Part 5 (1/2)
she said. ”My friends are waiting.”
He spread his hands in quick a.s.sent. ”I come--as you like. I give pleasure--to come.”
She smiled a little. ”Yes, you give pleasure.” She was somehow at ease about the man. He was poor--illiterate, perhaps, but not uncouth.
She glanced at him with a little look of approval as they went up the staircase. It came to her suddenly that he harmonised with it, and with all the beautiful things about them. The figure of Professor Trent flashed upon her--short and fat and puffing, and yearning toward the top of the stair. But this man. There was the grand air about him--and yet so simple.
It was almost with a sense of eclat that she ushered him into the library. The air stirred subtly, with a little hush. The president was on her feet, introducing Mr. Achilles Alexandrakis, who, in the unavoidable absence of Professor Trent, had kindly consented to speak to them on the traditions and customs of modern Greek life.
Achilles's eyes fell gently on the lifted faces. ”I like to tell you about my home,” he said, simply. ”I tell you all I can.”
The look of strain in the faces relaxed. It was going to be an easy lecture--one that you could know something about. They settled to soft attention and approval.
Achilles waited a minute--looking at them with deep eyes. And suddenly they saw that the eyes were not looking at them, but at something far away--something beautiful and loved.
It is safe to say that the members of the Halcyon Club had never listened to anything quite like the account that Achilles Alexandrakis gave them that day, in the gloomy room of the red-fronted house overlooking the lake, of the land of his birth. They scarcely listened to the actual words at first, but they listened to him all lighted up from far away. There was something about him as he spoke--a sweeping rhythm that flew as a bird, reaching over great s.p.a.ces, and a simple joy that lilted a little and sang.
He drew for them the Parthenon--the glory of Athens--in column and statue and mighty temple and crumbling tomb.... A sense of beauty and wonder and still, clear light pa.s.sed before them.
Then he paused... his voice laughed a little, and he spoke of his people.... n.o.body could have quite told what he said to them about his people. But flutes sang. The sound of feet was on the gra.s.s--touching it in tune--swift-flitting feet that paused and held a rhythmic measure while it swung. Quick-beating feet across the green. Shadowy forms.
The sway of gowns, light-falling, and the call of voices low and sweet.
Greek youth and maid in swiftest play. They flung the branches wide and trembled in the voiceless light that played upon the gra.s.s. The foot of Achilles half-beat the time. The tones filled themselves and lifted, slowly, surely. The voice quickened--it ran with faster notes, as one who tells some eager tale. Then it swung in cradling-song the twilight of Athens--and the little birds sang low, twittering underneath the leaves--in softest garb--at last--rose leaves falling--the dusky bats around her roof-tops, and the high-soaring sky that arches all--mysterious and deep. Then the voice sank low, and rang and held the note--stern, splendid--Athens of might. City of Power! Glory, in changing word, and in the lift of eye. Athens on her hills, like great Jove enthroned--the shout, the triumph, the clash of steel, and the feet of Alaric in the streets. The voice of the Greek grew hoa.r.s.e now, tiny cords swelled on his forehead. Athens, city of war. Desolation, fire, and trampling--! His eye was drawn in light. Vandal hand and iron foot!...
Who shall say how much of it he told--how much of it he spoke, and how much was only hinted or called up--in his voice and his gesture and his eye. They had not known that Athens was like this! They spoke in lowered voices, moving apart a little, and making place for the silver trays that began to pa.s.s among them. They glanced now and then at the dark man nibbling his biscuit absently and looking with unfathomable eyes into a teacup.
A large woman approached him, her ample bust covered with little beads that rose and fell and twinkled as she talked. ”I liked your talk, Mr.
Alexis, and I am going over just as soon as my husband can get away from his business.” She looked at him with approval, waiting for his.
He bowed with deep, grave gesture. ”My country is honoured, madame.”
Other listeners were crowding upon them now, commending the fire-tipped words, felicitating the man with pretty gesture and soft speech, patronising him for the Parthenon and his country and her art. ... The mistress of the house, moving in and out among them, watched the play with a little look of annoyance.... He would be spoiled--a man of that cla.s.s. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand. It bore the name, ”Achilles Alexandrakis,” and below it a generous sum to his order.
She made her way toward him, and waited while he disengaged himself from the little throng about him and came to her, a look of pleasure and service in his face.
”You speak to me, madame?”
”I wanted to give you this.” She slipped the check into the thin fingers. ”You can look at it later--”
But already the fingers had raised it with a little look of pleased surprise.... Then the face darkened, and he laid the paper on the polished table between them. There was a quick movement of the slim fingers that pushed it toward her.
”I cannot take it, madame--to speak of my country. I speak for the child--and for you.” He bowed low. ”I give please to do it.”
The next moment he had saluted her with gentle grace and was gone from the room--from the house--between the stone lions and down the Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive, his free legs swinging in long strides, his head held high to the wind on the opal lake.
A carriage pa.s.sed him, and he looked up. Two figures, erect in the sun, the breath of a child's smile, a bit of s.h.i.+mmer and grey, the flash and beat of quick hoofs--and they were gone. But the heart of Achilles sang in his breast, and the day about him was full of light.
IX
BETTY LEAVES HER G.o.dS