Every night, after his dinner, P. D. would take what he termed a
“cat-nap.” Not even chess interrupted these short dozes on the
comfortable couch by the pleasantly-crackling logs heaped upon the big
fireplace.
There would be an interval, then, when Cheerio and Hilda would find
themselves practically alone in the living-room. Sometimes Cheerio
would look across expectantly at Hilda, and she would turn away and
stare with seeming absorption out of the window. Then he would bring
forth his tobacco pouch, fill and light his pipe and dip down in the
pocket of his old coat and bring up a book. Hilda’s absorption in the
outside view would undergo a swift change. Against her will, she found
herself watching him furtively. It fascinated her to see the way in
which he would handle a book, his fingers seeming sensitively to caress
the pages. He always closed the book reluctantly and would return
it carefully to his pocket as if it were something precious. She had
satisfied her curiosity as to the titles and the authors of the books
he read. She had never heard the names before, and suffered a pang
that he should be close to matters concerning which she was totally
ignorant. She tried to comfort and reassure herself. Even if one had
missed school and college, even if one had been side-tracked all of
her life on an Alberta ranch, even if a girl’s solitary associates and
friends, over all the days of her life, had been merely the rough types
peculiar to the cattle country, _he_ had said that a world might be
discovered right within the pages of a book. There was hope, therefore,
for the unhappy Hilda.
He had made that remark to no one in particular one night, as he gently
closed the book in his hand, and reached for the tobacco pouch in
his rough tweed pocket. Then he had filled his pipe, beamed upon the
sleeping P. D., and with his brown head against the back of the Morris
chair, Cheerio had lapsed into what seemed to be a brown study in
which Hilda and all the rest of the world appeared to disappear from
his ken.
Cheerio had a trick of disappearing, as it was, in this
manner--disappearing, mentally. Always there would then arise something
torturing in the breast of Hilda McPherson. She had a passionate
curiosity to know where the mind of the dreaming man had leaped in
thought. Across the water--Ah! there was no doubt of that! Back in
that England of his! Figures rose about him. Hilda had an intuitive
knowledge of the types of people who were his familiars on the other
side. Always among them was the smiling woman, whose hair was gold
and whose lazy eyes had a lure in them that to the downright and
unsophisticated Hilda spelled the last word in fascination. “Nanna”! A
foolish name for a lady, thought the girl throbbingly, and yet a love
name. It was undoubtedly that.
If the motherless girl could but have found a confidante on whom
to pour out all the torturing doubts and longings of these days,
something of her pain would have been surely assuaged. Chaotic new
emotions were warring within her breast. Her wild young nature found
itself incapable of wrestling with the exquisite impulses that despite
her best efforts she could not control. Hilda told herself that she
hated. An alarming voice seemed to retort from the depths of her
heart that that was but another name for Love. This--Love! She could
not--would not--dared not believe it. And yet the simple motion of this
man’s strong white hand, the slight quizzical uplift of his eyes had
the power to cause her to hold her breath suspended and send the blood
racing to her heart.
Hilda was not subtle enough to search her soul or that of another.
She could not diagnose that which overwhelmed her. In a way she was
like one overtaken, trapped in a spell from which there was no door
through which she might escape. She had reason for believing him to be
unworthy--a man who put to a crucial test, had failed miserably; one
who had confessed to a flagrant and criminal weakness.
She had judged him relentlessly, for youth is cruel, and love and
jealousy create a torment which is hard to bear.