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'Assas,
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 associate 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 amusement 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'Assas 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 gratitude has passed."
"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?"
Hilda's voice in replying held a pained quality; this attack on her
family very evidently perplexed her.
"Mamma thinks it comes from papa, and papa, I suppose, doesn't think
about it at all; he knows, too, that I sell my pictures. You mustn't
imagine," she added, with a touch of pride and resentment, "that they
would let me teach if they knew; you mustn't imagine that for one
moment. And I don't mean to let them know, for then I couldn't help
them; as it is, my help is limited. The money goes, for the most part,
towards _guarding_ mamma. She could not bear shocks and anxiety."
Odd said nothing for some moments.
"How did it begin? how did you come to think of it?" he asked.
"It began some years ago, at the studio where I worked when I first came
to Paris. There was a kind, dull French girl there; she had no talent,
and she was very rich. She heard my work praised a good deal, and one
day, after I had got a picture into the Salon for the first time, she
came and asked me if I would give her lessons. Fifteen francs an hour."
Hilda paused in a way which showed Odd that the recollection was painful
to her.
"It seemed a _very_ strange thing to me at first, that she should ask
me. I had, I'm afraid, rather silly ideas about Katherine and myself; as
though we were very elevated young persons, above all the unpleasant
realities of life. But my common sense soon got the better of my pride;
or rather, I should say, the false pride made way for the honest. We
were _awfully_ poor just then. Papa, of course, never could, never even
tried to make money; but that winter he went in for exasperated
speculation, and really Katherine and I did not know what was to become
of us. To keep it from mamma was the great thing. Katherine was just
beginning to go out, and no money for gowns and cabs; no money, even,
for mamma's books. Keeping up with current literature is expensive, you
know, and mamma has a horror of circulating libraries. The thought of
poor mamma's empty life soon decided me. I remember she had asked one
day for John Addington Symonds's last book, and Katherine and I looked
at one another, knowing that it could not be bought. I realized then,
that at all events I could make enough to keep mamma in books and
Katherine in gloves. You can't think how nasty, how egotistic my vulgar
hesitation seemed to me. My life so full, so happy, and theirs on the
verge of ruin. There is something very selfish about art, you know; it
shuts one off so much from real life, makes one so indifferent to
scrapings and pinchings. I realized that, with my shabby clothes and
apparent talent, it was most natural for the French girl to think I
should be glad of her offer; and indeed I was. It was soothing, too, to
have her so eager. She wanted me very much, so I yielded gracefully."
Hilda gave a little smile of self-mockery. "I have taught her ever
since. She lives in that house in the Rue d'Assas; rich, bourgeois
people, common, but kind. She has no talent"--Hilda's matter-of-fact
manner of knowledge was really impressive--"but I don't feel unfair in
going on with her, for she really does see things now, and that is the
greatest pleasure next to seeing and accomplishing; and, indeed, how
rarely one accomplishes. Through her I have a great many pupils, for
other girls at the studio heard of her progress with me, and wanted
private lessons too. All my afternoons are taken up, and, with fifteen
francs an hour, you can see what a lot I make. It rather annoys me to
think of people far cleverer than I am who can make nothing, and I, just
because I have had luck, making so much. But among my pupils, I really
have quite a _vogue_; and I _am_ a good teacher, I really think I am."
"I am sure your pupils are very lucky. You have a great many, you say?"
"Yes, quite a lot. Sometimes I give three lessons in an afternoon. With
Mademoiselle Lebon, my first pupil, I spend all the afternoon twice a
week. She has a gorgeous studio." Hilda smiled again. "It is very nice
working there. To-morrow I go for two hours to an old lady; she lives in
the Boulevard St. Germain; she is a dear, and a great deal of talent
too; she does flowers exquisitely; not the dreadful feminine vulgarities
one usually associates with women's flower-painting; why all the
incompetents should fall back on those loveliest and most difficult
things, I never could understand. But my pupil really sees and selects.
Only think how funny! Katherine met her son at a dance one night--the
Comte de Chalons--insignificant but nice, she said; how little he could
have connected Katherine with his mother's teacher! Indeed, he never saw
me," and Hilda's smile became decidedly clever. "I suppose the
comtesse--she really is a dear, too--thinks that for a penniless young
teacher I am too pretty. Well, I make on an average thirty francs an
afternoon. I give Mademoiselle Lebon and Madame de Chalons double time
for their money, as old pupils. It would be easier to have a class in
my studio, of course, but I would lose many of my most interesting
pupils, who don't care about going out; then, too, it would be almost
impossible to keep my misdoings undiscovered. And there is all the
mystery!" She leaned forward in the dusk of the cab to smile at him
playfully. "I am glad to get it off my mind; glad, too, that you should
know why I am so often cross and dull; by the time I reach home I am
tired. I always bring Palamon, unless it is as rainy as to-day, and of
course he puts omnibuses out of the question; omnibuses mount up, too,
when one takes them every day. Excuse these sordid details."
"I should think that a young lady who earns thirty francs an afternoon
might afford a cab." Odd found it rather difficult to speak. She was
mercifully unaware of the aspect in which her drudging, crushed young
life appeared to him.
"And then, what would Palamon and I do for exercise!" said Hilda
lightly; "it is the walking that keeps me well, I am sure."
His silence seemed to depress her gayety, for after a moment she added:
"And really you don't know how poor we are. I have no right to cabs,
really. As it is, it often seems wrong to me spending the money as I do
when we owe so much, so terribly much. Thirty francs is a lot, but we
need every penny of it, for mere everyday life. I have paid off some of
the smaller debts by instalments, but the weekly bills seem to swallow
up everything."
His realization of this silent struggle--the whole weight of her
selfish family on her frail shoulders--made Odd afraid of his own
indignation. The remembrance of Mrs. Archinard's whines, the Captain's
taunts, yes, and worst of all, Katherine's gowns and gayety, almost
overcame him. He took her hand in his and held it as they rolled along
through the wetly shining streets. His continued silence rather alarmed
Hilda. The relief of full confidence was so great that she could not
bear it impaired by any misinterpretation.
"You do understand," she said; "you do think I am right? My success
seems unmerited to you, perhaps? But I try to give my best. I seem very
selfish and unkind to mamma, I know, but I really am kind--don't you
think so?--in keeping the truth from her and letting her misjudge me. I
know you have thought of me that I was one of those selfish idiots who
neglect their real duties for their art; but I can do more for mamma
outside our home. And I read to her in the evening. Oh, how conceited,
egotistic, all that sounds! But I do want you to believe that I try to
do what seems best and wisest."
"Hilda! Hilda!" he put her hand to his lips and kissed the worn glove.
"You simply astound me," he said, after a moment; "your little life
facing this great Paris."
"Oh, I am very careful, very wise," Hilda said quickly.
"Careful? You mean that if you were not you might encounter
unpleasantnesses?"
She looked at him with a look of knowledge that went strangely with her
delicate face.
"Of course one must be careful. I am young--and pretty. I have learned
that."
"My child, what other things have you learned?" And Odd's hold tightened
on her hand.
"That terrifying things might happen if one were not brave. Don't
exaggerate, please. I really have found so few lions in my path, and a
girl of dignity cannot be really annoyed beyond a certain point. Lions
are very much magnified in popular and conventional estimation. A girl
can, practically, do anything she likes here in Paris if she is quiet
and self-reliant."
Odd stared at her.
"Of course I have always been a coward, after a fashion; I was
frightened at first," said Hilda. He understood now the look of moral
courage that had haunted him; natural timidity steeled to endurance.
"The greatest trouble with me is that I am too noticeable, too pretty."
She spoke of her beauty in a tone of matter-of-fact experience; "it is a
pity for a working woman."
"My child," Odd repeated. He felt dazed.
"Please don't exaggerate," Hilda reiterated.
"Exaggerate? Tell me about these lions. How have you vanquished them?"
"I have merely walked past them."
His evident dismay gave her a merry little moment of superior wisdom.
"They frightened me and that was all. One was the husband of a person I
taught. He used to lie in wait for me in the dining-room." Hilda gave
Odd a rather meditative glance. "You won't be angry? Angry with _me_
for keeping on in my path of independence?"
"No; I won't be angry with you." Odd felt that his very lips were white.
"Well, he gave me a letter one day." Hilda paused. "What a despicable
man!" she said reflectively; "I taught his wife! I tore the letter in
two, gave it back to him, and walked out. Naturally, I never went back
again." Her voice suddenly broke. "Oh! it was horrible! I felt--"
"What did you feel?"
"I felt as though I were for evermore set apart from _my_ kind of girl,
from girls like Katherine. I felt smirched, as though some one had
thrown mud at me. That was morbid. I got over it."
"Heavens!" Odd ejaculated. "Katherine knows this too?" he asked
bitingly.
"Oh no, no! Mr. Odd, you are the only person. Never speak of it, will
you? Never, never! Poor Kathy! It would drive her mad!"
"And she knows of your work?"
"Yes; I had to tell her of that. She felt dreadfully about it. She
wanted me to go out with her, and have pretty dresses, and meet the
clever people she meets. You should have seen how happy she was in
London last spring! To have me with her! Wrenched away from my paint! Of
course I could not give up my work, even if there had been money enough.
I made her see that, and I can't say I made her agree, but I made her
yield. She takes a false view of it still, and worries over it. She
wants me to give up the teaching and paint pictures only; but that would
be too risky, they don't sell so surely. I have several on my hands.
But Katherine knows nothing of lions and unpleasantness. I must keep
such things secret, or I should not be allowed to go on."
"You think I am safe. I must allow you, I suppose?"
"Yes, you must." She smiled a very decided little smile, adding gravely,
"I have confided in you."
"Trust me." There was silence in the cab for some moments. The tall
trees of the Cours la Reine dripped in a misty mass on one side; on the
other was the Seine with its lights.
"And the young man I saw at the door as you came out to-day?" said Odd.
"Oh, that is nothing, I hope. He is Mademoiselle Lebon's brother. A
harmlessly disagreeable creature, I fancy." Odd resumed his brooding
silence. "What are you thinking of so solemnly?" she asked.
"Of you."
"Why so solemnly? I am afraid you are laboring under all sorts of false
impressions. I have told my story stupidly."
"The true impression has stupefied me. Good heavens! Theoretically I
believe in the development of character at all costs, and you have
certainly developed a _rara avis_ in the line; but practically,
practically, my dear little girl, I would have you taken care of in
cotton-wool, guarded, protected; you would always be lovely, and you
would have been happy. You have been very unhappy."
Hilda was looking at him with that rather vague look of impersonal
contemplation characteristic of her.
"How you exaggerate things," she said, smiling; "I have not been
unhappy."
"The pity of it! The pathos!" Odd pursued, not heeding her comment.
Hilda looked at him rather sadly.
"You mean that I should have lost my ignorance? Yes, that made me feel
badly," she assented. "That is the worst of it. One becomes so
suspicious. But, Mr. Odd, that is merely a sentimental regret. I have
not lost my self-respect. I am not ignorant of things I should like to
ignore; but one may know a great many things, and be unharmed."
"My dear child, you are probably innocent of things familiar to many
modern girls. No knowledge could harm you. You have a right to more than
self-respect. You are a little heroine. Your unrewarded, unrecognized
fight fills me with amazement and reverence. I did not know that such
self-forgetful devotion existed."
"Oh, please don't talk like that! It is quite ridiculous! We must have
money, and I can make it easily. I would be quite a monster if I sat
idly at home, and saw mamma in squalid misery. I merely do my duty."
Hilda spoke quite sharply and decisively.
"Merely!" Odd ejaculated.
A thought of the near future, of Allan Hope, kept him silent, otherwise
he might have indulged in reckless invective. He still held her hand,
and again he raised it to his lips.
"That is a very stubborn and unconvinced salute, I am afraid," Hilda
said good-humoredly.
"May I come and get you now and then?" he asked.
"You think it would be wise?"
"How do you mean wise, Hilda?"
"I might be found out. I have given you my secret. You must help me to
keep it."
"I may speak of it to Katharine--since she knows?"
"Oh, of course, to Katherine. But don't _egg_ her on to worry me!"
laughed Hilda; "and speak to her with _reservations_--there are things
she must not know."
Peter wondered if the child-friendship, the brotherly relations,
entitled him to seal the compact with a kiss upon her lips. He looked at
her with a sudden quickening of breath. Her dimly seen face was very
beautiful. This realization of her beauty's attraction at that moment
struck him with a sense of abasement before her. Surely no such poor tie
held him to this lovely soul. And, at the turn of his own thoughts, Odd
felt a vague stir of fear.