Part 3 (1/2)
It was a pleasure to look at his extraordinarily pretty little Andromeda, and he was quite willing to spend the rest of his visit with her. They went out on the verandah, where, in the awning's shade, lay two very nice fox terriers. A dachshund sat gazing out upon the sunlit lawn in a dog's dignified reverie.
”Jack and Vic,” Hilda said, pointing out the two fox terriers. ”They just belong to the whole family, you know. And this dear old fellow is Palamon; Arcite is somewhere about; they are mine.”
”Who named yours?”
”I did--after I read it; they had other names when they were given to me, but as I had never called them by them, I thought I had a right to change them. I wanted names with a.s.sociations, like Katherine's setters; they are called Darwin and Spencer, because Katherine is very fond of science.”
”Oh, is she?” said Odd, rather stupefied. ”You seem to have a great many dogs in couples.”
”The others are not; they are more general dogs, like Jack and Vic.”
Hilda still held Odd's hand: she stooped to stroke Arcite's pensive head, giving the fox terriers a pat as they pa.s.sed them.
”So you are fond of Chaucer?” Odd said. They crossed the gravel path and stepped on the lawn.
”Yes, indeed, he is my favorite poet. I have not read all, you know, but especially the Knight's Tale.”
”That's your favorite?”
”Yes.”
”And what is your favorite part of the Knight's Tale?”
”The part where Arcite dies.”
”You like that?”
”Oh! so much; don't you?”
”Very much; as much, perhaps, as anything ever written. There never was a more perfect piece of pathos. Perhaps you remember it.” He was rather curious to know how deep was this love for Chaucer.
”I learnt it by heart; I haven't a good memory, but I liked it so much.”
”Perhaps you would say it to me.”
Hilda looked up a little shyly.
”Oh, I can't!” she exclaimed timidly.
”_Can't_ you?” and Odd looked down at her a humorously pleading interrogation.
”I can't say things well; and it is too sad to say--one can just bear to read it.”
”Just bear to say it--this once,” Odd entreated.
They had reached the edge of the lawn, and stood on the gra.s.sy brink of the river. Hilda looked down into the clear running of the water.
”Isn't it pretty? I don't like deep water, where one can't see the bottom; here the gra.s.ses and the pebbles are as distinct as possible, and the minnows--don't you like to see them?”
”Yes, but Arcite. Don't make me tease you.”
Hilda evidently determined not to play the coward a second time. The quiet pressure of Odd's hand was encouraging, and in a gentle, monotonous little voice that, with the soft breeze, the quickly running sunlit river, went into Odd's consciousness as a quaint, ineffaceable impression of sweetness and sadness, she recited:--