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!”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg