I was alone. I would put it 
 on and sit down and fold my hands 
 and think of things . . . about Tom 
 and about being a little girl and 
 about mother. I was always rested 
 when I took it off ... and when the 
 children came in from school and you 
 came home, I could bear things bet- 
 ter." . . . 
 
 He reached out a hand and touched 
 hers where it lay on the table. . . . 
 
 He had said that he should touch it 
 142
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 some time. He stroked it a minute 
 and she went on. 
 
 "Then I came here " She made a 
 little gesture. "I didn't know what 
 it was like I didn't even know there 
 was a place like this." She glanced 
 around the alcove that sheltered them 
 with its folds of green curtain 
 "But as soon as I came, I knew I 
 should come again. I knew it would 
 take care of me the way Tom wanted 
 for me. So I spent the money." She 
 lifted the little linked purse from 
 the table she laughed. "Only fifty 
 cents left You 're here just in 
 time!" 
 
 Eldridge held out his hand. "Give 
 it to me." 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 "I want it yes. Aren't you will- 
 
 143
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 ing to give me fifty cents of your 
 five hundred?" 
 
 She handed it to him with a little 
 sigh of relief. 
 
 He took it and balanced it thought- 
 fully in his hand "Why did you 
 come to-day?" he asked. 
 
 "This is my anniversary day." 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 She nodded as if she saw a vision. 
 "It is a year to-day that I came here 
 
 the first time." 
 
 "Alone ?" The word breathed 
 itself and stopped, and Eldridge put 
 out a hand. "Don't tell me! I did 
 not ask it." 
 
 "Don't you know?" She was look- 
 ing at him. 
 
 : 'Yes, I know. I do not understand 
 
 but I know." 
 
 144
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 She smiled and sat silent. ... "I 
 was frightened to come!" It seemed 
 as if she were looking at the strange- 
 ness of it. " I was afraid the first 
 day" 
 
 "You should have asked me to 
 come," he urged. 
 
 "Would you have come?" 
 
 "No --not then." 
 
 "And I had to come! I could not 
 wait and there was no one. . . . 
 You would not have come not even 
 if I had waited." 
 
 "No I should not have come 
 except to find you. . . . Tell me, 
 have you never been afraid of me 
 of what I would do?" 
 
 "The first day yes I was ter- 
 ribly frightened when you came in 
 and sat over there," she moved her 
 us
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 hand. "I wanted to scream out to 
 go to you and tell you what it meant, 
 and beg you not to be angry. ... I 
 had never done anything without you 
 before. I was like a child! Then you 
 went out and I hurried home. I tore 
 off the things. I did not mind your 
 knowing. I only wanted you to un- 
 derstand. I was afraid you might not 
 
 understand." 
 "I didn't" 
 
 " No I know. But after a while 
 
 I knew you were trying to. ... 
 Then I knew that some day we should 
 be here together." 
 
 The little alcove seemed to expand 
 and become a wide place Eldridge 
 caught a glimpse of something fine and 
 sincere it passed like a breath over 
 
 her face and was gone. 
 146
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 She lifted the face "I have waited 
 for it," she said. "I have prayed for 
 it every day, I think/' Her lips barely 
 moved the words "I did not want 
 to feel alone here." 
 
 He pushed back the curtain and 
 beckoned to the waiter. "We will 
 drink to the day," he said. 
 
 Eldridge gave his order and looked 
 on, smiling, while the waiter placed 
 the slender-necked flask on the table 
 and brought out the glasses and with- 
 drew. 
 
 They lifted the glasses. "To the 
 day you left me," he said. "And 
 to the day I followed you," he added 
 slowly. 
 
 The glass paused in her hand. " That 
 was the Symphony ?" 
 
 ''Yes And to your anniversary!" 
 147
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 She set down the glass. " I have not 
 told you everything. It was not 
 my anniversary made me come 
 to-day." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 She shook her head. "I came to 
 meet you!" she said. 
 
 He looked at her slowly "And 
 when did you know that I would 
 come?" he asked. 
 
 " Last night in the moonlight. I 
 was so afraid you would speak there 
 in the moon! I did not want the moon 
 to get in," she said. "I wanted you to 
 speak in real, plain daylight and 
 then, of course, you know, it 's Tom's 
 gown and not the moon. Everybody 
 has the moon!" she laughed. 
 
 "This is a very little place, this al- 
 cove," said Eldridge. He was looking 
 148
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 about him at the green walls of the 
 alcove thinking of the sun and the 
 fields and of the road up through 
 the hills 
 
 " But it 's where I went berrying 
 with Tom," she laughed. 
 
 He smiled at her. "Then it is as big 
 as the world and the sun and all 
 the fields of the sun!" he said. 
 
 Outside the curtain the music tin- 
 kled dimly, and there was a lower 
 music still of all the glasses and words 
 and there was a silence in the al- 
 
 cove. 
 
 (C 
 
 So there has never been any one 
 any one but me " he said, "in your 
 alcove!" He was looking at her hap- 
 
 "No." Her lip waited on it 
 
 and closed. "There was some one " 
 149
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 she spoke slowly. "It seems a queer 
 thing to tell. It had no beginning and 
 no end!" She waited, still looking at 
 it. ... "It was a man an old man 
 that used to sit over there to the 
 left, at a table by himself. I could 
 see him through the curtains. Even 
 when they were almost closed I could 
 see him. He always sat there, and 
 always alone. ... I did not notice 
 him at first. ... I do not think 
 any one would have noticed him at 
 first. He was almost ugly or he 
 seemed ugly." She was smiling at her 
 thought. . . . "And one day sud- 
 denly I saw him as he really was, as 
 he was inside very gentle and strong 
 and wise and not wanting to hurt 
 any one or to let any one suffer more 
 than they had to. I knew, some way,
 
 IN THE ALCOVE 
 
 if I should go up to him and speak to 
 him, that he would understand me 
 and help me. I should have liked to 
 speak to him. Of course it is really the 
 same as if I did." . . . She seemed 
 thinking of it. " But I didn't. I never 
 saw him more than a dozen times, I 
 suppose. But I used to think about 
 him, and it helped me. I should have 
 trusted him anywhere and been will- 
 ing to go with him anywhere in the 
 world. I don't believe he was very 
 clever but it rested me to think of 
 him just as a big, homely field rests 
 you and the way the music did 
 that first night when we knew each 
 other- -" 
 
 After a minute she went on. "I 
 have not seen him for a long time. 
 He stopped coming suddenly. . . .
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 There was one day when he went 
 out he looked at me. I almost 
 thought he would stop. ... I was 
 frightened and glad ! And he went 
 on. I have not seen him since. . . ." 
 
 Outside the glasses and plates clicked. 
 The violin sounded softly through the 
 murmuring words. "And yet there 
 was nothing to tell him," she said, "ex- 
 cept that I was waiting for you." 
 
 He looked in her eyes Far 
 within them something was coming 
 to him the sun lay on a thousand 
 fields, and the little alcove was very 
 still. 
 
 152
 
 A 000132273 4