The Hired Girl(81)

He said, “I’ll come straight to the point. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.” Oh, for one moment, how my foolish heart raced! But then: “I want you for my Joan of Arc. Will you come with me to the park tomorrow, so I can draw you with the sheep? I want to, awfully.”

He smiled when he said “awfully.” That smile would have turned the heads of some girls. But I am made of stronger stuff. And I knew he only wanted me for his sketch. So there was nothing to get excited about.

I said, “I can’t,” though it didn’t come out as forceful as I’d meant it to. I turned my back on him and groped through the dishwater for the knives and forks and spoons. “I have to go to Mass.”

“Skip it,” he suggested, and I looked up, shocked. Skip Mass? I know that’s a sin, and the dreadful thing was, right away I began to imagine myself committing it. Just like that! It shows how weak my faith is. In a flash I thought of how I’d quarreled with Father Horst, and how it would serve him right if I didn’t come to Mass.

But I haven’t skipped Mass all summer. I know it’s a privilege to go to Mass, even though I can’t take the Sacrament. Every week, the others kneel at the altar rail, and I have to stay in my seat. I feel like that woman in the Bible who had to be content with the crumbs under the table. But I love the Mass. And how am I to bring the Rosenbachs to the True Church if I skip it? What kind of example would that be?

So I said, “I can’t skip it. It’s Mass.”

“All right,” he said, and I must say I was piqued that he gave up so easily. He jumped down from the table and took a bottle of milk out of the refrigerator. “Would you like some?”

I left the sink. “No, I wouldn’t, and you can’t have any, either. We need it for breakfast, in case the milkman’s late.”

He teased me, holding the bottle out of reach, but I got it away from him without too much of a scuffle. I put the milk back in the refrigerator and shut the door with a good slam.

“See?” he pleaded. “That’s why you’re such a perfect Joan of Arc! So militant! When’s your next morning off? Afternoons won’t do. I want the light. I see you kneeling and gazing up at the morning sky, listening to your saints.” His voice became coaxing. “It’s going to be a religious painting, you know. Wouldn’t helping me be just as good as going to Mass? Just think, if the picture’s a success, thousands of people may see it and be converted.”

I kept a good strong hold on myself. “That doesn’t seem very likely.”

“Don’t you have confidence in me?” he asked, pretending to be hurt. “Come on, now, Janet! You’re not really like that — all sensible and stuck-up. You’re a real Joan — full of imagination and the spirit of revolt. And I’m not such a bad artist, either. John Singer Sargent praised one of my sketches — I met him when I was in Florence. He said I had a good sense of line. Do you really want to wet-blanket a man with a good sense of line?”

That’s when I said — oh, it was daring of me, but I’m not one bit sorry. “I think you have too many lines, Mr. David.” Because a line is what they call it when a man is flirting. After I said it, I was afraid he would think I was presuming too much, but he laughed.

“You’re the limit. I knew I liked you.” That way he has of saying he likes me, right out! “Why not come out with me tomorrow? We’ll have a good time. After I sketch you, we can go on the boat lake, or I’ll hire a carriage and take you round the park. Or we’ll go to the drugstore and have ice-cream sundaes. Whatever you like. Won’t you?”

It did sound so lovely. Floating on the water in one of those rowboats — or riding through the park like a queen, as if he were my sweetheart. I couldn’t decide. But I made one more attempt to put him off. “I don’t think your mother would like it.”

“No, she won’t,” he agreed, and looked thoughtful. “But that’s because she’s afraid that I’ll marry a shiksa. I’m not planning to marry you; I just want to draw you. What’s the harm in that?”

I couldn’t see any harm in it. But I didn’t say so.

“It’s better if she doesn’t know,” David said firmly, “so we’ll meet in the park. First I’ll sketch you, and then we’ll have our lovely time. What about it?”

I opened my mouth to say I couldn’t, but what I said was, “I have to be home by half past twelve.”