the next day gordon barstow had come to see him. the divorce had dragged on. it had not been contested, 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 regained his wife—if he had been determined. but he had let her go; and after the first day he had seemed to take a kind of pleasure in the proceedings.
“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 suggested.
the old man seemed to hold it—“he’ll mean to. he’s honest toward her. i shouldn’t let him marry her if he wasn’t straight. but i want cordelia 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 had wronged him. “cordelia’s only a child,” he said. “i don’t believe i’d ’a’ minded so much—if they’d trusted me. it’s that that hurts, i guess—thinking of the times they must ’a’ 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. sometimes he was impatient that she did not go oftener. he would watch eagerly 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 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 before 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 preparations 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 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 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 merwins.”—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 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 her—since he knew. he had not thought that barstow’s business would take so long. he gathered up the papers, filing certain 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 barstow had sat so long even though he had missed rosalind.... he had seemed to want to stay.
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 became 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 thinking, as they lay in her lap, were not red and roughened; they had a delicate look. she sat sometimes without 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 happiness—telling the world that rosalind 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’s some one you never knew.”
