The Eye of Dread Part 50

"Then tell me, who is she just pa.s.sing?"

"The one whose clothing is so--so--as if she would pose for the--"

"Hush, Julie. The one in white and gold."

"I asked if it were she. Yes, I know her very well, for I saw a gentleman unmask her on the balcony above there, to kiss her. It is she who dances so wonderfully at the Opera Comique. You have seen her, Mademoiselle Fee. Ah, come. Let us dance. It is the most perfect waltz."

At the close of the waltz the owl came and took the little gypsy away from Robert, and a moment later he heard the mellifluous voice of his companion of the banquet.

"I am so weary, monsieur. Take me away where we may refresh ourselves."

The red-brown eyes looked pleadingly into his, and the slender fingers rested on his arm, and together they wandered to a corner of palms where he seated her and brought her cool wine jelly and other confections. She thanked him sweetly, and, drooping, she rested her head upon her hand and her arm on the arm of her chair.

"So dull they are, these fetes, and the people--bah! They are dull to the point of despair."

She was a dream of gold and white as she sat there--the red-gold hair and the red-brown eyes, and the soft gold and white draperies, too clinging, as the little gypsy had indicated, but beautiful as a gold and white lily. He sat beside her and gazed on her dreamily, but in a manner too detached. She was not pleased, and she sighed.

"Take the refreshment, mademoiselle; you will feel better. I will bring you wine. What will you have?"

"Oh, you men, who always think that to eat and drink something alone can refres.h.!.+ Have you never a sadness?"

"Very often, mademoiselle."

"Then what do you do?"

"I eat and drink, mademoiselle. Try it."

"Oh, you strange man from the cold north! You make me s.h.i.+ver. Touch my hand. See? You have made me cold."

"Cold? You are a flame from the crown of gold on your head to your shoes of gold."

"Now that you are become a success, monsieur, what will you do? To you is given the heart's desire." She toyed with the quivering jelly, merely tasting it. It too was golden in hue, and golden lights danced in the heart of it.

"A great success? I am dreaming. It is so new to me that I do not believe it."

"You are very clever, monsieur. You never tell your thoughts. I asked if you remembered me and you answered in a riddle. I knew you did not, for you never saw me before."

"Did I never see you dance?"

"Ah, there you are again! To see me dance--in a great audience--one of many? That does not count. You but pretended."

He leaned forward, looking steadily in her eyes. "Did I but pretend when I said I never could forget you? Ah, mademoiselle, you are too modest."

She was maddened that she could not pique him to a more ardent manner, but gave no sign by so much as the quiver of an eyelid. She only turned her profile toward him indifferently. He noticed the piquant line of her lips and chin and throat, and the golden tones of her delicate skin.

"Did I not also tell you the truth when you asked me? And you rewarded me by calling me ba.n.a.l."

"And I was right. You, who are so clever, could think of something better to say." She gave him a quick glance, and placed a quivering morsel of jelly between her lips. "But you are so very strange to me.

Tell me, were you never in love?"

"That is a question I may not answer." He still smiled, but it was merely the continuation of the smile he had worn before she shot that last arrow. He still looked in her eyes, but she knew he was not seeing her. Then he rallied and laughed. "Come, question for question.

Were you never in love--or out of love--let us say?"

"Oh! Me!" She lifted her shoulders delicately. "Me! I am in love now--at this moment. You do not treat me well. You have not danced with me once."

"No. You have been dancing always, and fully occupied. How could I?"

"Ah, you have not learned. To dance with me--you must take me, not stand one side and wait."

"Are you engaged for the next?"

"But, yes. It is no matter. I will dance it with you. He will be consoled." She laughed, showing her beautiful, even teeth. "I make you a confession. I said to him, 'I will dance it with you unless the cold monsieur asks me--then I will dance with him, for it will do him good.'"

Robert Kater rose and stood a moment looking through the palms. The silken folds of his toga fell gracefully around him, and he held his head high. Then he withdrew his eyes from the distance and turned them again on her,--the gold and white being at his feet,--and she seemed to him no longer human, but a phantom from which he must flee, if but he might do so courteously, for he knew her to be no phantom, and he could not be other than courteous.

"Will you accept from me my laurel crown?" He took the chaplet from his head and laid it at her feet. Then, lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed the tips of her pink fingers, bowing low before her. "I go to send you wine. Console your partner. It is better so, for I too am in love." He smiled upon her as he had smiled at first, and was gone, walking out through the crowd--the weird, fantastic, bizarre company, as if he were no part of them. One and another greeted him as he pa.s.sed, but he did not seem to hear them. He called a waiter and ordered wine to be taken to Mademoiselle Fee, and quickly was gone.

They saw him no more.

It was nearly morning. A drizzling rain was falling, and the air was chill after the heat of the crowded ballroom. He drew it into his lungs in deep draughts, glad to be out in the freshness, and to feel the cool rain on his forehead. He threw off his enc.u.mbering toga and walked in his tunic, with bare throat and bare knees, and carried the toga over one bare arm, and swung the other bare arm free. He walked with head held high, for he was seeing visions, and hearing a far-distant call. Now at last he might choose his path. He had not failed, but with that call from afar--what should he do? Should he answer it? Was it only a call from out his own heart--a pa.s.sing, futile call, luring him back?

Of one thing he was sure. There was the painting on which he had labored and staked his all now hanging in the Salon. He could see it, one of his visions realized,--David and Saul. The deep, rich shadows, the throne, the tiger skin, the sandaled feet of the remorseful king resting on the great fanged and leering head, the eyes of the king looking hungrily out from under his forbidding brows, the cruel lips pressed tightly together, and the lithe, thin hands grasping the carved arms of the throne in fierce restraint,--all this in the deep shadows between the majestic carved columns, their bases concealed by the rich carpet covering the dais and their tops lost in the brooding darkness above--the lowering darkness of purple gloom that only served to reveal the sinister outlines of the somber, sorrowful, suffering king, while he indulged the one pure pa.s.sion left him--listening--gazing from the shadows out into the light, seeing nothing, only listening.

And before him, standing in the one ray of light, clothed only in his tunic of white and his sandals, a human jewel of radiant color and slender strength, a G.o.dlike conception of youth and grace, his harp before him, the lilies crushed under his feet that he had torn from the strings which his fingers touched caressingly, with sunlight in his crown of golden, curling hair and the light of the stars in his eyes--David, the strong, the simple, the trusting, the G.o.d-fearing youth, as Robert Kater saw him, looking back through the ages.

Ah, now he could live. Now he could create--work: he had been recognized, and rewarded--Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes! The hope of his life realized, the goblet raised to his lips, and the draft--bitter.

The call falling upon his heart--imperative--beseeching--what did it mean?

Slowly and heavily he mounted the stairs to his studio, and there fumbled about in the darkness and the confusion left by his admiring comrades until he found candles and made a light. He was cold, and his light clothing clung to him wet and chilling as grave clothes. He tore them off and got himself into things that were warm and dry, and wrapping himself in an old dressing gown of flannel, sat down to think.

He took the money his friend had brought him and counted it over. Good old Ben Howard! Half of it must go to him, of course. And here were finished canvases quite as good as the ones that had sold. Ben might turn them to as good an account as the others,--yes,--here was enough to carry him through a year and leave him leisure to paint unhampered by the necessity of making pot boilers for a bare living.

"Tell me, were you never in love?" That soft, insinuating voice haunted him against his will. In love? What did she know of love--the divine pa.s.sion? Love! Fame! Neither were possible to him. He bowed his head upon the table, hiding his face, crus.h.i.+ng the bank notes beneath his arms. Deep in his soul the eye of his own conscience regarded him,--an outcast hiding under an a.s.sumed name, covering the scar above his temple with a falling lock of hair seldom lifted, and deep in his soul a memory of a love. Oh, G.o.d! Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes!

He rose, and, taking his candle with him, opened a door leading from the studio up a short flight of steps to a little cupboard of a sleeping room. Here he cast himself on the bed and closed his eyes. He must sleep: but no, he could not. After a time of restless tossing he got up and drew an old portmanteau from the closet and threw the contents out on the bed. From among them he picked up the thing he sought and sat on the edge of his bed with it in his hands, turning it over and regarding it, tieing and untieing the worn, frayed, but still bright ribbons, which had once been the cherry-colored hair ribbons of little Betty Ballard.

Suddenly he rose and lifted his head high, in his old, rather imperious way, put out his candle, and looked through the small, dusty panes of his window. It was day--early dawn. He was jaded and weary, but he would try no longer to sleep. He must act, and shake off sentimentalism. Yes, he must act. He bathed and dressed with care, and then in haste, as if life depended on hurry, he packed the portmanteau and stepped briskly into the studio, looking all about, noting everything as if taking stock of it all, then sat down with pen and paper to write.

The letter was a long one. It took time and thought. When he was nearly through with it, Ben Howard lagged wearily in.

"Halloo! Why didn't you wait for me? What did you clear out for and leave me in the lurch? Fresh as a daisy, you are, old chap, and I'm done for, dead."

"You're not scientific in your pleasures." Robert Kater lifted his eyes and looked at his friend. "Are you alive enough to hear me and remember what I say? Will you do something for me? Shall I tell you now or will you breakfast first?"

"Breakfast? Faugh!" He looked disgustedly around him.

"I'm sorry. You drink too much. Listen, Ben. I'll tell you what I mean to do and what I wish you to do for me--and--you remember all you can of it, will you? I must do it now, for you'll be asleep soon, and this will be the last I shall see of you--ever. I'm leaving in two hours--as soon as I've breakfasted."

"What's that? Hold on!" Ben Howard sprang up, and darting behind a screen where they washed their brushes, he dashed cold water over his head and came back toweling himself. "I'm fit now. I did drink too much champagne, but I'll sleep it off. Now fire away,--what's up?"