Odd made no further comment on the information he had received, but he resolved to be in the Rue d"a.s.sas to-morrow. He did not intend to spy, but he did intend to walk home with Hilda, and to make her understand that one of the brotherly offices he claimed was the right to protecting companionship. He revolved the _role_ and its possibilities, as he lay back in the sofa watching Hilda"s profile, and listening to Schumann--a _role_ that could, at all events, not last long, since Allan Hope arrived on Wednesday. Allan"s arrival would put an end to mysteries, to a need for brotherly protection. Odd felt a certain curiosity on this point; indeed his att.i.tude towards Hilda was one of continual curiosity.
"So Allan Hope turns up Wednesday week," he said. "I shall be glad to see Allan again."
Hilda"s silence might imply displeasure, but Odd, in an att.i.tude of manly laziness, one leg crossed over the other, one hand holding an ankle, thought a little gentle teasing quite allowable.
"Will you go bicycling with him, unkind Hilda?" He was not prepared for the startled look she turned on him.
"When I would not go with _you_?" Her own vehemence seemed to embarra.s.s her. "I hardly know how to bicycle at all," she added lamely; "I would have gone with you if I had had time." She looked away again, and then, taking a book from the table beside her--
"Have you seen the last volume of _decadent_ poetry? Isn"t the binding nice?" Odd felt himself justly, but rather severely, reproved; yet the gentle candor of her eyes was kind and soothing. Katherine was playing the "Chopin" from Schumann"s "Carnaval," and Peter, still holding his ankle and feeling rather like a naughty little boy forgiven, did not look at the fantastic volume she held, but at Hilda herself. How blue the shadows were on the milky whiteness of her skin. Odd"s eyes followed the thick, soft eddies of hair about her forehead.
"Aren"t the margins generous?" said Hilda, turning the pages; "a mere trickle of print through the whiteness. Some of the verses are really very pretty," and she talked gayly, in her gentle way, as they went through the pages together.
CHAPTER IV
It was just past four when Peter walked up the Rue Bonaparte and stationed himself at the corner of the Rue Vavin and the Rue d"a.s.sas, opposite the Luxembourg Gardens.
From this point of vantage he could look up and down the street, and there would be no chance of missing her. She rarely reached home till past six, and, even allowing for very slow walking, he was if anything too early.
He felt, as he opened his umbrella--it had begun to rain--that his present position might look foolish, but was certainly justifiable. He would ask Hilda no questions, force in no way her confidence, but really on the gray dreariness of such a day she ought not to reject but rather to be glad for his proffered and unexpected companionship. The combined dreariness of the afternoon with its cold rain, the gray street, the desolate-looking branches of the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens, inspired him with a painful sympathy for Hilda"s pursuits. She was, probably, working in one of these tall, severe houses; perhaps with some atelier chum fallen beneath the ban of Mrs. Archinard"s disapproval, and clung to with a girl"s enthusiasm. Disobedient of Hilda, very. The chum might be masculine. This was a new and disagreeable supposition; a Marie Bashkirtseff, Bastien Lepage affair; Bohemia gloried in such audacities; it was difficult to a.s.sociate Hilda with such feats of independence. There was a mystery somewhere, however, and if not mountainous, it must be more than mere mole-hill. It was very windy, and the rain blew slantingly. Katherine would find the situation amusing. A vision of the sympathetic amus.e.m.e.nt was followed by the realization that to betray his Quixotism might be to betray Hilda"s confidence. Yet Hilda had made no confidence. Peter rebelled at the mere suggestion of concealment. Knowing all, Katherine could surely know that he had been admitted into the outer courts of the mystery. He had ample time for every variety of reflection, for he had been standing in the rain for over an hour, when Hilda appeared not far from him, stepping from the door of one of the largest and most dignified of the gray houses. She paused on the wet pavement to open her umbrella, and Peter had a glimpse of the wide red lips and small black beard of an unpleasant-looking French youth, who seemed to loiter behind her with a certain air of expectancy. It was impossible to connect his commonplace vulgarity of aspect with Bohemian friendships or with Hilda, and, indeed, she gave him a mere nod, not looking at him at all, and came walking up the street, her skirt raised in one hand, showing slim feet and ankles. Odd, as he contemplated her advance, was reminded of the light poise of a Jean Goujon nymph. Her umbrella, lowered against the wind, hid him from her.
"Well, Hilda," he said amicably, when she was almost beside him--the umbrella tilted back over her shoulder, and the rain fell on her startled face--"Here I am."
Her stare of utmost amazement was very amusing, but she looked white and tired.
"I must get a _fiacre_, I haven"t your taste for plodding through rain and mud, and you"ll be kind enough to forgo the enjoyment for one day, won"t you?" Her stupefaction at last resolved itself into one word: "Well!" she exclaimed with emphasis, and then she laughed outright.
"By Jove, child, you look done up. I"m glad you"re not angry, though.
You wouldn"t laugh if you were angry, would you? Here is a _fiacre_." He hailed the approaching vehicle; the _cocher"s_ hat and cape, the roof of the cab, the horse"s waterproof covering glistened with rain in the dying light.
"You are very, very kind," Hilda said, rather gravely now, as they stood side by side on the curb while the _fiacre_ rattled up to them.
"I always intend to be kind, Hilda, if you will let me. Jump in." He followed her, slamming the door with relief, and depositing the two dripping umbrellas in a corner.
"You must be drenched," said Hilda solemnly.
"Imitation is the sincerest flattery, I believe; your fondness for drenchings inspired me. You are not one bit angry, then? You see I ask you no questions."
"Angry? It was too good of you!" Her voice was still meditative.
"I am much relieved that you should say so. I was only conscious of guilt."
"How long did you wait?"
"About an hour."
"And it was _pouring_!"
"Oh no, not pouring. I have suffered far worse drenchings for far less pleasure. One has no umbrella in Scotland on the moors."
"One has, at least, the scenery." Hilda smiled.
"Yes; the Rue d"a.s.sas isn"t particularly inspiring. I don"t disclaim honor; that corner was most wearing. Only the irritation of waiting for my mysterious little truant kept me from finding it dreary."
"Don"t call me mysterious, please."
"But you are mysterious, Hilda; very. However, I promised myself, and I promise you, to say no more about it, to ask no questions."
"You are so kind, so good." There was deep feeling in her voice; she looked at him with a certain wistful eagerness. "You really do care, don"t you? Shall I tell you? I should like to. It seems silly not to tell you, and I think you have a right to know--after to-day."
"I really care a great deal, Hilda; but--I don"t want to take an unfair advantage, you know; I really have no right whatsoever. Wait till this impulse of unmerited grat.i.tude has pa.s.sed."
"But it is nothing to tell, really nothing. You see--I make money. I have to--I teach. There; that is all."
Peter looked at her, at the white oval of her face, at the unfashionable little hat, at the shabby coat and skirt. A lily of the field who toiled and spun. And a hot resentment rose within him as he thought of the father, the mother, the sister.
"Why _have_ you to?" he asked, in a hard voice.
"We are so dreadfully poor, and we are so dreadfully in debt."
"But why you alone? What can _you_ do?"
"I can do a good deal. I have been very lucky. I love my work too, and I make money by it, so it is natural. Mamma, of course, would think it terrible, degrading even; but I can"t agree with mamma"s point of view; I think it is quite wrong. I see nothing terrible or degrading."
"No; nothing terrible or degrading, I grant you."
"You think I am right, don"t you?"
"Yes; quite right, dear, quite right."
Odd paused before adding: "It is the incongruity that is shocking."
"The incongruity?" Hilda"s voice was vague.
"Between your life and theirs; yes."
"Oh, you don"t understand. I love my work; it is my pleasure. Besides, they don"t know; they don"t realize the necessity either."
"Why the teaching? I thought your pictures sold well."
"And so they do, often; but I took up the teaching some years ago, before I had any hope of selling my pictures; it is very _sure_, very well paid, and I really find it a rest after five hours of studio work; after five hours I don"t feel a picture any longer."
"Yet they must know that the money comes from somewhere?"