Read Ebook: Rosaleen among the artists by Holding Elisabeth Sanxay

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Ebook has 1161 lines and 44150 words, and 24 pages

"Very pretty!" said Nick. "Are you going to be a professional artist?"

"I hope so. It takes years, though."

She was silent for a moment; then she went on, dejectedly:

"Don't take it so seriously."

"I have to. I've got to earn a living by it."

"I don't believe you'll ever have to earn your living," said Nick. "Not a girl as--lovely as you."

She blushed painfully, even her neck grew scarlet. And he felt his own face grow hot.

There was a distressing silence. He found it very hard to keep from saying:

And to divert his mind from this dangerous thought, he rose and picked up the book she had had in her hand.

"Are these the 'views'?" he asked. "Looks very interesting.... Won't you show them to me?"

And he sat down beside her on the couch. He really didn't think it a particularly significant or daring thing to do; he had sat beside a great many other girls; he was neither impudent nor presumptuous, and no one ever had objected or seemed at all disturbed. So that he was surprised at Rosaleen's agitation. He didn't know how formidable he was to her; how mysterious, how irresistible. Her hands shook as she took the book of views and opened it.

But, before she had spoken a single word, the sound of a footstep in the hall made her jump up and seat herself in a nearby chair with her book, and none too soon, for the curtains parted and a venerable, grey-bearded old gentleman looked in.

"Won't you come in?" said Rosaleen, while Nick got up.

The old gentleman advanced and held out his hand to Nick with a scholarly sort of smile.

"Not at all!" Nick murmured.

"And that sort of work makes its demands, I can tell you! They who know not speak lightly of 'writing,' as of a pleasant diversion; but we initiated ones...! The evening is the only time that I can confidently claim as my own, so you will understand that I dare not waste a moment of the Muse's presence."

"I suppose Rosaleen has told you something of my literary labours?" he enquired, "A romance of the time of Nero. A poor thing, I dare say, but mine own. And, whether or not it takes the public fancy, it has at least served to beguile many weary hours for its creator."

This was out of his preface; a bit he was very fond of.

"I don't know whether you are a student of history, sir," the old gentleman went on. "But if the subject interests you at all, I have some exceedingly interesting pictures--views of the Holy Land, which I should be very pleased to show you."

"Thank you very much," said Nick. "I should like to see them--some time. But I'm afraid I can't wait now...."

The scholar shook his head.

"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.

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.

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 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?"

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