I
From the midst of entrancing dreams Rosaleen was awakened the next
morning by a most unwelcome voice, and she opened her eyes to find Miss
Amy sitting on the edge of her bed. She had been asleep when Miss Amy
came in the night before, but she had never expected, never even hoped
that she would be able to avoid a dreadful cross-examination. And here
it was beginning.
“Mr. Morton tells me you had a young man in here last evening,” she was
saying. “I should like you to explain it. Who was he?”
Rosaleen, terribly at a disadvantage, thus lying flat in bed,
dishevelled and surprised, answered that he was a friend of Miss Waters.
“Why did he come here?”
“I--he said he wanted to call....”
“And you gave him this permission without consulting me?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind----”
“I _do_ mind, Rosaleen. I mind very much. It was something you had no
right to do.”
“I won’t again,” said Rosaleen.
“I should hope not. Who was he?”
“A friend of Miss Waters.”
“What was his name?”
“Mr. Landry.”
“What is he? What does he do? Where does he live?”
“I don’t know.”
Miss Amy got up.
“I shall telephone to Miss Waters and ask her.”
“No!” said Rosaleen. “Don’t! Please!... I’ll never let him come
again....”
“That makes no difference. It’s my duty to know what sort of young men
you’re asking into this house. I shall certainly ask Miss Waters for a
little further information.”
“She won’t know!” cried Rosaleen. “He--she doesn’t know him very
well.... He just happened to drop in at her studio one day....”
“Why?”
“To see about a picture....”
“Is he an artist?”
“I--don’t think so.”
“How often have you seen him?”
“Oh!... I don’t know--exactly....”
She sat up suddenly.
“Won’t it satisfy you if I never have him here again?” she cried. “Or
anybody else, ever?”
“No. I want you to have him here again. I want to see him.”
Rosaleen looked at that impassive wolfish face, at those black eyes
scrutinizing her behind their eyeglasses, and a profound distrust came
over her. In that instant, for the first time, she questioned the
motives of her benefactress; she doubted her goodness. Instead of duty
in her glance, she saw malice. Never, never, if she could possibly help
it, should Miss Amy and Nick Landry come face to face.
She relapsed into what Miss Amy called a “sullen silence,” but which was
in reality only a desperate silence. There sat that woman on her bed,
formulating God knows what plans against her. She was so helpless! She
lay back on her pillow, as if she were bound hand and foot, her soft
hair spread about her, her face stony with despair, the very picture of
a maiden victim.
“I am sorry you forgot yourself to such an extent,” observed Miss Amy,
and rose. “Get up now and dress; it’s late.”
Rosaleen sprang out of bed.
“What _can_ I _possibly_ tell him?” she cried to herself. “He’ll want to
come again, of course.... What can I tell him?”
She looked for him at Miss Waters’ studio the next afternoon, looked for
him with vehement longing. She was in such terror that he would go to
the flat again and be met there by Miss Amy. If she had known where he
lived, she would have written to him, to entreat him not to do so. But
that course blocked, she could do nothing but hope and hope that he
would instead come to the studio, where she could tell him.... She
didn’t care _what_ she told him, what monstrous thing she invented, if
only she kept him away.
He didn’t come. She flagrantly neglected her work. Leaning back against
the wall, arms clasped behind her head, she gossiped with Miss Waters.
And Miss Waters, stifling a feeling of guilt at thus not earning her
money, gave herself without restraint to this illicit, this joyful
chatter. For Rosaleen was joyful, in spite of her great anxiety, her
dread of losing her Nicholas. Even if she lost him now, she would have
the happiness of knowing that one man at least had looked upon her with
tenderness and delight.
Miss Waters talked about Brussels and Paris, of course, and to-day, with
new boldness, began to speak of Love. Hitherto she had never mentioned
this topic, but now that Rosaleen had a young man, she felt she might
consider her altogether mature, initiated, so to speak. So she told a
long and thrilling story of an artist--a very poor young artist--who had
fallen in love with a wealthy young girl of good family. And how cruel
she was to him. It was difficult to understand why they had so eagerly
desired these meetings which Miss Waters feelingly described, for
apparently she had come to the rendezvous only to be cruel, and he only
to weep and to suffer. By and by she had married a distinguished man,
and the young artist began, with true French propriety, to die of
consumption. Then the lady, not to be outdone, began to suffer too; the
anguish of remorse. She compromised her name by visiting his studio as
he lay dying, and her life was ruined. It was awfully long, but to Miss
Waters intensely interesting, because she had actually seen the people
with her own eyes.
A little earlier than usual Rosaleen went home, to find Miss Amy there,
reading, and coldly suspicious.
“She thinks I’ve met him,” she thought. “Don’t I wish I had!”
A joyful sense of her own freedom came over her; no one could really
stop her, no one could restrain her. She _would_ see him! All the
suspicious, middle-aged spinsters on earth couldn’t stop her! She was
more subtle, more daring, she was stronger than Miss Amy!
And yet she passed the evening in dread--terrified that she might hear
the door bell ring, and that it might be Nick.