Chapter 3

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!” “_Very_ late!” “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.

VIII

AND GIVE A SIMPLE LECTURE

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.

IX

BETTY LEAVES HER GODS

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 you _had_ to 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--_very_ good--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--“They _do_ bob, 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 they _must_ bob,” 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.

X

FOR A LONG DRIVE

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.