|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 111
But the man and the ideal seemed distinct things having no
relation. She drew back from the one, and she stood on tip-toe,
with arms extended longingly toward the other.
What should she do?
Had the example of her father thrown on Lord Eckhart a golden
shadow? She moved the bit of flower, gently as in a caress. He
had given up the income of a leading profession and gone to his
death. His fortune and his life had gone in the same high
careless manner for the thing he sought. For the treasure that
he believed lay in the Gobi Desert - not for himself, but for
every man to be born into the world. He was the great dreamer,
the great idealist, a vague shining figure before the girl like
the cloud in the Hebraic Myth.
The girl stood up and linked her fingers together behind her
back. If her father were only here - for an hour, for a moment!
Or if, in the world beyond sight and hearing, he could somehow
get a message to her!
At this moment a bell, somewhere in the deeps of the house,
jangled, and she heard the old butler moving through the hall to
the door. The other servants had been dismissed for the night,
and her aunt on the preliminaries of this marriage was in Paris.
A moment later the butler appeared with a card on his tray. It
was a card newly engraved in some English shop and bore the name
"Dr. Tsan-Sgam." The girl stood for a moment puzzled at the
queer name, and then the memory of the strange outlandish human
creatures, from the ends of the world, who used sometimes to
visit her father, in the old time, returned, and with it there
came a sudden upward sweep of the heart - was there an answer to
her longing, somehow, incredibly on the way!
She gave a direction for the visitor to be brought in. He was a
big old man. His body looked long and muscular like that of some
type of Englishmen, but his head and his features were Mongolian.
He was entirely bald, as bald as the palm of a hand, as though
bald from his mother he had so remained to this incredible age.
And age was the impression that he profoundly presented. But it
was age that a tough vitality in the man resisted; as though the
assault of time wore it down slowly and with almost an
imperceptible detritus. The great naked head and the wide
Mongolian face were unshrunken; they presented, rather, the
aspect of some old child. He was dressed with extreme care, in
the very best evening clothes that one could buy in a London
shop.
He bowed, oddly, with a slow doubling of the body, and when he
spoke the girl felt that he was translating his words through
more than one language; as though one were to put one's sentences
into French or Italian and from that, as a sort of intermediary,
into English - as though the way were long, and unfamiliar from
the medium in which the man thought to the one in which he was
undertaking to express it. But at the end of this involved
mental process his English sentences appeared correctly, and with
an accurate selection in the words.
"You must pardon the hour, Miss Carstair," he said, in his slow,
precise articulation, "but I am required to see you and it is the
only time I have."
Then his eyes caught the necklace on the table, and advancing
with two steps he stooped over it.
For a moment everything else seemed removed, from about the man.
His angular body, in its unfamiliar dress, was doubled like a
finger; his great head with its wide Mongolian face was close
down over the buhl top of the table and his finger moved the heap
of rubies.
The girl had a sudden inspiration.
"Lord Eckhart got these jewels from you?"
The man paused, he seemed to be moving the girl's words backward
through the intervening languages.
Then he replied.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|