ON THE RIVERSIDE
POOLS of heavenly tints; living emerald, and beryl; boiling springs,
the scalding water bubbling with intense force; Nature’s wonders ever
varied, entertained the party on their way to the Old Faithful Inn,—the
luxurious log-cabin of the Yellowstone.
Arrived there, each one took a long breath as if it were a Mecca
reached. The examination of the curious and fascinating structure, with
the woodsy green furnishings of the log bedrooms, which carried out the
sylvan idea in all possible particulars, entertained the tourists until
they were admitted to the dining-room.
Betsy looked with rather sad eyes upon the waitresses, and suddenly her
heart gave a little jump, for unless those eyes deceived her, Rosalie
Vincent was tripping busily about at the other end of the room.
Mr. Derwent did not espy her evidently, for he led his party to another
table, and the Bruces stopped halfway down the room. Not a word said
Betsy, but her slow color rose. The crowd was great at this favorite
place. Rosalie had evidently been sent on by the earliest stage,
and Betsy shrewdly suspected that she would be kept here. She began
planning at once an evening’s visit with the girl.
Mrs. Bruce was delighted with the novelty of the Inn and so far had not
suggested any improvements.
“We must drive right after dinner to some of these wonderful places,”
she said. “Isn’t it restful to think we haven’t to rush about and
freeze to see Old Faithful, because it’s so regular! It’s a pity,
though, that it doesn’t play exactly every hour. There’s five minutes
or ten minutes over that you always have to remember.”
Irving shook his head. “These careless authorities,” he said.
Mrs. Bruce shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sure that was a very innocent
remark,” she retorted.
“Innocent to simplicity, Madama; but remember what you lose in
convenience by the present schedule, you gain in mathematical exercise.”
“I didn’t come out here for mathematical exercise,” began Mrs. Bruce;
and went on to comment on some of the beauties of the morning drive;
but Irving lost the thread of her remarks, for he happened to catch
sight of Rosalie Vincent, and looked again more closely.
Not to interrupt Mrs. Bruce’s eulogies, he touched Betsy’s hand and
motioned with his head toward the blonde waitress.
“Isn’t that the loved and lost?” he asked softly.
Betsy looked nonchalantly in the direction he indicated. “Why, so
’tis,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Bruce turned her eyeglasses upon them. “Of course if you and Betsy
want to talk, don’t mind interrupting me.”
“Thanks, Madama. I’ve been drying Betsy’s tears all the morning shed
for the loss of her blonde heaver; and I just discovered her, that’s
all. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”
Mrs. Bruce peered near-sightedly down the hall, but saw nothing nearly
so interesting as her soup, so returned to it.
Betsy waited for Irving’s next words, expecting they might be of
recognition; but he went on eating, as he added:—
“You’d better make it a point to see her, this trip, and tell her to
try her hand at a pathetic tale for the Maiden’s Home Companion!”
Betsy gave a one-sided smile of relief. “Mrs. Bruce, you indulged this
young man too much a spell back. He’d ought to been disciplined ’fore
’twas too late.”
“That from you!” returned Mrs. Bruce complacently. “You never wanted me
even to contradict him.”
After dinner the men of the party put the four women into a wagon,
whose driver was warranted to let Mrs. Bruce lose nothing which could
be seen and heard in one afternoon, and started off for a tramp.
Their first pause was at the exquisite liquid flower known as the
Morning Glory Pool. The wondrous color and shape of this spring held
them long. Some one, either with a wish to test its depth, or desiring
to furnish the blue morning glory with a pistil, had dropped a stick
into its centre.
Irving smiled at his own thoughts. “The driver is lucky if Madama
doesn’t make him get out and fish for that stick,” he thought.
After their ramble of an hour the friends halted near the Riverside
Geyser, where the gathering crowd indicated that it would soon spout.
In moving about for desirable points of vantage, Mr. Derwent and Robert
Nixon became separated from Irving, who from his greater height was
satisfied with his position behind a knot of persons on the river bank.
Among them was a young girl with her back to him. She was bareheaded
and wore a white gown. Irving looked twice idly at her because her hair
was pretty, and then noticed that a couple of soldiers, off duty, spoke
to her and that she tried to repel them.
“Come now, Goldilocks,” said one of them ingratiatingly, in his hoarse
voice, “wasn’t I introduced to you all right at Norris? Don’t be stuck
up.”
He came closer, with open admiration. The girl made some soft reply,
then turned, and there was no mistaking the look, half of annoyance and
half of fear, in her childlike face.
Irving stepped forward instinctively, and recognized Betsy’s friend. He
had noticed in the dining-room that the girl bore a resemblance to some
one he had seen, but he had not been able to locate it.
“O Mr. Bruce!” she ejaculated involuntarily, coming nearer as if for
protection.
The soldiers saw him lift his hat, and fell back.
“Rosalie—Miss Vincent—is it you?” said Irving, all Betsy’s interest and
concern explained in a flash.
She shrank away. “I—I didn’t mean to speak to you,” she said naïvely;
and she cast down her eyes with an expression which sent a thrill of
compassion across the man’s heart-strings. He remembered Mrs. Pogram’s
lachrymose tale, and Betsy’s romance of the morning. “I was afraid Mrs.
Bruce would be offended to find me here, after all she has done for
me,” went on Rosalie, her heart beating fast; “but—but I couldn’t help
it.”
The artless words and the graceful, culprit attitude were appealing.
“I saw you in the dining-room, but didn’t remember you at first,”
answered Irving. “I dare say you wouldn’t have chosen this work, but I
hope you are getting some pleasure out of it.”
Rosalie shook her head. “It is very beautiful, and—and it wouldn’t be
lonely if there weren’t any—any people about; but I don’t know how to
get on very well with—with the others.”
Irving glanced over toward the young soldiers who were alive to
Rosalie’s tête-à-tête. He could imagine that this golden head, on
which the mountain sun was glinting, would be a shining mark for local
admiration. Betsy’s disturbed feeling was becoming better understood
with every moment.
“I had an hour to myself and I wanted so much to see this geyser play.
I didn’t wait for my hat or anything. I just ran.” Rosalie put her hand
to her bare head, apologetically.
“I’ve great curiosity to see this one, too,” replied Irving. “Why
don’t we sit down till the show begins?” He indicated a spot on the
greensward where a tree cast its shadow, for the afternoon sun was
ardent.
“Please don’t think you must stay with me,” responded the girl, with
a timid, grateful smile which made her prettier than ever. “I’m not
really at all afraid of those soldiers. Perhaps I did meet them with a
waitress at Norris who knows them all; and they don’t mean any harm.”
“I dare say not; but sit down, Miss Rosalie. It’s as good a place to
wait as any.”
So she obeyed, quite frightened and happy. Frightened because she did
not know what moment her powerful benefactress might appear on the
scene, and happy because—because—well, she had during two whole seasons
admired Irving Bruce from afar and looked very wistfully at the girls
who shared his summer fun; and now he was disposing his large person
near her on the grass as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You and Betsy Foster had a long séance yesterday in the stage, didn’t
you?” he said, leaning on his elbow and looking up into the blue eyes
that he could see were not quite at ease.
“Yes, indeed. Oh, what it was to get hold of Betsy’s hand and sit
beside her all the morning!”
“Why didn’t she tell Mrs. Bruce and me that one of our old neighbors
was in our party?”
“She knew,” Rosalie flushed, “that I dreaded to have Mrs. Bruce know
it.”
“Why? I can’t imagine why.”
“Because Mrs. Bruce helped me so much, and meant me to do something
so different. She gave me a course in English in the fine school at
Lambeth, and she had a right to expect I would be teaching, and doing
her kindness credit.”
“Time enough for that in the fall, I should think.”
“But I haven’t any position. I had no way to—to live until—I could get
one.” The speaker averted her face, not so quickly but that Irving saw
the blue eyes were swimming.
Had Rosalie been the most artful of girls she could not have planned
words and actions more effective to win the championship of Mrs.
Bruce’s son, knowing as he did the history of her flight.
“I met Mrs. Pogram a few weeks ago in Fairport,” he replied. “She told
me of her loss of you.”
Rosalie did not speak. She furtively wiped her eyes.
“Does Mrs. Pogram know where you are?”
“No. It seems unkind, for I know she is fond of me; but I promised her
that if I were in any trouble I would write her; and if she knew where
I was, her brother would know, and I—I can’t endure him!” The girl
finished with a flash of energy.
“You show faultless taste,” returned Irving. “Don’t be afraid of Mrs.
Bruce. She won’t expect you to be teaching English in the Yellowstone.”
“They have an English of their own,” returned Rosalie. “Probably if you
knew what I am, you wouldn’t be talking to me as if I were a summer
girl.”
Her faint smile suddenly shone upon him, for she felt he meant to
placate Mrs. Bruce.
Irving laughed. “I do know something of the Park lingo. You’re taking
another course in English, that’s all.”
“Yes, I am.”
Rosalie suddenly thought of Miss Hickey and wondered what that young
person would say if clairvoyance could show her this picture on the
river bank.
“What are your plans, if it’s a fair question?” Irving asked.
“I haven’t any, Mr. Bruce.” Again the anxious look in the blue eyes.
“Of course, I finish the season in the Park. If I don’t, I forfeit my
expenses being paid to return.”
“Did they bring you ’way from Portland?”
“No, from Chicago.”
“Ah!” Irving raised his eyebrows, but asked no question. “You mustn’t
let us lose sight of you,” he added.
“That’s very kind. What I have felt was that I mustn’t let you catch
sight of me,” returned the girl naïvely. “I wasn’t afraid of you,
Mr. Bruce, for I didn’t think you’d remember me at all; and—I do so
appreciate your kindness.”
Irving looked at her with considering eyes. Her half-timid,
half-respectful manner was novel, and the little burst of gratitude
with which she finished was most agreeable. He recalled that Betsy had
said that this girl, apparently so alone in the world, had been born
and reared in luxury. With the eye of a connoisseur he regarded her
now, and pictured what a triumphant march her girlhood would have been
had she remained in the class of Fortune’s favorites.
Meanwhile Mr. Derwent and Robert Nixon, threading their way among
the waiting knots of sightseers, approached the spot where the above
conversation was taking place.
Mr. Derwent was first to perceive the pair.
“See there, Robert,” he said, with his crisp, short manner of speech.
“I think we’ve seen only one head that matches the Yellowstone?”
His nephew followed the direction of the other’s fixed gaze.
“Well, I’ll—be—” he began, “if there isn’t Brute, fussing our heaver.”
Mr. Derwent laid a restraining hand on the arm of his companion, who
made an instant move in his friend’s direction.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Robert, close to his uncle’s ear. “It’s up
to us to rescue her. She isn’t _his_ heaver.”
“She doesn’t look as if she wished to be rescued,” remarked Mr.
Derwent; and the concern in his face moved his irreverent nephew to
merriment.
“You see Hebe isn’t a goddess, after all,” he remarked into the rubber
device which hung about his uncle’s neck. “Just a nice, every-day
heaver; and her hair’s caught Brute. Let’s go and see.”
Mr. Derwent’s face was impassive as he followed. The childlike eyes and
the modest demeanor of the pretty waitress had greatly attracted him.
He was sorry to find her like this.
Bruce sprang to his feet as they approached. He read mischief in
Robert’s eyes, and his own were unresponsive.
Robert nodded and grinned cheerfully at Rosalie before Irving could
get possession of what Robert termed his uncle’s rubber ear. Then he
said with a distinctness intended to awe and repress Nixie, “I have
found an old friend, Mr. Derwent. A young lady whose home is where we
go in summer. Let me present you to Miss Vincent.”
Robert reconstructed his countenance as well as he could, and Mr.
Derwent’s face cleared as he raised his hat. “Mr. Nixon, Miss Vincent,”
went on Irving severely.
“I have waited on these gentlemen,” said the girl, looking at Mr.
Derwent.
“You deserted our stage this morning,” he answered, and deliberately
dropped upon the grass beside Rosalie, while she explained, blushing,
how she had been hurried on early because of the crowds.
“Pooh!” said Robert aside to Irving. “Old friend of yours?” He snapped
his fingers. “Piffle! Likewise gammon. She’s fed us for two days.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” responded Irving stiffly. “Otherwise I couldn’t
quite understand your greeting of her as you came up.”
Robert laughed unrestrainedly. “Just got off with my skin, eh?”
“She’s all alone out here,” said Irving, flushing under the sincerity
of his friend’s merriment, but continuing to scowl.
“She is, eh?” returned Nixie. “Then all I have to say is she must be
the author of that spooky declaration, ‘I’m never less alone than when
alone.’ See there,” motioning with his head toward an advancing group
of women, “there come the rest of us. We can’t lose ’em.”