Achilles brushed the new hat softly, turning it on his supple2 wrist with gentle pride. He took out the music-roll from the drawer and unrolled it, holding it in light fingers. He would carry it back to Betty Harris, and he would stay for a while and talk with her of his beloved Athens. Outside the sun gleamed. The breeze came fresh from the lake. As he made his way up the long drive of the Lake Shore, the water dimpled in the June sun, and little waves lapped the great stones, touching3 the ear with quiet sound. It was a clear, fresh day, with the hint of coming summer in the air. To the left, stone castles lifted themselves sombrely in the soft day. Grim or flaunting4, they faced the lake—castles from Germany, castles from France and castles from Spain. Achilles eyed them with a little smile as his swift, thin feet traversed the long stones. There were turrets5 and towers and battlements frowning upon the peaceful, workaday lake. Minarets6 and flowers in stone, and heavy marble blocks that gripped the earth. Suddenly Achilles’s foot slackened its swift pace. His eye dropped to the silver tag on the music-roll in his hand, and lifted itself again to a gleaming red-brown house at the left. It rose with a kind of lightness from the earth, standing7 poised8 upon the shore of the lake, like some alert, swift creature caught in flight, brought to bay by the rush of waters. Achilles looked at it with gentle eyes, a swift pleasure lighting10 his glance. It was a beautiful structure. Its red-brown front and pointed11, lifting roof had hardly a Greek line or hint; but the spirit that built the Parthenon was in it—facing the rippling12 lake. He moved softly across the smooth roadway and leaned against the parapet of stone that guarded the water, studying the line and colour of the house that faced him.
The man who planned it had loved it, and as it rose there in the light it was perfect in every detail as it had been conceived—with one little exception. On either side the doorway13 crouched14 massive grey-pink lions wrought15 in stone, the heavy outspread paws and firm-set haunches resting at royal ease. In the original plan these lions had not appeared. But in their place had been two steers—wide-flanked and short-horned, with lifted heads and nostrils16 snuffling free—something crude, brusque, perhaps, but full of power and quick onslaught. The house that rose behind them had been born of the same thought. Its pointed gable and its facades17, its lifted front, had the same look of challenge; the light, firm-planted hoofs18, the springing head, were all there—in the soft, red stone running to brown in the flanks.
The stock-yard owner and his wife had liked the design—with no suspicion of the symbol undergirding it. The man had liked it all—steers and red-brown stone and all—but the wife had objected. She had travelled far, and she had seen, on a certain building in Rome, two lions guarding a ducal entrance.
Now that the house was finished, the architect seldom passed that way. But when he did he swore at the lions, softly, as he whirred by. He had done a mighty19 thing—conceived in steel and stone a house that fitted the swift life out of which it came, a wind-swept place in which it stood, and all the stirring, troublous times about it. There it rose in its spirit of lightness, head up-lifted and nostrils sniffing20 the breeze—and in front of it squatted21 two stone lions from the palmy days of Rome. He gritted22 his teeth, and drove his machine hard when he passed that way.
But to Achilles, standing with bared head, the breeze from the lake touching his forehead, the lions were of no account. He let them go. The spirit of the whole possessed23 him. It was as if a hand had touched him lightly on the shoulder, in a crowd, staying him. A quick breath escaped his lips as he replaced his hat and crossed to the red-brown steps. He mounted them without a glance at the pink monsters on either hand. A light had come into his face. The child filled it.
The stiff butler eyed him severely24, and the great door seemed ready to close of itself. Only something in the poise9 of Achilles’s head, a look in his eyes, held the hinge waiting a grudging25 minute while he spoke26.
He lifted his head a little; the look in his eyes deepened. “I am called—Miss Elizabeth Harris—and her mother—to see,” he said, simply.
The door paused a little and swung back an inch. He might be a great savant... some scholar of parts—an artist. They came for the child—to examine her—to play for her—to talk with her.... Then there was the music-roll. It took the blundering grammar and the music-roll to keep the door open—and then it opened wide and Achilles entered, following the butler’s stateliness up the high, dark hall. Rich hangings were about them, and massive pictures, bronzes and statues, and curious carvings27. Inside the house the taste of the mistress had prevailed.
At the door of a great, high-ceiled room the butler paused, holding back the soft drapery with austere28 hand. “What name—for madame?” he said.
The clear eyes of Achilles met his. “My name is Achilles Alexandrakis,” he said, quietly.
The eyes of the butler fell. He was struggling with this unexpected morsel29 in the recesses30 of his being. Plain Mr. Alexander would have had small effect upon him; but Achilles Alexandrakis—! He mounted the long staircase, holding the syllables31 in his set teeth.
“Alexandrakis?” His mistress turned a little puzzled frown upon him. “What is he like, Conner?”
The man considered a safe moment. “He’s a furriner,” he said, addressing the wall before him with impassive jaw32.
A little light crossed her face—not a look of pleasure. “Ask Miss Stone to come to me—at once,” she said.
The man bowed himself out and departed on silken foot.
Miss Stone, gentle and fluttering and fine-grained, appeared a moment later in the doorway.
“He has come,” said the woman, without looking up.
“The Greek—I told you—”
“Oh—The Greek—!” It was slow and hesitant. It spoke volumes for Miss Stone’s state of mind. Hours of Greek history were in it, and long rows of tombs and temples—the Parthenon of gods and goddesses, with a few outlying scores of heroes and understudies. “The—Greek,” she repeated, softly.
“The Greek,” said the woman, with decision. “He has asked for Betty and for me. I cannot see him, of course.”
“And Betty—?” said Miss Stone, waiting.
“The child must see him. Yes, of course. She would be heart-broken—You drive at three,” she added, without emphasis.
“We drive at three,” repeated Miss Stone.
She moved quietly away, her grey gown a bit of shimmering36 in the gorgeous rooms. She had been chosen for the very qualities that made her seem so curiously37 out of place—for her gentleness and unassuming dignity, and a few ancestors. The country had been searched for a lady—so much the lady that she had never given the matter a thought. Miss Stone was the result. If Betty had charm and simplicity38 and instinctive39 courtesy toward those whom she met, it was only what she saw every day in the little grey woman who directed her studies, her play, her whole life.
The two were inseparable, light and shadow, morning and night. Betty’s mother in the house was the grand lady—beautiful to look upon—the piece of bronze, or picture, that went with the house; but Miss Stone was Betty’s own—the little grey voice, a bit of heart-love, and something common and precious.
They came down the long rooms together, the child’s hand resting lightly in hers, and her steps dancing a little in happy play. She had not heard the man’s name. He was only a wise man whom she was to meet for a few minutes, before she and Miss Stone went for their drive. The day was full of light outside—even in the heavily draped rooms you could feel its presence. She was eager to be off, out in the sun and air of the great sea of freshness, and the light, soft wind on her face.
Then she saw the slim, dark man who had risen to meet her, and a swift light crossed her face.... She was coming down the room now, both hands out-stretched, fluttering a little in the quick surprise and joy. Then the hands stayed themselves, and she advanced demurely40 to meet him; but the hand that lifted itself to his seemed to sing like a child’s hand—in spite of the princess.
“I am glad you have come,” she said. “This is Miss Stone.” She seated herself beside him, her eyes on his face, her little feet crossed at the ankle. “Have you any new fruit to-day?” she asked, politely.
He smiled a little, and drew a soft, flat, white bit of tissue from his pocket, undoing41 it fold on fold—till in the centre lay a grey-green leaf.
He nodded quickly. “I thought of you. It is the Eastern citron. See—” He lifted the leaf and held it suspended. “It hangs like this—and the fruit is blue—grey-blue like—” His eye travelled about the elaborate room. He shook his head slowly. Then his glance fell on the grey gown of Miss Stone as it fell along the rug at her feet, and he bowed with gracious appeal for permission. “Like the dress of madame,” he said—“but warmer, like the sun—and blue.”
A low colour crept up into the soft line of Miss Stone’s cheek and rested there. She sat watching the two with slightly puzzled eyes. She was a lady—kindly and gracious to the world—but she could not have thought of anything to say to this fruit-peddler who had seemed, for days and weeks, to be tumbling all Greek civilisation43 about her head. The child was chatting with him as if she had known him always. They had turned to each other again, and were absorbed in the silken leaf—the man talking in soft, broken words, the child piecing out the half-finished phrase with quick nod and gesture, her little voice running in and out along the words like ripples44 of light on some dark surface.
The face of Achilles had grown strangely radiant. Miss Stone, as she looked at it again, was almost startled at the change. The sombre look had vanished. Quick lights ran in it, and little thoughts that met the child’s and laughed. “They are two children together,” thought Miss Stone, as she watched them. “I have never seen the child so happy. She must see him again.” She sat with her hands folded in her grey lap, a little apart, watching the pretty scene and happy in it, but outside it all, untouched and grey and still.
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1
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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2
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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3
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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4
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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5
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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6
minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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7
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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10
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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12
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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13
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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14
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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16
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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17
facades
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| n.（房屋的）正面( facade的名词复数 )；假象，外观 | |
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18
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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20
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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21
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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22
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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23
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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24
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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25
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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26
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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27
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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28
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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29
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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30
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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31
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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32
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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33
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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34
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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35
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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36
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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37
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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38
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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39
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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40
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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41
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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44
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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