Chapter 6

( Originally Published 1915 )

ON CERTAIN DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY OF BEING NATURAL AND TRUTHFUL AT THE SAME TIME

AFTER two or three days it became evident that the baby was not strong enough to throw off her cold easily; the infection must run its course. And for Hilda the problem of devoting herself to the wavering little life and at the same time accounting for herself to her business acquaintances showed evidences of becoming acute.

She was determined not to give up the baby. Already the child, with its appeal to her deepest instinct (partly atrophied though this instinct may have been), and its helplessness, had found out and filled and warmed every hidden corner in her hitherto empty heart. She had told Moran that the baby was a job; she could not have told him or any one how much more than a job it was to her now. She prepared the food, washed out the little garments, bathed and powdered the thin body, with a devotion that was almost fiercely primitive. The others felt her strong sense of monopoly in the matter, but were so impressed by her ability and determination that they accepted the situation in a spirit of complete and ingenuous friendliness.

Moran was in and out, always quiet, always solid. Early each afternoon, following that confused first day, he insisted on taking her out for a walk, bringing her back in time to release Adele for her work at the Parnasse. Hilda permitted this rather passively. The strain of listening, most of the day and all the night, for the heavy breathing of the baby through its inflamed nasal and bronchial passages, was telling on her; and she was glad to feel this strong person so calmly looking out for her health. That was what she liked best in Moran. He felt the same instinctive aversion from physical or nervous weakness that she felt from laziness or business inefficiency. And this influence was precisely what she needed now. They walked along the Champs Elysees, out to the Arc de Triomphe, through the Avenue Kleber to the Trocadero, and back by way of the Quai to the Place de la Concorde, the Rue Royale, and the Madeleine. She liked the view of river, Eiffel Tower and the Champ-de-Mars from the porches of the Trocadero ; and she liked, too, the quiet reaches of the Seine, with its fine bridges springing so lightly from pier to pier, its solidly restful masonry embankment, and the absurd little passenger steamers, covered with advertisements, that darted impertinently up-stream and down.

She found that Moran was watching her diet, too ; and, rather to her own surprise, did not resent the fact. Probably because there was nothing of the unpleasantly personal in his attitude. It was like having an expert physical trainer at one's elbow every day. In fact, it was just thati And now and then, when her mind wandered momentarily from the baby and herself, she fell to thinking that the men at the store who employed physical trainers to keep them fit (as Joe Hemstead did, year in and year out) had no such expert advice as was now being quietly pressed on heri She even jotted down some of his comments regarding diet and the mild sorts of exercise that a woman could properly undertake, for reference later on when this baby problem should be off her hands.

Adele helped all she could; but her late night work made it necessary for her to sleep during the greater part of the mornings.

Hilda was not comfortably certain that she approved of Adele. So strong was this feeling that she made it a point not to learn too much of her relations with that erratic youth, her "partner." She never went to Adele's room, because she feared the confirmation of her guess that it was also Harper's roam. Then, too, the disturbance, of which she had caught a few echoes during her first night with the baby, appeared to be gathering head. Hilda felt that a situation at once unpleasant and quite beyond her own control was likely to be discovered any day. It was a situation in which she herself might very easily become involved. She did not like to think about it.

Indeed, the slightly confusing fact was that Hilda could not help liking Adele, in spite of all the evidence against her. The girl might have been, evidently had been, caught in one of the rough and swirling undercurrents of life; but she was not "bad"—not with those straightforward cow eyes and that gentleness of manner not untouched with shyness, that always disarmed one—not "bad" in the sense that the flippant, often impertinent Annie Haggerty was bad, even though she might be guilty of the same offense. . . . Hilda found this line of thought rather bewildering. Sin must be sin, of course. But Annie had a distinct touch of the adventurous in her. Adele had none, apparently; one felt that, despite her natural grace and distinction on the dancing floor, she ought to have a home, and babies, and sewing and cooking to do. One felt that she would be content ; and content with almost any fairly sober, fairly kind man for a husband. And yet, the adventurous quality is not necessarily sinful, in itself. . . . Hilda gave it up.

On the third morning Hilda took a step which she saw plainly had to be taken. She rode down to the Armandevile offices. Deliberately avoiding the gallant head of the house, she sought out M. Levy, the experienced Jewish employee who had for years accompanied her on her buying expeditions as translator and business agent; and set herself at the task of apparently bidding him a casually friendly farewell while really endeavoring to fix in his mind a satisfactory explanation of her distinctly irregular movements. M. Levy was discreet. He did not share with his chief the privilege of making personal advances to visiting lady buyers. He was too closely associated with them in their intricate day-by-day transactions to permit of his intruding the slightest feeling into his relationships with them. This, despite the fact that he was often obliged to lunch and dine with them, to accompany them to opera and races and on occasional sightseeing expeditions. Hilda, of recent years, after her experience with all sorts of men in France, Germany, England and America, had wondered often at his self-control. She had even wondered where and when he pursued the amours so important in the life of every Parisian she had ever known or heard of. Sometimes, so busy was he, it seemed that you could account for all his waking time. Yet always he was smiling and blondly urbane, always patient, always impersonal; never in a hurry to be off about his own affairs. Thus he maintained among the flocks of lady buyers, the good will of Armandeville et Cie., which had been not infrequently jeopardized by the exigent susceptibilities of old M. Armandeville himself. And so it was that Hilda—outwardly cool, if a thought pale and tired; but inwardly blazing with resentment that the thing should be necessary at all—passing M. Levy's desk as if it was the most natural thing in the world that she should be there, greeted him cordially, and accepted the chair he offered.

"You have been away ?" said he, all smiles.

Hilda thought quickly. They must have been trying to find her at the big hotel on the Rue de Rivoli. So she nodded, then guarded the nod with the statement—"Not out of Paris, but with friends."

Her thoughts raced on and on, around and ahead of the present situation. It was going to be difficult. That miserably unstable thing, her reputation, would crash right here, were she not exceedingly skilful in creating a plausible impression. The one thing above all others that she could not tell, was the truth. It had come to lying—no doubt of that, now. Downright wretched lying. So much had a warm impulse done for her on an empty rudderless day. No use even considering the matter now. And yet the truth was beautiful—the most beautiful experience in her barren life. She was doing a natural thing, a human thing, an essentially decent and fine thing. And she had to cover it up—lie about it.

For one deep moment a great uprush of anger swayed within her. And she sat calmly there, smiling a little, and idly fingering a corner of the green desk blotter. She was as beautiful as ever, M. Levy thought, studying her through mild eyes. A fine woman—a driver; and with a good business head ! Some of the others were cats. He wondered how she managed to look so young. Possibly she really was young. Who could say? At that, however, she did look tired.

"You have worked hard," he observed.

She nodded. "I'm going to take a vacation," said she—. "the first regular vacation in years."

"Ah—splendid ! You will remain on this side ?"

She nodded again. "For the present—traveling a bit with friends. It will be nice to be a human being for a month or so."

M. Levy sighed. "It is always nice to be a human being."

"Yes. I will send you a memorandum about the March shipments. We have covered everything else, I think."

"Everything. You are not to concern yourself. I will attend to it all."

"Thank you. I shall have to leave it in your hands, anyway. For I am dropping all work." She sobered.

"Of course," he replied. "One can rest in no other way." "If any letters should come here, forward them through

the American Express. I am leaving my hotel, of course." He noted this down.

They chatted a few moments longer. Then she rose to go.

"By the way," said he, "your Mr. Aitcheson is in Paris."

Hilda stood there by his desk, silent for a flash. She was smiling again—a cool self-possessed woman. A woman with a good business head !

"He was inquiring for you yesterday. I think he tried to find you at your hotel."

So it was Stanley who had been looking for her. She wished now that she had not given this man her forwarding address. But she could not recall it. Above all, she must display no feeling against Stanley. She could only let it go.

She had to move on now, anyway ; for May Isbell was arriving at eleven-thirty from the South. She must meet May, take her to luncheon, and pack her off for Calais at three. She had planned this with considerable care, telegraphing May just what trains she was to take. The arrangement spared her from spending with her assistant a night that would involve more or less close personal confidences and explanations. She could not even have explained the absence of her trunk from her room at the big hotel on the Rue de Rivoli. May knew every detail of her baggage and wardrobe, and besides had the sort of feminine mind that keeps all such details straight. Further than this, she had to get back to the baby shortly after three in order that Adele could dress and go to the Parnasse.

The few hours with her assistant proved less difficult than she had feared. May was suspended between a fresh enthusiasm over the costumes she had seen on the Riviera and a startled concern over the heavy responsibility that confronted her in returning alone. Hilda took her to the Café de Paris and, until time to leave for the train, kept her mind occupied with detailed instructions for the spring display. Not until the last ten minutes at the Gare du Nord did May's thoughts center on the rather curious problem of Hilda Wilson.

"But what on earth are you going to do, over here alone ?" she asked.

Hilda smiled wearily. "I have a chance to travel a little —with some friends. I've always wanted to."

A faint cloud flitted across May Isbell's not over subtle face. But Hilda's smile did not waver.

"Well," said May then, "I suppose I'd better get to my seat before some Englishman takes it. Good-by. Do take care of yourself and have a good rest. And don't worry about us at the store. I'm sure everything will be all right."

"Oh, yes," said Hilda, quietly and with a touch of firmness, "you will manage all right. It will be a good experience for you."

May was silent for a little. Hilda was her chief—there could be no reply. Then, with a moment's hesitation, she said:

"I'm sorry you're not coming back with me, though. I was looking forward to the trip."

"It isn't pleasant traveling alone. But we have to do it, now and then. You'll meet people. And it's always rather friendly on those slower English ships."

"I suppose so," mused May. She was on the car step now, but still lingered. "You hadn't thought of going back and taking your rest on the other side ?" she asked.

Hilda gave a firm little shake to her head. "There's nothing in that," she replied. "It wouldn't be rest."

She added no explanations, though much was passing through her mind. Were she to be anywhere within traveling distance of the store it would be impossible for her to keep away from her desk. She knew that. To join her mother at home would be to slip back among tangled little problems which would fray still more her worn nerves. And to travel south, or out to California, and sit, a solitary tourist, on hotel verandas, would drive her mad. What she must have was companionship and fresh. work. She compressed her lips, though her eyes were still smiling at her assistant. For despite the trying nature of her present situation, it brought relief to reflect that she had both the companionship and the work. It was difficult, and it was queer; but she had these.

They gripped hands firmly; and Hilda turned briskly away.

May Isbell, entering her compartment and dropping into her seat by the window, looked after the alert figure of Hilda until she lost it in the crowd by the concourse gate. It was curious, rather, that Hilda had never mentioned these friends with whom she now purposed touring Europe.

For she and Hilda had been close traveling companions; and had talked freely, unguardedly at times, as traveling companions will.

Hilda hesitated a moment with one foot on the taxi step. She had thought of driving around by way of the American Express and calling for her mail. But Levy would be giving this address to Stanley Aitcheson. That was certain. Still, even the temperamental Stanley would hardly spend whole days there on the chance that she might appear. No, he would write her there. He was always writing, anyway. When in doubt, in elation, in temper or in love, he always seized upon his pen. It was a curious trait; one that she found it peculiarly difficult to understand.

"Numero onze, Rue Scribe," she said, in her honestly American accent, and entered the taxi. She would go there anyway. She was tired of being furtive. For the moment she did not care whether she encountered Stanley or not. Though her reason told her that the chance was too remote for serious consideration,