Slowly the look on his face grew to something hard and round and bright. His lips tightened—“is that all?—Good-bye!” His voice sounded in the tube and was gone, and he hung up the receiver. “They make it twenty thousand—for one hour,” he said drily.
Achilles bent forward, his face on fire, his finger pointing to the Thing.
“They are right there!” said the man. He gave a short laugh—“Can’t trace them that way—we have tried—They’ve tapped a wire. Central is after them. But they won’t get ’em that way. Sit down and I will talk to you.” He motioned again to the chair and the Greek seated himself, bending forward a little to catch the murmur and half-incoherent jerks that the man spoke.
Now and then the Greek nodded, or his dark face lighted; and once or twice he spoke. But for the most part it was a rapid monologue, told in breathless words.
The great Philip Harris had no hope that the ignorant man sitting before him could help him. But there was a curious relief in talking to him; and as he talked, he found the story shaping itself in his mind—things related fell into place, and things apart came suddenly together. The story ran back for years—there had been earlier attempts, but the child had been guarded with strictest care; and lately they had come to feel secure. They had thought the band was broken up. The blow had fallen out of a clear sky. They had not the slightest clue—all day the detectives had gathered the great city in their hands—and sifted it through careful fingers. A dozen men had been arrested, but there was no clue. The New York men were on the way; they would arrive in the morning, and meantime the great man sat in his bare room, helpless. He looked into the dark eyes opposite him and found a curious comfort there. “The child knew you,” he said.
“Yes—she know me. We love,” said Achilles simply.
The other smiled a little. It would not have occurred tohimto say that Betty loved him. He was not sure that she did—as he thought of it. She had always the quick smile for him—and for everyone. But there had been no time for foolishness between him and Betty. He had hardly known her for the last year or two. He shifted a little in his place, shading his eyes from the light, and looked at the Greek.
The Greek rose, and stood before him. “I go now,” he said.
Philip Harris made no reply. He was thinking, behind his hand; and his mind, wrenched from its stockyards and its corners and deals, seemed to be groping toward a point of light that glimmered somewhere—mistily. He could not focus it. The darkness tricked him, but somehow, vaguely, the Greek held a clue. He had known the child. “Don’t go,” said Philip Harris, looking up at last.
“I find her,” said Achilles.
Philip Harris shook his head. “You cannot find her.” He said it bitterly. “But you can tell me—sit down.” He leaned forward. “Now, tell me—everything—you know—about her.”
The face of Achilles lighted. “She was a nice child,” he said blithely.
The man smiled. “Yes—go on.”
So the voice of Achilles was loosened and he told of Betty Harris—to her father sitting absorbed and silent. The delight of her walk, her little hands, the very tones of her voice were in his words.
And the big man listened with intent face. Once the telephone rang and he stopped to take down something. “No clue,” he said, “go on.” And Achilles’s voice took up the story again.
His hands reached out in the words, quick gestures made a halo about them, lips and smiles spoke, and ran the words to a laugh that made the child’s presence in the room.
The father listened dumbly. Then silence fell in the room and the clock ticked.
And while the two men sat in silence, something came between them and knit them. And when Achilles rose to go, the great man held out his hand, simply. “You have helped me,” he said.
“I help—yes—” said Achilles. Then he turned his head. A door across the room had opened and a woman stood in it—looking at them.
Achilles saw her, and moved forward swiftly. But she ignored him—her eyes were on the short, square man seated at the table, and she came to him, bending close. “You must pay, Phil,” she said. The words held themselves in her reddened eyes, and her fingers picked a little at the lace on her dress... then they trembled and reached out to him.
“Youmustpay!” she said hoarsely.
But the man did not stir.
The woman lifted her eyes and looked at Achilles. There was no recognition in the glance—only a kind of impatience that he was there. The Greek moved toward the door—but the great man stayed him. “Don’t go,” he said. He reached up a hand to his wife, laying it on her shoulder. “We can’t pay, dearest,” he said slowly.
Her open lips regarded him and the quick tears were in her eyes. She brushed them back, and looked at him—“Letmepay!” she said fiercely, “I will give up—everything—and pay!” She had crouched to him, her groping fingers on his arm.
Above her head the glances of the two men met.
Her husband bent to her, speaking very slowly... to a child.
“Listen, Louie—they might give her back to-day—if we paid... but they would take her again—to-morrow—next week—next year. We shall never be safe if we pay. Nobody will be safe—”
Her face was on his arm, sobbing close. “I hate—it!” she said brokenly, “Ihate—your—money! I want Betty!” The cry went through the room—and the man was on his feet, looking down at her—
“Don’t, Louie,” he said—“don’t, dear—I can’t bear that! See, dear—sit down!” He had placed her in the chair and was crooning to her, bending to her. “We shall have her back—soon—now.”
The telephone was whirring and he sprang to it.
The woman lifted her face, staring at it.
The Greek’s deep eyes fixed themselves on it.
The room was so still they could hear the tiny, ironic words flinging themselves spitefully in the room, and biting upon the air. “Time’s up,” the Thing tittered—“Make it fifty thousand now—for a day. Fifty thousand down and the child delivered safe—Br-r-r-r!”
The woman sprang forward. “Tell them we’ll pay, Phil—give it to me—Yes—yes—we’ll pay!” She struggled a little—but the hand had thrust her back and the receiver was on its hook.
“We shallnotpay!” said the man sternly, “not if they make it a million!”
“I think they make it a million,” said Achilles quietly.
They looked up at him with startled eyes.
“They know you—rich—” His hands flung themselves. “So rich! Theymakeyou pay—yes—they make everyone pay, I think!” His dark eyes were on the woman significantly—
“What do you mean?” she said swiftly.
“If you pay—they steal them everywhere—little children.” His eyes seemed to see them at play in the sunshine—and the dark shadows stealing upon them. The woman’s eyes were on his face, breathless.
“They have taken Betty!” she said. It was a broken cry.
“We find her,” said Achilles simply. “Then little children play—happy.” He turned to go.
But the woman stayed him. Her face trembled to hold itself steady under his glance. “I want to save the children, too,” she said. “I will be brave!”
Her husband’s startled face was turned to her and she smiled to it bravely. “Help me, Phil!” she said. She reached out her hands to him and he took them tenderly. He had not been so near her for years. She was looking in his face, smiling still, across the white line of her lip. “I shall help,” she said slowly. “But you must not trust me, dear—not too far.... I want my little girl—”
There were tears in the eyes of the two men—and the Greek went softly out, closing the door. Down the wide hallway—out of the great door, with its stately carvings and the two pink stone lions that guarded the way—out to the clear night of stars. The breeze blew in—a little breath from the lake, that lapped upon the breakwater and died out. Achilles stood very still—lifting his face to it. Behind him, in the city, little children were asleep... and in the great house the man and the woman waited alone—for the help that was coming to them—running with swift feet in the night. It sped upon iron rails and crept beneath the ground and whispered in the air—and in the heart of Achilles it dreamed under the quiet stars.
The little shop was closed. The fruit-trays had been carried in and the shutters put up, and from an upper window a line of light gleamed on the deserted street. Achilles glanced at it and turned into an alley at the side, groping his way toward the rear. He stopped and fumbled for a knob and rapped sharply. But a hand was already on the door, scrambling to undo it, and an eager face confronted him, flashing white teeth at him. “You come!” said the boy swiftly.
He turned and fled up the stairs and Achilles followed. A faint sense of onions was in the air. Achilles sniffed it gratefully. He remembered suddenly that he had not eaten since morning. But the boy did not pause for him—he was beckoning with mysterious hand from a doorway and Achilles followed. “Alcie—got hurt,” whispered the boy. He was trembling with fear and excitement, and he pointed to the bed across the room.
Achilles stepped, with lightest tread, and looked down. A boy, half asleep, murmured and turned his head restlessly. A red-clotted blur ran along the forehead, and the face, streaked with mud, was drawn in a look of pain. As Achilles bent over him, the boy cried out and threw up a hand; then he turned his head, muttering, and dozed again.
Achilles withdrew lightly, beckoning to the boy beside him.
Yaxis followed, his eyes on the figure on the bed. “All day,” he said, “he lie sick.”
Achilles closed the door softly and turned to him. “Tell me, Yaxis, what happened,” he said.
The boy’s face opened dramatically. “I look up—I see Alcie—like that—” his gesture fitted to the room—“He stand in door—all covered mud—blood run—cart broke—no fruit—no hat.” The boy’s hands were everywhere, as he spoke, dispensing fruit, smashing carts and filling up the broken words with horror and a flow of blood. Achilles’s face grew grave. The Greeks were not without persecution in the land of freedom, and his boy had lain all day suffering—while he had been lost in the great house by the lake.
He took off his coat and turned back his sleeves. “You bring water,” he said gently. “We will see what hurts him.”
But the boy had put his supper on the table and was beckoning him with swift gesture. “You eat,” he said pleadingly. And Achilles ate hastily and gave directions for the basin of water and towels and a sponge, and the boy carried them into the room beyond.
Half an hour later Alcibiades lay in bed, his clothes removed and the blood washed from his face and hair. The clotted line still oozed a little on the temple and the look of pain had not gone away. Achilles watched him with anxious eyes. He bent over the bed and spoke to him soothingly, his voice gentle as a woman’s in its soft Greek accents; but the look of pain in the boy’s face deepened and his voice chattered shrill.
They watched the ambulance drive away from in front of the striped awning. Achilles held a card in his thin fingers—a card that would admit him to his boy. Yaxis’s eyes were gloomy with dread, and his quick movements were subdued as he went about the business of the shop, carrying the trays of fruit to the stall outside and arranging the fruit under the striped awning. He was not to go out with the push-cart to-day. There was too much work to do—and Achilles could not let the boy go from him. Later, too, Achilles must go to the hospital—and to the big house on the lake, and someone must be left with the shop.
So he kept the boy beside him, looking at him, now and then, with deep, quiet eyes that seemed to see the city taking its toll of life—of children—the children at play and the children at work. This land that he had sought with his boys—where the wind of freedom blew fresh from the prairies and the sea... and even little children were not safe! He seemed to see it—through the day—this great monster that gathered them in—from all lands—and trod them beneath its great feet, crushing them, while they lifted themselves to it and threw themselves—and prayed to it for the new day—that they had come so far to seek.
But when Achilles presented his ticket for the boy, at the hospital door, it was a woman of his own race who met him, dark-eyed and strong—and smiled at him a flash of sympathy. “Yes—he is doing well. They operated at once. Come and see. But you must not speak to him.” She led him cautiously down the long corridor between the beds. “See, he is asleep.” She bent over him, touching the bandage. Beneath it, the dark skin was pallid, but the breath came easily from the sleeping lips.
She smiled at Achilles, guiding him from the room, ignoring the tears that looked at her. “He is doing well, you see. It was pressure that caused the fever, the bone was not injured. He will recover quickly. Yes. We are glad!”
And Achilles, out under the clear sky, raised his face and caught the sound of the city—its murmured, innumerable toil and the great clang of wheels turning. And he drew a deep, quick breath. A city of power and swift care for its own. The land of many hands reaching out to the world. And Achilles’s head lifted itself under the sky; and a mighty force knit within him—a deep, quiet force out of the soul of the past—pledging itself.
Life was busy for Achilles. There were visits to the hospital—where he must not speak to his boy, but only look at him and catch little silent smiles from the bandaged face—and visits to the great house on the lake, where he came and went freely. The doors swung open of themselves, it seemed, as Achilles mounted the steps between the lions. All the pretty life and flutter of the place had changed. Detectives went in and out; and instead of the Halcyon Club, the Chief of Police and assistants held conferences in the big library. But there was no clue to the child!... She had withdrawn, it seemed, into a clear sky. James had been summoned to the library many times, and questioned sharply; but his wooden countenance held no light and the tale did not change by a hair. He had held the horses. Yes—there wa’n’t nobody—but little Miss Harris and him.... She was in the carriage—he held the horses. The horses? They had frisked a bit, maybe, the way horses will—at one o’ them autos that squirted by, and he had quieted ’em down—but there wa’n’t nobody.... And he was the last link between little Betty Harris and the world—all the bustling, wrestling, interested world of Chicago—that shouted extras and stared at the house on the lake and peered in at its life—at the rising and eating and sleeping that went on behind the red-stone walls. The red-stone walls had thinned to a veil and the whole world might look in—because a child had been snatched away; and the heart of a city understood. But no one but James could have told what had happened to the child sitting with her little red cherries in the light; and James was stupid—and in the bottomless abyss of James’s face the clue was lost.
Achilles had come in for his share of questioning. The child had been to his shop it seemed... and the papers took it up and made much of it—there were headlines and pictures... the public was interested. The tale grew to a romance, and fathers and mothers and children in Boston and New York and London heard how Betty had sat in the gay little fruit-shop—and listened to Achilles’s stories of Athens and Greece, and of the Acropolis—and of the studies in Greek history, and her gods and goddesses and the temples and ruins lying packed in their boxes waiting her return. The daily papers were a thrilling tale—with the quick touch of love and human sympathy that brings the world together.
To Achilles it was as if the hand of Zeus had reached and touched the child—and she was not. What god sheltered her beneath a magic veil—so that she passed unseen? He lifted his face, seeking in air and sun and cloud, a token. Over the lake came the great breeze, speaking to him, and out of the air a thousand hands reached to him—to tell him of the child. But he could not find the place that held her. In the dusky shop, he held his quiet way. No one, looking, would have guessed—“Two cen’s, yes,” and his swift fingers made change while his eyes searched every face. But the child, in her shining cloud, was not revealed.
When he was summoned before the detectives and questioned, with swift sternness, it was his own questions that demanded answer—and got it. The men gathered in the library, baffled by the search, and asking futile, dreary questions, learned to wait in amusement for the quick, searching gestures flung at them and the eager face that seemed to drink their words. Gradually they came to understand—the Greek was learning the science of kidnapping—its methods and devices and the probable plan of approach. But the Chief shook his head. “You won’t trace these men by any of the old tricks. It’s a new deal. We shall only get them by a fluke.” And to his own men he said, “Try any old chance, boys, run it down—if it takes weeks—Harris won’t compromise—and you may stumble on a clue. The man that finds it makes money.” Gradually they drew their lines around the city; but still, from the tapped wires, the messages came—to them, sitting in conclave in the library—to Philip Harris in his bare office and to the mother, waiting alone in her room.
At last she could not bear it. “I cannot hold out, Philip,” she said, one day, when he had come in and found her hanging up the receiver with a fixed look. “Don’t trust me, dear. Take me away.” And that night the big car had borne her swiftly from the city, out to the far-breathing air of the plain and the low hills. In her room in the house on the lake, her little telephone bell tinkled, and waited, and rang again—baffled by long silence and by discreet replies.... The tapped wires concentrated now upon Philip Harris, working by suggestion, and veiled threat, on his overwrought nerves till his hand shook when he reached out to the receiver—and his voice betrayed him in his denials. They were closing on him, with hints of an ultimatum. He dared not trust himself. He left the house to the detectives and went down to the offices, where he could work and no one could get at him. Every message from the outside world came to him sifted, and he breathed more freely as he took up the telephone. The routine of business steadied him. In a week he should be himself—he could return to the attack.
Then a message got through to him—up through the offices. The man who delivered it spoke in a clear, straight voice that did not rise or fall. He had agreed to give the message, he said—a hundred thousand paid to-day, or no communication for three months. The child would be taken out of the country. The men behind the deal were getting tired and would drop the whole business. They had been more than fair in the chances they had offered for compromise.... There was a little pause in the message—then the voice went on, “I am one of your own men, Harris, inside the works—a man that you killed—in the way of business. I agreed to give you the message—for quits. Good-bye.” The voice rang off and Philip Harris sat alone.
A man that he had killed—in the way of business—! Hundreds of them—at work for him—New York—Cincinnati—St. Louis. It would not be easy—to trace a man that he had killed in business.
So he sat with bent head, in the circle of his own works... the network he had spread over the land—and somewhere, outside that circle, his child, the very heart, was held as hostage—three months. Little Betty! He shivered a little and got op and reached for a flask of brandy and poured it out, gulping it down. He looked about the room ... inside now. He had shut himself in his citadel... and they were inside. The brandy stayed his hand from shaking—but he knew that he had weakened. His mind went back to the man he had “killed in business”—the straight, clear voice sounding over the ’phone—he had not wanted to ruin him—them, hundreds of them. It was the System—kill or be killed. He took his chance and they took theirs—and they had gone down.
The morning was alive in the hospital. The sun glinted in. Pale faces, lifted on their pillows, turned toward it; and Achilles, passing with light step between the rows, smiled at them. Alcibiades was better. They had told him, in the office, that he might talk to him to-day—a little while—and his face glowed with the joy of it.
The boy hailed him, from far down the ward, his weak voice filled with gladness, and Achilles hurried. He dropped into the chair beside him and took the thin hand in his strong, dark one, holding it while he talked—gentle words, full of the morning and of going home. The boy’s eyes brightened, watching his father’s face.
“Pain—gone,” he said, “—all gone.” His hand lifted to his forehead.
Achilles bent forward and touched it lightly, brushing the hair across it. “You are well now,” he said gratefully.
The boy smiled, his dark eyes fixed absently on his thoughts. “They—bad men!” he said abruptly.
Achilles leaned forward with anxious look, but the boy’s eyes were clear. “They run down,” he said quietly, “—and go fast—like wind—I try—I run. They shout and hit cart—and swear—and I lie on ground.” His lifted eyes seemed to be looking up at some great object passing close above him... and a look of dread held them. He drew a quick breath. “They bad men—” he said. “Little girl cry!”
Achilles bent forward, holding his breath. “What was it—Alcie?”
The boy’s eyes turned toward him trustingly. “They hurt bad,” he said. “I try—I run—”
“And the little girl—?” suggested Achilles gently. His voice would not have turned the breath of a dream; but Alcibiades wrinkled his forehead.
“She cry—” he said. “She look at me and cry—quick—They hurt that little girl. Yes—she cry—” His eyes closed sleepily. The nurse came forward.
“Better not talk any more,” she said.
Achilles got to his feet. He bent over the boy, his heart beating fast. “Good-bye, Alcie. To-morrow you tell me more—all about the little girl.” The words dropped quietly into the sleeping ear and the boy turned his face.
“To-morrow—tell—about—little girl...” he murmured—and was asleep.
Achilles passed swiftly out of the hospital—through the sun-glinting wards, out to the free air—his heart choking him. At the corner, he caught a car bound for the South side and boarded it.
And at the same moment Philip Harris, in his office in the works, was summoning the Chief of Police to instruct him to open negotiations with the kidnappers.
But Achilles reached the office first and before noon every member of the force knew that a clue had been found—a clue light as a child’s breath between sleep and waking, but none the less a clue—and to-morrow more would be known.
So Philip Harris stayed his hand—because of the muttered, half-incoherent word of a Greek boy, drowsing in a great sunny ward, the millionaire waited—and little children were safer that night.
But the surgeon, the next morning, shook his head peremptorily. His patient had been tampered with, and was worse—it was a critical case—all the skill and science of modern surgery involved in it... the brain had barely escaped—by a breath, it might be—no one could tell ... but the boy must be kept quiet. There must be no more agitation. They must wait for full recovery. Above all—nothing that recalled the accident. Let nature take her own time—and the boy might yet speak out clearly and tell them what they wanted—otherwise the staff could not be responsible.
It was to Philip Harris himself that the decree was given, sitting in the consulting-room of the white hospital—looking about him with quick eyes. He had taken out his cheque-book and written a sum that doubled the efficiency of the hospital, and the surgeon had thanked him quietly and laid it aside. “Everything is being done for the boy, Mr. Harris, that we can do. But one cannot foresee the result. He may come through with clear mind—he may remember the past—he may remember part of it—but not the part you want. But not a breath must disturb him—that is the one thing clear—and it is our only chance.” His eyes were gentle and keen, and Philip Harris straightened himself a little beneath them. The cheque, laid one side, looked suddenly small and empty... and the great stockyards were a blur in his thought. Not all of them together, it seemed, could buy the skill that was being given freely for a Greek waif, or hurry by a hair’s breadth the tiny globule of grey matter that held his life.
“Tell me if there is anything I can do,” he said. He had risen and was facing the surgeon, looking at him like a little boy—with his hat in his hand.
The surgeon returned the look. “There will be plenty to do, Mr. Harris. This, for instance—” He took up the cheque and looked at it and folded it in slow fingers. “It will be a big lift to the hospital ... and the boy—there will be things later—for the boy—”
“Private room?” suggested the great man.
“No—the ward is better. It gives him interests—keeps his mind off himself and keeps him from remembering things. But when he can be moved, he must be in the country—good food, fresh air, things to amuse him—he’s a jolly little chap!” The surgeon laughed out. “Oh, we shall bring him through.” He added it almost gaily. “He is so sane—he is a Greek!”
Philip Harris looked at him, uncomprehending. “How long before he can be moved?” he asked bluntly.
The surgeon paused—“two weeks—three—perhaps—I must have him under my eye—I can’t tell—” He looked at the great man keenly. “What he really needs, is someone to come in for awhile everyday—to talk with him—or keep quiet with him—someone with sense.”
“His father?” said Philip Harris.
“Not his father. It must be someone he has never seen—no memories to puzzle him—yet. But someone that he might have known always—all his life.”
“That is Miss Stone,” said Philip Harris promptly.
“Does he know Miss Stone?” asked the surgeon.
Philip Harris shook his head. “No one knows Miss Stone,” he said; “but she is the friendliest person in all the world—when I get to heaven, I hope Marcia Stone will be there to show me around—just to take the edge off.” He smiled a little.
“Well, she is the person we want—can she come?”
“She sits at home with her hands folded,” said Philip Harris. He waited a minute. “She was my little girl’s friend,” he said at last. “They were always together.
“I remember—” The surgeon held out his hand. “Let her come. She will be invaluable.” His voice had a friendly ring. It was no longer a millionaire that faced him—handing out cheques—but a father, like himself. There were four of them at home, waiting on the stairs for him to come at night—and he suddenly saw that Philip Harris was a brave man—holding out for them all—waiting while the little fleck of grey matter knit itself. He looked at him a minute keenly—“Why not come in yourself, now and then,” he said, “as he gets better? Later when you take him away, he will know you—better for him.”
So the ward became familiar with the red face and Prince Albert coat and striped trousers and patent leather shoes, crunching softly down the still, white room. It was a new Philip Harris, sauntering in at noon with a roll of pictures—a box of sweets, enough candy to ruin the ward—a phonograph under one arm and a new bull pup under the other. The pup sprawled on the floor and waked happy laughs up and down the ward and was borne out, struggling, by a hygienic nurse, and locked in the bathroom. The phonograph stayed and played little tunes for them—jolly tunes, of the music hall, and all outdoors. And Philip Harris enjoyed it as if he were playing with the stock exchange of a world. The brain that could play with a world when it liked, was devoted now, night and day, to a great hospital standing on the edge of the plain, and to the big free ward, and to a dark face, flashing a smile when he came.
Miss Stone sat by the boy on the lawn at Idlewood. A great canopy of khaki duck was spread above them, and the boy lay on a wicker couch that could be lifted and carried from place to place as the wind or the sun, or a whim directed.
Five days they had been here—every day full of sunshine and the fragrance of flowers from the garden that ran along the terraces from the house to the river bank, and was a riot of midsummer colour and scent. The boy’s face had gained clear freshness and his eyes, fixed on Miss Stone’s face, glowed. “I like—it—here,” he said.
“Yes, Alcie.” Miss Stone bent toward him. “You are getting strong every day—you will soon be able to walk—to-morrow, perhaps.” She glanced at the thin legs under their light covering.
The boy laughed a little and moved them. “I can walk now—” he declared.
But she shook her head. “No, I will tell you a story.” So her voice went on and on in the summer quiet—insects buzzed faintly, playing the song of the day. Bees bumbled among the flowers and flew past, laden. The boy’s eyes followed them. The shadow of a crow’s wing dropped on the grass and drifted by. The summer day held itself—and Miss Stone’s voice wove a dream through it.
When the boy opened his eyes again she was sitting very quiet, her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on the river that flowed beyond the garden. The boy’s eyes studied her face. “Once—I—saw—you—” he said. His hand stole out and touched the grey dress.
Miss Stone started. They had waited a long time—but not for this. “Yes, Alcie, once you saw me—go on—”
“—saw you—in a carriage,” finished Alcie, with quick smile. “You ride straight—you—straight—now.” He looked at her with devoted eyes.
“Yes.” She was holding her breath, very evenly—and she did not look at him, but at the distant river. They seemed held in a charm—a word might break it.
The boy breathed a happy sigh—that bubbled forth. “I like it—here,” he said dreamily.... Should she speak?
The long silence spread between them. The bird sang in the wood—a clear, mid-summer call.
The boy listened, and turned his eyes. “A little girl—with you then,” he said softly, “in carriage. Where is little girl?” It was the first question he had asked.
She swayed a little—in her grey softness—but she did not look at him, but at the river. “You would like that little girl, Alcie,” she said quietly. “We all love her. Some day you shall see her—only get well and you shall see her.” It was a soft word, like a cry, and the boy looked at her with curious eyes.
“I get well,” he said contentedly, “I see her.” He slipped a hand under his cheek and lay quiet.
“Doing well,” said the surgeon, “couldn’t be better.” He had run down for the day and was to go back in the cool evening.
He stood with Philip Harris on the terrace overlooking the river. Harris threw away a stump of cigar. “You think he will make complete recovery?”
“No doubt of it,” said the surgeon promptly.
“Then—?” Philip Harris turned a quick eye on him.
But the man shook his head. “Wait,” he said—and again, slowly, “wait.”
The darkness closed around them, but they did not break it. A faint questioning honk sounded, and Philip Harris turned. “The car is ready,” he said, “to take you back.”
“When it comes, it may come all at once,” the surgeon had said, “and overwhelm him. Better lead up to it—if we can—let him recall it—a bit here—a bit there—feel his way back—to the old place—to himself.”
“Where my child is,” said Philip Harris.
“Where your child is,” repeated the surgeon, “and that clue runs through the frailest, intangiblest matter that fingers ever touched.” He had looked down at his own thin, long, firm fingers as if doubting that they could have held that thread for a moment and left it intact.
Philip Harris moved restively a little, and came back. “There has not been a word for seven weeks,” he said, “not a breath—”
“They told you—?” said the surgeon.
“That they would wait three months! Yes!” Philip Harris puffed fiercely. “It is hell!” he said.
“The boy is better,” said the surgeon. “You have only to wait a little longer now.”
And he was whirred away in the great car—to the children that needed him, and Idlewood had settled, in its charmed stillness, into the night.... No one would have guessed that it was a state of siege there—the world passed in and out of the big gates—automobiles and drays and foot passengers, winding their way up to the low, rambling house that wandered through the flowers toward the river and the wood. Windows were open everywhere and voices sounded through the garden.
In one of the rooms, darkened to the light, the mistress of the house lay with closed eyes. She could not bear the light, or the sound of voices—listening always to hear a child’s laugh among them—the gay little laugh that ran toward her in every room, and called.
She had shut herself away, and only Philip Harris came to the closed room, bringing her news of the search, or sitting quietly by her in the darkness. But for weeks there had been no news, no clue. The search was baffled.... They had not told her of the Greek boy and the muttered words.
“Better not trouble her,” the physician had urged. “She cannot bear disappointment—if nothing comes of it.”
And no word filtered through to the dim room... and all the clues withdrew in darkness.
Out in the garden Alcibiades and Miss Stone worked among the flowers. It was part of the cure—that they should work there among growing things every day—close to the earth—and his voice sounded happily as they worked.
The woman in the closed room turned her head uneasily. She listened a moment. Then she called.... Marie stood in the doorway.
“Who isthere—Marie—in the garden?”
The maid stole to the window and peered through the shutters. She came back to the bed. “It’s a boy,” she said, “a Greek boy—and Miss Stone.”
“Why is he here?” asked the woman, querulously.
The maid paused—discreet. She knew—everyone except the woman lying with closed eyes—knew why the boy was here.... She bent and adjusted the pillow, smoothing it. “He is someone Mr. Harris sent down,” she said, “someone to get well.”
There was no reply. The woman lay quiet. “I want to get up, Marie,” she said at last. “It is stifling here.”
“Yes, Madame.”
The windows were opened a little—the light came in slowly, and Mrs. Philip Harris stepped at last into the loggia that led from her windows—out toward the garden. Grapevines climbed the posts and tendril shadows were on the ground beneath. They rested on the frail figure moving under them toward the light.
Marie hovered near her, with pillows and a sunshade, and her face full of care.
But the woman waved her back. “I do not need you, Marie. Here—I will take the sunshade. Now, go back.” She moved on slowly. The voices had died away. In the distance, she saw Miss Stone, moving toward the wood, alone. She paused for a moment, watching the grey figure—a little cloud passed across her face. She had not seen Miss Stone—since... she did not blame her—but she could not see her. She moved on slowly, the light from the sunshade touching the lines in her face and flushing them softly. Suddenly she stopped. On a low couch, a little distance away, a boy lay asleep. She came up to him softly and stood watching him. There was something in the flushed face, in the childish, drooping lip and tossed hair—that reminded her. Slowly she sank down beside him, hardly breathing.
All about them, the summer went on—the quiet, gentle warmth and the fresh scent of blossoms. The boy murmured a little, and threw out an arm, and slept on. The woman’s eyes watched the sleeping face. Something mysterious was in it—a look of other worlds. It was the look of Betty—at night... when she lay asleep. It certainly was from some other world. The woman bent forward a little. The dark eyes opened—and looked at her—and smiled. The boy sat up. “I sleep,” he said.
He rubbed his eyes, boyishly, smiling still to her. “I very sleepy,” he said. “I work.” He rubbed his arms. “I work hard.”
She questioned him and moved a little away, and he came and sat at her feet, telling her of himself—with quiet slowness. As she questioned him he told her all that he knew. And they chatted in the sunshine—subtly drawn to each other—happy in something they could not have said.
The boy had grown refined by his illness—the sturdy hands that had guided the push-cart had lost their roughened look and seemed the shape of some old statue; and the head, poised on the round throat, was as if some old museum had come to life and laughed in the sun. If Mrs. Philip Harris had seen Alcibiades shoving his cart before him, along the cobbled street, his head thrown back, his voice calling “Ban-an-nas!” as he went, she would not have given him a thought. But here, in her garden, in the white clothes that he wore, and sitting at her feet, it was as if the gates to another world had opened to them—and both looked back together at his own life. The mystery in the boy’s eyes stirred her—and the sound of his voice... there was something in it... beauty, wonder—mystery. She drew a quick breath. “I think I will go in,” she said, and the boy lifted himself to help her—and only left her, under the loggia, with a quick, grateful flash of the dark smile.
Mrs. Philip Harris slept that night—the chloral, on the little table beside her, untouched. And the next day found her in the garden.
All the household watched—with quickened hope. The mistress of the house had taken up her life, and the old quick orders ran through the house. And no one spoke of the child. It was as if she were asleep—in some distant room—veiled in her cloud. But the house came back to its life. Only, the social groups that had filled it every summer were not there. But there was the Greek boy, in the garden, and Miss Stone, and Philip Harris whirring out at night and sitting on the terrace in the dusk, the light of his cigar glimmering a little, as he watched the Greek boy flung on the ground at his feet, his eyes playing with the stars. He knew them all by name under the skies of Greece. Achilles had taught them to him; and he counted them, like a flock, as he lay on the terrace—rolling out the great Greek names while they girdled the sky above him in a kind of homely chant.
When the boy had gone to bed Philip Harris remained smoking thoughtfully and looking still at the stars. He had had a long talk with the surgeon to-day and he had given his consent. The boy was well, he admitted—as well as he was likely to be—perhaps. Give him three more days—then, if nothing happened, they might question him.
Philip Harris threw away his cigar—and its glimmering light went out in the grass. Overhead the great stars still circled in space, travelling on toward the new day.