The days went by; those long, hot days, when the heat haze swims up about ten of the forenoon, and, as the sun sinks level with the mountains, melts into golden ether which sets the world quivering with sparkles.
At the lighting of the stars those sparkles die, vanishing one by one off the hillsides; evening comes flying down the valleys, and life rests under her cool wings. The night falls; and the hundred little voices of the night arise.
It was near grape-gathering, and in the heat the fight for Nicholas Treffry's life went on, day in, day out, with gleams of hope and moments of despair. Doctors came, but after the first he refused to see them.
“No,” he said to Dawney—“throwing away money. If I pull through it won't be because of them.”
For days together he would allow no one but Dawney, Dominique, and the paid nurse in the room.
“I can stand it better,” he said to Christian, “when I don't see any of you; keep away, old girl, and let me get on with it!”
To have been able to help would have eased the tension of her nerves, and the aching of her heart. At his own request they had moved his bed into a corner so that he might face the wall. There he would lie for hours together, not speaking a word, except to ask for drink.
Sometimes Christian crept in unnoticed, and sat watching, with her arms tightly folded across her breast. At night, after Greta was asleep, she would toss from side to side, muttering feverish prayers. She spent hours at her little table in the schoolroom, writing letters to Harz that were never sent. Once she wrote these words: “I am the most wicked of all creatures—I have even wished that he may die!” A few minutes afterwards Miss Naylor found her with her head buried on her arms. Christian sprang up; tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Don't touch me!” she cried, and rushed away. Later, she stole into her uncle's room, and sank down on the floor beside the bed. She sat there silently, unnoticed all the evening. When night came she could hardly be persuaded to leave the room.
One day Mr. Treffry expressed a wish to see Herr Paul; it was a long while before the latter could summon courage to go in.
“There's a few dozen of the Gordon sherry at my Chambers, in London, Paul,” Mr. Treffry said; “I'd be glad to think you had 'em. And my man, Dominique, I've made him all right in my will, but keep your eye on him; he's a good sort for a foreigner, and no chicken, but sooner or later, the women'll get hold of him. That's all I had to say. Send Chris to me.”
Herr Paul stood by the bedside speechless. Suddenly he blurted out.
“Ah! my dear! Courage! We are all mortal. You will get well!” All the morning he walked about quite inconsolable. “It was frightful to see him, you know, frightful! An iron man could not have borne it.”
When Christian came to him, Mr. Treffry raised himself and looked at her a long while.
His wistful face was like an accusation. But that very afternoon the news came from the sickroom that he was better, having had no pain for several hours.
Every one went about with smiles lurking in their eyes, and ready to break forth at a word. In the kitchen Barbi burst out crying, and, forgetting to toss the pan, spoiled a Kaiser-Schmarn she was making. Dominique was observed draining a glass of Chianti, and solemnly casting forth the last drops in libation. An order was given for tea to be taken out under the acacias, where it was always cool; it was felt that something in the nature of high festival was being held. Even Herr Paul was present; but Christian did not come. Nobody spoke of illness; to mention it might break the spell.
Miss Naylor, who had gone into the house, came back, saying:
“There is a strange man standing over there by the corner of the house.”
“Really!” asked Mrs. Decie; “what does he want?”
Miss Naylor reddened. “I did not ask him. I—don't—know—whether he is quite respectable. His coat is buttoned very close, and he—doesn't seem—to have a—collar.”
“Go and see what he wants, dear child,” Mrs. Decie said to Greta.
“I don't know—I really do not know—” began Miss Naylor; “he has very—high—boots,” but Greta was already on her way, with hands clasped behind her, and demure eyes taking in the stranger's figure.
“Please?” she said, when she was close to him.
The stranger took his cap off with a jerk.
“This house has no bells,” he said in a nasal voice; “it has a tendency to discourage one.”
“Yes,” said Greta gravely, “there is a bell, but it does not ring now, because my uncle is so ill.”
“I am very sorry to hear that. I don't know the people here, but I am very sorry to hear that.
“I would be glad to speak a few words to your sister, if it is your sister that I want.”
And the stranger's face grew very red.
“Is it,” said Greta, “that you are a friend of Herr Harz? If you are a friend of his, you will please come and have some tea, and while you are having tea I will look for Chris.”
Perspiration bedewed the stranger's forehead.
“Tea? Excuse me! I don't drink tea.”
“There is also coffee,” Greta said.
The stranger's progress towards the arbour was so slow that Greta arrived considerably before him.
“It is a friend of Herr Harz,” she whispered; “he will drink coffee. I am going to find Chris.”
“Greta!” gasped Miss Naylor.
Mrs. Decie put up her hand.
“Ah!” she said, “if it is so, we must be very nice to him for Christian's sake.”
Miss Naylor's face grew soft.
“Ah, yes!” she said; “of course.”
“Bah!” muttered Herr Paul, “that recommences.'
“Paul!” murmured Mrs. Decie, “you lack the elements of wisdom.”
Herr Paul glared at the approaching stranger.
Mrs. Decie had risen, and smilingly held out her hand.
“We are so glad to know you; you are an artist too, perhaps? I take a great interest in art, and especially in that school which Mr. Harz represents.”
The stranger smiled.
“He is the genuine article, ma'am,” he said. “He represents no school, he is one of that kind whose corpses make schools.”
“Ah!” murmured Mrs. Decie, “you are an American. That is so nice. Do sit down! My niece will soon be here.”
Greta came running back.
“Will you come, please?” she said. “Chris is ready.”
Gulping down his coffee, the stranger included them all in a single bow, and followed her.
“Ach!” said Herr Paul, “garcon tres chic, celui-la!”
Christian was standing by her little table. The stranger began.
“I am sending Mr. Harz's things to England; there are some pictures here. He would be glad to have them.”
A flood of crimson swept over her face.
“I am sending them to London,” the stranger repeated; “perhaps you could give them to me to-day.”
“They are ready; my sister will show you.”
Her eyes seemed to dart into his soul, and try to drag something from it. The words rushed from her lips:
“Is there any message for me?”
The stranger regarded her curiously.
“No,” he stammered, “no! I guess not. He is well.... I wish....” He stopped; her white face seemed to flash scorn, despair, and entreaty on him all at once. And turning, she left him standing there.
When Christian went that evening to her uncle's room he was sitting up in bed, and at once began to talk. “Chris,” he said, “I can't stand this dying by inches. I'm going to try what a journey'll do for me. I want to get back to the old country. The doctor's promised. There's a shot in the locker yet! I believe in that young chap; he's stuck to me like a man.... It'll be your birthday, on Tuesday, old girl, and you'll be twenty. Seventeen years since your father died. You've been a lot to me.... A parson came here today. That's a bad sign. Thought it his duty! Very civil of him! I wouldn't see him, though. If there's anything in what they tell you, I'm not going to sneak in at this time o' day. There's one thing that's rather badly on my mind. I took advantage of Mr. Harz with this damned pitifulness of mine. You've a right to look at me as I've seen you sometimes when you thought I was asleep. If I hadn't been ill he'd never have left you. I don't blame you, Chris—not I! You love me? I know that, my dear. But one's alone when it comes to the run-in. Don't cry! Our minds aren't Sunday-school books; you're finding it out, that's all!” He sighed and turned away.
The noise of sun-blinds being raised vibrated through the house. A feeling of terror seized on the girl; he lay so still, and yet the drawing of each breath was a fight. If she could only suffer in his place! She went close, and bent over him.
“It's air we want, both you and I!” he muttered. Christian beckoned to the nurse, and stole out through the window.
A regiment was passing in the road; she stood half-hidden amongst the lilac bushes watching. The poplar leaves drooped lifeless and almost black above her head, the dust raised by the soldiers' feet hung in the air; it seemed as if in all the world no freshness and no life were stirring. The tramp of feet died away. Suddenly within arm's length of her a man appeared, his stick shouldered like a sword. He raised his hat.
“Good-evening! You do not remember me? Sarelli. Pardon! You looked like a ghost standing there. How badly those fellows marched! We hang, you see, on the skirts of our profession and criticise; it is all we are fit for.” His black eyes, restless and malevolent like a swan's, seemed to stab her face. “A fine evening! Too hot. The storm is wanted; you feel that? It is weary waiting for the storm; but after the storm, my dear young lady, comes peace.” He smiled, gently, this time, and baring his head again, was lost to view in the shadow of the trees.
His figure had seemed to Christian like the sudden vision of a threatening, hidden force. She thrust out her hands, as though to keep it off.
No use; it was within her, nothing could keep it away! She went to Mrs. Decie's room, where her aunt and Miss Naylor were conversing in low tones. To hear their voices brought back the touch of this world of everyday which had no part or lot in the terrifying powers within her.
Dawney slept at the Villa now. In the dead of night he was awakened by a light flashed in his eyes. Christian was standing there, her face pale and wild with terror, her hair falling in dark masses on her shoulders.
“Save him! Save him!” she cried. “Quick! The bleeding!”
He saw her muffle her face in her white sleeves, and seizing the candle, leaped out of bed and rushed away.
The internal haemorrhage had come again, and Nicholas Treffry wavered between life and death. When it had ceased, he sank into a sort of stupor. About six o'clock he came back to consciousness; watching his eyes, they could see a mental struggle taking place within him. At last he singled Christian out from the others by a sign.
“I'm beat, Chris,” he whispered. “Let him know, I want to see him.”
His voice grew a little stronger. “I thought that I could see it through—but here's the end.” He lifted his hand ever so little, and let it fall again. When told a little later that a telegram had been sent to Harz his eyes expressed satisfaction.
Herr Paul came down in ignorance of the night's events. He stopped in front of the barometer and tapped it, remarking to Miss Naylor: “The glass has gone downstairs; we shall have cool weather—it will still go well with him!”
When, with her brown face twisted by pity and concern, she told him that it was a question of hours, Herr Paul turned first purple, then pale, and sitting down, trembled violently. “I cannot believe it,” he exclaimed almost angrily. “Yesterday he was so well! I cannot believe it! Poor Nicholas! Yesterday he spoke to me!” Taking Miss Naylor's hand, he clutched it in his own. “Ah!” he cried, letting it go suddenly, and striking at his forehead, “it is too terrible; only yesterday he spoke to me of sherry. Is there nobody, then, who can do good?”
“There is only God,” replied Miss Naylor softly.
“God?” said Herr Paul in a scared voice.
“We—can—all—pray to Him,” Miss Naylor murmured; little spots of colour came into her cheeks. “I am going to do it now.”
Herr Paul raised her hand and kissed it.
“Are you?” he said; “good! I too.” He passed through his study door, closed it carefully behind him, then for some unknown reason set his back against it. Ugh! Death! It came to all! Some day it would come to him. It might come tomorrow! One must pray!
The day dragged to its end. In the sky clouds had mustered, and, crowding close on one another, clung round the sun, soft, thick, greywhite, like the feathers on a pigeon's breast. Towards evening faint tremblings were felt at intervals, as from the shock of immensely distant earthquakes.
Nobody went to bed that night, but in the morning the report was the same: “Unconscious—a question of hours.” Once only did he recover consciousness, and then asked for Harz. A telegram had come from him, he was on the way. Towards seven of the evening the long-expected storm broke in a sky like ink. Into the valleys and over the crests of mountains it seemed as though an unseen hand were spilling goblets of pale wine, darting a sword-blade zigzag over trees, roofs, spires, peaks, into the very firmament, which answered every thrust with great bursts of groaning. Just beyond the veranda Greta saw a glowworm shining, as it might be a tiny bead of the fallen lightning. Soon the rain covered everything. Sometimes a jet of light brought the hilltops, towering, dark, and hard, over the house, to disappear again behind the raindrops and shaken leaves. Each breath drawn by the storm was like the clash of a thousand cymbals; and in his room Mr. Treffry lay unconscious of its fury.
Greta had crept in unobserved; and sat curled in a corner, with Scruff in her arms, rocking slightly to and fro. When Christian passed, she caught her skirt, and whispered: “It is your birthday, Chris!”
Mr. Treffry stirred.
“What's that? Thunder?—it's cooler. Where am I? Chris!”
Dawney signed for her to take his place.
“Chris!” Mr. Treffry said. “It's near now.” She bent across him, and her tears fell on his forehead.
“Forgive!” she whispered; “love me!”
He raised his finger, and touched her cheek.
For an hour or more he did not speak, though once or twice he moaned, and faintly tightened his pressure on her fingers. The storm had died away, but very far off the thunder was still muttering.
His eyes opened once more, rested on her, and passed beyond, into that abyss dividing youth from age, conviction from conviction, life from death.
At the foot of the bed Dawney stood covering his face; behind him Dominique knelt with hands held upwards; the sound of Greta's breathing, soft in sleep, rose and fell in the stillness.
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