ROSALIE VINCENT
A throng of pilgrims to the Yellowstone was emptying out of the cars
upon the platform at Gardiner. The spectacular six-horse coaches were
in waiting, and the customary competition and struggle for the outside
seats began. Mrs. Bruce was wild-eyed in her determination to sit near
the driver, and Irving turned to Betsy, who spoke promptly:—
“Never mind me, Mr. Irving. Just go up top with Mrs. Bruce. I’ll go
inside.”
Which plan was accordingly carried out; and Mrs. Bruce was ensconced
to her satisfaction where she could ask questions alternately of the
driver and her son.
The jingling, gay teams started, and wound up the ascending road under
a vast sky above the encircling hills and mountains. As they passed the
Eagle’s Nest Mrs. Bruce had her first qualm as to Betsy. Upon being
told that the high-placed bundle of sticks perched on a cliff was
indeed the domicile of the king of birds, she exclaimed:—
“Oh, Irving, couldn’t you stoop over and call down to Betsy to put
her head out? That is such a purely American sight, and Betsy is so
American!”
But Irving, objecting to this contortion, diverted his companion’s
attention.
As for Betsy, she preferred the seclusion from the sight of the six
horses so dexterously tooled along the road, and felt that she saw all
the scenery she cared for despite the roof of the stage. Miss Foster
must have had an excellent conscience; she always accepted with such
contentment her own society.
There was a chatter of voices in her ears from the other occupants of
the stage, but her eyes rested absently on hillside and waterfall while
she thought of Fairport and the deserted cottage whose condition was
still far from satisfying her. Her thoughts roved, too, as they often
did, to Rosalie Vincent. What was the girl doing, out in the world
unprotected?
It seemed but a short time to Betsy before the coach swung around the
circle in front of the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel, and the passengers
poured from the vehicle, watched by other crowds on the hotel piazza,
who half resented the arrival of newcomers, for at this season food
and beds were at a premium.
Irving had looked out for the comfort of his party, and Mrs. Bruce’s
room satisfied her. They spent the day in the customary visits to
beautiful terraces of heavenly tints built by boiling-hot scanty
waterfalls, and at night laid them down to slumber well contented.
In a remote room of the hotel a young girl, after her evening’s
experience of standing upon her feet long hours, waiting upon hungry
hordes of sightseers, was hastening to get ready for her night’s rest,
when the handle of her door was turned, and then as if some one outside
was impatient of its resistance, it was shaken with energy.
The half-disrobed occupant of the room ran to hold the door.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
A sharp girlish voice replied imperatively, “It’s me! Open the door
quick!”
“You’ve made a mistake in the room,” returned the girl inside. “This is
mine.”
“Is it, indeed!” shrilly. “Well, I guess if you don’t open this door
pretty quick, I’ll have you sent flying!”
At which threat in the sharp voice, the girl inside opened the door
and viewed in astonishment the stormy-eyed young person who entered,
beginning to pull out hairpins from her lofty pompadour as she came.
“What did you think you were? A lay-over?” she demanded scornfully.
The other girl, her fair hair falling in ripples about her bare neck
and arms, closed the door and regarded the newcomer with wide eyes.
“Is it your room, too?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” snapped the other, “and I hope it won’t be any more
disagreeable for you than it is for me.”
“Oh—oh—of course not,” returned the fair one. “I only thought it was so
small—and the bed is so narrow—and I didn’t know—”
“Well,” returned the other, somewhat mollified, and with a yawn, “I
saw down in the dining-room to-night that you were a green-horn. We’re
mighty lucky not to be in a bigger room with half-a-dozen girls. My
name’s Miss Hickey. What’s yours?”
“Rosalie Vincent,” responded the fair one, still standing rooted to
her place while Miss Hickey removed a mammoth rat from her hair, and
eclipsed with it one side of the wash-stand, which was dresser as well.
“Better get to bed, Miss Vincent. You’ll have plenty of chances to
stare at me, and you look as tired as I feel. I stayed down to help the
pearl-divers awhile to-night.”
“Pearl-divers?” echoed Rosalie.
“Yes. Dish-washers, Greenie. I’m a heaver like yourself; but we all
have to turn in and help each other, once in a while. This is my third
season. My first I waited on the sagebrushers.”
“Who are they?” asked Rosalie, overawed by so much sophistication.
“Campers; but I like the hotels best. The dudes are more my style.”
“What did you call me a few minutes ago? A lay-over?” asked Rosalie.
“Yes, those are the swells that stay more than one night. They’re the
princes of the Yellowstone and they have to pay like princes, too. All
their dishes washed separately, separate food, separate everything. I
thought you must think you were one to have a room all to yourself.”
Miss Hickey here completed her hasty night-toilet and jumped into bed.
“Come along, child. I’ll make myself small against the wall.”
“Indeed, I’m not a lay-over,” said Rosalie, now hastening to follow the
other’s example. “I’m to be sent on with the crowd to-morrow.”
“So am I,” returned the other, with nasal sleepiness; “and I’m darned
sorry, too. I like the swatties here better than at any post.”
“Swatties?” echoed Rosalie helplessly.
“Soldiers, Greenie,” drawled Miss Hickey. “You’ll see a lot more of ’em
before you see less. Now I ain’t goin’ to say another word to-night.”
And Miss Hickey kept her word. Her sleep was as energetic as her
waking; and Rosalie listened to her heavy breathing and stared
wide-eyed into the darkness.
She had recognized the Bruce party at the evening meal. She had not
been obliged to wait on them, and knew herself unobserved. But the
discovery had excited her very much. Mrs. Bruce had been right when she
said that Rosalie’s was the artistic temperament. The independence,
caution, and reserve of the New Englander were not her characteristics.
She longed for companionship and some one with whom to sympathize
in the present predicament; for predicament she felt it to be. How
extraordinary that this should be the summer chosen by the Bruces for
their visit to the National Park.
She thought of the irreverent punctuation which made a well-known
quotation read: “There is a divinity which shapes our ends rough, hew
them as we may.”
She had believed Mrs. Bruce to be in Europe, and though that lady’s
natural preoccupation there explained the ignoring of her protégée’s
painstaking letters, it did not excuse it, or leave Rosalie the
slightest hope that her benefactress continued to feel an interest in
her. The fact was a hurt to the grateful girl, and the ever-present
consciousness of it gave her a reason for desiring to leave Fairport,
where the Bruces would return. This sensitiveness would not have
induced her to leave Mrs. Pogram, had the latter’s brother not made her
stay unendurable, but it was a secret reason for being glad to escape.
Perhaps Mrs. Bruce and her son would not remember her at all; but she
could not expect to escape Betsy Foster’s recognition. So she lay there
awake; at one moment longing for Mrs. Pogram’s kindly, invertebrate
protection, and wishing that Mrs. Bruce had never opened to her another
world; and again feeling the fire of ambition to repay that lady every
cent she had ever spent upon her. Rosalie’s color pressed high as she
imagined Mrs. Bruce’s amazed scorn that the talents in which she had
at least for a time believed, had carried their possessor no higher as
yet than to be a waitress—a heaver, according to Miss Hickey—in the
Yellowstone.
The girl must at last have dozed; for she shortly experienced a
vigorous shaking from her companion.
“Here, here, hustle!” exclaimed Miss Hickey, not unkindly. Rosalie
opened her eyes with such bewilderment that her companion laughed.
“Come on, blue eyes. You look like a baby. Get into your duds. We’re
off for Norris Basin, worse luck.”
The sight of Miss Hickey’s readjusted pompadour gave Rosalie a
realizing sense of the situation.
“Oh, Miss Hickey,” she exclaimed, as she hurried to the washstand, “are
many people lay-overs?”
“Oh, you’ve got them on the brain, have you?” asked the other,
proceeding with her own toilet. “Not many, ’cause it costs too much.”
“I saw some people here last night who have lots of money—oh, lots and
lots! Shouldn’t you think they’d stay?”
“H’m. I only _hope_ they will,” rejoined Miss Hickey, “as long as we’re
going. The crowds are fierce.”
“I do hope they will!” Rosalie’s echo was fervent. She almost summoned
courage to tell her aggressive companion the situation; but one glance
at the young woman’s coiffure, which was now receiving the addition of
a bunch of curls, arrested her.
Miss Hickey regarded her companion sharply.
“You ain’t a heaver all the year,” she remarked tentatively, “or else
you wouldn’t be afraid o’ those rich folks. There’s the tips, you know.”
Rosalie was silent.
“Perhaps you was their waitress and ran off to see the world without
giving notice.”
“No, I wasn’t that; but I—I know them, and—”
The speech drifted into silence.
“You know rich folks, do you? Lucky you.”
“Not exactly. They—she—” stammered Rosalie, “they helped—educate me.”
“Oh, you’re educated, are you?” retorted Miss Hickey, giving her
coiffure a satisfied lift. “Well, so am I. I’m a typewriter in Chicago,
winters.”
“Does—does it pay well?” asked Rosalie, with such serious wistfulness
that Miss Hickey forgave her her rich acquaintances.
She grimaced. “Not so you’d notice it. I ain’t goin’ back this fall.
You know the Yellowstone Company’ll land you just as many miles from
the Park as they brought you, and in any direction you say. Me for Los
Angeles. I ain’t afraid I can’t make my living, and I’m sick o’ bein’
snowed on, winters, without any furs.”
Rosalie looked enviously at the other’s snapping black eyes.
“Wonder what savage we’ll go over with,” pursued Miss Hickey, stuffing
her nightgown into a bag, and nonchalantly running her comb and
toothbrush into her stocking.
“Over? Over?”
“Yes, over to Norris in the stage.”
“Do you mean that _savages_ drive them?” asked Rosalie, her eyes
dilating.
Miss Hickey laughed. “Oh, you’re more fun than a barrel o’ monkeys,”
she observed. “The drivers certainly are savages. You can ask anybody
in the Park.”
Rosalie smiled faintly as she began twisting up her hair. “Oh, that’s
some more Park English, is it?” she asked.
“I hope it’ll be Jasper,” said Miss Hickey, “but we won’t get to sit by
him, anyway. The dudes all fight for the driver’s seat. I’m going down
now. Hurry up, Baby, or you’ll catch it.”
Rosalie obeyed in a panic, and was soon ready to follow. She dreaded
the ordeal of the breakfast-room, and prayed that she might be
delivered from the Bruces’ table. Her heart came up in her throat when
she saw them enter the door; but she was not obliged to wait upon them.
As it happened, Miss Hickey had that station, and Rosalie devoted
herself assiduously to a deaf gentleman who was traveling with his wife
and a young woman at sight of whom Rosalie colored. “Oh, how small this
big world is!” she thought; “but she won’t remember me. We seldom met!”
The ordeal of breakfast was at last over, and Rosalie with relief
yielded herself to Miss Hickey’s orders, and presently the girls
stood on the great piazza of the hotel, but on the edge of the crowd,
watching the systematic filling of the stages which were starting on
the tour around the Park.
“How shall we know when to go?” she asked of Miss Hickey, to whose side
she clung in the confusion.
“Don’t you worry about that,” returned the other. “Have some gum?”
She offered several sticks of the same to Rosalie, who declined,
wishing her veil were thicker as she glanced about, dreading to see the
Bruce party, and longing to be safely away.
Miss Hickey slid a generous quantity of gum into her own mouth and then
settled her hat more firmly on her pompadour by a rearrangement of
largely gemmed hat-pins.
While she proceeded in an experienced manner to break up and chew
the gum-sticks into a solacing sphere, her conversation continued,
untrammeled by this effort.
“Don’t you hear the agent calling the names off?” she asked. “They
can’t any of ’em say where they’ll go any more’n we can. They’re going
to be took ’round the Park just like a kid out in its baby-wagon. They
come when they’re called, you bet; and they don’t know where their
bags are any more’n you do. When they get to the Fountain House their
bags’ll meet ’em in the hotel; then to-morrow mornin’ they’ll disappear
again to meet ’em at the next place. Oh, it’s a great system all
right, if too many people didn’t come at once. They have awful times
when there ain’t enough places for ’em to sleep, and six or seven get
put in one room. These folks that are too exclusive to travel with a
party are the ones that get left; for the conductors of these tours
get to the hotels a little ahead o’ the other folks, and get all their
people provided for; and it’s gallin’ to know you pay just as much as
anybody and yet have to herd in with folks you never saw before—just
the same as poor heavers like us.” And Miss Hickey gave her companion a
nudge that nearly made her reel. “Weren’t you the mad kid last night?”
she continued.
“I think you were the mad one,” rejoined Rosalie. “I was dazed.—O Miss
Hickey!” She made the exclamation involuntarily; for the Bruce party
came out of a door not far from where the girls were standing, and they
were dressed for a move.
“Oh, they’re not lay-overs!” exclaimed Rosalie, retreating behind Miss
Hickey’s broad shoulder.
“Who—them? Say, what’s the matter with you? Have you stole their
diamonds?”
“Don’t you think they’re going in this next stage?” asked Rosalie
nervously. “Do watch, Miss Hickey. You’re so tall you can see
everything.” For the Bruces had moved to the other side of the piazza
and were lost in the crowd.
“I waited on those folks at breakfast,” said Miss Hickey, craning her
neck and chewing with such open vigor that she momentarily recalled a
dog who endeavors to rid his back teeth of a caramel.
“I know you did,” replied Rosalie; “I saw.”
“Ain’t he grand!” exclaimed Miss Hickey. “I thought when I was pourin’
his coffee that he was just about the size I’d like to go through the
Park with on a weddin’ trip. The way he said, ‘No sugar, please!’ Oh,
it was just grand. It made me forget every swattie at the post. There
ain’t an officer here that can stand up to him, I don’t think.”
“Do see if they are getting into that stage!” asked Rosalie, still in
retreat behind her companion’s ample shoulder.
“Nit,” responded Mr. Bruce’s admirer sententiously. “That swell woman
with him went down the steps to get in, but his nibs there that’s
loadin’ ’em told her to chase herself.”
The crowd was dispersing with celerity.
“There ain’t but two stages left,” went on Miss Hickey, with
excitement. “If they don’t go in that next one, we’re all booked to go
together. Say, wouldn’t that be grand?”
“No! No! No!” exclaimed Rosalie, emerging from her barrier and watching
with dilated eyes.
The stage swept up to the steps. The tourists swarmed into it like
bees. Again Mrs. Bruce essayed to enter, and Rosalie could see Irving
draw her back, while Betsy Foster stood impassive at a little distance,
observing the scene with inexpressive eyes.