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.
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 trying 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—anything that a detective could tell him. he did not want to be told by detectives or told things detectives could tell. he was studying rosalind’s every 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 little while before supper, walking aimlessly 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 latchkey and stepped in. some one was playing softly, stopping to sing a little, and then playing again.... rosalind 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 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 studied it awhile, standing by the newsstand, with the cars and taxis shooting 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.
“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 speaking 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 tickets he sold. they were tickets to the fields of the sun. he asked five dollars 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 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 understand 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—”
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 thoughtfully. “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 and shimmering whiteness. “better get something new, wouldn’t you?” said eldridge.
“perhaps—i will think—about it.”
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.
there was a little, quiet flush in her face as she sat in the car. other people 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 woman 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 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 something 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 explore a new field, they went forward. it belonged to them—the lights and 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—before she turned away.
