It was the custom in their household for Mr. Humbert when he went down
stairs every morning, to look in the mail box, and if there were
anything of interest there, to ring the bell three times, as a signal
for Rosaleen to come running down. If there were nothing but cards from
laundries and carpet cleaners, and so on, he didn’t ring.
But on the next morning, to the astonishment of Rosaleen, he came back,
up the four flights of stairs again, with the mail in his hand. And
without a word, gave it to his sister. She showed no surprise; it was
evidently prearranged between them.
Rosaleen stood by, waiting. But Mr. Humbert turned away and the door was
closed after him. And Miss Amy walked off to her own room with the
letters.
Rosaleen, left alone in the dark passage, clenched her hands. She knew,
she was certain that one of those letters was for her. But dared not
ask. She thought that she might be able to steal it; she waited for a
chance to enter Miss Amy’s room, and there in the waste paper basket she
saw the torn fragments of an envelope. With her meek air she went about
her work; Miss Amy really fancied that she suspected nothing. But the
moment Miss Amy had gone out to market, she ran into the room and
emptied the waste paper basket on to the floor, and, on her hands and
knees, began to piece the envelope together. It was! Miss Rosaleen
Humbert! But there was not a trace of the letter which must have been in
it.
A dreadful resentment possessed her. She _hated_ Miss Amy. As she sat
sewing through the interminable evening, her anger almost stifled her.
This woman had cheated and defrauded her. She had stolen her very life!
And she was absolutely at her mercy, absolutely helpless. She couldn’t
even explain to Nick. He would think of course that she had got his
letter; he would see that she didn’t answer it. Perhaps he had suggested
another meeting, perhaps he would go to wait for her somewhere, wait and
wait, in vain....
That thought made her desperate. She thought for a moment of boldly
confronting Miss Amy, but she very soon relinquished the idea. It
couldn’t do any good, and it might do harm. No! She would have to try
some other way.
The lamplight shone on her smooth head, bent over her work, her profile
turned to Miss Amy had the guileless sweetness and carelessness of a
child.... And Miss Amy was consumed with anger--an anger a hundred times
fiercer than Rosaleen’s. She pretended to be reading, but the hands that
held the magazine trembled, and she never turned a page. Rage, scorn, a
hatred which she could not comprehend, filled her at the sight of this
false maiden, this treacherous creature who dared stretch out her hand
after the thing which life had withheld from the older woman. And
suddenly, with shocking coldness, she burst forth:
“Did you tell that man _I_ was your _cousin_?”
Rosaleen looked up, pale with fright. She waited a moment.
“I said--I only said--a sort of cousin....”
“You let him think that you--were something that you are _not_?”
She was silent.
“When he came here, did he know your position in this household?”
“Not exactly....”
Miss Amy smiled.
“I thought not. Now, Rosaleen, I want you to listen to me. I knew this
would happen. I warned poor dear Miss Julie of it. I _told_ her that
when you were grown, these--complications were sure to occur. I could
see that you were going to be that sort of a girl, frivolous and
silly--misled by flattery.” She had to stop for a moment, to choke down
the words on the tip of her tongue, terms of contempt for Rosaleen which
common sense told her had not yet been deserved. Then she went on:
“I shan’t try to prevent you from seeing--young men. It’s none of my
business. But I won’t have any deceit about it. Anyone who’s interested
in you has a right to know who you are and what you are.”
With a mighty effort Rosaleen concealed every trace of emotion. She
looked up with an impatient sigh.
“But, Miss Amy, I can’t be telling all about myself to everyone I meet.
I don’t expect to see him--that man--again. I just didn’t bother.”
“That’s not true!” said Miss Amy. “I may as well tell you that a letter
came from him this morning, in which he mentioned that you
‘unfortunately had no chance to arrange another meeting.’ Now I want you
to tell me all about this affair.”
“Nothing to tell!” said Rosaleen, airily. “I met him, and he asked if he
could come to see me, and I said yes. I’m sorry I did it. I never will
again.”
Miss Amy took up the magazine again. Intolerable to sit in the room with
this girl! She wished she had the courage to send her to the kitchen
where she belonged.
The clock struck nine and Rosaleen got up.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said. “Good-night, Miss Amy!”
Miss Amy answered without looking up.
But when Rosaleen had got into bed and turned out the light, she entered
her room without knocking, with that calm authority that at once
intimidated and enraged the young girl. And sat down heavily on the cot,
making it creak.
“Rosaleen,” she said. “As long as you can’t be trusted to act honourably
of your own accord, I shall have to do so for you. I am going to write
to the young man and tell him your history.”
Rosaleen gave a little shriek.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh no! You _couldn’t_ be so cruel and horrible!”
Miss Amy was a little alarmed at the emotion she had aroused. She
hesitated.
“Then will you tell him yourself?”
“Yes!” Rosaleen said. “Yes! I will!”
Miss Amy sat there, a dim bulk in the darkness.
“I shall write to him,” she said slowly, “and ask him to come here, and
you can tell him. Tell him what you should have told him in the
beginning.”
The next morning when Rosaleen was dressed and ready to go out, Miss Amy
handed her a letter.
“You may see it, if you like,” she said.
But what Rosaleen looked at was the address; one glance stamped it on
her mind.