One of Ours & Alexander's Bridge. Уилла Кэсер

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      “What a warm, soft spring evening that was,” he went on, as they sat down in the study with the coffee on a little table between them; “and the sky, over the bridges, was just the color of the lilacs. We walked on down by the river, didn’t we?”

      Hilda laughed and looked at him questioningly. He saw a gleam in her eyes that he remembered even better than the episode he was recalling.

      “I think we did,” she answered demurely. “It was on the Quai we met that woman who was crying so bitterly. I gave her a spray of lilac, I remember, and you gave her a franc. I was frightened at your prodigality.”

      “I expect it was the last franc I had. What a strong brown face she had, and very tragic. She looked at us with such despair and longing, out from under her black shawl. What she wanted from us was neither our flowers nor our francs, but just our youth. I remember it touched me so. I would have given her some of mine off my back, if I could. I had enough and to spare then,” Bartley mused, and looked thoughtfully at his cigar.

      They were both remembering what the woman had said when she took the money: “God give you a happy love!” It was not in the ingratiating tone of the habitual beggar: it had come out of the depths of the poor creature’s sorrow, vibrating with pity for their youth and despair at the terribleness of human life; it had the anguish of a voice of prophecy. Until she spoke, Bartley had not realized that he was in love. The strange woman, and her passionate sentence that rang out so sharply, had frightened them both. They went home sadly with the lilacs, back to the Rue Saint–Jacques, walking very slowly, arm in arm. When they reached the house where Hilda lodged, Bartley went across the court with her, and up the dark old stairs to the third landing; and there he had kissed her for the first time. He had shut his eyes to give him the courage, he remembered, and she had trembled so —

      Bartley started when Hilda rang the little bell beside her. “Dear me, why did you do that? I had quite forgotten — I was back there. It was very jolly,” he murmured lazily, as Marie came in to take away the coffee.

      Hilda laughed and went over to the piano. “Well, we are neither of us twenty now, you know. Have I told you about my new play? Mac is writing one; really for me this time. You see, I’m coming on.”

      “I’ve seen nothing else. What kind of a part is it? Shall you wear yellow gowns? I hope so.”

      He was looking at her round slender figure, as she stood by the piano, turning over a pile of music, and he felt the energy in every line of it.

      “No, it isn’t a dress-up part. He doesn’t seem to fancy me in fine feathers. He says I ought to be minding the pigs at home, and I suppose I ought. But he’s given me some good Irish songs. Listen.”

      She sat down at the piano and sang. When she finished, Alexander shook himself out of a reverie.

      “Sing ‘The Harp That Once,’ Hilda. You used to sing it so well.”

      “Nonsense. Of course I can’t really sing, except the way my mother and grandmother did before me. Most actresses nowadays learn to sing properly, so I tried a master; but he confused me, just!”

      Alexander laughed. “All the same, sing it, Hilda.”

      Hilda started up from the stool and moved restlessly toward the window. “It’s really too warm in this room to sing. Don’t you feel it?”

      Alexander went over and opened the window for her. “Aren’t you afraid to let the wind low like that on your neck? Can’t I get a scarf or something?”

      “Ask a theatre lady if she’s afraid of drafts!” Hilda laughed. “But perhaps, as I’m so warm — give me your handkerchief. There, just in front.” He slipped the corners carefully under her shoulder-straps. “There, that will do. It looks like a bib.” She pushed his hand away quickly and stood looking out into the deserted square. “Isn’t London a tomb on Sunday night?”

      Alexander caught the agitation in her voice. He stood a little behind her, and tried to steady himself as he said: “It’s soft and misty. See how white the stars are.”

      For a long time neither Hilda nor Bartley spoke. They stood close together, looking out into the wan, watery sky, breathing always more quickly and lightly, and it seemed as if all the clocks in the world had stopped. Suddenly he moved the clenched hand he held behind him and dropped it violently at his side. He felt a tremor run through the slender yellow figure in front of him.

      She caught his handkerchief from her throat and thrust it at him without turning round. “Here, take it. You must go now, Bartley. Good-night.”

      Bartley leaned over her shoulder, without touching her, and whispered in her ear: “You are giving me a chance?”

      “Yes. Take it and go. This isn’t fair, you know. Good-night.”

      Alexander unclenched the two hands at his sides. With one he threw down the window and with the other — still standing behind her — he drew her back against him.

      She uttered a little cry, threw her arms over her head, and drew his face down to hers. “Are you going to let me love you a little, Bartley?” she whispered.

      Chapter 5

      Table of Contents

      It was the afternoon of the day before Christmas. Mrs. Alexander had been driving about all the morning, leaving presents at the houses of her friends. She lunched alone, and as she rose from the table she spoke to the butler: “Thomas, I am going down to the kitchen now to see Norah. In half an hour you are to bring the greens up from the cellar and put them in the library. Mr. Alexander will be home at three to hang them himself. Don’t forget the stepladder, and plenty of tacks and string. You may bring the azaleas upstairs. Take the white one to Mr. Alexander’s study. Put the two pink ones in this room, and the red one in the drawing-room.”

      A little before three o’clock Mrs. Alexander went into the library to see that everything was ready. She pulled the window shades high, for the weather was dark and stormy, and there was little light, even in the streets. A foot of snow had fallen during the morning, and the wide space over the river was thick with flying flakes that fell and wreathed the masses of floating ice. Winifred was standing by the window when she heard the front door open. She hurried to the hall as Alexander came stamping in, covered with snow. He kissed her joyfully and brushed away the snow that fell on her hair.

      “I wish I had asked you to meet me at the office and walk home with me, Winifred. The Common is beautiful. The boys have swept the snow off the pond and are skating furiously. Did the cyclamens come?”

      “An hour ago. What splendid ones! But aren’t you frightfully extravagant?”

      “Not for Christmas-time. I’ll go upstairs and change my coat. I shall be down in a moment. Tell Thomas to get everything ready.”

      When Alexander reappeared, he took his wife’s arm and went with her into the library. “When did the azaleas get here? Thomas has got the white one in my room.”

      “I told him to put it there.”

      “But, I say, it’s much the finest of the lot!”

      “That’s СКАЧАТЬ