them, got them out of the way somewhere. My breath. It hissed for horror and fear of something. My heart. It no longer tore at my chest, but dwindled, crawling deep into the darkness within me. My mother. She watched me in a panic, afraid to speak, thinking me mad.
"What is it? Arturo! What's the matter?"
"None of your business."
"Shall I get a doctor?"
"Never."
"You act so strange. Are you hurt?"
"Don't talk to me. I'm thinking."
"But what is it?"
"You wouldn't know. You're a woman."
Chapter Eight
THE DAYS WENT on. A week passed. Miss Hopkins was in the library every afternoon, floating on white legs in the folds of her loose dresses in an atmosphere of books and cool thoughts. I watched. I was like a hawk. Nothing she did escaped me.
Then came a great day. What a day that was!
I was watching her from the shadows of the dark shelves. She held a book, standing behind her desk like a soldier, shoulders back, reading the book, her face so serious and so soft, her grey eyes following the beaten path of line under line. My eyes - they were so eager and so hungry they startled her. With a suddenness she looked up and her face was white with the shock of something dreadful near her. I saw her wet her lips, and then I turned away. In a while I looked again. It was like magic. Again she twitched, glanced around uneasily, put her long fingers to her throat, sighed, and commenced to read. A few moments, and once more I looked. She still held that book. But what was that book? I didn't know, but I must have it for my eyes to follow the path her eyes had followed before me.
Outside it was the evening, the sun spangling the floor in gold. With white legs as silent as ghosts she crossed the library to the windows and raised the shades. In her right hand swung that book, brushing against her dress as she walked, in her very hands, the immortal white hands of Miss Hopkins, pressed against the warm white softness of her clinging fingers.
What a book! I've got to have that book! Lord, I wanted it, to hold it, to kiss it, to crush it to my chest, that book fresh from her fingers, the very imprint of her warm fingers still upon it perhaps. Who knows? Perhaps she perspires through her fingers as she reads it. Wonderful! Then her imprint is surely upon it. I must have it. I will wait forever for it. And so I waited until seven o'clock, seeing how she held the book, the exact position of her wonderful fingers that were so slim and white, just off the back binding, no more than an inch from the bottom, the perfume of her perhaps entering those very pages and perfuming them for me.
Until at last she was finished with it. She carried it to the shelves and slipped it into a slot marked biography. I ambled by, seeking a book to read, something to stimulate my mind, something in the line of biography today, the life of some great figure, to inspire me, to make my life sublime.
Ha, there it was! The most beautiful book I ever saw, larger than the others on that shelf, a book among books, the very queen of biography, the princess of literature — that book with the blue binding. Catherine of Aragon. So that was it! A queen reads of another queen — most natural. And her gray eyes had followed the path of those lines - then so would mine.
I must have it — but not today. Tomorrow I will come, tomorrow. Then the other librarian, that fat and ugly one, will be on duty. Then it shall be mine, all mine. And so, until the next day, I hid the book behind others so no one could take it away while I was gone.
I was there early next day - at nine o'clock to the second. Catherine of Aragon: wonderful woman, the Queen of England, the bedmate of Henry VIII - that much I knew already. Undoubtedly Miss Hopkins had read of the intimacy of Catherine and Henry in this book. Those sections dealing with love - did they delight Miss Hopkins? Did shivers run down her back? Did she breathe hard, her bosom swelling, and a mysterious
"What is it? Arturo! What's the matter?"
"None of your business."
"Shall I get a doctor?"
"Never."
"You act so strange. Are you hurt?"
"Don't talk to me. I'm thinking."
"But what is it?"
"You wouldn't know. You're a woman."
Chapter Eight
THE DAYS WENT on. A week passed. Miss Hopkins was in the library every afternoon, floating on white legs in the folds of her loose dresses in an atmosphere of books and cool thoughts. I watched. I was like a hawk. Nothing she did escaped me.
Then came a great day. What a day that was!
I was watching her from the shadows of the dark shelves. She held a book, standing behind her desk like a soldier, shoulders back, reading the book, her face so serious and so soft, her grey eyes following the beaten path of line under line. My eyes - they were so eager and so hungry they startled her. With a suddenness she looked up and her face was white with the shock of something dreadful near her. I saw her wet her lips, and then I turned away. In a while I looked again. It was like magic. Again she twitched, glanced around uneasily, put her long fingers to her throat, sighed, and commenced to read. A few moments, and once more I looked. She still held that book. But what was that book? I didn't know, but I must have it for my eyes to follow the path her eyes had followed before me.
Outside it was the evening, the sun spangling the floor in gold. With white legs as silent as ghosts she crossed the library to the windows and raised the shades. In her right hand swung that book, brushing against her dress as she walked, in her very hands, the immortal white hands of Miss Hopkins, pressed against the warm white softness of her clinging fingers.
What a book! I've got to have that book! Lord, I wanted it, to hold it, to kiss it, to crush it to my chest, that book fresh from her fingers, the very imprint of her warm fingers still upon it perhaps. Who knows? Perhaps she perspires through her fingers as she reads it. Wonderful! Then her imprint is surely upon it. I must have it. I will wait forever for it. And so I waited until seven o'clock, seeing how she held the book, the exact position of her wonderful fingers that were so slim and white, just off the back binding, no more than an inch from the bottom, the perfume of her perhaps entering those very pages and perfuming them for me.
Until at last she was finished with it. She carried it to the shelves and slipped it into a slot marked biography. I ambled by, seeking a book to read, something to stimulate my mind, something in the line of biography today, the life of some great figure, to inspire me, to make my life sublime.
Ha, there it was! The most beautiful book I ever saw, larger than the others on that shelf, a book among books, the very queen of biography, the princess of literature — that book with the blue binding. Catherine of Aragon. So that was it! A queen reads of another queen — most natural. And her gray eyes had followed the path of those lines - then so would mine.
I must have it — but not today. Tomorrow I will come, tomorrow. Then the other librarian, that fat and ugly one, will be on duty. Then it shall be mine, all mine. And so, until the next day, I hid the book behind others so no one could take it away while I was gone.
I was there early next day - at nine o'clock to the second. Catherine of Aragon: wonderful woman, the Queen of England, the bedmate of Henry VIII - that much I knew already. Undoubtedly Miss Hopkins had read of the intimacy of Catherine and Henry in this book. Those sections dealing with love - did they delight Miss Hopkins? Did shivers run down her back? Did she breathe hard, her bosom swelling, and a mysterious
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