Book: Mr. Achilles

J >> Jennette Lee >> Mr. Achilles




She stepped down the last step into the hall. The outside door at
the end was open and through it she could see the men at work in the
garden--and the warm, shimmering air. She looked, with eager lip, and
took a step forward--and remembered--and turned toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Seabury had said she must have breakfast first--a good, big
breakfast--and then.... She opened the door and looked in. The woman was
standing by the stove. She looked up with a swift glance and nodded to
her. "That's right, dearie. Your breakfast is all ready--you come in and
eat it." She drew up a chair to the table and brought a glass of milk
and tucked the napkin under her brown chin, watching her with keen,
motherly eyes, while she ate.

"That's a good girl!" she said. She took the empty plate and carried
it to the sink. "Now you wait till I've washed these--and then--!" She
nodded toward the open window.

The child slipped down and came over to her and stood beside her while
she worked, her eyes full of little, wistful hope. "I've most forgot
about out-of-doors," she said.

"Oh, you remember it all right. It's just the same it always was," said
the woman practically. "Now I'll stir up some meal and we'll go feed the
chicks. I've got ten of 'em--little ones." She mixed the yellow meal
and stirred it briskly, and took down her sun-bonnet--and looked at the
child dubiously. "You haven't any hat," she said.

The child's hand lifted to the rough cropped hair. "I did have a
hat--with red cherries on it," she suggested.

The woman turned away brusquely. "That's gone--with your other
things--I'll have to tie a handkerchief on you."

She brought a big, coloured kerchief--red with blue spots on it--and
bound it over the rough hair--and stood back and looked at it, and
reached out her hand. "It won't do," she said thoughtfully. The small
face, outlined in the smooth folds, had looked suddenly and strangely
refined. The woman took off the handkerchief and roughened the hair with
careful hand.

The child waited patiently. "I don't need a hat, do I?" she said
politely.

The woman looked at her again and took up the dish of meal. "You're all
right," she said, "we shan't stay long."

"I should _like_ to stay a long, _long_ time!" said Betty.

The woman smiled. "You're going out every day, you know."

"Yes." The child skipped a little in the clumsy shoes, and they passed
into the sunshine.

The woman looked about her with practical eyes. In the long rows of the
garden the men were at work. But up and down the dusty road--across the
plain--no one was in sight, and she stepped briskly toward an open shed,
rapping the spoon a little against the side of the basin she carried,
and clucking gently.

The child beside her moved slowly--looking up at the sky, as if half
afraid. She seemed to move with alien feet under the sky. Then a handful
of yellow, downy balls darted from the shed, skittering toward them,
and she fell to her knees, reaching out her hands to them and crooning
softly. "The dear things!" she said swiftly.

The woman smiled, and moved toward the shed, tapping on the side of her
pan--and the yellow brood wheeled with the sound, on twinkling legs and
swift, stubby wings.

The child's eyes devoured them. "They belong to you, don't they?" she
cried softly. "They're your _own_--your very own chickens!" Her laugh
crept over them and her eyes glowed. "See the little one, Mrs.
Seabury! Just _see_ him run!" She had dropped to her knees
again--breathless--beside the board where they pushed and pecked and
gobbled the little, wet lumps of the meal, and darted their shiny black
bills at the board.

The woman handed her the pan. "You can feed them if you want to," she
said.

The child took the basin, with shining eyes, and the woman moved away.
She examined the slatted box--where the mother hen ran to and fro, with
clucking wings--and gave her some fresh water and looked in the row
of nests along the side of the shed, and took out a handful of eggs,
carrying them in wide-spread, careful fingers.

The child, squatting by the board, was looking about her with happy
eyes. She'd almost forgotten the prisoned room up stairs and the long
lonesome days. The woman came over to her, smiling. "I've found seven,"
she said. The child's eyes rested on them. Then they flitted to
the sunshine outside.... A yellow butterfly was fluttering in the
light--across the opening of the shed. It lighted on a beam and opened
slow wings, and the child's eyes laughed softly... she moved tiptoe...
"I saw a _beautiful_ butterfly once!" she said. But the woman did not
hear. She had passed out of the shed--around the corner--and was looking
after the chickens outside--her voice clucking to them lightly. The
child moved toward the butterfly, absorbed in shining thought. "It was
a _beautiful_ butterfly--" she said softly, "in a Greek shop." The wings
of the butterfly rose and circled vaguely and passed behind her, and
she wheeled about, peering up into the dark shed. She saw the yellow
wings--up there--poise themselves, and wait a minute--and sail toward
the light outside.... But she did not turn to follow its flight--Across
the brown boards of the shed--behind a pile of lumber, against the wall
up there--a head had lifted itself and was looking at her. She caught
her breath--"I saw a butterfly once!" she repeated dully. It was half
a sob--The head laid a long, dark finger on its lip and sank from
sight.... The child wheeled toward the open light--the woman was coming
in, her hands filled with eggs. "I must carry these in," she said
briskly. She looked at the child. "You can stay and play a little
while--if you want to. But you must not go away, you know."

"I will not go away," said the child, breathless.

So the woman turned and left her--and the child's eyes followed her.




XXXII

AND A VOICE

"Can you hear me, little Miss Harris?" The voice came from the dusky
shed, high up against the wall.

But the child did not turn her head. "Yes--Mr. Achilles--I can hear you
very well," she said softly.

"Don't look this way," said the voice. "Get down and look at the
chickens--and listen to what I tell you."

The child dropped obediently to her knees, her head a little bent, her
face toward the open light outside.

The woman, going about her work in the kitchen, looked out and saw her
and nodded to her kindly--

The child's lips made a little smile in return. They were very pale.

"I come to take you home," said the voice. It was full of tenderness and
Betty Harris bent her head, a great wave of homesickness sweeping across
her.

"I can't go, Mr. Achilles." It was like a sob. "I can't go. They will
kill you. I heard them. They will kill _anybody_--that comes--!" She
spoke in swift little whispers--and waited. "Can you hear me say it?"
she asked. "Can you hear me say it, Mr. Achilles?"

"I hear it--yes." The voice of Achilles laughed a little. "They will
not kill--little lady, and you go home--with me--to-night." The voice
dropped down from its high place and comforted her.

She reached out little hands to the chickens and laughed tremulously. "I
am afraid," she said softly, "I am afraid!"

But the low voice, up in the dusk, steadied her and gave her swift
commands--and repeated them--till she crept from the dim shed into the
light and stood up--blinking a little--and looked about her--and laughed
happily.

And the woman came to the door and smiled at her. "You must come in,"
she called.

"Yes--Mrs. Seabury--" The child darted back into the shed and gathered
up the spoon and basin from the board and looked about her swiftly. In
the slatted box, the mother hen clucked drowsily, and wise cheeps from
beneath her wings answered bravely. The child glanced at the box, and up
at the dusky boards of the shed, peering far in the dimness. But there
was no one--not even a voice--just the high, tumbled pile of boards--and
the few nests along the wall and the mother hen clucking cosily behind
her slats--and the wise little cheeps.




XXXIII

"WAKE UP, MRS. SEABURY!"

The child lay with her hands clasped, breathing lightly. The sound of
voices came drowsily from the kitchen... she must not go to sleep! She
sat up and leaned toward the little window that looked out to the north.
Through the blackness the stars twinkled mistily, and she put her foot
carefully over the edge of the bed and slipped down. The window was
open--as far as the small sash allowed--and a warm, faint breeze came
across the plain to her. She leaned against the sill, looking out. It
was not far to the ground.... But she could see only vague blackness
down there, and she looked again up to the twinkling stars.... They were
little points of light up there, and she looked up trustfully while
the warm wind blew against her. Her heart was beating very hard--and
fast--but she was not afraid.... Mr. Achilles had said--not to be
afraid--and he was waiting--down there in the blackness to take her
home. She crept back to bed and lay down--very still. In the room below
there was a scraping of chairs and louder words--and footsteps....
Someone had opened the door under her window and the smell of tobacco
came up. Her little nose disdained it--and listened, alert. Footsteps
went out into the night and moved a little away on the gravel and came
back, and the door closed. She could hear the bolt click to its place
and the footsteps shuffle along the hall. The voices below had ceased
and the house was still--she was very sleepy now. But he had said--Mr.
Achilles had said.... She winked briskly and gave herself a little pinch
under the clothes--and sat up. It was a sharp little pinch--through many
thicknesses of clothes. Under the coarse nightgown buttoned carefully to
the throat, she was still wearing the red and green plaids and all
her day clothes. Only the clumsy shoes, slipped off, stood by the bed,
waiting for her. Her hand reached down to them cautiously, and felt
them--and she lay down and closed her eyes. There was a step on the
stairs--coming slowly. Betty Harris grew very still. If Mrs. Seabury
came in and stood and looked at her... she must cry out--and throw her
arms around her neck--and tell her _everything_! She could not hurt Mrs.
Seabury.... Mr. Achilles had said they would not hurt her. She had asked
him that--three times, herself--and Mr. Achilles had said it--no one
should hurt Mrs. Seabury--if Betty went away.... She held her breath....
The footsteps had come across the room--to her door--they waited
there... then they moved on--and she drew a free breath. Her heart
thumped to the vague movements that came and went in the next room--they
pottered about a little, and finally ceased and a light, indrawn breath
blew out the lamp--a hand was groping for the handle of her door--and
opening it softly--and the bare feet moved away. The bed-springs in the
next room creaked a little and everything was still. Betty Harris had a
quick sense of pain. Mrs. Seabury was kind to her! She had been so kind
that first day, when they brought her in out of the hot sun, and she had
stumbled on the stairs and sobbed out--Mrs. Seabury had picked her up
and carried her up the stairs and comforted her... and told her what it
meant--these strange harsh men seizing her in the open sunshine, as they
swept past--covering her mouth with hard hands and hurrying her out of
the city to this stifling place. She loved Mrs. Seabury. Perhaps they
would put her in prison... and _never_ let her out--and Mollie would not
get well. The child gave a little, quick sob, in her thought, and lay
very still. Mollie had been good once, and wicked men had hurt her...
and now her mother could not help her.... But Mr. Achilles said--yes--he
said it--no one should hurt her.... And with the thought of the Greek
she lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night.... There
was a long, light call somewhere across the plain, a train of heavy
Pullmans pushing through the night--the sound came to the child like a
whiff of breath, and passed away... and the crickets chirped--high and
shrill. In the next room, the breathing grew loud, and louder, in long,
even beats. Mrs. Seabury was asleep! Betty Harris sat up in bed, her
little hands clinched fast at her side. Then she lay down again--and
waited... and the breathing in the next room grew loud, and regular,
and full.... Mrs. Seabury was very tired! And Betty Harris listened,
and slipped down from the bed, and groped for her shoes--and lifted them
like a breath--and stepped high across the floor, in the dim room. It
was a slow flight... tuned to the long-drawn, falling breath of the
sleeper--that did not break by a note--not even when the brown hand
released the latch and a little, sharp click fell on the air.... "Wake
up, Mrs. Seabury! Wake up--for Mollie's sake--wake up!" the latch said.
But the sleeper did not stir--only the long, regular, dream-filled,
droning sleep. And the child crept down the stair--across the kitchen
and reached the other door. She was not afraid now--one more door! The
men would not hear her--they were asleep--Mrs. Seabury was asleep--and
her fingers turned the key softly and groped to the bolt above--and
pushed at it--hard--and fell back--and groped for it again--and
tugged... little beads of sweat were coming on the brown forehead. She
drew the back of her hand swiftly across them and reached again to the
bolt. It was too high--she could reach it--but not to push. She felt for
a chair, in the darkness--and lifted it, without a sound, and carried
it to the door and climbed up. There was a great lump in her throat now.
Mr. Achilles did not know the bolt would stick like this--she gave a
fierce, soft tug, like a sob--and it slid back. The knob turned and the
door opened and she was in the night.... For a moment her eyes groped
with the blackness. Then a long, quiet hand reached out to her--and
closed upon her--and she gave a little sob, and was drawn swiftly into
the night.




XXXIV

THE FLIGHT OF STARS

"Is that you, Mr. Achilles?" she asked--into the dark.

And the voice of Achilles laughed down to her. "I'm here--yes. It's me.
We must hurry now--fast. Come!"

He gripped the small hand in his and they sped out of the driveway,
toward the long road. Up above them the little stars blinked down, and
the warm wind touched their faces as they went. The soft darkness shut
them in. There was only the child, clinging to Achilles's great hand and
hurrying through the night. Far in the distance, a dull, sullen glow lit
the sky--the city's glow--and Betty's home, out there beneath it, in the
dark. But the child did not know. She would not have known which way the
city lay--but for Achilles's guiding hand. She clung fast to that--and
they sped on.

By and by he ran a little, reaching down to her--and his spirit touched
hers and she ran without fatigue beside him, with little breathless
laughs--"I--like--to run!" she said.

"Yes--come--" He hurried her faster over the road--he would not spare
her now. He held her life in his hand--and the little children--he saw
them, asleep in their dreams, over there in the glow.... "Come!" he
said. And they ran fast.

It was the first half hour he feared. If there was no pursuit, over the
dark road behind them, then he would spare her--but not now. "Come!" he
urged, and they flew faster.

And behind them the little house lay asleep--under its stars--no sign
of life when his swift-flashing glance sought it out--and the heart of
Achilles stretched to the miles and laughed with them and leaped out
upon them, far ahead.... He should bring her home safe.

Then, upon the night, came a sound--faint-stirring wings--a long-drawn
buzz and rush of air--deep notes that gripped the ground, far off--and
the pulse of pounding wheels--behind them, along the dark road.... And
Achilles seized the child by the shoulder, bearing her forward toward
the short grass--his quick-running hand thrusting her down--"Lie still!"
he whispered. The lights of the car had gleamed out, swaying a little in
the distance, as he threw his coat across her and pressed it flat. "Lie
still!" he whispered again, and was back in the road, his hand feeling
for the great banana knife that rested in his shirt--his eye searching
the road behind. There was time--yes--and he turned about and swung into
the long, stretching pace that covers the miles--without hurry, without
rest. The roar behind him grew, and flashed to light--and swept by--and
his eye caught the face of the chauffeur, as it flew, leaning intently
on the night; and in the lighted car behind him, flashed a face--a
man's face, outlined against the glass, a high, white face fixed upon
a printed page--some magnate, travelling at his ease, sleepless...
thundering past in the night--unconscious of the Greek, plodding in the
roadside dust.

Achilles knew that he had only to lift his hand--to cry out to them, as
they sped, and they would turn with leaping wheel. There was not a man,
hurrying about his own affairs, who would not gladly stop to gather
up the child that was lost. Word had come to Philip Harris--east
and west--endless offers of help. But the great car thundered by and
Achilles's glance followed it, sweeping with it--on toward the city and
the dull glow of sky. He was breathing hard as he went, and he plunged
on a step--two steps--ten--before he held his pace; then he drew a deep,
free breath, and faced about. The knife dropped back in his breast,
and his hand sought the revolver in his hip pocket, crowding it down a
little. He had been sure he could face them--two of them--three--as
many as might be. But the car had swept on, bearing its strangers to
the city... and the little house on the plain was still asleep. He had a
kind of happy superstition that he was to save the child single-handed.
He had not trusted the police... with their great, foolish fingers. They
could not save his little girl. She had needed Achilles--and he had held
the thread of silken cobweb--and traced it bit by bit to the place where
they had hidden her. He should save her!

He glanced at the stars--an hour gone--and the long road to tramp. He
ran swiftly to the child in the grass and lifted the coat and she leaped
up, laughing--as if it were a game; and they swung out into the road
again, walking with swift, even steps. "Are you tired?" asked Achilles.
But she shook her head.

His hand in his pocket, in the darkness, had felt something and he
pressed it toward her--"Eat that," he said, "you will be hungry."

She took it daintily, and felt of it, and turned it over. "What is it?"
she asked. Then she set her small teeth in it--and laughed out. "It's
chocolate," she exclaimed happily. She held it up, "Will you have a
bite, Mr. Achilles?"

But Achilles had drawn out another bit of tin-foil and opened it. "I
have yet more," he said, "--two--three--six piece. I put here in my
pocket, every day--I carry chocolate--till I find you. Every day I say,
'she be hungry, maybe--then she like chocolate'--"

She nibbled it in happy little nibbles, as they walked. "I didn't eat
any supper," she said. "I was too happy--and too afraid, I guess. That
was a long time ago," she added, after a minute.

"A long time ago," said Achilles cheerfully. He had taken her hand
again, and they trudged on under the stars.

"Nobody must hurt Mrs. Seabury!" said the child suddenly.

"I tell you that," said Achilles--he had half stopped on the road.
"Nobody hurt that good lady--she, your friend."

"Yes, she is my friend. She was good to me.... _She_ had a little girl
once--like me--and some bad men hurt her.... I don't think they stole
her--" She pondered it a minute--"I don't seem to understand--" she gave
a little swift sigh. "But Mrs. Seabury is going to take her a long, long
way off--and keep her always."

Achilles nodded. "We help her do that," he said. "They don't hurt that
good lady."

His eyes were on the stars, and he lifted his face a little, breathing
in the freshness. A swift star shot across the sky, falling to earth,
and he pointed with eager finger. The child looked up and caught the
falling flash, and they ran a little, as if to follow the leaping of
their hearts. Then they went more slowly, and Achilles's long finger
traced the heavens for her--the Greek gods up there in their swinging
orbits... the warm, August night of the world. Betty Harris had never
known the stars like this. Safe from her window, she had seen them
twinkle out. But here they swept about her--and the plain reached
wide--and close, in the darkness, a hand held her safe and the long
finger of Achilles touched the stars and drew them down for her... Orion
there, marching with his mighty belt--and Mars red-gleaming. The long,
white plume of the milky way, trailing soft glory on the sky--and the
great bear to the north. The names filled her ears with a mighty din,
Calliope, Venus, Uranus, Mercury, Mars--and the shining hosts of
heaven passed by. Far beyond them, mysterious other worlds gleamed and
glimmered--without name. And the heart of the child reached to them--and
travelled through the vast arches of space, with her dusty little feet
on the wide plain, and a hand holding hers, safe and warm down there in
the darkness. Her eyes dropped from the stars and she trudged on.

When Achilles spoke again, he was telling her of Alcibiades and Yaxis
and of the long days of waiting and the happiness their coming would
bring--and of her father and mother, asleep at Idlewood--and the great
house on the lake, ready always, night and day, for her coming--

"Do they know--?" she asked quickly, "that we are coming?"

"Nobody knows," said Achilles, "except you and me."

She laughed out, under the stars, and stood still. "We shall surprise
them!" she said.

"Yes--come!" They pressed on. Far ahead, foolish little stars had
glimmered out--close to the ground--the fingers of the city, stretching
toward the plain.

Her glance ran to them. "We're getting somewhere--?" she said swiftly.
"We're getting home!" Her hand squeezed his, swinging it a little.

"Not yet--" said Achilles, "not yet--but we shall take the car there.
You need not walk any more."

She was very quiet and he leaned toward her anxiously. "You are not
tired?" he asked.

"No--Mr. Achilles--I don't think--I'm tired--" She held the words
slowly. "I just thought we'd go on forever, walking like this--" She
looked up and swept her small hand toward the stars. "I thought it was
a dream--" she said softly--"Like the other dreams!" He felt a little,
quick throb run through her, and he bent again and his fingers touched
her cheek.

"I am not crying, Mr. Achilles," she said firmly, "I only just--"
There was a little, choking sound and her face had buried itself in his
sleeve.

And Achilles bent to her with tender gesture. Then he lifted his head
and listened. There was another sound, on the plain, mingling with the
sobs that swept across the child's frame.

He touched her quietly. "Someone is coming," he said.

She lifted her face, holding her breath with quick lip.

The sound creaked to them, and muffled itself, and spread across the
plain, and came again in irregular rhythm that grew to the slow beat of
hoofs coming upon the road.

Achilles listened back to the sound and waited a minute. Then he covered
the child, as before, with his coat and turned back, walking along the
road to meet the sound. It creaked toward him and loomed through the
light of the stars--a great market wagon loaded with produce--the driver
leaning forward on the seat with loose rein, half asleep. Suddenly he
lifted his head and tightened rein, peering forward through the dark at
the figure down there in the road. Achilles held his way.

"Hello!" said the man sharply.

Achilles paused and looked up--one hand resting lightly on his hip,
turned a little back--the other thrust in his breast.

The man's eyes scanned him through the dimness. "Where you bound for?"
he asked curtly.

"I walk," said Achilles.

"Want a job?" asked the man.

"You got job for me?" asked Achilles. His voice had all the guileless
caution of the foreigner astray in a free land. The man moved along on
the seat. "Jump up," he said.

Achilles looked back and forth along the road. "I think I go long," he
said slowly.

The man gave an impatient sound in his throat and clicked to the horses.
The heavy wagon creaked into motion, and caught its rhythm and rumbled
on.

Achilles's ears followed it with deepest caution. The creaking mass of
sound had passed the flat-spread coat without stop, and gathered itself
away into a slow rumble, and passed on in the blurring dark.

Beyond it, the little, low lights still twinkled and the suburb waited
with its trailing cars.

But when he lifted the coat she had fallen asleep, her face resting on
her arm, and he bent to it tenderly, and listened.




XXXV

AND CLANGING CARS

He looked up into the darkness and waited. He would let her sleep a
minute... there was little danger now. The city waited, over there, with
its low lights; and the friendly night shut them in. Before the morning
dawned he should bring her home--safe home.... A kind of simple pride
held him, and his heart leaped a little to the stars and sang with
them--as he squatted in the low grass, keeping guard.

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