THE FAITHFUL GEYSER
WHILE this conversation was going on, Mrs. Bruce was sitting on the
veranda below, waiting for Irving. He had promised to meet her in time
for the next performance of the Old Faithful Geyser.
While she sat there she observed Betsy and Rosalie returning to the
hotel, and her eyes narrowed as she regarded the girl’s tall slender
figure and free carriage.
“It is no wonder I was attracted,” she thought; and now that the
case had come before her again, and she had time to consider that
her beneficiary had inflicted upon her a disappointment, Rosalie’s
proved incapacity took on the proportions of ingratitude. With Mrs.
Bruce, even to suspect that her will was being thwarted was misery,
and her gaze rested coldly on the girl now. At the same moment Irving
and Robert came in sight; and Mrs. Bruce resented the fact that they
hastened to approach Betsy, as she paused to say good-by to her
companion.
The four stood a moment talking, and as Rosalie withdrew from the group
Mrs. Bruce watched Irving follow her a few steps and then lift his hat
as the girl shook her head and hurried away.
Robert, whistling loudly, ran up the steps of the hotel, and Mrs. Bruce
scarcely nodded in response to his cheerful greeting as he went into
the house.
She rose from her chair. “See the people going out there,” she said to
Irving, as he and Betsy approached. “I thought you would never come!”
“Five minutes’ grace, Madama,” said Irving, looking at his watch.
“Don’t get nervous.” Betsy started to go into the house. Irving caught
her by the arm. “Not a bit of it,” he added. “You’re going with us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Irving. I meant to go out later,” returned Betsy,
always conscious of “acquiring merit” by leaving these two by
themselves.
“I wouldn’t trust you—I wouldn’t trust you around the corner,” returned
Irving; and he kept his hold on the sleeve of Betsy’s brown silk
shirt-waist, so the three moved together out to the point of interest.
The Old Faithful has been talked about, written about, and visited so
much and so long, that there remains nothing fresh to be said; but it
is like any other classic,—perennial, exhilarating, and satisfying.
Mrs. Bruce, despite the fly in her amber, approached the mound of
geyserite with lively anticipation, and watched with absorption the
first spasmodic spurts that were flung from the crater’s mouth.
Later, when the splendid volume of hot water sprang skyward, she and
Betsy both forgot that there was a bone of contention between them.
For minutes the rushing giant fountain, falling in a cloud of foam
and spray, held itself against the azure sky; then, like a beautiful
captive returning to its dungeon, fell back lower and lower, till only
its tears coursed down the terraces they had formed, and lay in shallow
basins, whose lovely tints they did not conceal.
Mrs. Bruce, feeling that she could suggest nothing that would improve
this glorious ebullition, confined herself to exclamations.
“What a blessing there is a moon!” she said, as they turned back toward
the hotel. “I can hardly wait for to-night. Where do you suppose
the Nixons are? and that poor little Miss Maynard? If Mr. Derwent is
making her write his letters instead of coming out here, I think it’s a
perfect shame.”
“Sh! sh! Madama,” said Irving. “Let everybody be innocent until he’s
proved guilty. Go into the house now and lie down, and let the world go
wrong for a little while.”
“I can’t quite make Miss Maynard out, Irving. I tried to talk with her
a number of times on our drive this afternoon, because I must say Mrs.
Nixon is so very quiet I feel sorry for the girl; but she always was
abstracted, and every time I spoke to her she seemed to have to bring
her thoughts back from somewhere.”
“From _him_, perhaps,” suggested Irving.
“Well, perhaps so. I never thought of that.” Mrs. Bruce shook her head.
“Deliver me from sightseeing with a girl who is in love!”
Irving smiled. “I know I’m never coming to a place like this unless
_she_ is here, too.”
“Oh, Irving, don’t! That awful time will have to come, I suppose, but
don’t ruin this lucid interval by talking about it.”
The young man seldom indulged in any covert interchange with Betsy, but
now his eyes sparkled with fun as he caught his old friend’s eye.
“Such a mother-in-law as you will make, Madama!” he exclaimed devoutly.
“That depends,” returned Mrs. Bruce complacently. “If you let me pass
upon the girl before you commit yourself, I shall do my best.”
“What pretty hair you must have had when you were twenty,” said Irving
irrelevantly, after a pause, regarding the fair head at his shoulder,
for Mrs. Bruce was carrying her hat in her hand.
“I don’t care for that left-handed compliment at all,” she replied with
spirit. “It’s pretty now.”
“It is, for a fact; but wasn’t it still lighter, more golden, when you
were twenty?”
“Yes, it was perfectly lovely,” she returned. “The years play us all
sorts of mean tricks, but one of the meanest is darkening one’s hair.
It was lovely at the time I was married; but at that time I suppose you
didn’t care whether I wore hair or corn-silk!”
“Corn-silk,” repeated Irving abstractedly. “That’s what it’s like.
Corn-silk.”
“It isn’t, you flatterer,” returned Mrs. Bruce, with a little
conscious laugh; and she gave a triumphant side-glance at Betsy, who
kept eyes ahead, fearing every moment that her mistress’s complaisance
would receive a shock in the comprehension of Irving’s drift.
He understood the meaning of a swift glance suddenly sent him by Miss
Foster, and began to whistle, softly.
As they neared the hotel he spoke. “Come to my room for a minute,
Betsy, please. I need some sewing up, and I’ll give it to you so you
can take it over and sit by Mrs. Bruce to see that she obeys my order
to take a nap.”
Mrs. Bruce regarded him affectionately and went with docility to
the greenwood of her bedroom; and Betsy, with no change of feature,
followed Irving to his. When they were inside, he closed the door,
seated Betsy in a green rocker, and put himself astride a straight
chair.
“You know very well,” said Betsy uneasily, “that if I stay, Mrs. Bruce
will come over here.”
“No, she won’t,” returned Irving, “for the best of reasons. She doesn’t
know which room I have.”
“Well, give me your things quick,” said Betsy.
“Why are you afraid, all of a sudden?”
“I—” returned Betsy, hesitating, “I want to—to keep her happy.”
“Not for your own sake, I’ll bet.”
“No. Give me your things, Mr. Irving.”
The young man did not move. “Betsy,” he said, “she _mustn’t_ stay here.”
“Who mustn’t stay where?” she returned, reddening.
“You heard Mr. Derwent say that they were related,” went on Irving.
“You think,” said Betsy, with rare sarcasm, “she’d be in better
business writin’ stories for some fireside paper, or imposin’ on folks’
credulity?”
Her companion magnanimously overlooked the thrust.
“She’s too fine from head to foot, physically, and too fine in her
innocence, to be touched with anything rough. She mustn’t stay here.”
“Who’s to prevent it?” asked Betsy quietly, though Irving was
unconsciously rewarding her for much of her devotion.
“I am.”
“That ain’t possible.”
“Not only possible, but easy. Give her the money to go back to
Portland to stay till we come. She’ll never know it’s mine.”
“No, sir! I won’t do that. She’d never take so much money as that from
me, and I’d have to tell her the truth. She’s just possessed to pay
Mrs. Bruce back, as it is. She’d rather work in their Park years than
not do it.”
Irving made an impatient sound, and Betsy shook her head.
“Mrs. Bruce is awful down on her. You’ll find it out if you touch the
subject any lower’n her hair. I know the symptoms.”
“Well, what are you going to do, then?” asked Irving, frowning
impatiently.
Miss Foster looked back at him, full.
“That ain’t anything to any young man,” she said impressively.
“You’re going to do something, then?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t want
to go into that dining-room to-night. Do you like to see her there?”
He rose, spurned his chair, and walked up and down the log cage.
Betsy followed him with her eyes. “Look here, Mr. Irving. I love
Rosalie Vincent.”
The pedestrian stopped, and hugged the speaker’s thin shoulders.
“And I don’t want to have any feelin’ stirred up against her. If you
take any interest in her, just follow my advice, and while we’re all
together here, don’t notice her, and, above all, don’t speak about her.”
“She’s like the bit of porcelain going down the river among the earthen
jugs,” burst forth Irving.
“Then don’t throw a rock at her,” returned Betsy. “She’s got a ticklish
enough time without that. Where are your things, Mr. Irving?” Betsy
started from her chair in a sudden panic.
“Then have you any plan, Clever Betsy?” he persisted. “’Tisn’t enough
just to be fond of her and—and _mope_.”
“You sassy boy!” exclaimed Betsy, concealing her inward exultation that
Rosalie had a friend at court, albeit a dangerous one. “You mind your
business and I’ll mind mine; and it wasn’t ever to mope.”
“Good for you, you old dear! I know you’ll do something for that—that
wood-nymph.”
“Irving Bruce, give me your mendin’. Do you suppose there’ll be any
naps till I get back?”
“Tell her I had to hunt for it.”
“I won’t lie for you or anybody else.”
“I wouldn’t have you. It’s the absolute truth.” The speaker strode over
to where his suit-case lay open on the floor.
Rummaging through its contents, he fished out a white silk negligée
shirt and quickly tore it down the back.
Betsy sprang forward and cried out, but the deed was done. He pressed
the garment into her arms and opened the door.
“That was _sinful_!” she exclaimed, regarding the rent.
“Not half so bad as hurting your immortal soul?” He laughed at her long
face and pushed her gently out the door. “Remember now,” threateningly,
“if you don’t do something, I will. I’m trusting you, Betsy.”
“That’s wicked. That’s just wicked,” said Miss Foster to herself,
holding up to view the fine garment as she moved down the deserted
hall.