“ONCE--I--SAW--”
Miss Stone sat by the boy on the lawn at Idlewood. A great canopy of
khaki duck was spread above them, and the boy lay on a wicker couch that
could be lifted and carried from place to place as the wind or the sun,
or a whim directed.
Five days they had been here--every day full of sunshine and the
fragrance of flowers from the garden that ran along the terraces from
the house to the river bank, and was a riot of midsummer colour and
scent. The boy’s face had gained clear freshness and his eyes, fixed on
Miss Stone’s face, glowed. “I like--it--here,” he said.
“Yes, Alcie.” Miss Stone bent toward him. “You are getting strong every
day--you will soon be able to walk--to-morrow, perhaps.” She glanced at
the thin legs under their light covering.
The boy laughed a little and moved them. “I can walk now--” he declared.
But she shook her head. “No, I will tell you a story.” So her voice went
on and on in the summer quiet--insects buzzed faintly, playing the song
of the day. Bees bumbled among the flowers and flew past, laden. The
boy’s eyes followed them. The shadow of a crow’s wing dropped on the
grass and drifted by. The summer day held itself--and Miss Stone’s voice
wove a dream through it.
When the boy opened his eyes again she was sitting very quiet, her hands
in her lap, her eyes fixed on the river that flowed beyond the garden.
The boy’s eyes studied her face. “Once--I--saw--you--” he said. His hand
stole out and touched the grey dress.
Miss Stone started. They had waited a long time--but not for this. “Yes,
Alcie, once you saw me--go on--”
“--saw you--in a carriage,” finished Alcie, with quick smile. “You ride
straight--you--straight--now.” He looked at her with devoted eyes.
“Yes.” She was holding her breath, very evenly--and she did not look at
him, but at the distant river. They seemed held in a charm--a word might
break it.
The boy breathed a happy sigh--that bubbled forth. “I like it--here,” he
said dreamily.... Should she speak?
The long silence spread between them. The bird sang in the wood--a
clear, mid-summer call.
The boy listened, and turned his eyes. “A little girl--with you then,”
he said softly, “in carriage. Where is little girl?” It was the first
question he had asked.
She swayed a little--in her grey softness--but she did not look at him,
but at the river. “You would like that little girl, Alcie,” she said
quietly. “We all love her. Some day you shall see her--only get well and
you shall see her.” It was a soft word, like a cry, and the boy looked
at her with curious eyes.
“I get well,” he said contentedly, “I see her.” He slipped a hand under
his cheek and lay quiet.
“Doing well,” said the surgeon, “couldn’t be better.” He had run down
for the day and was to go back in the cool evening.
He stood with Philip Harris on the terrace overlooking the river. Harris
threw away a stump of cigar. “You think he will make complete recovery?”
“No doubt of it,” said the surgeon promptly.
“Then--?” Philip Harris turned a quick eye on him.
But the man shook his head. “Wait,” he said--and again, slowly, “wait.”
The darkness closed around them, but they did not break it. A faint
questioning honk sounded, and Philip Harris turned. “The car is ready,”
he said, “to take you back.”