PETER ODD was fishing. He stood knee-deep in a placid bend of stream, whipping the water deftly, his eyes peacefully intent on the floating fly, his mind in the musing, impersonal mood of fisherman reverie, no definite thought forming from the appreciative impressions of sunlit meadows, cool stretches of shade beneath old trees, gleaming curves of river. For a tired man, fishing is an occupation particularly soothing, and Peter Odd was tired, tired and sad. His pleasure was now, perhaps, more that of the lover of nature than of the true sportsman, the pastoral feast of the landscape with its blue distance of wooded hill, more to him than the expected flashing leap of a scarlet-spotted beauty; yet the attitude of receptive intentness was pleasant in all its phases, no one weary thought could become dominant while the eyes rested on the water, or were raised to such loveliness of quiet English country. So much of what he saw his own too; the sense of proprietorship is, under such circumstances, an intimately pleasant thing, and although, where Odd stood at a wide curve of water, a line of hedge and tall beech-trees sloping down to the river marked the confines of his property just here, the woods and meadows before him were all his—to the blue hills on the sky almost, the park behind him stretched widely about Allersley Manor, and to the left the river ran for a very respectable number of miles through woods and meadows as beautiful. The sense of proprietorship was still new enough to give a little thrill, for the old squire had died only two years before, and the sorrow of loss had only recently roused itself to the realization of bequeathed responsibilities, to the realization that energies so called forth may perhaps make of life a thing well worth living. A life of quiet utility; to feel oneself of some earthly use; what more could one ask? The duties of a landowner in our strenuous days may well fill a man’s horizon, and Odd was well content that they should do so; for the present at least; and he did not look beyond the present.
In his tweeds and waterproof knee-breeches and boots, a sun-burnt straw hat shading his thin brown face, his hand steady and dexterous, as brown and thin, he was a pleasing example of the English country-gentleman type. He was tall, with the flavor of easy strength and elegance that an athletic youth gives to the most awkwardly made man. His face was at once humorous and sad; it is strange how a humorous character shows itself through the saddest set of feature. Odd’s long, rather acquiline nose and Vandyke beard made a decidedly melancholy silhouette on the sunlit water, yet all the lines of the face told of a kindly contemplation of the world’s pathetic follies; the mouth was sternly cut yet very good-tempered, and its firm line held evident suggestions of quiet smiling.
Poor Peter Odd had himself committed a pathetic folly, and, as a result, smiles might be tinged with bitterness.
A captured trout presently demanded concentrated attention. The vigorous fish required long playing until worn out, when he was deftly secured in the landing-net and despatched with merciful promptitude; indeed, a little look of nervous distaste might have roused in an unsympathetic looker-on conjectures as to a rather weak strain—a foolish width of pity in Peter Odd’s character.
“A beauty,” he mentally ejaculated. He sat down in the shade. It was hot; the long, thick grass invited a lolling rest.
On the other side of the hedge was a rustic bathing-cabin, and from it Odd heard the laughing chatter of young voices. The adjoining property was a small one belonging to a Captain Archinard. Odd had seen little of him; his wife was understood to be something of an invalid, and he had two girls—these their voices, no doubt. Odd took off his hat and mopped his forehead, looking at the little landing-wharf which he could just see beyond the hedge, and where one could moor boats or dive off into the deepness of the water. The latter form of aquatic exercise was probably about to take place, for Odd heard—
“I can swim beautifully already, papa,” in a confident young voice—a gay voice, quiet, and yet excited too by the prospect of a display of prowess.
A tall, thin girl of about fourteen stepped out on to the landing. A bathing-dress is not as a rule a very graceful thing, yet this child, her skirt to her knee, a black silk sash knotted around her waist, with her slim white legs and charming feet, was as graceful as a young Amazon on a Grecian frieze. A heavy mass of braids, coiled up to avoid a wetting, crowned her small head. She was not pretty; Odd saw that immediately, even while admiring the well-poised figure, its gallantly held little torso and light energy. Her profile showed a short nose and prominent chin, inharmoniously accentuated. She seemed really ugly when her sister joined her; the sister was beautiful. Odd roused himself a little from his half recumbency to look at the sister appreciatively. Her slimness was exaggerated to an extreme—an almost fluttering lightness; her long arms and legs seemed to flash their whiteness on the green; she had an exquisite profile, and her soft black hair swept up into the same coronet of coils. Captain Archinard joined them as they stood side by side.
“You had better race,” he said, looking down into the water, and then away to the next band of shadow. “Dive in, and race to that clump of aspens. This is a jolly bit for diving.”
“But, papa, we shall wet our hair fearfully,” said the elder girl—the ugly one—for so Odd already ungallantly designated her. “We usually get in on this shallower side and swim off. We have never tried diving, for it takes so long to dry our hair. Taylor would not like it at all.”
“It is so deep, too,” said the beauty in rather a faltering voice—unfortunately faltering, for her father turned sharply on her.
“Afraid, hey? You mustn’t be a coward, Hilda.”
“I am not afraid,” said the elder girl; “but I never tried it. What must I do? Put my arms so, and jump head first?”
“There is nothing to do at all,” said the Captain, with some acidity of tone. “Keep your mouth shut and strike out as you come up. You’ll do it, Katherine, first try. Hilda is in a funk, I see.”
“Poor Hilda,” Odd ejaculated mentally. She was evidently in a funk. Standing on the edge of the landing, one slim foot advanced in a tentative effort, she looked down shrinking into the water—very deeply black at this spot—and then, half entreatingly, half helplessly, at her father.
“Oh, papa, it is so deep,” she repeated.
The Captain’s neatly made face showed signs of peevish irritation.
“Well, deep or not, in you go. I must break you of that craven spirit. What are you afraid of? What could happen to you?”
“I—don’t like water over my head—I might strike—on something.”
Tears were near the surface.
What asses people made of themselves, thought Odd, with their silly shows of authority. The more the father insisted, the more frightened the child became; couldn’t the idiot see that? The tear-filled eyes and looks that showed a struggle between fear of her father’s anger and fear of the deep, black pool, moved Odd to a sudden though half-amused resentment, for the little girl was certainly somewhat of a coward.
“Let me go in first, papa, and show her. Hilda, dear, it’s nothing; being frightened will make it something, though, so don’t be frightened, and watch me.”
“Yes, go in first, Katherine; show her that I have a girl who isn’t a coward—and how one of my daughters came to be a coward I don’t understand. I am ashamed of you, Hilda.”
Hilda evidently only controlled her sobs by a violent effort; her caught-in under-lip, wide eyes, and heaving little chest affected Odd painfully. He frowned, sat up, put his hat on, and watched Miss Katherine with a lack of sympathy that was certainly unfair, for the plucky little person went through the performance most creditably, stretched out and up her thin pretty arms, curved forward her pretty body, and made the plunge with a lithe elegance that left her father gazing with complacent approval after the white flash of her feet.
“Bravo! First-rate! There, Hilda, you see what can be done. Come on, little white feather.” He spoke more kindly; the elder sister’s prowess put him more in humor with his less creditable offspring.
“Oh, papa!” The child shrank on the edge of the platform—she would go bundling in, and hurt herself. “But, papa,” and her voice held a sharp accent of distress, “where is Katherine?”
Indeed Katherine had not reappeared. Only a moment had passed, but a moment under water is long. Captain Archinard’s eyes searched the surface of the river.
“But she can swim?”
“Papa! papa! She is drowned, drowned!” Hilda’s voice rose to a scream. With a wild look of resolve she sprang into the river just as Odd dashed in, knee-deep, and as Katherine’s head appeared at some distance down the current—an angry little head, half choked, and gasping. Katherine swam and waded to the shore, falling on her knees upon the bank, while Odd dived into the hole—very bad hole, deep and weedy—after Hilda.
He groped for the child among a tangle of roots, touched her hair, grasped her round the waist, and came to the surface with some difficulty, his strokes impeded by sinuous cord-like weeds. Captain Archinard was too much astonished by the whole matter to do more than exclaim, “Upon my word!” as his younger daughter was deposited at his feet.
“A nasty hole that. The weeds have probably grown since any one has dived.”
Odd spoke shortly, having lost his breath, and severely; the child looked half drowned, and Katherine was still gasping.
“Why, Mr. Odd! Upon my word!”—the Captain recognized his neighbor—“I don’t know how to thank you.”
The Captain had not recovered from his astonishment, and repeated with some vehemence: “Upon my word!”
“Well, papa, you nearly drowned me!” Katherine was struggling between pride and anger. She would not let the tears come, but they were near the surface. “Those horrible snaky things got hold of me and I almost screamed, only I remembered that I mustn’t open my mouth, and I thought I would never come to the top.” The self-pitying retrospect brought the tears to her eyes, but she held up her head and looked and spoke her resentment, “I think you might have gone in first yourself. And Hilda! Why didn’t you wait until I came to the surface before you made her do it?”
Captain Archinard looked more vague under these reproaches than one would have expected after his exhibition of rather fretful autocracy.
“Made her!” he repeated, seizing with a rather mean haste at the error; “made her? She went in herself! Like a rocket, after you. By Jove! she showed her blood after all.”
“Hilda! you tried to save my life!”
Odd still held the younger girl on his arm, supporting her while she choked and panted, for she had evidently had not shown her sister’s aplomb and had opened her mouth. Katherine took her into her arms and kissed her with a warmth quite dramatic.
“Darling Hilda! And you were so frightened, too. I would have gone in after her,” she added, looking up at Odd with a bright, quick glance, “but there would have been nothing to my credit in that.”
“And I would have gone in after her, it goes without saying, Mr. Odd,” said the Captain, when Katherine had led away to the bathing-cabin her still dazed sister, “but you seemed to drop from the clouds. Really, you have put me under a great obligation.”
“Not at all. I have spent most of the day in the river. I merely went in a bit deeper to fish out that plucky little girl.”
“I’ve dived off that spot a hundred times. I’d no idea there were weeds. I’ve never known weeds to be there. I’ll send down one of the men directly after lunch and have it seen to. Really I feel a sense of responsibility.” The Captain went on with an air of added self-justification, “Though, of course, I’m not responsible. I couldn’t have known about the weeds.”
Weeds or no weeds, Odd could not forgive him for the child’s fright, though he replied good-humoredly to the invitation to the house.
“Mrs. Archinard would have called on Mrs. Odd before this, but my wife is an invalid—never leaves the house or grounds. She sees a good deal of Miss Odd. I knew your father myself as well as one may know such a recluse; spent some pleasant hours in his library—magnificent library you’ve got. Peculiarly satisfactory it must be, as you go in for that sort of thing. Won’t you come in to tea this afternoon? And Mrs. Odd? Miss Odd? I was sorry to find them out when I called the other day. I haven’t seen Mrs. Odd. I don’t see her at church.”
“No; we have hardly settled down to our duties yet, and my wife only got back from the Riviera a few weeks ago.”
“Well, I hope we shall keep you at Allersley now that your wanderjahre are over, and that you are married. I was wandering myself during your boyhood. My brother bought the place, you know; liked the country here immensely. Poor old Jack! Only lived ten years to enjoy it—and died a bachelor—luckily for me. But we’ve missed one another, haven’t we? Neighbors too. I have seen Mrs. Odd—at a dance in London, Lady Bartlebury’s, I remember; and I remember that she was the prettiest girl in the room. Miss Castleton—the beautiful Alicia Castleton.”
Miss Castleton’s fame had indeed been so wide that the title was quite public property, and the Captain’s reminiscent tone of admiration most natural and allowable. Odd accepted the invitation to tea, waded back round the hedge, gathered up his basket and rod, and made his way up through the park to Allersley Manor.