Hilda: A Story of Calcutta

by Sara Jeannette Duncan

"You cannot have thought"—in spite of himself he made a step toward the door.

"Oh, I did think—I do think. And you must not go." She, too, stood up and stayed him. "Let us at least see clearly." There was a persuading note in her voice; one would have thought, indeed, that she was dealing with a patient, or a child. "Tell me," she clasped her hands behind her back and looked at him in marvellous, simple candour, "do I really announce this to you? Was there not in yourself anywhere—deep down—any knowledge of it?"

"I did not guess—I did not dream!"

"And—now?" she asked.

A heavenly current drifted from her, the words rose and fell on it with the most dazing suggestion in their soft hesitancy. It must have been by an instinct of her art that her hand went up to the cross on Arnold's breast and closed over it, so that he should see only her. The familiar vision of her stood close, looking things intolerably new and different. Again came out of it that sudden liberty, that unpremeditated rush and shock in him. He paled with indignation, with the startled resentment of a woman wooed and hostile. His face at last expressed something definite—it was anger. He stepped back and caught at his hat. "I am sorry," he said, "I am sorry. I thought you infinitely above and beyond all that."

Hilda smiled and turned away. If he choose, it was his opportunity to go, but he stood regarding her, twirling his hat. She sat down, clasping her knees, and looked at the floor. There was a square of sunlight on the carpet, and motes were rising in it.

"Ah well, so did I," she said meditatively, without raising her eyes. Then she leaned back in the chair and looked at him, in her level simple way.

"It was a foolish theory," she said, "and—now—I can't understand it at all. I am amazed to find that it even holds good with you."

It was so much in the tone of their usual discussions that Arnold was conscious of a lively relief. The instinct of flight died down in him, he looked at her with something like inquiry.

"It will always be to me curious," she went on, "that you could have thought your part in me so limited, so poor. That is enough to say. I find it hard to understand, anybody would, that you could take so much pleasure in me and not—so much more." She opened her lips again, but kept back the words. "Yes," she added, "that is enough to say."