The Dull Miss Archinard Part 20

That very evening, while Katherine played Schumann, the Captain having gone out and Mrs. Archinard dozing on the sofa, he determined to have the truth if possible.

Hilda stood behind her sister, listening. Her tall slenderness looked well in anything that fell in long lines, even if made by the most _pet.i.te_ of _pet.i.te couturieres_, as the gray silk had been. The white fichu covered deficiencies of fit, and left free the exquisite line of her throat. Her head, in its att.i.tude of quiet listening, struck Odd with the old sense of a beauty significant, not the lovely mask of emptiness.

"Come and sit by me, Hilda," he said from his place on the sofa, "you can hear better at this distance."

The quick turn of her head, her pretty look of willingness were charming, he thought.

"I like to see you in that dress," he said, as she sat down beside him on the sofa, "there isn't a whiff of paint or palette about it, except that, in it, you look like a picture, and a prettier one than even you could paint."

"That is a very subtle insult!" Hilda's smile showed a most encouraging continuation of the pretty willingness.

"You see," said Odd, "you are not fair to your friends. You should paint fewer pictures, and be more constantly a picture in yourself." She showed a little uneasy doubtfulness of look.

"I am afraid I don't understand you. I am afraid I am stupid."

"You should _be_ a little more, and _act_ a little less."

"But to act is to be," said Hilda, with a sudden laugh. "We are not listening to Schumann," she added, a trifle maliciously. Her face turned toward him in a soft shadow, a line of light just defining the cheek's young oval, the lovely slimness of the throat affected Odd with a really rapturously artistic appreciation. The shape of her small head, too, with its high curves of hair, was elegant with an intimate elegance peculiarly characteristic. An inner gentle dignity, a voluntary submission to exterior facts of existence resulting in a higher freedom, a more perfect self-possession, seemed to emanate from her; the very poise of her head suggested it, and so strong and so sudden was the suggestion that Odd felt his curiosity intolerable, and those groping suspicions outrageously at sea.

"Hilda," he said abruptly, "I went to your studio the other afternoon.

You were not there."

Her finger flashed warningly to her lip, and her glance towards her mother turned again to him, pained and beseeching.

"She--they can't hear," said Odd, in a still lower voice.

"No, I was not there," Hilda repeated.

"And your father, your mother, Katherine, think you are there when you are not. Is that wise? Don't be angry with me, my dear Hilda. You may have confidence in me. Tell me, do you work somewhere else?"

"_No._ I am not angry. You startled me." Her look was indeed shaken, but sweet, touched even. "Yes, I work somewhere else."

"And you keep it a secret?"

She nodded.

"Is it safe to keep secrets from your father and mother? Or is it a secret kept for their sakes, Hilda?" Peter had made mental combinations, yet he suspected that in this one he was shooting rather far from the mark. No matter. Hilda looked away, and seemed revolving some inner doubt. Her hesitation surprised him; he was more surprised when, half unwillingly, she whispered, "Yes," still not looking at him.

"For their sakes," repeated Odd, his curiosity redoubled. "Come, Hilda, please tell me all about it. For _their_ sakes?"

"In one way." Hilda spoke with the same air of half-unwilling confidence. But that she should confide, that she should not lock herself in stubborn silence, was much.

"And as you need not keep it for my sake, you may tell me," he urged; "I may be able to help you."

"Oh! I don't need help." She turned a slightly challenging look upon him. "It is no hardship to me, no trouble to keep my little secret."

"You are really unkind now, Hilda."

"No,"--her smile dwelt on him meditatively; "but I see no reason, no necessity for telling you. I have nothing naughty to confess!" and there was a touch of pride in her laugh.

"Yes, you are unkind, for you turn my real anxiety to a jest."

"You must not be anxious." Her eyes still rested on his, sweetly and gently.

"Not when I see you surrounded by an atmosphere of carping criticism?

When I see you coming home, night after night, worn out, too fatigued to speak? When I see that you are thin and white and sad?"

Hilda drew herself up a little.

"Oh, you are mistaken. But--how _kind_ of you!" and again the irradiated look lit up her face.

"Does _that_ surprise you? Hilda, Katherine is in the dark about this too?"

"Katherine knows; but please don't ask her about it."

"She doesn't approve, then?"

"Not exactly. Besides, it might hurt her. Please don't ask me either. It really isn't worth any mystery, and yet I must keep it a secret."

Odd was silent for a moment, a baffling sense of pitfalls and hiding-places upon him.

"But Katherine ought to tell me," he said at last, smiling.

"Now you are pushing an unfair advantage. She thinks, probably, that it might hurt _me_. Really, _really_," she added urgently, "it isn't so serious as all this seems to make it. The one serious thing is that it _would_ hurt mamma, and that is why I make such a mountain out of my mole-hill. How mystery does magnify the tiniest things!"

"Tell me, at least, where you go in the afternoon. I mean to what part of Paris, to what street."

"I go to several streets," said Hilda, smiling resignedly, "since you _will_ be so curious."

"Where are you going to-morrow? Give me just an idea of your prowess."

"I go to-morrow to the Rue d'a.s.sas."

"Near the Luxembourg Gardens?"

"Yes."

"I fancied you were walking yourself to death. And next day?"

"Next day--the Rue Poulletier."

"And where may that be? I fancied I knew my Paris well."

"It is a little street in the ile St. Louis. That is my favorite walk; home along the quays. I get the view of Notre Dame from the back, with all the flying b.u.t.tresses, and the sunset beyond."

"No wonder you are tired every night. You always walk?"

"Usually. I have Palamon with me, and they would not take him in a 'bus.

But from the ile St. Louis I often take the boat, and that is one of the treats of Paris, I think, especially when the lights are lit. And on some days I go to the Boulevard St. Germain. There; now you shall ask me no more questions."