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.

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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.