I
She felt, really and actually, like a new person, and she looked like
one, too. She was walking down Sixth Avenue, after an interview with the
fashion editor of a big magazine who had said that neither now nor at
any possible future time would he use any of her work. It was a sharp
November day, and she was still wearing a thin suit, in the pocket of
which lay a fifty-cent piece, borrowed from Miss Waters, all the money
she had in the world. And still she was happy, profoundly happy. She
walked briskly, staring candidly at whatever interested her, no longer
trying to be ladylike, and feeling herself for the first time in her
life an independent personality, not obliged to please anyone. And she
was going home to a place where she was welcome, where she was
encouraged and admired--in short, to Miss Waters’ flat.
Miss Waters had taken her in on that terrible evening without asking
for a word of explanation. She had simply kissed her and suggested going
to bed, and when Rosaleen was lying beside her in the dark, both of them
fiercely wide awake, she said not a word, never put a question. The next
morning she had got up early and made coffee and toast and brought it to
Rosaleen as she lay in bed. At last she had heard the story and she was
horrified. She quite agreed that Rosaleen had done well to leave Miss
Amy, but being old and more cruelly schooled in the world’s ways, she
had seen how much the girl was losing. A home, a roof over one’s head,
and food and clothing--she knew the cost of these in money and in
effort. She had gone, on her own initiative, to see Miss Amy, to see if
she could not rescue something for her lamb. She never mentioned that
interview to Rosaleen, and she had tried to forget it as soon as
possible. It was a humiliating and complete failure; the European Art
Teacher had had very much the worst of it.
She had then devoted herself to heartening this dejected and sorrowful
young creature, and with amazing results. Rosaleen was now convinced
that the world lay before her, to be conquered by her brush. Freedom
from criticism and hostility transformed her. Miss Waters suggested
various places where she might look for “art work,” and she went to
them without timidity, was never discouraged by refusals. She knew that
Miss Waters was glad to have her there as long as she wished to stay,
and whatever expense she caused she expected to repay before long.
Cheerful and pleasant days, these were. When she wasn’t out hunting
jobs, she was with Miss Waters, drawing or helping her in her very
easy-going and muddled housekeeping. In the evening they had dinner at
little Italian table d’hôtes, they went to “movies,” or they worked at
home together. Rosaleen made dress designs to show as samples of her
ability, things so spirited and attractive that Miss Waters was
surprised.
“I never knew you were so gifted, my dear,” she said. “I knew--I
_always_ knew you had talent, but I didn’t know you were so
_practical_.”
There was something else that surprised Miss Waters. She couldn’t
comprehend how Rosaleen could be so cheerful, after what had happened.
But the part of Rosaleen’s brain which was concerned with Nick Landry
was shut, was sealed. She was dimly aware that some day she would have
to open that door, and examine and comprehend what lay behind it. She
knew that Grief was shut in there, and frightful Disappointment. Knew
too that through that locked compartment lay the way to her heaven. But
she turned aside her head. She went another road.
Cheerful and lively, her cheeks rosy with the winter air, she hurried
through the twilit street, up the steps of Miss Waters’ old-fashioned
house, and rang the bell. She waited a long time for an answer: she rang
again, and still must wait. The flat was on the first floor; standing on
the stoop she tried to peer in at the front window, but, unaccountably,
the shade was pulled down. She rang once more, almost without hope, sure
that Miss Waters must have gone out for a few moments; but this time the
door clicked violently, and she entered. Miss Waters was standing at her
own front door; she was dressed in a black lace tea gown, with a black
jet butterfly in her fluffy white hair; she looked strangely elegant and
exalted. And in a voice trembling with excitement, she seized Rosaleen’s
hands.
“Many happy returns of the day!” she cried.
“Oh! It was sweet of you to remember it was my birthday!” said Rosaleen,
touched almost to tears by the festive dress.
Miss Waters gently pulled her inside the door.
“Now!” she said.
And if she hadn’t a surprise party for Rosaleen!
The shades were all down, the curtains drawn, and candles lighted in the
dusty, untidy little sitting room, and it had somehow a mysterious and
fascinating atmosphere. It seemed quite crowded with people too, and
when she entered they all came forward. There was only one whom she knew
at all; Miss Mell, a stout girl in spectacles, who had been Miss Waters’
first pupil, years ago. She came with commendable regularity to visit
her old teacher every two or three weeks, and Rosaleen had more than
once seen her in the studio, sitting quite still and listening to Miss
Waters’ talking, a kindly and amused smile on her face. Then there was a
desperately lively girl who ran a tea room, and two agreeable young
English women, and a disagreeable, sneering old gentleman with a goatee,
whose name she never learned, nor whose business there. And an arrogant,
handsome girl with a violin, who played something for them.
Assisted by Miss Mell, Miss Waters served them all with cake and wine
and sandwiches, and then brought forth cigarettes, for the conversation
which she expected to enjoy.
“They’re all people who _do_ things!” she whispered to Rosaleen.
They all conscientiously endeavoured to behave like a party of artists,
to smoke and to talk about “interesting” things. And they created a very
fair illusion. At any rate, it made Miss Waters happy.
Miss Mell was very friendly, so friendly that Rosaleen couldn’t help
thinking Miss Waters must have told her her history.
“We’re just setting up as artists,” she said, sitting down beside
Rosaleen. (They were the only ones not smoking.) “We’ve taken a studio
on the south side of the Square, Bainbridge and I. We’re moving in
to-morrow. And we want someone else to go in with us, to share a third
of the expense. It’ll amount to about twenty dollars a month, a third of
the rent, and the gas and telephone, and so on. And I wondered if you’d
like to come in with us?”
“I should!” said Rosaleen. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t afford it. I
haven’t got on my feet yet.”
“We intend to work, you know. Hard! And I might be able to help you.
Fashions, isn’t it? I know a lot of the people--editors and so on. I
wish you would!”
“But--I haven’t a cent!” said Rosaleen. “Nothing at all. If I can find a
job----”
“In an office? It’s a pity to do that, if your work’s any good. You have
no time left for anything else, and you can’t get ahead. If you work
hard, and once get a decent start, you can do far better as a free
lance.”
“I know it!” said Rosaleen. “But you’ve got to be able to live while
you’re _getting_ a start, and I----”
But the handsome and arrogant young woman had begun to play her violin
again, and everyone became silent. It was music which had little to say
to Rosaleen; it was austere brain music; but she was enchanted to watch
the musician, the exquisite movement of her right arm and wrist, the
delicate interplay of the fingers of her left hand, the faint, fleeting
shadows that crossed her proud, fine face. She was, Rosaleen thought,
very like a picture Miss Amy had of Marie Antoinette riding in the
tumbrill.
The piece was ended, and they all applauded.
“That’s Bainbridge,” Miss Mell explained. “My pal, the one who has the
studio with me. She’s absolutely a genius.”
Rosaleen regarded her with undisguised admiration.
“I wish I could come with you!” she said, regretfully.