“When it comes, it may come all at once,” the surgeon had said, “and
overwhelm him. Better lead up to it--if we can--let him recall it--a bit
here--a bit there--feel his way back--to the old place--to himself.”
“Where my child is,” said Philip Harris.
“Where your child is,” repeated the surgeon, “and that clue runs through
the frailest, intangiblest matter that fingers ever touched.” He had
looked down at his own thin, long, firm fingers as if doubting that they
could have held that thread for a moment and left it intact.
Philip Harris moved restively a little, and came back. “There has not
been a word for seven weeks,” he said, “not a breath--”
“They told you--?” said the surgeon.
“That they would wait three months! Yes!” Philip Harris puffed fiercely.
“It is hell!” he said.
“The boy is better,” said the surgeon. “You have only to wait a little
longer now.”
And he was whirred away in the great car--to the children that needed
him, and Idlewood had settled, in its charmed stillness, into the
night.... No one would have guessed that it was a state of siege
there--the world passed in and out of the big gates--automobiles and
drays and foot passengers, winding their way up to the low, rambling
house that wandered through the flowers toward the river and the wood.
Windows were open everywhere and voices sounded through the garden.
In one of the rooms, darkened to the light, the mistress of the house
lay with closed eyes. She could not bear the light, or the sound of
voices--listening always to hear a child’s laugh among them--the gay
little laugh that ran toward her in every room, and called.
She had shut herself away, and only Philip Harris came to the closed
room, bringing her news of the search, or sitting quietly by her in the
darkness. But for weeks there had been no news, no clue. The search
was baffled.... They had not told her of the Greek boy and the muttered
words.
“Better not trouble her,” the physician had urged. “She cannot bear
disappointment--if nothing comes of it.”
And no word filtered through to the dim room... and all the clues
withdrew in darkness.
Out in the garden Alcibiades and Miss Stone worked among the flowers. It
was part of the cure--that they should work there among growing things
every day--close to the earth--and his voice sounded happily as they
worked.
The woman in the closed room turned her head uneasily. She listened a
moment. Then she called.... Marie stood in the doorway.
“Who is _there_--Marie--in the garden?”
The maid stole to the window and peered through the shutters. She came
back to the bed. “It’s a boy,” she said, “a Greek boy--and Miss Stone.”
“Why is he here?” asked the woman, querulously.
The maid paused--discreet. She knew--everyone except the woman lying
with closed eyes--knew why the boy was here.... She bent and adjusted
the pillow, smoothing it. “He is someone Mr. Harris sent down,” she
said, “someone to get well.”
There was no reply. The woman lay quiet. “I want to get up, Marie,” she
said at last. “It is stifling here.”
“Yes, Madame.”
The windows were opened a little--the light came in slowly, and
Mrs. Philip Harris stepped at last into the loggia that led from her
windows--out toward the garden. Grapevines climbed the posts and tendril
shadows were on the ground beneath. They rested on the frail figure
moving under them toward the light.
Marie hovered near her, with pillows and a sunshade, and her face full
of care.
But the woman waved her back. “I do not need you, Marie. Here--I will
take the sunshade. Now, go back.” She moved on slowly. The voices had
died away. In the distance, she saw Miss Stone, moving toward the wood,
alone. She paused for a moment, watching the grey figure--a little cloud
passed across her face. She had not seen Miss Stone--since... she did
not blame her--but she could not see her. She moved on slowly, the
light from the sunshade touching the lines in her face and flushing them
softly. Suddenly she stopped. On a low couch, a little distance away, a
boy lay asleep. She came up to him softly and stood watching him. There
was something in the flushed face, in the childish, drooping lip and
tossed hair--that reminded her. Slowly she sank down beside him, hardly
breathing.
All about them, the summer went on--the quiet, gentle warmth and the
fresh scent of blossoms. The boy murmured a little, and threw out an
arm, and slept on. The woman’s eyes watched the sleeping face. Something
mysterious was in it--a look of other worlds. It was the look of
Betty--at night... when she lay asleep. It certainly was from some other
world. The woman bent forward a little. The dark eyes opened--and looked
at her--and smiled. The boy sat up. “I sleep,” he said.
He rubbed his eyes, boyishly, smiling still to her. “I very sleepy,” he
said. “I work.” He rubbed his arms. “I work hard.”
She questioned him and moved a little away, and he came and sat at her
feet, telling her of himself--with quiet slowness. As she questioned him
he told her all that he knew. And they chatted in the sunshine--subtly
drawn to each other--happy in something they could not have said.
The boy had grown refined by his illness--the sturdy hands that had
guided the push-cart had lost their roughened look and seemed the shape
of some old statue; and the head, poised on the round throat, was as if
some old museum had come to life and laughed in the sun. If Mrs. Philip
Harris had seen Alcibiades shoving his cart before him, along the
cobbled street, his head thrown back, his voice calling “Ban-an-nas!”
as he went, she would not have given him a thought. But here, in her
garden, in the white clothes that he wore, and sitting at her feet, it
was as if the gates to another world had opened to them--and both looked
back together at his own life. The mystery in the boy’s eyes stirred
her--and the sound of his voice... there was something in it... beauty,
wonder--mystery. She drew a quick breath. “I think I will go in,” she
said, and the boy lifted himself to help her--and only left her, under
the loggia, with a quick, grateful flash of the dark smile.
Mrs. Philip Harris slept that night--the chloral, on the little table
beside her, untouched. And the next day found her in the garden.
All the household watched--with quickened hope. The mistress of the
house had taken up her life, and the old quick orders ran through the
house. And no one spoke of the child. It was as if she were asleep--in
some distant room--veiled in her cloud. But the house came back to its
life. Only, the social groups that had filled it every summer were not
there. But there was the Greek boy, in the garden, and Miss Stone, and
Philip Harris whirring out at night and sitting on the terrace in the
dusk, the light of his cigar glimmering a little, as he watched the
Greek boy flung on the ground at his feet, his eyes playing with the
stars. He knew them all by name under the skies of Greece. Achilles had
taught them to him; and he counted them, like a flock, as he lay on the
terrace--rolling out the great Greek names while they girdled the sky
above him in a kind of homely chant.
When the boy had gone to bed Philip Harris remained smoking thoughtfully
and looking still at the stars. He had had a long talk with the surgeon
to-day and he had given his consent. The boy was well, he admitted--as
well as he was likely to be--perhaps. Give him three more days--then, if
nothing happened, they might question him.
Philip Harris threw away his cigar--and its glimmering light went out in
the grass. Overhead the great stars still circled in space, travelling
on toward the new day.