The Orchard of Tears Part 9

"An omen!" cried Paul. "The world is _not_ past redemption!"

He spoke wildly, emotionally, not choosing his words, scarce knowing what he desired to convey. Jules Thessaly glanced aside at him.

"The world _desires_ redemption," he said. "It is for you to gratify the world's desire."

XII

The mystery which steals out from the woods, creeps down from the hills, and lurks beneath the shadowed hedgerows at beckoning of dusk, was abroad and potent when Paul Mario that evening walked up Babylon Lane towards the Hall. Elemental forces, which the ancients clothed in semi-human shape and named and feared, moved beside him and breathed strange counsels in his ear. The storm had released uneasy spirits from their bondage in crannies of primeval hills, and it was on such a night as this that many a child has glimpsed the Folk tripping lightly around those fairy-rings which science would have us believe due to other causes than the mystic dance. The Pipes of Pan were calling, and up in the aisles of the hills moonbeams slyly sought and found bare-limbed dryads darting from the eagerness of wooing fauns. Progress has banished those Pandean spirits from the woodlands, but the moon is the mother of magic, and her children steal out, furtive, half fearful, when she raises her lamp as of old.

Between prescience and imagination the borderline is ill defined.

Although Dovelands Cottage was seemingly sleeping, or deserted, Paul pictured Flamby standing by the stile beyond, where the orchard path began. And when, nearing it, he paused, looking to the right, there was she, a figure belonging to the elfin world of which he dreamed, and seemingly on the point of climbing over the stile.

"Flamby!" he cried.

She turned, descended, and came forward slowly, a wild-haired nymph; and that odd shyness which sat so ill upon her was manifest in her manner.

She had expected Paul; had really been waiting for him--and she felt that he knew it.

"Were you dreaming in the twilight?" he asked, merrily.

Flamby stood a little apart from him, staring down at the dusty road.

"No," she replied. "I was scared, so I came out."

"Scared? Of what?"

"Don't know. Just scared. Mother is over at Mrs. Fawkes', and it's not likely I was going with her."

"Why not?"

"She hates me," explained Flamby, with brief simplicity.

"But why should she hate you?"

"Don't know," said Flamby, busily burrowing a little hole in the road with the heel of her left shoe. Her shoes were new ones, and boasted impudently high heels. She had been proud of her arched instep when first she had worn the new shoes, and had been anxious that Paul, who hitherto had seen her shod in the clumsy boots which she called her "workers," should learn that she possessed small feet and slim ankles.

Now, perceiving his glance to be attracted to the burrowing operation, she flushed from brow to neck, convinced that he believed her to have worn the shoes for his particular admiration--which was true; and to have deliberately drawn his attention to them--which was untrue. She had been longing to hear Paul's voice again, and now that he stood before her she told herself that he must be comparing her with the hundreds of really pretty girls known to him, and thinking what an odd-looking, ignorant little fool she was. Gladly would Flamby have fled, but she lacked the courage to do so.

"So you were afraid," said Paul, smiling; "but not, on this occasion, of my late uncle, I hope?"

Flamby had half expected the question, but nevertheless it startled her.

A Latin tag entered her mind immediately. "_O_," she began--and her strange shyness overwhelming her anew, said no more.

Paul a.s.sumed that he had misunderstood her. "Pardon me," he prompted, "but I'm afraid I failed to catch what you said."

"I said '_no_,'" declared Flamby untruthfully, and silently blessed the dusk which veiled her flaming cheeks. Paul Mario abashed her. She delighted to be with him, and, with him, longed to run away. She had been conscious of her imperfections from the very moment that she had seen him in Bluebell Hollow, had hesitated to speak, doubting her command of English, had ceased to joy in her beauty, and had wondered if she appeared to Paul as a weird little gnome. Now, she was resolved never to see him again--to hide away from him, to forget him--or to try.

"You are a true artist, Flamby," he said; "a creature of moods. Perhaps to-night the fairy gates have opened for you as they have opened for me.

t.i.tania has summoned you out into the woods, and you are half afraid.

But the artist lives very near to Nature, and has nothing to fear from her. Surely you love these nights of the early moon?"

And as he spoke Flamby's resolution became as naught, and she knew that to hear him and to share his dreams was worth any sacrifice of self-esteem. Never since her father's death had she had a confidant to whom she might speak of her imaginings, from whom she might hope for sympathy and understanding. She forgot her shyness, forgot her new shoes.

"I have always loved the moon," she confessed. "Perhaps I thought of her as Isis once long ago."

Now it was Paul who hesitated and wondered, his respect for Flamby and for the complex personality who had tutored her growing apace.

"But in London they must hate the moon," she added, and the tone betokened one of her swift changes of mood.

"Yes," said Paul, raising his eyes, "the old G.o.ddess of the Nile seems to have transferred her allegiance to the Rhine." He glanced at the luminous disc of his watch. "I fear I am late. I shall call upon your mother to-morrow, if I may, and see if we can arrange something definite about your studies."

"Oh!" cried Flamby--"what time will you come?"

"May I come in the morning?"

"Of course."

"In the morning, then, about eleven o'clock. I must hurry, or Mr.

Thessaly will be waiting. What do you think of your new and wonderful neighbour?"

"I have heard that he is a clever man and very rich; but I have never seen him."

"Never seen him? And Babylon Hall is only a few hundred yards away."

"I know. But I have never seen Mr. Thessaly."

"How very queer," said Paul. "Well, good night, Flamby."

He took off his soft grey hat and extended his hand. All Flamby's shyness descended upon her like the golden shower on Danae, and barely touching the outstretched hand she whispered, "Good night, Mr. Mario,"

turned and very resolutely walked away, never once looking back.

At the gate of the cottage she began to limp, and upon the instant of entering the sitting-room, where Mrs. Duveen, returned from her visit, was lighting a large bra.s.s table lamp, Flamby dropped cross-legged upon the floor and tenderly removed her left shoe. Having got it free of her foot, she hurled it violently into the kitchen.

"h.e.l.l!" she said, succinctly.

"Flamby!" cried her mother, in a tone of mild reproval. "How can you swear like that!"

Flamby began to remove her stocking. "_You'd_ swear if you had a d.a.m.n great nail sticking in your heel!" she retorted.

XIII

Paul arrived at Babylon Hall exactly eight minutes late for his appointment. In the wonderful dusk unknown to the tropics, when sun contests with moon, disputing the reign of night, he walked up the long avenue past the silent lodge, and was shown into a small room adjoining the entrance hall. Of the latter he derived no very definite impression, except that it was queerly furnished. Wherein this queerness was manifested he found himself unable to decide on subsequent reflection.

But the ante-room was markedly Eastern, having Arabesque mosaics, rugs and low tables of the Orient, and being lighted by a bra.s.s mosque-lamp.

The footman who had opened the door for him was a foreigner of some kind, apparently a Greek.

He wondered at his reception; for the servant merely bowed and departed, without relieving him of hat and coat. Indeterminate, he stood, vaguely conscious of misgiving and questioning the stillness of the great house.

But almost immediately a young man entered whose face expressed the utmost concern. He was clean-shaven, except for those frustrated whiskers once sacred to stage butlers, but latterly adopted as the sigil of the New Bohemia. He had pleasing dark brown hair, and if nature had not determined otherwise, might have been counted a handsome brunette.

His morning-dress was worthy of Vesta Tilley's tailor. Paul detected the secretary even before the new arrival proclaimed his office.