Part 24 (2/2)
Without, the west wind had increased suddenly, a cold steady wind, coasting down the Argentine pampas, bending the spa.r.s.e trees and giant thistle, ruffling the river, shallowing it, until to-morrow many a poor sailorman would regret his optimistic anchorage ... Shane s.h.i.+vered....
To-morrow October would be making a din in the streets.... And the poor skippers fighting their way round the Horn, icy winds and head seas and immense gray dirty-bearded waves.... To-morrow three men were to be shot in the 25 de Mayo for a political offense, and Shane could see them in the bleak dawn, three frightened stanch figures; the soldiers would be blowing their fingers in the cold air, and their triggers would be like ice to the touch ... the shoddy tragedy....
But within the room was warm, a little fire of coal in the unusual grate, and the soft and mellow lights of candles, and here and there gauchos' blankets on the wall, and here a comfortable chair and there a table of line, and bra.s.s things ... clean and ascetic, and yet something womanly about the place, the grace and composition of things.... And with her coming into her house, Hedda Hagen's manner had changed gently.... She was no longer frigid, aloof.... She unbent into calm smiles, and the grace of a hostess of the big world ... the quiet masonic signal of a certain caste....
”I wonder,” he said; ”am I dreaming?”
She paused suddenly. She had taken her hat off, and was touching things on the tables with her large fine hands. She turned her head toward him.
There was a half smile in her eyes.
”Why?”
”It doesn't seem right.”
”That you never saw me before, that you are here in this house after meeting me half an hour ago, and that you can stay here the night?”
”Yes.”
”Well, it's true.”
She was once more the hostess. It was as if some one had sprung nimbly from a little height to the ground.
”I can't give you any whisky. But I can make you tea. Or have my maid brew you some coffee.”
”Is that a Russian samovar?”
”Yes.”
”Then I'll have tea.”
So queer! Without the wind bl.u.s.tered and the little din of it crept into the room somehow, and within was warmth, and the stillness of still trees. And grace. Beauty moved like an actress on the stage. All her motions were harmonious, could have gone to some music on the violin.
Now it was the easy dropping to her knees as she lit the quaint Russian teapot, now an unconscious movement of her hand to push back a braid of her hair, now the firm certain motion of her strong white unringed fingers. Now her large graceful body moved like some heroic statue that had become quick with life. The thought came into his head, somehow, that if he had had a sister he would have liked her to have been like this splendid blond woman....
Yet into this house, where she had settled like some strange bird in an alien land, came s.h.i.+ps' masters, reeking with drink, came merchants with their minds full of buying and selling and all the petty meannesses of trade, came dark Latins who hankered for blond women....
”G.o.d! I can't understand.”
She came toward him frankly....
”_Amigo mio_, have you a right to understand?”
”I'm sorry.”
”No, but--see! You and I have often met. I mean: there is a plane of us, who must be loyal to one another. You understand. And to you, to one of us, I don't want to lie. Only certain persons have a right to ask. A father, a mother, a child, a sister or brother or husband. But our destinies touch only, hardly even that. Will never grip, bind. There is no right you have, beyond what--you buy; and there are things--I don't sell.”
”I'm sorry,” Shane turned aside. ”I was just carried away. But I should go.”
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