Mr. Achilles Part 5

she said. "My friends are waiting."

He spread his hands in quick a.s.sent. "I come--as you like. I give pleasure--to come."

She smiled a little. "Yes, you give pleasure." She was somehow at ease about the man. He was poor--illiterate, perhaps, but not uncouth.

She glanced at him with a little look of approval as they went up the staircase. It came to her suddenly that he harmonised with it, and with all the beautiful things about them. The figure of Professor Trent flashed upon her--short and fat and puffing, and yearning toward the top of the stair. But this man. There was the grand air about him--and yet so simple.

It was almost with a sense of eclat that she ushered him into the library. The air stirred subtly, with a little hush. The president was on her feet, introducing Mr. Achilles Alexandrakis, who, in the unavoidable absence of Professor Trent, had kindly consented to speak to them on the traditions and customs of modern Greek life.

Achilles's eyes fell gently on the lifted faces. "I like to tell you about my home," he said, simply. "I tell you all I can."

The look of strain in the faces relaxed. It was going to be an easy lecture--one that you could know something about. They settled to soft attention and approval.

Achilles waited a minute--looking at them with deep eyes. And suddenly they saw that the eyes were not looking at them, but at something far away--something beautiful and loved.

It is safe to say that the members of the Halcyon Club had never listened to anything quite like the account that Achilles Alexandrakis gave them that day, in the gloomy room of the red-fronted house overlooking the lake, of the land of his birth. They scarcely listened to the actual words at first, but they listened to him all lighted up from far away. There was something about him as he spoke--a sweeping rhythm that flew as a bird, reaching over great s.p.a.ces, and a simple joy that lilted a little and sang.

He drew for them the Parthenon--the glory of Athens--in column and statue and mighty temple and crumbling tomb.... A sense of beauty and wonder and still, clear light pa.s.sed before them.

Then he paused... his voice laughed a little, and he spoke of his people.... n.o.body could have quite told what he said to them about his people. But flutes sang. The sound of feet was on the gra.s.s--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 gra.s.s. 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 hoa.r.s.e now, tiny cords swelled on his forehead. Athens, city of war. Desolation, fire, and trampling--! His eye was drawn in light. Vandal hand and iron foot!...

Who shall say how much of it he told--how much of it he spoke, and how much was only hinted or called up--in his voice and his gesture and his eye. They had not known that Athens was like this! They spoke in lowered voices, moving apart a little, and making place for the silver trays that began to pa.s.s among them. They glanced now and then at the dark man nibbling his biscuit absently and looking with unfathomable eyes into a teacup.

A large woman approached him, her ample bust covered with little beads that rose and fell and twinkled as she talked. "I liked your talk, Mr.

Alexis, and I am going over just as soon as my husband can get away from his business." She looked at him with approval, waiting for his.

He bowed with deep, grave gesture. "My country is honoured, madame."

Other listeners were crowding upon them now, commending the fire-tipped words, felicitating the man with pretty gesture and soft speech, patronising him for the Parthenon and his country and her art. ... The mistress of the house, moving in and out among them, watched the play with a little look of annoyance.... He would be spoiled--a man of that cla.s.s. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand. It bore the name, "Achilles Alexandrakis," and below it a generous sum to his order.

She made her way toward him, and waited while he disengaged himself from the little throng about him and came to her, a look of pleasure and service in his face.

"You speak to me, madame?"

"I wanted to give you this." She slipped the check into the thin fingers. "You can look at it later--"

But already the fingers had raised it with a little look of pleased surprise.... Then the face darkened, and he laid the paper on the polished table between them. There was a quick movement of the slim fingers that pushed it toward her.

"I cannot take it, madame--to speak of my country. I speak for the child--and for you." He bowed low. "I give please to do it."

The next moment he had saluted her with gentle grace and was gone from the room--from the house--between the stone lions and down the Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive, his free legs swinging in long strides, his head held high to the wind on the opal lake.

A carriage pa.s.sed him, and he looked up. Two figures, erect in the sun, the breath of a child's smile, a bit of s.h.i.+mmer and grey, the flash and beat of quick hoofs--and they were gone. But the heart of Achilles sang in his breast, and the day about him was full of light.

IX

BETTY LEAVES HER G.o.dS

Little Betty Harris sat in the big window, bending over her G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds and found another and stuck it in place, and lifted itself in admiring delight.

There was a little rustle, and the child looked up. Miss Stone stood in the doorway, smiling at her.

"I'm making my book for the G.o.ds," 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 G.o.d a little pat, regarding him fondly.

Miss Stone bent above the book, with the smile of understanding that always lay between them. When Betty Harris thought about G.o.d, he seemed always, somehow, like Miss Stone's smile--but bigger--because he filled the whole earth. She lifted her hand and stroked the cheek bending above her book. "I'm making a place for them all," she said. "It's a kind of story--" She drew a sigh of quick delight.

Miss Stone closed the book decisively, touching the flushed face with her fingers. "Put it away, child--and the pictures. We're going to drive."

"Yes--Nono." It was her own pet name for Miss Stone, and she gave a little quick nod, closing the book with happy eyes. But she waited a moment, lugging the book to her and looking at the scattered G.o.ds in the great window, before she walked demurely across and began gathering them up--a little puzzled frown between her eyes. "I suppose I couldn't leave them scattered around?" she suggested politely.

Miss Stone smiled a little head-shake, and the child bent again to her work. "I don't like to pick up," she said softly. "It's more interesting not to pick up--ever." She lifted her face from a print of Apollo and looked at Miss Stone intently. "There might be G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds to pick themselves up. She bent again, the little sigh checking itself on her lip. Miss Stone did not like to have little girls object--and it was not polite, and besides you _had_ to take care of things--your own things.

The servants took care of the house for you, and brought you things to eat, and made beds for you, and fed the horses and ironed clothes... but your own things--the G.o.ds and temples and sc.r.a.pbooks and paste that you left lying about--you had to put away yourself! Her fingers found the paste-tube and screwed it firmly in place--with a little twist of the small mouth--and hovered above the prints with quick touch. The servants did things--other things. Constance mended your clothes and dressed you, and Marie served you at table, and sometimes she brought a nice little lunch if you were hungry--and you and Miss Stone had it together on the school table--but no one ever--ever--_ever_--picked up your playthings for you. She thrust the last G.o.d into his box and closed the lid firmly.

Then she looked up. She was alone in the big room... in the next room she could hear Miss Stone moving softly, getting ready for the drive.

She slipped from her seat and stood in the window, looking out--far ahead the lake stretched--dancing with green waves and little white edges--and down below, the horses curved their great necks that glistened in the sun--and the harness caught gleams of light. The child's eyes dwelt on them happily. They were her very own, Pollux and Castor--and she was going driving--driving in the sun. She hummed a little tune, standing looking down at them.

Behind her stretched the great room--high-ceiled and wide, and furnished for a princess--a child princess. Its canopied bed and royal draperies had come across the seas from a royal house--the children of kings had slept in it before Betty Harris. The high walls were covered with priceless decoration--yet like a child in every line. It was Betty's own place in the great house--and the little room adjoining, where Miss Stone slept, was a part of it, clear and fine in its lines and in the bare quiet of the walls. Betty liked to slip away into Miss Stone's room--and stand very still, looking about her, hardly breathing. It was like a church--only clearer and sweeter and freer--perhaps it was the woods--with the wind whispering up there. She always held her breath to listen in Miss Stone's room; and when she came back, to her own, child's room--with its canopied bed and royal draperies and colour and charm, she held the stillness and whiteness of Miss Stone's room in her heart--it was like a bird nestling there. Betty had never held a bird, but she often lifted her hands to them as they flew--and once, in a dream, one had fluttered into the lifted hands and she had held it close and felt the wind blow softly. It was like Miss Stone's room. But Miss Stone was not like that. You could hug Nono and tell her secrets and what you wanted for luncheon. Sometimes she would let you have it--if you were good--_very_ good--and Nono knew everything. She knew so much that Betty Harris, looking from her window, sighed softly. No one could know as much as Nono knew--not ever.

"All ready, Betty." It was Miss Stone in the doorway again. And with a last look down out of the window at the horses and the s.h.i.+mmering 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 s.h.i.+nes--they bob so nicely--" She paused with a quick look--"They _do_ bob, don't they, Nono?"

"I don't think I ever noticed," said Miss Stone. She was still smiling as she touched the tumbled hair, putting it in place.

"But they _must_ bob," said Betty. "I think I should have noticed your cherries bobbing, Miss Stone." She was looking intently at the quiet cheek close beside her own, with its little flush of pink, and the greyness of the hair that lay beside it. "I notice all your things, Nono," she said softly.

Miss Stone smiled again and drew her to her. "I will look to-day, Betty, when we drive--"

The child nodded--"Yes, they will bob then. I can see them--even with my eyes not shut, I can see them bob--Please, Constance--" She turned to the stiff maid who had come in--"I want my grey coat and red-cherry hat.

We're going to drive--in the sun."

The maid brought the garments and put them on with careful touch, tying the strings under the lifted chin.

The child nodded to her gaily. "Good-bye, Constance--we're going for a drive--a long drive--we shall go and go and go--Come, Miss Stone." She took the quiet hand, and danced a little, and held it close to her--down the long staircase and through the wide hall--and out to the suns.h.i.+ne and the street.

James, from his box, looked up, and the reins tightened in the big hands. The horses pranced and clicked their hoofs and stood still; and James, leaning a respectful ear, touched his hat-brim, and they were off, the harnesses glinting and the little red cherries bobbing in the sun.

X

FOR A LONG DRIVE

Betty Harris sat very still--her hands in her lap, her face lifted to the breeze that touched it swiftly and fingered her hair and swept past.

Presently she looked up with a nod--as if the breeze reminded her. "I should like to see Mr. Achilles," she said.

"Not to-day," answered Miss Stone, "we must do the errands for mother to-day, you know."