Acting on Impulse Read online

  He struggled up awkwardly.

  “I hope I’m not trespassing,” he said. “I thought the woods were not private?”

  She danced back a few paces.

  “Oh, no! Not private now.”

  She laughed again, pointing her tiny foot.

  “They were once, I suppose?” he asked for want of something better to say.

  “Yes—oh, yes! A long, long while ago.”

  She came back to him, seeming hardly to touch the ground, so light was she. She hesitated a moment and sat down on the bank. She stretched out her hand in a shy, inviting gesture. Peter obeyed the summons and sank down beside her. The little lady possessed an odd magnetism; he found himself drawn to her almost irresistibly.

  “D’you live here?” he inquired, smiling at her.

  Her eyes flew up to his and he saw his smile reflected in their wistful, blue depths.

  “No, not now. They all went away,” she said sadly. “I only come here sometimes. Once I lived here.”

  She made a gesture with her hand, embracing the wood. His smile grew.

  “What, in the wood?”

  The rippling laugh bubbled up again.

  “Oh, no! Over there.” She pointed, and his eyes followed the direction of her finger.

  “There? Carbury Place lies that way, doesn’t it?”

  She clapped her hands.

  “That is it!”

  “Then you are a Dering?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. I am Bride. Only I never was one,” she added, sighing.

  “Bride. What an unusual name! I beg your pardon. That was rather rude of me! Does it mean Bridget?”

  “No. Oh no! Just Bride.”

  He did not wish to appear inquisitive, so he did not question her any further. They sat in silence for a while till she looked up and spoke again.

  “Everything has changed,” she said, “but the beechwoods are always the same.”

  “Do you come here often?” he asked.

  “Not now. I used to—oh, very often! But now hardly at all. Only when I am wanted.”

  The friendly, shy smile peeped out. He came to the conclusion that she was younger than he had thought.

  “When you're wanted?” he repeated. “How can you tell when that is?”

  “I can’t tell. I just know. I felt to-day that someone needed me, so I came, and then, of course, I found you. You want me, don’t you?”

  “I?” he said, taken aback. He looked down at her sharply, but there was no suspicion of coquetry in her face. She spoke, too, as if she were stating a natural fact. “I want you?”

  “Yes. You do, don’t you?”

  He laughed.

  “You quaint child! Why should I want you?”

  “Because you’re so unhappy,” she answered simply.

  He started.

  “How do you know that?”

  She smiled wisely, tenderly.

  “I always know. Tell me.”

  “Tell—” In spite of himself he was amused. “My dear little girl, why should I?”

  “Because I came to help you,” she said.

  “Very nice of you, I’m sure!” he replied. “But I’m not in the habit of pouring forth my woes to chance acquaintances.”

  He laughed shortly and bitterly. A shadow seemed to cross her face.

  “Ah, you don’t want me after all!” she said wistfully. She rose. “Good-bye!”

  Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to keep her beside him.

  “Oh, don’t go!” he cried. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to be so boorish! Fact of the matter is—I’m going through a—rather bad time. My own fault, I suppose.”

  She was on tiptoe, hesitating.

  “Please!” he said. “Don’t go!”

  The elfin smile danced across her eyes. She sat down again.

  “No, I won’t go. Not yet. Tell me what is the matter.”

  “I should bore you—horribly,” he said diffidently. “Besides, it’s such an extraordinary thing to tell a stranger—”

  “Ah, but I am not like other people!”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, considering her. “It’s a curious thing, but I feel as if I’d known you all my life.”

  She nodded, full of understanding. He started to snap a twig into little pieces, not looking at her.

  “It's—a quarrel,” he said with difficulty. “I quarrelled with—the lady—who was—to have been my wife.”

  “Ah!”

  It was a sobbing sigh. He glanced up, flushing, and saw that her eyes were full of tears.

  “I say, you mustn’t cry!” he exclaimed. “After all—it’s my funeral.”

  She shook her head, smiling through her tears.

  “I was crying for myself,” she explained. “Why did you quarrel?”

  “Blessed if I know!” he said ruefully. “I think we were both fed up—out of sorts. ’Twasn’t my fault," he added sulkily. “I didn’t start the thing.”

  “No! Go on.”

  “There’s not much more. She—chucked my ring at me—and I came away. Down here. I’ve been here a week. Silly sort of tale, isn’t it?

  “Oh, the pity of it!” she sighed. “Do you love her still?”

  He reddened, fidgeting with the twig.

  “Yes. Can’t help it.”

  She stretched out her hand, supplicating.

  “You’ll go back, won’t you?”

  He did not answer. Her fairy-voice held a quivering note of tragedy.

  “If you only knew! The heartache, the remorse. Just a quarrel—a lover’s quarrel—and everything at an end?”

  “I’m not going to go back and grovel,” he muttered, still sulky. “I’ve got some pride left.”

  “Only pride. To break both your hearts.”

  He turned.

  “You speak—as though you understood,” he said wonderingly.

  She nodded.

  “So well—oh, so well! I quarrelled, too, you see. I didn’t think it was my fault; he didn’t think it was his. And we were both proud. I never saw him again.” Her long lashes were glistening, but she shook away the tear-drops. “Oh, that was long, long ago!” She held out her hands to a dragon-fly that darted past. “Too long to remember now.”

  “I say, I’m awfully sorry!” Peter stammered. “Was he—did he—”

  She was stroking the moss with fingers that trembled.

  “He was killed,” she whispered.

  “I’m most awfully sorry!” he repeated. “In the war?”

  “Yes. In the war. But it’s so long ago.”

  He thought she was perhaps a little mad.

  “I’d no right to tell you my wretched trouble. It has upset you.”

  “Oh, no, no! Why, I shouldn’t have come if you had been happy.”

  “Wouldn’t you? Don’t you talk to happy people?”

  “They don’t need me, you see,” she explained. “I only come here to help those who want me. Because my own heart broke and it hurts me—oh, so terribly!—to see things go wrong between other lovers.”

  “You dear little lady! D’you know what you reminded me of when you first appeared?”

  She looked inquiring.

  “No? A dancing flower, perhaps. I was called that once.”

  “It suits you. No; I thought you had stepped from the pages of Jane Austen. But, of course, your hair is short.”

  Her hands flew to her head; her eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners.

  “They cut it off. When I was ill, you know. After—after I knew that he was killed.”

  “It’s topping. It never grew again?”

  “No. Something happened, and I was different.”

  Her eyes became grave again, even a little shrinking. He put out his hand to lay it on hers, but she eluded him, and sprang away.

  “Oh, no, you must not touch me!”

  She danced back, sparkling with laughter.

  “Mustn’t I? Why not?”

  “You couldn�€