One October day Hilda received a queer little note from Katherine. That
Katherine had spent a month in Scotland and was now on a yacht with a
party of friends, Hilda knew, and the note was dated from Amalfi.
"Why don't you marry Peter, you little goose?" was all it said.
Hilda trembled as she read. Katherine's scorn and Katherine's nobility
seemed to breathe from it.
"I am not as base as you think," was her answer.
Katherine received this answer in Amalfi. She had come in from a walk
with Allan Hope along the road that runs above the sea between Amalfi
and Sorrento, and one of the yachting party, a girl who much admired
Katherine, was waiting for her before the hotel holding the letter, an
excuse for the excited whisper with which she gave it to her.
"Dear Miss Archinard, _he_ is here!"
"What 'he,' Nelly?" asked Katherine; she looked down at the writing on
the envelope of her letter, and the becoming flush that her walk through
the warm evening had brought to her cheeks faded a little.
Allan Hope had gone on into the hotel, and Nelly's excited eyes followed
him till he was safely out of sight.
"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 embarrassing 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 nobility." 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-abasement 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 noblest, yet there was
much not touched upon, far from noble.
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.