Part 20 (1/2)

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 hards.h.i.+p 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.”