BOOK ONE: THE BETRAYAL (continued 2)

“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.

IV

Outside in the street he stopped to light a cigarette. And to sigh with relief. What an evening!

And still was happy, very happy, because Rosaleen was so respectable.

CHAPTER SIX

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.

II

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.

III

When Landry came down to breakfast the next morning there were two letters lying by his plate. He concealed his great anxiety to open them; he sat down and asked his aunt how she had passed the night. She made a point of coming down to take breakfast with him, although it was rather hard for her to be about so early. But she adored the boy, and his affectionate politeness more than compensated her.

She said thank you, she had slept very well.

“Do you mind?” said Nicholas, picking up his letters.

“Of cou’se not!” she answered, and he opened the first.

Miss Amy Humbert would be pleased to see him on Wednesday evening between eight and nine. The old fashioned formality made him smile, but it pleased him, it pleased him very much. It was one step nearer to his Rosaleen. Then he opened the other.

His aunt noticed that he had stopped eating. He sat staring at his plate, lost in thought, frowning. Then he looked up stealthily at her, and she endured his critical regard with calmness. And he evidently decided at last that she was to be trusted, for he got up and brought his two letters to her.

She read the invitation with a smile; then she looked at the other, scratched, scrawled on a piece of cheap paper in a stamped envelope.

“Dear Mr. Landry:

“Please don’t come on Wednesday. Please don’t ever come. If you will come to Miss Waters’ studio this afternoon I will explain. But please do not write, because I do not get the letters.”

And it was signed simply “R.”

“And I can’t go to Miss Waters’!” he cried. “I can’t possibly ask for an afternoon off the very first week of this new job!”

“Who is ‘R’?” asked his aunt, gently.

“Rosaleen. What do you make of this, Aunt Emmie?”

“My dearest boy, Ah don’t know anything about it at all, remember! Can’t you tell me something about her?”

“I don’t know much about her. But—I’m interested in her. I—I like her.”

“But what sort of people are they?”

“Oh, fairly decent! Respectable, quiet sort of people, as far as I can see. She’s an orphan—lives with her uncle and cousin. She’s studying art.”

All this sounded reassuring to his aunt. The first shock was over, and she began to feel pity for his trouble. He was so agitated, walking up and down the room, with his sulky, boyish scowl.

“Good Lord! What a situation!” he cried. “She asks me not to come and not to write—and they have no telephone. And she asks me to meet her, so that she can explain, and I’m not able to go. And she may be in trouble of some sort. I think it’s very likely.”

“Shall Ah go there for you this afternoon, and explain?”

“No!” said Nick. But he stopped short, and braced himself for an argument. “But I’ll tell you what you can do, Aunt Emmy!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

Rosaleen came home from Miss Waters’ that afternoon terribly dispirited. He hadn’t come!

The afternoons were growing very short now. The flat was altogether dark when she let herself in, and she went from room to room, to light the gas jets and turn them very low. First in the long hall, then in Mr. Humbert’s room, with its flat top desk covered with papers and its severe orderliness, then in Miss Amy’s room, where, in the mirror over the bureau, she caught a glimpse of herself, still in her hat and jacket, looking oddly blurred and misty in the dim light. Somehow that image frightened her; she hurried into the dining room, her own little cell, and at last, with relief, into the kitchen. Never had the rambling old place seemed so large and so gloomy, or herself so desolate.

She put on her big apron and set to work preparing the supper, a shocking meal of fried steak, fried potatoes, coffee, a tin of tomatoes left unaltered in their watery insipidity, and a flabby little lemon pie from the baker’s. She was nervous; she fancied she heard sounds from all those silent dimly lighted rooms behind her. She started when a paper bag on the table rattled stiffly all by itself. She was, for once, glad to hear the sound of a key in the lock and Miss Amy’s heavy tread coming down the hall.

She had been to the library; she was carrying four big volumes which she flung down on the dining room couch. Then she looked into the kitchen.

“Mmmm! The coffee smells good!” she said, affably, and went off to her own room. She never offered any assistance, even to setting the table. She considered all that to be Rosaleen’s affair. Nor did she notice that the child looked tired and pale and dejected.

Nor did she notice that Rosaleen ate almost nothing. They had, all three of them, very small appetites, which, when added to their highly unappetizing meals, made life very economical. Moreover, she considered it meritorious to eat very little, and not to enjoy what you did eat.

They finished. Mr. Humbert rose, said, very pleasantly, “Ah...!” and went off to his writing. Miss Amy sat down on the couch to look over her library books, and Rosaleen, putting on her apron again, began carrying out the dishes. She was slow that evening; she didn’t want to finish.

“If I only had a place where I could go and sit by myself!” she thought, not for the first time. “I don’t want to go and sit there with her! And if I go in my own room, she’ll be after me, to see what’s the matter.”

She sat down in the kitchen and began to polish a copper tea kettle which was never used.

Suddenly the door bell rang. She jumped up, pressed the button which opened the down stairs door, and hurried along the passage. But Miss Amy was before her, and stood squarely in the doorway.

In a dream, a nightmare, Rosaleen heard Nick’s voice:

“Miss Humbert?” he asked, politely.

“I am Miss Humbert!”

“May we see Miss Rosaleen Humbert?”

“There’s no such person,” said Miss Amy.

There was a pause. Then another voice, a feminine one, soft, agreeable, but unmistakably rebuking, said,

“Ah am Mrs. Allanby, Mr. Landry’s aunt.”

“Ah!” said Miss Amy.

“Ma nephew was afraid that perhaps you might not have liked his calling on your cousin——”

“Rosaleen is not my cousin,” said Miss Amy, contemptuously.

Mrs. Allanby was just beginning to speak, when Nick broke in. He couldn’t keep his temper any longer. The spectacle of his beloved and dignified aunt standing outside the door, and being spoken to so outrageously by this woman both shocked and infuriated him.

“Will you kindly ask Miss Rosaleen to step here for a minute?” he said. “We won’t trouble you long!”

His air of disgust, of superiority, stung the unhappy woman to still worse behaviour. She could not stop; she took a sort of monstrous delight in going on, in defying the warnings of her conscience and her pride.

“Evidently you don’t understand,” she said. “You seem to think the girl is a relative. She isn’t. My sister found her posing for a class of art students, and she felt sorry for her and brought her home. My sister was very good to her, and for her sake I’ve gone on feeding and clothing her. She does a little light work round the place, to pay for her keep....”

Suddenly all her annoyance, her years of irritation with Rosaleen, her ill-temper kept under such iron control, all the suffering she had endured from this false calm, this false pleasantness, this inhuman repression of her natural self, burst forth.

“I’m sick and tired of it!” she cried. “Such nonsense! The girl, with her airs and graces.... Just a common, low Irish girl.... She’s had advantages I never had in my young days.... I’m sick and tired of it! It’s the final straw, for her to be asking company here.... I won’t have it! It’s my home, after all, and there’s no place in it where she can entertain!”

They were all silent, aghast at her violence, her coarse cruelty. Her voice was loud, so loud as to arouse Mr. Humbert from his work. He thrust his venerable head out of his door, but instantly popped it in again. Miss Amy, horrified at herself, trembling with rage, ready to burst into tears, cried out, suddenly——

“You can just take them into the kitchen!”

And stood aside, pointing down the passage.

“Come along, Aunt Emmie!” said Nick. “Come away before I——”

But she had entered, and was going along the passage. Rosaleen went before her into the kitchen, drew forward the one chair, and droned another in from the dining room. Mrs. Allanby, gracious and kind, sat down, and smiled at Rosaleen.

“Come and sit down beside me!” she said.

Rosaleen shook her head. Mrs. Allanby spoke again, she thought she even heard Nick’s voice, but she couldn’t understand them. They sounded very, very faint. She was dizzy, sick, her ears were ringing. She stood leaning against the tubs, still in her gingham apron, staring at them——

At that charming and beautifully dressed woman, at the scowling young man standing behind her, proud as Lucifer, in the kitchen....

She flung her arm across her eyes.

“Go away!” she cried. “Go away!”

II

She didn’t really know when they had gone. She stood without moving, without hearing or seeing for a long time. Then suddenly the turmoil within her died down and she felt perfectly calm.

She went into her own room and began packing her clothes into a little wicker suitcase, quite carefully and neatly. She hadn’t even troubled to close the door, and inevitably Miss Amy came in.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going away,” said Rosaleen.

“What nonsense! At this time of night! I won’t allow it!”

“You can’t stop me,” said Rosaleen.

Miss Amy was frightened, unspeakably dismayed at what she had done.

“Don’t be silly!” she said. “Let bygones be bygones. I—I’m sorry, Rosaleen. Let’s forget all about it. Get to bed now, like a good girl!”

Rosaleen shook her head.

“No!” she said, “I’ve got to go.”

“You wicked girl! Think of all we’ve done for you!” said Miss Amy, in despair.

“I don’t care,” said Rosaleen.

“I won’t let you take that suitcase, then. It’s mine.”

Instantly Rosaleen began taking her things out of it.

“I’ll wrap them in a newspaper,” she said.

Miss Amy stood there threatening, entreating, arguing, but Rosaleen was like a stone. She did wrap her things in a newspaper; then she put on her hat and coat and went out into the passage. Miss Amy stood with her back against the front door.

“I won’t let you!” she cried. “Where would you go—all alone—at this time of night!”

A horrible fear had risen in her mind. If Rosaleen “went wrong,” she would be responsible. She didn’t much care what else happened to her, as long as that was avoided. But she couldn’t have that on her conscience.

“Morton!” she cried, desperately. “Morton! Come out and speak to this wicked, headstrong girl!”

No earthly power could have brought the author into this. He didn’t even answer. He got up from his desk and slipped across the room, and very quietly locked the door.

“I won’t let you out!” cried Miss Amy.

“I’ll stand here till you do!” said Rosaleen firmly.

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

A long time went by. Miss Amy had grown weary beyond endurance. And there stood Rosaleen, leaning against the wall, with her newspaper package under her arm, pallid, solemn, unconquerable.

Suddenly Miss Amy began to cry.

“Very well, you miserable, heartless girl!” she sobbed. “Go, then, if you will!”

Rosaleen went by her, out of the door, and down the stairs. And never again did Miss Amy set eyes on her in this world.