Part 93 (1/2)
A confused sense of unreasoning, immeasurable happiness rushed over him, and, in that sudden, astounding instant of self-revelation, self-amazement left him dumb.
She had given him both her slim white hands, and he held to them as though to find his bearings. Both were a trifle irrelevant and fragmentary.
”Do you c-care for tea, Jim?... What a night! What a fright you gave us.... There are _croissants_, too, and caviar.... I would not permit anybody to awaken you; and I was dying to see you----”
”I am so sorry you were anxious about me. And I'm tremendously hungry.... You see, Sengoun and I did not mean to remain out all night.... I'll help you with that tea; shall I?...”
He still retained her hands in his; she smiled and flushed in a breathless sort of way, and looked sometimes at the tea-kettle as though she never before had seen such an object; and looked up at him as though she had never until that moment beheld any man like him.
”The Princess Naa has left us quite alone,” she said, ”so I must give you some tea.” She was nervous and smiling and a little frightened and confused with the sense of their contact.
”So--I shall give you your tea, now,” she repeated.
She did not mention her manual inability to perform her promise, but presently it occurred to him to release her hands, and she slid gracefully into her chair and took hold of the silver kettle with fingers that trembled.
He ate everything offered him, and then took the initiative. And he talked--Oh, heaven! How he talked! Everything that had happened to him and to Sengoun from the moment they left the rue Soleil d'Or the night before, this garrulous young man detailed with a relish for humorous circ.u.mstance and a disregard for anything approaching the tragic, which left her with an impression that it had all been a tremendous lark--indiscreet, certainly, and probably reprehensible--but a lark, for all that.
Fireworks, shooting, noise, and architectural destruction he admitted, but casualties he skimmed over, and of death he never said a word. Why should he? The dead were dead. None concerned this young girl now--and, save one, no death that any man had died there in the shambles of the Cafe des Bulgars could ever mean anything to Rue Carew.
Some day, perhaps, he might tell her that Brandes was dead--not where or how he had died--but merely the dry detail. And she might docket it, if she cared to, and lay it away among the old, scarcely remembered, painful things that had been lived, and now were to be forgotten forever.
The silence of intensest interest, shy or excited questions, and the grey eyes never leaving his--this was her tribute.
Grey eyes tinged with golden lights, now clear with suspense, now brilliant at a crisis, now gentle, wondering, troubled, as he spoke of Ilse Dumont and the Russian girl, now charmingly vague as her mind outstripped his tongue and she divined something of the st.u.r.dy part he had played--golden-grey eyes that grew exquisite with her pride in him, tender with solicitude for him in dangers already pa.s.sed away--this was her tribute
Engaging grey eyes of a girl with the splendour and mystery of womanhood possessing her--attracting him, too, fascinating him, threatening, conquering, possessing him--this, the Greek gift of Rue Carew, her tribute.
And he took all, forgetting that the Greeks bore gifts; or, perhaps, remembering, rejoicing, happy in his servitude, he took into his heart and soul the tribute this young girl offered, a grateful, thankful captive.
The terrible cataclysm impending, menacing the world, they seemed powerless, yet, to grasp and comprehend and understand.
Outside, the street rippled and roared with the interminable clatter of pa.s.sing cavalry: the girl looked into the eyes of the boy across the tea-table, and her young eyes, half fearful yet enchanted, scarce dared divine what his eyes were telling her while his hurrying tongue chattered irrelevancies.
Three empires, two kingdoms, and a great republic resounded with the h.e.l.lish din of arming twenty million men. Her soft lips were touched with the smile of youth that learns for the first time it is beloved; her eyes of a child, exquisite, brooding, rested with a little more courage now on his--were learning, little by little, to sustain his gaze, endure the ardour that no careless, laughing speech of his could hide or dim or quench.
In the twilight of the streets there was silence, save for the rush of motors and the recurrent trample of armed men. But the heart of Rue Carew was afire with song--and every delicate vein in her ran singing to her heart.
There was war in the Eastern world; and palace and chancellery were ablaze. But they spoke of the West--of humble places and lowly homes; of still woodlands where mosses edged the brooks; of peaceful villages they both had known, where long, tree-shaded streets slept in the dappled shadow under the sun of noon.
Marotte came, silent, self-respecting, very grey and tranquil in his hour of trial.
There were two letters for Neeland, left by hand. And, when the old man had gone away bearing his silver tray among his heavier burdens:
”Read them,” nodded Rue Carew.