After a minute's silence Christian said in a startled voice: “They could arrest you then!”
Harz laughed.
“If they knew; but it's seven years ago.”
“Why did you come here, when it's so dangerous?”
“I had been working too hard, I wanted to see my country—after seven years, and when it's forbidden! But I'm ready to go back now.” He looked down at her, frowning.
“Had you a hard time in London, too?”
“Harder, at first—I couldn't speak the language. In my profession it's hard work to get recognised, it's hard work to make a living. There are too many whose interest it is to keep you down—I shan't forget them.”
“But every one is not like that?”
“No; there are fine fellows, too. I shan't forget them either. I can sell my pictures now; I'm no longer weak, and I promise you I shan't forget. If in the future I have power, and I shall have power—I shan't forget.”
A shower of fine gravel came rattling on the wall. Dawney was standing below them with an amused expression on his upturned face.
“Are you going to stay there all night?” he asked. “Greta and I have bored each other.”
“We're coming,” called Christian hastily.
On the way back neither spoke a word, but when they reached the Villa, Harz took her hand, and said: “Fraulein Christian, I can't do any more with your picture. I shan't touch it again after this.”
She made no answer, but they looked at each other, and both seemed to ask, to entreat, something more; then her eyes fell. He dropped her hand, and saying, “Good-night,” ran after Dawney.
In the corridor, Dominique, carrying a dish of fruit, met the sisters; he informed them that Miss Naylor had retired to bed; that Herr Paul would not be home to dinner; his master was dining in his room; dinner would be served for Mrs. Decie and the two young ladies in a quarter of an hour: “And the fish is good to-night; little trouts! try them, Signorina!” He moved on quickly, softly, like a cat, the tails of his dress-coat flapping, and the heels of his white socks gleaming.
Christian ran upstairs. She flew about her room, feeling that if she once stood still it would all crystallise in hard painful thought, which motion alone kept away. She washed, changed her dress and shoes, and ran down to her uncle's room. Mr. Treffry had just finished dinner, pushed the little table back, and was sitting in his chair, with his glasses on his nose, reading the Tines. Christian touched his forehead with her lips.
“Glad to see you, Chris. Your stepfather's out to dinner, and I can't stand your aunt when she's in one of her talking moods—bit of a humbug, Chris, between ourselves; eh, isn't she?” His eyes twinkled.
Christian smiled. There was a curious happy restlessness in her that would not let her keep still.
“Picture finished?” Mr. Treffry asked suddenly, taking up the paper with a crackle. “Don't go and fall in love with the painter, Chris.”
Christian was still enough now.
'Why not?' she thought. 'What should you know about him? Isn't he good enough for me?' A gong sounded.
“There's your dinner,” Mr. Treffry remarked.
With sudden contrition she bent and kissed him.
But when she had left the room Mr. Treffry put down the Times and stared at the door, humming to himself, and thoughtfully fingering his chin.
Christian could not eat; she sat, indifferent to the hoverings of Dominique, tormented by uneasy fear and longings. She answered Mrs. Decie at random. Greta kept stealing looks at her from under her lashes.
“Decided characters are charming, don't you think so, Christian?” Mrs. Decie said, thrusting her chin a little forward, and modelling the words. “That is why I like Mr. Harz so much; such an immense advantage for a man to know his mind. You have only to look at that young man to see that he knows what he wants, and means to have it.”
Christian pushed her plate away. Greta, flushing, said abruptly: “Doctor Edmund is not a decided character, I think. This afternoon he said: 'Shall I have some beer-yes, I shall—no, I shall not'. then he ordered the beer, so, when it came, he gave it to the soldiers.”
Mrs. Decie turned her enigmatic smile from one girl to the other.
When dinner was over they went into her room. Greta stole at once to the piano, where her long hair fell almost to the keys; silently she sat there fingering the notes, smiling to herself, and looking at her aunt, who was reading Pater's essays. Christian too had taken up a book, but soon put it down—of several pages she had not understood a word. She went into the garden and wandered about the lawn, clasping her hands behind her head. The air was heavy; very distant thunder trembled among the mountains, flashes of summer lightning played over the trees; and two great moths were hovering about a rosebush. Christian watched their soft uncertain rushes. Going to the little summer-house she flung herself down on a seat, and pressed her hands to her heart.
There was a strange and sudden aching there. Was he going from her? If so, what would be left? How little and how narrow seemed the outlook of her life—with the world waiting for her, the world of beauty, effort, self-sacrifice, fidelity! It was as though a flash of that summer lightning had fled by, singeing her, taking from her all powers of flight, burning off her wings, as off one of those pale hovering moths. Tears started up, and trickled down her face. 'Blind!' she thought; 'how could I have been so blind?'
Some one came down the path.
“Who's there?” she cried.
Harz stood in the doorway.
“Why did you come out?” he said. “Ah! why did you come out?” He caught her hand; Christian tried to draw it from him, and to turn her eyes away, but she could not. He flung himself down on his knees, and cried: “I love you!”
In a rapture of soft terror Christian bent her forehead down to his hand.
“What are you doing?” she heard him say. “Is it possible that you love me?” and she felt his kisses on her hair.
“My sweet! it will be so hard for you; you are so little, so little, and so weak.” Clasping his hand closer to her face, she murmured: “I don't care.”
There was a long, soft silence, that seemed to last for ever. Suddenly she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.
“Whatever comes!” she whispered, and gathering her dress, escaped from him into the darkness.
Christian woke next morning with a smile. In her attitudes, her voice, her eyes, there was a happy and sweet seriousness, as if she were hugging some holy thought. After breakfast she took a book and sat in the open window, whence she could see the poplar-trees guarding the entrance. There was a breeze; the roses close by kept nodding to her; the cathedral bells were in full chime; bees hummed above the lavender; and in the sky soft clouds were floating like huge, white birds.
The sounds of Miss Naylor's staccato dictation travelled across the room, and Greta's sighs as she took it down, one eye on her paper, one eye on Scruff, who lay with a black ear flapped across his paw, and his tan eyebrows quivering. He was in disgrace, for Dominique, coming on him unawares, had seen him “say his prayers” before a pudding, and take the pudding for reward.
Christian put her book down gently, and slipped through the window. Harz was coming in from the road. “I am all yours!” she whispered. His fingers closed on hers, and he went into the house.
She slipped back, took up her book, and waited. It seemed long before he came out, but when he did he waved her back, and hurried on; she had a glimpse of his face, white to the lips. Feeling faint and sick, she flew to her stepfather's room.
Herr Paul was standing in a corner with the utterly disturbed appearance of an easy-going man, visited by the unexpected. His fine shirt-front was crumpled as if his breast had heaved too suddenly under strong emotion; his smoked eyeglasses dangled down his back; his fingers were embedded in his beard. He was fixing his eye on a spot in the floor as though he expected it to explode and blow them to fragments. In another corner Mrs. Decie, with half-closed eyes, was running her finger-tips across her brow.
“What have you said to him?” cried Christian.
Herr Paul regarded her with glassy eyes.
“Mein Gott!” he said. “Your aunt and I!”
“What have you said to him?” repeated Christian.
“The impudence! An anarchist! A beggar!”
“Paul!” murmured Mrs. Decie.
“The outlaw! The fellow!” Herr Paul began to stride about the room.
Quivering from head to foot, Christian cried: “How dared you?” and ran from the room, pushing aside Miss Naylor and Greta, who stood blanched and frightened in the doorway.
Herr Paul stopped in his tramp, and, still with his eyes fixed on the floor, growled:
“A fine thing-hein? What's coming? Will you please tell me? An anarchist—a beggar!”
“Paul!” murmured Mrs. Decie.
“Paul! Paul! And you!” he pointed to Miss Naylor—“Two women with eyes!—hein!”
“There is nothing to be gained by violence,” Mrs. Decie murmured, passing her handkerchief across her lips. Miss Naylor, whose thin brown cheeks had flushed, advanced towards him.
“I hope you do not—” she said; “I am sure there was nothing that I could have prevented—I should be glad if that were understood.” And, turning with some dignity, the little lady went away, closing the door behind her.
“You hear!” Herr Paul said, violently sarcastic: “nothing she could have prevented! Enfin! Will you please tell me what I am to do?”
“Men of the world”—whose philosophy is a creature of circumstance and accepted things—find any deviation from the path of their convictions dangerous, shocking, and an intolerable bore. Herr Paul had spent his life laughing at convictions; the matter had but to touch him personally, and the tap of laughter was turned off. That any one to whom he was the lawful guardian should marry other than a well-groomed man, properly endowed with goods, properly selected, was beyond expression horrid. From his point of view he had great excuse for horror; and he was naturally unable to judge whether he had excuse for horror from other points of view. His amazement had in it a spice of the pathetic; he was like a child in the presence of a thing that he absolutely could not understand. The interview had left him with a sense of insecurity which he felt to be particularly unfair.
The door was again opened, and Greta flew in, her cheeks flushed, her hair floating behind her, and tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Papa!” she cried, “you have been cruel to Chris. The door is locked; I can hear her crying—why have you been cruel?” Without waiting to be answered, she flew out again.
Herr Paul seized his hair with both his hands: “Good! Very good! My own child, please! What next then?”
Mrs. Decie rose from her chair languidly. “My head is very bad,” she said, shading her eyes and speaking in low tones: “It is no use making a fuss—nothing can come of this—he has not a penny. Christian will have nothing till you die, which will not be for a long time yet, if you can but avoid an apoplectic fit!”
At these last words Herr Paul gave a start of real disgust. “Hum!” he muttered; it was as if the world were bent on being brutal to him. Mrs. Decie continued:
“If I know anything of this young man, he will not come here again, after the words you have spoken. As for Christian—you had better talk to Nicholas. I am going to lie down.”
Herr Paul nervously fingered the shirt-collar round his stout, short neck.
“Nicholas! Certainly—a good idea. Quelle diable d'afaire!”
'French!' thought Mrs. Decie; 'we shall soon have peace. Poor Christian! I'm sorry! After all, these things are a matter of time and opportunity.' This consoled her a good deal.
But for Christian the hours were a long nightmare of grief and shame, fear and anger. Would he forgive? Would he be true to her? Or would he go away without a word? Since yesterday it was as if she had stepped into another world, and lost it again. In place of that new feeling, intoxicating as wine, what was coming? What bitter; dreadful ending?
A rude entrance this into the life of facts, and primitive emotions!
She let Greta into her room after a time, for the child had begun sobbing; but she would not talk, and sat hour after hour at the window with the air fanning her face, and the pain in her eyes turned to the sky and trees. After one or two attempts at consolation, Greta sank on the floor, and remained there, humbly gazing at her sister in a silence only broken when Christian cleared her throat of tears, and by the song of birds in the garden. In the afternoon she slipped away and did not come back again.
After his interview with Mr. Treffry, Herr Paul took a bath, perfumed himself with precision, and caused it to be clearly understood that, under circumstances such as these, a man's house was not suited for a pig to live in. He shortly afterwards went out to the Kurbaus, and had not returned by dinner-time.
Christian came down for dinner. There were crimson spots in her cheeks, dark circles round her eyes; she behaved, however, as though nothing had happened. Miss Naylor, affected by the kindness of her heart and the shock her system had sustained, rolled a number of bread pills, looking at each as it came, with an air of surprise, and concealing it with difficulty. Mr. Treffry was coughing, and when he talked his voice seemed to rumble even more than usual. Greta was dumb, trying to catch Christian's eye; Mrs. Decie alone seemed at ease. After dinner Mr. Treffry went off to his room, leaning heavily on Christian's shoulder. As he sank into his chair, he said to her:
“Pull yourself together, my dear!” Christian did not answer him.
Outside his room Greta caught her by the sleeve.
“Look!” she whispered, thrusting a piece of paper into Christian's hand. “It is to me from Dr. Edmund, but you must read it.”
Christian opened the note, which ran as follows:
“MY PHILOSOPHER AND FRIEND,—I received your note, and went to our friend's studio; he was not in, but half an hour ago I stumbled on him in the Platz. He is not quite himself; has had a touch of the sun—nothing serious: I took him to my hotel, where he is in bed. If he will stay there he will be all right in a day or two. In any case he shall not elude my clutches for the present.
“My warm respects to Mistress Christian.—Yours in friendship and philosophy,
“EDMUND DAWNEY.”
Christian read and re-read this note, then turned to Greta.
“What did you say to Dr. Dawney?”
Greta took back the piece of paper, and replied: “I said:
“'DEAR DR. EDMUND,—We are anxious about Herr Harz. We think he is perhaps not very well to-day. We (I and Christian) should like to know. You can tell us. Please shall you? GRETA.'
“That is what I said.”
Christian dropped her eyes. “What made you write?”
Greta gazed at her mournfully: “I thought—O Chris! come into the garden. I am so hot, and it is so dull without you!”
Christian bent her head forward and rubbed her cheek against Greta's, then without another word ran upstairs and locked herself into her room. The child stood listening; hearing the key turn in the lock, she sank down on the bottom step and took Scruff in her arms.
Half an hour later Miss Naylor, carrying a candle, found her there fast asleep, with her head resting on the terrier's back, and tear stains on her cheeks....
Mrs. Decie presently came out, also carrying a candle, and went to her brother's room. She stood before his chair, with folded hands.
“Nicholas, what is to be done?”
Mr. Treffry was pouring whisky into a glass.
“Damn it, Con!” he answered; “how should I know?”
“There's something in Christian that makes interference dangerous. I know very well that I've no influence with her at all.”
“You're right there, Con,” Mr. Treffry replied.
Mrs. Decie's pale eyes, fastened on his face, forced him to look up.
“I wish you would leave off drinking whisky and attend to me. Paul is an element—”
“Paul,” Mr. Treffry growled, “is an ass!”
“Paul,” pursued Mrs. Decie, “is an element of danger in the situation; any ill-timed opposition of his might drive her to I don't know what. Christian is gentle, she is 'sympathetic' as they say; but thwart her, and she is as obstinate as....
“You or I! Leave her alone!”
“I understand her character, but I confess that I am at a loss what to do.”
“Do nothing!” He drank again.
Mrs. Decie took up the candle.
“Men!” she said with a mysterious intonation; shrugging her shoulders, she walked out.
Mr. Treffry put down his glass.
'Understand?' he thought; 'no, you don't, and I don't. Who understands a young girl? Vapourings, dreams, moonshine I.... What does she see in this painter fellow? I wonder!' He breathed heavily. 'By heavens! I wouldn't have had this happen for a hundred thousand pounds!'
For many hours after Dawney had taken him to his hotel, Harz was prostrate with stunning pains in the head and neck. He had been all day without food, exposed to burning sun, suffering violent emotion. Movement of any sort caused him such agony that he could only lie in stupor, counting the spots dancing before, his eyes. Dawney did everything for him, and Harz resented in a listless way the intent scrutiny of the doctor's calm, black eyes.
Towards the end of the second day he was able to get up; Dawney found him sitting on the bed in shirt and trousers.
“My son,” he said, “you had better tell me what the trouble is—it will do your stubborn carcase good.”
“I must go back to work,” said Harz.
“Work!” said Dawney deliberately: “you couldn't, if you tried.”
“I must.”
“My dear fellow, you couldn't tell one colour from another.”
“I must be doing something; I can't sit here and think.”
Dawney hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat: “You won't see the sun for three days yet, if I can help it.”
Harz got up.
“I'm going to my studio to-morrow,” he said. “I promise not to go out. I must be where I can see my work. If I can't paint, I can draw; I can feel my brushes, move my things about. I shall go mad if I do nothing.”
Dawney took his arm, and walked him up and down.
“I'll let you go,” he said, “but give me a chance! It's as much to me to put you straight as it is to you to paint a decent picture. Now go to bed; I'll have a carriage for you to-morrow morning.”
Harz sat down on the bed again, and for a long time stayed without moving, his eyes fixed on the floor. The sight of him, so desperate and miserable, hurt the young doctor.
“Can you get to bed by yourself?” he asked at last.
Harz nodded.
“Then, good-night, old chap!” and Dawney left the room.
He took his hat and turned towards the Villa. Between the poplars he stopped to think. The farther trees were fret-worked black against the lingering gold of the sunset; a huge moth, attracted by the tip of his cigar, came fluttering in his face. The music of a concertina rose and fell, like the sighing of some disillusioned spirit. Dawney stood for several minutes staring at the house.
He was shown to Mrs. Decie's room. She was holding a magazine before her eyes, and received him with as much relief as philosophy permitted.
“You are the very person I wanted to see,” she said.
He noticed that the magazine she held was uncut.
“You are a young man,” pursued Mrs. Decie, “but as my doctor I have a right to your discretion.”
Dawney smiled; the features of his broad, clean-shaven face looked ridiculously small on such occasions, but his eyes retained their air of calculation.
“That is so,” he answered.
“It is about this unfortunate affair. I understand that Mr. Harz is with you. I want you to use your influence to dissuade him from attempting to see my niece.”
“Influence!” said Dawney; “you know Harz!”
Mrs. Decie's voice hardened.
“Everybody,” she said, “has his weak points. This young man is open to approach from at least two quarters—his pride is one, his work an other. I am seldom wrong in gauging character; these are his vital spots, and they are of the essence of this matter. I'm sorry for him, of course—but at his age, and living a man's life, these things—” Her smile was extra pale. “I wish you could give me something for my head. It's foolish to worry. Nerves of course! But I can't help it! You know my opinion, Dr. Dawney. That young man will go far if he remains unfettered; he will make a name. You will be doing him a great service if you could show him the affair as it really is—a drag on him, and quite unworthy of his pride! Do help me! You are just the man to do it!”
Dawney threw up his head as if to shake off this impeachment; the curve of his chin thus displayed was imposing in its fulness; altogether he was imposing, having an air of capability.
She struck him, indeed, as really scared; it was as if her mask of smile had become awry, and failed to cover her emotion; and he was puzzled, thinking, 'I wouldn't have believed she had it in her....' “It's not an easy business,” he said; “I'll think it over.”
“Thank you!” murmured Mrs. Decie. “You are most kind.”
Passing the schoolroom, he looked in through the open door. Christian was sitting there. The sight of her face shocked him, it was so white, so resolutely dumb. A book lay on her knees; she was not reading, but staring before her. He thought suddenly: 'Poor thing! If I don't say something to her, I shall be a brute!'
“Miss Devorell,” he said: “You can reckon on him.”
Christian tried to speak, but her lips trembled so that nothing came forth.
“Good-night,” said Dawney, and walked out....
Three days later Harz was sitting in the window of his studio. It was the first day he had found it possible to work, and now, tired out, he stared through the dusk at the slowly lengthening shadows of the rafters. A solitary mosquito hummed, and two house sparrows, who had built beneath the roof, chirruped sleepily. Swallows darted by the window, dipping their blue wings towards the quiet water; a hush had stolen over everything. He fell asleep.
He woke, with a dim impression of some near presence. In the pale glimmer from innumerable stars, the room was full of shadowy shapes. He lit his lantern. The flame darted forth, bickered, then slowly lit up the great room.
“Who's there?”
A rustling seemed to answer. He peered about, went to the doorway, and drew the curtain. A woman's cloaked figure shrank against the wall. Her face was buried in her hands; her arms, from which the cloak fell back, were alone visible.
“Christian?”
She ran past him, and when he had put the lantern down, was standing at the window. She turned quickly to him. “Take me away from here! Let me come with you!”
“Do you mean it?”
“You said you wouldn't give me up!”
“You know what you are doing?”
She made a motion of assent.
“But you don't grasp what this means. Things to bear that you know nothing of—hunger perhaps! Think, even hunger! And your people won't forgive—you'll lose everything.”
She shook her head.
“I must choose—it's one thing or the other. I can't give you up! I should be afraid!”
“But, dear; how can you come with me? We can't be married here.”
“I am giving my life to you.”
“You are too good for me,” said Harz. “The life you're going into—may be dark, like that!” he pointed to the window.
A sound of footsteps broke the hush. They could see a figure on the path below. It stopped, seemed to consider, vanished. They heard the sounds of groping hands, of a creaking door, of uncertain feet on the stairs.
Harz seized her hand.
“Quick!” he whispered; “behind this canvas!”
Christian was trembling violently. She drew her hood across her face. The heavy breathing and ejaculations of the visitor were now plainly audible.
“He's there! Quick! Hide!”
She shook her head.
With a thrill at his heart, Harz kissed her, then walked towards the entrance. The curtain was pulled aside.
It was Herr Paul, holding a cigar in one hand, his hat in the other, and breathing hard.
“Pardon!” he said huskily, “your stairs are steep, and dark! mais en, fin! nous voila! I have ventured to come for a talk.” His glance fell on the cloaked figure in the shadow.
“Pardon! A thousand pardons! I had no idea! I beg you to forgive this indiscretion! I may take it you resign pretensions then? You have a lady here—I have nothing more to say; I only beg a million pardons for intruding. A thousand times forgive me! Good-night!”
He bowed and turned to go. Christian stepped forward, and let the hood fall from her head.
“It's I!”
Herr Paul pirouetted.
“Good God!” he stammered, dropping cigar and hat. “Good God!”
The lantern flared suddenly, revealing his crimson, shaking cheeks.
“You came here, at night! You, the daughter of my wife!” His eyes wandered with a dull glare round the room.
“Take care!” cried Harz: “If you say a word against her—-”
The two men stared at each other's eyes. And without warning, the lantern flickered and went out. Christian drew the cloak round her again. Herr Paul's voice broke the silence; he had recovered his self-possession.
“Ah! ah!” he said: “Darkness! Tant mieux! The right thing for what we have to say. Since we do not esteem each other, it is well not to see too much.”
“Just so,” said Harz.
Christian had come close to them. Her pale face and great shining eyes could just be seen through the gloom.
Herr Paul waved his arm; the gesture was impressive, annihilating.
“This is a matter, I believe, between two men,” he said, addressing Harz. “Let us come to the point. I will do you the credit to suppose that you have a marriage in view. You know, perhaps, that Miss Devorell has no money till I die?”
“Yes.”
“And I am passably young! You have money, then?”
“No.”
“In that case, you would propose to live on air?”
“No, to work; it has been done before.”
“It is calculated to increase hunger! You are prepared to take Miss Devorell, a young lady accustomed to luxury, into places like—this!” he peered about him, “into places that smell of paint, into the milieu of 'the people,' into the society of Bohemians—who knows? of anarchists, perhaps?”
Harz clenched his hands: “I will answer no more questions.”
“In that event, we reach the ultimatum,” said Herr Paul. “Listen, Herr Outlaw! If you have not left the country by noon to-morrow, you shall be introduced to the police!”
Christian uttered a cry. For a minute in the gloom the only sound heard was the short, hard breathing of the two men.
Suddenly Harz cried: “You coward, I defy you!”
“Coward!” Herr Paul repeated. “That is indeed the last word. Look to yourself, my friend!”
Stooping and fumbling on the floor, he picked up his hat. Christian had already vanished; the sound of her hurrying footsteps was distinctly audible at the top of the dark stairs. Herr Paul stood still a minute.
“Look to yourself, my dear friend!” he said in a thick voice, groping for the wall. Planting his hat askew on his head, he began slowly to descend the stairs.
Nicholas Treffry sat reading the paper in his room by the light of a lamp with a green shade; on his sound foot the terrier Scruff was asleep and snoring lightly—the dog habitually came down when Greta was in bed, and remained till Mr. Treffry, always the latest member of the household, retired to rest.
Through the long window a little river of light shone out on the veranda tiles, and, flowing past, cut the garden in two.
There was the sound of hurried footsteps, a rustling of draperies; Christian, running through the window, stood before him.
Mr. Treffry dropped his paper, such a fury of passion and alarm shone in the girl's eyes.
“Chris! What is it?”
“Hateful!”
“Chris!”
“Oh! Uncle! He's insulted, threatened! And I love his little finger more than all the world!”
Her passionate voice trembled, her eyes were shining.
Mr. Treffry's profound discomfort found vent in the gruff words: “Sit down!”
“I'll never speak to Father again! Oh! Uncle! I love him!”
Quiet in the extremity of his disturbance, Mr. Treffry leaned forward in his chair, rested his big hands on its arms, and stared at her.
Chris! Here was a woman he did not know! His lips moved under the heavy droop of his moustache. The girl's face had suddenly grown white. She sank down on her knees, and laid her cheek against his hand. He felt it wet; and a lump rose in his throat. Drawing his hand away, he stared at it, and wiped it with his sleeve.
“Don't cry!” he said.
She seized it again and clung to it; that clutch seemed to fill him with sudden rage.
“What's the matter? How the devil can I do anything if you don't tell me?”
She looked up at him. The distress of the last days, the passion and fear of the last hour, the tide of that new life of the spirit and the flesh, stirring within her, flowed out in a stream of words.
When she had finished, there was so dead a silence that the fluttering of a moth round the lamp could be heard plainly.
Mr. Treffry raised himself, crossed the room, and touched the bell. “Tell the groom,” he said to Dominique, “to put the horses to, and have 'em round at once; bring my old boots; we drive all night....”
His bent figure looked huge, body and legs outlined by light, head and shoulders towering into shadow. “He shall have a run for his money!” he said. His eyes stared down sombrely at his niece. “It's more than he deserves!—it's more than you deserve, Chris. Sit down there and write to him; tell him to put himself entirely in my hands.” He turned his back on her, and went into his bedroom.
Christian rose, and sat down at the writing-table. A whisper startled her. It came from Dominique, who was holding out a pair of boots.
“M'mselle Chris, what is this?—to run about all night?” But Christian did not answer.
“M'mselle Chris, are you ill?” Then seeing her face, he slipped away again.
She finished her letter and went out to the carriage. Mr. Treffry was seated under the hood.
“Shan't want you,” he called out to the groom, “Get up, Dominique.”
Christian thrust her letter into his hand. “Give him that,” she said, clinging to his arm with sudden terror. “Oh! Uncle! do take care!”
“Chris, if I do this for you—” They looked wistfully at one another. Then, shaking his head, Mr. Treffry gathered up the reins.
“Don't fret, my dear, don't fret! Whoa, mare!”
The carriage with a jerk plunged forward into darkness, curved with a crunch of wheels, and vanished, swinging between the black tree-pillars at the entrance....
Christian stood, straining to catch the failing sound of the hoofs.
Down the passage came a flutter of white garments; soft limbs were twined about her, some ends of hair fell on her face.
“What is it, Chris? Where have you been? Where is Uncle Nic going? Tell me!”
Christian tore herself away. “I don't know,” she cried, “I know nothing!”
Greta stroked her face. “Poor Chris!” she murmured. Her bare feet gleamed, her hair shone gold against her nightdress. “Come to bed, poor Chris!”
Christian laughed. “You little white moth! Feel how hot I am! You'll burn your wings!”
Harz had lain down, fully dressed. He was no longer angry, but felt that he would rather die than yield. Presently he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“M'sieu!”
It was the voice of Dominique, whose face, illumined by a match, wore an expression of ironical disgust.
“My master,” he said, “makes you his compliments; he says there is no time to waste. You are to please come and drive with him!”
“Your master is very kind. Tell him I'm in bed.”
“Ah, M'sieu,” said Dominique, grimacing, “I must not go back with such an answer. If you would not come, I was to give you this.”
Harz broke the seal and read Christian's letter.
“I will come,” he said.
A clock was striking as they went out through the gate. From within the dark cave of the phaeton hood Mr. Treffry said gruffly: “Come along, sir!”
Harz flung his knapsack in, and followed.
His companion's figure swayed, the whiplash slid softly along the flank of the off horse, and, as the carriage rattled forward, Mr. Treffry called out, as if by afterthought: “Hallo, Dominique!” Dominque's voice, shaken and ironical, answered from behind: “M'v'la, M'sieu!”
In the long street of silent houses, men sitting in the lighted cafes turned with glasses at their lips to stare after the carriage. The narrow river of the sky spread suddenly to a vast, limpid ocean tremulous with stars. They had turned into the road for Italy.
Mr. Treffry took a pull at his horses. “Whoa, mare! Dogged does it!” and the near horse, throwing up her head, whinnied; a fleck of foam drifted into Harz's face.
The painter had come on impulse; because Christian had told him to, not of his own free will. He was angry with himself, wounded in self-esteem, for having allowed any one to render him this service. The smooth swift movement through velvet blackness splashed on either hand with the flying lamp-light; the strong sweet air blowing in his face-air that had kissed the tops of mountains and stolen their spirit; the snort and snuffle of the horses, and crisp rattling of their hoofs—all this soon roused in him another feeling. He looked at Mr. Treffry's profile, with its tufted chin; at the grey road adventuring in darkness; at the purple mass of mountains piled above it. All seemed utterly unreal.
As if suddenly aware that he had a neighbour, Mr. Treffry turned his head. “We shall do better than this presently,” he said, “bit of a slope coming. Haven't had 'em out for three days. Whoa-mare! Steady!”
“Why are you taking this trouble for me?” asked Harz.
“I'm an old chap, Mr. Harz, and an old chap may do a stupid thing once in a while!”
“You are very good,” said Harz, “but I want no favours.”
Mr. Treffry stared at him.
“Just so,” he said drily, “but you see there's my niece to be thought of. Look here! We're not at the frontier yet, Mr. Harz, by forty miles; it's long odds we don't get there—so, don't spoil sport!” He pointed to the left.
Harz caught the glint of steel. They were already crossing the railway. The sigh of the telegraph wires fluttered above them.
“Hear 'em,” said Mr. Treffry, “but if we get away up the mountains, we'll do yet!” They had begun to rise, the speed slackened. Mr. Treffry rummaged out a flask.
“Not bad stuff, Mr. Harz—try it. You won't? Mother's milk! Fine night, eh?” Below them the valley was lit by webs of milky mist like the glimmer of dew on grass.
These two men sitting side by side—unlike in face, age, stature, thought, and life—began to feel drawn towards each other, as if, in the rolling of the wheels, the snorting of the horses, the huge dark space, the huge uncertainty, they had found something they could enjoy in common. The steam from the horses' flanks and nostrils enveloped them with an odour as of glue.
“You smoke, Mr. Harz?”
Harz took the proffered weed, and lighted it from the glowing tip of Mr. Treffry's cigar, by light of which his head and hat looked like some giant mushroom. Suddenly the wheels jolted on a rubble of loose stones; the carriage was swung sideways. The scared horses, straining asunder, leaped forward, and sped downwards, in the darkness.
Past rocks, trees, dwellings, past a lighted house that gleamed and vanished. With a clink and clatter, a flirt of dust and pebbles, and the side lamps throwing out a frisky orange blink, the carriage dashed down, sinking and rising like a boat crossing billows. The world seemed to rock and sway; to dance up, and be flung flat again. Only the stars stood still.
Mr. Treffry, putting on the brake, muttered apologetically: “A little out o'hand!”
Suddenly with a headlong dive, the carriage swayed as if it would fly in pieces, slithered along, and with a jerk steadied itself. Harz lifted his voice in a shout of pure excitement. Mr. Treffry let out a short shaky howl, and from behind there rose a wail. But the hill was over and the startled horses were cantering with a free, smooth motion. Mr. Treffry and Harz looked at each other.