Читать книгу The Erratic Flame - Ysabel De Teresa - Страница 3

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As the mountain mist, caressing and desultory, resolved into a steady downpour, Anne glimpsed just above her the outlines of a hut. Crouched behind sodden boughs, decrepit, ramshackle, it tottered upon the lip of the ravine. With an amused sense of relief she trudged up towards it, her feet sinking amongst a welter of brown leaves, her whole being cleansed within the gray mantle of the rain. After a hectic summer of bridge and dancing this solitude of dripping trees and drenched leaves, fell upon her bruised spirit like a benediction. Anne thanked her very modern and somewhat pagan gods for having inspired her to escape from the inglorious rut. To-day, the New York season ahead of her, shone meretricious in the face of the crystal cleanliness of bathing woods. Perhaps she would give it all up and open the villa in Florence immediately instead of waiting until after Christmas. The very thought rested her. She attained the top of the ravine with renewed serenity.

Its gaunt outlines blurred by rain, the hut stood before her. Assailed by a feeling of almost girlish excitement she smiled with inward amusement. Surfeited, world-weary, surely she was not foolish enough to expect a thrill lurking within the walls of a dilapidated mountain cabin?

The careless little smile on her lips, she stepped upon the crazy porch and tried the door. Obstinate in mood it resisted her onslaught with almost personal violence. But she braced her back upon its gray stubbornness, and giving a vigorous push, burst into the room.

Dim, inhospitable, alien, its opaque shadows menaced vaguely. Still smiling, Anne ventured boldly forward. Then, as her eyes fell upon the hearth, hesitated, for from the embers rose a nebulous tube of smoke. Its faint, acrid tang rode the stale air challengingly. Anne darted a keen glance about her, focusing upon the extreme corner of the room where a denser blackness prevailed, which as she approached resolved itself into a couch and a mass of tossed blankets from which emerged a head; a tumbled, lolling head, which drooped towards the floor as if in pursuit of its own heavy, trailing hand. Pathetic, remote behind closed lids, it carried to Anne a summons both tragic and impelling.

She drew nearer and peered down into the pallid features. It was the face of a dissipated young god, glistening with a pallor of unhealth, beautiful in its decadence, with the pagan beauty of a Praxiteles.

A wave of pity and excitement surged over her. A boy, ill and alone; a boy with the face of a fallen Lucifer! She leaned over and placed her hand upon the pale forehead. It was cold and moist beneath a tangle of tumbled curls. She shivered slightly at the contact.

Ephemeral as was her touch, the leaden lids rose beneath it, and she found herself gazing down into a pair of weary, indifferent young eyes. She backed away hastily.

The boy intercepted her recoil with a harsh laugh. Sitting up, he clasped his head, and gazed at her from under long and pallid fingers.

“Did you think I was dead?” he said with a mocking air. “And what would you have done if I had been?” He shot her a look of impish hostility.

Anne assumed an air of indifference.

“There would have been a lot of red tape, I suppose,” she said curtly over her shoulder. She turned and walked slowly toward the door.

Arms clasped about his knees, he looked after her with dawning interest.

“Where are you going?” he said brusquely. “You can’t leave now in this rain.” He looked up at the roof against which rushing waters beat a thunderous tattoo. Scrambling to his feet, he started towards her.

She met the haggard young eyes with composure.

“When I came in here, I thought the place was deserted,” she said simply, “and then, when I saw you——”

“You thought I was dead!” he interposed with a repetition of the short, dry laugh. “No such luck!” He checked himself. “Seriously, you won’t be so foolish as to go out again until the rain stops, will you? Just because you find me offensive? I’ll make up the fire, and you must dry yourself.”

As he said this, a sudden child-like smile lighted up the somber face. Anne decided it would be ridiculous not to stay. After all, the young brute could not eat her. It was only a few weeks since she had recovered from summer flu and she shrank from inviting another attack of the insidious enemy. Besides, in spite or perhaps because of his haggard young impudence, there welled up from her subconscious a primitive desire to see the adventure to the finish. And as she watched the slight figure busying itself at the hearth, she was smitten with a vague sense of familiarity. Where had she seen that pale face, those uptilted, faunlike eyebrows? That classic throat, which rose columnar from the négligée shirt? And above all, those hands, those square, elongated fingers? In some ancient bronze or marble?

She took the chair nearest the hearth and stretching her hands to the blaze, watched his impassive features as the firelight played upon them.

“That’s right,” he said non-committally, “better take off your sweater, it’s dripping. I’ll lend you one in the meanwhile.”

With a quick gesture, he lighted the lamp upon the table, and opening a drawer in the ramshackle bureau, drew out a heavy wool sweater, and with a casual gesture, threw it about her shoulders.

“What a beauty!” She met his indifference with an amused smile as she caressed the smooth texture.

The eyes beneath the heavy lids mocked her. She realized with amused dismay that he evidently thought she was trying to flirt with him.

“I’m going to make tea,” he said abruptly. “All women like tea.” His voice was contemptuous.

The callow brutality roused her sense of humor. She removed her hat and ran her hands through hair which glistened like burnished chestnuts in the firelight. She smiled as she caught his eyes resting upon it unwillingly.

“What have women done to you?” she inquired softly.

He gave her a quick, menacing look.

“You are tyrants, all of you,” he sneered savagely. “Greedy for everything. For money, flattery, love, especially love. Insatiable! Demanding, always demanding but—I promised you tea, I believe.” He finished somewhat lamely, and striding to the cupboard produced a tin, a loaf of bread and some butter.

She looked at him from beneath inscrutable lashes.

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy,” she said simply.

“We are all unhappy,” he evaded. He poured water into the dingy kettle hanging over the fire. “You are unhappy because you are wet, and like a civilized lady want your tea. I am unhappy because my head aches most damnably! For me there is no help but time, but for you there is orange pekoe.”

She laughed.

“For a soulless creature like a woman there is always food, eh?” she teased. “But a masculine intellect demands only spiritual sustenance?”

He laughed more naturally, as he met her mocking glance. “I must seem an awful fool to you,” he said somewhat sheepishly.

She shook her head, still smiling.

“Oh, no, I was merely thinking what a mixture of sullen boy and embittered cynic you are. Do you know you are a very odd person, indeed?”

He looked at once flattered and woebegone.

“I suppose it’s this damned forcing-house I’ve lived in.” He muttered as he sliced the bread rather clumsily, with his most unclumsy-looking hands. “Limelight doesn’t mellow, it scorches!” Then as he met her astonished gaze, he checked himself abruptly. “Bread and butter and cigarettes are all I can offer, unless the storm has whetted you sufficiently for bacon and eggs?”

She laughed a denial, and springing up, lifted the chuckling kettle off the hearth. The boy hurried to her assistance and their flesh met over the handle.

“So you’re a celebrity?” she thrust at him, as he took the kettle from her and placed it on a table. Beneath her scrutiny his features again became a mask, except for the eyes, which gleamed liquid in the firelight.

“You flatter me,” he laughed with forced lightness. “Must I decrease my importance and the romance of the occasion by revealing my humble identity?”

“No indeed!” exclaimed Anne, “that would spoil everything.”

But the odd little speech about the limelight had challenged her curiosity, and as she continued to observe him, that strange sense of familiarity which the first impression of his face had given, insinuated itself into her consciousness more securely.

“No,” she murmured without an appreciable pause. “Let’s just be two stray cats crawling into shelter from the rain.”

An expression of relief thawed his frozen young face.

“But the Persian must not be shocked if the alley-cat does not know how to behave and laps up his milk rudely.” He laughed as he poured out her tea, and handed her the bread and butter. For the moment he looked almost happy, altogether boyish. He seated himself on the other side of the table, and gazed into the fire, which crackled up into their faces with the officiousness of an elderly chaperon. Its self-conscious sputter neutralized the clamor of the rain and somehow pleased him.

“How elemental,” he threw out his hands in an expressive gesture. “A storm, a fire, and a cave,” he looked about the shadowy room whimsically. “A man and a woman—food—. We might be in the Stone Age.” His cynical gaze probed her.

Anne’s laugh was a rippling murmur.

“A moment ago we were cats. Our evolution has been rapid!”

She pushed aside her chair, rose, and walking quickly to the window, peered through the crooked panes, at the dusky woods beyond.

“The rain is letting up,” she announced briefly. “I must go home, or Regina will worry herself into a fever.”

His somber laugh rang harshly. “So you prefer cats to cavemen?” He joined her in a couple of lazy strides. “That isn’t at all up to date! May I inquire who is Regina, and still preserve our charming incognito?”

“She is my Italian maid. We are alone here this fall and she will be wild if I don’t hurry. She has been with me since I was a child and I’m scarcely allowed to breathe without her permission,” she replied rather more expansively than she had intended.

“Well, if you must!” he shrugged. “I suppose I ought to say something romantic about ‘ships that pass in the night,’ etc. But as I am a misogynist”—he hesitated, looking at her with a sarcastic smile.

She took him up gaily.

“You merely hand me my hat, and tell me I look old enough to take care of myself!” She drew the flabby object down over her head, and met his smouldering gaze with a smile.

“You’re really not so glad to have me go as you pretend,” she challenged. Then she caught her breath, for he had thrown out his arms with a savage look, and for a moment she thought he was going to crush her within them. But, letting them drop abruptly, he turned, and pulling his mackintosh off the wall, thrust it about her shoulders.

“Let’s go, since you wish it,” he said shortly.

A moment later they were stumbling down the mountainside. Almost obliterated by rain the path had become precipitous. Masses of dead leaves choked their progress. At every step they slid and waded, ankle-deep in scaly moisture, until Anne wanted to scream at the reptilian contact.

“There’s something corpse-like about them,” she said, as she stumbled along behind the blinding rays of the lantern.

“Why not? That’s exactly what they are,” he replied grimly. He held aside a sodden branch for her to pass under. “Corpses, heaped victims of the storm, as dead as you and I shall be some day, as dead as I wish I were myself this moment!” He laughed harshly. Then as her hand touched his arm, added more gently, “Surely, you are not afraid of death.”

“No, of course not.” She huddled more closely to his side, “Only you’re so young it seems a shame——”

He interrupted her savagely.

“All the better! Life is sufficiently drab without having to pass through the horrors of decrepitude and senility. Death is the only apology the gods can offer, for having thrust us into it.”

As he spoke they emerged from the dripping woods on to the road, and the walking became easier.

“Don’t you want to get somewhere, to do something worthwhile before you die?” she asked looking pityingly into the young face so white and set in the lantern rays.

His lips curled.

“Get somewhere! Do something! That is meaningless jargon. There is really no goal, no destination. We merely fool ourselves into thinking there is. Work is only a drug, a means of forgetting. A good drug, I admit, and at times even heady, but a drug, nevertheless!”

Her hold upon his arm tightened.

“Oh, how unhappy you must be! How sorry I am for you!” she cried with unmistakable sincerity. “Do tell me what is the matter. I am sure I could help you. You’re so young, you probably exaggerate.” She caught herself up for fear of wounding him. “I mean I’m older than you.”

She held her hand out pleadingly towards him.

He clasped it in his long fingers.

“Thank you,” he replied more quietly, “I believe you mean it, but I cannot, indeed I cannot!”

She did not urge, and they walked on in silence. The rain had stopped so gradually, that neither of them remembered when it had ceased to fall. Presently, they turned a bend in the road and came upon lights close at hand.

“Here’s my cottage,” said Anne, in a slightly surprised tone. “I didn’t know we were so near. Come in and Regina will get us some supper. Then you can rest awhile before returning home.”

One foot on the step, he looked up at her, as she stood on the porch above him.

“No, the play is over, the lights are out. I must return to my hut and—” beneath his breath—“my devils.”

Although he had already turned about, Anne heard.

“Your devils can get along perfectly well without you. Besides I have one myself. Let us share them together. Come, I see we need each other badly tonight.”

Compassionate beneath her light manner, she caught him by the back of the coat with both hands, and pulled him forcibly about. “Besides, I have your mackintosh and your sweater. You mustn’t be so reckless with your property.”

He followed her up the steps with obvious reluctance. She opened the door and drew him in through the glowing aperture.

“See, there’s a fire,” she cried gaily. “And after supper I’ll play to you.” She pointed to an upright in the corner. “I can play even on an old country piano,” she boasted.

And then she saw his face. It was paler than the hands which sought to conceal it.

“No, no music! Never again!” he muttered. He fell weakly into the nearest chair, and with a low moan laid his head on the arm.

Sudden intuition flooded Anne’s being. How blind she had been! How was it possible that she had not recognized him sooner? A figure so well known, seen and listened to by her so many times?

She approached and laid her hand on the bowed head.

“I know you now, Mr. Petrovskey. It was very stupid of me not to have guessed before, only the light in the hut was so very poor. But please don’t be worried,” she added gently, as his drawn young face looked up into hers. “I can keep a secret very well indeed, and my one desire is to help you. You are not fit to go back to that lonely cabin to-night. You must stay here, and we will see how you are in the morning.”

He cast a wild glance about the rustic little room, as if he feared someone might spring out upon him from behind the pretty chintz curtains.

“You cannot know how terrible this is,” he said. “It is only a few weeks now—since it happened.” He choked over the words. “And I feel as if I should like to hide forever.”

“But there is nothing to be ashamed of—” she commenced. “Ashamed,” he cried, savagely. “I’m not ashamed! Only I’m full of hatred, of disgust for everyone and everything. I wish I could die!”

The tortured voice sent a lump into Anne’s throat. She knelt beside the chair and laid a compassionate arm about the shaking shoulders.

“Come,” said she. “You are ill and over-wrought. We will go upstairs and Regina and I will help you to bed. There’s a good boy!”

The protective gesture, the kind words were too much. Utterly beside himself, he turned and laid his head upon the refuge of her breast.

“You are good, good,” he whispered. “You are not disappointed in me because I’m a failure. You are not greedy like the others, who only want what they can get out of me. Yes, I will trust you and I will stay.”

As he raised his head, she felt her neck was moistened with his tears.