The Hired Girl(111)

David’s face broke out in a grin. “You’re a peach,” he said. I know peach is slang, but a peach is such a lovely thing to be compared to: sweet and fragrant and velvety. “You really are, Janet. I’ve been thinking about you.” Then he spoiled it by sighing. “I’ve been thinking about what happened the other night. I think I should beg your pardon.”

“I don’t want you to beg my pardon,” I said. What I wanted was for him to kiss me again, but I daren’t say so.

David shook his head. “I took advantage of you. It wasn’t the act of a gentleman. I’ve always despised men who do that kind of thing — take advantage of a girl because she’s a servant —”

“No!” I protested. “It wasn’t like that. I told you then; I didn’t mind. I liked it ever so much.”

His face softened. “I liked it, too,” he admitted, “but it was wrong. I hope you’ll forgive me —”

I cut him off. “I don’t think it was so wrong. I believe I’d have felt it if it were wrong. But I didn’t. It felt pure and sweet and —”

“But you’re not Jewish,” argued David, and I frowned at him. It was the second time in two days I’ve been told I’m not Jewish. I don’t think people should take such pains to tell me what religion I am. “Besides, you’re years younger than I am —”

I challenged him. “How old are you?”

“Nearly twenty-one.”

“Well, I’m eighteen,” I said firmly, but all the sudden it struck me that I’m not. I’ve grown so used to being eighteen that I forget. It’s worrying to remember, because I’m not sure it’s legal to marry at fourteen. Of course, I’ll be fifteen in just two months, which is ever so much older. I believe lots of girls get married at fifteen. I added, “And my birthday’s in November.”

“But you’re a servant, living under my father’s roof,” David persisted. “That’s the worst of it. If you don’t like my attentions — no, hear me out! — you can’t run away; you’ve nowhere to go. And if anyone found out, you’d be the one who’d suffer.”

“I’d suffer for you,” I said, and meant it. “I’d do anything for you. I’ll even forgive you, if you want me to, but I don’t see the point in forgiving someone when — when it was glorious — and I’m not one bit sorry it happened —” It sounded so brazen that I felt my cheeks get red. I turned my back on him and busied myself gathering up the linen.

I think it did me good to have something to do with my hands, because suddenly I knew what I wanted to say. “Listen,” I said, “about the commission. It doesn’t matter.”

He looked tormented, which wrung my heart. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? I’ve spent weeks —”

“It doesn’t matter,” I repeated. “You’re going to be a great artist. You don’t need Madame Marechaux any more than you need her stupid lapdog. Someday you’re going to be famous, and when you are, it won’t matter that you never made a picture of Joan of Arc.”

“But I wanted to tell Papa —”

“Then tell him. You don’t need a big commission to tell your father the truth. He loves you. Tell him you want to be an artist. He didn’t mind — well, he minded a little, but he got over it — when Mr. Solomon wanted to study Talmud. Why should he refuse you? He’ll help you.”

“If only he would!” David said passionately. “I’d go to Paris — that’s the place to study painting; there’s no point trying to make a start in Baltimore. But Papa wants me to work in the store —”

“Mr. Solomon didn’t want to work in the store, either. He told your father so, and he told him about Ruth.” I wondered if David would take the hint. If he’s going to tell his father about wanting to be an artist, he might as well explain about us at the same time.

David raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s different for me. Solly’s always been the good son; I’m the wastrel. When Papa wanted to send me to college, I said, no, I wanted to see the world, so he let me go abroad. The idea was, after I finished traveling, I’d settle down and work in the store. But I keep putting it off. Papa says I waste everything — time and talent and money. He’s always saying how intelligent I am, how I could do anything I put my mind to, but —”