The two gypsies gazed at one another in silence.
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 glass.
“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 hoarsely,
“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 pass 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 pass 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.
Velasco bent over entranced.
“How you sing!” he cried,
“Like some beautiful bird! In Italy, on
the shores 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 pass 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 pass!”
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 snatched the red wine
from the table and was pouring it out in a glass,
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 glass 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 glass 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!”
Her eyes stared down at the blotch
on her hand. They were frightened, dilated,
and her whole body quivered in the chair. “Velasco take
it away!”
He put down the glass and took the
small, white hand in his own, brushing it gently with
the sleeve of his jacket. “There now,”
he said, “it is gone. It was only a drop
of wine. Hush hush! See, there
is no blood, Kaya, I never meant there was blood.
Don’t scream again!”
“It’s the Cross!”
she cried, “the curse of the Black Cross!
Ah, go leave me! I am a murderess!
I shot him, Velasco, I shot him! I fulfilled
the vow, the oath of the order. But now oh
God! I am cursed! Not blood not
blood!”
She was struggling to her feet.
“Without weakness, without
hesitation, or mercy. I did it! Velasco I
did it!”
She fell back into the chair again,
sobbing, murmuring to herself. “Not blood no not
blood!”
“That is over and past,”
said Velasco, “Don’t think of it, Kaya.
Be a boy, a man, not weak like a woman. Eat
the rest of the bread.”
The girl took the bread from his hand.
“Finish the wine.”
He held the glass to her lips until
she had drained it; and then she began to laugh a
little unsteadily.
“You are right,” she said,
“a boy doesn’t weep. I
must be strong, a good comrade.” She dashed
the tears from her eyes and looked up at him pathetically,
smiling with lips that still quivered. “It
is over,” she said, “I am I
have you know; but it is over! I will
forget it. Sometimes I can forget it if I try;
then I shut my eyes at night and I see him before
me, on his face with his arms outstretched still
and strange. The blood is trickling a stream
on the floor! I hear the shot I ”
“Be still, Kaya, hush!
Don’t speak of it; forget it! Hush!”
She began to laugh again: “See,
I am your comrade, light-hearted and gay as a gypsey
should be. Already I have forgotten!
What a couple of tramps we are, you and I!
Just look at your boots!”
“And your faded old jacket!”
“And your scarf, Velasco!”
“And your velveteen cap!”
They laughed out together, and then
they stopped suddenly and listened. “Was
it anything?”
“No, I think not.”
“Are you sure?”
Velasco leaned towards her and their
fingers touched for a moment. She drew them
away.
“Shall we go; is it time?”
“Not yet,” said Velasco,
“not yet! Your lips are so sweet, they
are arched like a bow; they quiver like a string when
one plays on it. Kiss me, Kaya.”
She pressed him back with her hands
outstretched, her palms against his coat. “We
must go,” she whispered, “They will track
us, Monsieur. I am frightened.”
“Kaya, kiss me.”
Their eyes met and drew closer, gazing intently, the
dark and the blue.
“Don’t touch me,”
she said faintly. “We are two boys together.
You must forget that I am a girl. Can you forget?”
“No,” said Velasco.
“You were charming before, but you are irresistible
now, in that velveteen jacket and scarf, with the curls
on your brow. When you look at me so, with your
head on one side, and your eyes half veiled, and the
flush on your cheeks, you are sweet I love
you! Kiss me.”
He pressed forward closely, his eyes
still on hers; but she held him back with her hands,
trembling a little.
“Velasco,” she whispered,
“Listen! I trust you. You are stronger
than I; your wrists are like steel, but I
trust you. See I trust you.”
She took down her hands from his shoulders
and folded them proudly over her breast, gazing up
at him.
“How strange your eyes are,”
said Velasco, “like two pools in the twilight;
one could drown in their depths. You are there
behind the blue, Kaya. Your spirit looks out
at me, brave and dauntless. When you sob, you
are like a child; when you look at me under the veil
of your lashes and your heart beats fast, you are
a woman. And now you are what
are you, Kaya? A young knight watching beside
his shield!”
He hesitated, and passed his hand
over his brows, and looked at her again; then he moved
away slowly and began to lay the things in his knapsack.
“They are all boys’ things,” he
said, “but you are a boy; they will do for you
too.”
“Yes,” she said.
He laughed a little unsteadily.
“There is money in my belt; now the knapsack
is ready, my violin and that is all.
It is nearly eleven. Come Kaya.”
He turned his head away without looking
at her; he approached the door slowly. The girl
sat still in the chair.
“Are you coming?”
There was silence; then he turned
on his heel, and went back to her, and laid his hand
on her shoulder. “Kaya,” he said,
whispering as if someone could hear, “Are you
afraid? Why are you afraid to come with me,
dear brother musician, dear comrade?” His voice
broke. “I will take care of you.
You said you would trust me, Kaya.”
The girl clasped his arm with a cry:
“I am not afraid for myself,” she said,
“but for you you, Velasco. Leave
me before it is too late. There is time for the
train, just time. I implore you to go!”
She trembled and raised her eyes to
his. “If anything should happen, and you
suffered for me, I couldn’t bear it. Leave
me Velasco!”
He put out his hand and took hers,
crushing it in his own strength. He did not
speak but he drew her forward, and she followed him
dumbly, quietly, without resistance; her head drooping,
the cap on the back of her yellow curls; the lashes
hiding her eyes, fringing her cheek.
He took the Stradivarius under his
arm. The door closed and they started out, hesitating,
looking back over their shoulders; stealing down the
stairs like two frightened children hand in hand.