Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI. Mrs. Hudson

Of Roderick, meanwhile, Rowland saw nothing; but he immediately went to
Mrs. Hudson and assured her that her son was in even exceptionally good
health and spirits. After this he called again on the two ladies from
Northampton, but, as Roderick's absence continued, he was able neither
to furnish nor to obtain much comfort. Miss Garland's apprehensive
face seemed to him an image of his own state of mind. He was profoundly
depressed; he felt that there was a storm in the air, and he wished
it would come, without more delay, and perform its ravages. On the
afternoon of the third day he went into Saint Peter's, his frequent
resort whenever the outer world was disagreeable. From a heart-ache to
a Roman rain there were few importunate pains the great church did not
help him to forget. He had wandered there for half an hour, when he came
upon a short figure, lurking in the shadow of one of the great piers. He
saw it was that of an artist, hastily transferring to his sketch-book a
memento of some fleeting variation in the scenery of the basilica; and
in a moment he perceived that the artist was little Sam Singleton.

Singleton pocketed his sketch-book with a guilty air, as if it cost his
modesty a pang to be detected in this greedy culture of opportunity.
Rowland always enjoyed meeting him; talking with him, in these days,
was as good as a wayside gush of clear, cold water, on a long, hot walk.
There was, perhaps, no drinking-vessel, and you had to apply your lips
to some simple natural conduit; but the result was always a sense of
extreme moral refreshment. On this occasion he mentally blessed the
ingenuous little artist, and heard presently with keen regret that he
was to leave Rome on the morrow. Singleton had come to bid farewell
to Saint Peter's, and he was gathering a few supreme memories. He had
earned a purse-full of money, and he was meaning to take a summer's
holiday; going to Switzerland, to Germany, to Paris. In the autumn he
was to return home; his family--composed, as Rowland knew, of a father
who was cashier in a bank and five unmarried sisters, one of whom gave
lyceum-lectures on woman's rights, the whole resident at Buffalo, New
York--had been writing him peremptory letters and appealing to him as
a son, brother, and fellow-citizen. He would have been grateful for
another year in Rome, but what must be must be, and he had laid up
treasure which, in Buffalo, would seem infinite. They talked some time;
Rowland hoped they might meet in Switzerland, and take a walk or two
together. Singleton seemed to feel that Buffalo had marked him for her
own; he was afraid he should not see Rome again for many a year.

"So you expect to live at Buffalo?" Rowland asked