West Wind Drift Part 47

It was "Twelfth Night," and Olga's pupils had given a fairy dance on the Green. To conclude the almost mystic entertainment, the great Obosky herself had appeared in one of her most marvellous creations,--the "Dance of the Caliph's Dream,"--the sensational, never-to-be-forgotten dance that had been the talk of three continents. There was no spotlight to follow her sinuous, scantily clad figure as it spun and leaped and glided about the dim, starlit Green; there was no blare of bra.s.s and cymbals, nor the haunting wail of flageolets,--only the tinkle of mandolins and Spanish guitars to guide her bewildering feet,--and yet she had never been so alluring.

When it was all over,--when the charmed circle of faces had vanished into the byways of the night,--she came and flung herself down upon the steps of the Governor's mansion. She had wrapped her warm body in a sheath of yellow velvet; the tips of her bare feet were exposed to the grateful night air. Her uplifted eyes shone like the stars that looked down into them; her lips were parted in a smile; her flesh quivered with the physical ecstasy that comes only with supreme la.s.situde.

"You never danced so beautifully in your life, Olga," said Careni-Amori.

"And after two years, too. I cannot understand. I shall never sing again as I sang two years ago. But you,--ah, you dance even better. I take courage from you. Perhaps my voice has not gone to seed as Joseppi's has,--poor man. Not that it had very far to go,--but still it was second only to Caruso's, and that is something. How can it be that you improve with idleness, while I--while we go the other way?"

"I shall never dance like zat again," replied Olga, her eyes clouding.

"You speak as if it were your swan dance," cried Michael Malone.

"Oh, I shall dance for ever," said she, "but never again like zat. You would ask why not. I cannot tell you. I do not know. Only can I say I shall never dance like zat again,--never."

Ruth turned her head quickly to look at the woman beside her. Olga's face gleamed white in the starlight. Her eyes were still searching the speckled dome, and the smile had left her lips.

"Don't say that, Olga," she whispered softly. "You will delight great audiences again,--you will charm--"

"Possibly," interrupted the other, lowering her voice, turning her eyes upon Ruth, and smiling mysteriously. "Great audiences, yes,--but what are they? I appeared tonight before an audience of one. I danced as I have never danced before,--all for zat audience of one. Your husband, my dear. He one time informs me he has never seen me dance. Well,--tonight I dance for him. Now, he can say he have seen Obosky dance. He will never forget zat he have seen Obosky dance."

Ruth laughed, but it was a strained effort. "He was positively enchanted, Olga," she said. Then she added: "But for goodness' sake, don't ever let him know that you did it all for him. He will be so proud and important that--"

"Oh, he knows I danced for him," broke in the Russian calmly, in a most matter-of-fact tone.

"You--you told him?"

"I did not have to tell him. He knew, without being told. La la, my dear! Do not look so shocked. It is a habit I have. Always I dance for one person in my audience. I pick him out,--sometimes it is a she,--and zen I try only to please zat one person. I make him to feel he is the one I am dancing for, zat he is all alone in the great big hall,--all alone with me. Maybe he is in the gallery, looking down; maybe he is in a box, or standing up at the back of the house,--no matter where he is, I pick him out and so I think of no one else all ze time I dance."

"And, by the same token, he is powerless to think of any one else. I see. No wonder you charm them out of their boots."

"And all the rest of his life he will remember that I danced for him alone, zat man. As for me,--poof! I would not recognize him again if he came to see me a thousand nights in succession. Once I saw a very tiny boy in the stalls. He was with his mother and father. I danced for zat child of six. When he is a very, very old man he will look back over the years and see me dancing still,--always the same whirling, dazzling thing that filled his little eyes and soul with wonder. So! Percivail has seen me at my best. He will tell his grandchildren how wonderful Obosky was,--and he will think of her to his dying day as something beautiful, not something vile."

"Oh, Olga!"

"You see, my dear," said the other, composedly, "I wanted to make a good impression on zat virtuous husband of jours. Now he will think of me as the artist, not as the woman. It is much better so, is it not?"

"Sometimes you say things that cause me to wonder why I don't hate you, Olga Obosky," cried Ruth under her breath.

Olga laughed softly. "I repeat zat Golden Rule to myself every night and every morning, Ruthkin," said she, somewhat cryptically. Then they were silent.

Conversation on the porch behind them lagged and finally ceased altogether. The soft swish of fans was the only sound to disturb the tranquil stillness.

"Nineteen-twenty," fell dreamily from the lips of Randolph Fitts's wife.

"I used to think of Nineteen-twenty as being so far in the future that I would be an old, old woman when I came to it. And here it is,--I am living in it,--and I am not old."

"Presidential year," said Michael Malone, as he struck a match to relight the pipe that had gone out. "Doesn't take them long to slip around, does it? Seems only last week that I voted for Wilson. I wonder if he'll be running again."

"Sure! And if he can keep us in the war as long as he kept us out of it," said Peter Snipe, "we'll have to elect him again."

"I'd give a lot to know whether we've got the Germans licked or not,"

mused Fitts. "We've had nearly three years to do it in."

"Depends entirely on the navy," said Platt, Minister of Marine, late of the U. S. Navy.

"What can the navy do if the Germans will not come out?" demanded Landover.

"Why, confound it all, the navy can go in, can't it?"

"The British Navy hasn't," was Landover's reply.

"What's the use of speculating about the war?" said Percival, as he threw himself on the gra.s.s at Ruth's feet. "Either it's over or it isn't, and here we sit absolutely in the dark. They might as well be fighting on Mars as over in Europe, so far as we are concerned. For G.o.d's sake, let's not even think about the war. We'll all go crazy if we do."

"You're right," said Fitts, gloomily.

"In any case," said Malone, "Trigger Island has done all that any self-respecting government can do. She has declared war on Germany. We have nothing to be ashamed of. Still, I'd feel better if we could fire a few shots at the dirty blackguards."

"The war is over," said Olga, staring up at the stars. "The Germans are beaten. I have said so for many months, have I not?"

"You have," agreed Malone. "But I don't see that you have anything on the Kaiser. He said it was over in 1914."

"'Don't argue with him, Olga," said young Mrs. Malone. "He's Irish."

"Like all Irishers he's longing for something he'll never get," said Fitts, drily.

"And what is that?" inquired Mrs. Malone.

"Home-rule," said Fitts.

Olga Obosky yawned luxuriously. "I am so sleepy. My sandals, Governor Percivail. I am going home."

He picked up the sandals lying on the gra.s.s beside him and held them out to her. She coolly extended one of her feet.

"It cannot bite you. Put zem on for me, your Excellency."

WEST WIND DRIFT

He knelt and, slipping the sandals on one after the other, fastened the straps over her bare insteps.

"So," she sighed. "Thank you. Good night, Ruthkin. No! I shall go home alone. There is nothing to be afraid of now on zis island, my dear. The ardent Fernandez is playing--what you call it?--pea-knuckles?--he is playing pea-knuckles away off yonder on zat prison island, as he has been playing for nearly a year."

Little she knew of Fernandez!

Ruth and Percival walked around the corner of the porch with her, out of sight of the others.

"It was a perfectly ravishing dance, Olga," said he. "If I live a thousand years I shall never forget how beautiful it was."

"You see?" cried Olga softly, pressing Ruth's hand. "Was I not right?"

"Men are very queer things," said Ruth, with a curious sidelong glance at her husband. Then she squeezed his arm tightly and went on with a little thrill in her voice: "Good night, Olga. Thank you for the lesson."