The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett
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Loristan saw done was wonderful in its mechanical exactness.
The Squad moved like the perfect parts of a perfect machine. That they could so do it in such space, and that they should have accomplished such precision, was an extraordinary testimonial to the military efficiency and curious qualities of this one hunchbacked, vagabond officer.
“That is magnificent!” the spectator said, when it was over. “It could not be better done. Allow me to congratulate you.”
He shook The Rat’s hand as if it had been a man’s, and, after he had shaken it, he put his own hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder and let it rest there as he talked a few minutes to them all.
He kept his talk within the game, and his clear comprehension of it added a flavor which even the dullest member of the Squad was elated by. Sometimes you couldn’t understand toffs when they made a shy at being friendly, but you could understand him, and he stirred up your spirits. He didn’t make jokes with you, either, as if a chap had to be kept grinning. After the few minutes were over, he went away. Then they sat down again in their circle and talked about him, because they could talk and think about nothing else. They stared at Marco furtively, feeling as if he were a creature of another world because he had lived with this man. They stared at The Rat in a new way also. The wonderful-looking hand had rested on his shoulder, and he had been told that what he had done was magnificent.
“When you said you wished your father could have seen the drill,” said The Rat, “you took my breath away. I’d never have had the cheek to think of it myself—and I’d never have dared to let you ask him, even if you wanted to do it. And he came himself! It struck me dumb.”
“If he came,” said Marco, “it was because he wanted to see it.”
When they had finished talking, it was time for Marco and The Rat to go on their way. Loristan had given The Rat an errand. At a certain hour he was to present himself at a certain shop and receive a package.
“Let him do it alone,” Loristan said to Marco. “He will be better pleased. His desire is to feel that he is trusted to do things alone.”
So they parted at a street corner, Marco to walk back to No. 7 Philibert Place, The Rat to execute his commission. Marco turned into one of the better streets, through which he often passed on his way home. It was not a fashionable quarter, but it contained some respectable houses in whose windows here and there were to be seen neat cards bearing the word “Apartments,” which meant that the owner of the house would let to lodgers his drawing-room or sitting-room suite.
As Marco walked up the street, he saw some one come out of the door of one of the houses and walk quickly and lightly down the pavement. It was a young woman wearing an elegant though quiet dress, and a hat which looked as if it had been bought in Paris or Vienna. She had, in fact, a slightly foreign air, and it was this, indeed, which made Marco look at her long enough to see that she was also a graceful and lovely person. He wondered what her nationality was. Even at some yards’ distance he could see that she had long dark eyes and a curved mouth which seemed to be smiling to itself. He thought she might be Spanish or Italian.
He was trying to decide which of the two countries she belonged to, as she drew near to him, but quite suddenly the curved mouth ceased smiling as her foot seemed to catch in a break in the pavement, and she so lost her balance that she would have fallen if he had not leaped forward and caught her.
She was light and slender, and he was a strong lad and managed to steady her. An expression of sharp momentary anguish crossed her face.
“I hope you are not hurt,” Marco said.
She bit her lip and clutched his shoulder very hard with her slim hand.
“I have twisted my ankle,” she answered. “I am afraid I have twisted it badly. Thank you for saving me. I should have had a bad fall.”
Her long, dark eyes were very sweet and grateful. She tried to smile, but there was such distress under the effort that Marco was afraid she must have hurt herself very much.
“Can you stand on your foot at all?” he asked.
“I can stand a little now,” she said, “but I might not be able to stand in a few minutes. I must get back to the house while I can bear to touch the ground with it. I am so sorry. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to go with me. Fortunately it is only a few yards away.”
“Yes,” Marco answered. “I saw you come out of the house. If you will lean on my shoulder, I can soon help you back. I am glad to do it. Shall we try now?”
She had a gentle and soft manner which would have appealed to any boy. Her voice was musical and her enunciation exquisite.
Whether she was Spanish or Italian, it was easy to imagine her a person who did not always live in London lodgings, even of the better class.
“If you please,” she answered him. “It is very kind of you. You are very strong, I see. But I am glad to have only a few steps to go.”
She rested on his shoulder as well as on her umbrella, but it was plain that every movement gave her intense pain. She caught her lip with her teeth, and Marco thought she turned white. He could not help liking her. She was so lovely and gracious and brave. He could not bear to see the suffering in her face.
“I am so sorry!” he said, as he helped her, and his boy’s voice had something of the wonderful sympathetic tone of Loristan’s. The beautiful lady herself remarked it, and thought how unlike it was to the ordinary boy-voice.
“I have a latchkey,” she said, when they stood on the low step.
She found the latchkey in her purse and opened the door. Marco helped her into the entrance-hall. She sat down at once in a chair near the hat-stand. The place was quite plain and old-fashioned inside.
“Shall I ring the front-door bell to call some one?” Marco inquired.
“I am afraid that the servants are out,” she answered. “They had a holiday. Will you kindly close the door? I shall be obliged to ask you to help me into the sitting-room at the end of the hall. I shall find all I want there—if you will kindly hand me a few things. Some one may come in presently—perhaps one of the other lodgers—and, even if I am alone for an hour or so, it will not really matter.”
“Perhaps I can find the landlady,” Marco suggested. The beautiful person smiled.
“She has gone to her sister’s wedding. That is why I was going out to spend the day myself. I arranged the plan to accommodate her. How good you are! I shall be quite comfortable directly, really. I can get to my easy-chair in the sitting-room now I have rested a little.”
Marco helped her to her feet, and her sharp, involuntary exclamation of pain made him wince internally. Perhaps it was a worse sprain than she knew.
The house was of the early-Victorian London order. A “front lobby” with a dining-room on the right hand, and a “back lobby,” after the foot of the stairs was passed, out of which opened the basement kitchen staircase and a sitting-room looking out on a gloomy flagged back yard inclosed by high walls. The sitting-room was rather gloomy itself, but there were a few luxurious things among the ordinary furnishings. There was an easy-chair with a small table near it, and on the table were a silver lamp and some rather elegant trifles. Marco helped his charge to the easy-chair and put a cushion from the sofa under her foot. He did it very gently, and, as he rose after doing it, he saw that the long, soft dark eyes were looking at him in a curious way.
“I must go away now,” he said, “but I do not like to leave you. May I go for a doctor?”
“How dear you are!” she exclaimed. “But I do not want one, thank you. I know exactly what to do for a sprained ankle. And perhaps mine is not really a sprain. I am going to take off my shoe and see.”
“May I help you?” Marco asked, and he kneeled down again and carefully unfastened her shoe and withdrew it from her foot. It was a slender and