The Dull Miss Archinard Part 39

"Mr. Odd," she said with dramatic emphasis. "Of course he didn't know."

"Oh, he is here!" Katherine's eyes were still on the writing. "No, of course he didn't know."

"You aren't afraid of his meeting Allan?" Nelly was Allan Hope's cousin.

"Is there no danger, Miss Archinard? He must be feeling so--dreadfully!"

"What a romantic little pate it is! I really believe you were looking forward to a duel. No, no, Nelly, there is nothing of an exciting nature to hope for!"

"But won't it be terrible for you to meet him? The first time, you know!

And engaged to Allan!" said Nelly.

"We are not at all afraid of one another. Don't tremble, Nelly."

Katherine read her letter standing on the terrace before the hotel. The dying evening seemed to throb softly in the southern sky, arching solemnly to the horizon line. Katherine looked out at the sea--it was characteristic of her deeply set eyes to look straight out and seldom up. She stood still, holding the letter quietly; Katherine had none of the weakness that seeks an outlet for the stress of resolution in nervous gesture. She did not even walk up and down; indeed the resolution was made and meditation needless. Turning after a moment, she went into the hotel and asked at the office whether Mr. Odd were to be found.

"Yes, he was in his room; he had only arrived an hour ago."

Katherine requested the man to tell Mr. Odd that Miss Archinard was on the terrace and would like to see him. In two minutes Peter was walking out to meet her.

Peter's eyes, as they shook hands, were rather sternly steady; Katherine's steady, but more humorous.

"_Sans rancune?_" she inquired, with some lightness, and then, sparing him the necessity for a reply that might be embarra.s.sing for both of them--

"I want to ask you a question; pardon abruptness; why don't you marry Hilda? Won't she? There are two questions!"

"I don't marry her because she won't. And there is the evident reply, Katherine."

"Do you despair?" she asked.

"I can't say that. Time may wear out her resistance."

"I know Hilda better than you do--perhaps. You see I have got over my jealousy." Katherine's smile had all its charm. "She won't if she said she wouldn't; if she has ideals on the subject."

"Then I must resign myself to hopeless wretchedness."

"No; you must not. _I_ am going to help you. Don't look so gloomily unimpressed. I am going to help you. I am going to do penance, and I don't believe you will consider it an expiation either! Just encourage me by a little appreciation of my dubious n.o.bility." Odd looked questioningly at her.

"Peter, when I came back that night I was engaged to Allan Hope."

"Oh!" said Peter. They looked at one another through the almost palpable dusk of the evening.

"I'll give you the facts--draw your own conclusions. I'll give you facts, but don't ask self-abas.e.m.e.nt put into words. You really haven't the right, have you, Peter?"

"No; I suppose not. No, _I_ haven't the right."

"You put yourself in the wrong, you see. You must allow me to flaunt that ragged superiority. Peter, very soon after our engagement you began to dissatisfy me because I realized that I should never satisfy you. The more you knew me the more you would disapprove, and your nature could never understand mine to the extent of pardoning. Once I'd seen that, everything was up. It wouldn't do; and the knowledge grew upon me that the impossibility was emphasized by the fact that Hilda _would_ do. _I_ saw that you loved her, Peter; stupid, stupid Peter! And poor little Hilda! She was ground between two stones, wasn't she? your ignorance and my knowledge. I give you leave to offer me up as a burnt sacrifice at her altar, only don't let me hear myself crackling. Yes; I saw that you were in love with her, and that she would be in love with you if it could come--as it should have come--as I intended it to come--foolish, hasty Peter! No; no comments, please! I know everything you can say. I took precious good care of myself, no doubt; my generosity wasn't very spontaneous; perhaps I thought you'd get over it; perhaps I wanted you to get over it; perhaps even while seeing that Allan Hope would do--for I satisfy him most thoroughly--I kept a tiny indefinite corner in my motives for possible reactions; I give you leave to draw your inferences, but don't ask me to dot my i's and cross my t's too cold-bloodedly. I accepted Allan Hope on the understanding that the engagement was to be kept secret for a few months. I told Allan that you did not love me; that I did not love you; that our engagement was broken. I told him that when I saw his love for me struggling with his loyalty to you. It was the truth from my point of view; but from his, from yours, it was a lie--and own that at least I am generous in telling you! Too generous perhaps. I came back to Paris to tell you that I had discovered it wouldn't do, and to make you and Hilda happy. And, when I saw you together, both as bad as I was--at least I thought so at the time--both disloyal--I forgot my own self-scorn; I felt a right to a position I had repudiated. I _had_ to be cruel, for, Peter, I was jealous; I hated her for being the one who would satisfy you thoroughly and forever."

There was silence between them. If she had satisfied him as only Hilda could satisfy him, she would not have gone to Allan perhaps. Odd with a quick throb of sympathy understood the intimation, understood both her courage and her reticence. He had seen her at her n.o.blest, yet there was much not touched upon, far from n.o.ble.

The half avowal of a disappointed love flawed her loyalty to Allan. Such love deserved disappointment and was of a doubtful quality. Peter respected her frankness but was not deceived by it. His manliness was touched by the possibility she had hinted at. He understood Katherine and he forgave her--with reservations.

There seemed to be nothing to say, and he did not seek words. He and Katherine walked slowly to the end of the terrace.

Then Katherine told him of her note to Hilda and handed him Hilda's reply.

"I shall go to England to-morrow, Katherine," said Odd, when he had read it.

"You will have to fight, you know. She will say that my wrong did not excuse hers. She will say that nothing excused you. She _is_ a little goose."

"I'll fight."

They had walked back to the entrance of the hotel and here they paused; there was a fitness in farewell.

"Katherine," said Odd, "it would have been very base in you to have kept silence, and yet, in spite of that, you have been very courageous this evening."

"You are a hideously truthful person, Peter. Why put in that damaging clause? Have I merely escaped baseness?"

"No, for you have never been finer."

"That is true. I'll never reach the same heights again," and Katherine laughed.

"Understand that _I_ understand. Your story has not absolved _me_."

"There is the danger with Hilda. You must make my holocaust avail."

"I hope that a good thing is never lost," Peter replied.

CHAPTER XV

The October day was deliciously warm at Allersley, a fragrant autumnal warmth, limpid with suns.h.i.+ne, and the woods all golden.

Odd was walking through the woods, the suns.h.i.+ne of home and hope in his blood, his mood of resolute success tempered by no more than just a touch of trembling.

In the distance lay the river, a glitter here and there beyond the tree trunks; the little landing-wharf where he had first seen Hilda was no doubt still unchanged and worth a pilgrimage on some later day, but now he must take the most direct way to the Priory; he had only arrived an hour before, but a minute's further delay would be unbearable. This day must atone for all the past failure of his life, and make his autumn golden. He walked quickly, following, he remembered, almost the same path among the trees that he and Hilda had gone by that night, ten years ago; the memory emphasized the touch of trembling. To dwell on her dearness made fear tread closely. The gray stone wall wound among the woods, Peter caught sight of it, and, at the same moment, of the fluttering white of a dress beyond it that made his heart stand still.

He could not have hoped to find Hilda here with no teasing preliminaries, no languid mother or sulky father to mar the fine rush of his onslaught.

Such good luck augured well, for--yes, it was Hilda walking slowly among the trees--and at the clear sight of her, Peter wondered if the breathing s.p.a.ce of a conventional preliminary would not have been better, and felt that he had exaggerated his own courage in picturing that conquering impetuosity.

She wore no hat, and her head drooped with an air of patient sadness.

Her hands clasped behind her, she walked aimlessly over the falling leaves and seemed absently to listen to their rustling crispness as her footsteps pa.s.sed through them. There was a black bow in the ruffled bodice, and with her black hair she made on the gold and gray a colorless silhouette.

Odd jumped over the wall, and, as he approached her, the rustling leaves under his feet, their falling patter from the trees, seemed to fill the air with loud whisperings. Hilda turned at this echo of her own footfalls, and Odd could almost have smiled at the weary unexpectancy of her look transformed to a wide gaze of recognition. But his heart was in a flame of indignant tenderness, for, all chivalrous comprehension conceded, Katherine's confession had been cruelly tardy and Hilda's face was pitiful. She stood silent and motionless looking at him, and Odd, as he joined her, said the first words that came to his lips.