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diff --git a/4714-h/4714-h.htm b/4714-h/4714-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..93f33c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/4714-h/4714-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6153 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Mr. Achilles, by Jennette Lee + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mr. Achilles, by Jennette Lee + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mr. Achilles + +Author: Jennette Lee + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #4714] +Last Updated: February 20, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. ACHILLES *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + MR. ACHILLES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Jennette Lee <br /> <br /> 1912 + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To GERALD STANLEY LEE + + “To keep the youth of souls who pitch + Their joy in this old heart of things; + + Full lasting is the song, though he, + The singer, passes; lasting too, + For souls not lent in usury, + The rapture of the forward view.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>MR. ACHILLES</b></big> </a><br /> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> XXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> XXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> XXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> XXX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> XXXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> XXXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> XXXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> XXXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> XXXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> XXXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> XXXVII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + MR. ACHILLES + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <h3> + ACHILLES GOES TO CHICAGO + </h3> + <p> + Achilles Alexandrakis was arranging the fruit on his stall in front of his + little shop on Clark Street. It was a clear, breezy morning, cool for + October, but not cold enough to endanger the fruit that Achilles handled + so deftly in his dark, slender fingers. As he built the oranges into their + yellow pyramid and grouped about them figs and dates, melons and pears, + and grapes and pineapples, a look of content held his face. This was the + happiest moment of his day. + </p> + <p> + Already, half an hour ago Alcibiades and Yaxis had departed with their + pushcarts, one to the north and one to the south, calling antiphonally as + they went, in clear, high voices that came fainter and fainter to Achilles + among his fruit. + </p> + <p> + They would not return until night, and then they would come with empty + carts, and jingling in their pockets coppers and nickels and dimes. The + breath of a sigh escaped Achilles’s lips as he stood back surveying + the stall. Something very like homesickness was in his heart. He had + almost fancied for a minute that he was back once more in Athens. He + raised his eyes and gave a quick, deep glance up and down the street—soot + and dirt and grime, frowning buildings and ugly lines, and overhead a + meagre strip of sky. Over Athens the sky hung glorious, a curve of light + from side to side. His soul flew wide to meet it. Once more he was + swinging along the “Street of the Winds,” his face lifted to + the Parthenon on its Acropolis, his nostrils breathing the clear air. + Chicago had dropped from him like a garment, his soul rose and floated.... + Athens everywhere—column and cornice, and long, delicate lines, and + colour of marble and light. He drew a full, sweet breath. + </p> + <p> + Achilles moved with quick, gliding step, taking orders, filling bags, + making change—always with his dark eyes seeking, a little wistfully, + something that did not come to them.... It was all so different—this + new world. Achilles had been in Chicago six months now, but he had not yet + forgotten a dream that he had dreamed in Athens. Sometimes he dreamed it + still, and then he wondered whether this, about him, were not all a dream—this + pushing, scrambling, picking, hurrying, choosing crowd, dropping pennies + and dimes into his curving palm, swearing softly at slow change, and + flying fast from street to street. It was not thus in his dream. He had + seen a land of new faces, turned ever to the West, with the light on them. + He had known them, in his dream—eager faces, full of question and + quick response. His soul had gone out to them and, musing in sunny Athens, + he had made ready for them. Each morning when he rose he had lifted his + glance to the Parthenon, studying anew the straight lines—that were + yet not straight—the mysterious, dismantled beauty, the mighty lift + of its presence. When they should question him, in this new land, he must + not fail them. They would be hungry for the beauty of the ancient world—they + who had no ruins of their own. He knew in his heart how it would be with + them—the homesickness for the East—all its wonder and its + mystery. Yes, he would carry it to them. He, Achilles Alexandrakis, should + not be found wanting. This new world was to give him money, wealth, better + education for his boys, a competent old age. But he, too, had something to + give in exchange. He must make himself ready against the great day when he + should travel down the long way of the Piraeus, for the last time, and set + sail for America. + </p> + <p> + He was in America now. He knew, when he stopped to think, that this was + not a dream. He had been here six months, in the little shop on Clark + Street, but no one had yet asked him of the Parthenon. Sometimes he + thought that they did not know that he was Greek. Perhaps if they knew + that he had been in Athens, had lived there all his life from a boy, they + would question him. The day that he first thought of this, he had ordered + a new sign painted. It bore his name in Greek characters, and it was + beautiful in line and colour. It caused his stand to become known far and + wide as the “Greek Shop,” and within a month after it was put + up his trade had doubled—but no one had asked about the Parthenon. + </p> + <p> + He had really ceased to hope for it now. He only dreamed the dream, a + little wistfully, as he went in and out, and his thought dwelt always on + Athens and her beauty. The images stamped so carefully on his sensitive + brain became his most precious treasures. Over and over he dwelt on them. + Ever in memory his feet climbed the steps to the Acropolis or walked + beneath stately orange-trees, beating a soft rhythm to the sound of flute + and viol. For Achilles was by nature one of the lightest-hearted of + children. In Athens his laugh had been quick to rise, and fresh as the + breath of rustling leaves. It was only here, under the sooty sky of the + narrow street, that his face had grown a little sad. + </p> + <p> + At first the days had been full of hope, and the face of each newcomer had + been scanned with eager eyes. The fruit, sold so courteously and freely, + was hardly more than an excuse for the opening of swift talk. But the talk + had never come. There was the inevitable and never-varying, “How + much?” the passing of coin, and hurrying feet. Soon a chill had + crept into the heart of Achilles. They did not ask of Athens. They did not + know that he was Greek. They did not care that his name was Achilles. They + did not see him standing there with waiting eyes. He might have been a + banana on its stem, a fig-leaf against the wall, the dirt that gritted + beneath their feet, for all that their eyes took note.... Yet they were + not cruel or thoughtless. Sometimes there came a belated response—half + surprised, but cordial—to his gentle “good day.” + Sometimes a stranger said, “The day is warm,” or, “The + breeze from the Lake is cool to-day.” Then the eyes of Achilles + glowed like soft stars in their places. Surely now they would speak. They + would say, “Is it thus in Greece?” But they never spoke. And + the days hurried their swift feet through the long, dirty streets. + </p> + <p> + A tall woman in spectacles was coming toward him, sniffing the air a + little as she moved. “Have you got any bananas?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They nice.” He led the way into the shop and reached to + the swinging bunch. “You like some?” he said, encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + She sniffed a step nearer. “Too ripe,” decisively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes-s. But here and here—” He twirled the bunch + skilfully on its string. “These—not ripe, and these.” + His sunny smile spread their gracious acceptableness before her. + </p> + <p> + She wrinkled her forehead at them. “Well—you might as well cut + me off six.” + </p> + <p> + “A pleasure, madame.” He had seized the heavy knife. + </p> + <p> + “Give me that one.” It was a large one near the centre; + “and this one here—and here.” + </p> + <p> + When the six were selected and cut off they were the cream of the bunch. + She eyed him doubtfully, still scowling a little. “Yes. I’ll + take these.” + </p> + <p> + The Greek bowed gravely over the coin she dropped into his palm. “Thank + you, madame.” + </p> + <p> + It was later now, and the crowd moved more slowly, with longer pauses + between the buyers. + </p> + <p> + A boy with a bag of books stopped for an apple. Two children with their + nurse halted a moment, looking at the glowing fruit. The eyes of the + children were full of light and question. Somewhere in their depths + Achilles caught a flitting shadow of the Parthenon. Then the nurse hurried + them on, and they, too, were gone. + </p> + <p> + He turned away with a little sigh, arranging the fruit in his slow absent + way. Something at the side of the stall caught his eye, a little movement + along the board, in and out through the colour and leaves. He lifted a + leaf to see. It was a green and black caterpillar, crawling with stately + hunch to the back of the stall. Achilles watched him with gentle eyes. + Then he leaned over the stall and reached out a long finger. The + caterpillar, poised in midair, remained swaying back and forth above the + dark obstruction. Slowly it descended and hunched itself anew along the + finger. It travelled up the motionless hand and reached the sleeve. With a + smile on his lips Achilles entered the shop. He took down an empty fig-box + and transferred the treasure to its depths, dropping in after it one or + two leaves and a bit of twig. He fitted the lid to the box, leaving a + little air, and taking the pen from his desk, wrote across the side in + clear Greek letters. Then he placed the box on the shelf behind him, where + the wet ink of the lettering glistened faintly in the light. It was a bit + of the heart of Athens prisoned there; and many times, through the cold + and snow and bitter sleet of that winter, Achilles took down the fig-box + and peered into its depths at a silky bit of grey cradle swung from the + side of the box by its delicate bands. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <h3> + A BUTTERFLY SPREADS ITS WINGS + </h3> + <p> + It happened, on a Wednesday in May that Madame Lewandowska was ill. So ill + that when Betty Harris, with her demure music-roll in her hand, tapped at + the door of Madame Lewandowska’s studio, she found no one within. + </p> + <p> + On ordinary days this would not have mattered, for the governess, Miss + Stone, would have been with her, and they would have gone shopping or + sightseeing until the hour was up and James returned. But to-day Miss + Stone, too, was ill, James had departed with the carriage, and Betty + Harris found herself standing, music-roll in hand, at the door of Madame + Lewandowska’s studio—alone in the heart of Chicago for the + first time in the twelve years of her life. + </p> + <p> + It had been a very carefully guarded life, with nurses and servants and + instructors. No little princess was ever more sternly and conscientiously + reared than little Betty Harris, of Chicago. For her tiny sake, herds of + cattle were slaughtered every day; and all over the land hoofs and hides + and by-products and soap-factories lifted themselves to heaven for Betty + Harris. If anything were to happen to her, the business of a dozen States + would quiver to the core. + </p> + <p> + She tapped the marble floor softly with her foot and pondered. She might + sit here in the hall and wait for James—a whole hour. There was a + bench by the wall. She looked at it doubtfully.... It was not seemly that + a princess should sit waiting for a servant—not even in marble + halls. She glanced about her again. There was probably a telephone + somewhere—perhaps on the ground floor. She could telephone home and + they would send another carriage. Yes, that would be best. She rang the + elevator bell and descended in stately silence. When she stepped out of + the great door of the building she saw, straight before her, the sign she + sought—“Pay Station.” + </p> + <p> + But then something happened to Betty Harris. The spirit of the spring day + caught her and lifted her out of herself. Men were hurrying by with light + step. Little children laughed as they ran. Betty skipped a few steps and + laughed softly with them.... She would walk home. It was not far. She had + often walked as far in the country, and she knew the way quite well.... + And when she looked up again, she stood in front of the glowing + fruit-stall, and Achilles Alexandrakis was regarding her with deep, sad + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Achilles had been dreaming down the street when the little figure came in + sight. His heart all day had been full of sadness—for the spring in + the air. And all day Athens had haunted his steps—the Athens of + dreams. Once when he had retired into the dark, cool shop, he brushed his + sleeve across his eyes, and then he had stood looking down in surprise at + something that glistened on its worn surface. + </p> + <p> + Betty Harris looked at him and smiled. She had been so carefully brought + up that she had not learned that some people were her inferiors and must + not be smiled at. She gave him the straight, sweet smile that those who + had cared for her all her life loved so well. Then she gave a little nod. + “I’m walking home,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Achilles leaned forward a little, almost holding his breath lest she float + from him. It was the very spirit of Athens—democratic, cultured, + naive. He gave her the salute of his country. She smiled again. Then her + eye fell on the tray of pomegranates near the edge of the stall—round + and pink. She reached out a hand. “I have never seen these,” + she said, slowly. “What are they?” + </p> + <p> + “Pomegranates—Yes—you like some? I give you.” + </p> + <p> + He disappeared into the shop and Betty followed him, looking about with + clear, interested eyes. It was like no place she had ever seen—this + cool, dark room, with its tiers on tiers of fruit, and the fragrant, spicy + smell, and the man with the sad, kind face. Her quick eye paused—arrested + by the word printed on a box on the shelf to the right.... Ah, that was + it! She knew now quite well. He was a Greek man. She knew the letters; She + had studied Greek for six months; but she did not know this word. She was + still spelling it out when Achilles returned with the small box of + pomegranates in his hand. + </p> + <p> + She looked up slowly. “I can’t quite make it out,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “That?” Achilles’s face was alight. “That is + Greek.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “I know. I study it; but what is it—the word?” + </p> + <p> + “The word!—Ah, yes, it is—How you say? You shall see.” + </p> + <p> + He reached out a hand to the box. But the child stopped him. A quick + thought had come to her. “You have been in Athens, haven’t + you? I want to ask you something, please.” + </p> + <p> + The hand dropped from the box. The man turned about, waiting. If heaven + were to open to him now—! + </p> + <p> + “I’ve always wanted to see a Greek man,” said the child, + slowly, “a real Greek man. I’ve wanted to ask him something he + would know about. Have you ever seen the Parthenon?” She put the + question with quaint seriousness. + </p> + <p> + A light came into the eyes of Achilles Alexandrakis. It flooded the room. + </p> + <p> + “You ask me—the Parthenon?” he said, solemnly. “You + wish me—tell that?” It was wistful—almost a cry of + longing. + </p> + <p> + Betty Harris nodded practically. “I’ve always wanted to know + about it—the Parthenon. They tell you how long it is, and how wide, + and what it is made of, and who began it, and who finished it, and who + destroyed it, but they never, never”—she raised her small hand + impressively—“they <i>never</i> tell you how it looks!” + </p> + <p> + Achilles brought a chair and placed it near the open door. “Will it—kindly—you + sit?” he said, gravely. + </p> + <p> + She seated herself, folding her hands above the music-roll, and lifting + her eyes to the dark face looking down at her. “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Achilles leaned back against the counter, thinking a little. He sighed + gently. “I tell you many things,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “About the Parthenon, please,” said Betty Harris. + </p> + <p> + “You like Athens?” He said it like a child. + </p> + <p> + “I should like it—if they would tell me real things. I don’t + seem to make them understand. But when they say how beautiful it is—I + feel it here.” She laid her small hand to her side. + </p> + <p> + The smile of Achilles held the glory in its depths. “I tell you,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + The clear face reflected the smile. A breath of waiting held the lips. + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Achilles leaned again upon his counter. His face was rapt, and he spread + his finger-tips a little, as if something within them stirred to be free. + </p> + <p> + “It stands so high and lifts itself”—Achilles raised his + dark hands—“ruined there—so great—and far beneath, + the city lies, drawing near and near, and yet it cannot reach... And all + around is light—and light—and light. Here it is a cellar”—his + hands closed in with crushing touch—“but there—!” + He flung the words from him like a chant of music, and a sky stretched + about them from side to side, blue as sapphire and shedding radiant light + upon the city in its midst—a city of fluted column and curving + cornice and temple and arch and tomb. The words rolled on, fierce and + eager. It was a song of triumph, with war and sorrow and mystery running + beneath the sound of joy. And the child, listening with grave, clear eyes, + smiled a little, holding her breath. “I see it—I see it!” + She half whispered the words. + </p> + <p> + Achilles barely looked at her. “You see—ah, yes—you see. + But I—I have not words!” It was almost a cry.... “The + air, so clear—like wine—and the pillars straight and high and + big—but light—light—reaching....” His soul was + among them, soaring high. Then it returned to earth and he remembered the + child. + </p> + <p> + “And there is an olive-tree,” he said, kindly, “and a + well where Poseidon—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard about the well and the olive-tree,” said the + child; “I don’t care so much about them. But all the rest—” + She drew a quick breath. “It is very beautiful. I knew it would be. + I knew it would be!” + </p> + <p> + There was silence in the room. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for telling me,” said Betty Harris. “Now I + must go.” She slipped from the chair with a little sigh. She stood + looking about the dim shop. “Now I must go,” she repeated, + wistfully. + </p> + <p> + Achilles moved a step toward the shelf. “Yes—but wait—I + will show you.” He reached up to the box and took it down lightly. + “I show you.” He was removing the cover. + </p> + <p> + The child leaned forward with shining eyes. + </p> + <p> + A smile came into the dark, grave face looking into the box. “Ah, he + has blossomed—for you.” He held it out to her. + </p> + <p> + She took it in shy fingers, bending to it. “It is beautiful,” + she said, softly. “Yes—beautiful!” + </p> + <p> + The dark wings, with shadings of gold and tender blue, lifted themselves a + little, waiting. + </p> + <p> + The child looked up. “May I touch it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—But why not?” + </p> + <p> + The dark head was bent close to hers, watching the wonderful wings. + </p> + <p> + Slowly Betty Harris put out a finger and stroked the wings. + </p> + <p> + They fluttered a little—opened wide and rose—in their first + flutter of light. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” It was a cry of delight from the child. + </p> + <p> + The great creature had settled on the bunch of bananas and hung swaying. + The gold and blue wings opened and closed slowly. + </p> + <p> + Achilles drew near and put out a finger. + </p> + <p> + The butterfly was on it. + </p> + <p> + He held it toward her, smiling gently, and she reached up, her very breath + on tiptoe. A little smile curved her lips, quick and wondering, as the + transfer was made, thread by thread, till the gorgeous thing rested on her + own palm. + </p> + <p> + She looked up. “What shall I do with it?” It was a shining + whisper. + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s eyes sought the door. + </p> + <p> + They moved toward it slowly, light as breath. + </p> + <p> + In the open doorway they paused. Above the tall buildings the grey rim of + sky lifted itself. The child looked up to it. Her eyes returned to + Achilles. + </p> + <p> + He nodded gravely. + </p> + <p> + She raised her hand with a little “p-f-f”—it was half a + quick laugh and half a sigh. + </p> + <p> + The wings fluttered free, and rose and faltered, and rose again—high + and higher, between the dark walls—up to the sky, into the grey—and + through. + </p> + <p> + The eyes that had followed it came back to earth. They looked at each + other and smiled gravely—two children who had seen a happy thing. + </p> + <p> + The child stood still with half-lifted hand.... A carriage drove quickly + into the street. The little hand was lifted higher. It was a regal gesture—the + return of the princess to earth. + </p> + <p> + James touched his hat—a look of dismay and relief battling in his + face as he turned the horses sharply to the right. They paused in front of + the stall, their hoofs beating dainty time to the coursing of their blood. + </p> + <p> + Achilles eyed them lovingly. The spirit of Athens dwelt in their arching + necks. + </p> + <p> + He opened the door for the child with the quiet face and shining eyes. + Gravely he salaamed as she entered the carriage. + </p> + <p> + Through the open window she held out a tiny hand. “I hope you will + come and see me,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I come,” said Achilles, simply. “I like to come.” + </p> + <p> + James dropped a waiting eye. + </p> + <p> + “Home, James.” + </p> + <p> + The horses sprang away. Achilles Alexandrakis, bareheaded in the spring + sunshine, watched the carriage till it was out of sight. Then he turned + once more to the stall and rearranged the fruit. The swift fingers laughed + a little as they worked, and the eyes of Achilles were filled with light. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <h3> + BETTY’S MOTHER HEARS A STORY + </h3> + <p> + “Mother-dear!” It was the voice of Betty Harris—eager, + triumphant, with a little laugh running through it. “Mother-dear!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Betty—” The woman seated at the dark mahogany + desk looked up, a little line between her eyes. “You have come, + child?” It was half a caress. She put out an absent hand, drawing + the child toward her while she finished her note. + </p> + <p> + The child stood by gravely, looking with shining eyes at the face bending + above the paper. It was a handsome face with clear, hard lines—the + reddish hair brushed up conventionally from the temples, and the skin a + little pallid under its careful massage and skilfully touched surface. + </p> + <p> + To Betty Harris her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world—more + beautiful than the marble Venus at the head of the long staircase, or the + queenly lady in the next room, forever stepping down from her gilded frame + into the midst of tapestry and leather in the library. It may have been + that Betty’s mother was quite as much a work of art in her way as + these other treasures that had come from the Old World. But to Betty + Harris, who had slight knowledge of art values, her mother was beautiful, + because her eyes had little points of light in them that danced when she + laughed, and her lips curved prettily, like a bow, if she smiled. + </p> + <p> + They curved now as she looked up from her note. “Well, daughter?” + She had sealed the note and laid it one side. “Was it a good lesson?” + She leaned back in her chair, stroking the child’s hand softly, + while her eyes travelled over the quaint, dignified little figure. The + child was a Velasquez—people had often remarked it, and the mother + had taken the note that gave to her clothes the regal air touched with + simplicity. “So it was a good lesson, was it?” she repeated, + absently, as she stroked the small dark hand—her own figure + graciously outlined as she leaned back enjoying the lifted face and + straight, clear eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Mother-dear!” The child’s voice vibrated with the + intensity behind it. “I have seen a man—a very <i>good</i> + man!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” There was a little laugh in the word. She was + accustomed to the child’s enthusiasms. Yet they were always new to + her—even the old ones were. “Who was he, daughter—this + very good man?” + </p> + <p> + “He is a Greek, mother—with a long, beautiful name—I don’t + think I can tell it to you. But he is most wonderful—!” The + child spread her hands and drew a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “More wonderful than father?” It was an idle, laughing + question—while she studied the lifted-up face. + </p> + <p> + “More wonderful than father—yes—” The child nodded + gravely. “I can’t quite tell you, mother-dear, how it feels—” + She laid a tiny hand on her chest. Her eyes were full of thought. “He + speaks like music, and he loves things—oh, very much!” + </p> + <p> + “I see—And did Madame Lewandowska introduce you to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it was not there.” The child’s face cleared with + swift thought. “I didn’t tell you—Madame was ill—” + </p> + <p> + The reclining figure straightened a little in its place, but the face was + still smiling. “So you and Miss Stone—” + </p> + <p> + “But Miss Stone is ill, mother-dear. Did you forget her toothache?” + The tone was politely reproachful. + </p> + <p> + The woman was very erect now—her small eyes, grown wide, gazing at + the child, devouring her. “Betty! Where have you been?” It was + more a cry than a question—a cry of dismay, running swiftly toward + terror. It was the haunting fear of her life that Betty would some day be + kidnapped, as the child next door had been.... The fingers resting on the + arm of the chair were held tense. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I did wrong, mother.” The child was + looking at her very straight, as if answering a challenge. “You see, + I walked home—” + </p> + <p> + “Where was James?” The woman’s tone was sharp, and her + hand reached toward the bell; but the child’s hand moved softly + toward it. + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to tell you about it myself, please, mother. James + never waits for the lessons. I don’t think he was to blame.” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s eyes were veiled with sudden mist. She drew the child + close. “Tell mother about it.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Harris looked down, stroking her mother’s sleeve. A little + smile of memory held her lips. “He was a beautiful man!” she + said. + </p> + <p> + The mother waited, breathless. + </p> + <p> + “I was walking home, and I came to his shop—” + </p> + <p> + “To his shop!” + </p> + <p> + She nodded reassuringly. “His fruit-shop—and—oh, I + forgot—” She reached into the little bag at her side, tugging + at something. “He gave me these.” She produced the round box + and took off the lid, looking into it with pleased eyes. “Aren’t + they beautiful?” + </p> + <p> + The mother bent blindly to it. “Pomegranates,” she said. Her + lips were still a little white, but they smiled bravely with the child’s + pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Pomegranates,” said Betty, nodding. “That is what he + called them. I should like to taste one—” She was looking at + them a little wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “We will have them for luncheon,” said the mother. She had + touched the bell with quick decision. + </p> + <p> + “Marie”—she held out the box—“tell Nesmer to + serve these with luncheon.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to have luncheon with you, mother-dear?” The child’s + eyes were on her mother’s face. + </p> + <p> + “With me—yes.” The reply was prompt—if a little + tremulous. + </p> + <p> + The child sighed happily. “It is being a marvellous day,” she + said, quaintly. + </p> + <p> + The mother smiled. “Come and get ready for luncheon, and then you + shall tell me about the wonderful man.” + </p> + <p> + So it came about that Betty Harris, seated across the dark, shining table, + told her mother, Mrs. Philip Harris, a happy adventure wherein she, Betty + Harris, who had never before set foot unattended in the streets of + Chicago, had wandered for an hour and more in careless freedom, and + straying at last into the shop of a marvellous Greek—one Achilles + Alexandrakis by name—had heard strange tales of Greece and Athens + and the Parthenon—tales at the very mention of which her eyes danced + and her voice rippled. + </p> + <p> + And her mother, listening across the table, trembled at the dangers the + child touched upon and flitted past. It had been part of the careful + rearing of Betty Harris that she should not guess that the constant + attendance upon her was a body-guard—such as might wait upon a + princess. It had never occurred to Betty Harris that other little girls + were not guarded from the moment they rose in the morning till they went + to bed at night, and that even at night Miss Stone slept within sound of + her breath. She had grown up happy and care-free, with no suspicion of the + danger that threatened the child of a marked millionaire. She did not even + know that her father was a very rich man—so protected had she been. + She was only a little more simple than most children of twelve. And she + met the world with straight, shining looks, speaking to rich and poor with + a kind of open simplicity that won the heart. + </p> + <p> + Her mother, watching the clear eyes, had a sudden pang of what the morning + might have been—the disillusionment and terror of this unprotected + hour—that had been made instead a memory of delight—thanks to + an unknown Greek named Achilles Alexandrakis, who had told her of the + beauties of Greece and the Parthenon, and had given her fresh pomegranates + to carry home in a round box. The mother’s thoughts rested on the + man with a quick sense of gratitude. He should be paid a thousand times + over for his care of Betty Harris—and for pomegranates. + </p> + <p> + “They are like the Parthenon,” said the child, holding one in + her hand and turning it daintily to catch the light on its pink surface. + “They grew in Athens.” She set her little teeth firmly in its + round side. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <h3> + AND ACHILLES DREAMS + </h3> + <p> + Achilles, in his little shop, went in and out with the thought of the + child in his heart. His thin fingers flitted lightly among the fruit. The + sadness in his face had given way to a kind of waking joy and + thoughtfulness. As he made change and did up bags and parcels of fruit, + his thoughts kept hovering about her, and his lips moved in a soft smile, + half-muttering again the words he had spoken to her—praises of + Athens, city of light, sky of brightness, smiles, and running talk.... It + was all with him, and his heart was free. How the child’s eyes had + followed the words, full of trust! He should see her again—and + again.... Outside a halo rested on the smoky air—a little child, out + of the rattle and din, had spoken to him. As he looked up, the big, sooty + city became softly the presence of the child.... The sound of pennies + clinking in hurried palms was no longer harsh upon his ears; they tinkled + softly—little tunes that ran. Truly it had been a wonderful day for + Achilles Alexandrakis. + </p> + <p> + He paused in his work and looked about the little shop. The same + dull-shining rows of fruit, the same spicy smell and the glowing disks of + yellow light. He drew a deep, full breath. It was all the same, but the + world was changed. His heart that had ached so long with its pent-up + message of Greece—the glory of her days, the beauty of temples and + statues and tombs—was freed by the tale of his lips. The world was + new-born for him. He lifted the empty fig-box, from which the child had + set free the butterfly that had hung imprisoned in its grey cocoon + throughout the long winter, and placed it carefully on the shelf. The + lettering traced along its side was faded and dim; but he saw again the + child’s eyes lifted to it—the lips half-parted, the eager + question and swift demand—that he should tell her of Athens and the + Parthenon—and the same love and the wonder that dwelt in his own + heart for the city of his birth. It was a strange coincidence that the + child should have come to him. Perhaps she was the one soul in the great, + hurrying city who could care. They did not understand—these + hurrying, breathless men and women—how a heart could ache for + something left behind across the seas, a city of quiet, the breath of the + Past—sorrow and joy and sweet life.... No, they could not + understand! But the child—He caught his breath a little. Where was + she—in the hurry and rush? He had not thought to ask. And she was + gone! Only for a moment the dark face clouded. Then the smile flooded + again. He should find her. It might be hard—but he would search. Had + he not come down the long way of the Piraeus to the sea—blue in the + sun. Across the great waters by ship, and the long miles by train. He + should find her.... They would talk again. He laughed quietly in the dusky + shop. + </p> + <p> + Then his eye fell upon it—the music roll that had slipped quietly to + the floor when her eager hand had lifted itself to touch the butterfly, + opening and closing his great wings in the fig-box. He crossed to it and + lifted it almost reverently, brushing a breath of dust from its leather + sides.... He bent closer to it, staring at a little silver plate that + swung from the strap. He carried it to the window, rubbing it on the worn + black sleeve, and bending closer, studying the deep-cut letters. Then he + lifted his head. A quick sigh floated from him. Miss Elizabeth Harris, 108 + Lake Shore Drive. He knew the place quite well—facing the lake, + where the water boomed against the great break-water. He would take it to + her—to-morrow—the next day—next week, perhaps.... He + wrapped it carefully away and laid it in a drawer to wait. She had asked + him to come. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <h3> + THE GREEK PROFESSOR LAUGHS + </h3> + <p> + To Mrs. Philip Harris, in the big house looking out across the lake, the + passing days brought grateful reassurance.... Betty was safe—Miss + Stone was well again—and the man had not come.... She breathed more + freely as she thought of it. The child had told her that she had asked + him. But she had forgotten to give him her address; and it would not do to + be mixed up with a person like that—free to come and go as he liked. + He was no doubt a worthy man. But Betty was only a child, and too easily + enamoured of people she liked. It was strange how deep an impression the + man’s words had made on her. Athens and Greece filled her waking + moments. Statues and temples—photographs and books of travel loaded + the school-room shelves. The house reeked with Greek learning. Poor Miss + Stone found herself drifting into archaeology; and an exhaustive study of + Greek literature, Greek life, Greek art filled her days. The theory of + Betty Harris’s education had been elaborately worked out by + specialists from earliest babyhood. Certain studies, rigidly prescribed, + were to be followed whether she liked them or not—but outside these + lines, subjects were to be taken up when she showed an interest in them. + There could be no question that the time for the study of Greek history + and Greek civilisation had come. Miss Stone laboured early and late. + Instruction from the university down the lake was pressed into service.... + But out of it all the child seemed, by some kind of precious alchemy, to + extract only the best, the vital heart of it. + </p> + <p> + The instructor in Greek marvelled a little. “She is only a child,” + he reported to the head of the department, “and the family are + American of the newest type—you know, the Philip Harrises?” + </p> + <p> + The professor nodded. “I know—hide and hoof a generation back.” + </p> + <p> + The instructor assented. “But the child is uncanny. She knows more + about Greek than—” + </p> + <p> + “Than <i>I</i> do, I suppose.” The professor smiled + indulgently. “She wouldn’t have to know much for that.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t so much what she <i>knows</i>. She has a kind of <i>feeling</i> + for things. I took up a lot of photographs to-day—some of the <i>later</i> + period mixed in—and she picked them out as if she had been brought + up in Athens.” + </p> + <p> + The professor looked interested. “Modern educational methods?” + </p> + <p> + “As much as you like,” said the instructor. “But it is + something more. When I am with the child I am in Athens itself. Chicago + makes me blink when I come out.” + </p> + <p> + The professor laughed. The next day he made an appointment to go himself + to see the child. He was a famous epigraphist and an authority in his + subject. He had spent years in Greece—with his nose, for the most + part, held close to bits of parchment and stone. + </p> + <p> + When he came away, he was laughing softly. “I am going over for a + year,” he said, when he met the instructor that afternoon in the + corridor. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see the little Harris girl?” asked the instructor. + </p> + <p> + The professor paused. “Yes, I saw her.” + </p> + <p> + “How did she strike you?” + </p> + <p> + “She struck me dumb,” said the professor. “I listened + for the best part of an hour while she expounded things to me—asked + me questions I couldn’t answer, mostly.” He chuckled a little. + “I felt like a fool,” he added, frankly, “and it felt + good.” + </p> + <p> + The instructor smiled. “I go through it twice a week. The trouble + seems to be that she’s alive, and that she thinks everything Greek + is alive, too.” + </p> + <p> + The professor nodded. “It’s never occurred to her it’s + dead and done with, these thousand years and more.” He gave a little + sigh. “Sometimes I’ve wondered myself whether it is—quite + as dead as it looks to you and me,” he added. “You know that + grain—wheat or something—that Blackman took from the Egyptian + mummy he brought over last spring—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he planted it—” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And all summer he was tending a little patch of something + green up there in his back yard—as fresh as the eyes of Pharaoh’s + daughter ever looked on—” + </p> + <p> + The instructor opened his eyes a little. This was a wild flight for the + head epigraphist. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the way she made me feel—that little Harris + girl,” explained the professor—“as if my mummy might + spring up and blossom any day if I didn’t look out.” + </p> + <p> + The instructor laughed out. “So you’re going over with it?” + </p> + <p> + “A year—two years, maybe,” said the professor. “I + want to watch it sprout.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <h3> + ACHILLES CALLS ON BETTY HARRIS + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The clear eyes of Achilles met his. “My name is Achilles + Alexandrakis,” he said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Alexandrakis?” His mistress turned a little puzzled frown + upon him. “What is he like, Conner?” + </p> + <p> + The man considered a safe moment. “He’s a furriner,” he + said, addressing the wall before him with impassive jaw. + </p> + <p> + A little light crossed her face—not a look of pleasure. “Ask + Miss Stone to come to me—at once,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The man bowed himself out and departed on silken foot. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stone, gentle and fluttering and fine-grained, appeared a moment + later in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “He has come,” said the woman, without looking up. + </p> + <p> + “He—?” Miss Stone’s lifted eyebrows sought to + place him— + </p> + <p> + “The Greek—I told you—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “The Greek,” said the woman, with decision. “He has + asked for Betty and for me. I cannot see him, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “You have the club,” said Miss Stone, in soft assent. + </p> + <p> + “I have the club—in ten minutes.” Her brow wrinkled. + “You will kindly see him—” + </p> + <p> + “And Betty—?” said Miss Stone, waiting. + </p> + <p> + “The child must see him. Yes, of course. She would be heart-broken—You + drive at three,” she added, without emphasis. + </p> + <p> + “We drive at three,” repeated Miss Stone. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The child bent above it with pleased glance. Her eyes travelled to his + face. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <h3> + TO MEET THE “HALCYON CLUB” + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” “<i>Very</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <h3> + AND GIVE A SIMPLE LECTURE + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The bowed heads were lifted. The child sprang to her feet. “Mother-dear! + It is my friend! He has come!” The words sang. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Greek was on his feet, bending above it. “It is an honour, + madame—that you come.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the man and the child met gravely. + </p> + <p> + “I wondered whether you would be willing to tell some friends of + mine—here—now—” + </p> + <p> + He had turned to her—a swift look. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with clear eyes. “I speak—yes—I like + always—to speak of my country. I thank you.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “I tell them—yes!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He spread his hands in quick assent. “I come—as you like. I + give pleasure—to come.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He bowed with deep, grave gesture. “My country is honoured, madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You speak to me, madame?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to give you this.” She slipped the check into the + thin fingers. “You can look at it later—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <h3> + BETTY LEAVES HER GODS + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There was a little rustle, and the child looked up. Miss Stone stood in + the doorway, smiling at her. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>had</i> 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—<i>ever</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>very</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>do</i> bob, don’t they, Nono?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I ever noticed,” said Miss Stone. She was + still smiling as she touched the tumbled hair, putting it in place. + </p> + <p> + “But they <i>must</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stone smiled again and drew her to her. “I will look to-day, + Betty, when we drive—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The maid brought the garments and put them on with careful touch, tying + the strings under the lifted chin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <h3> + FOR A LONG DRIVE + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Not to-day,” answered Miss Stone, “we must do the + errands for mother to-day, you know.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> + <p> + Miss Stone smiled back, with a little head-shake. “Foolish, Betty!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stone smiled back, shaking her head. “He could not leave the + fruit-shop—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + But at the door there was a minute’s question and, with a nod to + Betty, she stepped inside. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But she did not speak, and the look in her face grew very still. + </p> + <p> + He turned sharply—calling into the shop behind him, and a boy came + running, his eyes flashing a quick laugh, his teeth glinting. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with dazed glance and put her hand to her head. “I + cannot think,” she said slowly. + </p> + <p> + He nodded with steady glance. “When we go, you tell—we find + her,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She started then and looked at him—and the clear colour came to her + face. “You know—where—she is!” + </p> + <p> + But he shook his head. “We find her,” he repeated. “You + tell.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Then the great house on the lake faced them. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him a minute in doubt. Her face broke—“She may + have come—home?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I go with you,” said Achilles. + </p> + <p> + 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. “<i>I</i> must 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <h3> + TWO MEN FACE EACH OTHER + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I wait,” said Achilles. + </p> + <p> + “Who told you to come?” demanded the man. + </p> + <p> + “I come. I wait,” said Achilles. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s glance rested on the papers—then it lifted itself. + </p> + <p> + “Your name is Achilles?” said the other sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Achilles Alexandrakis—yes.” The Greek bowed. + </p> + <p> + “I know—she called you Mr. Achilles,” said the man. + </p> + <p> + A shadow rested on the two faces, looking at each other. + </p> + <p> + “She is lost,” said the father. He said it under his breath, + as if denying it. + </p> + <p> + “I find her,” said Achilles quietly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The dark eyes had followed the glance; they came back to the man’s + face—“You pay that—ten thousand dollar?” said + Achilles. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be damned first!” said the man with slow emphasis. + “But we shall find them—” His square, red jaw held the + words, “and <i>they</i> shall 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. + </p> + <p> + But Achilles did not take it, he rested a hand on the back, looking down + at him. “I glad—you not pay,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But the face opposite him did not change. “I find her,” said + Achilles again. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You be good man,” said Achilles solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <h3> + THE TELEPHONE SPEAKS + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Achilles bent forward, his face on fire, his finger pointing to the Thing. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—she know me. We love,” said Achilles simply. + </p> + <p> + The other smiled a little. It would not have occurred to <i>him</i> to 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. + </p> + <p> + The Greek rose, and stood before him. “I go now,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I find her,” said Achilles. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The face of Achilles lighted. “She was a nice child,” he said + blithely. + </p> + <p> + The man smiled. “Yes—go on.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The father listened dumbly. Then silence fell in the room and the clock + ticked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <h3> + EVERYONE MUST PAY + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>must</i> pay!” she said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + But the man did not stir. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Her open lips regarded him and the quick tears were in her eyes. She + brushed them back, and looked at him—“Let <i>me</i> pay!” + she said fiercely, “I will give up—everything—and pay!” + She had crouched to him, her groping fingers on his arm. + </p> + <p> + Above her head the glances of the two men met. + </p> + <p> + Her husband bent to her, speaking very slowly... to a child. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + Her face was on his arm, sobbing close. “I hate—it!” she + said brokenly, “I <i>hate</i>—your—money! I want Betty!” + The cry went through the room—and the man was on his feet, looking + down at her— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The telephone was whirring and he sprang to it. + </p> + <p> + The woman lifted her face, staring at it. + </p> + <p> + The Greek’s deep eyes fixed themselves on it. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We shall <i>not</i> pay!” said the man sternly, “not if + they make it a million!” + </p> + <p> + “I think they make it a million,” said Achilles quietly. + </p> + <p> + They looked up at him with startled eyes. + </p> + <p> + “They know you—rich—” His hands flung themselves. + “So rich! They <i>make</i> you pay—yes—they make + everyone pay, I think!” His dark eyes were on the woman + significantly— + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” she said swiftly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “They have taken Betty!” she said. It was a broken cry. + </p> + <p> + “We find her,” said Achilles simply. “Then little + children play—happy.” He turned to go. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> + <h3> + THE PRICE ACHILLES PAID + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Achilles withdrew lightly, beckoning to the boy beside him. + </p> + <p> + Yaxis followed, his eyes on the figure on the bed. “All day,” + he said, “he lie sick.” + </p> + <p> + Achilles closed the door softly and turned to him. “Tell me, Yaxis, + what happened,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He took off his coat and turned back his sleeves. “You bring water,” + he said gently. “We will see what hurts him.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV + </h2> + <h3> + THE POLICE MOVE + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI + </h2> + <h3> + A CLUE GOES TO SLEEP + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pain—gone,” he said, “—all gone.” His + hand lifted to his forehead. + </p> + <p> + Achilles bent forward and touched it lightly, brushing the hair across it. + “You are well now,” he said gratefully. + </p> + <p> + The boy smiled, his dark eyes fixed absently on his thoughts. “They—bad + men!” he said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Achilles bent forward, holding his breath. “What was it—Alcie?” + </p> + <p> + The boy’s eyes turned toward him trustingly. “They hurt bad,” + he said. “I try—I run—” + </p> + <p> + “And the little girl—?” suggested Achilles gently. His + voice would not have turned the breath of a dream; but Alcibiades wrinkled + his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Better not talk any more,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow—tell—about—little girl...” he + murmured—and was asleep. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII + </h2> + <h3> + PHILIP HARRIS WAKES UP + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “Private room?” suggested the great man. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Philip Harris looked at him, uncomprehending. “How long before he + can be moved?” he asked bluntly. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “His father?” said Philip Harris. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That is Miss Stone,” said Philip Harris promptly. + </p> + <p> + “Does he know Miss Stone?” asked the surgeon. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she is the person we want—can she come?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII + </h2> + <h3> + “ONCE—I—SAW—” + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The boy laughed a little and moved them. “I can walk now—” + he declared. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stone started. They had waited a long time—but not for this. + “Yes, Alcie, once you saw me—go on—” + </p> + <p> + “—saw you—in a carriage,” finished Alcie, with + quick smile. “You ride straight—you—straight—now.” + He looked at her with devoted eyes. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The boy breathed a happy sigh—that bubbled forth. “I like it—here,” + he said dreamily.... Should she speak? + </p> + <p> + The long silence spread between them. The bird sang in the wood—a + clear, mid-summer call. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I get well,” he said contentedly, “I see her.” He + slipped a hand under his cheek and lay quiet. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt of it,” said the surgeon promptly. + </p> + <p> + “Then—?” Philip Harris turned a quick eye on him. + </p> + <p> + But the man shook his head. “Wait,” he said—and again, + slowly, “wait.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX + </h2> + <h3> + A WOMAN IN THE GARDEN + </h3> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Where my child is,” said Philip Harris. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Philip Harris moved restively a little, and came back. “There has + not been a word for seven weeks,” he said, “not a breath—” + </p> + <p> + “They told you—?” said the surgeon. + </p> + <p> + “That they would wait three months! Yes!” Philip Harris puffed + fiercely. “It is hell!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The boy is better,” said the surgeon. “You have only to + wait a little longer now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Better not trouble her,” the physician had urged. “She + cannot bear disappointment—if nothing comes of it.” + </p> + <p> + And no word filtered through to the dim room... and all the clues withdrew + in darkness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The woman in the closed room turned her head uneasily. She listened a + moment. Then she called.... Marie stood in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Who is <i>there</i>—Marie—in the garden?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is he here?” asked the woman, querulously. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + There was no reply. The woman lay quiet. “I want to get up, Marie,” + she said at last. “It is stifling here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marie hovered near her, with pillows and a sunshade, and her face full of + care. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He rubbed his eyes, boyishly, smiling still to her. “I very sleepy,” + he said. “I work.” He rubbed his arms. “I work hard.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Philip Harris slept that night—the chloral, on the little table + beside her, untouched. And the next day found her in the garden. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX + </h2> + <h3> + THE TEST IS MADE + </h3> + <p> + “I will ask the questions,” Achilles had said, in his quiet + voice, and it had been arranged that he should come to Idlewood when the + surgeon gave the word. + </p> + <p> + He arrived the next night, stepping from the car as it drew up before the + door, and Alcibiades, standing among the flowers talking with Miss Stone, + saw him and started and came forward swiftly. He had not known that his + father was coming—he ran a little as he came nearer and threw + himself in his arms, laughing out. + </p> + <p> + Achilles smiled—a dark, wistful smile. “You are grown strong,” + he said. He held him off to look at him. + </p> + <p> + The boy’s teeth gleamed—a white line. “To-morrow we go + home?” he replied. “I am all well—father—well now!” + </p> + <p> + But Achilles shook his head. “To-morrow we stay,” he replied. + “I stay one day—two days—three—” He looked + at the boy narrowly. “Then we go home.” + </p> + <p> + The boy smiled contentedly and they moved away. Early the next morning he + was up before Achilles, calling to him from the garden to hurry and see + the flowers before the mist was off them, and showing him, with eager + teeth, his own radishes—ready to pull—and little lines of + green lettuce that sprang above the earth. “I plant,” said the + boy proudly. “I make grow.” He swung his arm over the whole + garden. + </p> + <p> + Achilles watched him with gentle face, following him from bed to bed and + stooping to the plants with courteous gesture. It was all like home. They + had never been in a garden before—in this new land... the melons and + berries and plums and peaches and pears that came crated into the little + fruit-shop had grown in unknown fields—but here they stretched in + the sun; and the two Greeks moved toward them with laughing, gentle words + and quick gestures that flitted and stopped, and went on, and gathered in + the day. The new world was gathering its sky about them; and their faces + turned to meet it. And with every gesture of the boy, Achilles’s + eyes were on him, studying his face, its quick colour running beneath the + tan, and the clear light of his eyes. Indoors or out, he was testing him; + and with every gesture his heart sang. His boy was well... and he held a + key that should open the dark door that baffled them all. When he spoke, + that door would open for them—a little way, perhaps—only a + little way—but the rest would be clear. And soon the boy would + speak. + </p> + <p> + In the house Philip Harris waited; and with him the chief of police, + detectives and plain-clothes men—summoned hastily—waited what + should develop. They watched the boy and his father, from a distance, and + speculated and made guesses on what he would know; for weeks they had been + waiting on a sick boy’s whim—held back by the doctor’s + orders. They watched him moving across the garden—his quick, supple + gestures, his live face—the boy was well enough! They smoked + innumerable cigars and strolled out through the grounds and sat by the + river, and threw stones into its sluggish current, waiting while hours + went by. Since the ultimatum—a hundred thousand for three months—not + a line had reached them, no message over the whispering wires—the + child might be in the city, hidden in some safe corner; she might be in + Europe, or in Timbuctoo. There had been time enough to smuggle her away. + Every port had been watched, but there was the Canadian line stretching to + the north, and the men who were “on the deal” would stop at + nothing. They had been approached, tentatively, in the beginning, for a + share of profits; but they had scorned the overture. “Catch me—if + you can!” the voice laughed and rang off. The police were hot + against them. Just one clue—the merest clue—and they would run + it to earth—like bloodhounds. They chewed the ends of their cigars + and waited... and in the garden the boy and his father watched the clouds + go by and talked of Athens and gods and temples and sunny streets. Back + through the past, carefree they went—and at every turn the boy’s + memory rang true. “Do you remember, Alcie—the little house + below the Temple of the Winds—” Achilles’s eyes were on + his face—and the boy’s face laughed—“Yes—father. + That house—” quick running words that tripped themselves—“where + I stole—figs—three little figs. You whipped me then!” + The boy laughed and turned on his side and watched the clouds and the talk + ran on... coming closer at last, across the great Sea, through New York + and the long hurrying train, into the grimy city—on the shore of the + lake—the boy’s eyes grew wistful. “I go home—with + you—father—?” he said. It was a quick question and his + eyes flashed from the garden to his father’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Do you what to go home, Alcie?” The face smiled at him. + “Don’t you like it here?” A gesture touched the garden. + </p> + <p> + “I like—yes. I go home—with you,” he said simply. + </p> + <p> + “You must stay till you are strong,” said the father, watching + him. “You were hurt, you know. It takes time to get strong.... You + remember that you were hurt?” + </p> + <p> + The words dropped slowly, one by one, and the day drowsed. The sun—warm + as Athens—shone down, waiting, while the boy turned slowly on his + side... his eyes had grown dark. “I try—remember” His + voice was half a whisper, “—but it runs—away!” The + eyes seemed to be straining to see something beyond them—through a + veil. + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s hand passed before them and shut them off. “Don’t + try, Alcie. Never mind—it’s all right. Don’t mind!” + </p> + <p> + But the boy had thrown himself forward with a long cry, sobbing. “I—want—to—see,” + he said, “it—hurts—here.” His fingers touched the + faint line along his forehead. And Achilles bent and kissed it, and + soothed him, talking low words—till the boy sat up, a little laugh + on his lips—his grief forgotten. + </p> + <p> + So the detectives went back to the city—each with his expensive + cigar—cursing luck. And Achilles, after a day or two, followed them. + “He will be better without you,” said the surgeon. “You + disturb his mind. Let him have time to get quiet again. Give nature her + chance.” + </p> + <p> + So Achilles returned to the city, unlocking the boy’s fingers from + his. “You must wait a little while,” he said gently. “Then + I come for you.” And he left the boy in the garden, looking after + the great machine that bore him away—an unfathomable look in his + dark, following eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI + </h2> + <h3> + A CONNOISSEUR SPEAKS + </h3> + <p> + The next day it rained. All day the rain dripped on the roof and ran down + the waterspouts, hurrying to the ground. In her own room the mistress of + the house sat watching the rain and the heavy sky and drenched earth. The + child was never for a minute out of her thoughts. Her fancy pictured + gruesome places, foul dens where the child sat—pale and worn and + listless. Did they tie her hands? Would they let her run about a little—and + play? But she could not play—a child could not play in all the + strangeness and sordidness. The mother had watched the dripping rain too + long. It seemed to be falling on coffins. She crept back to the fire and + held out her hands to a feeble blaze that flickered up, and died out. Why + did not Marie come back? It was three o’clock—where was Marie? + She looked about her and held out her hands to the blaze and shivered—there + was fire in her veins, and beside her on the hearth the child seemed to + crouch and shiver and reach out thin hands to the warmth. Phil had said + they would not hurt her! But what could a man know? He did not know the + sensitive child-nature that trembled at a word. And she was with rough men—hideous + women—longing to come home—wondering why they did not come for + her and take her away... dear child! How cruel Phil was! She crouched + nearer the fire, her eyes devouring it—her thoughts crowding on the + darkness. Those terrible men had been silent seven weeks—more than + seven—desperate weeks... not a word out of the darkness—and + she could not cry out to them—perhaps they would not tap the wires + again! The thought confronted her and she sprang up and walked wildly, her + pulses beating in her temples.... She stopped by a table and looked down. + A little vial lay there, and the medicine dropper and wine glass—waiting. + She turned her head uneasily and moved away. She must save it for the + night—for the dark hours that never passed. But she must think of + something! She glanced about her, and rang the bell sharply, and waited. + </p> + <p> + “I want the Greek boy,” she said, “send him to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, madame.” Marie’s voice hurried itself away... and + Alcibiades stood in the doorway, looking in. + </p> + <p> + The woman turned to him—a little comfort shining in the sleepless + eyes. “Come in,” she said, “I want to talk to you—tell + me about Athens—the sun shines there!” She glanced again at + the hearth and shivered. + </p> + <p> + The boy came in, flashing a gleam through the dark day. The little sadness + of the night before had gone. He was alive and lithe and happy. He came + over to her, smiling... and she looked at him curiously. “What have + you been doing all day?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I play,” said Alcibiades, “I play—on flute—” + His fingers made little music gestures at his lips, and fell away. “And + I—run—” he said, “I go in rain—and run—and + come in.” He shook his dark head. Little gleams of moisture shone + from it. The earth seemed to breathe about him. + </p> + <p> + She drew a quick breath. “You shall tell me,” she said, + “but not here.” She glanced about the room filled with + sickness and wild thoughts—not even the boy’s presence + dispelled them. “We will go away somewhere—to the gallery,” + she said quickly, “it is lighter there and I have not been there—for + weeks.” Her voice dropped a little. + </p> + <p> + The boy followed her through the hall, across a covered way, to the + gallery that held the gems—and the refuse—that Philip Harris + had gathered up from the world. She looked about her with a proud, + imperious gesture. She knew—better now than when the pictures were + purchased—which ones were good, and which were very bad; but she + could not interfere with the gallery. It was Philip’s own place in + the house. It had been his fancy—to buy pictures—when the + money came pouring in faster than they could spend it—and the + gallery was his own private venture—his gymnasium in culture! She + smiled a little. Over there, a great canvas had been taken down and carted + off to make room for the little Monticelli in its place. He was learning—yes! + But she could not bring guests to the gallery when they came to Idlewood + for the day. If he would only let a connoisseur go through the place and + pick out the best ones—the gallery was not so bad! She looked about + her with curious, tolerant smile. + </p> + <p> + The boy’s gaze followed hers. He had not been in this big room, with + the high-reaching skylight, and the vari-coloured pictures and grey walls. + His dark eyes went everywhere—and flashed smiles and brought a + touch-stone to the place. Eyes trained to the Acropolis were on the + pictures; and the temples of the gods spoke in swift words or laughed out + in quick surprise. + </p> + <p> + The mistress of the house followed him, with amused step. If Phil could + only hear it! She must manage somehow—Phil was too shrewd and + practical not to see how true the boy was—and how keen! That great + Thing—over the fireplace—Chicago on her throne, with the + nations prostrate before her—how the boy wondered and chuckled—and + questioned her—and brought the colour to her face!... Philip had + stood before the picture by the hour—entranced; the man who painted + it had made a key to go with it, and Philip Harris knew the meaning of + every line and figure—and he gloried and wallowed in it. “That + is a picture with some sense in it!” was his proudest word, standing + before it and waving his hand at the vision on her throne. She was a + lovely lady—a little like his wife, Philip Harris thought. Perhaps + the artist had not been unaware of this. Certainly Mrs. Philip Harris knew + it, and loathed the Thing. The boy’s words were like music to her + soul, under the skylight with the rain dripping softly down. She had + thought of covering the Thing up—a velvet curtain, perhaps. But she + had not quite dared yet.... Across the room another picture was covered by + a curtain—the velvet folds sweeping straight in front of it, and + covering it from top to bottom. Only the rim of the gilt frame that + reached to the ceiling, glimmered about the blue folds of the curtain. The + boy’s eyes had rested on the curtained picture as they passed before + it, but Mrs. Philip Harris had not turned her head. She felt the boy’s + eyes now—they had wandered to it again, and he stood with + half-parted lips, as if something behind the curtain called to him. She + touched him subtly and drew his attention—and he followed her a + minute... then his attention wandered and he gazed at the deep folds in + the curtain with troubled eyes. She hesitated a moment—and her hand + trembled. It was as if the curtain were calling her, too, and she moved + toward it, the boy beside her.... They did not speak—they moved + blindly and paused a breath... the rain falling on the skylight. The boy + flashed a smile to her. “I have not see it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She reached out her hand then and drew back the curtain. “It is + Betty—my little girl—” she said, “she has gone + away—” She was talking aimlessly—to steady her hands. + But the boy did not hear her—he had stumbled a little—and his + eyes were on the picture—searching the roguish smile, the wide eyes, + the straight, true little figure that seemed stepping toward them—out + from behind the curtain.... The mother’s eyes feasted on it a moment + hungrily and she turned to the boy. But he did not see—his gaze was + on the picture—and he took a step—and looked—and drew + his hand across his eyes with a little breath. Then he reached out his + hands, “—I—see—her,” he said swiftly. + “She look at me—on ground—she cry—” His face + worked a minute—then it grew quiet and he turned it toward her. + “I see—her,” he repeated slowly. + </p> + <p> + She had seized his shoulder and was questioning him, forcing him toward + the picture, calling the words into his ear as if he were deaf, or far + away—and the boy responded slowly—truly, each word lighting up + the scene for her—the great car crashing upon him, the overthrow of + his cart, the scattered fruit on the ground, and the Greek boy crawling + toward it—thrust forward as the car pushed by—and his swift, + upward glance of the girl’s face as it flashed past, and of the men + holding her between them—“She cry,” he said—as if + he saw the vision again before him. “She cry—and they stop—hands.” + He placed both hands across his mouth, shutting out words and cry. + </p> + <p> + And the mother fondled him and cried to him and questioned him again. <i>She</i> + had no fear—no knowledge of what might hang in the balance—of + the delicate grey matter that trembled at her strokes... no surgeon would + have dared question so sternly, so unsparingly. But the delicate brain + held itself steady and the boy’s eyes were turned to her—piecing + her broken words, answering them before they came—as if she drew + them forth at will— + </p> + <p> + The door opened and she looked up and sprang forward. “Listen, Phil. + He saw Betty!” Her hand trembled to the boy. “He <i>saw</i> + her—<i>that last day</i>—it must be—tell him, Alcie—” + </p> + <p> + The boy was looking at him smiling quietly, and nodding to him. + </p> + <p> + Philip Harris closed the door with set face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII + </h2> + <h3> + “WHAT DID YOU SEE?” + </h3> + <p> + “What did you see—boy?” Philip Harris stood with his + legs well apart, looking at him. + </p> + <p> + The boy answered quickly, his quick gesture running to the picture above + them, and filling out his words. He had gathered the story of the child as + the mother had gathered his—and his voice trembled a little, but it + did not falter in the broken words. + </p> + <p> + Philip Harris glanced up. The rain on the skylight had ceased, but the + room was full of dusk. “There is not time,” he said, “to-night—You + must rest now, and have your dinner and go to bed. To-morrow there will be + men to question you. You must tell them what you have told us.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell them,” said the boy simply, “—what I see.” + </p> + <p> + So the boy slept quietly... and through the night, messages ran beneath + the ground, they leaped out and struck wires—and laughed. Men bent + their heads to listen... and spoke softly and hurried. Cars thrust + themselves forth, striking at the miles—their great bulk sliding on. + The world was awake—gathering itself... toward the boy. + </p> + <p> + In the morning they questioned him—they set down his answers with + quick, sharp jerks that asked for more. And the boy repeated faithfully + all that he had told; and the surgeon sitting beside him watched with keen + eyes—and smiled.... The boy would hold. He was sound. But they must + be careful... and after a little he sent him into the garden to work—while + the men compared notes and sent despatches and the story travelled into + the world, tallying itself against the face of every rogue. But there were + no faces that matched it—no faces such as the boy had cherished with + minute care... as if the features had been stamped—one flashing + stroke—upon his brain, and disappeared. There could be no doubt of + them—the description of the child was perfect—red cherries, + grey coat—and floating curls. He seemed to see the face before him + as he talked—and the face of the big man at her left, with red + moustache and sharp chin—and the smaller man beside her, who had + clapped his hand across her mouth and glared at the boy on the ground—his + eyes were black—yes, and he wore a cap—pulled down, and collar + up—you only saw the eyes—black as—The boy had looked + about him a minute, and pointed to the shoes of the chief of police + gleaming in the sunlight—patent leathers, and dress suit, hurried + away from a political banquet the night before. The men smiled and the + pencils raced.... There had been another man who drove the machine, but + the boy had not noticed him—his swift glance had taken in only the + child, it seemed, and the faces that framed her. + </p> + <p> + A little later they drove into the city—the boy accompanying them, + and the surgeon and Achilles, who had hurried out with the first news and + had listened to his son’s story with dark, silent eyes. He sat in + the car close to Alcibiades, one hand on the back of the seat, the other + on the boy’s hand. Through the long miles they did not speak. The + boy seemed resting in his father’s strength. It was only when they + reached the scene of his disaster that he roused himself and pointed with + quick finger—to the place where he had fallen.... He was pushing his + cart—so—and he looked up—quick—and his cart went—so!—and + all his fruit, and he was down—looking up—and the car went by, + close.... Which way?—He could not tell that—no.... He shut his + eyes—his face grew pale. He could not tell. + </p> + <p> + The street forked here—it might have been either way—by + swerving a little. And the police looked wise and took notes and reporters + photographed the spot and before night a crowd had gathered about it, + peering hopefully at the pavement where Alcibiades had lain, and pointing + with eager fingers to bits of peel—orange and banana—scattered + by the last passer-by, and gazing at dark stains on the pavement—something + that might be marks of blood—after ten weeks of rain and mud and + dust! + </p> + <p> + Achilles and the boy returned to the shop. “I want to go home,” + the boy had said, as the car turned away, “I—go—home—with + you, father.” So they had drawn up at the little fruit shop; and + Yaxis in the door, his teeth gleaming, had darted out to meet them, + hovering about them and helping his brother up the stairs and out to the + verandah that ran across the windows at the rear. Down below, in tin-can + backyards of the neighbours, old bottles and piles of broken lumber filled + the place; but along the edge of the verandah, boxes of earth had been + set, and the vines ran to the top, shutting out the glare of the brick + walls opposite and making a cool spot in the blank heat. + </p> + <p> + Alcibiades looked at the vines with happy eyes. “They grow,” + he said softly. + </p> + <p> + Yaxis nodded and produced a pot of forget-me-nots. He had been tending + them for three weeks—for Alcie. They bent over the pot, blue with + blossoms, talking eager words and little gestures and quick laughs. And + Achilles, coming out, smiled at the two heads bending above the plant. + Yaxis had been lonely—but now the little laughs seemed to stir + softly in the close rooms and wake something happy there. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII + </h2> + <h3> + ACHILLES HAS A PLAN + </h3> + <p> + The next day, life in the little shop went on as if there had been no + break. With the early light, Yaxis was off, to the south, pushing his + tip-cart before him and calling aloud—bananas and fruit and the joy + of Alcibiades’s return, in his clear, high voice.... In the shop, + Achilles arranged the fruit—great piles of oranges, and grape fruit + and figs—and swung the heavy bunches of bananas to their hooks + outside, and opened crates and boxes and made ready for the day. By and + by, when trade slackened a little, he would slip away and leave Alcibiades + in charge of the shop. His mind was busy as he worked. He had something to + do that would take him away from the shop—every day for a while, it + might be—but the shop would not suffer. Alcibiades was strong—not + well enough, perhaps, to go out with the new push-cart that had replaced + the old one, and waited outside, but strong enough to make change and fill + up the holes in the piles of oranges as they diminished under the swift + rush of trade. + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s eyes rested on him fondly. It had been lonely in the shop—but + now the long days of waiting were repaid... they had their clue. Even now + the detectives might have followed it up. The little lady would be found. + He hurried over the last things—his heart singing—and called + the boy to him. + </p> + <p> + “I go away,” he said, looking at him kindly. “You stay + in shop—till I come.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” The boy’s eyes were happy. It was good to + be in the close, dark, home place with its fruity smell and the striped + awning outside. “I do all right!” he said gaily. + </p> + <p> + The father nodded. “To-morrow you go with push-cart—little way—every + day little way—” He waited a moment while the boy’s face + took in the words—he spoke with slow significance—“Some + day you see—those men—then you run—like devil!” he + said quickly, “you tell me!” + </p> + <p> + The boy’s teeth made a quick line of light and his face flashed. + “I tell—quick!” he said, “I know those men!” + </p> + <p> + He left the shop and was lost in the crowd. He was going first to the city + hall for news—then he would seek Philip Harris. The plan that he was + shaping in his mind needed help. + </p> + <p> + But at the city hall there was no news. The chief of police seemed even a + little irritated at the sight of the dark face and the slim, straight + figure that stood before him. He eyed it a moment, almost hostilely; then + he remembered Philip Harris’s command and told the man what steps + had been taken and the reports that had come in thus far through the day. + The Greek listened without comment, his dark face smouldering a little + over its quick fire. “You find nothing?” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Not a damn thing!” answered the chief. + </p> + <p> + “I go try,” said Achilles. + </p> + <p> + The man looked at him. Then he laughed out. The door opened. It was the + detective in charge of the case. He glanced at Achilles and went over to + the chief and said something. But the chief shook his head and they looked + carelessly at Achilles, while the chief drummed on the desk. Achilles + waited with slow, respectful gaze. + </p> + <p> + The detective came across to him. “No news,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s face held its steady light. “I think we find her,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + The inspector did not laugh. He studied the man’s face slowly, + whistling a little between his teeth. “What’s your plan?” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Achilles shook his head. “When I see those men—I go follow.” + </p> + <p> + The detective smiled—a little line of smile... that did not scorn + him. “When you see them—yes!” he said softly. + </p> + <p> + The chief of police, listening with half an ear, laughed out. “Catch + your hare, Alexander!” He said it with superior ease. + </p> + <p> + Achilles looked at him. “I catch hair?” he asked with polite + interest. + </p> + <p> + The chief nodded. “You catch your hare before you cook it, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Achilles ran a slim, thoughtful hand along his dark locks and shook them + slowly. The conversation had passed beyond him. + </p> + <p> + The detective smiled a little. “Never mind him, Alexander. Anything + that you find—you bring to me—right off.” He clinked a + little money in his pocket and looked at him. + </p> + <p> + But Achilles’s gaze had no returning gleam. “When I find her,” + he said, “I tell you—I tell everybody.” His face had + lightened now. + </p> + <p> + The detective laughed. “All right, Alexander! You’re game, all + right!” + </p> + <p> + Achilles looked at him with puzzled eyes. “I go now,” he said. + He moved away with the smooth, unhurried rhythm that bore him swiftly + along. + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the two men followed him. “You’re welcome to him!” + said the chief carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t feel so sure,” said the other—“He + may do it yet—right under our noses. I’ve done it myself—you + know.” + </p> + <p> + The chief looked at him curiously. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> used to do it—time and again,” said the man, + thoughtfully. “<i>I</i> couldn’t ’a’ told you—<i>how</i>. + I’d study on a case—and study—and give it up—and + then, all of a sudden—pop!—and there it was—in my head. + I couldn’t have told how it got there, but it worked all right!” + He lighted a cigar and threw the match from him, puffing slowly. “I’d + do it now—if I could.” He was lost in thought. “There’s + something in his eyes—that Greek. I’d like to be inside that + black skull of his a minute.” He sauntered across the room and went + out. + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the chief of police looked after him vaguely. He drew a column + of figures toward him and began to add it—starting at the bottom and + travelling slowly up. He was computing his revenues for the coming year. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIV + </h2> + <h3> + IT FLOATS A LITTLE + </h3> + <p> + Achilles found Philip Harris at luncheon, and waited for him to come back, + and laid his plan before him. + </p> + <p> + The millionaire listened, and nodded once or twice, and took up the + receiver and gave an order. “He’ll be at your place every day,” + he said to Achilles as he hung it up. “You tell him what you want—and + let me know if there’s anything else—money—?” He + looked at him. + </p> + <p> + But Achilles shook his head. “I got money,” he said quickly. + “I get money—six—seven dollar—every day. I do good + business!” + </p> + <p> + The millionaire smiled, a little bitterly. “I do good business, too; + but it doesn’t seem to count much. Well—let me know—” + He held out his hand and Achilles took it and hesitated and looked at the + seamed red face that waited for him to go—then he went quietly out. + </p> + <p> + He would have liked to speak swift words of hope—they rode high in + his heart—but something in the face put him off and he went out into + the sunshine and walked fast. He looked far ahead as he went, smiling + softly at his dream. And now and then a man passed him—and looked + back and smiled too—a shrew, tolerant, grown-up smile. + </p> + <p> + At ten o’clock the next morning Philip Harris’s big touring + car drew up in front of the striped awning; it gave a little plaintive + honk—and stood still. Achilles came to the door with swift look. He + turned back to the shop. “I go,” he said to Alcibiades, and + stepped across the pavement, and was off. + </p> + <p> + At two o’clock he returned to the shop, his face covered with big + beads of perspiration, his hat gone and his eyes shining—and, + without a word, he went about the shop with his wonted air of swift-moving + silence. But the next day he was off again, and the next; and Alcibiades + grew accustomed to the long car slipping up and the straight, slim figure + sliding into it and taking its place and disappearing down the street. + </p> + <p> + Where Achilles went on these excursions, or what he did, no one knew. + Promptly at two each day he returned—always dishevelled and alert, + but wearing a look of triumph that sat strangely on the quiet Greek + reserve. It could not be said that Achilles strutted as he walked, but he + had an air of confidence, as if he were seeing things—things far + ahead—that were coming to him on the long road. + </p> + <p> + The boys could not make him out... and their loyalty would not let them + question him. But one day Yaxis, resting on the parapet that overlooked + the lake, his cart drawn a little to one side, his hat off and his face + taking in the breeze, saw a strange sight. It was a wide roadway, and free + of traffic, and Yaxis had turned his head and looked up and down its + length. In the distance a car was coming—it was not speeding. It + seemed coming on with little foolish movements—halting jerks and + impatient honks.... Yaxis’s eye rested on it bewildered—then + it broke to a smile. Father was driving! The chauffeur, beside him, with + folded arms and set face had washed his hands of all responsibility—and + the face of the Greek was shining. The great machine swerved and balked + and ran a little way and stopped—Yaxis laughed softly. The chauffeur + bent over with a word, and the thing shot off, Achilles with intent back, + holding fast by both hands his face set and shining ahead. Up and down the + roadway, the thing zigzagged—back and forth—spitting a little + and fizzing behind. Like a great beast it snarled and snorted and stood + out and waited the lash—and came to terms, gliding at last, by a + touch along the smooth road—the face of Achilles transfigured in a + dream.... The Acropolis floated behind him in the haze. The wings of the + morning waited his coming and his hands gripped hard on the wheel of the + world. Yaxis watched the car as it flashed and floated in the sun and was + gone—down the roadway—around the distant corner—out of + sight, with its faint triumphant “honk-honk-honk!” trailing + behind. + </p> + <p> + With a deep smile on his face Yaxis wheeled his cart into the roadway and + pushed briskly toward home, his mind filled with the vision of his father + and the flying car. + </p> + <p> + The next day coming down the steps of a house and counting slow change, he + looked up with a swift glance—something had passed him; for a moment + he had only a glimpse—something familiar—a kind of home sense—then + the figure of Achilles flashed out—the car shot round a corner. He + sped to the corner and looked down the long road—no one—only + two rows of poplars with their silvery, stirring leaves, and not a soul in + sight—and respectable houses on either side watching, as if nothing + had happened, or ever would. Yaxis returned to his cart, wiping the fine + moisture from his forehead. Every day now, his glance travelled about him + as he pushed his cart along the quieter streets where his route lay. And + often at the end of long vistas, or down a side street, he caught a + glimpse of the shooting car and the dark, erect figure poised forward on + its seat, looking far ahead. + </p> + <p> + At home, in the dusky interior, Achilles moved with sedate step, his hair + combed, his slim hands busy with the smooth fruit. Yaxis, in the doorway, + looked at him with curious, wistful eyes. + </p> + <p> + Achilles glanced up and nodded, and the little smile on his dark face + grew. He came forward. “You had good day?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father....” The boy hesitated a moment, and dug his toes—and + flung out his hands in quick gesture. “I see you!” he said. + “You go in massheen!” + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s glance flashed and grew to a deep, still smile. “You + see that machine? You see me drive him? <i>I</i> make that machine go!” + His chest expanded and he moved a few free steps and paused. + </p> + <p> + The boy’s eyes rested on him proudly. Around them—out in the + grimy street—the world hurried and scuffled and honked; and in the + little back shop the father and the boy faced each other, a strange, new, + proud joy around them. “I drive that machine,” said Achilles + softly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXV + </h2> + <h3> + AND STARTS OFF + </h3> + <p> + Achilles came to the door of the shop and looked out. A car had driven up + to the sidewalk—a rough, racing machine with open sides and big + wheels—and the driver, a big man in a white cap and rough linen + suit, was beckoning to him with his hand. Achilles stepped across the + walk, and stood by the machine with quiet, waiting face. + </p> + <p> + The man looked him over, a little as if he owned him—“I want + some fruit,” he said quickly, “—oranges—grapes—anything—?” + His glance ran to the fruit on the stall. “Get me something quick—and + don’t be all day—” His hand was fumbling for change. + </p> + <p> + “I get you best oranges,” said Achilles. He snapped open a + paper bag and turned to the heaped-up fruit. Then his eye paused—a + boy was breaking through the crowd—hatless, breathless—and + calling him with swift gesture. + </p> + <p> + Achilles sprang forward. “What is it, Alcie?” His eye was + searching the crowd, and his hand dropped to the boy’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “There they are!” gasped the boy. “<i>There!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s eye gleamed—down the street, a little way off, a + car was wheeling out from the curb—gathering speed. + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s eyes flashed on it... and swept the crowd—and came + back. + </p> + <p> + The man in the white cap by the curb was swearing softly. He leaped with + two steps, from the panting car to the stall and began gathering up + oranges. “Here—” he said. Then he wheeled—and saw + the Greek fruit-dealer flashing off in a car—<i>his</i> car. “Here—you!” + he shouted. + </p> + <p> + But Achilles gave no heed—and the boy, urging him on from behind, + turned with swift smile—“He take your car—” he + said, “he need that car!” + </p> + <p> + But the white-capped man pounced upon him and shook him by the shoulder—watching + his car that was threading fast in the crowded traffic. He dropped the + boy, and his hand reached up, signalling wildly for police—a city + service car sprang from the ground, it seemed. The white-capped man leaped + in and they were off—honking the crowd... heavy drays moved from + before them with slow, eternal wheel—the white cap swore softly and + leaned forward and urged... and the dark, Greek head bobbed far ahead—along + in the crowd—the big, grey racer gathering speed beneath. Achilles + was not thinking of the pursuit, yelling behind him—he had no + thoughts—only two eyes that held a car far in the distance, and two + hands that gripped the wheel and drove hard, and prayed grimly. If his eye + lost that car! It was turning now—far ahead and his eye marked the + place and held it—fixed. His car jolted and bumped. Men swore and + made way before him, and noted the hatless head, and looked behind—and + saw the police car—and yelled aloud. But no one saw him in time, and + he was not stopped. He had reached the corner where the car disappeared + from sight, and he leaned forward, with careful turn, peering around the + corner. They were there—yes! He drove faster—and the great, + ugly car lifted itself and flung forward and settled to long sliding gait. + The car ahead turned again in the whirling traffic—and turned again. + But Achilles’s eye did not lose its track... and they were out in + the open at last—the plain stretching before them—no turn to + left or right—and the machine Achilles drove had no equal in the + country. But Achilles did not know his machine. Good or bad, it must serve + him and keep his men in sight—but not too near—not to frighten + them! They had turned now and were glancing back and they spoke quickly. + Then they looked again—at the flying and hatless head—and saw + suddenly, on behind it, the service car leap softly around the corner into + the white road. They looked again—and laughed. They turned and + dropped the matter. “Some damn fool with a stolen car.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVI + </h2> + <h3> + AND RACES FOR THE CLUE + </h3> + <p> + Under the great bowl of sky, in the midst of the plain, the three cars + held their level way—three little racing dots in the big, clear + place. They kept an even course, swaying to the race on level wings that + swept the ground and rose to the low swale and passed beyond. Only the + long free line of dust marked their flight under the sun. + </p> + <p> + The men at the front, in the car ahead, did not look back again. They had + lost interest in the race pressing behind—most anxiously, they had + lost interest in it. They wished, with a fervent wish, that the two cars + driving behind them should pass them in a swirl of dust—and pass on + out of sight—toward the far horizon line that stretched the west. + They were only two market gardeners returning from business in the city. + If they drove a good car, it was to save time going and coming—not + to race with escaping fugitives and excited police. They had no wish to + race with excited police—fervently they had no wish for it—and + they slackened speed a little, drawing freer breath. Let the fellow pass + them—and his police with him—before they reached a little, + white, peaceful house that stood ahead on the plain. They did not look + behind at justice pursuing its prey... they had lost all interest in + justice and in the race. Presently, when justice should pass them, on + full-spreading wing, they would look up with casual glance, and note its + flight over the far line—out of sight in the distant west. But now + they did not know of its existence. + </p> + <p> + And Achilles, pressing fast, had a quick, clear sense of mystery—something + that brooded ahead—on the shining plain and the little, white house + and the car before him slackening speed. <i>Why</i> should it slow down?—what + was up? Cautiously he held his car, slowing its waving gleam to the pace + ahead and darting a swift glance behind, over his shoulder, at the great + service car that leaped and gained on him lap by lap. It would overtake + him soon—and he <i>must</i> not pass the car ahead—not till he + saw what they were up to. Would they pass that little white house—on + the plain—or would they turn in there? The wind hummed in his ears—his + hair flew—and his hand held tense to the wheel—slowing it + cautiously, inch by inch—slackening a little—slackening again + with quick-flung, flashing glance behind—and a watchful eye on the + road ahead... and on the little white house drawing near on the plain. It + was a race now between his quick mind and that car ahead and the little + white house. He must not overtake them till the little house was reached. + The car behind must not touch him—not till the house came up. There + was a wood ahead, in the distance—his mind flew and circled the wood—and + came back. They had reached the little house asleep in the sun. They were + passing it, neck and neck, and the car beside him swerved a little and + slackened speed—and dived in at the white gate. Achilles shot past—the + free road ahead. The machine under him gathered speed and opened out and + laughed and leaped to the road and lay down in the thick dust, spreading + itself ahead. He could gain the wood. He should escape—and the clue + was fast. + </p> + <p> + Behind him, the service car thundered by the little house asleep. But the + police did not glance that way—nor did the big, white-capped man + glance that way. <i>His</i> eyes were fixed on the racer ahead—dwindling + to a speck in its cloud of dust. He pushed up his visor and laughed aloud. + “Give it up!” he said genially, “give it up!—you + can’t catch <i>that</i> car!—I know my own car, I guess!” + He laughed again. “We shall find it somewhere along the road—when + he is through with it!” + </p> + <p> + But the face beside him, turning in the clouding dust, had a keen look and + the car kept its unbroken speed, and the plain flashed by. “He’s + in too big a hurry—” said the driver sternly. “I want a + look at that man! He knows too much.” + </p> + <p> + Too much! The heart of Achilles sang again—all the heart of him woke + up and laughed to the miles. He had found his clue—he had passed the + little hundred-thousand-dollar house, and the police in their big, + bungling dust had passed it, too. Nobody knew—but him... and he + should escape—over the long road... with the big machine, under him, + pounding away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVII + </h2> + <h3> + THE LITTLE WHITE HOUSE + </h3> + <p> + In an angle of the wood the dust-covered policeman and the white-capped + man came upon the racer, turned a little from the road, and waiting their + arrival. It had a stolid, helpless look—with its nose buried deep in + underbrush and the hind wheels tilted a little in air. Once might almost + fancy it gave a little, subdued hiccough, as they approached. + </p> + <p> + The white-capped man bent above it and ran a quick hand along the side, + and leaped to the vacant seat. The beast beneath gave a little snort and + withdrew its nose and pranced playfully at the underbrush and backed away, + feeling for firm ground behind. The man at the wheel pressed hard, leaning—with + quick jerk—and wheels gripped ground and trundled in the road. It + stopped beside the service car and the two men gazed doubtfully at the + wood. Dusty leaves trembled at them in the light air, and beckoned to them—little + twigs laced across and shut them out. Anywhere in the dark coolness of the + wood, the Greek lurked, hiding away. They could not trace him—and + the wood reached far into the dusk. He was undoubtedly armed. Only a + desperate man would have made a dash like that—for life. Better go + back to town for reinforcements and send the word of his escape along the + line. He would not get far—on foot! They gave another glance at the + wood and loosed their cars to the road, gliding smoothly off. The wood + behind them, under its cover of dust, gave no sign of watching eyes; and + the sun, travelling toward the west, cast their long, clean shadows ahead + as they went. In the low light, the little, white house in the distance + had a rosy, moody look. As they drew nearer, little pink details flashed + out. An old man behind the picket fence looked up, and straightened + himself, and gazed—under a shading hand. Then he came along the + driveway and stood in the white gate, waiting their approach. He had a + red, guileless face and white hair. The face held a look of childish + interest as they drew up. “You got him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The service man shook his head, jerking his thumb at the racer that came + behind. “Got the car,” he said. “He got off—took + to the woods.” + </p> + <p> + “That so?” The old man came out to the road and looked with + curious eyes at the big racing-machine coming up. “What’d he + do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He stole my machine,” said the white-capped man quickly. He + was holding the wheel with a careful touch. + </p> + <p> + The old man looked at him with shrewd, smiling eyes—chewing at some + invisible cud. The service man nodded to him, “There’ll be a + reward out for him, Jimmie—keep a watch out. You may have a chance + at it. He’s hiding somewhere over there.” He motioned toward + the distant wood. + </p> + <p> + The old man turned a slow eye toward the west. “I don’t own no + telescope,” he said quaintly. He shifted the cud a little, and gazed + at the plain around them—far as the eye could see, it stretched on + every side. Only the little, white house stood comfortably in its midst—open + to the eye of heaven. It was a rambling, one story and a half house, with + no windows above the ground floor—except at the rear, where one + window, under a small peak, faced the north. Beyond the house, in that + direction, lay lines of market garden—and beyond the garden the wide + plain. Two men, at work in the garden, hoed with long, easy strokes that + lengthened in the slanting light. The service man looked at them with + casual eye. “Got good help this year?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The old man faced about, and his eye regarded them mildly. “Putty + good,” he said, “they’re my sister’s boys. She + died this last year—along in April—and they come on to help. + Yes, they work putty good.” + </p> + <p> + “They drove in ahead of us, didn’t they?” asked the + service man, with sudden thought. + </p> + <p> + The old man smiled drily. “Didn’t know’s you see ’em. + You were so occupied. Yes—they’d been in to sell the early + potatoes. I’ve got a putty good crop this year—early potatoes. + They went in to make a price on ’em. We’ll get seventy-five if + we take ’em in to-morrow—and they asked what to do—and I + told ’em they better dig.” He chuckled slowly. + </p> + <p> + The service man smiled. “You keep ’em moving, don’t you, + Jimmie!” He glanced at the house. “Any trade? Got a license + this year?” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. “Bone dry,” he said, chewing + slowly. “Them cars knocked <i>me</i> out!” He came and stood + by the racer, running his hand along it with childish touch. + </p> + <p> + The service man watched him with detached smile. The old man’s silly + shrewdness amused him. He suspected him of a cask or two in the cellar. In + the days of bicycles the old man had driven a lively trade; but with the + long-reaching cars, his business dribbled away, and he had slipped back + from whiskey to potatoes. He was a little disgruntled at events, and would + talk socialism by the hour to anyone who would listen. But he was a + harmless old soul. The service man glanced at the sun. It had dipped + suddenly, and the plain grew dusky black. The distant figures hoeing + against the plain were lost to sight. “Hallo!” said the + service man quickly, “we must get on—” He looked again, + shrewdly, toward the old man in the dusk. “You couldn’t find a + drop of anything, handy—to give away—Jimmie?” he + suggested. + </p> + <p> + The old man tottered a slow smile at him and moved toward the house. He + came back with a long-necked bottle grasped tight, and a couple of glasses + that he filled in the dimness. + </p> + <p> + The service man held up his glass with quick gesture—“Here’s + to you, Jimmie!” he said, throwing back his head. “May you + live long, and prosper!” He gulped it down. + </p> + <p> + The old man’s toothless smile received the empty glasses; and when + the two machines had trundled away in the dimness, it stood looking after + them—the deep smile of guileless, crafty old age—that suffers + and waits—and clutches its morsel at last and fastens on it—without + joy, and without shame. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVIII + </h2> + <h3> + INSIDE THE LITTLE HOUSE + </h3> + <p> + The two figures amid the rows of the marked garden paused, in the + enveloping dusk, and leaned on their hoes, and listened—a low, + peevish whistle, like the call of a night-jar, on the plain, came to them. + Presently the call repeated itself—three wavering notes—and + they shouldered their hoes and moved toward the little house. + </p> + <p> + The old man emerged from the gloom, coming toward them. “What was + it?” asked one of the figures quickly. + </p> + <p> + The old man chuckled. “Stole a racer—that’s about all <i>they</i> + knew—<i>you</i> got off easy!” He was peering toward them. + </p> + <p> + The larger of the two figures straightened itself. “I am sick of it—I + tell you!—my back’s broke!” He moved himself in the + dusk, stretching out his great arms and looking about him vaguely. + </p> + <p> + The old man eyed him shrewdly. “You’re earning a good pile,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, one-seventy-five a day!” The man laughed a little. + </p> + <p> + The other man had not spoken. He slipped forward through the dusk. “Supper + ready?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + They followed him into the house, stopping in an entry to wash their hands + and remove their heavy shoes. Through the door opening to a room beyond, a + woman could be seen, moving briskly, and the smell of cooking floated out. + They sniffed at it hungrily. + </p> + <p> + The woman came to the door. “Hurry up, boys—everything’s + done to death!” + </p> + <p> + They came in hastily, with half-dried hands, and she looked at them—a + laugh in her round, keen face. “You <i>have</i> had a day!” + she said. She was tall and angular, and her face had a sudden roundness—a + kind of motherly, Dutch doll, set on its high, lean frame. Her body moved + in soft jerks. + </p> + <p> + She heaped up the plates with quick hands, and watched the men while they + ate. For a time no one spoke. The old man went to the cellar and brought + up a great mug of beer, and they filled their pipes and sat smoking and + sipping the beer stolidly. The windows were open to the air and the shades + were up. Any one passing on the long road, over the plain, might look in + on them. The woman toasted a piece of bread and moistened it with a little + milk and put it, with a glass of milk, on a small tray. The men’s + eyes followed her, indifferent. They watched her lift the tray and carry + it to a door at the back of the room, and disappear. + </p> + <p> + They smoked on in silence. + </p> + <p> + The old man reached out for his glass. He lifted it. “Two weeks—and + three more days,” he said. He sipped the beer slowly. + </p> + <p> + The larger of the two men nodded. He had dark, regular features and + reddish hair. He looked heavy and tired. He opened his lips vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk here!” said the younger man sharply—and + he gave a quick glance at the room—as a weasel returns to cover, in + a narrow place. + </p> + <p> + The big man smiled. “I wa’n’t going to say anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Better not!” said the other. He cleared his pipe with his + little finger. “<i>I</i> don’t even think,” he added + softly. + </p> + <p> + The woman had come back with the tray and the men looked up, smoking. + </p> + <p> + She set the tray down by the sink and came over to them, standing with + both hands on her high hips. She regarded them gravely and glanced at the + tray. The milk and toast were untouched. + </p> + <p> + The old man removed his pipe and looked at her plaintively. “Can’t + ye <i>make</i> her, Lena?” he said. His high voice had a shrill + note. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “<i>I</i> can’t do anything—not + anything more.” + </p> + <p> + She moved away and began to gather up the dishes from the table, clearing + it with swift jerks. She paused a moment and leaned over—the platter + in her hand half-lifted from its place. “She needs the air,” + she said, “and to run about—she’s sick—shut up + like that!” She lifted the platter and carried it to the sink, a + troubled look in her eyes. “I won’t be responsible for her—not + much longer,” she said slowly, as she set it down, “not if she + doesn’t get down in the air.” + </p> + <p> + The men looked at each other in silence. The old man got up. “Time + to go to bed—” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + They filed out of the room. The woman’s eyes followed them. + Presently the door opened and the younger man returned, with soft, quick + steps. He looked at her. “I want to talk,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “In a minute,” she replied. She nodded toward the cellar. + “The lantern’s down there—you go along.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the door and stepped cautiously into blackness, and she heard a + quick, scratching match on the plaster behind the closed door, and his + feet descending the stairs. + </p> + <p> + She drew forward the kettle on the stove and replenished the fire, and + blew out the hand lamp on the table. Then she groped her way to the cellar + door, opening it with noiseless touch. + </p> + <p> + The young man waited below, impatient. On a huge barrel near by, the + lantern cast a yellow circle on the blackness. + </p> + <p> + The woman approached it, her high-stepping figure flung in shadowy + movement along the wall behind her. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t back out <i>now</i>!” He spoke quickly. + “You’re weakening! And you’ve got to brace up—do + you hear?” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s round face smiled—over the light on the barrel. + “<i>I’m</i> all right,” she said. She hesitated a + minute.... “It’s the child that’s not all right,” + she added slowly. “And tonight I got scared—yes—” + She waited a breath. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” he said roughly. + </p> + <p> + She waited again. “She wasn’t like flesh and blood to-night,” + she said slowly. “I felt as if a breath would blow her out—” + She drew her hand quickly across her eyes. “I’ve got fond of + the little thing, John—I can’t seem to have her hurt!” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s hurting her?” said the man sharply. “<i>You</i> + take care of her—and she’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t, John. She needs the outdoors. She’s like a + little bird up there—shut up!” + </p> + <p> + “Then let her out—” said the man savagely. “Let + her out—up there!” His lifted hand pointed to the plain about + them—in open scorn. He leaned forward and spoke more persuasively, + close to her ear—“We can’t back out now—” he + said, “<i>the child knows too much</i>!” He gave the barrel + beside them a significant tap. “We couldn’t use <i>this</i> + plant again—six years—digging it—and waiting and + starving!” He struck the barrel sharply. “I tell you we’ve + <i>got</i> to put it through! You keep her out of sight!” + </p> + <p> + “Her own mother wouldn’t know her—” said the woman + slowly. + </p> + <p> + He met the look—and waited. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, I’ve done everything,” she said with quick + passion. “I’ve fed her and amused her and told her stories—I + don’t <i>dare</i> keep her any longer!” She touched the barrel + beside them—“I tell you, you might as well put her under + that.... You’ll put her under for good—if you don’t look + out!” she said significantly. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said the man sullenly, “what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + She was smiling again—the round, keen smile, on its high frame. + “Let her breathe a bit—like a child—and run out in the + sun. The sun will cure her!” she added quickly. + </p> + <p> + “All right—if you take the risk—a + hundred-thousand-dollars—and your own daughter thrown to the devil—if + we lose—!... You know <i>that</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “I know that, John—I want the money—more than you want + it!” She spoke with quick, fierce loyalty. “I’d give my + life for Mollie—or to keep her straight—but I can’t kill + a child to keep her straight—not <i>this</i> child—to keep her + straight!” Her queer, round face worked, against the yellow light. + </p> + <p> + He looked at it, half contemptuously, and turned to the barrel. + </p> + <p> + “See if everything’s all right,” he said. “If we’re + going to take risks—we’ve got to be ready.” + </p> + <p> + The woman lifted the lantern, and he pushed against the barrel. It yielded + to his weight—the upper part turning slowly on a pivot. Something + inside swashed against the sides as it turned. The man bent over the hole + and peered in. He stepped down cautiously, feeling with his foot and + disappearing, inch by inch, into the opening. The woman held the light + above him, looking down with quick, tense eyes... a hand reached up to + her, out of the hole, beckoning for the lantern and she knelt down, + guiding it toward the waving fingers. A sound of something creaking—a + hinge half turned—caught her breath—and she leaned forward, + blowing at the lantern. She got quickly to her feet and groped for the + swinging barrel, turning it swiftly over the hole—the liquid chugged + softly against its side—and stopped. Her breath listened up into the + darkness. The door above creaked again softly—and a shuffling foot + groped at the stair. “You down there—Lena?” called an + old voice. + </p> + <p> + She laughed out softly, moving toward the stair. “Go to bed, father.” + </p> + <p> + “What you doing down there?” asked the old voice in the + darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Testing the barrel,” said the woman. “John’s gone + down.” She came to the foot of the stair. “You go to bed, + father—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> better come to bed—all of ye,” grumbled the + old man. + </p> + <p> + “We’re coming—in a minute.” She heard his hand + fumble at the door—and it creaked again—softly—and + closed. + </p> + <p> + She groped her way back to the barrel, waiting beside it in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIX + </h2> + <h3> + UPSTAIRS + </h3> + <p> + When the man’s head reappeared, he came up briskly. + </p> + <p> + “All right?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he responded. + </p> + <p> + “Did you test the other end?” + </p> + <p> + “Right enough—” said the man. “Safe as a church! + The water barrel in the garden stuck a little—but I eased it up—” + He looked back into the hole, as he stepped out. “Too bad we had to + take <i>her</i> down,” he said regretfully. + </p> + <p> + “The police <i>might</i> ’a’ stopped,” said the + woman. “You couldn’t tell.” + </p> + <p> + They swung the barrel in place, and blew out the lantern, and the man + ascended the stair. After a few minutes the woman came up. The kitchen was + empty. The fire burning briskly cast a line of light beneath the hearth, + and on the top of the stove the kettle hummed quietly. She lighted a lamp + and lifted the kettle, filling her dishpan with soft steam.... Any one + peering in at the open window would have seen only a tall woman, with high + shoulders, bending above her cloud of steam and washing dishes, with a + quiet, round face absorbed in thought. + </p> + <p> + When she had finished at the sink and tidied the room, she took the lamp + and went into the small hall at the rear, and mounted the steep stairs. At + the top she paused and fitted a key and entered a low room. She put down + the lamp and crossed to the door on the other side—and listened. The + sound of low breathing came lightly to her, and her face relaxed. She came + back to the bureau, looking down thoughtfully at the coarse towel that + covered it, and the brush and comb and tray of matches. There was nothing + else on the bureau. But on a little bracket at the side the picture of a + young girl, with loose, full lips and bright eyes, looked out from a great + halo of pompadour—with the half-wistful look of youth. The mother’s + eyes returned to the picture and her keen face softened.... She must save + Mollie—and the child in the next room—she must save them + both.... She listened to the child again, breathing beyond the open door. + She looked again at the picture, with hungry eyes. Her own child—her + Mollie—had never had a chance—she had loved gay things—and + there was no money—always hard work and wet feet and rough, pushing + cars.... No wonder she had gone wrong! But she would come back now. There + would be money enough—and they would go away—together. + Twenty-five thousand dollars. She looked long at the pitiful, weak, + pictured face and blew out the light and crept into bed.... And in the + next room the child’s even breathing came and went... and, at + intervals, across it in the darkness, another sound—the woman’s + quick, indrawn breath that could not rest. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXX + </h2> + <h3> + ASLEEP + </h3> + <p> + In the morning the woman was up with the first light. And as the men came + grumbling in to breakfast, the round face wore its placid smile. They + joked her and ate hastily and departed for the open field. It was part of + a steady policy—to be always in the open, busy, hard-working men who + could not afford to lose an hour. The excursion had been a quick, restless + revolt—against weeks of weeding and planting and digging.... But + they had had their lesson. They were not likely to stir from their strip + of market garden on the plain—not till the time was up. + </p> + <p> + As the woman went about her work, she listened, and stopped and went to + the door—for some sound from upstairs. Presently she went up and + opened the door... and looked in. + </p> + <p> + The child lay with one hand thrown above her head—a drawn look in + the softly arched brow and half-parted lips. The woman bent over her, + listening—and placed her hand on the small wrist and counted—waiting. + The eyes flashed open—and looked at her. “I thought you were + Nono,” said the child. A wistful look filled her face and her lip + quivered a little—out of it—and steadied itself. “You + are Mrs. Seabury,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the woman cheerfully. “Time to get up, + dearie.” She turned away and busied herself with the clothes hanging + from their hooks. + </p> + <p> + The child’s eyes followed her—dully. “I don’t + think I care to get up,” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + The woman brought the clothes and placed them by the bed, and smiled down + at her. “There’s something nice to-day,” she said + casually. “We’re going outdoors to-day—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Can</i> I?” said the child. She flashed a smile and sat + up. “Can <i>I</i> go out-of-doors?” It was a little cry of + waiting—and the woman’s hand dashed across her eyes—at + the keenness of it. Then she smiled—the round, assuring smile, and + held up the clothes. “You hurry up and dress and eat your breakfast,” + she said, “—a good, big breakfast—and we are going—out + in the sun—you and me.” She nodded cheerfully and went out. + </p> + <p> + The child put one foot over the edge of the bed and looked down at it—a + little wistfully—and placed the other beside it. They were very + dark, little feet—a queer, brown colour—and the legs above + them, were the same curious brown—and the small straight back—as + she stepped from the bed and slipped off her nightgown and bent above the + clothes on the chair. The colour ran up to her throat—around it, and + over the whole sunny face and hands and arms—a strange, eclipsing, + brown disguise. There had been a quick, sharp plan to take her abroad and + they prepared her hastily against risks on board the steamer. The plan had + been abandoned as too dangerous. But the colour clung to the soft skin; + and the hair, cropped close to the neck, had a stubby, uncouth look. No + one seeking Betty Harris, would have looked twice at the queer, little, + brownie-like creature, dressing itself with careful haste. It lifted a + plaid dress from the chair—large squares of red and green plaid—and + looked at it with raised brows and dropped it over the cropped head. The + skirt came to the top of the rough shoes on the small feet. Betty Harris + looked down at the skirt—and smoothed it a little... and dropped on + her knees beside the bed—the red and green plaids sweeping around + her—and said the little prayer that Miss Stone had taught her to say + at home. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXI + </h2> + <h3> + A BUTTERFLY FLIGHT + </h3> + <p> + She came down the stairs with slow feet, pausing a little on each stair, + as if to taste the pleasure that was coming to her. <i>She was going + out-of-doors—under the sky!</i> + </p> + <p> + She pushed open the door at the foot and looked into the small hall—she + had been here before. They had hurried her through—into the kitchen, + and down to the cellar. They had stayed there a long time—hours and + hours—and Mrs. Seabury had held her on her lap and told her stories. + </p> + <p> + She stepped down the last step into the hall. The outside door at the end + was open and through it she could see the men at work in the garden—and + the warm, shimmering air. She looked, with eager lip, and took a step + forward—and remembered—and turned toward the kitchen. Mrs. + Seabury had said she must have breakfast first—a good, big breakfast—and + then.... She opened the door and looked in. The woman was standing by the + stove. She looked up with a swift glance and nodded to her. “That’s + right, dearie. Your breakfast is all ready—you come in and eat it.” + She drew up a chair to the table and brought a glass of milk and tucked + the napkin under her brown chin, watching her with keen, motherly eyes, + while she ate. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a good girl!” she said. She took the empty plate + and carried it to the sink. “Now you wait till I’ve washed + these—and then—!” She nodded toward the open window. + </p> + <p> + The child slipped down and came over to her and stood beside her while she + worked, her eyes full of little, wistful hope. “I’ve most + forgot about out-of-doors,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you remember it all right. It’s just the same it always + was,” said the woman practically. “Now I’ll stir up some + meal and we’ll go feed the chicks. I’ve got ten of ’em—little + ones.” She mixed the yellow meal and stirred it briskly, and took + down her sun-bonnet—and looked at the child dubiously. “You + haven’t any hat,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The child’s hand lifted to the rough cropped hair. “I did have + a hat—with red cherries on it,” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + The woman turned away brusquely. “That’s gone—with your + other things—I’ll have to tie a handkerchief on you.” + </p> + <p> + She brought a big, coloured kerchief—red with blue spots on it—and + bound it over the rough hair—and stood back and looked at it, and + reached out her hand. “It won’t do,” she said + thoughtfully. The small face, outlined in the smooth folds, had looked + suddenly and strangely refined. The woman took off the handkerchief and + roughened the hair with careful hand. + </p> + <p> + The child waited patiently. “I don’t need a hat, do I?” + she said politely. + </p> + <p> + The woman looked at her again and took up the dish of meal. “You’re + all right,” she said, “we shan’t stay long.” + </p> + <p> + “I should <i>like</i> to stay a long, <i>long</i> time!” said + Betty. + </p> + <p> + The woman smiled. “You’re going out every day, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The child skipped a little in the clumsy shoes, and + they passed into the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + The woman looked about her with practical eyes. In the long rows of the + garden the men were at work. But up and down the dusty road—across + the plain—no one was in sight, and she stepped briskly toward an + open shed, rapping the spoon a little against the side of the basin she + carried, and clucking gently. + </p> + <p> + The child beside her moved slowly—looking up at the sky, as if half + afraid. She seemed to move with alien feet under the sky. Then a handful + of yellow, downy balls darted from the shed, skittering toward them, and + she fell to her knees, reaching out her hands to them and crooning softly. + “The dear things!” she said swiftly. + </p> + <p> + The woman smiled, and moved toward the shed, tapping on the side of her + pan—and the yellow brood wheeled with the sound, on twinkling legs + and swift, stubby wings. + </p> + <p> + The child’s eyes devoured them. “They belong to you, don’t + they?” she cried softly. “They’re your <i>own</i>—your + very own chickens!” Her laugh crept over them and her eyes glowed. + “See the little one, Mrs. Seabury! Just <i>see</i> him run!” + She had dropped to her knees again—breathless—beside the board + where they pushed and pecked and gobbled the little, wet lumps of the + meal, and darted their shiny black bills at the board. + </p> + <p> + The woman handed her the pan. “You can feed them if you want to,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + The child took the basin, with shining eyes, and the woman moved away. She + examined the slatted box—where the mother hen ran to and fro, with + clucking wings—and gave her some fresh water and looked in the row + of nests along the side of the shed, and took out a handful of eggs, + carrying them in wide-spread, careful fingers. + </p> + <p> + The child, squatting by the board, was looking about her with happy eyes. + She’d almost forgotten the prisoned room up stairs and the long + lonesome days. The woman came over to her, smiling. “I’ve + found seven,” she said. The child’s eyes rested on them. Then + they flitted to the sunshine outside.... A yellow butterfly was fluttering + in the light—across the opening of the shed. It lighted on a beam + and opened slow wings, and the child’s eyes laughed softly... she + moved tiptoe... “I saw a <i>beautiful</i> butterfly once!” she + said. But the woman did not hear. She had passed out of the shed—around + the corner—and was looking after the chickens outside—her + voice clucking to them lightly. The child moved toward the butterfly, + absorbed in shining thought. “It was a <i>beautiful</i> butterfly—” + she said softly, “in a Greek shop.” The wings of the butterfly + rose and circled vaguely and passed behind her, and she wheeled about, + peering up into the dark shed. She saw the yellow wings—up there—poise + themselves, and wait a minute—and sail toward the light outside.... + But she did not turn to follow its flight—Across the brown boards of + the shed—behind a pile of lumber, against the wall up there—a + head had lifted itself and was looking at her. She caught her breath—“I + saw a butterfly once!” she repeated dully. It was half a sob—The + head laid a long, dark finger on its lip and sank from sight.... The child + wheeled toward the open light—the woman was coming in, her hands + filled with eggs. “I must carry these in,” she said briskly. + She looked at the child. “You can stay and play a little while—if + you want to. But you must not go away, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I will not go away,” said the child, breathless. + </p> + <p> + So the woman turned and left her—and the child’s eyes followed + her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXII + </h2> + <h3> + AND A VOICE + </h3> + <p> + “Can you hear me, little Miss Harris?” The voice came from the + dusky shed, high up against the wall. + </p> + <p> + But the child did not turn her head. “Yes—Mr. Achilles—I + can hear you very well,” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t look this way,” said the voice. “Get down + and look at the chickens—and listen to what I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + The child dropped obediently to her knees, her head a little bent, her + face toward the open light outside. + </p> + <p> + The woman, going about her work in the kitchen, looked out and saw her and + nodded to her kindly— + </p> + <p> + The child’s lips made a little smile in return. They were very pale. + </p> + <p> + “I come to take you home,” said the voice. It was full of + tenderness and Betty Harris bent her head, a great wave of homesickness + sweeping across her. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t go, Mr. Achilles.” It was like a sob. “I + can’t go. They will kill you. I heard them. They will kill <i>anybody</i>—that + comes—!” She spoke in swift little whispers—and waited. + “Can you hear me say it?” she asked. “Can you hear me + say it, Mr. Achilles?” + </p> + <p> + “I hear it—yes.” The voice of Achilles laughed a little. + “They will not kill—little lady, and you go home—with me—to-night.” + The voice dropped down from its high place and comforted her. + </p> + <p> + She reached out little hands to the chickens and laughed tremulously. + “I am afraid,” she said softly, “I am afraid!” + </p> + <p> + But the low voice, up in the dusk, steadied her and gave her swift + commands—and repeated them—till she crept from the dim shed + into the light and stood up—blinking a little—and looked about + her—and laughed happily. + </p> + <p> + And the woman came to the door and smiled at her. “You must come in,” + she called. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Mrs. Seabury—” The child darted back into the + shed and gathered up the spoon and basin from the board and looked about + her swiftly. In the slatted box, the mother hen clucked drowsily, and wise + cheeps from beneath her wings answered bravely. The child glanced at the + box, and up at the dusky boards of the shed, peering far in the dimness. + But there was no one—not even a voice—just the high, tumbled + pile of boards—and the few nests along the wall and the mother hen + clucking cosily behind her slats—and the wise little cheeps. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXIII + </h2> + <h3> + “WAKE UP, MRS. SEABURY!” + </h3> + <p> + The child lay with her hands clasped, breathing lightly. The sound of + voices came drowsily from the kitchen... she must not go to sleep! She sat + up and leaned toward the little window that looked out to the north. + Through the blackness the stars twinkled mistily, and she put her foot + carefully over the edge of the bed and slipped down. The window was open—as + far as the small sash allowed—and a warm, faint breeze came across + the plain to her. She leaned against the sill, looking out. It was not far + to the ground.... But she could see only vague blackness down there, and + she looked again up to the twinkling stars.... They were little points of + light up there, and she looked up trustfully while the warm wind blew + against her. Her heart was beating very hard—and fast—but she + was not afraid.... Mr. Achilles had said—not to be afraid—and + he was waiting—down there in the blackness to take her home. She + crept back to bed and lay down—very still. In the room below there + was a scraping of chairs and louder words—and footsteps.... Someone + had opened the door under her window and the smell of tobacco came up. Her + little nose disdained it—and listened, alert. Footsteps went out + into the night and moved a little away on the gravel and came back, and + the door closed. She could hear the bolt click to its place and the + footsteps shuffle along the hall. The voices below had ceased and the + house was still—she was very sleepy now. But he had said—Mr. + Achilles had said.... She winked briskly and gave herself a little pinch + under the clothes—and sat up. It was a sharp little pinch—through + many thicknesses of clothes. Under the coarse nightgown buttoned carefully + to the throat, she was still wearing the red and green plaids and all her + day clothes. Only the clumsy shoes, slipped off, stood by the bed, waiting + for her. Her hand reached down to them cautiously, and felt them—and + she lay down and closed her eyes. There was a step on the stairs—coming + slowly. Betty Harris grew very still. If Mrs. Seabury came in and stood + and looked at her... she must cry out—and throw her arms around her + neck—and tell her <i>everything</i>! She could not hurt Mrs. + Seabury.... Mr. Achilles had said they would not hurt her. She had asked + him that—three times, herself—and Mr. Achilles had said it—no + one should hurt Mrs. Seabury—if Betty went away.... She held her + breath.... The footsteps had come across the room—to her door—they + waited there... then they moved on—and she drew a free breath. Her + heart thumped to the vague movements that came and went in the next room—they + pottered about a little, and finally ceased and a light, indrawn breath + blew out the lamp—a hand was groping for the handle of her door—and + opening it softly—and the bare feet moved away. The bed-springs in + the next room creaked a little and everything was still. Betty Harris had + a quick sense of pain. Mrs. Seabury was kind to her! She had been so kind + that first day, when they brought her in out of the hot sun, and she had + stumbled on the stairs and sobbed out—Mrs. Seabury had picked her up + and carried her up the stairs and comforted her... and told her what it + meant—these strange harsh men seizing her in the open sunshine, as + they swept past—covering her mouth with hard hands and hurrying her + out of the city to this stifling place. She loved Mrs. Seabury. Perhaps + they would put her in prison... and <i>never</i> let her out—and + Mollie would not get well. The child gave a little, quick sob, in her + thought, and lay very still. Mollie had been good once, and wicked men had + hurt her... and now her mother could not help her.... But Mr. Achilles + said—yes—he said it—no one should hurt her.... And with + the thought of the Greek she lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds + of the night.... There was a long, light call somewhere across the plain, + a train of heavy Pullmans pushing through the night—the sound came + to the child like a whiff of breath, and passed away... and the crickets + chirped—high and shrill. In the next room, the breathing grew loud, + and louder, in long, even beats. Mrs. Seabury was asleep! Betty Harris sat + up in bed, her little hands clinched fast at her side. Then she lay down + again—and waited... and the breathing in the next room grew loud, + and regular, and full.... Mrs. Seabury was very tired! And Betty Harris + listened, and slipped down from the bed, and groped for her shoes—and + lifted them like a breath—and stepped high across the floor, in the + dim room. It was a slow flight... tuned to the long-drawn, falling breath + of the sleeper—that did not break by a note—not even when the + brown hand released the latch and a little, sharp click fell on the + air.... “Wake up, Mrs. Seabury! Wake up—for Mollie’s + sake—wake up!” the latch said. But the sleeper did not stir—only + the long, regular, dream-filled, droning sleep. And the child crept down + the stair—across the kitchen and reached the other door. She was not + afraid now—one more door! The men would not hear her—they were + asleep—Mrs. Seabury was asleep—and her fingers turned the key + softly and groped to the bolt above—and pushed at it—hard—and + fell back—and groped for it again—and tugged... little beads + of sweat were coming on the brown forehead. She drew the back of her hand + swiftly across them and reached again to the bolt. It was too high—she + could reach it—but not to push. She felt for a chair, in the + darkness—and lifted it, without a sound, and carried it to the door + and climbed up. There was a great lump in her throat now. Mr. Achilles did + not know the bolt would stick like this—she gave a fierce, soft tug, + like a sob—and it slid back. The knob turned and the door opened and + she was in the night.... For a moment her eyes groped with the blackness. + Then a long, quiet hand reached out to her—and closed upon her—and + she gave a little sob, and was drawn swiftly into the night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXIV + </h2> + <h3> + THE FLIGHT OF STARS + </h3> + <p> + “Is that you, Mr. Achilles?” she asked—into the dark. + </p> + <p> + And the voice of Achilles laughed down to her. “I’m here—yes. + It’s me. We must hurry now—fast. Come!” + </p> + <p> + He gripped the small hand in his and they sped out of the driveway, toward + the long road. Up above them the little stars blinked down, and the warm + wind touched their faces as they went. The soft darkness shut them in. + There was only the child, clinging to Achilles’s great hand and + hurrying through the night. Far in the distance, a dull, sullen glow lit + the sky—the city’s glow—and Betty’s home, out + there beneath it, in the dark. But the child did not know. She would not + have known which way the city lay—but for Achilles’s guiding + hand. She clung fast to that—and they sped on. + </p> + <p> + By and by he ran a little, reaching down to her—and his spirit + touched hers and she ran without fatigue beside him, with little + breathless laughs—“I—like—to run!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—come—” He hurried her faster over the road—he + would not spare her now. He held her life in his hand—and the little + children—he saw them, asleep in their dreams, over there in the + glow.... “Come!” he said. And they ran fast. + </p> + <p> + It was the first half hour he feared. If there was no pursuit, over the + dark road behind them, then he would spare her—but not now. “Come!” + he urged, and they flew faster. + </p> + <p> + And behind them the little house lay asleep—under its stars—no + sign of life when his swift-flashing glance sought it out—and the + heart of Achilles stretched to the miles and laughed with them and leaped + out upon them, far ahead.... He should bring her home safe. + </p> + <p> + Then, upon the night, came a sound—faint-stirring wings—a + long-drawn buzz and rush of air—deep notes that gripped the ground, + far off—and the pulse of pounding wheels—behind them, along + the dark road.... And Achilles seized the child by the shoulder, bearing + her forward toward the short grass—his quick-running hand thrusting + her down—“Lie still!” he whispered. The lights of the + car had gleamed out, swaying a little in the distance, as he threw his + coat across her and pressed it flat. “Lie still!” he whispered + again, and was back in the road, his hand feeling for the great banana + knife that rested in his shirt—his eye searching the road behind. + There was time—yes—and he turned about and swung into the + long, stretching pace that covers the miles—without hurry, without + rest. The roar behind him grew, and flashed to light—and swept by—and + his eye caught the face of the chauffeur, as it flew, leaning intently on + the night; and in the lighted car behind him, flashed a face—a man’s + face, outlined against the glass, a high, white face fixed upon a printed + page—some magnate, travelling at his ease, sleepless... thundering + past in the night—unconscious of the Greek, plodding in the roadside + dust. + </p> + <p> + Achilles knew that he had only to lift his hand—to cry out to them, + as they sped, and they would turn with leaping wheel. There was not a man, + hurrying about his own affairs, who would not gladly stop to gather up the + child that was lost. Word had come to Philip Harris—east and west—endless + offers of help. But the great car thundered by and Achilles’s glance + followed it, sweeping with it—on toward the city and the dull glow + of sky. He was breathing hard as he went, and he plunged on a step—two + steps—ten—before he held his pace; then he drew a deep, free + breath, and faced about. The knife dropped back in his breast, and his + hand sought the revolver in his hip pocket, crowding it down a little. He + had been sure he could face them—two of them—three—as + many as might be. But the car had swept on, bearing its strangers to the + city... and the little house on the plain was still asleep. He had a kind + of happy superstition that he was to save the child single-handed. He had + not trusted the police... with their great, foolish fingers. They could + not save his little girl. She had needed Achilles—and he had held + the thread of silken cobweb—and traced it bit by bit to the place + where they had hidden her. He should save her! + </p> + <p> + He glanced at the stars—an hour gone—and the long road to + tramp. He ran swiftly to the child in the grass and lifted the coat and + she leaped up, laughing—as if it were a game; and they swung out + into the road again, walking with swift, even steps. “Are you tired?” + asked Achilles. But she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + His hand in his pocket, in the darkness, had felt something and he pressed + it toward her—“Eat that,” he said, “you will be + hungry.” + </p> + <p> + She took it daintily, and felt of it, and turned it over. “What is + it?” she asked. Then she set her small teeth in it—and laughed + out. “It’s chocolate,” she exclaimed happily. She held + it up, “Will you have a bite, Mr. Achilles?” + </p> + <p> + But Achilles had drawn out another bit of tin-foil and opened it. “I + have yet more,” he said, “—two—three—six + piece. I put here in my pocket, every day—I carry chocolate—till + I find you. Every day I say, ’she be hungry, maybe—then she + like chocolate’—” + </p> + <p> + She nibbled it in happy little nibbles, as they walked. “I didn’t + eat any supper,” she said. “I was too happy—and too + afraid, I guess. That was a long time ago,” she added, after a + minute. + </p> + <p> + “A long time ago,” said Achilles cheerfully. He had taken her + hand again, and they trudged on under the stars. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody must hurt Mrs. Seabury!” said the child suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you that,” said Achilles—he had half stopped on + the road. “Nobody hurt that good lady—she, your friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she is my friend. She was good to me.... <i>She</i> had a + little girl once—like me—and some bad men hurt her.... I don’t + think they stole her—” She pondered it a minute—“I + don’t seem to understand—” she gave a little swift sigh. + “But Mrs. Seabury is going to take her a long, long way off—and + keep her always.” + </p> + <p> + Achilles nodded. “We help her do that,” he said. “They + don’t hurt that good lady.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes were on the stars, and he lifted his face a little, breathing in + the freshness. A swift star shot across the sky, falling to earth, and he + pointed with eager finger. The child looked up and caught the falling + flash, and they ran a little, as if to follow the leaping of their hearts. + Then they went more slowly, and Achilles’s long finger traced the + heavens for her—the Greek gods up there in their swinging orbits... + the warm, August night of the world. Betty Harris had never known the + stars like this. Safe from her window, she had seen them twinkle out. But + here they swept about her—and the plain reached wide—and + close, in the darkness, a hand held her safe and the long finger of + Achilles touched the stars and drew them down for her... Orion there, + marching with his mighty belt—and Mars red-gleaming. The long, white + plume of the milky way, trailing soft glory on the sky—and the great + bear to the north. The names filled her ears with a mighty din, Calliope, + Venus, Uranus, Mercury, Mars—and the shining hosts of heaven passed + by. Far beyond them, mysterious other worlds gleamed and glimmered—without + name. And the heart of the child reached to them—and travelled + through the vast arches of space, with her dusty little feet on the wide + plain, and a hand holding hers, safe and warm down there in the darkness. + Her eyes dropped from the stars and she trudged on. + </p> + <p> + When Achilles spoke again, he was telling her of Alcibiades and Yaxis and + of the long days of waiting and the happiness their coming would bring—and + of her father and mother, asleep at Idlewood—and the great house on + the lake, ready always, night and day, for her coming— + </p> + <p> + “Do they know—?” she asked quickly, “that we are + coming?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knows,” said Achilles, “except you and me.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed out, under the stars, and stood still. “We shall + surprise them!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—come!” They pressed on. Far ahead, foolish little + stars had glimmered out—close to the ground—the fingers of the + city, stretching toward the plain. + </p> + <p> + Her glance ran to them. “We’re getting somewhere—?” + she said swiftly. “We’re getting home!” Her hand + squeezed his, swinging it a little. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet—” said Achilles, “not yet—but we + shall take the car there. You need not walk any more.” + </p> + <p> + She was very quiet and he leaned toward her anxiously. “You are not + tired?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No—Mr. Achilles—I don’t think—I’m + tired—” She held the words slowly. “I just thought we’d + go on forever, walking like this—” She looked up and swept her + small hand toward the stars. “I thought it was a dream—” + she said softly—“Like the other dreams!” He felt a + little, quick throb run through her, and he bent again and his fingers + touched her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “I am not crying, Mr. Achilles,” she said firmly, “I + only just—” There was a little, choking sound and her face had + buried itself in his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + And Achilles bent to her with tender gesture. Then he lifted his head and + listened. There was another sound, on the plain, mingling with the sobs + that swept across the child’s frame. + </p> + <p> + He touched her quietly. “Someone is coming,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She lifted her face, holding her breath with quick lip. + </p> + <p> + The sound creaked to them, and muffled itself, and spread across the + plain, and came again in irregular rhythm that grew to the slow beat of + hoofs coming upon the road. + </p> + <p> + Achilles listened back to the sound and waited a minute. Then he covered + the child, as before, with his coat and turned back, walking along the + road to meet the sound. It creaked toward him and loomed through the light + of the stars—a great market wagon loaded with produce—the + driver leaning forward on the seat with loose rein, half asleep. Suddenly + he lifted his head and tightened rein, peering forward through the dark at + the figure down there in the road. Achilles held his way. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” said the man sharply. + </p> + <p> + Achilles paused and looked up—one hand resting lightly on his hip, + turned a little back—the other thrust in his breast. + </p> + <p> + The man’s eyes scanned him through the dimness. “Where you + bound for?” he asked curtly. + </p> + <p> + “I walk,” said Achilles. + </p> + <p> + “Want a job?” asked the man. + </p> + <p> + “You got job for me?” asked Achilles. His voice had all the + guileless caution of the foreigner astray in a free land. The man moved + along on the seat. “Jump up,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Achilles looked back and forth along the road. “I think I go long,” + he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + The man gave an impatient sound in his throat and clicked to the horses. + The heavy wagon creaked into motion, and caught its rhythm and rumbled on. + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s ears followed it with deepest caution. The creaking mass + of sound had passed the flat-spread coat without stop, and gathered itself + away into a slow rumble, and passed on in the blurring dark. + </p> + <p> + Beyond it, the little, low lights still twinkled and the suburb waited + with its trailing cars. + </p> + <p> + But when he lifted the coat she had fallen asleep, her face resting on her + arm, and he bent to it tenderly, and listened. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXV + </h2> + <h3> + AND CLANGING CARS + </h3> + <p> + He looked up into the darkness and waited. He would let her sleep a + minute... there was little danger now. The city waited, over there, with + its low lights; and the friendly night shut them in. Before the morning + dawned he should bring her home—safe home.... A kind of simple pride + held him, and his heart leaped a little to the stars and sang with them—as + he squatted in the low grass, keeping guard. + </p> + <p> + Presently he leaned and touched her. + </p> + <p> + She started with a shiver and sprang up, rubbing her eyes and crying out, + “I—had—a—dream—” she said softly—“a + beautiful dream!” Then her eyes caught the stars and blinked to them—through + dusty sleep—and she turned to him with swift cry, “You’re + here!” she said. “It’s <i>not</i> a dream! It’s <i>you</i>!” + </p> + <p> + And Achilles laughed out. “We’re going home,” he said, + “when you’re rested a little.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m rested <i>now</i>!” she cried. “Come!” + She sprang to her feet, and they journeyed again—through the night. + About them, the plain breathed deep sleeping power—and the long road + stretched from the west to the east and brought them home. + </p> + <p> + Each step, the city lights grew larger, and sparkled more, and spread + apart farther, and a low rumble came creeping on the plain—jarring + with swift jolts—the clang of cars and lifting life... and, in the + distance, a line of light ran fire swiftly on the air, and darted, red and + green, and trailed again in fire... and Achilles’s finger pointed to + it. “That fire will take us home,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The child’s eye followed the flashing cars—and she smiled out. + The first light of the city’s rim touched her face. + </p> + <p> + “Just a little farther!” said Achilles. + </p> + <p> + “But I am not tired!” said the child, and she ran a little, + beside him, on the stone pavement, her small shoes clumping happily. + </p> + <p> + Achilles lifted a swift hand to a waiting car. The car clanged its gone—impatient. + A big conductor reached down his hand to the child. The bell clanged again + and they were off—“Clang-clang, clear the track! Betty Harris + is going home—This is the people’s carriage—Going home! + Going home! Clear the track—clang-clang!” Through the blinking + city streets they rode. Safe among the friendly houses, and the shops and + the stores, and the people sleeping behind their blinds—all the + people who had loved the child—and scanned the paper for her, every + day—and asked, “Is Betty Harris found?”... Going home! + Going home!... They would waken in the morning and read the news and shout + across the way—“She’s been found—yes—a + Greek! He brought her home! Thank God. She’s found!” + </p> + <p> + And little Betty Harris, leaning against the great shoulder beside her, + nodded in the car, and dreamed little dreams and looked about her hazily. + </p> + <p> + The conductor came and stood in front of them with extended hand, and rang + the fares, and cast an indifferent, kindly glance at the Greek and his + child travelling by night.... He did not guess the “scoop” + that his two little nickels rang out. The child with roughened hair and + clumsy, hanging shoes, was nothing to him—nor to the policeman that + boarded the car at the next corner and ran his eye down its empty length + to the Greek, sitting erect—with the child sleeping beside him—her + dark, tousled head against his arm. + </p> + <p> + The conductor came again, and touched Achilles on the shoulder and bent to + him. “You change here,” he said. He was pointing to a car + across the square—“You take that,” he said. “You + understand?” He shouted a little—because the man was a + foreigner—and dark—but his tone was friendly. And Achilles got + to his feet, guiding the sleepy child down the rib-floored car that shook + beneath them.... And the conductor and policeman watched the two figures + vanish through the door—and smiled to each other—a friendly + smile at foreign folks—who travel in strange ways—and go among + us with eager, intent faces fixed on some shining goal we cannot see... + with the patience of the centuries leaning down to them, and watching + them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXVI + </h2> + <h3> + THE TELEPHONE AGAIN + </h3> + <p> + In the middle of the square, Achilles stopped—a lighted sign had + caught his eye. He hurried the child across the blur of tracks to the + sign, and opened a door softly. A sleepy exchange-girl looked up and + waited while Achilles’s dark fingers searched the page and turned to + her—“Main—four-four-seven—” + </p> + <p> + She drawled sleepily after him—“Go in there—number four.” + </p> + <p> + Achilles, with the child’s hand in his, entered the booth and closed + the door. Little noises clicked about them—queer meanings whispered—and + waited—and moved off—the whole night-life of the great city + stirred in the little cage.... “Go ahead—four!” called + the girl lazily. + </p> + <p> + Achilles lifted the black tube. The child beside him pressed close, her + eyes fixed on the tube. Achilles’s words ran swift on the wire, and + her eager face held them—other words came back—sharp—swift. + And the child heard them crackle, and leap, and break and crackle again in + the misty depths—and she touched Achilles’s arm softly—“They + must not hurt Mrs. Seabury—?” she said. “You tell them + not to hurt Mrs. Seabury!” + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s hand pressed her shoulder gently. “Yes—I tell—they + know.” It was a swift aside—and his voice had taken up the + tale—“That woman—you not take that woman.... You hear? + Yes—she good woman!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell them to look in the cellar!” said Betty. She had pressed + closer, on tiptoe. “There is a hole there—under a barrel—and + a barrel in the garden. You tell them—” + </p> + <p> + His eye dropped to her. “In cellar? You say that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes—” Her hands were clasped. “They + took me there! You tell them!” + </p> + <p> + Achilles’s eye smiled. “Hallo—<i>you look in cellar</i>!... + What you say?—no—I don’t see it. But you look in cellar—yes! + They make tunnel—yes!” He hung up the receiver and took her + hand. “Now we go home,” he said. + </p> + <p> + They passed swiftly out, dropping payment—into a sleepy, unseeing + palm—and crossing the square to the car that should carry them home. + There were no delays now—only swift-running wheels... a few jolts + and stops—and they were out again, beneath the stars, hurrying along + the great breakwater of the lake—hurrying home.... The big, + red-brown house thrust itself up—its gables reaching to thin + blackness—and, suddenly, as they looked, it was touched lightly, as + with a great finger, and the dawn glowed mistily up the walls. + </p> + <p> + They crossed swiftly and mounted the steps, between the lions, the child’s + feet stumbling a little as they went, but Achilles’s hand held fast + and his touch on the bell summoned hurrying feet... there was a fumbling + at the chains—a swift, cautious creak, and the door swung back. + “Who is it?” said a voice that peered out. The dawn touched + his face grotesquely. + </p> + <p> + “It’s me!” said the child. “It’s Betty + Harris, Conner.” + </p> + <p> + The man’s face fell back. Then he darted forward and glared at the + child—through the mysterious, dawning light—on the dark, + tender face and the little lip that trembled—looking up—“My + God!” he said. He had darted from them. + </p> + <p> + The door was open wide and the two glided in silently, and stood in the + emptiness. Achilles led the child to a great divan across the hall and + placed her beside him—her little feet were crossed in the rough + shoes and her hands hung listless. + </p> + <p> + Behind a velvet curtain, the butler’s voice called frantic words—a + telephone bell rang sharply and whirred and rang a long fierce call and + the butler’s voice took it up and flung it back—“Yes, + sir. She’s here! Yes, sir—that’s what I said—she’s + a-settin’ here, sir—on the sofa—with the furriner—yes, + sir!” He put his head around the velvet curtain. “Will you + speak to your father, Miss?” + </p> + <p> + His awe-struck hand held the receiver and he helped the strange, little + figure to its seat in front of the ’phone. She put the tube to her + lips. “Hallo, Daddy. Yes, it’s Betty.... Mr. Achilles brought + me, father.... Yes—yes—your little Betty—yes—and I’m + all ri-i-ght....” The receiver dropped from her fingers. She had + buried her face in her arms and was sobbing softly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXVII + </h2> + <h3> + THE BIG BED + </h3> + <p> + Achilles sprang forward. “She’s all right, Mr. Harris—all + right!” His hand dropped to the trembling shoulder and rested there, + as his quiet voice repeated the words. He bent forward and lifted the + child in his arms and moved away with her. But before he had traversed the + long hall, the little head had fallen forward on his shoulder and the + child slept. Behind the velvet curtain, the voice of Conner wrestled + faintly with the telephone and all about them great lights glowed on the + walls; they lighted the great staircase that swept mistily up, and the + figure of Achilles mounting slowly in the stately, lonely house, the child + in his arms. His hand steadied the sleeping head with careful touch, + against his shoulder.... They were not jolting now, in heavy cars, through + the traffic streets—or wandering on the plain.... Little Betty + Harris had come home. + </p> + <p> + Above them at the top of the long stairs, a grey figure appeared, and + paused a moment and looked down. Then Miss Stone descended swiftly, her + hands outstretched—they did not touch the sleeping child, but + hovered above her with a look—half pain—half joy. + </p> + <p> + Achilles smiled to her—“She come home,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + She turned with quick breath and they mounted the stairs—the child + still asleep... through the long corridor—to the princess’s + room beyond—with its soft lights—and great, silken hangings + and canopied bed, open for the night—waiting for Betty Harris. + </p> + <p> + Achilles bent and laid her down, with lightest touch, and straightened + himself. “We let her sleep,” he said gently. “She—very + tired.” + </p> + <p> + They stood looking down—at the brown face and the little, tired lip + and sleeping lids.... Their eyes met, and they smiled.... They knew—these + two, out of all the world—they knew what it meant—that the + child was safe. + </p> + <p> + And out in the glowing dawn, the great car thundered home, and Betty + Harris’s mother looked out with swift eyes. + </p> + <p> + “See, Phil—the sun is up!” She reached out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Sit still, Louie—don’t tremble so—” he said + gently. “She is safe now—They have brought her home. She’s + there, you know, asleep.” He spoke slowly—as if to a child.... + He was gathering up the morning in his heart—this big, harsh, master + of men—his little girl was safe—and a common Greek—a man + out of the streets—peddling bananas and calling up and down—had + made his life worth living. His big, tense mind gripped the fact—and + held it. Something seemed speaking to him—out of the east, over + there, past the rushing car.... A common Greek.... He had flung his wealth + and hammered hard—but somehow <i>this</i> man had loved her—<i>his</i> + little girl! + </p> + <p> + “Phil—?” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Are we almost home?” + </p> + <p> + He looked out. “Half an hour yet—sit still, Louie—!” + He held her hand close. “Sit still!” he said—and the + miles slipped past. + </p> + <p> + “She is there—Phil! Yes? They wouldn’t lie to me. All + these weeks!” she said softly. “I don’t think I could + bear it much longer, Phil!” The tears were on her cheeks, raining + down and he put his rough face against her, adrift in a new world. + </p> + <p> + And over the great lake the sun burst out, on a flashing car—and the + door flung wide to Betty Harris’s mother, flying with swift, sure + foot up the great, stone steps.... “This way, ma’am—she’s + in here—her own room—this way, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + She was kneeling by the great canopied bed, her head bent very low. The + brown face trembled a breath... the child put up a hand in her dream, + “Mother-dear!” she said—and dreamed on.... + </p> + <p> + THE END <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mr. Achilles, by Jennette Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. ACHILLES *** + +***** This file should be named 4714-h.htm or 4714-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/7/1/4714/ + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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