At Villa Rubein people went about, avoiding each other as if detected in conspiracy. Miss Naylor, who for an inscrutable reason had put on her best frock, a purple, relieved at the chest with bird's-eye blue, conveyed an impression of trying to count a chicken which ran about too fast. When Greta asked what she had lost she was heard to mutter: “Mr.—Needlecase.”
Christian, with big circles round her eyes, sat silent at her little table. She had had no sleep. Herr Paul coming into the room about noon gave her a furtive look and went out again; after this he went to his bedroom, took off all his clothes, flung them passionately one by one into a footbath, and got into bed.
“I might be a criminal!” he muttered to himself, while the buttons of his garments rattled on the bath.
“Am I her father? Have I authority? Do I know the world? Bssss! I might be a frog!”
Mrs. Decie, having caused herself to be announced, found him smoking a cigar, and counting the flies on the ceiling.
“If you have really done this, Paul,” she said in a restrained voice, “you have done a very unkind thing, and what is worse, you have made us all ridiculous. But perhaps you have not done it?”
“I have done it,” cried Herr Paul, staring dreadfully: “I have done it, I tell you, I have done it—”
“Very well, you have done it—and why, pray? What conceivable good was there in it? I suppose you know that Nicholas has driven him to the frontier? Nicholas is probably more dead than alive by this time; you know his state of health.”
Herr Paul's fingers ploughed up his beard.
“Nicholas is mad—and the girl is mad! Leave me alone! I will not be made angry; do you understand? I will not be worried—I am not fit for it.” His prominent brown eyes stared round the room, as if looking for a way of escape.
“If I may prophesy, you will be worried a good deal,” said Mrs. Decie coldly, “before you have finished with this affair.”
The anxious, uncertain glance which Herr Paul gave her at these words roused an unwilling feeling of compunction in her.
“You are not made for the outraged father of the family,” she said. “You had better give up the attitude, Paul; it does not suit you.”
Herr Paul groaned.
“I suppose it is not your fault,” she added.
Just then the door was opened, and Fritz, with an air of saying the right thing, announced:
“A gentleman of the police to see you, sir.”
Herr Paul bounded.
“Keep him out!” he cried.
Mrs. Decie, covering her lips, disappeared with a rustling of silk; in her place stood a stiff man in blue....
Thus the morning dragged itself away without any one being able to settle to anything, except Herr Paul, who was settled in bed. As was fitting in a house that had lost its soul, meals were neglected, even by the dog.
About three o'clock a telegram came for Christian, containing these words: “All right; self returns to-morrow. Treffry.” After reading it she put on her hat and went out, followed closely by Greta, who, when she thought that she would not be sent away, ran up from behind and pulled her by the sleeve.
“Let me come, Chris—I shall not talk.”
The two girls walked on together. When they had gone some distance Christian said:
“I'm going to get his pictures, and take charge of them!”
“Oh!” said Greta timidly.
“If you are afraid,” said Christian, “you had better go back home.”
“I am not afraid, Chris,” said Greta meekly.
Neither girl spoke again till they had taken the path along the wall. Over the tops of the vines the heat was dancing.
“The sun-fairies are on the vines!” murmured Greta to herself.
At the old house they stopped, and Christian, breathing quickly, pushed the door; it was immovable.
“Look!” said Greta, “they have screwed it!” She pointed out three screws with a rosy-tipped forefinger.
Christian stamped her foot.
“We mustn't stand here,” she said; “let's sit on that bench and think.”
“Yes,” murmured Greta, “let us think.” Dangling an end of hair, she regarded Christian with her wide blue eyes.
“I can't make any plan,” Christian cried at last, “while you stare at me like that.”
“I was thinking,” said Greta humbly, “if they have screwed it up, perhaps we shall screw it down again; there is the big screw-driver of Fritz.”
“It would take a long time; people are always passing.”
“People do not pass in the evening,” murmured Greta, “because the gate at our end is always shut.”
Christian rose.
“We will come this evening, just before the gate is shut.”
“But, Chris, how shall we get back again?”
“I don't know; I mean to have the pictures.”
“It is not a high gate,” murmured Greta.
After dinner the girls went to their room, Greta bearing with her the big screw-driver of Fritz. At dusk they slipped downstairs and out.
They arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow of the doorway. The only sounds were those of distant barking dogs, and of the bugles at the barracks.
“Quick!” whispered Christian; and Greta, with all the strength of her small hands, began to turn the screws. It was some time before they yielded; the third was very obstinate, till Christian took the screw-driver and passionately gave the screw a starting twist.
“It is like a pig—that one,” said Greta, rubbing her wrists mournfully.
The opened door revealed the gloom of the dank rooms and twisting staircase, then fell to behind them with a clatter.
Greta gave a little scream, and caught her sister's dress.
“It is dark,” she gasped; “O Chris! it is dark!”
Christian groped for the bottom stair, and Greta felt her arm shaking.
“Suppose there is a man to keep guard! O Chris! suppose there are bats!”
“You are a baby!” Christian answered in a trembling voice. “You had better go home!”
Greta choked a little in the dark.
“I am—not—going home, but I'm afraid of bats. O Chris! aren't you afraid?”
“Yes,” said Christian, “but I'm going to have the pictures.”
Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over. Having found the bottom step she began to mount with Greta clinging to her skirts.
The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all things, hated darkness. The blanket across the doorway of the loft had been taken down, there was nothing to veil the empty room.
“Nobody here, you see,” said Christian.
“No-o,” whispered Greta, running to the window, and clinging to the wall, like one of the bats she dreaded.
“But they have been here!” cried Christian angrily. “They have broken this.” She pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had been thrown down.
Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden frames, dragging them with all her strength.
“Help me!” she cried; “it will be dark directly.”
They collected a heap of sketches and three large pictures, piling them before the window, and peering at them in the failing light.
Greta said ruefully:
“O Chris! they are heavy ones; we shall never carry them, and the gate is shut now!”
Christian took a pointed knife from the table.
“I shall cut them out of the frames,” she said. “Listen! What's that?”
It was the sound of whistling, which stopped beneath the window. The girls, clasping each other's hands, dropped on their knees.
“Hallo!” cried a voice.
Greta crept to the window, and, placing her face level with the floor, peered over.
“It is only Dr. Edmund; he doesn't know, then,” she whispered; “I shall call him; he is going away!” cried Christian catching her sister's—“Don't!” cried Christian catching her sister's dress.
“He would help us,” Greta said reproachfully, “and it would not be so dark if he were here.”
Christian's cheeks were burning.
“I don't choose,” she said, and began handling the pictures, feeling their edges with her knife.
“Chris! Suppose anybody came?”
“The door is screwed,” Christian answered absently.
“O Chris! We screwed it unscrewed; anybody who wishes shall come!”
Christian, leaning her chin in her hands, gazed at her thoughtfully.
“It will take a long time to cut these pictures out carefully; or, perhaps I can get them out without cutting. You must screw me up and go home. In the morning you must come early, when the gate is open, unscrew me again, and help carry the pictures.”
Greta did not answer at once. At last she shook her head violently.
“I am afraid,” she gasped.
“We can't both stay here all night,” said Christian; “if any one comes to our room there will be nobody to answer. We can't lift these pictures over the gate. One of us must go back; you can climb over the gate—there is nothing to be afraid of.”
Greta pressed her hands together.
“Do you want the pictures badly, Chris?”
Christian nodded.
“Very badly?”
“Yes—yes—yes!”
Greta remained sitting where she was, shivering violently, as a little animal shivers when it scents danger. At last she rose.
“I am going,” she said in a despairing voice. At the doorway she turned.
“If Miss Naylor shall ask me where you are, Chris, I shall be telling her a story.”
Christian started.
“I forgot that—O Greta, I am sorry! I will go instead.”
Greta took another step—a quick one.
“I shall die if I stay here alone,” she said; “I can tell her that you are in bed; you must go to bed here, Chris, so it shall be true after all.”
Christian threw her arms about her.
“I am so sorry, darling; I wish I could go instead. But if you have to tell a lie, I would tell a straight one.”
“Would you?” said Greta doubtfully.
“Yes.”
“I think,” said Greta to herself, beginning to descend the stairs, “I think I will tell it in my way.” She shuddered and went on groping in the darkness.
Christian listened for the sound of the screws. It came slowly, threatening her with danger and solitude.
Sinking on her knees she began to work at freeing the canvas of a picture. Her heart throbbed distressfully; at the stir of wind-breath or any distant note of clamour she stopped, and held her breathing. No sounds came near. She toiled on, trying only to think that she was at the very spot where last night his arms had been round her. How long ago it seemed! She was full of vague terror, overmastered by the darkness, dreadfully alone. The new glow of resolution seemed suddenly to have died down in her heart, and left her cold.
She would never be fit to be his wife, if at the first test her courage failed! She set her teeth; and suddenly she felt a kind of exultation, as if she too were entering into life, were knowing something within herself that she had never known before. Her fingers hurt, and the pain even gave pleasure; her cheeks were burning; her breath came fast. They could not stop her now! This feverish task in darkness was her baptism into life. She finished; and rolling the pictures very carefully, tied them with cord. She had done something for him! Nobody could take that from her! She had a part of him! This night had made him hers! They might do their worst! She lay down on his mattress and soon fell asleep....
She was awakened by Scruff's tongue against her face. Greta was standing by her side.
“Wake up, Chris! The gate is open!”
In the cold early light the child seemed to glow with warmth and colour; her eyes were dancing.
“I am not afraid now; Scruff and I sat up all night, to catch the morning—I—think it was fun; and O Chris!” she ended with a rueful gleam in her eyes, “I told it.”
Christian hugged her.
“Come—quick! There is nobody about. Are those the pictures?”
Each supporting an end, the girls carried the bundle downstairs, and set out with their corpse-like burden along the wall-path between the river and the vines.
Hidden by the shade of rose-bushes Greta lay stretched at length, cheek on arm, sleeping the sleep of the unrighteous. Through the flowers the sun flicked her parted lips with kisses, and spilled the withered petals on her. In a denser islet of shade, Scruff lay snapping at a fly. His head lolled drowsily in the middle of a snap, and snapped in the middle of a loll.
At three o'clock Miss Naylor too came out, carrying a basket and pair of scissors. Lifting her skirts to avoid the lakes of water left by the garden hose, she stopped in front of a rose-bush, and began to snip off the shrivelled flowers. The little lady's silvered head and thin, brown face sustained the shower of sunlight unprotected, and had a gentle dignity in their freedom.
Presently, as the scissors flittered in and out of the leaves, she, began talking to herself.
“If girls were more like what they used to be, this would not have happened. Perhaps we don't understand; it's very easy to forget.” Burying her nose and lips in a rose, she sniffed. “Poor dear girl! It's such a pity his father is—a—”
“A farmer,” said a sleepy voice behind the rosebush.
Miss Naylor leaped. “Greta! How you startled me! A farmer—that is—an—an agriculturalist!”
“A farmer with vineyards—he told us, and he is not ashamed. Why is it a pity, Miss Naylor?”
Miss Naylor's lips looked very thin.
“For many reasons, of which you know nothing.”
“That is what you always say,” pursued the sleepy voice; “and that is why, when I am to be married, there shall also be a pity.”
“Greta!” Miss Naylor cried, “it is not proper for a girl of your age to talk like that.”
“Why?” said Greta. “Because it is the truth?”
Miss Naylor made no reply to this, but vexedly cut off a sound rose, which she hastily picked up and regarded with contrition. Greta spoke again:
“Chris said: 'I have got the pictures, I shall tell her'. but I shall tell you instead, because it was I that told the story.”
Miss Naylor stared, wrinkling her nose, and holding the scissors wide apart....
“Last night,” said Greta slowly, “I and Chris went to his studio and took his pictures, and so, because the gate was shut, I came back to tell it; and when you asked me where Chris was, I told it; because she was in the studio all night, and I and Scruff sat up all night, and in the morning we brought the pictures, and hid them under our beds, and that is why—we—are—so—sleepy.”
Over the rose-bush Miss Naylor peered down at her; and though she was obliged to stand on tiptoe this did not altogether destroy her dignity.
“I am surprised at you, Greta; I am surprised at Christian, more surprised at Christian. The world seems upside down.”
Greta, a sunbeam entangled in her hair, regarded her with inscrutable, innocent eyes.
“When you were a girl, I think you would be sure to be in love,” she murmured drowsily.
Miss Naylor, flushing deeply, snipped off a particularly healthy bud.
“And so, because you are not married, I think—”
The scissors hissed.
Greta nestled down again. “I think it is wicked to cut off all the good buds,” she said, and shut her eyes.
Miss Naylor continued to peer across the rosebush; but her thin face, close to the glistening leaves, had become oddly soft, pink, and girlish. At a deeper breath from Greta, the little lady put down her basket, and began to pace the lawn, followed dubiously by Scruff. It was thus that Christian came on them.
Miss Naylor slipped her arm into the girl's and though she made no sound, her lips kept opening and shutting, like the beak of a bird contemplating a worm.
Christian spoke first:
“Miss Naylor, I want to tell you please—”
“Oh, my dear! I know; Greta has been in the confessional before you.” She gave the girl's arm a squeeze. “Isn't it a lovely day? Did you ever see 'Five Fingers' look so beautiful?” And she pointed to the great peaks of the Funffingerspitze glittering in the sun like giant crystals.
“I like them better with clouds about them.”
“Well,” agreed Miss Naylor nervously, “they certainly are nicer with clouds about them. They look almost hot and greasy, don't they.... My dear!” she went on, giving Christian's arm a dozen little squeezes, “we all of us—that is, we all of us—”
Christian turned her eyes away.
“My dear,” Miss Naylor tried again, “I am far—that is, I mean, to all of us at some time or another—and then you see—well—it is hard!”
Christian kissed the gloved hand resting on her arm. Miss Naylor bobbed her head; a tear trickled off her nose.
“Do let us wind your skein of woof!” she said with resounding gaiety.
Some half-hour later Mrs. Decie called Christian to her room.
“My dear!” she said; “come here a minute; I have a message for you.”
Christian went with an odd, set look about her mouth.
Her aunt was sitting, back to the light, tapping a bowl of goldfish with the tip of a polished finger-nail; the room was very cool. She held a letter out. “Your uncle is not coming back tonight.”
Christian took the letter. It was curtly worded, in a thin, toppling hand:
“DEAR CON—Can't get back to-night. Sending Dominique for things. Tell Christian to come over with him for night if possible.—Yr. aff. brother, NICLS. TREFFRY.”
“Dominique has a carriage here,” said Mrs. Decie. “You will have nice time to catch the train. Give my love to your uncle. You must take Barbi with you, I insist on that.” She rose from her chair and held Christian's hand: “My dear! You look very tired—very! Almost ill. I don't like to see you look like that. Come!” She thrust her pale lips forward, and kissed the girl's paler cheek.
Then as Christian left the room she sank back in her chair, with creases in her forehead, and began languidly to cut a magazine. 'Poor Christian!' she thought, 'how hardly she does take it! I am sorry for her; but perhaps it's just as well, as things are turning out. Psychologically it is interesting!'
Christian found her things packed, and the two servants waiting. In a few minutes they were driving to the station. She made Dominique take the seat opposite.
“Well?” she asked him.
Dominique's eyebrows twitched, he smiled deprecatingly.
“M'mselle, Mr. Treffry told me to hold my tongue.”
“But you can tell me, Dominique; Barbi can't understand.”
“To you, then, M'mselle,” said Dominique, as one who accepts his fate; “to you, then, who will doubtless forget all that I shall tell you—my master is not well; he has terrible pain here; he has a cough; he is not well at all; not well at all.”
A feeling of dismay seized on the girl.
“We were a caravan for all that night,” Dominique resumed. “In the morning by noon we ceased to be a caravan; Signor Harz took a mule path; he will be in Italy—certainly in Italy. As for us, we stayed at San Martino, and my master went to bed. It was time; I had much trouble with his clothes, his legs were swollen. In the afternoon came a signor of police, on horseback, red and hot; I persuaded him that we were at Paneveggio, but as we were not, he came back angry—Mon Die! as angry as a cat. It was not good to meet him—when he was with my master I was outside. There was much noise. I do not know what passed, but at last the signor came out through the door, and went away in a hurry.” Dominique's features were fixed in a sardonic grin; he rubbed the palm of one hand with the finger of the other. “Mr. Treffry made me give him whisky afterwards, and he had no money to pay the bill—that I know because I paid it. Well, M'mselle, to-day he would be dressed and very slowly we came as far as Auer; there he could do no more, so went to bed. He is not well at all.”
Christian was overwhelmed by forebodings; the rest of the journey was made in silence, except when Barbi, a country girl, filled with the delirium of railway travel, sighed: “Ach! gnadige Fraulein!” looking at Christian with pleasant eyes.
At once, on arriving at the little hostel, Christian went to see her uncle. His room was darkened, and smelt of beeswax.
“Ah! Chris,” he said, “glad to see you.”
In a blue flannel gown, with a rug over his feet, he was lying on a couch lengthened artificially by chairs; the arm he reached out issued many inches from its sleeve, and showed the corded veins of the wrist. Christian, settling his pillows, looked anxiously into his eyes.
“I'm not quite the thing, Chris,” said Mr. Treffry. “Somehow, not quite the thing. I'll come back with you to-morrow.”
“Let me send for Dr. Dawney, Uncle?”
“No—no! Plenty of him when I get home. Very good young fellow, as doctors go, but I can't stand his puddin's—slops and puddin's, and all that trumpery medicine on the top. Send me Dominique, my dear—I'll put myself to rights a bit!” He fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutched the gown together on his chest. “Got this from the landlord. When you come back we'll have a little talk!”
He was asleep when she came into the room an hour later. Watching his uneasy breathing, she wondered what it was that he was going to say.
He looked ill! And suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not of him.... When she was little he would take her on his back; he had built cocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slid her between his knees; given her things without number; and taken his payment in kisses. And now he was ill, and she was not thinking of him! He had been all that was most dear to her, yet before her eyes would only come the vision of another.
Mr. Treffry woke suddenly. “Not been asleep, have I? The beds here are infernal hard.”
“Uncle Nic, won't you give me news of him?”
Mr. Treffry looked at her, and Christian could not bear that look.
“He's safe into Italy; they aren't very keen after him, it's so long ago; I squared 'em pretty easily. Now, look here, Chris!”
Christian came close; he took her hand.
“I'd like to see you pull yourself together. 'Tisn't so much the position; 'tisn't so much the money; because after all there's always mine—” Christian shook her head. “But,” he went on with shaky emphasis, “there's the difference of blood, and that's a serious thing; and there's this anarch—this political affair; and there's the sort of life, an' that's a serious thing; but—what I'm coming to is this, Chris—there's the man!”
Christian drew away her hand. Mr. Treffry went on:
“Ah! yes. I'm an old chap and fond of you, but I must speak out what I think. He's got pluck, he's strong, he's in earnest; but he's got a damned hot temper, he's an egotist, and—he's not the man for you. If you marry him, as sure as I lie here, you'll be sorry for it. You're not your father's child for nothing; nice fellow as ever lived, but soft as butter. If you take this chap, it'll be like mixing earth and ironstone, and they don't blend!” He dropped his head back on the pillows, and stretching out his hand, repeated wistfully: “Take my word for it, my dear, he's not the man for you.”
Christian, staring at the wall beyond, said quietly: “I can't take any one's word for that.”
“Ah!” muttered Mr. Treffry, “you're obstinate enough, but obstinacy isn't strength.
“You'll give up everything to him, you'll lick his shoes; and you'll never play anything but second fiddle in his life. He'll always be first with himself, he and his work, or whatever he calls painting pictures; and some day you'll find that out. You won't like it, and I don't like it for you, Chris, and that's flat.”
He wiped his brow where the perspiration stood in beads.
Christian said: “You don't understand; you don't believe in him; you don't see! If I do come after his work—if I do give him everything, and he can't give all back—I don't care! He'll give what he can; I don't want any more. If you're afraid of the life for me, uncle, if you think it'll be too hard—”
Mr. Treffry bowed his head. “I do, Chris.”
“Well, then, I hate to be wrapped in cotton wool; I want to breathe. If I come to grief, it's my own affair; nobody need mind.”
Mr. Treffry's fingers sought his beard. “Ah! yes. Just so!”
Christian sank on her knees.
“Oh! Uncle! I'm a selfish beast!”
Mr. Treffry laid his hand against her cheek. “I think I could do with a nap,” he said.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, she stole out of the room.
By a stroke of Fate Mr. Treffry's return to Villa Rubein befell at the psychological moment when Herr Paul, in a suit of rather too bright blue, was starting for Vienna.
As soon as he saw the carriage appear between the poplars he became as pensive as a boy caught in the act of stealing cherries. Pitching his hatbox to Fritz, he recovered himself, however, in time to whistle while Mr. Treffry was being assisted into the house. Having forgotten his anger, he was only anxious now to smooth out its after effects; in the glances he cast at Christian and his brother-in-law there was a kind of shamed entreaty which seemed to say: “For goodness' sake, don't worry me about that business again! Nothing's come of it, you see!”
He came forward: “Ah! Mon cher! So you return; I put off my departure, then. Vienna must wait for me—that poor Vienna!”
But noticing the extreme feebleness of Mr. Treffry's advance, he exclaimed with genuine concern:
“What is it? You're ill? My God!” After disappearing for five minutes, he came back with a whitish liquid in a glass.
“There!” he said, “good for the gout—for a cough—for everything!”
Mr. Treffry sniffed, drained the glass, and sucked his moustache.
“Ah!” he said. “No doubt! But it's uncommonly like gin, Paul.” Then turning to Christian, he said: “Shake hands, you two!”
Christian looked from one to the other, and at last held out her hand to Herr Paul, who brushed it with his moustache, gazing after her as she left the room with a queer expression.
“My dear!” he began, “you support her in this execrable matter? You forget my position, you make me ridiculous. I have been obliged to go to bed in my own house, absolutely to go to bed, because I was in danger of becoming funny.”
“Look here, Paul!” Mr. Treffry said gruffly, “if any one's to bully Chris, it's I.”
“In that case,” returned Herr Paul sarcastically, “I will go to Vienna.”
“You may go to the devil!” said Mr. Treffry; “and I'll tell you what—in my opinion it was low to set the police on that young chap; a low, dirty trick.”
Herr Paul divided his beard carefully in two, took his seat on the very edge of an arm-chair, and placing his hands on his parted knees, said:
“I have regretted it since—mais, que diable! He called me a coward—it is very hot weather!—there were drinks at the Kurhaus—I am her guardian—the affair is a very beastly one—there were more drinks—I was a little enfin!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Adieu, my dear; I shall be some time in Vienna; I need rest!” He rose and went to the door; then he turned, and waved his cigar. “Adieu! Be good; get well! I will buy you some cigars up there.” And going out, he shut the door on any possibility of answer.
Mr. Treffry lay back amongst his cushions. The clock ticked; pigeons cooed on the veranda; a door opened in the distance, and for a moment a treble voice was heard. Mr. Treffry's head drooped forward; across his face, gloomy and rugged, fell a thin line of sunlight.
The clock suddenly stopped ticking, and outside, in mysterious accord, the pigeons rose with a great fluttering of wings, and flew off'. Mr. Treffry made a startled, heavy movement. He tried to get on to his feet and reach the bell, but could not, and sat on the side of the couch with drops of sweat rolling off his forehead, and his hands clawing his chest. There was no sound at all throughout the house. He looked about him, and tried to call, but again could not. He tried once more to reach the bell, and, failing, sat still, with a thought that made him cold.
“I'm done for,” he muttered. “By George! I believe I'm done for this time!” A voice behind him said:
“Can we have a look at you, sir?”
“Ah! Doctor, bear a hand, there's a good fellow.”
Dawney propped him against the cushions, and loosened his shirt. Receiving no answer to his questions, he stepped alarmed towards the bell. Mr. Treffry stopped him with a sign.
“Let's hear what you make of me,” he said.
When Dawney had examined him, he asked:
“Well?”
“Well,” answered Dawney slowly, “there's trouble, of course.”
Mr. Treffry broke out with a husky whisper: “Out with it, Doctor; don't humbug me.”
Dawney bent down, and took his wrist.
“I don't know how you've got into this state, sir,” he said with the brusqueness of emotion. “You're in a bad way. It's the old trouble; and you know what that means as well as I. All I can tell you is, I'm going to have a big fight with it. It shan't be my fault, there's my hand on that.”
Mr. Treffry lay with his eyes fixed on the ceiling; at last he said:
“I want to live.”
“Yes—yes.”
“I feel better now; don't make a fuss about it. It'll be very awkward if I die just now. Patch me up, for the sake of my niece.”
Dawney nodded. “One minute, there are a few things I want,” and he went out.
A moment later Greta stole in on tiptoe. She bent over till her hair touched Mr. Treffry's face.
“Uncle Nic!” she whispered. He opened his eyes.
“Hallo, Greta!”
“I have come to bring you my love, Uncle Nic, and to say good-bye. Papa says that I and Scruff and Miss Naylor are going to Vienna with him; we have had to pack in half an hour; in five minutes we are going to Vienna, and it is my first visit there, Uncle Nic.”
“To Vienna!” Mr. Treffry repeated slowly. “Don't have a guide, Greta; they're humbugs.”
“No, Uncle Nic,” said Greta solemnly.
“Draw the curtains, old girl, let's have a look at you. Why, you're as smart as ninepence!”
“Yes,” said Greta with a sigh, touching the buttons of her cape, “because I am going to Vienna; but I am sorry to leave you, Uncle Nic.”
“Are you, Greta?”
“But you will have Chris, and you are fonder of Chris than of me, Uncle Nic.”
“I've known her longer.”
“Perhaps when you've known me as long as Chris, you shall be as fond of me.”
“When I've known you as long—may be.”
“While I am gone, Uncle Nic, you are to get well, you are not very well, you know.”
“What put that into your head?”
“If you were well you would be smoking a cigar—it is just three o'clock. This kiss is for myself, this is for Scruff, and this is for Miss Naylor.”
She stood upright again; a tremulous, joyful gravity was in her eyes and on her lips.
“Good-bye, my dear; take care of yourselves; and don't you have a guide, they're humbugs.”
“No, Uncle Nic. There is the carriage! To Vienna, Uncle Nic!” The dead gold of her hair gleamed in the doorway. Mr. Treffry raised himself upon his elbow.
“Give us one more, for luck!”
Greta ran back.
“I love you very much!” she said, and kissing him, backed slowly, then, turning, flew out like a bird.
Mr. Treffry fixed his eyes on the shut door.
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