Sitting by the window with her elbows on the sill, framed by the ivy and the geraniums, was a girl. Her head was propped in her hands, and her hair glittered gold in the warm sun-light against the green and the scarlet. She was gazing eagerly over the throngs on the promenade, and her blue eyes were alert as if searching for some one.
She was young and slim, and her gown was shabby, turned back at the throat as if she suffered from the heat; and her hair was cropped, lying in little tendrils of gold on her neck, curling thickly about her ears and her brow. Her cheeks were quite pale, and there was a pinched look about the lips, dark shadows under the eyes. She gazed steadily.
"If I could only see him," she murmured to herself, half aloud, "just once--if I could see him!" Her lip trembled a little and she caught it between her teeth: "It is seventeen weeks--a hundred and nineteen days--since we parted," she said, "At daybreak on Thursday it will be a third of a year--a third of a year!"
She moved her head uneasily on her hands, and hid her eyes for a moment against the leaves of the ivy, as if blinded by the sun-beams; "Sooner or later he was sure to come here," she murmured, "All musicians come here; but when I saw his face on the bill-board to-day--and his name--!" She crouched closer against the sill, and the leaves of the ivy fluttered from the hurried breath that came through her lips, shaking them as with a storm.
"If he were there on the promenade," she said, "and I saw him walking, with his violin, his head thrown back and his eyes dreaming--Ah!" She drew in her breath quickly and a little twist came in her throat, like a screw turned. She half closed her eyes.
"Ah--Velasco! My arms would go out to you in spite of my will; my lips would cry to you! I would clinch my teeth--I would pinion my arms to my side. I would hide here behind the cas.e.m.e.nt and gaze at you between the leaves of the geraniums--and you would never know! You would never--know!"
She put both hands to her bare throat as if to tear something away that was suffocating, compelling; then she laughed: "He is an artist," she said, "a great musician, feted, adored; he is rich and happy. He will forget. Perhaps he has forgotten already. It would be better if he had forgotten--already." She laughed again strangely, glancing about the garret with its low eaves, and the cob-webs hanging; at the pallet, and the cracked basin, and the pitcher with its handle missing.
The doves came flying about the mill, twittering and chirping as if seeking for food on the sill; clinging to the ivy with their tiny, pink claws, looking at her expectantly out of their bright, roving eyes, pruning their feathers. The girl shook her head:
"I have nothing for you," she said, "No--not a crumb. The last went yesterday. Poor birds! It is terrible to be hungry, to have your head swim, and your limbs tremble, and the world grow blind and dim before your eyes. Is it so with you, dear doves?"
She rose slowly and a little unsteadily, crossing the garret to the pegs where the clothes hung.
"There may be a few Pfennigs left," she said, "without touching that.
No--no, there is nothing!"
She felt in the pockets of the cloak, pressing deep into the corners with the tips of her fingers, searching. "No," she repeated helplessly, "there is--nothing; still I can"t touch the other--not to-day! I will go out and try again."
She took down the cloak from the peg and wrapped it about her, in spite of the heat, covering her throat. There was a hat also on the peg; she put it on, hiding her yellow curls, and drew the veil over her face.
"If I could only get a hearing!" she said to herself, "There must be someone in Ehrestadt, who would listen to my voice and give me an opening. I will try once more, and then--"
She b.u.t.toned the cloak with her fingers trembling, and went out.
"Is the Herr Kapellmeister in?"
"Yes, Madame."
The rosy cheeked maid hesitated a little, and her eyes wandered doubtfully from the veil to the cloak and the shabby skirt.
"Kapellmeister Felix Ritter, I mean."
"He is in, Madame, but he is engaged."
"May I come in and wait?"
The maid hesitated again: "What name shall I say, Madame?"
"My name," said Kaya, "is Mademoiselle de--de Poussin."
The German words came stumbling from her lips. She crossed the threshold and entered a large salon, divided by curtains from a room beyond. There was a grand piano in the corner of the salon, and about the walls were shelves piled high with music; propped against the piano stood a cello.
Kaya looked at the instrument; then she sank down on the divan close to the piano, and put out her fingers, touching it caressingly. From the next room, beyond the curtain, came the sound of cups rattling, and a sweet, rich aroma as of coffee, mingling with the fragrance of cigars freshly lighted.
The girl threw back her veil, scenting it as a doe the breeze when it is thirsty and cannot drink. She smiled a little, still caressing the keys with her fingers. "It is strange to be hungry," she said, "The Countess Mezkarpin was never hungry!" Then suddenly she started and turned white to the lips, swaying forward with her eyes dilated.
From behind the curtain came voices talking together; one was harsh and rather loud, and the other-- Kaya"s eyes were fixed on the curtain; she rose slowly from the divan and crept forward on tip-toe, a step at a time. The other!--She listened. No, it was the harsh voice talking rapidly, loudly in German, and what he was saying she could not understand; then came the clatter of cups again, and silence, and a fresh whiff of cigar smoke floating, wafted through the curtain.
She crept closer, still listening, her hands clasped together, the cloak flung back from her shoulders.
"The other--there!"
She put out her hand and touched the curtain, pulling it aside slightly, timidly, and pressing her face, her eyes to the opening. She was faint for a moment and could see nothing; there was a mist before her eyes and the smoke filled the room; then gradually, out of the mist, she saw a grey-haired man with his back to the curtain, and he was bending forward with a coffee cup to his lips. Beside him, facing her, leaning far back in his chair, with his cigar poised and his eyes half closed, his dark head pressing restlessly against the cushion was--
"Oh, my G.o.d!" she breathed, "My G.o.d, it is Velasco!"
For a moment she thought she had screamed; and she covered her eyes waiting, sick, frightened, her heart throbbing. Then she forgot where she was and thought only of him, and a strange little thrill went over her; she shivered slightly, and it seemed to her as if already she was in his arms; and when she heard his voice, it was calling to her, crying her name.
"Yes--yes, it is Kaya!--I am here!" she was saying, "Come to me--Velasco! Velasco!"
Already she was stumbling into his arms; she was clinging to him--and then she awoke. Her brain cleared suddenly and she knew that she had not moved; no sound had come from her lips. She was standing like a statue, dumb, with her hands clasped, gazing; and Velasco lay back in his chair with his eyes half closed, blowing a wreath from his cigar, watching it idly as it floated away, listening as the harsh voice of his host talked on--not five feet away! If she stretched out her hand, if she sighed--or moved the curtain--Ah!
She struggled with herself. She was faint; she was weak with hunger; she was alone and desolate--and he loved her. She fought madly, desperately. It was as if two creatures were within her fighting for life; and they both loved him.
When the one grew stronger, her eyes brightened and her pulses quickened; it was as if she would leap through the curtain, and her heart was sick for the touch of his hand. Then she beat down the longing and stifled it, and the other self came to the front and gripped her scornfully, pointing to her hands with the blood on them, her soul with its curse. Was her life to mingle with his and ruin it, and bring it to shame?
"Never," she breathed, "Never! So long as I live!" And the self of her that loved him the most crushed the other self and smothered it--strangled it.
She gazed at him through the curtain, and it seemed to her that something within her was gasping and dying. And suddenly she turned and ran from the curtain, clasping her cloak to her bosom and running, stumbling, out of the room, the house, the street.
The promenades were gay with people and crowded. The men strutting along in their Sunday clothes, the women hanging on their arms, the children toddling behind. The band was playing on the square. It was warm and the sun was shining; the air was sweet with the scent of the rose buds.
Kaya fled past them all like a wraith. They turned and stared after her, but she was gone. She climbed the stairs of the mill to the roof, and opened the door, and shut it again, and fell on her knees before the box. The pitcher was there without a handle, and the basin cracked. She lifted them away and opened the box.
In it lay a velveteen jacket folded, a scarf, scarlet and spotted.
Inside the scarf lay a ma.s.s of coins, copecks, ten, twenty--hundreds of them, and roubles round and heavy. She fingered them tenderly, one after the other, then thrust them aside.
"To-morrow--" she said, "I have come to that--to live on a gypsey"s wages! I can sing no longer; I can only dance and pa.s.s the cap--and give the copecks for bread--for bread! I thought some day when I was old,--when we were both old, I would show them to--Velasco, and he would remember and laugh: "Ah, that was long ago," he would say, "when I was a boy, and you were a boy, and we tramped together through the cold and the snow--and I loved you, and you--loved me! Ah--it was sweet, Kaya! I have lived a long life since then, with plenty of fame, and success, and happiness--and the years have been full; but nothing quite so sweet as that! Nothing--quite so sweet--as that!""
She was sobbing now and staring into the box: "To-morrow," she said, "I will buy some bread and feed the doves--and soon it will be gone!" She began to count the coins rapidly, dropping them through her fingers into the scarf; and as she counted she smiled through her tears.
"We earned it together--he and I!" she said, "He played and I danced.
He would like me to live on it as long as I can, and then--after that--he will not--blame me!"
Her body swayed slightly and she fell forward against the box. The sun shone on the geraniums; and on the sill, the doves pecked at the worm-eaten cas.e.m.e.nt, clinging to the ivy with their tiny claws, gazing about with their bright, roving eyes and cooing.
Below, the water splashed against the wheel; but it was silent.
[1] St. John"s day.