XXV
Minute after minute throbbed in silence, timed by the loud rhythm of the roaring wheels. He did not dare lift his head to look at her, though her stillness scared him. Awful and grotesque thoughts assailed him. He wondered whether she had survived the blow—and like an assassin he dared not look to see what he had done, but crouched there, overwhelmed with misery such as he never dreamed that a human heart could endure.
A century seemed to have passed before, far ahead, the locomotive whistled warningly for the Ormond station.
He understood what it meant, and clutched his temples, striving to gather courage sufficient to[249] lift his head and face her blazing contempt—or her insensible and inanimate but beautiful young form lying in a merciful faint on the floor of the baggage car.
And at last he lifted his head.
She had risen and was standing by the locked side doors, touching her eye-lashes with her handkerchief.
When he rose, the train was slowing down. Presently the baggage master came in, yawning; the side doors were unbolted and flung back as the car glided along a high, wooden platform.
They were standing side by side now; she did not look at him, but when the car stopped she laid her hand lightly on his arm.
Trembling in every fibre, he drew the little, gloved hand through his arm and aided her to descend.
"Are you unhappy?" he whispered tremulously.
"No.... What are we to do?"
"Am I to say?"
"Yes," she said faintly.
"Shall I register as your brother?"
She blushed and looked at him in a lovely and distressed way.
"What are we to do?" she faltered.
They entered the main hall of the great hotel[250] at that moment, and she turned to look around her.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, clutching his arm. "Do you see that man? Do you see him?"
"Which man—dearest?——"
"That one over there! That is the clergyman I saw in the crystal. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Is it going to come true right away?"
"I think it is," he said. "Are you afraid?"
She drew a deep, shuddering breath, lifted her eyes to his:
"N-no," she said.
Ten minutes later it was being done around the corner of the great veranda, where nobody was. The moon glimmered on the Halifax; the palmettos sighed in the chilly sea-wind; the still, night air was scented with orange bloom and the odour of the sea.
He wore his overcoat, and he used the plain, gold band which had decorated his little finger. The clergyman was brief and businesslike; the two clerks made dignified witnesses.
When it was done, and they were left alone, standing on the moonlit veranda, he said:
"Shall we send a present to the Princess Zimbamzim?"
"Yes.... A beautiful one."
He drew her to him; she laid both hands on[251] his shoulders. When he kissed her, her face was cold and white as marble.
"Are you afraid?" he whispered.
The marble flushed pink.
"No," she said.
"That," said Stafford, "was certainly quick action. Ten minutes is a pretty short time for Fate to begin business."
"Fate," remarked Duane, "once got busy with me inside of ten seconds." He looked at Athalie.
"Ut solent poetae," she rejoined, calmly.
I said: "Verba placent et vox, et quod corrumpere non est; Quoque minor spes est, hoc magis ille cupit."
In a low voice Duane replied to me, looking at her: "Vera incessu patuit Dea."
Slowly the girl blushed, lowering her dark eyes to the green jade god resting in the rosy palm of her left hand.
"Physician, cure thyself," muttered Stafford, slowly twisting a cigarette to shreds in his nervous hands.
I rose, walked over to the small marble fountain and looked down at the sleeping goldfish. Here and there from the dusky magnificence of[252] their colour a single scale glittered like a living spark under water.
"Are you preaching to them?" asked Athalie, raising her eyes from the green god in her palm.
"No matter where a man turns his eyes," said I, "they may not long remain undisturbed by the vision of gold. I was not preaching, Athalie; I was reflecting upon my poverty."
"It is an incurable ailment," said somebody; "the millionaire knows it; the gods themselves suffered from it. From the bleaching carcass of the peon to the mausoleum of the emperor, the world's highway winds through its victims' graves."
"Athalie," said I, "is it possible for you to look into your crystal and discover hidden treasure?"
"Not for my own benefit."
"For others?"
"I have done it."
"Could you locate a few millions for us?" inquired the novelist.
"Yes, widely distributed among you. Your right hand is heavy as gold; your brain jingles with it."
"I do not write for money," he said bluntly.
"That is why," she said, smiling and placing a sweetmeat between her lips.
I had the privilege of lighting a match for her.[253]
