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.
Mr. Treffry said with a sort of laugh: “Near go, eh? You drive? No? That's a pity! Broken most of my bones at the game—nothing like it!” Each felt a kind of admiration for the other that he had not felt before. Presently Mr. Treffry began: “Look here, Mr. Harz, my niece is a slip of a thing, with all a young girl's notions! What have you got to give her, eh? Yourself? That's surely not enough; mind this—six months after marriage we all turn out much the same—a selfish lot! Not to mention this anarchist affair!
“You're not of her blood, nor of her way of life, nor anything—it's taking chances—and—” his hand came down on the young man's knee, “I'm fond of her, you see.”
“If you were in my place,” said Harz, “would you give her up?”
Mr. Treffry groaned. “Lord knows!”
“Men have made themselves before now. For those who don't believe in failure, there's no such thing. Suppose she does suffer a little? Will it do her any harm? Fair weather love is no good.”
Mr. Treffry sighed.
“Brave words, sir! You'll pardon me if I'm too old to understand 'em when they're used about my niece.”
He pulled the horses up, and peered into the darkness. “We're going through this bit quietly; if they lose track of us here so much the better. Dominique! put out the lamps. Soho, my beauties!” The horses paced forward at a walk the muffled beat of their hoofs in the dust hardly broke the hush. Mr. Treffry pointed to the left: “It'll be another thirty-five miles to the frontier.”
They passed the whitewashed houses, and village church with its sentinel cypress-trees. A frog was croaking in a runlet; there was a faint spicy scent of lemons. But nothing stirred.
It was wood now on either side, the high pines, breathing their fragrance out into the darkness, and, like ghosts amongst them, the silver stems of birch-trees.
Mr. Treffry said gruffly: “You won't give her up? Her happiness means a lot to me.”
“To you!” said Harz: “to him! And I am nothing! Do you think I don't care for her happiness? Is it a crime for me to love her?”
“Almost, Mr. Harz—considering....”
“Considering that I've no money! Always money!”
To this sneer Mr. Treffry made no answer, clucking to his horses.
“My niece was born and bred a lady,” he said at last. “I ask you plainly What position have you got to give her?”
“If she marries me,” said Harz, “she comes into my world. You think that I'm a common....”
Mr. Treffry shook his head: “Answer my question, young man.”
But the painter did not answer it, and silence fell.
A light breeze had sprung up; the whispering in the trees, the rolling of the wheels in this night progress, the pine-drugged air, sent Harz to sleep. When he woke it was to the same tune, varied by Mr. Treffry's uneasy snoring; the reins were hanging loose, and, peering out, he saw Dominique shuffling along at the horses' heads. He joined him, and, one on each side, they plodded up and up. A haze had begun to bathe the trees, the stars burnt dim, the air was colder. Mr. Treffry woke coughing. It was like some long nightmare, this interminable experience of muffled sounds and shapes, of perpetual motion, conceived, and carried out in darkness. But suddenly the day broke. Heralded by the snuffle of the horses, light began glimmering over a chaos of lines and shadows, pale as mother-o'-pearl. The stars faded, and in a smouldering zigzag the dawn fled along the mountain tops, flinging out little isles of cloud. From a lake, curled in a hollow like a patch of smoke, came the cry of a water-bird. A cuckoo started a soft mocking; and close to the carriage a lark flew up. Beasts and men alike stood still, drinking in the air—sweet with snows and dew, and vibrating faintly with the running of the water and the rustling of the leaves.
The night had played sad tricks with Mr. Nicholas Treffry; his hat was grey with dust; his cheeks brownish-purple, there were heavy pouches beneath his eyes, which stared painfully.
“We'll call a halt,” he said, “and give the gees their grub, poor things. Can you find some water, Mr. Harz? There's a rubber bucket in behind.
“Can't get about myself this morning; make that lazy fellow of mine stir his stumps.”
Harz saw that he had drawn off one of his boots, and stretched the foot out on a cushion.
“You're not fit to go farther,” he said; “you're ill.”
“Ill!” replied Mr. Treffry; “not a bit of it!”
Harz looked at him, then catching up the bucket, made off in search of water. When he came back the horses were feeding from an india-rubber trough slung to the pole; they stretched their heads towards the bucket, pushing aside each other's noses.
The flame in the east had died, but the tops of the larches were bathed in a gentle radiance; and the peaks ahead were like amber. Everywhere were threads of water, threads of snow, and little threads of dewy green, glistening like gossamer.
Mr. Treffry called out: “Give me your arm, Mr. Harz; I'd like to shake the reefs out of me. When one comes to stand over at the knees, it's no such easy matter, eh?” He groaned as he put his foot down, and gripped the young man's shoulder as in a vise. Presently he lowered himself on to a stone.
“'All over now!' as Chris would say when she was little; nasty temper she had too—kick and scream on the floor! Never lasted long though.... 'Kiss her! take her up! show her the pictures!' Amazing fond of pictures Chris was!” He looked dubiously at Harz; then took a long pull at his flask. “What would the doctor say? Whisky at four in the morning! Well! Thank the Lord Doctors aren't always with us.” Sitting on the stone, with one hand pressed against his side, and the other tilting up the flask, he was grey from head to foot.
Harz had dropped on to another stone. He, too, was worn out by the excitement and fatigue, coming so soon after his illness. His head was whirling, and the next thing he remembered was a tree walking at him, turning round, yellow from the roots up; everything seemed yellow, even his own feet. Somebody opposite to him was jumping up and down, a grey bear—with a hat—Mr. Treffry! He cried: “Ha-alloo!” And the figure seemed to fall and disappear....
When Harz came to himself a hand was pouring liquor into his mouth, and a wet cloth was muffled round his brows; a noise of humming and hoofs seemed familiar. Mr. Treffry loomed up alongside, smoking a cigar; he was muttering: “A low trick, Paul—bit of my mind!” Then, as if a curtain had been snatched aside, the vision before Harz cleared again. The carriage was winding between uneven, black-eaved houses, past doorways from which goats and cows were coming out, with bells on their necks. Black-eyed boys, and here and there a drowsy man with a long, cherry-stemmed pipe between his teeth, stood aside to stare.
Mr. Treffry seemed to have taken a new lease of strength; like an angry old dog, he stared from side to side. “My bone!” he seemed to say: “let's see who's going to touch it!”
The last house vanished, glowing in the early sunshine, and the carriage with its trail of dust became entombed once more in the gloom of tall trees, along a road that cleft a wilderness of mossgrown rocks, and dewy stems, through which the sun had not yet driven paths.
Dominique came round to them, bearing appearance of one who has seen better days, and a pot of coffee brewed on a spirit lamp. Breakfast—he said—was served!
The ears of the horses were twitching with fatigue. Mr. Treffry said sadly: “If I can see this through, you can. Get on, my beauties!”
As soon as the sun struck through the trees, Mr. Treffry's strength ebbed again. He seemed to suffer greatly; but did not complain. They had reached the pass at last, and the unchecked sunlight was streaming down with a blinding glare.
“Jump up!” Mr. Treffry cried out. “We'll make a finish of it!” and he gave the reins a jerk. The horses flung up their heads, and the bleak pass with its circling crown of jagged peaks soon slipped away.
Between the houses on the very top, they passed at a slow trot; and soon began slanting down the other side. Mr. Treffry brought them to a halt where a mule track joined the road.
“That's all I can do for you; you'd better leave me here,” he said. “Keep this track down to the river—go south—you'll be in Italy in a couple of hours. Get rail at Feltre. Money? Yes? Well!” He held out his hand; Harz gripped it.
“Give her up, eh?”
Harz shook his head.
“No? Then it's 'pull devil, pull baker,' between us. Good-bye, and good luck to you!” And mustering his strength for a last attempt at dignity, Mr. Treffry gathered up the reins.
Harz watched his figure huddled again beneath the hood. The carriage moved slowly away.
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