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:—
“Allas the wo! allas the peynes stronge,
That I for you have suffered, and so longe!
Allas the deth! allas myn Emelye!
Allas departing of our companye!
Allas myn hertes quene! allas, my wyf!
Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf!
What is this world? What asketh man to have?
Now with his love, now in his colde grave
Allone, withouten any companye.”
Odd’s artistic sensibilities were very keen. He felt that painfully delicious constriction of the throat that the beautiful in art can give, especially the beautiful in tragic art. The far-away tale; the far-away tongue; the nearness of the pathos, poignant in its “white simplicity.” And how well the monotonous little voice suited its melancholy.
“Allone, withouten any companye,”
he repeated. He looked down at Hilda; he had tactfully avoided looking at her while she spoke, fearing to embarrass her; her eyes were full of tears.
“Thanks, Hilda,” he said. It struck him that this highly strung little girl had best not be allowed to dwell too long on Arcite and, after a sympathetic pause (Odd was a very sympathetic person), he added:
“Now are you going to take me into the garden?”
“Yes.” Hilda turned from the river. “You know he had just gained her, that made it all the worse. If he had not loved her he would not have minded dying so much, and being alone. One can hardly bear it,” Hilda repeated.
“It is intensely sad. I don’t think you ought to have learned it by heart, Hilda. That’s ungrateful of me, isn’t it? But I am old enough to take an impersonal pleasure in sad things; I am afraid they make you sad.”
Hilda’s half-wondering smile was reassuringly childlike.