In another week Achilles Alexandrakis had made ready to call on Betty Harris. There had been many details to attend to—a careful sponging and pressing of his best suit, the purchase of a new hat, and cuffs and collars of the finest linen—nothing was too good for the little lady who had flitted into the dusky shop and out, leaving behind her the little line of light.
Achilles brushed the new hat softly, turning it on his supple wrist with gentle pride. He took out the music-roll from the drawer and unrolled it, holding it in light fingers. He would carry it back to Betty Harris, and he would stay for a while and talk with her of his beloved Athens. Outside the sun gleamed. The breeze came fresh from the lake. As he made his way up the long drive of the Lake Shore, the water dimpled in the June sun, and little waves lapped the great stones, touching the ear with quiet sound. It was a clear, fresh day, with the hint of coming summer in the air. To the left, stone castles lifted themselves sombrely in the soft day. Grim or flaunting, they faced the lake—castles from Germany, castles from France and castles from Spain. Achilles eyed them with a little smile as his swift, thin feet traversed the long stones. There were turrets and towers and battlements frowning upon the peaceful, workaday lake. Minarets and flowers in stone, and heavy marble blocks that gripped the earth. Suddenly Achilles’s foot slackened its swift pace. His eye dropped to the silver tag on the music-roll in his hand, and lifted itself again to a gleaming red-brown house at the left. It rose with a kind of lightness from the earth, standing poised upon the shore of the lake, like some alert, swift creature caught in flight, brought to bay by the rush of waters. Achilles looked at it with gentle eyes, a swift pleasure lighting his glance. It was a beautiful structure. Its red-brown front and pointed, lifting roof had hardly a Greek line or hint; but the spirit that built the Parthenon was in it—facing the rippling lake. He moved softly across the smooth roadway and leaned against the parapet of stone that guarded the water, studying the line and colour of the house that faced him.
The man who planned it had loved it, and as it rose there in the light it was perfect in every detail as it had been conceived—with one little exception. On either side the doorway crouched massive grey-pink lions wrought in stone, the heavy outspread paws and firm-set haunches resting at royal ease. In the original plan these lions had not appeared. But in their place had been two steers—wide-flanked and short-horned, with lifted heads and nostrils snuffling free—something crude, brusque, perhaps, but full of power and quick onslaught. The house that rose behind them had been born of the same thought. Its pointed gable and its facades, its lifted front, had the same look of challenge; the light, firm-planted hoofs, the springing head, were all there—in the soft, red stone running to brown in the flanks.
The stock-yard owner and his wife had liked the design—with no suspicion of the symbol undergirding it. The man had liked it all—steers and red-brown stone and all—but the wife had objected. She had travelled far, and she had seen, on a certain building in Rome, two lions guarding a ducal entrance.
Now that the house was finished, the architect seldom passed that way. But when he did he swore at the lions, softly, as he whirred by. He had done a mighty thing—conceived in steel and stone a house that fitted the swift life out of which it came, a wind-swept place in which it stood, and all the stirring, troublous times about it. There it rose in its spirit of lightness, head up-lifted and nostrils sniffing the breeze—and in front of it squatted two stone lions from the palmy days of Rome. He gritted his teeth, and drove his machine hard when he passed that way.
But to Achilles, standing with bared head, the breeze from the lake touching his forehead, the lions were of no account. He let them go. The spirit of the whole possessed him. It was as if a hand had touched him lightly on the shoulder, in a crowd, staying him. A quick breath escaped his lips as he replaced his hat and crossed to the red-brown steps. He mounted them without a glance at the pink monsters on either hand. A light had come into his face. The child filled it.
The stiff butler eyed him severely, and the great door seemed ready to close of itself. Only something in the poise of Achilles’s head, a look in his eyes, held the hinge waiting a grudging minute while he spoke.
He lifted his head a little; the look in his eyes deepened. “I am called—Miss Elizabeth Harris—and her mother—to see,” he said, simply.
The door paused a little and swung back an inch. He might be a great savant... some scholar of parts—an artist. They came for the child—to examine her—to play for her—to talk with her.... Then there was the music-roll. It took the blundering grammar and the music-roll to keep the door open—and then it opened wide and Achilles entered, following the butler’s stateliness up the high, dark hall. Rich hangings were about them, and massive pictures, bronzes and statues, and curious carvings. Inside the house the taste of the mistress had prevailed.
At the door of a great, high-ceiled room the butler paused, holding back the soft drapery with austere hand. “What name—for madame?” he said.
The clear eyes of Achilles met his. “My name is Achilles Alexandrakis,” he said, quietly.
The eyes of the butler fell. He was struggling with this unexpected morsel in the recesses of his being. Plain Mr. Alexander would have had small effect upon him; but Achilles Alexandrakis—! He mounted the long staircase, holding the syllables in his set teeth.
“Alexandrakis?” His mistress turned a little puzzled frown upon him. “What is he like, Conner?”
The man considered a safe moment. “He’s a furriner,” he said, addressing the wall before him with impassive jaw.
A little light crossed her face—not a look of pleasure. “Ask Miss Stone to come to me—at once,” she said.
The man bowed himself out and departed on silken foot.
Miss Stone, gentle and fluttering and fine-grained, appeared a moment later in the doorway.
“He has come,” said the woman, without looking up.
“He—?” Miss Stone’s lifted eyebrows sought to place him—
“The Greek—I told you—”
“Oh—The Greek—!” It was slow and hesitant. It spoke volumes for Miss Stone’s state of mind. Hours of Greek history were in it, and long rows of tombs and temples—the Parthenon of gods and goddesses, with a few outlying scores of heroes and understudies. “The—Greek,” she repeated, softly.
“The Greek,” said the woman, with decision. “He has asked for Betty and for me. I cannot see him, of course.”
“You have the club,” said Miss Stone, in soft assent.
“I have the club—in ten minutes.” Her brow wrinkled. “You will kindly see him—”
“And Betty—?” said Miss Stone, waiting.
“The child must see him. Yes, of course. She would be heart-broken—You drive at three,” she added, without emphasis.
“We drive at three,” repeated Miss Stone.
She moved quietly away, her grey gown a bit of shimmering in the gorgeous rooms. She had been chosen for the very qualities that made her seem so curiously out of place—for her gentleness and unassuming dignity, and a few ancestors. The country had been searched for a lady—so much the lady that she had never given the matter a thought. Miss Stone was the result. If Betty had charm and simplicity and instinctive courtesy toward those whom she met, it was only what she saw every day in the little grey woman who directed her studies, her play, her whole life.
The two were inseparable, light and shadow, morning and night. Betty’s mother in the house was the grand lady—beautiful to look upon—the piece of bronze, or picture, that went with the house; but Miss Stone was Betty’s own—the little grey voice, a bit of heart-love, and something common and precious.
They came down the long rooms together, the child’s hand resting lightly in hers, and her steps dancing a little in happy play. She had not heard the man’s name. He was only a wise man whom she was to meet for a few minutes, before she and Miss Stone went for their drive. The day was full of light outside—even in the heavily draped rooms you could feel its presence. She was eager to be off, out in the sun and air of the great sea of freshness, and the light, soft wind on her face.
Then she saw the slim, dark man who had risen to meet her, and a swift light crossed her face.... She was coming down the room now, both hands out-stretched, fluttering a little in the quick surprise and joy. Then the hands stayed themselves, and she advanced demurely to meet him; but the hand that lifted itself to his seemed to sing like a child’s hand—in spite of the princess.
“I am glad you have come,” she said. “This is Miss Stone.” She seated herself beside him, her eyes on his face, her little feet crossed at the ankle. “Have you any new fruit to-day?” she asked, politely.
He smiled a little, and drew a soft, flat, white bit of tissue from his pocket, undoing it fold on fold—till in the centre lay a grey-green leaf.
The child bent above it with pleased glance. Her eyes travelled to his face.
He nodded quickly. “I thought of you. It is the Eastern citron. See—” He lifted the leaf and held it suspended. “It hangs like this—and the fruit is blue—grey-blue like—” His eye travelled about the elaborate room. He shook his head slowly. Then his glance fell on the grey gown of Miss Stone as it fell along the rug at her feet, and he bowed with gracious appeal for permission. “Like the dress of madame,” he said—“but warmer, like the sun—and blue.”
A low colour crept up into the soft line of Miss Stone’s cheek and rested there. She sat watching the two with slightly puzzled eyes. She was a lady—kindly and gracious to the world—but she could not have thought of anything to say to this fruit-peddler who had seemed, for days and weeks, to be tumbling all Greek civilisation about her head. The child was chatting with him as if she had known him always. They had turned to each other again, and were absorbed in the silken leaf—the man talking in soft, broken words, the child piecing out the half-finished phrase with quick nod and gesture, her little voice running in and out along the words like ripples of light on some dark surface.
The face of Achilles had grown strangely radiant. Miss Stone, as she looked at it again, was almost startled at the change. The sombre look had vanished. Quick lights ran in it, and little thoughts that met the child’s and laughed. “They are two children together,” thought Miss Stone, as she watched them. “I have never seen the child so happy. She must see him again.” She sat with her hands folded in her grey lap, a little apart, watching the pretty scene and happy in it, but outside it all, untouched and grey and still.
Outside the door the horses pranced, champing a little at the bit, and turning their shining, arching necks in the sun. Other carriages drove up and drove away. Rich toilets alighted and mounted the red-brown steps—hats that rose, tier on tier, riotous parterres of flowers and feathers and fruit, close little bonnets that proclaimed their elegance by velvet knot or subtle curve of brim and crown. Colours flashed, ribbon-ends fluttered, delicately shod feet scorned the pavement. It was the Halcyon Club of the North Side, assembling to listen to Professor Addison Trent, the great epigraphist, who was to discourse to them on the inscriptions of Cnossus, the buried town of Crete. The feathers and flowers and boas were only surface deep. Beneath them beat an intense desire to know about epigraphy—all about it. The laughing faces and daintily shod feet were set firmly in the way of culture. They swept through the wide doors, up the long carved staircase—from the Caracci Palace in Florence—into the wide library, with its arched ceiling and high-shelved books and glimpses of busts and pedestals. They fluttered in soft gloom, and sank into rows of adjustable chairs and faced sternly a little platform at the end of the room. The air of culture descended gratefully about them; they buzzed a little in its dim warmth and settled back to await the arrival of the great epigraphist.
The great epigraphist was, at this moment, three hundred and sixty-three and one-half miles—to be precise—out from New York. He was sitting in a steamer-chair, his feet stretched comfortably before him, a steamer-rug wrapped about his ample form, a grey cap pulled over his eyes—dozing in the sun. Suddenly he sat erect. The rug fell from his person, the visor shot up from his eyes. He turned them blankly toward the shoreless West. This was the moment at which he had instructed his subconscious self to remind him of an engagement to lecture on Cretan inscriptions at the home of Mrs. Philip Harris on the Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois. He looked again at the shoreless West and tried to grasp it. It may have been his subconscious self that reminded him—it may have been the telepathic waves that travelled toward him out of the half-gloom of the library. They were fifty strong, and they travelled with great intensity—“Had any one seen him—?” “Where was he?” “What was wrong?” “Late!” “Verylate!” “Such a punctual man!” The waves fluttered and spread and grew. The president of the club looked at the hostess. The hostess looked at the president. They consulted and drew apart. The president rose to speak, clearing her throat for a pained look. Then she waited.... The hostess was approaching again, a fine resolution in her face. They conferred, looking doubtfully at the door. The president nodded courageously and seated herself again on the platform, while Mrs. Philip Harris passed slowly from the room, the eyes of the assembled company following her with a little look of curiosity and dawning hope.
In the doorway below she paused a moment, a little startled at the scene. The bowed heads, the bit of folded tissue, the laughing, eager tones, the look in Miss Stone’s face held her. She swept aside the drapery and entered—the stately lady of the house.
The bowed heads were lifted. The child sprang to her feet. “Mother-dear! It is my friend! He has come!” The words sang.
Mrs. Philip Harris held out a gracious hand. She had not intended to offer her hand. She had intended to be distant and kind. But when the man looked up she somehow forgot. She held out the hand with a quick smile.
The Greek was on his feet, bending above it. “It is an honour, madame—that you come.”
“I have come to ask a favour,” she replied, slowly, her eyes travelling over the well-brushed clothes, the clean linen, the slender feet of the man. Favour was not what she had meant to say—privilege was nearer it. But there was something about him. Her voice grew suave to match the words.
“My daughter has told me of you—” Her hand rested lightly on the child’s curls—a safe, unrumpled touch. “Her visit to you has enchanted her. She speaks of it every day, of the Parthenon and what you told her.”
The eyes of the man and the child met gravely.
“I wondered whether you would be willing to tell some friends of mine—here—now—”
He had turned to her—a swift look.
She replied with a smile. “Nothing formal—just simple things, such as you told the child. We should be very grateful to you,” she added, as if she were a little surprised at herself.
He looked at her with clear eyes. “I speak—yes—I like always—to speak of my country. I thank you.”
The child, standing by with eager feet, moved lightly. Her hands danced in softest pats. “You will tell them about it—just as you told me—and they will love it!”
“I tell them—yes!”
“Come, Miss Stone.” The child held out her hand with a little gesture of pride and loving. “We must go now. Good-bye, Mr. Achilles. You will come again, please.”
“I come,” said Achilles, simply. He watched the quaint figure pass down the long rooms beside the shimmering grey dress, through an arched doorway at the end, and out of sight. Then he turned to his hostess with the quick smile of his race. “She is beautiful, madame,” he said, slowly. “She is a child!”
The mother assented, absently. She was not thinking of the child, but of the fifty members of the Halcyon Club in the library. “Will you come?” she said. “My friends are waiting.”
He spread his hands in quick assent. “I come—as you like. I give pleasure—to come.”
She smiled a little. “Yes, you give pleasure.” She was somehow at ease about the man. He was poor—illiterate, perhaps, but not uncouth. She glanced at him with a little look of approval as they went up the staircase. It came to her suddenly that he harmonised with it, and with all the beautiful things about them. The figure of Professor Trent flashed upon her—short and fat and puffing, and yearning toward the top of the stair. But this man. There was the grand air about him—and yet so simple.
It was almost with a sense of eclat that she ushered him into the library. The air stirred subtly, with a little hush. The president was on her feet, introducing Mr. Achilles Alexandrakis, who, in the unavoidable absence of Professor Trent, had kindly consented to speak to them on the traditions and customs of modern Greek life.
Achilles’s eyes fell gently on the lifted faces. “I like to tell you about my home,” he said, simply. “I tell you all I can.”
The look of strain in the faces relaxed. It was going to be an easy lecture—one that you could know something about. They settled to soft attention and approval.
Achilles waited a minute—looking at them with deep eyes. And suddenly they saw that the eyes were not looking at them, but at something far away—something beautiful and loved.
It is safe to say that the members of the Halcyon Club had never listened to anything quite like the account that Achilles Alexandrakis gave them that day, in the gloomy room of the red-fronted house overlooking the lake, of the land of his birth. They scarcely listened to the actual words at first, but they listened to him all lighted up from far away. There was something about him as he spoke—a sweeping rhythm that flew as a bird, reaching over great spaces, and a simple joy that lilted a little and sang.
He drew for them the Parthenon—the glory of Athens—in column and statue and mighty temple and crumbling tomb.... A sense of beauty and wonder and still, clear light passed before them.
Then he paused... his voice laughed a little, and he spoke of his people.... Nobody could have quite told what he said to them about his people. But flutes sang. The sound of feet was on the grass—touching it in tune—swift-flitting feet that paused and held a rhythmic measure while it swung. Quick-beating feet across the green. Shadowy forms. The sway of gowns, light-falling, and the call of voices low and sweet. Greek youth and maid in swiftest play. They flung the branches wide and trembled in the voiceless light that played upon the grass. The foot of Achilles half-beat the time. The tones filled themselves and lifted, slowly, surely. The voice quickened—it ran with faster notes, as one who tells some eager tale. Then it swung in cradling-song the twilight of Athens—and the little birds sang low, twittering underneath the leaves—in softest garb—at last—rose leaves falling—the dusky bats around her roof-tops, and the high-soaring sky that arches all—mysterious and deep. Then the voice sank low, and rang and held the note—stern, splendid—Athens of might. City of Power! Glory, in changing word, and in the lift of eye. Athens on her hills, like great Jove enthroned—the shout, the triumph, the clash of steel, and the feet of Alaric in the streets. The voice of the Greek grew hoarse now, tiny cords swelled on his forehead. Athens, city of war. Desolation, fire, and trampling—! His eye was drawn in light. Vandal hand and iron foot!...
Who shall say how much of it he told—how much of it he spoke, and how much was only hinted or called up—in his voice and his gesture and his eye. They had not known that Athens was like this! They spoke in lowered voices, moving apart a little, and making place for the silver trays that began to pass among them. They glanced now and then at the dark man nibbling his biscuit absently and looking with unfathomable eyes into a teacup.
A large woman approached him, her ample bust covered with little beads that rose and fell and twinkled as she talked. “I liked your talk, Mr. Alexis, and I am going over just as soon as my husband can get away from his business.” She looked at him with approval, waiting for his.
He bowed with deep, grave gesture. “My country is honoured, madame.”
Other listeners were crowding upon them now, commending the fire-tipped words, felicitating the man with pretty gesture and soft speech, patronising him for the Parthenon and his country and her art. ... The mistress of the house, moving in and out among them, watched the play with a little look of annoyance.... He would be spoiled—a man of that class. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand. It bore the name, “Achilles Alexandrakis,” and below it a generous sum to his order. She made her way toward him, and waited while he disengaged himself from the little throng about him and came to her, a look of pleasure and service in his face.
“You speak to me, madame?”
“I wanted to give you this.” She slipped the check into the thin fingers. “You can look at it later—”
But already the fingers had raised it with a little look of pleased surprise.... Then the face darkened, and he laid the paper on the polished table between them. There was a quick movement of the slim fingers that pushed it toward her.
“I cannot take it, madame—to speak of my country. I speak for the child—and for you.” He bowed low. “I give please to do it.”
The next moment he had saluted her with gentle grace and was gone from the room—from the house—between the stone lions and down the Lake Shore Drive, his free legs swinging in long strides, his head held high to the wind on the opal lake.
A carriage passed him, and he looked up. Two figures, erect in the sun, the breath of a child’s smile, a bit of shimmer and grey, the flash and beat of quick hoofs—and they were gone. But the heart of Achilles sang in his breast, and the day about him was full of light.
Little Betty Harris sat in the big window, bending over her gods and goddesses and temples and ruins. It was months since, under the inspiration of the mysterious, fruit-dealing Greek, she had begun her study of Greek art; and the photographs gathered from every source—were piled high in the window—prints and tiny replicas and casts, and pictures of every kind and size—they overflowed into the great room beyond. She was busy now, pasting the photographs into a big book. To-morrow the family started for the country, and only as many gods could go as could be pasted in the book. Miss Stone had decreed it and what Miss Stone said must be done.... Betty Harris looked anxiously at Poseidon, and laid him down, in favour of Zeus. She took him up in her fingers again, with a little flourish of the paste-tube, and made him fast. Poseidon must go, too. The paste-tub wavered uncertainly over the maze of gods and found another and stuck it in place, and lifted itself in admiring delight.
There was a little rustle, and the child looked up. Miss Stone stood in the doorway, smiling at her.
“I’m making my book for the gods,” said the child, her flushed face lighting. “It’s a kind of home for them.” She slipped down from her chair and came across, holding the book outstretched before her. “You see I’ve put Poseidon in. He never had a home—except just the sea, of course—a kind of wet home.” She gave the god a little pat, regarding him fondly.
Miss Stone bent above the book, with the smile of understanding that always lay between them. When Betty Harris thought about God, he seemed always, somehow, like Miss Stone’s smile—but bigger—because he filled the whole earth. She lifted her hand and stroked the cheek bending above her book. “I’m making a place for them all,” she said. “It’s a kind of story—” She drew a sigh of quick delight.
Miss Stone closed the book decisively, touching the flushed face with her fingers. “Put it away, child—and the pictures. We’re going to drive.”
“Yes—Nono.” It was her own pet name for Miss Stone, and she gave a little quick nod, closing the book with happy eyes. But she waited a moment, lugging the book to her and looking at the scattered gods in the great window, before she walked demurely across and began gathering them up—a little puzzled frown between her eyes. “I suppose I couldn’t leave them scattered around?” she suggested politely.
Miss Stone smiled a little head-shake, and the child bent again to her work. “I don’t like to pick up,” she said softly. “It’s more interesting not to pick up—ever.” She lifted her face from a print of Apollo and looked at Miss Stone intently. “There might be gods that could pick up—pick themselves up, perhaps—?” It was a polite suggestion—but there was a look in the dark face—the look of the meat-packer’s daughter—something that darted ahead and compelled gods to pick themselves up. She bent again, the little sigh checking itself on her lip. Miss Stone did not like to have little girls object—and it was not polite, and besides youhadto take care of things—your own things. The servants took care of the house for you, and brought you things to eat, and made beds for you, and fed the horses and ironed clothes... but your own things—the gods and temples and scrapbooks and paste that you left lying about—you had to put away yourself! Her fingers found the paste-tube and screwed it firmly in place—with a little twist of the small mouth—and hovered above the prints with quick touch. The servants did things—other things. Constance mended your clothes and dressed you, and Marie served you at table, and sometimes she brought a nice little lunch if you were hungry—and you and Miss Stone had it together on the school table—but no one ever—ever—ever—picked up your playthings for you. She thrust the last god into his box and closed the lid firmly. Then she looked up. She was alone in the big room... in the next room she could hear Miss Stone moving softly, getting ready for the drive. She slipped from her seat and stood in the window, looking out—far ahead the lake stretched—dancing with green waves and little white edges—and down below, the horses curved their great necks that glistened in the sun—and the harness caught gleams of light. The child’s eyes dwelt on them happily. They were her very own, Pollux and Castor—and she was going driving—driving in the sun. She hummed a little tune, standing looking down at them.
Behind her stretched the great room—high-ceiled and wide, and furnished for a princess—a child princess. Its canopied bed and royal draperies had come across the seas from a royal house—the children of kings had slept in it before Betty Harris. The high walls were covered with priceless decoration—yet like a child in every line. It was Betty’s own place in the great house—and the little room adjoining, where Miss Stone slept, was a part of it, clear and fine in its lines and in the bare quiet of the walls. Betty liked to slip away into Miss Stone’s room—and stand very still, looking about her, hardly breathing. It was like a church—only clearer and sweeter and freer—perhaps it was the woods—with the wind whispering up there. She always held her breath to listen in Miss Stone’s room; and when she came back, to her own, child’s room—with its canopied bed and royal draperies and colour and charm, she held the stillness and whiteness of Miss Stone’s room in her heart—it was like a bird nestling there. Betty had never held a bird, but she often lifted her hands to them as they flew—and once, in a dream, one had fluttered into the lifted hands and she had held it close and felt the wind blow softly. It was like Miss Stone’s room. But Miss Stone was not like that. You could hug Nono and tell her secrets and what you wanted for luncheon. Sometimes she would let you have it—if you were good—verygood—and Nono knew everything. She knew so much that Betty Harris, looking from her window, sighed softly. No one could know as much as Nono knew—not ever.
“All ready, Betty.” It was Miss Stone in the doorway again. And with a last look down out of the window at the horses and the shimmering lake, the child came across the room, skipping a little. “I should like to wear my hat with the cherries, please,” she said. “I like to feel them bob in the sun when it shines—they bob so nicely—” She paused with a quick look—“Theydobob, don’t they, Nono?”
“I don’t think I ever noticed,” said Miss Stone. She was still smiling as she touched the tumbled hair, putting it in place.
“But theymustbob,” said Betty. “I think I should have noticed your cherries bobbing, Miss Stone.” She was looking intently at the quiet cheek close beside her own, with its little flush of pink, and the greyness of the hair that lay beside it. “I notice all your things, Nono,” she said softly.
Miss Stone smiled again and drew her to her. “I will look to-day, Betty, when we drive—”
The child nodded—“Yes, they will bob then. I can see them—even with my eyes not shut, I can see them bob—Please, Constance—” She turned to the stiff maid who had come in—“I want my grey coat and red-cherry hat. We’re going to drive—in the sun.”
The maid brought the garments and put them on with careful touch, tying the strings under the lifted chin.
The child nodded to her gaily. “Good-bye, Constance—we’re going for a drive—a long drive—we shall go and go and go—Come, Miss Stone.” She took the quiet hand, and danced a little, and held it close to her—down the long staircase and through the wide hall—and out to the sunshine and the street.
James, from his box, looked up, and the reins tightened in the big hands. The horses pranced and clicked their hoofs and stood still; and James, leaning a respectful ear, touched his hat-brim, and they were off, the harnesses glinting and the little red cherries bobbing in the sun.
Betty Harris sat very still—her hands in her lap, her face lifted to the breeze that touched it swiftly and fingered her hair and swept past. Presently she looked up with a nod—as if the breeze reminded her. “I should like to see Mr. Achilles,” she said.
“Not to-day,” answered Miss Stone, “we must do the errands for mother to-day, you know.”
The child’s face fell. “I wanted to see Mr. Achilles,” she said simply. She sat very quiet, her eyes on the lake. When she looked up, the eyes had brimmed over.
“I didn’t mean to,” said the child. She was searching for her handkerchief and the little cherries bobbed forward. “I didn’t know they would spill!” She had found the handkerchief now and was wiping them away, and she smiled at Miss Stone—a brave smile—that was going to be happy—
Miss Stone smiled back, with a little head-shake. “Foolish, Betty!”
“I didn’t expect them,” said the child, “I was just thinking about Mr. Achilles and they came—just came!—They just came!” she repeated sternly. She gave a final dab to the handkerchief and stowed it away, sitting very erect and still.
Miss Stone’s eyes studied her face. “We cannot go to-day,” she said, “—and to-morrow we start for the country. Perhaps—” she paused, thinking it out.
But the child’s eyes took it up—and danced. “He can make us a visit,” she said, nodding—“a visit of three weeks!” She smiled happily.
Miss Stone smiled back, shaking her head. “He could not leave the fruit-shop—”
But the child ignored it. “He will come,” she said quickly, “and we shall talk—and talk—about the gods, you know—” She lifted her eyes, “and we shall go in the fields—He will come!” She drew a deep sigh of satisfaction and lifted her head.
And Miss Stone, watching her, had a feeling of quick relief. She had known for a day or two that the child was not well, and they had hurried to get away to the fields. This was their last drive. To-morrow the horses would be sent on; and the next day they would all go—in the great touring car that would eat up the miles, and pass the horses, and reach Idlewood long before them.
No one except Betty and Miss Stone used the horses now. They would have been sold long ago had it not been for the child. The carriage was a part of her—and the clicking hoofs and soft-shining skins and arching necks. The sound of the hoofs on the pavement played little tunes for Betty. Her mother had protested against expense, and her father had grumbled a little; but if the child wanted a carriage rather than the great car that could whir her away in a breath, it must be kept.
It made a pretty picture this morning as it turned into the busier street and took its way among the dark, snorting cars that pushed and sped. It was like a delicate dream that shimmered and touched the pavement—or like a breath of the past... and the great cars skimmed around it and pushed on with quick honk and left it far behind.
But the carriage kept its way with unhurried rhythm—into the busy street and out again into a long avenue where great houses of cement and grey stone stood guard.
No one was in sight, up and down its clear length—only the morning sun shining on the grey stones and on the pavement—and the little jingling in the harness and the joyous child and the quiet grey woman beside her.
“I shall not be gone a minute, Betty,” said Miss Stone. The carriage had drawn up before the great shadow of a house. She gave the child’s hand a little pat and stepped from the carriage.
But at the door there was a minute’s question and, with a nod to Betty, she stepped inside.
When the door opened again, and she came out with quick step she glanced at her watch—the errand had taken more than its minute, and there were others to be done, and they were late. She lifted her eyes to the carriage—and stopped.
The coachman, from the corner of his eye, waited for orders. But Miss Stone did not stir. Her glance swept the quiet street and came back to the carriage—standing with empty cushions in the shadow of the house.
The coachman turned a stolid eye and caught a glimpse of her face and wheeled quickly—his eye searching space. “There wa’n’t nobody!” he said. He almost shouted it, and his big hands gripped hard on the reins.... His face was grey—“There wa’n’t nobody here!” he repeated dully.
But Miss Stone did not look at him. “Drive to the Greek’s. You know—where she went before.” She would not give herself time to think—sitting a little forward on the seat—of course the child had gone to the Greek—to Mr. Achilles.... They should find her in a minute. There was nothing else to think about—no shadowy fear that had leaped to meet the look in James’s face when it turned to her. The child would be there—
The carriage drew up before the shop, with its glowing lines of fruit under the striped awning, and Miss Stone had descended before the wheel scraped the curb, her glance searching the door and the dim room beyond. She halted on the threshold, peering in.
A man came from the rear of the room, his hands outstretched to serve her. The dark, clear face, with its Greek lines, and the eyes that looked out at her held a welcome. “You do me honour,” he said. “I hope Madame is well—and the little Lady—?” Then he stopped. Something in Miss Stone’s face held him—and his hand groped a little, reaching toward her—“You—tell me—” he said.
But she did not speak, and the look in her face grew very still.
He turned sharply—calling into the shop behind him, and a boy came running, his eyes flashing a quick laugh, his teeth glinting.
“I go,” said the man, with quick gesture—“You keep shop—I go.” He had taken off his white apron and seized a hat. He touched the woman on the shoulder. “Come,” he said.
She looked at him with dazed glance and put her hand to her head. “I cannot think,” she said slowly.
He nodded with steady glance. “When we go, you tell—we find her,” he said.
She started then and looked at him—and the clear colour came to her face. “You know—where—she is!”
But he shook his head. “We find her,” he repeated. “You tell.”
And as they threaded the streets—into drays and past clanging cars and through the tangle of wheels and horses and noise—and she told him the story, shouting it above the rumble and hurry of the streets, into the dark ear that bent beside her.
The look in Achilles’s face deepened, but its steady quiet did not change. “We find her,” he repeated each time, and Miss Stone’s heart caught the rhythm of it, under the hateful noise. “We find her.”
Then the great house on the lake faced them.
She looked at him a minute in doubt. Her face broke—“She may have come—home?” she said.
“I go with you,” said Achilles.
There was no sign of life, but the door swung open before them and they went into the great hall—up the long stairway that echoed only vacant softness, and into the library with its ranging rows of perfect books. She motioned him before her. “Imust tell them,” she said. She passed through the draperies of another door and the silence of the great house settled itself about the man and waited with him.
He looked about the room with quiet face. It was the room he had been in before—the day he spoke to the Halcyon Club—the ladies had costly gowns and strange hats, who had listened so politely while he told them of Athens and his beloved land. The room had been lighted then, with coloured lamps and globes—a kind of rosy radiance. Now the daylight came in through the high windows and filtered down upon him over brown books and soft, leather-covered walls. There was no sound in the big room. It seemed shut off from the world and Achilles sat very quiet, his dark face a little bent, his gaze fixed on the rug at his feet. He was thinking of the child—and of her face when she had lifted it to him out of the crowded street, that first day, and smiled at him... and of their long talks since. It was the Child who understood. The strange ladies had smiled at him and talked to him and drank their tea and talked again... he could hear the soft, keen humming of their voices and the flitter of garments all about him as they moved. But the child had sat very still—only her face lifted, while he told her of Athens and its beauty... and he had told her again—and again. She would never tire of it—as he could never tire. She was a child of light in the great new world... a child like himself—in the hurry of the noise. A sound came to him in the distant house—people talking—low voices that spoke and hurried on. The house was awake—quick questions ran through it—doors sounded and were still. Achilles turned his face toward the opening into the long wide hall, and waited. Through the vista there was a glimpse of the stairway and a figure passing up it—a short, square man who hurried. Then silence again—more bells and running feet. But no one came to the library—and no one sought the dark figure seated there, waiting. Strange foreign faces flashed themselves in the great mirror and out. The outer door opened and closed noiselessly to admit them—uncouth figures that passed swiftly up the stairway, glancing curiously about them—and dapper men who did not look up as they went. The house settled again to quiet, and the long afternoon, while Achilles waited. The light from the high windows grew dusky under chairs and tables; it withdrew softly along the gleaming books and hovered in the air above them—a kind of halo—and the shadows crept up and closed about him. Through the open door, a light appeared in the hall. A moving figure advanced to the library, and paused in the doorway, and came in. There was a minute’s fumbling at the electric button, and the soft lights came, by magic, everywhere in the room. The servant gave a quick glance about him, and started sternly—and came forward. Then he recognised the man. It was the Greek. But he looked at him sternly. The day had been full of suspicion and question—and the house was alive to it—“What do you want?” he said harshly.
“I wait,” said Achilles.
“Who told you to come?” demanded the man.
“I come. I wait,” said Achilles.
The man disappeared. Presently he returned. “You come with me,” he said. His look was less stern, but he raised his voice a little, as if speaking to a child, or a deaf man. “You come with me,” he repeated.
Achilles followed with quick-gliding foot—along the corridor, through a great room—to a door. The man paused and lifted his hand and knocked. His back was tense, as if he held himself ready to spring.
A voice sounded and he turned the handle softly, and looked at Achilles. Then the door opened and the Greek passed in and the man closed the door behind him.
A man seated at a table across the room looked up. For a minute the two men looked at each other—the one short and square and red; the other thin as a reed, with dark, clear eyes.
The short man spoke first. “What do you know about this?” His hand pressed a heap of papers upon the desk before him and his eyes searched the dark face.
Achilles’s glance rested on the papers—then it lifted itself.
“Your name is Achilles?” said the other sharply.
“Achilles Alexandrakis—yes.” The Greek bowed.
“I know—she called you Mr. Achilles,” said the man.
A shadow rested on the two faces, looking at each other.
“She is lost,” said the father. He said it under his breath, as if denying it.
“I find her,” said Achilles quietly.
The man leaned forward—something like a sneer on his face. “She is stolen, I tell you—and the rascals have got at their work quick!” He struck the pile of papers on the desk. “They will give her up for ten thousand dollars—to-night.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, ticking its minutes, hurrying to six o’clock.
The dark eyes had followed the glance; they came back to the man’s face—“You pay that—ten thousand dollar?” said Achilles.
“I shall be damned first!” said the man with slow emphasis. “But we shall find them—” His square, red jaw held the words, “andtheyshall pay—God! They shall pay!” The room rang to the word. It was a small bare room—only a table and two chairs, the clock on the wall and a desk across the room. “Sit down,” said Philip Harris. He motioned to the chair before him.
But Achilles did not take it, he rested a hand on the back, looking down at him. “I glad—you not pay,” he said.
The other lifted his eyebrows. “I shall pay the man that finds her—the man that brings her back! You understand that?” His bright, little glance had keen scorn.
But the face opposite him did not change. “I find her,” said Achilles again.
“Then you get the ten thousand,” said the man. He shifted a little in his chair. They were all alike—these foreigners—money was what they wanted—and plenty of it. The sneer on his face deepened abruptly.
Achilles’s glance was on the clock. “It makes bad—to pay that money,” he said. “When you pay—more child stole—to-morrow, more child stole—more money—” His dark hand lifted itself out over the houses of the great city—and all the sleepy children making ready for bed.
The other nodded. His round, soft paunch pressed against the table and his quick eyes were on Achilles’s face. His great finger leaped out and shook itself and lay on the table. “I—will—not—give—one cent!” he said hoarsely.
“You be good man,” said Achilles solemnly.
“I will not be bullied by them—and I will not be a fool!” He lifted his eyes to the clock—and a look passed in his face—a little whirring chime and the clock was still.
In the silence, the telephone rang sharply. His hand leaped out—and waited—and his eye sought Achilles—and gathered itself, and he lifted the dark, burring Thing to his ear.