Part 4 (2/2)
VII
TO MEET THE ”HALCYON CLUB”
Outside the door the horses pranced, champing a little at the bit, and turning their s.h.i.+ning, arching necks in the sun. Other carriages drove up and drove away. Rich toilets alighted and mounted the red-brown steps--hats that rose, tier on tier, riotous parterres of flowers and feathers and fruit, close little bonnets that proclaimed their elegance by velvet knot or subtle curve of brim and crown. Colours flashed, ribbon-ends fluttered, delicately shod feet scorned the pavement. It was the Halcyon Club of the North Side, a.s.sembling to listen to Professor Addison Trent, the great epigraphist, who was to discourse to them on the inscriptions of Cnossus, the buried town of Crete. The feathers and flowers and boas were only surface deep. Beneath them beat an intense desire to know about epigraphy--all about it. The laughing faces and daintily shod feet were set firmly in the way of culture. They swept through the wide doors, up the long carved staircase--from the Caracci Palace in Florence--into the wide library, with its arched ceiling and high-shelved books and glimpses of busts and pedestals. They fluttered in soft gloom, and sank into rows of adjustable chairs and faced sternly a little platform at the end of the room. The air of culture descended gratefully about them; they buzzed a little in its dim warmth and settled back to await the arrival of the great epigraphist.
The great epigraphist was, at this moment, three hundred and sixty-three and one-half miles--to be precise--out from New York. He was sitting in a steamer-chair, his feet stretched comfortably before him, a steamer-rug wrapped about his ample form, a grey cap pulled over his eyes--dozing in the sun. Suddenly he sat erect. The rug fell from his person, the visor shot up from his eyes. He turned them blankly toward the sh.o.r.eless West. This was the moment at which he had instructed his subconscious self to remind him of an engagement to lecture on Cretan inscriptions at the home of Mrs. Philip Harris on the Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive, Chicago, Illinois. He looked again at the sh.o.r.eless West and tried to grasp it. It may have been his subconscious self that reminded him--it may have been the telepathic waves that travelled toward him out of the half-gloom of the library. They were fifty strong, and they travelled with great intensity--”Had any one seen him--?” ”Where was he?” ”What was wrong?” ”Late!” ”_Very_ late!” ”Such a punctual man!” The waves fluttered and spread and grew. The president of the club looked at the hostess. The hostess looked at the president. They consulted and drew apart. The president rose to speak, clearing her throat for a pained look. Then she waited.... The hostess was approaching again, a fine resolution in her face. They conferred, looking doubtfully at the door. The president nodded courageously and seated herself again on the platform, while Mrs. Philip Harris pa.s.sed slowly from the room, the eyes of the a.s.sembled company following her with a little look of curiosity and dawning hope.
VIII
AND GIVE A SIMPLE LECTURE
In the doorway below she paused a moment, a little startled at the scene. The bowed heads, the bit of folded tissue, the laughing, eager tones, the look in Miss Stone's face held her. She swept aside the drapery and entered--the stately lady of the house.
The bowed heads were lifted. The child sprang to her feet. ”Mother-dear!
It is my friend! He has come!” The words sang.
Mrs. Philip Harris held out a gracious hand. She had not intended to offer her hand. She had intended to be distant and kind. But when the man looked up she somehow forgot. She held out the hand with a quick smile.
The Greek was on his feet, bending above it. ”It is an honour, madame--that you come.”
”I have come to ask a favour,” she replied, slowly, her eyes travelling over the well-brushed clothes, the clean linen, the slender feet of the man. Favour was not what she had meant to say--privilege was nearer it.
But there was something about him. Her voice grew suave to match the words.
”My daughter has told me of you--” Her hand rested lightly on the child's curls--a safe, unrumpled touch. ”Her visit to you has enchanted her. She speaks of it every day, of the Parthenon and what you told her.”
The eyes of the man and the child met gravely.
”I wondered whether you would be willing to tell some friends of mine--here--now--”
He had turned to her--a swift look.
She replied with a smile. ”Nothing formal--just simple things, such as you told the child. We should be very grateful to you,” she added, as if she were a little surprised at herself.
He looked at her with clear eyes. ”I speak--yes--I like always--to speak of my country. I thank you.”
The child, standing by with eager feet, moved lightly. Her hands danced in softest pats. ”You will tell them about it--just as you told me--and they will love it!”
”I tell them--yes!”
”Come, Miss Stone.” The child held out her hand with a little gesture of pride and loving. ”We must go now. Good-bye, Mr. Achilles. You will come again, please.”
”I come,” said Achilles, simply. He watched the quaint figure pa.s.s down the long rooms beside the s.h.i.+mmering grey dress, through an arched doorway at the end, and out of sight. Then he turned to his hostess with the quick smile of his race. ”She is beautiful, madame,” he said, slowly. ”She is a child!”
The mother a.s.sented, absently. She was not thinking of the child, but of the fifty members of the Halcyon Club in the library. ”Will you come?”
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