Mrs. Archinard was extended on the sofa in the drawing-room when they reached the Rue Pierre Charron. The crisp daintiness of pseudo-invalidism had withered to a look of sickly convalescence. She was much faded, and her little air of melancholy affectation pitifully fretful.
“You come before my own daughter, Peter,” she said; “I don’t blame Katherine, since Hilda tells me that she did not let her know of my dangerous condition.”
“Not dangerous, mamma,” Hilda said, with a patient firmness not untouched by resentment, a touch to Odd most new and pleasing. “The doctor had perfect confidence in me, and would have told me. I should have sent for papa and Katherine the moment he thought it advisable. Under the circumstances they could have done nothing for you that I did not do.” Hilda had, indeed, rather distorted facts to shield Katherine. What would Mrs. Archinard have said had she known that Katherine, in answer to a letter begging her to return, had replied that she could not? Even in Hilda’s charitable heart that “could not” had rankled. Odd’s despairing gloom discerned something of this truth, as he realized that the uncharacteristic self-justification was prompted by a rebellion against misinterpretation before him. Mrs. Archinard showed some nervous surprise.
“Very well, very well, Hilda,” she said, “I am sure I ask no sacrifices on my account. One may die alone as one has lived—alone. My life has trained me in stoicism. You had better wash your face, Hilda. There is a great smudge of charcoal on your cheek,” and, as Hilda turned and walked out, “I have looked on the face of the King of Terrors, Peter. Peter! dear old homely name! the faithful ring in it! It is easy for Hilda to talk! I make no complaint. She has nursed me excellently well—as far as her nursing went. But she has a hard soul! no tenderness! no sympathy! To leave her dying mother every afternoon! To sacrifice me to her painting! At such a time! Ah me!” Large tears rolled down Mrs. Archinard’s cheeks, and her voice trembled with weakness and self-pity. Odd, in his raging resentment, could have exploded the truth upon her; the tears arrested his impulse, and he sat moodily gazing at the floor. Mrs. Archinard raised her lace-edged handkerchief and delicately touched away the tears.
“I have given my whole life, my whole life, Peter, for my girls! I have borne this long exile from my home for their sakes!” At Allersley Mrs. Archinard had never ceased complaining of her restricted lot, and had characterized her neighbors as “yokels and Philistines.” Speaking with her handkerchief pressed by her finger-tips upon her eyelids, she continued, “I have asked nothing of them but sympathy; that I have craved! And in my hour of need—“ Mrs. Archinard’s point de Venise bosom heaved once more. Odd took her hand with the unwilling yet pitying kindness one would show towards a silly and unpleasant child.
“I don’t think you are quite fair,” he said; “Hilda looks as badly as you do. She has had a heavy load to carry.”
“I told her again and again to get a garde-malade, two if necessary.” Mrs. Archinard’s voice rose to a higher key. “She has chosen to ruin her appearance by sitting up to all hours of the night, and by working all day in that futile studio.”
“Garde-malades are expensive.” Odd could not restrain his voice’s edge.
“Expensive! For a dying mother! And with all that is lavished on her studio—canvases, paints, models!”
The depths of misconception were too hopelessly great, and, as Mrs. Archinard’s voice had now become shrilly emphatic, he kept silence, his heart shaken with misery and with pity, despairing pity for Hilda. She re-entered presently, wearing on her face too evident signs of contrition. She spoke to her mother in tones of gentle entreaty, humored her sweetly, gayly even, while she made tea.