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.
“I want the Greek boy,” she said, “send him to me!”
“Yes, madame.” Marie’s voice hurried itself away... and Alcibiades stood in the doorway, looking in.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And the mother fondled him and cried to him and questioned him again. She 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—
The door opened and she looked up and sprang forward. “Listen, Phil. He saw Betty!” Her hand trembled to the boy. “He saw her—that last day—it must be—tell him, Alcie—”
The boy was looking at him smiling quietly, and nodding to him.
Philip Harris closed the door with set face.
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