It was a nice, respectable house in a quiet street below Morningside
Park. He was agreeably surprised at its respectability, for he had
scented a mystery in Rosaleen’s reluctance to have him come--great
poverty, perhaps, or a disreputable relative. He went into the
vestibule, and looked for the bell. There it was--Humbert--; he rang;
the door clicked, and he entered. An old-fashioned house, the carpeted
halls were dark and stuffy; he climbed up and up, and on the fourth
landing there stood Rosaleen.
She was very pale, and the hand she held out to him was cold as ice. An
altogether unfamiliar Rosaleen, silent, even, it struck him, a
_desperate_ girl. She led him into the dining room.
“Excuse me just a moment!” she said. “I’ll tell--my uncle--you’re here.”
And vanished, leaving him alone. He looked about him with interest,
because it was Rosaleen’s home. And he was sorry that it was such a
stuffy and unlovely one. He was used to large rooms and fine old
furniture, to a sort of dignity and fineness in living. This dining
room, with its swarm of decorations, the crowded pictures, the scrawny
plants, the flimsy and ugly varnished furniture, the sewing machine,
the dark red paper on the walls, distressed him. He sat down on one of
the straight chairs against the wall to wait, trying to imagine his fair
Rosaleen in this setting.
In the meantime Rosaleen had hurried to knock at the door of Mr.
Humbert’s room.
“Mr. Morton!” she murmured. “Here’s a young man--a--a friend of Miss
Waters.... Would you like to come out and see him?”
“Presently,” the dignified voice replied, and Rosaleen hastened back.
“He’ll be in presently,” she repeated to Nick, as she returned. He had
risen when she entered, and once more he took her hand. Her nervousness,
her distress, filled him with pity.
“Isn’t there anyone else? Do you live all alone with your uncle?”
“Oh, no! There’s ... there’s--a--cousin.... But she’s out.... Won’t you
sit down?”
When he had done so, she fetched him a book from a little table.
“Would you like to look at some views?” she asked.
“No,” said Nick, smiling. “I wouldn’t.”
“Would you like to play cards?”
“No! I’d rather talk to you!”
She sat down on the edge of the couch--that couch covered with green
corduroy, with _nine_ sofa cushions of the most frightful sort.
Now Nick unconsciously expected a girl to do the talking, and the
pleasing and the entertaining. Gallant responses were his part. So he
waited, but quite in vain, for Rosaleen had no tradition of
entertaining, and no experience. Never before had she sat in that room
with a young man.
“Have you any of your work here?” he asked, at last, in despair.
“Just those!” she answered, pointing to the transparencies. “There isn’t
any place for me to draw here.”
“Very pretty!” said Nick. “Are you going to be a professional artist?”
“I hope so. It takes years, though.”
She was silent for a moment; then she went on, dejectedly:
“Sometimes I think I never will succeed. I don’t seem to improve. And I
love it so----”
“Don’t take it so seriously.”
“I have to. I’ve got to earn a living by it.”
“I don’t believe you’ll ever have to earn your living,” said Nick. “Not
a girl as--lovely as you.”
She blushed painfully, even her neck grew scarlet. And he felt his own
face grow hot.
“I...” he began. “There are sure to be plenty of men who’ll want to do
that for you.”
There was a distressing silence. He found it very hard to keep from
saying:
“_I_ will! _I’m_ going to work for you, and get you everything in the
world you want, darling wild rose!”
And to divert his mind from this dangerous thought, he rose and picked
up the book she had had in her hand.
“Are these the ‘views’?” he asked. “Looks very interesting.... Won’t you
show them to me?”
And he sat down beside her on the couch. He really didn’t think it a
particularly significant or daring thing to do; he had sat beside a
great many other girls; he was neither impudent nor presumptuous, and no
one ever had objected or seemed at all disturbed. So that he was
surprised at Rosaleen’s agitation. He didn’t know how formidable he was
to her; how mysterious, how irresistible. Her hands shook as she took
the book of views and opened it.
But, before she had spoken a single word, the sound of a footstep in the
hall made her jump up and seat herself in a nearby chair with her book,
and none too soon, for the curtains parted and a venerable, grey-bearded
old gentleman looked in.
“Won’t you come in?” said Rosaleen, while Nick got up.
The old gentleman advanced and held out his hand to Nick with a
scholarly sort of smile.
“_Good_ evening, sir!” he said. “I was sorry not to have welcomed you
with somewhat greater cordiality when you first came in, but I was hard
at my work.”
“Not at all!” Nick murmured.
“And that sort of work makes its demands, I can tell you! They who know
not speak lightly of ‘writing,’ as of a pleasant diversion; but we
initiated ones...! The evening is the only time that I can confidently
claim as my own, so you will understand that I dare not waste a moment
of the Muse’s presence.”
Which, considering that the poor old chap had acquired all his
scholarship alone and unaided, and after he was more or less mature, was
a creditable speech. But young Landry, _not_ knowing the circumstances,
was not impressed. He said, “Certainly!”
“I suppose Rosaleen has told you something of my literary labours?” he
enquired, “A romance of the time of Nero. A poor thing, I dare say, but
mine own. And, whether or not it takes the public fancy, it has at
least served to beguile many weary hours for its creator.”
This was out of his preface; a bit he was very fond of.
“I don’t know whether you are a student of history, sir,” the old
gentleman went on. “But if the subject interests you at all, I have some
exceedingly interesting pictures--views of the Holy Land, which I should
be very pleased to show you.”
“Thank you very much,” said Nick. “I should like to see them--some time.
But I’m afraid I can’t wait now....”
The scholar shook his head.
“My dear sir,” he said, smiling. “I certainly did not propose to begin
so extensive an undertaking at the present hour. It would take you half
a day to assimilate the material I have on hand. I thought only to
introduce you to the subject, to give you--as one might say--a glimpse
of the glories to come.”
He crossed the room and picked up the very book Rosaleen had laid down.
“This is our starting point,” he said. “It is from this quaint little
old world village that my very dear friend, the Reverend Nathan Peters,
set out on his remarkable trip. The record of that trip may be found in
his book ‘Following the Old Trail.’ The written record, that is. The
pictorial record--which I think I may venture to call the most uniquely
interesting and fascinating thing of its sort now in existence--he
entrusted to me, and it forms the basis of this collection of
photographs, original drawings, and paintings.”
Nick could not get away. He was obliged once more to seat himself on the
sofa, this time beside a bearded old gentleman, and to look and listen
for an interminable time. He had to watch desperately for a moment to
escape, and he had to go without a word to Rosaleen, except a formal
“good-evening.” The uncle accompanied him to the front door, even to the
top of the stairs, to invite him cordially to come again.