The small, picturesque figure in the doorway wore velveteen trousers of green, old and faded, a black jacket rusty, with the sleeves patched, and a scarlet sash tied loosely about the waist. On the back of her cropped yellow curls was a velveteen cap, rakishly tipped, and she stood debonair beneath the folds of the curtain with a laugh on her lips.
"Mon Dieu!" she cried, "How you stare, Monsieur! Will I do? What sort of a boy do I make; all right? Are you satisfied, sir?"
She made a little rush forward, eluding Velasco, and stopped before the mirror with her hands boyishly deep in her pockets, glancing back over her shoulder and pirouetting slowly backwards and forwards.
"The hair looks a little rough!" she exclaimed, "I cut it with a pair of shears, or perhaps it was a razor, who knows! Ma foi! It is not like a girl"s at all, so short! What my maid would say! You would never take me for a Countess now, would you--would you?" She patted her curls and pulled down her jacket in front, turning first to one side, then to the other. "What a nice pair of gypsies we make, sir, eh? Come and look at yourself. You are taller than I, and bigger, and you have such shoulders, heavens! Mine are not half the size. You mustn"t bully me, you know, not if I am a boy. You took the best jacket, the biggest, and look what I have--such a little one, only patches and rags! And see what boots!"
She held out one slim, small foot in a peasant"s boot and inspected it, pointing to the sole with little exclamations of horror. "I took the only ones I could find, and see--" Then she looked at him coaxingly with her eyes half veiled by her lashes, sideways, as if afraid of his gaze.
"Do I make a nice boy, Monsieur, tell me? Am I just like a gypsey, the real ones? Is it right, do you think?" She faltered.
Velasco took a step forward and looked down at the reflection in the mirror, the profile averted, the flush on her cheek, the curls on her brow, the boyish swagger and the hands in the pockets, the cap on the back of the tilted head, the laughing eyes, half veiled. He towered above her, gazing. And presently her eyes crept up to his under the lashes and they met in the mirror. She drew slowly away.
"How little you are!" he cried, "You never seemed so little before; in a cloak, in a veil, you were tall. And now, stand still, let me measure. Your cap just reaches my shoulder. Kaya--"
She gave a gay little laugh and held her back against his. "How you cheat!" she cried, "No--your heels on the floor, sir--there, now! Back to back, can you see in the mirror? Where do I come?"
The two stood motionless for a moment, their shoulders touching, peering eagerly sideways into the gla.s.s.
"Kaya, you are standing on tiptoe!"
"No--it is you."
"Kaya! You rogue!"
She gave a little cry, laughing out like a child caught in mischief, springing away. "I must practise being a boy," she exclaimed, "What is it you do? It is so different from being a Countess. One feels so free. No heels, no train, no veil! When one is used to the boots it must be heaven. If my cap would only stay on!"
She began to roam over the room, taking boyish strides, puckering her lips in a whistle; her thumbs in her vest and her head thrown back.
"There, now, that is it; I feel better already, quite like a man. It is charming, Monsieur; a little more practice--"
Velasco was following her about with the cap in his hands. "Step softly, Kaya, step softly," he said, "Stand still. Let me put it on for you."
"No--no, toss it over."
With a little spring the girl swung herself on the table edge, balancing and swinging her feet; looking up at him from under her lashes and laughing.
"Shall I make a good comrade, Monsieur Velasco? What do you think?"
He leaned over the table towards her. His eyes were bright and eager, searching her face, the dimples that came and went in her cheeks, her soft, white throat, bare under the collarless jacket; the lips parted, and red, and arched; the rings of her hair, shining like gold.
"Kaya," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "I never saw you like this before. My little comrade, my friend, my-- We will tramp together, you and I--all the way to the frontier. They will never suspect us, never! The Stradivarius shall earn our bread, and if you are ill, or weary, I will carry you in my arms. In the market-places I will play for the peasants to dance, and you--you, Kaya--ah, what will you do?"
He laughed softly to himself and began teasing her, half gayly, half tenderly, with his face close to hers, the sleeve of his jacket brushing her arm.
"What will you do, Kaya? Look at me! Your cheek is red like a rose; your eyes are like stars. Don"t turn them away. Lift the fringe of those lashes and look at me, Kaya. Will you pa.s.s the cap for the pennies?--You will have to doff it because you are a boy; and you must do something because you are a gypsey. Will you pa.s.s the cap for the peasants to pay?"
He held the velveteen cap in his hands, playing with it, caressing it, watching her. "Look at me, Kaya!"
She flushed and drew back, her heart beating in little throbs under the vest. Suddenly she turned and looked at him squarely. It was strange, whenever their eyes met, like a thrill, a shock, an ecstasy; and then a slow returning to consciousness as after a blow.
All at once, she drooped her lashes and began to trill, softly, faintly, like a bird, the tones clear, and sweet, and high; and as she sang, she glanced at him under her lashes, with her head on one side.
The voice pulsed and grew in her throat, swelling out; then she softened it quickly with a look over her shoulder, half fearfully, and again it soared to a high note, trilling, lingering and dropping at last.
Her mouth scarcely opened. The sound seemed to come through the arch of her lips, every note pure, and sweet, and soft like a breath.
Velas...o...b..nt over entranced.
"How you sing!" he cried, "Like some beautiful bird! In Italy, on the sh.o.r.es of the lakes, I have heard the nightingales sing like that; but never a woman. The timbre is crystal and pure, like clear, running water. When you soar to the heights, it is like a lark flying; and when you drop into alt, it is a tone that forces the tears to one"s eyes, so pathetic and strange. Who taught you, Kaya? Who taught you to sing like that? Or were you born so with a voice alive in your throat; you had only to open it and let it come out?"
She shook her head, swinging her feet, trying to laugh.
"It is so small," she said wistfully. "You are a musician, Monsieur Velasco, and I--I know nothing of music. No--I will pa.s.s the cap for pennies. Give it to me. Is it getting late, must we go?"
She took the cap and put it on her head, on the back of her curls, avoiding his eyes. "Will that do for a gypsey? Is it straight--Velasco?" She said the name quite low and breathed hurriedly, with a flush on her cheeks.
He was still staring at her, but he said nothing; he made no motion and she drew away from him a little frightened.
"You are like a violin," he murmured, "I told you you were like a violin. You are all music, as I am music. We will make music together--Kaya. Sing for me again, just open your lips and breathe--once more! Let me hear you trill?"
"I can"t," said the girl. "I am faint, Velasco. When I look at you now there is a mist before my eyes. The room sways." She put out her hands suddenly, as if to steady herself.
Velasco started back: "Good heavens, Kaya, what is the matter? The colour has gone from your cheeks; there are shadows under your eyes, deep and heavy as though they were painted. Don"t faint, will you?
Don"t! I shouldn"t know what under heaven to do!"
The girl slipped down from the table and, staggering a little, threw herself into the chair by the fire-place. "Get me some food, Velasco; some bread, some wine. In a moment it will pa.s.s!" She began laughing again immediately. "Don"t be frightened. It is you who are pale, not I. Just a morsel to eat--Velasco. Since last night I have eaten nothing. You forget how hungry a boy can be! Is there time?"
Velasco had s.n.a.t.c.hed the red wine from the table and was pouring it out in a gla.s.s, holding it to her lips.
"Drink, Kaya, drink--and here are biscuits, shall I break them for you?
Don"t speak. Shut your eyes, and drink, and eat. I will feed you."
He hovered over her with little exclamations of pity and self-reproach.
"Why didn"t I see at once you were starving! Poor child, poor little one! You seemed so gay, dancing about; your cheeks were so red and now--Ah no, it is better--the colour is coming back slowly. The wine brings a flush."
The girl lay back with her eyes closed, sipping the wine from the gla.s.s as he held it. "Is there plenty of time, Velasco?" she said faintly.
He looked at the hands of the malachite clock on the mantel. They pointed to ten and presently it began to strike.
"Yes--yes." he whispered, "Lie still. Let me feed you. We will go presently."
"What was that on the stairway?" she said, "Was it a noise?--I thought I heard something."
She opened her eyes and started up; and with the sudden movement, the gla.s.s in her hand tipped and spilled over. "It is nothing," she said, "It fell on my hand. I will wipe it away."
Velasco laughed. "Your hand!" he cried, "Your hand is a rose leaf, so soft and so white. The wine has stained it with a blotch. How strange! It is red, it is crimson--a spot like blood."
The girl blanched suddenly and fell back with a cry.
"Not blood, Velasco! Wipe it off! Take it away! Not blood! Oh, take it away!"