The Dust [38]
long back and bosom, the long arms and legs--a series of lovely curves. It has been scientifically demonstrated that pale blue is pre- eminently the sex color. It certainly was pre-eminently HER color, setting off each and every one of her charms and suggesting the roundness and softness and whiteness her drapery concealed. She was one of those rare beings whose every pose is instinct with grace. And her voice-- It was small, rather high, at times almost shrill. But in every note of its register there sounded a mysterious, melancholy-sweet call to the responding nerves of man.
Before she got halfway through the song Norman was fighting against the same mad impulse that had all but overwhelmed him as he watched her in the afternoon. And when her last note rose, swelled, slowly faded into silence, it seemed to him that had she kept on for one note more he would have disclosed to her amazed eyes the insanity raging within him.
She turned on the piano stool, her hands dropped listlessly in her lap. "Aren't those words beautiful?" she said in a dreamy voice. She was not looking at him. Evidently she was hardly aware of his presence.
He had not heard a word. He was in no mood for mere words. "I've never liked anything so well," he said. And he lowered his eyes that she might not see what they must be revealing.
She rose. He made a gesture of protest. "Won't you sing another?" he asked.
"Not after that," she said. "It's the best I know. It has put me out of the mood for the ordinary songs."
"You are a dreamer--aren't you?"
"That's my real life," replied she. "I go through the other part just to get to the dreams."
"What do you dream?"
She laughed carelessly. "Oh, you'd not be interested. It would seem foolish to you."
"You're mistaken there," cried he. "The only thing that ever has interested me in life is dreams-- and making them come true."
"But not MY kind of dreams. The only kind I like are the ones that couldn't possibly come true."
"There isn't any dream that can't be made to come true."
She looked at him eagerly. "You think so?"
"The wildest ones are often the easiest." He had a moving voice himself, and it had been known to affect listening ears hypnotically when he was deeply in earnest, was possessed by one of those desires that conquer men of will and then make them irresistible instruments. "What is your dream?--happiness? . . . love?"
She gazed past him with swimming eyes, with a glance that seemed like a brave bright bird exploring infinity. "Yes," she said under her breath. "But it could never--never come true. It's too perfect."
"Don't doubt," he said, in a tone that fitted her mood as the rhythm of the cradle fits the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. "Don't ever doubt. And the dream will come true."
"You have been in love?" she said, under the spell of his look and tone.
He nodded slowly. "I am," he replied, and he was under the spell of her beauty.
"Is it--wonderful?"
"Like nothing else on earth. Everything else seems --poor and cheap--beside it."
He drew a step nearer. "But you couldn't love-- not yet," he said. "You haven't had the experience. You will have to learn."
"You don't know me," she cried. "I have been teaching myself ever since I was a little girl. I've thought of nothing else most of the time. Oh--" she clasped her white hands against her small bosom--"if I ever have the chance, how much I shall give!"
"I know it! I know it!" he replied. "You will make some man happier than ever man was before." His infatuation did not blind him to the fact that she cared nothing about him, looked on him in the most unpersonal way. But that knowledge seemed only to inflame him the more, to lash him on to the folly of an ill-timed declaration. "I have felt how much you will give--how much you will love--I've felt it from the second time I saw you--perhaps from the first. I've never seen any woman who interested me as you do-- who drew me as you do--against my ambition--against my will. I--I----"
He
Before she got halfway through the song Norman was fighting against the same mad impulse that had all but overwhelmed him as he watched her in the afternoon. And when her last note rose, swelled, slowly faded into silence, it seemed to him that had she kept on for one note more he would have disclosed to her amazed eyes the insanity raging within him.
She turned on the piano stool, her hands dropped listlessly in her lap. "Aren't those words beautiful?" she said in a dreamy voice. She was not looking at him. Evidently she was hardly aware of his presence.
He had not heard a word. He was in no mood for mere words. "I've never liked anything so well," he said. And he lowered his eyes that she might not see what they must be revealing.
She rose. He made a gesture of protest. "Won't you sing another?" he asked.
"Not after that," she said. "It's the best I know. It has put me out of the mood for the ordinary songs."
"You are a dreamer--aren't you?"
"That's my real life," replied she. "I go through the other part just to get to the dreams."
"What do you dream?"
She laughed carelessly. "Oh, you'd not be interested. It would seem foolish to you."
"You're mistaken there," cried he. "The only thing that ever has interested me in life is dreams-- and making them come true."
"But not MY kind of dreams. The only kind I like are the ones that couldn't possibly come true."
"There isn't any dream that can't be made to come true."
She looked at him eagerly. "You think so?"
"The wildest ones are often the easiest." He had a moving voice himself, and it had been known to affect listening ears hypnotically when he was deeply in earnest, was possessed by one of those desires that conquer men of will and then make them irresistible instruments. "What is your dream?--happiness? . . . love?"
She gazed past him with swimming eyes, with a glance that seemed like a brave bright bird exploring infinity. "Yes," she said under her breath. "But it could never--never come true. It's too perfect."
"Don't doubt," he said, in a tone that fitted her mood as the rhythm of the cradle fits the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. "Don't ever doubt. And the dream will come true."
"You have been in love?" she said, under the spell of his look and tone.
He nodded slowly. "I am," he replied, and he was under the spell of her beauty.
"Is it--wonderful?"
"Like nothing else on earth. Everything else seems --poor and cheap--beside it."
He drew a step nearer. "But you couldn't love-- not yet," he said. "You haven't had the experience. You will have to learn."
"You don't know me," she cried. "I have been teaching myself ever since I was a little girl. I've thought of nothing else most of the time. Oh--" she clasped her white hands against her small bosom--"if I ever have the chance, how much I shall give!"
"I know it! I know it!" he replied. "You will make some man happier than ever man was before." His infatuation did not blind him to the fact that she cared nothing about him, looked on him in the most unpersonal way. But that knowledge seemed only to inflame him the more, to lash him on to the folly of an ill-timed declaration. "I have felt how much you will give--how much you will love--I've felt it from the second time I saw you--perhaps from the first. I've never seen any woman who interested me as you do-- who drew me as you do--against my ambition--against my will. I--I----"
He