it rained next day, and peter took a fiacre from the bibliothèque nationale, where he had spent the afternoon diligently, and drove through the gray evening to the rue pierre charron. it was just five when he got there, and already almost dark. there were four flights to be ascended before one reached the archinards’ apartment; four steep and rather narrow flights, for the house was not one of the larger newer ones, and there was no lift. wilson, whom odd remembered at allersley, opened the door to him. captain archinard had evidently not denuded himself of a valet when he had parted with his horses; that sacrifice had probably seemed too monstrous, but peter wondered rather whether wilson’s wages were ever paid, and thought it more probable that a mistaken fidelity attached him to his master. in view of year-long arrears, he might have found it safer to stay with a future possibility of payment than, by leaving, put an end forever to even the hope of compensation.
the little entrance was very pretty, and the drawing-room, into which peter was immediately ushered, even prettier. evidently the archinards had brought their own furniture, and the archinards had very good taste. the pale gray-greens of the room were charming. peter noticed appreciatively the copenhagen vases filled with white flowers; he could find time for appreciation as he passed to mrs. archinard’s sofa, for no one else was in the room, a fact of which he was immediately and disappointedly aware. mrs. archinard was really improved. her husband’s monetary embarrassments had made even less impression on her than upon the surroundings, for though the little salon was very pretty, it was not the priory drawing-room, and mrs. archinard was, if anything, plumper and prettier than when peter had last seen her.
“this is really quite too delightful! quite too delightful, mr. odd!” mrs. archinard’s slender hand pressed his with seemingly affectionate warmth. “katherine told us this morning about the rencontre. i was expecting you, as you see. ten years! it seems impossible, really impossible!” still holding his hand, she scanned his face with her sad and pretty smile. “i could hardly realize it, were it not that your books lie here beside me, living symbols of the years.”
peter indeed saw, on the little table by the sofa, the familiar bindings.
“i asked katherine to get them out, so that i might look over them again; strengthen my impression of your personality, join all the links before meeting you again. dear, dear little books!” mrs. archinard laid her hand, with its one great emerald ring, on the “dialogues,” which was uppermost. “sit down, mr. odd; no, on this chair. the light falls on your face so. yes, your books are to me among the most exquisite art productions of our age. pater is more étincellant—a style too jewelled perhaps—one wearies of the chain of rather heartless beauty; but in your books one feels the heart, the aroma of life—a chain of flowers, flowers do not weary. your personality is to me very sympathetic, mr. odd, very sympathetic.”
peter was conscious of being sorry for it.
“i think we are both of us tired.” mrs. archinard’s smile grew even more sadly sweet; “both tired, both hopeless, both a little indifferent too. how few things one finds to care about! things crumble so, once touched, do they not? everything crumbles.” mrs. archinard sighed, and, as peter found nothing to say (“how dull a man who writes quite clever books can be!” thought mrs. archinard), she went on in a more commonplace tone—
“and you talked with dear katherine last night; you pleased her. she told hilda and me this morning that you really pleased her immensely. katherine is hard to please. i am proud of my girl, mr. odd, very, very proud. did you not find her quite distinctive? quite significant? i always think of katherine as significant, many facetted, meaning much.” the murmuring modulations of mrs. archinard’s voice irritated odd to such a pitch of ill-temper that he found it difficult to keep his own pleasant as he replied—
“significant is most applicable. she is a charming girl.”
“yes, charming; that too applies, and oh, what a misapplied word it is! every woman nowadays is called charming. the daintily distinctive term is flung at the veriest schoolroom hoyden, as at the hard, mechanical woman of the world.”
peter now said to himself that mrs. archinard was an ass—very unjustly—mrs. archinard was far from being an ass. she felt the atmosphere with unerring promptitude. her effects were not to be made upon ce type là. she welcomed katherine’s entrance as a diversion from looming boredom. katherine seemed to go in for a regal simplicity in dress. her gown was again of velvet, a deep amethyst color. the high collar and the long sleeves that came over her white hands in points were edged with a narrow line of sable. a necklace of amethysts lightly set in gold encircled the base of her throat. peter liked to see a well-dressed woman, and katherine was more than well dressed. in the pearly tints of the room she made a picture with her purple gleams and shadows.
“i am glad to see you. sit down. it is nice to have you in our little diggings. you are like a bit of england sitting there—a big bit!”
“and you are a perfectly delightful condensation of everything delightfully parisian.”
“the heart is british. true oak!” laughed katherine; “don’t judge me by the foliage.”
“ah, but it needs a good deal of gallic genius to choose such foliage.”
“no, no. i give the credit to my american blood, to mamma. but thanks, very much. i am glad you are appreciative.” katherine smiled so gayly, and looked so charmingly in the amethyst velvet, that peter forgot for a moment to wonder where hilda was, but katherine did not forget.
“i expect hilda every moment. i have told them to wait tea until she comes, poor dear! ‘them’ is wilson, whom you saw, i suppose; taylor, our old maid; and the cook! the cook is french, otherwise our staff is shrunken, but of the same elements. one doesn’t mind having no servants in a little box like this. yes, mamma, i have paid all the calls, and only two people were out; so i deserve petting and tea. i hope hilda will hurry.” mrs. archinard’s face took on a look of ill-used resignation.
“we all pay dearly for hilda’s egotism,” she remarked, and for a moment there was a rather uncomfortable silence. odd felt a queer indignation and a queerer melancholy rising within him.
the hilda of to-day seemed far further away than the hilda of ten years ago. they talked in a rather desultory fashion for some time. mrs. archinard’s presence was damping, and even katherine’s smile was like a flower seen through rain. the little clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter.
“almost six!” exclaimed katherine; “we must have tea.”
“yes, we may sacrifice ourselves, but we must not sacrifice mr. odd,” said mrs. archinard with distinct fretfulness. taylor answered the bell, and peter, with a quickness of combination that surprised himself, surmised that hilda was out alone. had she become emancipated? bohemian? his melancholy grew stronger. tea was brought, a charming set of daintiest white and a little silver teapot of a quaint and delicate design.
“hilda designed it in florence,” said katherine, seeing him looking at it; “an italian friend had it made for her after her own model and drawings. yes, hilda goes in for decorative work a good deal. people who know about it have admired that teapot, as you do, i see.”
“it’s a lovely thing,” said peter, as katherine turned it before him; “the simplicity of the outline and the delicate bas-relief”—he bent his head to look more closely—“exquisite.” and he thought it rather rough on hilda; to pour the tea from her own teapot without waiting for her.
still, he owned, when at last the door-bell rang at fully half-past six, that he might have been asking for too much patience.
“there she is,” said katherine; “i must go and tell her that you are here.” katherine went out, and odd heard a murmured colloquy in the entrance. he was conscious of feeling excited, and unconsciously rose to his feet and looked eagerly toward the door. but only katherine came in.
“i don’t believe i shall ever see hilda!” he exclaimed, with an assumption of exasperation that hid some real nervousness. katherine laughed.
“oh yes, you shall, in five minutes. she had to wash her face and hands. artists are untidy people, you know,” and odd, with that same strange acuteness of perception with which he seemed dowered this afternoon, felt that hilda had been coming in in all her artistic untidiness, and that katherine had seen to a more respectable entrée.
it rather irritated him with katherine, and that tactful young lady probably guessed at his disappointment, for she went to the piano and began to play a sad aria from one of schumann’s sonatas that sighed and pled and sobbed. she played very well, with the same perfect taste that she showed in her gowns, and peter was too fond of music, too fond of schumann especially, not to listen to her.
in the middle of the aria hilda came in. it was over in a moment, the meeting, as the most exciting things in life are. peter had not realized till the moment came how much it would excite him.
hilda came in and walked up to him. she put her hand in his with all the pretty gravity he remembered in the child. odd took the other hand too and stared at her. he was conscious then of being very much excited, and conscious that she was not.
her eyes were “big and vague,” but they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and the vagueness was only in a certain lack of expression, for they looked straight into his. carried along by that first impulse of excitement, despite the little shock of half-felt disappointment, peter bent his head and kissed her on each cheek.
“bravo!” said katherine, still striking soft chords at the piano, “bravo, mr. odd! considering your first meeting and your last parting, you have a right to that!” and katherine laughed pleasantly, though she was a trifle displeased.
“yes, i have, haven’t i?” said peter, smiling. he still held hilda’s hands. the little flush that had come to her cheeks when he had kissed her was gone, and she looked very white.
“are you glad to see me, hilda?” he asked; “i beg your pardon, but it comes naturally to call you that.”
“i am very glad to see you, mr. odd,” hilda smiled. her voice was very like the child’s voice saying, “i thank you very much,” ten years ago. the same voice, grave and gentle. odd had expected some little warmth, some little embarrassment even, in the girl, considering the parting from the child. but hilda did not show any warmth, neither did she seem at all embarrassed, and odd felt rather as one does when an unnecessary downward stride reveals level ground where one expected another step. he had stumbled a little, and now, half ruefully, half humorously, he considered the child hilda grown up. she sat down near her mother.
“i am so sorry. i am afraid you waited for me,” she said, bending towards her; “i really couldn’t help it, mamma.”
“no, i think it kindest to consider you irresponsible; there is certainly an element of insanity in your exaggerated devotion to your work.” mrs. archinard smiled acidly, and hilda, odd thought, did look a little embarrassed now. he had adjusted himself to the reality of the present, and was able to study her. the same botticelli madonna mouth, the same gainsborough eyes; the skin of dazzling whiteness—an almost unnatural white—but she was evidently tired.
certainly her black gown looked strangely beside katherine’s velvet, mrs. archinard’s silk and laces. odd saw that there was mud on the skirt, a very short skirt, and hilda’s legs were very long. she had walked, then. his own paternal solicitude struck him as amusing, and rather touching, as he glanced at her slim feet, to see with satisfaction that wet boots had been replaced by patent-leather shoes—heelless little shoes.
“i am afraid you work too much, you tire yourself,” he said, for after her mother’s rebuff she had sunk back in her chair with a weary lassitude of pose. hilda immediately sat up straightly, giving him an almost frightened glance. how unchanged the little face, though the cloud of her hair no longer framed it. hilda’s hair was as smooth as her sister’s, only it was brushed straight back, and the soft blue-black coils were massed from ear to ear, and showed, in a coronet-like effect above her head, almost too much hair; it emphasized the pale fragility of her look.
“oh no, i am not tired,” she said, “not particularly. i walked home, you see. i am very fond of walking.”
“hilda is fond of such funny things,” said katherine, coming from the piano, “of walking in the mud and rain for instance. she is the most persistently, consistently energetic person i ever knew.” katherine paused pleasantly as though for hilda to speak, but hilda said nothing and looked even more vague than before, almost dull in fact.
“well, she has had no tea,” said odd, “and after mud and rain that is rather cruel, even as a punishment.”
again hilda gave him the alarmed quick glance; his eyes were humorously kind, and she smiled a slight little smile.
“some tea!” katherine cried; “my poor hilda, i’m afraid it is hard-boiled by this time”—she laid her hand on the teapot—“and almost cold. shall i heat some more water, dear?”
“oh! don’t think of it, katherine, it is almost dinner-time.”
“must i be off?” asked odd, laughing.
“how absurd; we don’t dine till eight,” katherine said.
“it wasn’t a hint to me, then, hilda?” hilda looked helplessly distressed.
“a hint? oh no, no. how could you think that?”
“i was only joking. i didn’t really believe you so anxious to get rid of an old friend.” odd, with some determination, crossed the room and sat down beside her.
“i want to see a great deal of you if you will let me.”
“no one sees much of hilda, not even her own mother,” said mrs. archinard from her sofa. “it is terrible indeed to feel oneself a cumberer of the earth, unable to suffice to oneself, far less to others. with my failing eyesight i simply cannot read by lamplight, and there are three or four hours at this season when i am absolutely without resources. yet even those hours hilda cannot give me.”
hilda now looked so painfully embarrassed that odd was perforce obliged, for very pity’s sake, to avert his eyes from her face.
“ah, mr. odd,” mrs. archinard went on, “you do not know what that is. to lie in the gray dusk and watch one’s own gray, gray thoughts.”
“it must be very unpleasant,” odd owned unwillingly, feeling that his character of old friend was being rather imposed upon; this degree of intimacy was certainly unwarranted.
“now, mamma, you usually have friends every afternoon,” said katherine, in her pleasant, even voice. she was preparing some fresh tea. “you make me as well as hilda feel a culprit.”
“no, my dear.” mrs. archinard’s deep sense of accumulated injury evidently got quite the better of her manners. “no, my dear, you never could read aloud and never did. i never asked it of you. you are really occupied as a girl should be. at all events you fulfil your social duties. you see that people come to see me. as i cannot go out, as hilda will not, i really don’t know what i should do were it not for you. and, as it is, no one came this afternoon until mr. odd made his welcome appearance.”
“but mr. odd came at five, and you always read till then.” katherine’s voice was gently playful. hilda had not said one word, and her expression seemed now absolutely dogged.
“at this season, katherine! you forget that it is night by four! and how a girl with any regard for her mother’s wishes can walk about the streets of paris alone after that hour it passes my comprehension to understand.”
“do you care about bicycling, mr. odd?” the change was abrupt but welcome. “because i am going to the bois to-morrow morning, and alone for once.” katherine smiled at him over the kettle which she was lifting. “papa has deserted me.”
“i should enjoy it immensely. and you,” he looked at hilda, “won’t you come?”
“oh, i can’t,” said hilda, with a troubled look. “thanks so much.”
“oh no, hilda can’t,” laughed mrs. archinard.
“and where is the captain off to?” queried peter hastily. he felt that he would like to shake mrs. archinard. hilda’s stubborn silence might certainly be irritating, and odd had sympathy for parental claims and wishes, especially concerning the advisability of a beautiful girl walking in the streets at night unescorted, sacrificed to youthful conceit; but mrs. archinard’s personality certainly weakened all claims, and her taste was as certainly atrocious.
“papa,” said katherine, pouring out the tea, “is going to-morrow morning to the riviera. lucky papa!” odd thought with some amusement of the ￡120 that constituted papa’s “luck.” “i have only been once to monte carlo, and i won such a lot. only imagine how forty pounds turned my head. i revelled in hats and gloves for a whole year. then we go to-morrow, mr. odd? i have my own bicycle. i have kept it near the porte dauphine, and you can hire a very nice one at the same place.”
“may i call for you here at ten, then? will that suit you?”
“very well.” odd watched katherine as she carried the tea and cake to her sister. hilda gave a little start.
“o katherine, how good of you! i didn’t realize what you were doing.”
“it is you who are good, my pet,” said katherine in a low, gentle voice. peter thought it a pretty little scene.
“a great deal of latitude must be granted to the young person who invented that teapot,” he said to hilda. “one must work hard to do anything in art, mustn’t one? a most lovely teapot, hilda.”
“i am glad you like it.” hilda smiled her thanks, but her eyes still expressed that distance and reserve that showed no consciousness of the past, no intention of admitting it as a link to the present. she did not seem exactly shy, but her whole manner was passive—negative. katherine probably thought that mr. odd had by this time realized the futility of an attempt to draw out the unresponsive artist, for she seated herself between odd and the sofa, thus protecting hilda from mrs. archinard’s severities and odd from the ineffectual necessity for talking to hilda. odd thought that were katherine and mrs. archinard not there he might have “come at” hilda, but the sense of ease katherine brought with her was undeniable. she was charmingly mistress of herself, made him talk, appealed prettily to her mother, who even gave more than one melancholy laugh, and, with a tactful give and take, yet kept the reins of conversation well within her own hands.
odd found her a nice girl, but the undercurrent of his thought dwelt on hilda, and at every gayety of katherine’s, his eyes sought her sister’s face; hilda’s eyes were always fixed on katherine, and she smiled a certain dumbly admiring smile. as he sat near her, he could see that the little black dress was very shabby. he could not have associated hilda with real untidiness, and indeed the dress with its white linen cuffs and collar, its inevitable grace of severely simple outline, was neat to an almost painful degree. hilda’s artistic proclivities perhaps showed themselves in shiny seams and careful darns and patches.
when he rose to go he took her hands again; he hoped that his persistency did not make him appear rather foolish.
“i am sorry you won’t come to-morrow. may i hope for another day?”
“i can’t come to-morrow”—there was a touch of self-defence in hilda’s smile—“but perhaps some other day. i should love to,” she finished rather abruptly.
“but you will be different—i will be different. we will both be changed,” repeated itself in odd’s mind as he walked down the rue pierre charron. poor little child-voice! how sadly it sounded. how true had been the prophecy.
