VILLA RUBEIN AND OTHER STORIES

By John Galsworthy

_[ED. NOTE: Spelling conforms to the original: "s's" instead of our"z's"; and "c's" where we would have "s's"; and ". .. Our" as in colourand flavour; many interesting double consonants; etc. ]_

 Contents: Villa Rubein A Man of Devon A Knight Salvation of a Forsyte The Silence

VILLA RUBEIN

PREFACE

Writing not long ago to my oldest literary friend, I expressed in amoment of heedless sentiment the wish that we might have again one ofour talks of long-past days, over the purposes and methods of our art. And my friend, wiser than I, as he has always been, replied with thisdoubting phrase "Could we recapture the zest of that old time?"

I would not like to believe that our faith in the value of imaginativeart has diminished, that we think it less worth while to struggle forglimpses of truth and for the words which may pass them on to othereyes; or that we can no longer discern the star we tried to follow; butI do fear, with him, that half a lifetime of endeavour has dulled theexuberance which kept one up till morning discussing the ways and meansof aesthetic achievement. We have discovered, perhaps with a certainfinality, that by no talk can a writer add a cubit to his stature, orchange the temperament which moulds and colours the vision of life hesets before the few who will pause to look at it. And so--the rest issilence, and what of work we may still do will be done in that doggedmuteness which is the lot of advancing years. 

Other times, other men and modes, but not other truth. Truth, thoughessentially relative, like Einstein's theory, will never lose itsever-new and unique quality-perfect proportion; for Truth, to the humanconsciousness at least, is but that vitally just relation of part towhole which is the very condition of life itself. And the task beforethe imaginative writer, whether at the end of the last century or allthese aeons later, is the presentation of a vision which to eye and earand mind has the implicit proportions of Truth. 

I confess to have always looked for a certain flavour in the writings ofothers, and craved it for my own, believing that all true vision is socoloured by the temperament of the seer, as to have not only the justproportions but the essential novelty of a living thing for, after all, no two living things are alike. A work of fiction should carry the hallmark of its author as surely as a Goya, a Daumier, a Velasquez, and aMathew Maris, should be the unmistakable creations of those masters. This is not to speak of tricks and manners which lend themselves to thatfacile elf, the caricaturist, but of a certain individual way of seeingand feeling. A young poet once said of another and more popular poet:"Oh! yes, but be cuts no ice. " And, when one came to think of it, he didnot; a certain flabbiness of spirit, a lack of temperament, an absence, perhaps, of the ironic, or passionate, view, insubstantiated his work;it had no edge--just a felicity which passed for distinction with thecrowd. 

Let me not be understood to imply that a novel should be a sort ofsandwich, in which the author's mood or philosophy is the slice of ham. One's demand is for a far more subtle impregnation of flavour; justthat, for instance, which makes De Maupassant a more poignant andfascinating writer than his master Flaubert, Dickens and Thackeray moreliving and permanent than George Eliot or Trollope. It once fell tomy lot to be the preliminary critic of a book on painting, designed toprove that the artist's sole function was the impersonal elucidation ofthe truths of nature. I was regretfully compelled to observe that therewere no such things as the truths of Nature, for the purposes of art, apart from the individual vision of the artist. Seer and thing seen, inextricably involved one with the other, form the texture of anymasterpiece; and I, at least, demand therefrom a distinct impressionof temperament. I never saw, in the flesh, either De Maupassant orTchekov--those masters of such different methods entirely devoid ofdidacticism--but their work leaves on me a strangely potent sense ofpersonality. Such subtle intermingling of seer with thing seen is theoutcome only of long and intricate brooding, a process not too favouredby modern life, yet without which we achieve little but a fluent chaosof clever insignificant impressions, a kind of glorified journalism, holding much the same relation to the deeply-impregnated work ofTurgenev, Hardy, and Conrad, as a film bears to a play. 

Speaking for myself, with the immodesty required of one who hazardsan introduction to his own work, I was writing fiction for five yearsbefore I could master even its primary technique, much less achieve thatunion of seer with thing seen, which perhaps begins to show itself alittle in this volume--binding up the scanty harvests of 1899, 1900, and1901--especially in the tales: "A Knight, " and "Salvation of a Forsyte. "Men, women, trees, and works of fiction--very tiny are the seeds fromwhich they spring. I used really to see the "Knight"--in 1896, wasit?--sitting in the "Place" in front of the Casino at Monte Carlo; andbecause his dried-up elegance, his burnt straw hat, quiet courtesy ofattitude, and big dog, used to fascinate and intrigue me, I began toimagine his life so as to answer my own questions and to satisfy, Isuppose, the mood I was in. I never spoke to him, I never saw him again. His real story, no doubt, was as different from that which I wove aroundhis figure as night from day. 

As for Swithin, wild horses will not drag from me confession of whereand when I first saw the prototype which became enlarged to his bulkystature. I owe Swithin much, for he first released the satirist in me, and is, moreover, the only one of my characters whom I killed before Igave him life, for it is in "The Man of Property" that Swithin Forsytemore memorably lives. 

Ranging beyond this volume, I cannot recollect writing the first wordsof "The Island Pharisees"--but it would be about August, 1901. Like allthe stories in "Villa Rubein, " and, indeed, most of my tales, the bookoriginated in the curiosity, philosophic reflections, and unphilosophicemotions roused in me by some single figure in real life. In this caseit was Ferrand, whose real name, of course, was not Ferrand, and whodied in some "sacred institution" many years ago of a consumptionbrought on by the conditions of his wandering life. If not "a beloved, "he was a true vagabond, and I first met him in the Champs Elysees, justas in "The Pigeon" he describes his meeting with Wellwyn. Though drawnvery much from life, he did not in the end turn out very like theFerrand of real life--the figures of fiction soon diverge from theirprototypes. 

The first draft of "The Island Pharisees" was buried in a drawer; whenretrieved the other day, after nineteen years, it disclosed a picaresquestring of anecdotes told by Ferrand in the first person. Thesetwo-thirds of a book were laid to rest by Edward Garnett's dictum thatits author was not sufficiently within Ferrand's skin; and, strugglingheavily with laziness and pride, he started afresh in the skin ofShelton. Three times be wrote that novel, and then it was long infinding the eye of Sydney Pawling, who accepted it for Heinemann's in1904. That was a period of ferment and transition with me, a kind oflong awakening to the home truths of social existence and nationalcharacter. The liquor bubbled too furiously for clear bottling. Andthe book, after all, became but an introduction to all those followingnovels which depict--somewhat satirically--the various sections ofEnglish "Society" with a more or less capital "S. "

Looking back on the long-stretched-out body of one's work, it isinteresting to mark the endless duel fought within a man between theemotional and critical sides of his nature, first one, then the other, getting the upper hand, and too seldom fusing till the result has themellowness of full achievement. One can even tell the nature of one'sreaders, by their preference for the work which reveals more of thisside than of that. My early work was certainly more emotional thancritical. But from 1901 came nine years when the critical was, in themain, holding sway. From 1910 to 1918 the emotional again struggled forthe upper hand; and from that time on there seems to have been somethingof a "dead beat. " So the conflict goes, by what mysterious tidespromoted, I know not. 

An author must ever wish to discover a hapless member of the Public who, never yet having read a word of his writing, would submit to the ordealof reading him right through from beginning to end. Probably the effectcould only be judged through an autopsy, but in the remote case ofsurvival, it would interest one so profoundly to see the differences, if any, produced in that reader's character or outlook over life. This, however, is a consummation which will remain devoutly to be wished, forthere is a limit to human complaisance. One will never know the exactmeasure of one's infecting power; or whether, indeed, one is not just along soporific. 

A writer they say, should not favouritize among his creations; butthen a writer should not do so many things that he does. This writer, certainly, confesses to having favourites, and of his novels so far belikes best: The Forsyte Series; "The Country House"; "Fraternity"; "TheDark Flower"; and "Five Tales"; believing these to be the works whichmost fully achieve fusion of seer with thing seen, most subtly disclosethe individuality of their author, and best reveal such of truth as hasbeen vouchsafed to him. JOHN GALSWORTHY. 

TO

MY SISTER BLANCHE LILIAN SAUTER

VILLA RUBEIN

I

Walking along the river wall at Botzen, Edmund Dawney said to AloisHarz: "Would you care to know the family at that pink house, VillaRubein?"

Harz answered with a smile:

"Perhaps. "

"Come with me then this afternoon. "

They had stopped before an old house with a blind, deserted look, thatstood by itself on the wall; Harz pushed the door open. 

"Come in, you don't want breakfast yet. I'm going to paint the riverto-day. "

He ran up the bare broad stairs, and Dawney followed leisurely, histhumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat, and his head thrownback. 

In the attic which filled the whole top story, Harz had pulled a canvasto the window. He was a young man of middle height, square shouldered, active, with an angular face, high cheek-bones, and a strong, sharpchin. His eyes were piercing and steel-blue, his eyebrows very flexible, nose long and thin with a high bridge; and his dark, unparted hairfitted him like a cap. His clothes looked as if he never gave them asecond thought. 

This room, which served for studio, bedroom, and sitting-room, was bareand dusty. Below the window the river in spring flood rushed down thevalley, a stream, of molten bronze. Harz dodged before the canvas like afencer finding his distance; Dawney took his seat on a packingcase. 

"The snows have gone with a rush this year, " he drawled. "The Talfercomes down brown, the Eisack comes down blue; they flow into the Etschand make it green; a parable of the Spring for you, my painter. "

Harz mixed his colours. 

"I've no time for parables, " he said, "no time for anything. If I couldbe guaranteed to live to ninety-nine, like Titian--he had a chance. Lookat that poor fellow who was killed the other day! All that struggle, andthen--just at the turn!"

He spoke English with a foreign accent; his voice was rather harsh, buthis smile very kindly. 

Dawney lit a cigarette. 

"You painters, " he said, "are better off than most of us. You can strikeout your own line. Now if I choose to treat a case out of the ordinaryway and the patient dies, I'm ruined. "

"My dear Doctor--if I don't paint what the public likes, I starve; allthe same I'm going to paint in my own way; in the end I shall come outon top. "

"It pays to work in the groove, my friend, until you've made your name;after that--do what you like, they'll lick your boots all the same. "

"Ah, you don't love your work. "

Dawney answered slowly: "Never so happy as when my hands are full. But Iwant to make money, to get known, to have a good time, good cigars, goodwine. I hate discomfort. No, my boy, I must work it on the usual lines;I don't like it, but I must lump it. One starts in life with some notionof the ideal--it's gone by the board with me. I've got to shove alonguntil I've made my name, and then, my little man--then--"

"Then you'll be soft!"

"You pay dearly for that first period!"

"Take my chance of that; there's no other way. "

"Make one!"

"Humph!"

Harz poised his brush, as though it were a spear:

"A man must do the best in him. If he has to suffer--let him!"

Dawney stretched his large soft body; a calculating look had come intohis eyes. 

"You're a tough little man!" he said. 

"I've had to be tough. "

Dawney rose; tobacco smoke was wreathed round his unruffled hair. 

"Touching Villa Rubein, " he said, "shall I call for you? It's a mixedhousehold, English mostly--very decent people. "

"No, thank you. I shall be painting all day. Haven't time to know thesort of people who expect one to change one's clothes. "

"As you like; ta-to!" And, puffing out his chest, Dawney vanishedthrough a blanket looped across the doorway. 

Harz set a pot of coffee on a spirit-lamp, and cut himself some bread. Through the window the freshness of the morning came; the scent of sapand blossom and young leaves; the scent of earth, and the mountainsfreed from winter; the new flights and songs of birds; all the odorous, enchanted, restless Spring. 

There suddenly appeared through the doorway a white rough-haired terrierdog, black-marked about the face, with shaggy tan eyebrows. He sniffedat Harz, showed the whites round his eyes, and uttered a sharp bark. Ayoung voice called:

"Scruff! Thou naughty dog!" Light footsteps were heard on the stairs;from the distance a thin, high voice called:

"Greta! You mustn't go up there!"

A little girl of twelve, with long fair hair under a wide-brimmed hat, slipped in. 

Her blue eyes opened wide, her face flushed up. That face was notregular; its cheek-bones were rather prominent, the nose was flattish;there was about it an air, innocent, reflecting, quizzical, shy. 

"Oh!" she said. 

Harz smiled: "Good-morning! This your dog?"

She did not answer, but looked at him with soft bewilderment; thenrunning to the dog seized him by the collar. 

"Scr-ruff! Thou naughty dog--the baddest dog!" The ends of her hair fellabout him; she looked up at Harz, who said:

"Not at all! Let me give him some bread. "

"Oh no! You must not--I will beat him--and tell him he is bad; then heshall not do such things again. Now he is sulky; he looks so always whenhe is sulky. Is this your home?"

"For the present; I am a visitor. "

"But I think you are of this country, because you speak like it. "

"Certainly, I am a Tyroler. "

"I have to talk English this morning, but I do not like it verymuch--because, also I am half Austrian, and I like it best; but mysister, Christian, is all English. Here is Miss Naylor; she shall bevery angry with me. "

And pointing to the entrance with a rosy-tipped forefinger, she againlooked ruefully at Harz. 

There came into the room with a walk like the hopping of a bird anelderly, small lady, in a grey serge dress, with narrow bands ofclaret-coloured velveteen; a large gold cross dangled from a steel chainon her chest; she nervously twisted her hands, clad in black kid gloves, rather white about the seams. 

Her hair was prematurely grey; her quick eyes brown; her mouth twistedat one corner; she held her face, kind-looking, but long and narrow, rather to one side, and wore on it a look of apology. Her quicksentences sounded as if she kept them on strings, and wanted to drawthem back as soon as she had let them forth. 

"Greta, how can, you do such things? I don't know what your father wouldsay! I am sure I don't know how to--so extraordinary--"

"Please!" said Harz. 

"You must come at once--so very sorry--so awkward!" They were standingin a ring: Harz with his eyebrows working up and down; the little ladyfidgeting her parasol; Greta, flushed and pouting, her eyes all dewy, twisting an end of fair hair round her finger. 

"Oh, look!" The coffee had boiled over. Little brown streams trickledspluttering from the pan; the dog, with ears laid back and tail tuckedin, went scurrying round the room. A feeling of fellowship fell on themat once. 

"Along the wall is our favourite walk, and Scruff--so awkward, sounfortunate--we did not think any one lived here--the shutters arecracked, the paint is peeling off so dreadfully. Have you been long inBotzen? Two months? Fancy! You are not English? You are Tyrolese?But you speak English so well--there for seven years? Really? Sofortunate!--It is Greta's day for English. "

Miss Naylor's eyes darted bewildered glances at the roof where thecrossing of the beams made such deep shadows; at the litter of brushes, tools, knives, and colours on a table made out of packing-cases; at thebig window, innocent of glass, and flush with the floor, whence dangleda bit of rusty chain--relic of the time when the place had been astore-loft; her eyes were hastily averted from an unfinished figure ofthe nude. 

Greta, with feet crossed, sat on a coloured blanket, dabbling her fingerin a little pool of coffee, and gazing up at Harz. And he thought: 'Ishould like to paint her like that. "A forget-me-not. "'

He took out his chalks to make a sketch of her. 

"Shall you show me?" cried out Greta, scrambling to her feet. 

"'Will, ' Greta--'will'; how often must I tell you? I think we should begoing--it is very late--your father--so very kind of you, but I thinkwe should be going. Scruff!" Miss Naylor gave the floor two taps. Theterrier backed into a plaster cast which came down on his tail, and senthim flying through the doorway. Greta followed swiftly, crying:

"Ach! poor Scrufee!"

Miss Naylor crossed the room; bowing, she murmured an apology, and alsodisappeared. 

Harz was left alone, his guests were gone; the little girl with thefair hair and the eyes like forget-me-nots, the little lady with kindlygestures and bird-like walk, the terrier. He looked round him; the roomseemed very empty. Gnawing his moustache, he muttered at the fallencast. 

Then taking up his brush, stood before his picture, smiling andfrowning. Soon he had forgotten it all in his work. 

II

It was early morning four days later, and Harz was loitering homewards. The shadows of the clouds passing across the vines were vanishing overthe jumbled roofs and green-topped spires of the town. A strong sweetwind was blowing from the mountains, there was a stir in the branchesof the trees, and flakes of the late blossom were drifting down. Amongstthe soft green pods of a kind of poplar chafers buzzed, and numbers oftheir little brown bodies were strewn on the path. 

He passed a bench where a girl sat sketching. A puff of wind whirled herdrawing to the ground; Harz ran to pick it up. She took it from him witha bow; but, as he turned away, she tore the sketch across. 

"Ah!" he said; "why did you do that?"

This girl, who stood with a bit of the torn sketch in either hand, wasslight and straight; and her face earnest and serene. She gazed at Harzwith large, clear, greenish eyes; her lips and chin were defiant, herforehead tranquil. 

"I don't like it. "

"Will you let me look at it? I am a painter. "

"It isn't worth looking at, but--if you wish--"

He put the two halves of the sketch together. 

"You see!" she said at last; "I told you. "

Harz did not answer, still looking at the sketch. The girl frowned. 

Harz asked her suddenly:

"Why do you paint?"

She coloured, and said:

"Show me what is wrong. "

"I cannot show you what is wrong, there is nothing wrong--but why do youpaint?"

"I don't understand. "

Harz shrugged his shoulders. 

"You've no business to do that, " said the girl in a hurt voice; "I wantto know. "

"Your heart is not in it, " said Harz. 

She looked at him, startled; her eyes had grown thoughtful. 

"I suppose that is it. There are so many other things--"

"There should be nothing else, " said Harz. 

She broke in: "I don't want always to be thinking of myself. Suppose--"

"Ah! When you begin supposing!"

The girl confronted him; she had torn the sketch again. 

"You mean that if it does not matter enough, one had better not do it atall. I don't know if you are right--I think you are. "

There was the sound of a nervous cough, and Harz saw behind him histhree visitors--Miss Naylor offering him her hand; Greta, flushed, witha bunch of wild flowers, staring intently in his face; and the terrier, sniffing at his trousers. 

Miss Naylor broke an awkward silence. 

"We wondered if you would still be here, Christian. I am sorry tointerrupt you--I was not aware that you knew Mr. Herr--"

"Harz is my name--we were just talking"

"About my sketch. Oh, Greta, you do tickle! Will you come and havebreakfast with us to-day, Herr Harz? It's our turn, you know. "

Harz, glancing at his dusty clothes, excused himself. 

But Greta in a pleading voice said: "Oh! do come! Scruff likes you. Itis so dull when there is nobody for breakfast but ourselves. "

Miss Naylor's mouth began to twist. Harz hurriedly broke in:

"Thank you. I will come with pleasure; you don't mind my being dirty?"

"Oh no! we do not mind; then we shall none of us wash, and afterwards Ishall show you my rabbits. "

Miss Naylor, moving from foot to foot, like a bird on its perch, exclaimed:

"I hope you won't regret it, not a very good meal--the girls are soimpulsive--such informal invitation; we shall be very glad. "

But Greta pulled softly at her sister's sleeve, and Christian, gatheringher things, led the way. 

Harz followed in amazement; nothing of this kind had come into his lifebefore. He kept shyly glancing at the girls; and, noting the speculativeinnocence in Greta's eyes, he smiled. They soon came to two greatpoplar-trees, which stood, like sentinels, one on either side of anunweeded gravel walk leading through lilac bushes to a house painteddull pink, with green-shuttered windows, and a roof of greenish slate. Over the door in faded crimson letters were written the words, "VillaRubein. "

"That is to the stables, " said Greta, pointing down a path, where somepigeons were sunning themselves on a wall. "Uncle Nic keeps hishorses there: Countess and Cuckoo--his horses begin with C, becauseof Chris--they are quite beautiful. He says he could drive themto Kingdom-Come and they would not turn their hair. Bow, and say'Good-morning' to our house!"

Harz bowed. 

"Father said all strangers should, and I think it brings good luck. "From the doorstep she looked round at Harz, then ran into the house. 

A broad, thick-set man, with stiff, brushed-up hair, a short, brown, bushy beard parted at the chin, a fresh complexion, and blue glassesacross a thick nose, came out, and called in a bluff voice:

"Ha! my good dears, kiss me quick--prrt! How goes it then this morning?A good walk, hein?" The sound of many loud rapid kisses followed. 

"Ha, Fraulein, good!" He became aware of Harz's figure standing in thedoorway: "Und der Herr?"

Miss Naylor hurriedly explained. 

"Good! An artist! Kommen Sie herein, I am delight. You will breakfast?I too--yes, yes, my dears--I too breakfast with you this morning. I havethe hunter's appetite. "

Harz, looking at him keenly, perceived him to be of middle height andage, stout, dressed in a loose holland jacket, a very white, starchedshirt, and blue silk sash; that he looked particularly clean, had an airof belonging to Society, and exhaled a really fine aroma of excellentcigars and the best hairdresser's essences. 

The room they entered was long and rather bare; there was a huge map onthe wall, and below it a pair of globes on crooked supports, resemblingtwo inflated frogs erect on their hind legs. In one corner was a cottagepiano, close to a writing-table heaped with books and papers; this nook, sacred to Christian, was foreign to the rest of the room, which wasarranged with supernatural neatness. A table was laid for breakfast, andthe sun-warmed air came in through French windows. 

The meal went merrily; Herr Paul von Morawitz was never in such spiritsas at table. Words streamed from him. Conversing with Harz, he talked ofArt as who should say: "One does not claim to be a connoisseur--pas sibete--still, one has a little knowledge, que diable!" He recommendedhim a man in the town who sold cigars that were "not so very bad. " Heconsumed porridge, ate an omelette; and bending across to Greta gaveher a sounding kiss, muttering: "Kiss me quick!"--an expression he hadpicked up in a London music-hall, long ago, and considered chic. Heasked his daughters' plans, and held out porridge to the terrier, whorefused it with a sniff. 

"Well, " he said suddenly, looking at Miss Naylor, "here is a gentlemanwho has not even heard our names!"

The little lady began her introductions in a breathless voice. 

"Good!" Herr Paul said, puffing out his lips: "Now we know each other!"and, brushing up the ends of his moustaches, he carried off Harz intoanother room, decorated with pipe-racks, prints of dancing-girls, spittoons, easy-chairs well-seasoned by cigar smoke, French novels, andnewspapers. 

The household at Villa Rubein was indeed of a mixed and curious nature. Cut on both floors by corridors, the Villa was divided into fourdivisions; each of which had its separate inhabitants, an arrangementwhich had come about in the following way:

When old Nicholas Treffry died, his estate, on the boundary ofCornwall, had been sold and divided up among his three survivingchildren--Nicholas, who was much the eldest, a partner in the well-knownfirm of Forsyte and Treffry, teamen, of the Strand; Constance, marriedto a man called Decie; and Margaret, at her father's death engaged tothe curate of the parish, John Devorell, who shortly afterwards becameits rector. By his marriage with Margaret Treffry the rector had onechild called Christian. Soon after this he came into some property, anddied, leaving it unfettered to his widow. Three years went by, and whenthe child was six years old, Mrs. Devorell, still young and pretty, cameto live in London with her brother Nicholas. It was there that she metPaul von Morawitz--the last of an old Czech family, who had lived formany hundred years on their estates near Budweiss. Paul had been left anorphan at the age of ten, and without a solitary ancestral acre. Insteadof acres, he inherited the faith that nothing was too good for a vonMorawitz. In later years his savoir faire enabled him to laugh at faith, but it stayed quietly with him all the same. The absence of acres was ofno great consequence, for through his mother, the daughter of a bankerin Vienna, he came into a well-nursed fortune. It befitted a vonMorawitz that he should go into the Cavalry, but, unshaped forsoldiering, he soon left the Service; some said he had a difference withhis Colonel over the quality of food provided during some manoeuvres;others that he had retired because his chargers did not fit his legs, which were, indeed, rather round. 

He had an admirable appetite for pleasure; a man-about-town's lifesuited him. He went his genial, unreflecting, costly way in Vienna, Paris, London. He loved exclusively those towns, and boasted that hewas as much at home in one as in another. He combined exuberant vitalitywith fastidiousness of palate, and devoted both to the acquisition of aspecial taste in women, weeds, and wines; above all he was blessed witha remarkable digestion. He was thirty when he met Mrs. Devorell; and shemarried him because he was so very different from anybody she had everseen. People more dissimilar were never mated. To Paul--accustomed tostage doors--freshness, serene tranquillity, and obvious purity were thebaits; he had run through more than half his fortune, too, and the factthat she had money was possibly not overlooked. Be that as it may, hewas fond of her; his heart was soft, he developed a domestic side. 

Greta was born to them after a year of marriage. The instinct of the"freeman" was, however, not dead in Paul; he became a gambler. He lostthe remainder of his fortune without being greatly disturbed. Whenhe began to lose his wife's fortune too things naturally became moredifficult. Not too much remained when Nicholas Treffry stepped in, and caused his sister to settle what was left on her daughters, afterproviding a life-interest for herself and Paul. Losing his supplies, thegood man had given up his cards. But the instinct of the "freeman"was still living in his breast; he took to drink. He was never grosslydrunk, and rarely very sober. His wife sorrowed over this new passion;her health, already much enfeebled, soon broke down. The doctors senther to the Tyrol. She seemed to benefit by this, and settled down atBotzen. The following year, when Greta was just ten, she died. It was ashock to Paul. He gave up excessive drinking; became a constant smoker, and lent full rein to his natural domesticity. He was fond of both thegirls, but did not at all understand them; Greta, his own daughter, washis favourite. Villa Rubein remained their home; it was cheap and roomy. Money, since Paul became housekeeper to himself, was scarce. 

About this time Mrs. Decie, his wife's sister, whose husband had diedin the East, returned to England; Paul invited her to come and live withthem. She had her own rooms, her own servant; the arrangement suitedPaul--it was economically sound, and there was some one always there totake care of the girls. In truth he began to feel the instinct of the"freeman" rising again within him; it was pleasant to run over to Viennanow and then; to play piquet at a Club in Gries, of which he was theshining light; in a word, to go "on the tiles" a little. One could notalways mourn--even if a woman were an angel; moreover, his digestion wasas good as ever. 

The fourth quarter of this Villa was occupied by Nicholas Treffry, whoseannual sojourn out of England perpetually surprised himself. Between himand his young niece, Christian, there existed, however, a rare sympathy;one of those affections between the young and old, which, mysteriouslyborn like everything in life, seems the only end and aim to both, tillanother feeling comes into the younger heart. 

Since a long and dangerous illness, he had been ordered to avoid theEnglish winter, and at the commencement of each spring he would appearat Botzen, driving his own horses by easy stages from the ItalianRiviera, where he spent the coldest months. He always stayed till Junebefore going back to his London Club, and during all that time he let noday pass without growling at foreigners, their habits, food, drink, andraiment, with a kind of big dog's growling that did nobody any harm. Theillness had broken him very much; he was seventy, but looked more. Hehad a servant, a Luganese, named Dominique, devoted to him. NicholasTreffry had found him overworked in an hotel, and had engaged him withthe caution: "Look--here, Dominique! I swear!" To which Dominique, dark of feature, saturnine and ironical, had only replied: "Tres biens, M'sieur!"

III

Harz and his host sat in leather chairs; Herr Paul's square back waswedged into a cushion, his round legs crossed. Both were smoking, andthey eyed each other furtively, as men of different stamp do when firstthrown together. The young artist found his host extremely new anddisconcerting; in his presence he felt both shy and awkward. Herr Paul, on the other hand, very much at ease, was thinking indolently:

'Good-looking young fellow--comes of the people, I expect, not at allthe manner of the world; wonder what he talks about. '

Presently noticing that Harz was looking at a photograph, he said: "Ah!yes! that was a woman! They are not to be found in these days. She coulddance, the little Coralie! Did you ever see such arms? Confess that sheis beautiful, hein?"

"She has individuality, " said Harz. "A fine type!"

Herr Paul blew out a cloud of smoke. 

"Yes, " he murmured, "she was fine all over!" He had dropped hiseyeglasses, and his full brown eyes, with little crow's-feet at thecorners, wandered from his visitor to his cigar. 

'He'd be like a Satyr if he wasn't too clean, ' thought Harz. 'Put vineleaves in his hair, paint him asleep, with his hands crossed, so!'

"When I am told a person has individuality, " Herr Paul was saying in arich and husky voice, "I generally expect boots that bulge, an umbrellaof improper colour; I expect a creature of 'bad form' as they say inEngland; who will shave some days and some days will not shave; whosometimes smells of India-rubber, and sometimes does not smell, which isdiscouraging!"

"You do not approve of individuality?" said Harz shortly. 

"Not if it means doing, and thinking, as those who know better do notdo, or think. "

"And who are those who know better?"

"Ah! my dear, you are asking me a riddle? Well, then--Society, men ofbirth, men of recognised position, men above eccentricity, in a word, ofreputation. "

Harz looked at him fixedly. "Men who haven't the courage of their ownideas, not even the courage to smell of India-rubber; men who have nodesires, and so can spend all their time making themselves flat!"

Herr Paul drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his beard. "Iassure you, my dear, " he said, "it is easier to be flat; it is morerespectable to be flat. Himmel! why not, then, be flat?"

"Like any common fellow?"

"Certes; like any common fellow--like me, par exemple!" Herr Paul wavedhis hand. When he exercised unusual tact, he always made use of a Frenchexpression. 

Harz flushed. Herr Paul followed up his victory. "Come, come!" he said. "Pass me my men of repute! que diable! we are not anarchists. "

"Are you sure?" said Harz. 

Herr Paul twisted his moustache. "I beg your pardon, " he said slowly. But at this moment the door was opened; a rumbling voice remarked:"Morning, Paul. Who's your visitor?" Harz saw a tall, bulky figure inthe doorway. 

"Come in, "' called out Herr Paul. "Let me present to you a newacquaintance, an artist: Herr Harz--Mr. Nicholas Treffry. Psumm bumm!All this introducing is dry work. " And going to the sideboard he pouredout three glasses of a light, foaming beer. 

Mr. Treffry waved it from him: "Not for me, " he said: "Wish I could!They won't let me look at it. " And walking over, to the window witha heavy tread, which trembled like his voice, he sat down. There wassomething in his gait like the movements of an elephant's hind legs. Hewas very tall (it was said, with the customary exaggeration of familytradition, that there never had been a male Treffry under six feet inheight), but now he stooped, and had grown stout. There was something atonce vast and unobtrusive about his personality. 

He wore a loose brown velvet jacket, and waistcoat, cut to show a softfrilled shirt and narrow black ribbon tie; a thin gold chain was loopedround his neck and fastened to his fob. His heavy cheeks had foldsin them like those in a bloodhound's face. He wore big, drooping, yellow-grey moustaches, which he had a habit of sucking, and a goateebeard. He had long loose ears that might almost have been said to gap. On his head there was a soft black hat, large in the brim and low inthe crown. His grey eyes, heavy-lidded, twinkled under their bushy browswith a queer, kind cynicism. As a young man he had sown many a wildoat; but he had also worked and made money in business; he had, in fact, burned the candle at both ends; but he had never been unready to dohis fellows a good turn. He had a passion for driving, and his recklessmethod of pursuing this art had caused him to be nicknamed: "Thenotorious Treffry. "

Once, when he was driving tandem down a hill with a loose rein, thefriend beside him had said: "For all the good you're doing with thosereins, Treffry, you might as well throw them on the horses' necks. "

"Just so, " Treffry had answered. At the bottom of the hill they had goneover a wall into a potato patch. Treffry had broken several ribs; hisfriend had gone unharmed. 

He was a great sufferer now, but, constitutionally averse to beingpitied, he had a disconcerting way of humming, and this, together withthe shake in his voice, and his frequent use of peculiar phrases, madethe understanding of his speech depend at times on intuition rather thanintelligence. 

The clock began to strike eleven. Harz muttered an excuse, shook handswith his host, and bowing to his new acquaintance, went away. He caughta glimpse of Greta's face against the window, and waved his hand to her. In the road he came on Dawney, who was turning in between the poplars, with thumbs as usual hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat. 

"Hallo!" the latter said. 

"Doctor!" Harz answered slyly; "the Fates outwitted me, it seems. "

"Serve you right, " said Dawney, "for your confounded egoism! Wait heretill I come out, I shan't be many minutes. "

But Harz went on his way. A cart drawn by cream-coloured oxen waspassing slowly towards the bridge. In front of the brushwood piled onit two peasant girls were sitting with their feet on a mat of grass--thepicture of contentment. 

"I'm wasting my time!" he thought. "I've done next to nothing in twomonths. Better get back to London! That girl will never make a painter!"She would never make a painter, but there was something in her that hecould not dismiss so rapidly. She was not exactly beautiful, but she wassympathetic. The brow was pleasing, with dark-brown hair softly turnedback, and eyes so straight and shining. The two sisters were verydifferent! The little one was innocent, yet mysterious; the elder seemedas clear as crystal!

He had entered the town, where the arcaded streets exuded their peculiarpungent smell of cows and leather, wood-smoke, wine-casks, and drains. The sound of rapid wheels over the stones made him turn his head. Acarriage drawn by red-roan horses was passing at a great pace. Peoplestared at it, standing still, and looking alarmed. It swung from sideto side and vanished round a corner. Harz saw Mr. Nicholas Treffry ina long, whitish dust-coat; his Italian servant, perched behind, washolding to the seat-rail, with a nervous grin on his dark face. 

'Certainly, ' Harz thought, 'there's no getting away from these peoplethis morning--they are everywhere. '

In his studio he began to sort his sketches, wash his brushes, and dragout things he had accumulated during his two months' stay. He even beganto fold his blanket door. But suddenly he stopped. Those two girls!Why not try? What a picture! The two heads, the sky, and leaves! Beginto-morrow! Against that window--no, better at the Villa! Call thepicture--Spring. .. !

IV

The wind, stirring among trees and bushes, flung the young leavesskywards. The trembling of their silver linings was like the joyfulflutter of a heart at good news. It was one of those Spring morningswhen everything seems full of a sweet restlessness--soft clouds chasingfast across the sky; soft scents floating forth and dying; the notes ofbirds, now shrill and sweet, now hushed in silences; all nature strivingfor something, nothing at peace. 

Villa Rubein withstood the influence of the day, and wore its usuallook of rest and isolation. Harz sent in his card, and asked to see "derHerr. " The servant, a grey-eyed, clever-looking Swiss with no hair onhis face, came back saying:

"Der Herr, mein Herr, is in the Garden gone. " Harz followed him. 

Herr Paul, a small white flannel cap on his head, gloves on his hands, and glasses on his nose, was watering a rosebush, and humming theserenade from Faust. 

This aspect of the house was very different from the other. The sun fellon it, and over a veranda creepers clung and scrambled in long scrolls. There was a lawn, with freshly mown grass; flower-beds were laid out, and at the end of an avenue of young acacias stood an arbour coveredwith wisteria. 

In the east, mountain peaks--fingers of snow--glittered above the mist. A grave simplicity lay on that scene, on the roofs and spires, thevalleys and the dreamy hillsides, with their yellow scars and purplebloom, and white cascades, like tails of grey horses swishing in thewind. 

Herr Paul held out his hand: "What can we do for you?" he said. 

"I have to beg a favour, " replied Harz. "I wish to paint your daughters. I will bring the canvas here--they shall have no trouble. I would paintthem in the garden when they have nothing else to do. "

Herr Paul looked at him dubiously--ever since the previous day he hadbeen thinking: 'Queer bird, that painter--thinks himself the devil ofa swell! Looks a determined fellow too!' Now--staring in the painter'sface--it seemed to him, on the whole, best if some one else refused thispermission. 

"With all the pleasure, my dear sir, " he said. "Come, let us ask thesetwo young ladies!" and putting down his hose, he led the way towards thearbour, thinking: 'You'll be disappointed, my young conqueror, or I'mmistaken. '

Miss Naylor and the girls were sitting in the shade, reading LaFontaine's fables. Greta, with one eye on her governess, was stealthilycutting a pig out of orange peel. 

"Ah! my dear dears!" began Herr Paul, who in the presence of MissNaylor always paraded his English. "Here is our friend, who has a veryflattering request to make; he would paint you, yes--both together, alfresco, in the air, in the sunshine, with the birds, the littlebirds!"

Greta, gazing at Harz, gushed deep pink, and furtively showed him herpig. 

Christian said: "Paint us? Oh no!"

She saw Harz looking at her, and added, slowly: "If you really wish it, I suppose we could!" then dropped her eyes. 

"Ah!" said Herr Paul raising his brows till his glasses fell fromhis nose: "And what says Gretchen? Does she want to be handed up toposterities a little peacock along with the other little birds?"

Greta, who had continued staring at the painter, said:"Of--course--I--want--to--be. "

"Prrt!" said Herr Paul, looking at Miss Naylor. The little lady indeedopened her mouth wide, but all that came forth was a tiny squeak, assometimes happens when one is anxious to say something, and has notarranged beforehand what it shall be. 

The affair seemed ended; Harz heaved a sigh of satisfaction. But HerrPaul had still a card to play. 

"There is your Aunt, " he said; "there are things to be considered--onemust certainly inquire--so, we shall see. " Kissing Greta loudly on bothcheeks, he went towards the house. 

"What makes you want to paint us?" Christian asked, as soon as he wasgone. 

"I think it very wrong, " Miss Naylor blurted out. 

"Why?" said Harz, frowning. 

"Greta is so young--there are lessons--it is such a waste of time!"

His eyebrows twitched: "Ah! You think so!"

"I don't see why it is a waste of time, " said Christian quietly; "thereare lots of hours when we sit here and do nothing. "

"And it is very dull, " put in Greta, with a pout. 

"You are rude, Greta, " said Miss Naylor in a little rage, pursing herlips, and taking up her knitting. 

"I think it seems always rude to speak the truth, " said Greta. MissNaylor looked at her in that concentrated manner with which she was inthe habit of expressing displeasure. 

But at this moment a servant came, and said that Mrs. Decie would beglad to see Herr Harz. The painter made them a stiff bow, and followedthe servant to the house. Miss Naylor and the two girls watched hisprogress with apprehensive eyes; it was clear that he had been offended. 

Crossing the veranda, and passing through an open window hung with silkcurtains, Hart entered a cool dark room. This was Mrs. Decie's sanctum, where she conducted correspondence, received her visitors, read thelatest literature, and sometimes, when she had bad headaches, lay forhours on the sofa, with a fan, and her eyes closed. There was a scent ofsandalwood, a suggestion of the East, a kind of mystery, in here, asif things like chairs and tables were not really what they seemed, butsomething much less commonplace. 

The visitor looked twice, to be quite sure of anything; there were manyplants, bead curtains, and a deal of silverwork and china. 

Mrs. Decie came forward in the slightly rustling silk which--whether inor out of fashion--always accompanied her. A tall woman, over fifty, shemoved as if she had been tied together at the knees. Her face was long, with broad brows, from which her sandy-grey hair was severely wavedback; she had pale eyes, and a perpetual, pale, enigmatic smile. Her complexion had been ruined by long residence in India, and mightunkindly have been called fawn-coloured. She came close to Harz, keepingher eyes on his, with her head bent slightly forward. 

"We are so pleased to know you, " she said, speaking in a voice which hadlost all ring. "It is charming to find some one in these parts whocan help us to remember that there is such a thing as Art. We had Mr. C---here last autumn, such a charming fellow. He was so interested inthe native customs and dresses. You are a subject painter, too, I think?Won't you sit down?"

She went on for some time, introducing painters' names, askingquestions, skating round the edge of what was personal. And the youngman stood before her with a curious little smile fixed on his lips. 'Shewants to know whether I'm worth powder and shot, ' he thought. 

"You wish to paint my nieces?" Mrs. Decie said at last, leaning back onher settee. 

"I wish to have that honour, " Harz answered with a bow. 

"And what sort of picture did you think of?"

"That, " said Harz, "is in the future. I couldn't tell you. " And hethought: 'Will she ask me if I get my tints in Paris, like the womanTramper told me of?'

The perpetual pale smile on Mrs. Decie's face seemed to invite hisconfidence, yet to warn him that his words would be sucked in somewherebehind those broad fine brows, and carefully sorted. Mrs. Decie, indeed, was thinking: 'Interesting young man, regular Bohemian--no harm in thatat his age; something Napoleonic in his face; probably has no dressclothes. Yes, should like to see more of him!' She had a fine eye forpoints of celebrity; his name was unfamiliar, would probably have beenscouted by that famous artist Mr. C---, but she felt her instinct urgingher on to know him. She was, to do her justice, one of those "lion"finders who seek the animal for pleasure, not for the glory itbrings them; she had the courage of her instincts--lion-entities wereindispensable to her, but she trusted to divination to secure them;nobody could foist a "lion" on her. 

"It will be very nice. You will stay and have some lunch? Thearrangements here are rather odd. Such a mixed household--but there isalways lunch at two o'clock for any one who likes, and we all dine atseven. You would have your sittings in the afternoons, perhaps? I shouldso like to see your sketches. You are using the old house on the wallfor studio; that is so original of you!"

Harz would not stay to lunch, but asked if he might begin work thatafternoon; he left a little suffocated by the sandalwood and sympathy ofthis sphinx-like woman. 

Walking home along the river wall, with the singing of the larks andthrushes, the rush of waters, the humming of the chafers in his ears, hefelt that he would make something fine of this subject. Before his eyesthe faces of the two girls continually started up, framed by the sky, with young leaves guttering against their cheeks. 

V

Three days had passed since Harz began his picture, when early in themorning, Greta came from Villa Rubein along the river dyke and sat downon a bench from which the old house on the wall was visible. She had notbeen there long before Harz came out. 

"I did not knock, " said Greta, "because you would not have heard, and itis so early, so I have been waiting for you a quarter of an hour. "

Selecting a rosebud, from some flowers in her hand, she handed it tohim. "That is my first rosebud this year, " she said; "it is for youbecause you are painting me. To-day I am thirteen, Herr Harz; there isnot to be a sitting, because it is my birthday; but, instead, we are allgoing to Meran to see the play of Andreas Hofer. You are to come too, please; I am here to tell you, and the others shall be here directly. "

Harz bowed: "And who are the others?"

"Christian, and Dr. Edmund, Miss Naylor, and Cousin Teresa. Her husbandis ill, so she is sad, but to-day she is going to forget that. It is notgood to be always sad, is it, Herr Harz?"

He laughed: "You could not be. "

Greta answered gravely: "Oh yes, I could. I too am often sad. You aremaking fun. You are not to make fun to-day, because it is my birthday. Do you think growing up is nice, Herr Harz?"

"No, Fraulein Greta, it is better to have all the time before you. "

They walked on side by side. 

"I think, " said Greta, "you are very much afraid of losing time. Chrissays that time is nothing. "

"Time is everything, " responded Harz. 

"She says that time is nothing, and thought is everything, " Gretamurmured, rubbing a rose against her cheek, "but I think you cannot havea thought unless you have the time to think it in. There are the others!Look!"

A cluster of sunshades on the bridge glowed for a moment and was lost inshadow. 

"Come, " said Harz, "let's join them!"

At Meran, under Schloss Tirol, people were streaming across the meadowsinto the open theatre. Here were tall fellows in mountain dress, withleather breeches, bare knees, and hats with eagles' feathers; here werefruit-sellers, burghers and their wives, mountebanks, actors, and everykind of visitor. The audience, packed into an enclosure of high boards, sweltered under the burning sun. Cousin Teresa, tall and thin, withhard, red cheeks, shaded her pleasant eyes with her hand. 

The play began. It depicted the rising in the Tyrol of 1809: the villagelife, dances and yodelling; murmurings and exhortations, the warningbeat of drums; then the gathering, with flintlocks, pitchforks, knives;the battle and victory; the homecoming, and festival. Then the secondgathering, the roar of cannon; betrayal, capture, death. The impassivefigure of the patriot Andreas Hofer always in front, black-bearded, leathern-girdled, under the blue sky, against a screen of mountains. 

Harz and Christian sat behind the others. He seemed so intent on theplay that she did not speak, but watched his face, rigid with a kind ofcold excitement; he seemed to be transported by the life passing beforethem. Something of his feeling seized on her; when the play was over shetoo was trembling. In pushing their way out they became separated fromthe others. 

"There's a short cut to the station here, " said Christian; "let's gothis way. "

The path rose a little; a narrow stream crept alongside the meadow, andthe hedge was spangled with wild roses. Christian kept glancing shylyat the painter. Since their meeting on the river wall her thoughts hadnever been at rest. This stranger, with his keen face, insistent eyes, and ceaseless energy, had roused a strange feeling in her; his words hadput shape to something in her not yet expressed. She stood aside at astile to make way for some peasant boys, dusty and rough-haired, whosang and whistled as they went by. 

"I was like those boys once, " said Harz. 

Christian turned to him quickly. "Ah! that was why you felt the play, somuch. "

"It's my country up there. I was born amongst the mountains. I lookedafter the cows, and slept in hay-cocks, and cut the trees in winter. They used to call me a 'black sheep, ' a 'loafer' in my village. "

"Why?"

"Ah! why? I worked as hard as any of them. But I wanted to get away. Doyou think I could have stayed there all my life?"

Christian's eyes grew eager. 

"If people don't understand what it is you want to do, they always callyou a loafer!" muttered Harz. 

"But you did what you meant to do in spite of them, " Christian said. 

For herself it was so hard to finish or decide. When in the old daysshe told Greta stories, the latter, whose instinct was always for thedefinite, would say: "And what came at the end, Chris? Do finish itthis morning!" but Christian never could. Her thoughts were deep, vague, dreamy, invaded by both sides of every question. Whatever she did, herneedlework, her verse-making, her painting, all had its charm; butit was not always what it was intended for at the beginning. NicholasTreffry had once said of her: "When Chris starts out to make a hat, itmay turn out an altar-cloth, but you may bet it won't be a hat. " It washer instinct to look for what things meant; and this took more than allher time. She knew herself better than most girls of nineteen, but itwas her reason that had informed her, not her feelings. In hersheltered life, her heart had never been ruffled except by rare fits ofpassion--"tantrums" old Nicholas Treffry dubbed them--at what seemed toher mean or unjust. 

"If I were a man, " she said, "and going to be great, I should havewanted to begin at the very bottom as you did. "

"Yes, " said Harz quickly, "one should be able to feel everything. "

She did not notice how simply he assumed that he was going to be great. He went on, a smile twisting his mouth unpleasantly beneath its darkmoustache--"Not many people think like you! It's a crime not to havebeen born a gentleman. "

"That's a sneer, " said Christian; "I didn't think you would havesneered!"

"It is true. What is the use of pretending that it isn't?"

"It may be true, but it is finer not to say it!"

"By Heavens!" said Harz, striking one hand into the other, "if moretruth were spoken there would not be so many shams. "

Christian looked down at him from her seat on the stile. 

"You are right all the same, Fraulein Christian, " he added suddenly;"that's a very little business. Work is what matters, and trying to seethe beauty in the world. "

Christian's face changed. She understood, well enough, this cravingafter beauty. Slipping down from the stile, she drew a slow deep breath. 

"Yes!" she said. Neither spoke for some time, then Harz said shyly:

"If you and Fraulein Greta would ever like to come and see my studio, Ishould be so happy. I would try and clean it up for you!"

"I should like to come. I could learn something. I want to learn. "

They were both silent till the path joined the road. 

"We must be in front of the others; it's nice to be in front--let'sdawdle. I forgot--you never dawdle, Herr Harz. "

"After a big fit of work, I can dawdle against any one; then I getanother fit of work--it's like appetite. "

"I'm always dawdling, " answered Christian. 

By the roadside a peasant woman screwed up her sun-dried face, saying ina low voice: "Please, gracious lady, help me to lift this basket!"

Christian stooped, but before she could raise it, Harz hoisted it up onhis back. 

"All right, " he nodded; "this good lady doesn't mind. "

The woman, looking very much ashamed, walked along by Christian; shekept rubbing her brown hands together, and saying; "Gracious lady, Iwould not have wished. It is heavy, but I would not have wished. "

"I'm sure he'd rather carry it, " said Christian. 

They had not gone far along the road, however, before the others passedthem in a carriage, and at the strange sight Miss Naylor could be seenpursing her lips; Cousin Teresa nodding pleasantly; a smile on Dawney'sface; and beside him Greta, very demure. Harz began to laugh. 

"What are you laughing at?" asked Christian. 

"You English are so funny. You mustn't do this here, you mustn't do thatthere, it's like sitting in a field of nettles. If I were to walk withyou without my coat, that little lady would fall off her seat. " Hislaugh infected Christian; they reached the station feeling that theyknew each other better. 

The sun had dipped behind the mountains when the little train steameddown the valley. All were subdued, and Greta, with a nodding head, sleptfitfully. Christian, in her corner, was looking out of the window, andHarz kept studying her profile. 

He tried to see her eyes. He had remarked indeed that, whatever theirexpression, the brows, arched and rather wide apart, gave them apeculiar look of understanding. He thought of his picture. There wasnothing in her face to seize on, it was too sympathetic, too much likelight. Yet her chin was firm, almost obstinate. 

The train stopped with a jerk; she looked round at him. It was as thoughshe had said: "You are my friend. "

At Villa Rubein, Herr Paul had killed the fatted calf for Greta's Fest. When the whole party were assembled, he alone remained standing; andwaving his arm above the cloth, cried: "My dears! Your happiness! Thereare good things here--Come!" And with a sly look, the air of a conjurerproducing rabbits, he whipped the cover off the soup tureen:

"Soup-turtle, fat, green fat!" He smacked his lips. 

No servants were allowed, because, as Greta said to Harz:

"It is that we are to be glad this evening. "

Geniality radiated from Herr Paul's countenance, mellow as a bowl ofwine. He toasted everybody, exhorting them to pleasure. 

Harz passed a cracker secretly behind Greta's head, and Miss Naylor, moved by a mysterious impulse, pulled it with a sort of gleeful horror;it exploded, and Greta sprang off her chair. Scruff, seeing this, appeared suddenly on the sideboard with his forelegs in a plate of soup;without moving them, he turned his head, and appeared to accusethe company of his false position. It was the signal for shrieks oflaughter. Scruff made no attempt to free his forelegs; but sniffed thesoup, and finding that nothing happened, began to lap it. 

"Take him out! Oh! take him out!" wailed Greta, "he shall be ill!"

"Allons! Mon cher!" cried Herr Paul, "c'est magnifique, mais, voussavez, ce nest guere la guerre!" Scruff, with a wild spring, leaped pasthim to the ground. 

"Ah!" cried Miss Naylor, "the carpet!" Fresh moans of mirth shook thetable; for having tasted the wine of laughter, all wanted as much moreas they could get. When Scruff and his traces were effaced, Herr Paultook a ladle in his hand. 

"I have a toast, " he said, waving it for silence; "a toast we willdrink all together from our hearts; the toast of my little daughter, whoto-day has thirteen years become; and there is also in our hearts, "he continued, putting down the ladle and suddenly becoming grave, "thethought of one who is not today with us to see this joyful occasion; toher, too, in this our happiness we turn our hearts and glasses becauseit is her joy that we should yet be joyful. I drink to my littledaughter; may God her shadow bless!"

All stood up, clinking their glasses, and drank: then, in the hush thatfollowed, Greta, according to custom, began to sing a German carol; atthe end of the fourth line she stopped, abashed. 

Heir Paul blew his nose loudly, and, taking up a cap that had fallenfrom a cracker, put it on. 

Every one followed his example, Miss Naylor attaining the distinctionof a pair of donkey's ears, which she wore, after another glass of wine, with an air of sacrificing to the public good. 

At the end of supper came the moment for the offering of gifts. HerrPaul had tied a handkerchief over Greta's eyes, and one by one theybrought her presents. Greta, under forfeit of a kiss, was bound totell the giver by the feel of the gift. Her swift, supple little handsexplored noiselessly; and in every case she guessed right. 

Dawney's present, a kitten, made a scene by clawing at her hair. 

"That is Dr. Edmund's, " she cried at once. Christian saw that Harz haddisappeared, but suddenly he came back breathless, and took his place atthe end of the rank of givers. 

Advancing on tiptoe, he put his present into Greta's hands. It was asmall bronze copy of a Donatello statue. 

"Oh, Herr Harz!" cried Greta; "I saw it in the studio that day. It stoodon the table, and it is lovely. "

Mrs. Decie, thrusting her pale eyes close to it, murmured: "Charming!"

Mr. Treffry took it in his forgers. 

"Rum little toad! Cost a pot of money, I expect!" He eyed Harzdoubtfully. 

They went into the next room now, and Herr Paul, taking Greta's bandage, transferred it to his own eyes. 

"Take care--take care, all!" he cried; "I am a devil of a catcher, " and, feeling the air cautiously, he moved forward like a bear about to hug. He caught no one. Christian and Greta whisked under his arms and lefthim grasping at the air. Mrs. Decie slipped past with astonishingagility. Mr. Treffry, smoking his cigar, and barricaded in a corner, jeered: "Bravo, Paul! The active beggar! Can't he run! Go it, Greta!"

At last Herr Paul caught Cousin Teresa, who, fattened against the wall, lost her head, and stood uttering tiny shrieks. 

Suddenly Mrs. Decie started playing The Blue Danube. Herr Paul droppedthe handkerchief, twisted his moustache up fiercely, glared round theroom, and seizing Greta by the waist, began dancing furiously, bobbingup and down like a cork in lumpy water. Cousin Teresa followed suit withMiss Naylor, both very solemn, and dancing quite different steps. Harz, went up to Christian. 

"I can't dance, " he said, "that is, I have only danced once, but--if youwould try with me!"

She put her hand on his arm, and they began. She danced, light as afeather, eyes shining, feet flying, her body bent a little forward. Itwas not a great success at first, but as soon as the time had gotinto Harz's feet, they went swinging on when all the rest had stopped. Sometimes one couple or another slipped through the window to dance onthe veranda, and came whirling in again. The lamplight glowed on thegirls' white dresses; on Herr Paul's perspiring face. He constituted inhimself a perfect orgy, and when the music stopped flung himself, fulllength, on the sofa gasping out:

"My God! But, my God!"

Suddenly Christian felt Harz cling to her arm. 

Glowing and panting she looked at him. 

"Giddy!" he murmured: "I dance so badly; but I'll soon learn. "

Greta clapped her hands: "Every evening we will dance, every evening wewill dance. "

Harz looked at Christian; the colour had deepened in her face. 

"I'll show you how they dance in my village, feet upon the ceiling!" Andrunning to Dawney, he said:

"Hold me here! Lift me--so! Now, on--two, " he tried to swing his feetabove his head, but, with an "Ouch!" from Dawney, they collapsed, andsat abruptly on the floor. This untimely event brought the evening to anend. Dawney left, escorting Cousin Teresa, and Harz strode home hummingThe Blue Danube, still feeling Christian's waist against his arm. 

In their room the two girls sat long at the window to cool themselvesbefore undressing. 

"Ah!" sighed Greta, "this is the happiest birthday I have had. "

Cristian too thought: 'I have never been so happy in my life as I havebeen to-day. I should like every day to be like this!' And she leant outinto the night, to let the air cool her cheeks. 

VI

"Chris!" said Greta some days after this, "Miss Naylor danced lastevening; I think she shall have a headache to-day. There is my Frenchand my history this morning. "

"Well, I can take them. "

"That is nice; then we can talk. I am sorry about the headache. I shallgive her some of my Eau de Cologne. "

Miss Naylor's headaches after dancing were things on which to calculate. The girls carried their books into the arbour; it was a showery day, andthey had to run for shelter through the raindrops and sunlight. 

"The French first, Chris!" Greta liked her French, in which she wasnot far inferior to Christian; the lesson therefore proceeded in anadmirable fashion. After one hour exactly by her watch (Mr. Treffry'sbirthday present loved and admired at least once every hour) Greta rose. 

"Chris, I have not fed my rabbits. "

"Be quick! there's not much time for history. "

Greta vanished. Christian watched the bright water dripping from theroof; her lips were parted in a smile. She was thinking of somethingHarz had said the night before. A discussion having been started as towhether average opinion did, or did not, safeguard Society, Harz, aftersitting silent, had burst out: "I think one man in earnest is betterthan twenty half-hearted men who follow tamely; in the end he doesSociety most good. "

Dawney had answered: "If you had your way there would be no Society. "

"I hate Society because it lives upon the weak. "

"Bah!" Herr Paul chimed in; "the weak goes to the wall; that is ascertain as that you and I are here. "

"Let them fall against the wall, " cried Harz; "don't push themthere. .. . "

Greta reappeared, walking pensively in the rain. 

"Bino, " she said, sighing, "has eaten too much. I remember now, I didfeed them before. Must we do the history, Chris?"

"Of course!"

Greta opened her book, and put a finger in the page. "Herr Harz is verykind to me, " she said. "Yesterday he brought a bird which had comeinto his studio with a hurt wing; he brought it very gently in hishandkerchief--he is very kind, the bird was not even frightened of him. You did not know about that, Chris?"

Chris flushed a little, and said in a hurt voice

"I don't see what it has to--do with me. "

"No, " assented Greta. 

Christian's colour deepened. "Go on with your history, Greta. "

"Only, " pursued Greta, "that he always tells you all about things, Chris. "

"He doesn't! How can you say that!"

"I think he does, and it is because you do not make him angry. It isvery easy to make him angry; you have only to think differently, and heshall be angry at once. "

"You are a little cat!" said Christian; "it isn't true, at all. He hatesshams, and can't bear meanness; and it is mean to cover up dislikes andpretend that you agree with people. "

"Papa says that he thinks too much about himself. "

"Father!" began Christian hotly; biting her lips she stopped, and turnedher wrathful eyes on Greta. 

"You do not always show your dislikes, Chris. "

"I? What has that to do with it? Because one is a coward that doesn'tmake it any better, does it?"

"I think that he has a great many dislikes, " murmured Greta. 

"I wish you would attend to your own faults, and not pry into otherpeople's, " and pushing the book aside, Christian gazed in front of her. 

Some minutes passed, then Greta leaning over, rubbed a cheek against hershoulder. 

"I am very sorry, Chris--I only wanted to be talking. Shall I read somehistory?"

"Yes, " said Christian coldly. 

"Are you angry with me, Chris?"

There was no answer. The lingering raindrops pattered down on the roof. Greta pulled at her sister's sleeve. 

"Look, Chris!" she said. "There is Herr Harz!"

Christian looked up, dropped her eyes again, and said: "Will you go onwith the history, Greta?"

Greta sighed. 

"Yes, I will--but, oh! Chris, there is the luncheon gong!" and shemeekly closed the book. 

During the following weeks there was a "sitting" nearly every afternoon. Miss Naylor usually attended them; the little lady was, to a certainextent, carried past objection. She had begun to take an interest in thepicture, and to watch the process out of the corner of her eye; in thedepths of her dear mind, however, she never quite got used to the vanityand waste of time; her lips would move and her knitting-needles click insuppressed remonstrances. 

What Harz did fast he did best; if he had leisure he "saw too much, "loving his work so passionately that he could never tell exactly whento stop. He hated to lay things aside, always thinking: "I can get itbetter. " Greta was finished, but with Christian, try as he would, he wasnot satisfied; from day to day her face seemed to him to change, as ifher soul were growing. 

There were things too in her eyes that he could neither read norreproduce. 

Dawney would often stroll out to them after his daily visit, and lyingon the grass, his arms crossed behind his head, and a big cigar betweenhis lips, would gently banter everybody. Tea came at five o'clock, andthen Mrs. Decie appeared armed with a magazine or novel, for she wasproud of her literary knowledge. The sitting was suspended; Harz, witha cigarette, would move between the table and the picture, drinking histea, putting a touch in here and there; he never sat down till it wasall over for the day. During these "rests" there was talk, usuallyending in discussion. Mrs. Decie was happiest in conversations of aliterary order, making frequent use of such expressions as: "After all, it produces an illusion--does anything else matter?" "Rather a poseur, is he not?" "A question, that, of temperament, " or "A matter of thedefinition of words"; and other charming generalities, which soundwell, and seem to go far, and are pleasingly irrefutable. Sometimesthe discussion turned on Art--on points of colour or technique; whetherrealism was quite justified; and should we be pre-Raphaelites? Whenthese discussions started, Christian's eyes would grow bigger andclearer, with a sort of shining reasonableness; as though they weretrying to see into the depths. And Harz would stare at them. But thelook in those eyes eluded him, as if they had no more meaning than Mrs. Decie's, which, with their pale, watchful smile, always seemed saying:"Come, let us take a little intellectual exercise. "

Greta, pulling Scruff's ears, would gaze up at the speakers; when thetalk was over, she always shook herself. But if no one came to the"sittings, " there would sometimes be very earnest, quick talk, sometimeslong silences. 

One day Christian said: "What is your religion?"

Harz finished the touch he was putting on the canvas, before heanswered: "Roman Catholic, I suppose; I was baptised in that Church. "

"I didn't mean that. Do you believe in a future life?"

"Christian, " murmured Greta, who was plaiting blades of grass, "shallalways want to know what people think about a future life; that is sofunny!"

"How can I tell?" said Harz; "I've never really thought of it--never hadthe time. "

"How can you help thinking?" Christian said: "I have to--it seems to meso awful that we might come to an end. "

She closed her book, and it slipped off her lap. She went on: "Theremust be a future life, we're so incomplete. What's the good of yourwork, for instance? What's the use of developing if you have to stop?"

"I don't know, " answered Harz. "I don't much care. All I know is, I'vegot to work. "

"But why?"

"For happiness--the real happiness is fighting--the rest is nothing. Ifyou have finished a thing, does it ever satisfy you? You look forward tothe next thing at once; to wait is wretched!"

Christian clasped her hands behind her neck; sunlight flickered throughthe leaves on to the bosom of her dress. 

"Ah! Stay like that!" cried Harz. 

She let her eyes rest on his face, swinging her foot a little. 

"You work because you must; but that's not enough. Why do you feel youmust? I want to know what's behind. When I was travelling with AuntConstance the winter before last we often talked--I've heard her discussit with her friends. She says we move in circles till we reach Nirvana. But last winter I found I couldn't talk to her; it seemed as if shenever really meant anything. Then I started reading--Kant and Hegel--"

"Ah!" put in Harz, "if they would teach me to draw better, or to see anew colour in a flower, or an expression in a face, I would read themall. "

Christian leaned forward: "It must be right to get as near truth aspossible; every step gained is something. You believe in truth; truth isthe same as beauty--that was what you said--you try to paint the truth, you always see the beauty. But how can we know truth, unless we knowwhat is at the root of it?"

"I--think, " murmured Greta, sotto voce, "you see one way--and he seesanother--because--you are not one person. "

"Of course!" said Christian impatiently, "but why--"

A sound of humming interrupted her. 

Nicholas Treffry was coming from the house, holding the Times in onehand, and a huge meerschaum pipe in the other. 

"Aha!" he said to Harz: "how goes the picture?" and he lowered himselfinto a chair. 

"Better to-day, Uncle?" said Christian softly. 

Mr. Treffry growled. "Confounded humbugs, doctors!" he said. "Yourfather used to swear by them; why, his doctor killed him--made him drinksuch a lot of stuff!"

"Why then do you have a doctor, Uncle Nic?" asked Greta. 

Mr. Treffry looked at her; his eyes twinkled. "I don't know, my dear. Ifthey get half a chance, they won't let go of you!"

There had been a gentle breeze all day, but now it had died away; nota leaf quivered, not a blade of grass was stirring; from the house wereheard faint sounds as of some one playing on a pipe. A blackbird camehopping down the path. 

"When you were a boy, did you go after birds' nests, Uncle Nic?" Gretawhispered. 

"I believe you, Greta. " The blackbird hopped into the shrubbery. 

"You frightened him, Uncle Nic! Papa says that at Schloss Konig, wherehe lived when he was young, he would always be after jackdaws' nests. "

"Gammon, Greta. Your father never took a jackdaw's nest, his legs aremuch too round!"

"Are you fond of birds, Uncle Nic?"

"Ask me another, Greta! Well, I s'pose so. "

"Then why did you go bird-nesting? I think it is cruel"

Mr. Treffry coughed behind his paper: "There you have me, Greta, " heremarked. 

Harz began to gather his brushes: "Thank you, " he said, "that's all Ican do to-day. "

"Can I look?" Mr. Treffry inquired. 

"Certainly!"

Uncle Nic got up slowly, and stood in front of the picture. "When it'sfor sale, " he said at last, "I'll buy it. "

Harz bowed; but for some reason he felt annoyed, as if he had been askedto part with something personal. 

"I thank you, " he said. A gong sounded. 

"You'll stay and have a snack with us?" said Mr. Treffry; "the doctor'sstopping. " Gathering up his paper, he moved off to the house withhis hand on Greta's shoulder, the terrier running in front. Harz andChristian were left alone. He was scraping his palette, and she wassitting with her elbows resting on her knees; between them, a gleam ofsunlight dyed the path golden. It was evening already; the bushes andthe flowers, after the day's heat, were breathing out perfume; the birdshad started their evensong. 

"Are you tired of sitting for your portrait, Fraulein Christian?"

Christian shook her head. 

"I shall get something into it that everybody does not see--somethingbehind the surface, that will last. "

Christian said slowly: "That's like a challenge. You were right when yousaid fighting is happiness--for yourself, but not for me. I'm a coward. I hate to hurt people, I like them to like me. If you had to do anythingthat would make them hate you, you would do it all the same, ifit helped your work; that's fine--it's what I can't do. It's--it'severything. Do you like Uncle Nic?"

The young painter looked towards the house, where under the veranda oldNicholas Treffry was still in sight; a smile came on his lips. 

"If I were the finest painter in the world, he wouldn't think anythingof me for it, I'm afraid; but if I could show him handfuls of bigcheques for bad pictures I had painted, he would respect me. "

She smiled, and said: "I love him. "

"Then I shall like him, " Harz answered simply. 

She put her hand out, and her fingers met his. "We shall be late, " shesaid, glowing, and catching up her book: "I'm always late!"

VII

There was one other guest at dinner, a well-groomed person with pale, fattish face, dark eyes, and hair thin on the temples, whose clothes hada military cut. He looked like a man fond of ease, who had gone out ofhis groove, and collided with life. Herr Paul introduced him as CountMario Sarelli. 

Two hanging lamps with crimson shades threw a rosy light over the table, where, in the centre stood a silver basket, full of irises. Through theopen windows the garden was all clusters of black foliage in the dyinglight. Moths fluttered round the lamps; Greta, following them with hereyes, gave quite audible sighs of pleasure when they escaped. Both girlswore white, and Harz, who sat opposite Christian, kept looking at her, and wondering why he had not painted her in that dress. 

Mrs. Decie understood the art of dining--the dinner, ordered by HerrPaul, was admirable; the servants silent as their shadows; there wasalways a hum of conversation. 

Sarelli, who sat on her right hand, seemed to partake of little exceptolives, which he dipped into a glass of sherry. He turned his black, solemn eyes silently from face to face, now and then asking the meaningof an English word. After a discussion on modern Rome, it was debatedwhether or no a criminal could be told by the expression of his face. 

"Crime, " said Mrs. Decie, passing her hand across her brow--"crime isbut the hallmark of strong individuality. "

Miss Naylor, gushing rather pink, stammered: "A great crime must showitself--a murder. Why, of course!"

"If that were so, " said Dawney, "we should only have to look aboutus--no more detectives. "

Miss Naylor rejoined with slight severity: "I cannot conceive that sucha thing can pass the human face by, leaving no impression!"

Harz said abruptly: "There are worse things than murder. "

"Ah! par exemple!" said Sarelli. 

There was a slight stir all round the table. 

"Verry good, " cried out Herr Paul, "a vot' sante, cher. "

Miss Naylor shivered, as if some one had put a penny down her back; andMrs. Decie, leaning towards Harz, smiled like one who has made a petdog do a trick. Christian alone was motionless, looking thoughtfully atHarz. 

"I saw a man tried for murder once, " he said, "a murder for revenge;I watched the judge, and I thought all the time: 'I'd rather be thatmurderer than you; I've never seen a meaner face; you crawl throughlife; you're not a criminal, simply because you haven't the courage. '"

In the dubious silence following the painter's speech, Mr. Treffry coulddistinctly be heard humming. Then Sarelli said: "What do you say toanarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom I would tear topieces!"

"As to that, " Harz answered defiantly, "it maybe wise to hang them, butthen there are so many other men that it would be wise to hang. "

"How can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?"murmured Christian. 

Miss Naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed ithastily. "They are--always given a chance to--repent--I believe, " shesaid. 

"For what they are about to receive, " drawled Dawney. 

Mrs. Decie signalled with her fan: "We are trying to express theinexpressible--shall we go into the garden?"

All rose; Harz stood by the window, and in passing, Christian looked athim. 

He sat down again with a sudden sense of loss. There was no whitefigure opposite now. Raising his eyes he met Sarelli's. The Italian wasregarding him with a curious stare. 

Herr Paul began retailing apiece of scandal he had heard that afternoon. 

"Shocking affair!" he said; "I could never have believed it of her!B---is quite beside himself. Yesterday there was a row, it seems!"

"There has been one every day for months, " muttered Dawney. 

"But to leave without a word, and go no one knows where! B---is 'viveur'no doubt, mais, mon Dieu, que voulez vous? She was always a poor, pale thing. Why! when my---" he flourished his cigar; "I was notalways---what I should have been---one lives in a world of flesh andblood---we are not all angels---que diable! But this is a very vulgarbusiness. She goes off; leaves everything---without a word; and B---isvery fond of her. These things are not done!" the starched bosom of hisshirt seemed swollen by indignation. 

Mr. Treffry, with a heavy hand on the table, eyed him sideways. Dawneysaid slowly:

"B---is a beast; I'm sorry for the poor woman; but what can she doalone?"

"There is, no doubt, a man, " put in Sarelli. 

Herr Paul muttered: "Who knows?"

"What is B---going to do?" said Dawney. 

"Ah!" said Herr Paul. "He is fond of her. He is a chap of resolution, he will get her back. He told me: 'Well, you know, I shall followher wherever she goes till she comes back. ' He will do it, he is adetermined chap; he will follow her wherever she goes. "

Mr. Treffry drank his wine off at a gulp, and sucked his moustache insharply. 

"She was a fool to marry him, " said Dawney; "they haven't a point incommon; she hates him like poison, and she's the better of the two. Butit doesn't pay a woman to run off like that. B---had better hurry up, though. What do you think, sir?" he said to Mr. Treffry. 

"Eh?" said Mr. Treffry; "how should I know? Ask Paul there, he's one ofyour moral men, or Count Sarelli. "

The latter said impassively: "If I cared for her I should very likelykill her--if not--" he shrugged his shoulders. 

Harz, who was watching, was reminded of his other words at dinner, "wildbeasts whom I would tear to pieces. " He looked with interest at thisquiet man who said these extremely ferocious things, and thought: 'Ishould like to paint that fellow. '

Herr Paul twirled his wine-glass in his fingers. "There are familyties, " he said, "there is society, there is decency; a wife should bewith her husband. B---will do quite right. He must go after her; shewill not perhaps come back at first; he will follow her; she will beginto think, 'I am helpless--I am ridiculous!' A woman is soon beaten. Theywill return. She is once more with her husband--Society will forgive, itwill be all right. "

"By Jove, Paul, " growled Mr. Treffry, "wonderful power of argument!"

"A wife is a wife, " pursued Herr Paul; "a man has a right to hersociety. "

"What do you say to that, sir?" asked Dawney. 

Mr. Treffry tugged at his beard: "Make a woman live with you, if shedon't want to? I call it low. "

"But, my dear, " exclaimed Herr Paul, "how should you know? You have notbeen married. "

"No, thank the Lord!" Mr. Treffry replied. 

"But looking at the question broadly, sir, " said Dawney; "if a husbandalways lets his wife do as she likes, how would the thing work out? Whatbecomes of the marriage tie?"

"The marriage tie, " growled Mr. Treffry, "is the biggest thing there is!But, by Jove, Doctor, I'm a Dutchman if hunting women ever helped themarriage tie!"

"I am not thinking of myself, " Herr Paul cried out, "I think of thecommunity. There are rights. "

"A decent community never yet asked a man to tread on his self-respect. If I get my fingers skinned over my marriage, which I undertake at myown risk, what's the community to do with it? D'you think I'm going towhine to it to put the plaster on? As to rights, it'd be a deuced sightbetter for us all if there wasn't such a fuss about 'em. Leave that towomen! I don't give a tinker's damn for men who talk about their rightsin such matters. "

Sarelli rose. "But your honour, " he said, "there is your honour!"

Mr. Treffry stared at him. 

"Honour! If huntin' women's your idea of honour, well--it isn't mine. "

"Then you'd forgive her, sir, whatever happened, " Dawney said. 

"Forgiveness is another thing. I leave that to your sanctimoniousbeggars. But, hunt a woman! Hang it, sir, I'm not a cad!" and bringinghis hand down with a rattle, he added: "This is a subject that don'tbear talking of. "

Sarelli fell back in his seat, twirling his moustaches fiercely. Harz, who had risen, looked at Christian's empty place. 

'If I were married!' he thought suddenly. 

Herr Paul, with a somewhat vinous glare, still muttered, "But your dutyto the family!"

Harz slipped through the window. The moon was like a wonderful whitelantern in the purple sky; there was but a smoulder of stars. Beneaththe softness of the air was the iciness of the snow; it made him want torun and leap. A sleepy beetle dropped on its back; he turned it over andwatched it scurry across the grass. 

Someone was playing Schumann's Kinderscenen. Harz stood still to listen. The notes came twining, weaving round his thoughts; the whole nightseemed full of girlish voices, of hopes and fancies, soaring away tomountain heights--invisible, yet present. Between the stems of theacacia-trees he could see the flicker of white dresses, where Christianand Greta were walking arm in arm. He went towards them; the bloodflushed up in his face, he felt almost surfeited by some sweet emotion. Then, in sudden horror, he stood still. He was in love! With nothingdone with everything before him! He was going to bow down to a face! Theflicker of the dresses was no longer visible. He would not be fettered, he would stamp it out! He turned away; but with each step, somethingseemed to jab at his heart. 

Round the corner of the house, in the shadow of the wall, Dominique, theLuganese, in embroidered slippers, was smoking a long cherry-wood pipe, leaning against a tree--Mephistopheles in evening clothes. Harz went upto him. 

"Lend me a pencil, Dominique. "

"Bien, M'sieu. "

Resting a card against the tree Harz wrote to Mrs. Decie: "Forgive me, Iam obliged to go away. In a few days I shall hope to return, and finishthe picture of your nieces. "

He sent Dominique for his hat. During the man's absence he was on thepoint of tearing up the card and going back into the house. 

When the Luganese returned he thrust the card into his hand, and walkedout between the tall poplars, waiting, like ragged ghosts, silver withmoonlight. 

VIII

Harz walked away along the road. A dog was howling. The sound seemed tooappropriate. He put his fingers to his ears, but the lugubrious noisepassed those barriers, and made its way into his heart. Was therenothing that would put an end to this emotion? It was no better in theold house on the wall; he spent the night tramping up and down. 

Just before daybreak he slipped out with a knapsack, taking the roadtowards Meran. 

He had not quite passed through Gries when he overtook a man walking inthe middle of the road and leaving a trail of cigar smoke behind him. 

"Ah! my friend, " the smoker said, "you walk early; are you going myway?"

It was Count Sarelli. The raw light had imparted a grey tinge to hispale face, the growth of his beard showed black already beneath theskin; his thumbs were hooked in the pockets of a closely buttoned coat, he gesticulated with his fingers. 

"You are making a journey?" he said, nodding at the knapsack. "You areearly--I am late; our friend has admirable kummel--I have drunk toomuch. You have not been to bed, I think? If there is no sleep in one'sbed it is no good going to look for it. You find that? It is better todrink kummel. .. ! Pardon! You are doing the right thing: get away! Getaway as fast as possible! Don't wait, and let it catch you!"

Harz stared at him amazed. 

"Pardon!" Sarelli said again, raising his hat, "that girl--the whitegirl--I saw. You do well to get away!" he swayed a little as he walked. "That old fellow--what is his name-Trrreffr-ry! What ideas of honour!"He mumbled: "Honour is an abstraction! If a man is not true to anabstraction, he is a low type; but wait a minute!"

He put his hand to his side as though in pain. 

The hedges were brightening with a faint pinky glow; there was no soundon the long, deserted road, but that of their footsteps; suddenly a birdcommenced to chirp, another answered--the world seemed full of theselittle voices. 

Sarelli stopped. 

"That white girl, " he said, speaking with rapidity. "Yes! You do well!get away! Don't let it catch you! I waited, it caught me--what happened?Everything horrible--and now--kummel!" Laughing a thick laugh, he gave atwirl to his moustache, and swaggered on. 

"I was a fine fellow--nothing too big for Mario Sarelli; the regimentlooked to me. Then she came--with her eyes and her white dress, alwayswhite, like this one; the little mole on her chin, her hands for evermoving--their touch as warm as sunbeams. Then, no longer Sarelli this, and that! The little house close to the ramparts! Two arms, two eyes, and nothing here, " he tapped his breast, "but flames that made ashesquickly--in her, like this ash--!" he flicked the white flake off hiscigar. "It's droll! You agree, hein? Some day I shall go back and killher. In the meantime--kummel!"

He stopped at a house close to the road, and stood still, his teethbared in a grin. 

"But I bore you, " he said. His cigar, flung down, sputtered forth itssparks on the road in front of Harz. "I live here--good-morning! You area man for work--your honour is your Art! I know, and you are young! Theman who loves flesh better than his honour is a low type--I am a lowtype. I! Mario Sarelli, a low type! I love flesh better than my honour!"

He remained swaying at the gate with the grin fixed on his face; thenstaggered up the steps, and banged the door. But before Harz had walkedon, he again appeared, beckoning, in the doorway. Obeying an impulse, Harz went in. 

"We will make a night of it, " said Sarelli; "wine, brandy, kummel? I amvirtuous--kummel it must be for me!"

He sat down at a piano, and began to touch the keys. Harz poured outsome wine. Sarelli nodded. 

"You begin with that? Allegro--piu--presto!

"Wine--brandy--kummel!" he quickened the time of the tune: "it is nottoo long a passage, and this"--he took his hands off the keys--"comesafter. "

Harz smiled. 

"Some men do not kill themselves, " he said. 

Sarelli, who was bending and swaying to the music of a tarantella, brokeoff, and letting his eyes rest on the painter, began playing Schumann'sKinderscenen. Harz leaped to his feet. 

"Stop that!" he cried. 

"It pricks you?" said Sarelli suavely; "what do you think of this?" heplayed again, crouching over the piano, and making the notes sound likethe crying of a wounded animal. 

"For me!" he said, swinging round, and rising. 

"Your health! And so you don't believe in suicide, but in murder? Thecustom is the other way; but you don't believe in customs? Customsare only for Society?" He drank a glass of kummel. "You do not loveSociety?"

Harz looked at him intently; he did not want to quarrel. 

"I am not too fond of other people's thoughts, " he said at last; "Iprefer to think my own. 

"And is Society never right? That poor Society!"

"Society! What is Society--a few men in good coats? What has it done forme?"

Sarelli bit the end off a cigar. 

"Ah!" he said; "now we are coming to it. It is good to be an artist, afine bantam of an artist; where other men have their dis-ci-pline, hehas his, what shall we say--his mound of roses?"

The painter started to his feet. 

"Yes, " said Sarelli, with a hiccough, "you are a fine fellow!"

"And you are drunk!" cried Harz. 

"A little drunk--not much, not enough to matter!"

Harz broke into laughter. It was crazy to stay there listening to thismad fellow. What had brought him in? He moved towards the door. 

"Ah!" said Sarelli, "but it is no good going to bed--let us talk. I havea lot to say--it is pleasant to talk to anarchists at times. "

Full daylight was already coming through the chinks of the shutters. 

"You are all anarchists, you painters, you writing fellows. You live byplaying ball with facts. Images--nothing solid--hein? You're all for newthings too, to tickle your nerves. No discipline! True anarchists, everyone of you!"

Harz poured out another glass of wine and drank it off. The man'sfeverish excitement was catching. 

"Only fools, " he replied, "take things for granted. As for discipline, what do you aristocrats, or bourgeois know of discipline? Have you everbeen hungry? Have you ever had your soul down on its back?"

"Soul on its back? That is good!"

"A man's no use, " cried Harz, "if he's always thinking of what othersthink; he must stand on his own legs. "

"He must not then consider other people?"

"Not from cowardice anyway. "

Sarelli drank. 

"What would you do, " he said, striking his chest, "if you had adevil-here? Would you go to bed?"

A sort of pity seized on Harz. He wanted to say something that would beconsoling but could find no words; and suddenly he felt disgusted. Whatlink was there between him and this man; between his love and this man'slove?

"Harz!" muttered Sarelli; "Harz means 'tar, ' hein? Your family is not anold one?"

Harz glared, and said: "My father is a peasant. "

Sarelli lifted the kummel bottle and emptied it into his glass, with asteady hand. 

"You're honest--and we both have devils. I forgot; I brought you in tosee a picture!"

He threw wide the shutters; the windows were already open, and a rush ofair came in. 

"Ah!" he said, sniffing, "smells of the earth, nicht wahr, Herr Artist?You should know--it belongs to your father. .. . Come, here's my picture;a Correggio! What do you think of it?"

"It is a copy. "

"You think?"

"I know. "

"Then you have given me the lie, Signor, " and drawing out hishandkerchief Sarelli flicked it in the painter's face. 

Harz turned white. 

"Duelling is a good custom!" said Sarelli. "I shall have the honour toteach you just this one, unless you are afraid. Here are pistols--thisroom is twenty feet across at least, twenty feet is no bad distance. "

And pulling out a drawer he took two pistols from a case, and put themon the table. 

"The light is good--but perhaps you are afraid. "

"Give me one!" shouted the infuriated painter; "and go to the devil fora fool. "

"One moment!" Sarelli murmured: "I will load them, they are more usefulloaded. "

Harz leaned out of the window; his head was in a whirl. 'What on earthis happening?' he thought. 'He's mad--or I am! Confound him! I'm notgoing to be killed!' He turned and went towards the table. Sarelli'shead was sunk on his arms, he was asleep. Harz methodically took up thepistols, and put them back into the drawer. A sound made him turn hishead; there stood a tall, strong young woman in a loose gown caughttogether on her chest. Her grey eyes glanced from the painter to thebottles, from the bottles to the pistol-case. A simple reasoning, whichstruck Harz as comic. 

"It is often like this, " she said in the country patois; "der Herr mustnot be frightened. "

Lifting the motionless Sarelli as if he were a baby, she laid him on acouch. 

"Ah!" she said, sitting down and resting her elbow on the table; "hewill not wake!"

Harz bowed to her; her patient figure, in spite of its youth andstrength, seemed to him pathetic. Taking up his knapsack, he went out. 

The smoke of cottages rose straight; wisps of mist were wandering aboutthe valley, and the songs of birds dropping like blessings. All over thegrass the spiders had spun a sea of threads that bent and quivered tothe pressure of the air, like fairy tight-ropes. 

All that day he tramped. 

Blacksmiths, tall stout men with knotted muscles, sleepy eyes, and greatfair beards, came out of their forges to stretch and wipe their brows, and stare at him. 

Teams of white oxen, waiting to be harnessed, lashed their tails againsttheir flanks, moving their heads slowly from side to side in the heat. Old women at chalet doors blinked and knitted. 

The white houses, with gaping caves of storage under the roofs, the redchurch spire, the clinking of hammers in the forges, the slow stampingof oxen-all spoke of sleepy toil, without ideas or ambition. Harz knewit all too well; like the earth's odour, it belonged to him, as Sarellihad said. 

Towards sunset coming to a copse of larches, he sat down to rest. It wasvery still, but for the tinkle of cowbells, and, from somewhere in thedistance, the sound of dropping logs. 

Two barefooted little boys came from the wood, marching earnestly along, and looking at Harz as if he were a monster. Once past him, they beganto run. 

'At their age, ' he thought, 'I should have done the same. ' A hundredmemories rushed into his mind. 

He looked down at the village straggling below--white houses withrusset tiles and crowns of smoke, vineyards where the young leaves werebeginning to unfold, the red-capped spire, a thread of bubbling stream, an old stone cross. He had been fourteen years struggling up from allthis; and now just as he had breathing space, and the time to givehimself wholly to his work--this weakness was upon him! Better, athousand times, to give her up!

In a house or two lights began to wink; the scent of wood smoke reachedhim, the distant chimes of bells, the burring of a stream. 

IX

Next day his one thought was to get back to work. He arrived at thestudio in the afternoon, and, laying in provisions, barricaded the lowerdoor. For three days he did not go out; on the fourth day he went toVilla Rubein. .. . 

Schloss Runkelstein--grey, blind, strengthless--still keeps the valley. The windows which once, like eyes, watched men and horses creepingthrough the snow, braved the splutter of guns and the gleam of torches, are now holes for the birds to nest in. Tangled creepers have spreadto the very summits of the walls. In the keep, instead of grim men inarmour, there is a wooden board recording the history of the castle andinstructing visitors on the subject of refreshments. Only at night, whenthe cold moon blanches everything, the castle stands like the grim ghostof its old self, high above the river. 

After a long morning's sitting the girls had started forth with Harz andDawney to spend the afternoon at the ruin; Miss Naylor, kept at home byheadache, watched them depart with words of caution against sunstroke, stinging nettles, and strange dogs. 

Since the painter's return Christian and he had hardly spoken to eachother. Below the battlement on which they sat, in a railed gallery withlittle tables, Dawney and Greta were playing dominoes, two soldiersdrinking beer, and at the top of a flight of stairs the Custodian'swife sewing at a garment. Christian said suddenly: "I thought we werefriends. "

"Well, Fraulein Christian, aren't we?"

"You went away without a word; friends don't do that. "

Harz bit his lips. 

"I don't think you care, " she went on with a sort of desperate haste, "whether you hurt people or not. You have been here all this timewithout even going to see your father and mother. "

"Do you think they would want to see me?"

Christian looked up. 

"It's all been so soft for you, " he said bitterly; "you don'tunderstand. "

He turned his head away, and then burst out: "I'm proud to come straightfrom the soil--I wouldn't have it otherwise; but they are of 'thepeople, ' everything is narrow with them--they only understand what theycan see and touch. "

"I'm sorry I spoke like that, " said Christian softly; "you've never toldme about yourself. "

There was something just a little cruel in the way the painter lookedat her, then seeming to feel compunction, he said quickly: "I alwayshated--the peasant life--I wanted to get away into the world; I had afeeling in here--I wanted--I don't know what I wanted! I did run away atlast to a house-painter at Meran. The priest wrote me a letter from myfather--they threw me off; that's all. "

Christian's eyes were very bright, her lips moved, like the lips of achild listening to a story. 

"Go on, " she said. 

"I stayed at Meran two years, till I'd learnt all I could there, then abrother of my mother's helped me to get to Vienna; I was lucky enoughto find work with a man who used to decorate churches. We went about thecountry together. Once when he was ill I painted the roof of a churchentirely by myself; I lay on my back on the scaffold boards all day fora week--I was proud of that roof. " He paused. 

"When did you begin painting pictures?"

"A friend asked me why I didn't try for the Academie. That startedme going to the night schools; I worked every minute--I had to get myliving as well, of course, so I worked at night. 

"Then when the examination came, I thought I could do nothing--it wasjust as if I had never had a brush or pencil in my hand. But the secondday a professor in passing me said, 'Good! Quite good!' That gave mecourage. I was sure I had failed though; but I was second out of sixty. "

Christian nodded. 

"To work in the schools after that I had to give up my business, ofcourse. There was only one teacher who ever taught me anything; theothers all seemed fools. This man would come and rub out what you'd donewith his sleeve. I used to cry with rage--but I told him I could onlylearn from him, and he was so astonished that he got me into his class. "

"But how did you live without money?" asked Christian. 

His face burned with a dark flush. "I don't know how I lived; you musthave been through these things to know, you would never understand. "

"But I want to understand, please. "

"What do you want me to tell you? How I went twice a week to eat freedinners! How I took charity! How I was hungry! There was a rich cousinof my mother's--I used to go to him. I didn't like it. But if you'restarving in the winter. "

Christian put out her hand. 

"I used to borrow apronsful of coals from other students who were aspoor--but I never went to the rich students. "

The flush had died out of his face. 

"That sort of thing makes you hate the world! You work till you stagger;you're cold and hungry; you see rich people in their carriages, wrappedin furs, and all the time you want to do something great. You pray fora chance, any chance; nothing comes to the poor! It makes you hate theworld. "

Christian's eyes filled with tears. He went on:

"But I wasn't the only one in that condition; we used to meet. Garin, a Russian with a brown beard and patches of cheek showing through, andyellow teeth, who always looked hungry. Paunitz, who came from sympathy!He had fat cheeks and little eyes, and a big gold chain--the swine! Andlittle Misek. It was in his room we met, with the paper peeling off thewalls, and two doors with cracks in them, so that there was always adraught. We used to sit on his bed, and pull the dirty blankets over usfor warmth; and smoke--tobacco was the last thing we ever went without. Over the bed was a Virgin and Child--Misek was a very devout Catholic;but one day when he had had no dinner and a dealer had kept his picturewithout paying him, he took the image and threw it on the floor beforeour eyes; it broke, and he trampled on the bits. Lendorf was another, a heavy fellow who was always puffing out his white cheeks and smitinghimself, and saying: 'Cursed society!' And Schonborn, an aristocrat whohad quarrelled with his family. He was the poorest of us all; but onlyhe and I would ever have dared to do anything--they all knew that!"

Christian listened with awe. "Do you mean?" she said, "do you mean, thatyou--?"

"You see! you're afraid of me at once. It's impossible even for you tounderstand. It only makes you afraid. A hungry man living on charity, sick with rage and shame, is a wolf even to you!"

Christian looked straight into his eyes. 

"That's not true. If I can't understand, I can feel. Would you be thesame now if it were to come again?"

"Yes, it drives me mad even now to think of people fatted withprosperity, sneering and holding up their hands at poor devils who havesuffered ten times more than the most those soft animals could bear. I'molder; I've lived--I know things can't be put right by violence--nothingwill put things right, but that doesn't stop my feeling. "

"Did you do anything? You must tell me all now. "

"We talked--we were always talking. "

"No, tell me everything!"

Unconsciously she claimed, and he seemed unconsciously to admit herright to this knowledge. 

"There's not much to tell. One day we began talking in low voices--Garinbegan it; he had been in some affair in Russia. We took an oath; afterthat we never raised our voices. We had a plan. It was all new to me, and I hated the whole thing--but I was always hungry, or sick fromtaking charity, and I would have done anything. They knew that; theyused to look at me and Schonborn; we knew that no one else had anycourage. He and I were great friends, but we never talked of that; wetried to keep our minds away from the thought of it. If we had a goodday and were not so hungry, it seemed unnatural; but when the day hadnot been good--then it seemed natural enough. I wasn't afraid, but Iused to wake up in the night; I hated the oath we had taken, I hatedevery one of those fellows; the thing was not what I was made for, itwasn't my work, it wasn't my nature, it was forced on me--I hated it, but sometimes I was like a madman. "

"Yes, yes, " she murmured. 

"All this time I was working at the Academie, and learning all Icould. .. . One evening that we met, Paunitz was not there. Misek wastelling us how the thing had been arranged. Schonborn and I looked ateach other--it was warm--perhaps we were not hungry--it was springtime, too, and in the Spring it's different. There is something. "

Christian nodded. 

"While we were talking there came a knock at the door. Lendorf put hiseye to the keyhole, and made a sign. The police were there. Nobody saidanything, but Misek crawled under the bed; we all followed; and theknocking grew louder and louder. In the wall at the back of the bedwas a little door into an empty cellar. We crept through. There wasa trap-door behind some cases, where they used to roll barrels in. Wecrawled through that into the back street. We went different ways. "

He paused, and Christian gasped. 

"I thought I would get my money, but there was a policeman before mydoor. They had us finely. It was Paunitz; if I met him even now I shouldwring his neck. I swore I wouldn't be caught, but I had no idea where togo. Then I thought of a little Italian barber who used to shave mewhen I had money for a shave; I knew he would help. He belonged to someItalian Society; he often talked to me, under his breath, of course. Iwent to him. He was shaving himself before going to a ball. I told himwhat had happened; it was funny to see him put his back against thedoor. He was very frightened, understanding this sort of thing betterthan I did--for I was only twenty then. He shaved my head and moustacheand put me on a fair wig. Then he brought me macaroni, and some meat, toeat. He gave me a big fair moustache, and a cap, and hid the moustachein the lining. He brought me a cloak of his own, and four gulden. Allthe time he was extremely frightened, and kept listening, and saying:'Eat!'

"When I had done, he just said: 'Go away, I refuse to know anything moreof you. '

"I thanked him and went out. I walked about all that night; for Icouldn't think of anything to do or anywhere to go. In the morning Islept on a seat in one of the squares. Then I thought I would go to theGallerien; and I spent the whole day looking at the pictures. When theGalleries were shut I was very tired, so I went into a cafe, and hadsome beer. When I came out I sat on the same seat in the Square. I meantto wait till dark and then walk out of the city and take the train atsome little station, but while I was sitting there I went to sleep. Apoliceman woke me. He had my wig in his hand. 

"'Why do you wear a wig?' he said. 

"I answered: 'Because I am bald. '

"'No, ' he said, 'you're not bald, you've been shaved. I can feel thehair coming. '

"He put his finger on my head. I felt reckless and laughed. 

"'Ah!' he said, 'you'll come with me and explain all this; your nose andeyes are looked for. '

"I went with him quietly to the police-station. .. . "

Harz seemed carried away by his story. His quick dark face worked, hissteel-grey eyes stared as though he were again passing through all theselong-past emotions. 

The hot sun struck down; Christian drew herself together, sitting withher hands clasped round her knees. 

X

"I didn't care by then what came of it. I didn't even think what I wasgoing to say. He led me down a passage to a room with bars across thewindows and long seats, and maps on the walls. We sat and waited. He kept his eye on me all the time; and I saw no hope. Presently theInspector came. 'Bring him in here, ' he said; I remember feeling I couldkill him for ordering me about! We went into the next room. It had alarge clock, a writing-table, and a window, without bars, looking on acourtyard. Long policemen's coats and caps were hanging from some pegs. The Inspector told me to take off my cap. I took it off, wig and all. Heasked me who I was, but I refused to answer. Just then there was a loudsound of voices in the room we had come from. The Inspector told thepoliceman to look after me, and went to see what it was. I could hearhim talking. He called out: 'Come here, Becker!' I stood very quiet, andBecker went towards the door. I heard the Inspector say: 'Go and findSchwartz, I will see after this fellow. ' The policeman went, and theInspector stood with his back to me in the half-open door, and beganagain to talk to the man in the other room. Once or twice he lookedround at me, but I stood quiet all the time. They began to disagree, and their voices got angry. The Inspector moved a little into theother room. 'Now!' I thought, and slipped off my cloak. I hooked offa policeman's coat and cap, and put them on. My heart beat till I feltsick. I went on tiptoe to the window. There was no one outside, but atthe entrance a man was holding some horses. I opened the window a littleand held my breath. I heard the Inspector say: 'I will report you forimpertinence!' and slipped through the window. The coat came down nearlyto my heels, and the cap over my eyes. I walked up to the man with thehorses, and said: 'Good-evening. ' One of the horses had begun to kick, and he only grunted at me. I got into a passing tram; it was fiveminutes to the West Bahnhof; I got out there. There was a trainstarting; they were shouting 'Einsteigen!' I ran. The collector tried tostop me. I shouted: 'Business--important!' He let me by. I jumped into acarriage. The train started. "

He paused, and Christian heaved a sigh. 

Harz went on, twisting a twig of ivy in his hands: "There was anotherman in the carriage reading a paper. Presently I said to him, 'Where dowe stop first?' 'St. Polten. ' Then I knew it was the Munich express--St. Polten, Amstetten, Linz, and Salzburg--four stops before the frontier. The man put down his paper and looked at me; he had a big fair moustacheand rather shabby clothes. His looking at me disturbed me, for I thoughtevery minute he would say: 'You're no policeman!' And suddenly it cameinto my mind that if they looked for me in this train, it would be as apoliceman!--they would know, of course, at the station that a policemanhad run past at the last minute. I wanted to get rid of the coatand cap, but the man was there, and I didn't like to move out of thecarriage for other people to notice. So I sat on. We came to St. Poltenat last. The man in my carriage took his bag, got out, and left hispaper on the seat. We started again; I breathed at last, and as soon asI could took the cap and coat and threw them out into the darkness. Ithought: 'I shall get across the frontier now. ' I took my own cap outand found the moustache Luigi gave me; rubbed my clothes as clean aspossible; stuck on the moustache, and with some little ends of chalkin my pocket made my eyebrows light; then drew some lines in my face tomake it older, and pulled my cap well down above my wig. I did it prettywell--I was quite like the man who had got out. I sat in his corner, took up his newspaper, and waited for Amstetten. It seemed a tremendoustime before we got there. From behind my paper I could see five or sixpolicemen on the platform, one quite close. He opened the door, lookedat me, and walked through the carriage into the corridor. I took sometobacco and rolled up a cigarette, but it shook, Harz lifted the ivytwig, like this. In a minute the conductor and two more policemen came. 'He was here, ' said the conductor, 'with this gentleman. ' One of themlooked at me, and asked: 'Have you seen a policeman travelling onthis train?' 'Yes, ' I said. 'Where?' 'He got out at St. Polten. ' Thepoliceman asked the conductor: 'Did you see him get out there?' Theconductor shook his head. I said: 'He got out as the train was moving. ''Ah!' said the policeman, 'what was he like?' 'Rather short, and nomoustache. Why?' 'Did you notice anything unusual?' 'No, ' I said, 'onlythat he wore coloured trousers. What's the matter?' One policeman saidto the other: 'That's our man! Send a telegram to St. Polten; he hasmore than an hour's start. ' He asked me where I was going. I told him:'Linz. ' 'Ah!' he said, 'you'll have to give evidence; your name andaddress please?' 'Josef Reinhardt, 17 Donau Strasse. ' He wrote it down. The conductor said: 'We are late, can we start?' They shut the door. Iheard them say to the conductor: 'Search again at Linz, and report tothe Inspector there. ' They hurried on to the platform, and we started. At first I thought I would get out as soon as the train had left thestation. Then, that I should be too far from the frontier; better to goon to Linz and take my chance there. I sat still and tried not to think. 

"After a long time, we began to run more slowly. I put my head out andcould see in the distance a ring of lights hanging in the blackness. Iloosened the carriage door and waited for the train to run slower still;I didn't mean to go into Linz like a rat into a trap. At last I couldwait no longer; I opened the door, jumped and fell into some bushes. I was not much hurt, but bruised, and the breath knocked out of me. Assoon as I could, I crawled out. It was very dark. I felt heavy and sore, and for some time went stumbling in and out amongst trees. Presently Icame to a clear space; on one side I could see the town's shape drawn inlighted lamps, and on the other a dark mass, which I think was forest;in the distance too was a thin chain of lights. I thought: 'They mustbe the lights of a bridge. ' Just then the moon came out, and I could seethe river shining below. It was cold and damp, and I walked quickly. At last I came out on a road, past houses and barking dogs, down to theriver bank; there I sat against a shed and went to sleep. I woke verystiff. It was darker than before; the moon was gone. I could just seethe river. I stumbled on, to get through the town before dawn. It wasall black shapes-houses and sheds, and the smell of the river, the smellof rotting hay, apples, tar, mud, fish; and here and there on a wharf alantern. I stumbled over casks and ropes and boxes; I saw I should neverget clear--the dawn had begun already on the other side. Some men camefrom a house behind me. I bent, and crept behind some barrels. Theypassed along the wharf; they seemed to drop into the river. I heard oneof them say: 'Passau before night. ' I stood up and saw they had walkedon board a steamer which was lying head up-stream, with some barges intow. There was a plank laid to the steamer, and a lantern at the otherend. I could hear the fellows moving below deck, getting up steam. I ranacross the plank and crept to the end of the steamer. I meant to go withthem to Passau! The rope which towed the barges was nearly taut; and Iknew if I could get on to the barges I should be safe. I climbed downon this rope and crawled along. I was desperate, I knew they'd soon becoming up, and it was getting light. I thought I should fall into thewater several times, but I got to the barge at last. It was laden withstraw. There was nobody on board. I was hungry and thirsty--I looked forsomething to eat; there was nothing but the ashes of a fire and a man'scoat. I crept into the straw. Soon a boat brought men, one for eachbarge, and there were sounds of steam. As soon as we began movingthrough the water, I fell asleep. When I woke we were creeping througha heavy mist. I made a little hole in the straw and saw the bargeman. Hewas sitting by a fire at the barge's edge, so that the sparks and smokeblew away over the water. He ate and drank with both hands, and funnyenough he looked in the mist, like a big bird flapping its wings; therewas a good smell of coffee, and I sneezed. How the fellow started! Butpresently he took a pitchfork and prodded the straw. Then I stood up. I couldn't help laughing, he was so surprised--a huge, dark man, witha great black beard. I pointed to the fire and said 'Give me some, brother!' He pulled me out of the straw; I was so stiff, I couldn'tmove. I sat by the fire, and ate black bread and turnips, and drankcoffee; while he stood by, watching me and muttering. I couldn'tunderstand him well--he spoke a dialect from Hungary. He asked me: How Igot there--who I was--where I was from? I looked up in his face, and helooked down at me, sucking his pipe. He was a big man, he lived aloneon the river, and I was tired of telling lies, so I told him the wholething. When I had done he just grunted. I can see him now standing overme, with the mist hanging in his beard, and his great naked arms. Hedrew me some water, and I washed and showed him my wig and moustache, and threw them overboard. All that day we lay out on the barge in themist, with our feet to the fire, smoking; now and then he would spitinto the ashes and mutter into his beard. I shall never forget that day. The steamer was like a monster with fiery nostrils, and the other bargeswere dumb creatures with eyes, where the fires were; we couldn't see thebank, but now and then a bluff and high trees, or a castle, showed inthe mist. If I had only had paint and canvas that day!" He sighed. 

"It was early Spring, and the river was in flood; they were going toRegensburg to unload there, take fresh cargo, and back to Linz. As soonas the mist began to clear, the bargeman hid me in the straw. At Passauwas the frontier; they lay there for the night, but nothing happened, and I slept in the straw. The next day I lay out on the barge deck;there was no mist, but I was free--the sun shone gold on the straw andthe green sacking; the water seemed to dance, and I laughed--I laughedall the time, and the barge man laughed with me. A fine fellow he was!At Regensburg I helped them to unload; for more than a week we worked;they nicknamed me baldhead, and when it was all over I gave the moneyI earned for the unloading to the big bargeman. We kissed each other atparting. I had still three of the gulden that Luigi gave me, and I wentto a house-painter and got work with him. For six months I stayed thereto save money; then I wrote to my mother's cousin in Vienna, and toldhim I was going to London. He gave me an introduction to some friendsthere. I went to Hamburg, and from there to London in a cargo steamer, and I've never been back till now. "

XI

After a minute's silence Christian said in a startled voice: "They couldarrest 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 sevenyears, and when it's forbidden! But I'm ready to go back now. " He lookeddown at her, frowning. 

"Had you a hard time in London, too?"

"Harder, at first--I couldn't speak the language. In my profession it'shard work to get recognised, it's hard work to make a living. There aretoo 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 cansell my pictures now; I'm no longer weak, and I promise you I shan'tforget. If in the future I have power, and I shall have power--I shan'tforget. "

A shower of fine gravel came rattling on the wall. Dawney was standingbelow them with an amused expression on his upturned face. 

"Are you going to stay there all night?" he asked. "Greta and I havebored 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 morewith your picture. I shan't touch it again after this. "

She made no answer, but they looked at each other, and both seemed toask, to entreat, something more; then her eyes fell. He dropped herhand, 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 Paulwould not be home to dinner; his master was dining in his room; dinnerwould be served for Mrs. Decie and the two young ladies in a quarterof 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 hisdress-coat flapping, and the heels of his white socks gleaming. 

Christian ran upstairs. She flew about her room, feeling that if sheonce stood still it would all crystallise in hard painful thought, whichmotion alone kept away. She washed, changed her dress and shoes, and randown to her uncle's room. Mr. Treffry had just finished dinner, pushedthe little table back, and was sitting in his chair, with his glasseson his nose, reading the Tines. Christian touched his forehead with herlips. 

"Glad to see you, Chris. Your stepfather's out to dinner, and I can'tstand 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 thatwould not let her keep still. 

"Picture finished?" Mr. Treffry asked suddenly, taking up the paper witha 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 goodenough 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 staredat the door, humming to himself, and thoughtfully fingering his chin. 

Christian could not eat; she sat, indifferent to the hoverings ofDominique, 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 thewords. "That is why I like Mr. Harz so much; such an immense advantagefor a man to know his mind. You have only to look at that young man tosee that he knows what he wants, and means to have it. "

Christian pushed her plate away. Greta, flushing, said abruptly: "DoctorEdmund 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 orderedthe 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 tothe piano, where her long hair fell almost to the keys; silently she satthere fingering the notes, smiling to herself, and looking at her aunt, who was reading Pater's essays. Christian too had taken up a book, butsoon put it down--of several pages she had not understood a word. Shewent into the garden and wandered about the lawn, clasping her handsbehind her head. The air was heavy; very distant thunder trembled amongthe mountains, flashes of summer lightning played over the trees; andtwo great moths were hovering about a rosebush. Christian watchedtheir soft uncertain rushes. Going to the little summer-house she flungherself down on a seat, and pressed her hands to her heart. 

There was a strange and sudden aching there. Was he going from her? Ifso, what would be left? How little and how narrow seemed the outlook ofher life--with the world waiting for her, the world of beauty, effort, self-sacrifice, fidelity! It was as though a flash of that summerlightning had fled by, singeing her, taking from her all powers offlight, burning off her wings, as off one of those pale hovering moths. Tears started up, and trickled down her face. 'Blind!' she thought; 'howcould 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 caughther hand; Christian tried to draw it from him, and to turn her eyesaway, 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 hishand. 

"What are you doing?" she heard him say. "Is it possible that you loveme?" and she felt his kisses on her hair. 

"My sweet! it will be so hard for you; you are so little, so little, andso weak. " Clasping his hand closer to her face, she murmured: "I don'tcare. "

There was a long, soft silence, that seemed to last for ever. Suddenlyshe threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. 

"Whatever comes!" she whispered, and gathering her dress, escaped fromhim into the darkness. 

XII

Christian woke next morning with a smile. In her attitudes, her voice, her eyes, there was a happy and sweet seriousness, as if she werehugging some holy thought. After breakfast she took a book and sat inthe open window, whence she could see the poplar-trees guarding theentrance. 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 theroom, and Greta's sighs as she took it down, one eye on her paper, oneeye on Scruff, who lay with a black ear flapped across his paw, and histan eyebrows quivering. He was in disgrace, for Dominique, coming on himunawares, had seen him "say his prayers" before a pudding, and take thepudding 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. Hisfingers closed on hers, and he went into the house. 

She slipped back, took up her book, and waited. It seemed long before hecame out, but when he did he waved her back, and hurried on; she had aglimpse of his face, white to the lips. Feeling faint and sick, she flewto her stepfather's room. 

Herr Paul was standing in a corner with the utterly disturbed appearanceof an easy-going man, visited by the unexpected. His fine shirt-frontwas crumpled as if his breast had heaved too suddenly under strongemotion; his smoked eyeglasses dangled down his back; his fingers wereembedded in his beard. He was fixing his eye on a spot in the floor asthough he expected it to explode and blow them to fragments. In anothercorner Mrs. Decie, with half-closed eyes, was running her finger-tipsacross 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 ranfrom the room, pushing aside Miss Naylor and Greta, who stood blanchedand frightened in the doorway. 

Herr Paul stopped in his tramp, and, still with his eyes fixed on thefloor, growled:

"A fine thing-hein? What's coming? Will you please tell me? Ananarchist--a beggar!"

"Paul!" murmured Mrs. Decie. 

"Paul! Paul! And you!" he pointed to Miss Naylor--"Two women witheyes!--hein!"

"There is nothing to be gained by violence, " Mrs. Decie murmured, passing her handkerchief across her lips. Miss Naylor, whose thin browncheeks had flushed, advanced towards him. 

"I hope you do not--" she said; "I am sure there was nothing that Icould have prevented--I should be glad if that were understood. " And, turning with some dignity, the little lady went away, closing the doorbehind her. 

"You hear!" Herr Paul said, violently sarcastic: "nothing she could haveprevented! Enfin! Will you please tell me what I am to do?"

"Men of the world"--whose philosophy is a creature of circumstance andaccepted things--find any deviation from the path of their convictionsdangerous, shocking, and an intolerable bore. Herr Paul had spenthis life laughing at convictions; the matter had but to touch himpersonally, and the tap of laughter was turned off. That any one to whomhe was the lawful guardian should marry other than a well-groomed man, properly endowed with goods, properly selected, was beyond expressionhorrid. From his point of view he had great excuse for horror; and hewas naturally unable to judge whether he had excuse for horror fromother 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 couldnot understand. The interview had left him with a sense of insecuritywhich he felt to be particularly unfair. 

The door was again opened, and Greta flew in, her cheeks flushed, herhair 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 beanswered, she flew out again. 

Herr Paul seized his hair with both his hands: "Good! Very good! My ownchild, please! What next then?"

Mrs. Decie rose from her chair languidly. "My head is very bad, " shesaid, shading her eyes and speaking in low tones: "It is no use making afuss--nothing can come of this--he has not a penny. Christian will havenothing till you die, which will not be for a long time yet, if you canbut avoid an apoplectic fit!"

At these last words Herr Paul gave a start of real disgust. "Hum!" hemuttered; 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 talkto Nicholas. I am going to lie down. "

Herr Paul nervously fingered the shirt-collar round his stout, shortneck. 

"Nicholas! Certainly--a good idea. Quelle diable d'afaire!"

'French!' thought Mrs. Decie; 'we shall soon have peace. PoorChristian! I'm sorry! After all, these things are a matter of time andopportunity. ' 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 hego away without a word? Since yesterday it was as if she had steppedinto 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 begunsobbing; but she would not talk, and sat hour after hour at the windowwith the air fanning her face, and the pain in her eyes turned to thesky and trees. After one or two attempts at consolation, Greta sank onthe floor, and remained there, humbly gazing at her sister in a silenceonly broken when Christian cleared her throat of tears, and by the songof birds in the garden. In the afternoon she slipped away and did notcome back again. 

After his interview with Mr. Treffry, Herr Paul took a bath, perfumedhimself with precision, and caused it to be clearly understood that, under circumstances such as these, a man's house was not suited for apig to live in. He shortly afterwards went out to the Kurbaus, and hadnot 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 nothinghad happened. Miss Naylor, affected by the kindness of her heart and theshock her system had sustained, rolled a number of bread pills, lookingat each as it came, with an air of surprise, and concealing it withdifficulty. Mr. Treffry was coughing, and when he talked his voiceseemed to rumble even more than usual. Greta was dumb, trying to catchChristian'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 ourfriend's studio; he was not in, but half an hour ago I stumbled onhim in the Platz. He is not quite himself; has had a touch of thesun--nothing serious: I took him to my hotel, where he is in bed. Ifhe will stay there he will be all right in a day or two. In any case heshall not elude my clutches for the present. 

"My warm respects to Mistress Christian. --Yours in friendship andphilosophy, "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 isperhaps 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 thegarden. 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 sankdown on the bottom step and took Scruff in her arms. 

Half an hour later Miss Naylor, carrying a candle, found her there fastasleep, with her head resting on the terrier's back, and tear stains onher cheeks. .. . 

Mrs. Decie presently came out, also carrying a candle, and went to herbrother'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. Iknow 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 anelement--"

"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 todo. "

"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 understandsa young girl? Vapourings, dreams, moonshine I. .. . What does she seein this painter fellow? I wonder!' He breathed heavily. 'By heavens! Iwouldn't have had this happen for a hundred thousand pounds!'

XIII

For many hours after Dawney had taken him to his hotel, Harz wasprostrate with stunning pains in the head and neck. He had been allday without food, exposed to burning sun, suffering violent emotion. Movement of any sort caused him such agony that he could only liein stupor, counting the spots dancing before, his eyes. Dawney dideverything for him, and Harz resented in a listless way the intentscrutiny of the doctor's calm, black eyes. 

Towards the end of the second day he was able to get up; Dawney foundhim sitting on the bed in shirt and trousers. 

"My son, " he said, "you had better tell me what the trouble is--it willdo 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 forthree 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 canfeel 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 meto put you straight as it is to you to paint a decent picture. Now go tobed; I'll have a carriage for you to-morrow morning. "

Harz sat down on the bed again, and for a long time stayed withoutmoving, his eyes fixed on the floor. The sight of him, so desperate andmiserable, 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 hestopped to think. The farther trees were fret-worked black against thelingering gold of the sunset; a huge moth, attracted by the tip of hiscigar, came fluttering in his face. The music of a concertina rose andfell, like the sighing of some disillusioned spirit. Dawney stood forseveral minutes staring at the house. 

He was shown to Mrs. Decie's room. She was holding a magazine before hereyes, 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 aright to your discretion. "

Dawney smiled; the features of his broad, clean-shaven face lookedridiculously small on such occasions, but his eyes retained their air ofcalculation. 

"That is so, " he answered. 

"It is about this unfortunate affair. I understand that Mr. Harz is withyou. I want you to use your influence to dissuade him from attempting tosee my niece. "

"Influence!" said Dawney; "you know Harz!"

Mrs. Decie's voice hardened. 

"Everybody, " she said, "has his weak points. This young man is opento approach from at least two quarters--his pride is one, his workan other. I am seldom wrong in gauging character; these are his vitalspots, 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--" Hersmile 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! Youknow my opinion, Dr. Dawney. That young man will go far if he remainsunfettered; he will make a name. You will be doing him a great serviceif you could show him the affair as it really is--a drag on him, andquite 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 curveof his chin thus displayed was imposing in its fulness; altogether hewas imposing, having an air of capability. 

She struck him, indeed, as really scared; it was as if her mask of smilehad 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 aneasy 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. Christianwas 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, butstaring before her. He thought suddenly: 'Poor thing! If I don't saysomething 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 cameforth. 

"Good-night, " said Dawney, and walked out. .. . 

Three days later Harz was sitting in the window of his studio. It wasthe first day he had found it possible to work, and now, tired out, he stared through the dusk at the slowly lengthening shadows of therafters. A solitary mosquito hummed, and two house sparrows, who hadbuilt beneath the roof, chirruped sleepily. Swallows darted by thewindow, dipping their blue wings towards the quiet water; a hush hadstolen over everything. He fell asleep. 

He woke, with a dim impression of some near presence. In the paleglimmer from innumerable stars, the room was full of shadowy shapes. Helit his lantern. The flame darted forth, bickered, then slowly lit upthe great room. 

"Who's there?"

A rustling seemed to answer. He peered about, went to the doorway, anddrew the curtain. A woman's cloaked figure shrank against the wall. Herface 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 atthe window. She turned quickly to him. "Take me away from here! Let mecome 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 knownothing of--hunger perhaps! Think, even hunger! And your people won'tforgive--you'll lose everything. "

She shook her head. 

"I must choose--it's one thing or the other. I can't give you up! Ishould 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--maybe dark, like that!" he pointed to the window. 

A sound of footsteps broke the hush. They could see a figure on the pathbelow. It stopped, seemed to consider, vanished. They heard the soundsof 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 plainlyaudible. 

"He's there! Quick! Hide!"

She shook her head. 

With a thrill at his heart, Harz kissed her, then walked towards theentrance. The curtain was pulled aside. 

XIV

It was Herr Paul, holding a cigar in one hand, his hat in the other, andbreathing 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 onthe cloaked figure in the shadow. 

"Pardon! A thousand pardons! I had no idea! I beg you to forgive thisindiscretion! I may take it you resign pretensions then? You have alady here--I have nothing more to say; I only beg a million pardons forintruding. A thousand times forgive me! Good-night!"

He bowed and turned to go. Christian stepped forward, and let the hoodfall 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 eyeswandered 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, thelantern flickered and went out. Christian drew the cloak round heragain. Herr Paul's voice broke the silence; he had recovered hisself-possession. 

"Ah! ah!" he said: "Darkness! Tant mieux! The right thing for what wehave to say. Since we do not esteem each other, it is well not to seetoo much. "

"Just so, " said Harz. 

Christian had come close to them. Her pale face and great shining eyescould 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, addressingHarz. "Let us come to the point. I will do you the credit to supposethat you have a marriage in view. You know, perhaps, that Miss Devorellhas 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 MissDevorell, a young lady accustomed to luxury, into places like--this!" hepeered 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, HerrOutlaw! If you have not left the country by noon to-morrow, you shall beintroduced to the police!"

Christian uttered a cry. For a minute in the gloom the only sound heardwas 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 toyourself, my friend!"

Stooping and fumbling on the floor, he picked up his hat. Christian hadalready vanished; the sound of her hurrying footsteps was distinctlyaudible 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, gropingfor the wall. Planting his hat askew on his head, he began slowly todescend the stairs. 

XV

Nicholas Treffry sat reading the paper in his room by the light of alamp with a green shade; on his sound foot the terrier Scruff was asleepand snoring lightly--the dog habitually came down when Greta was inbed, and remained till Mr. Treffry, always the latest member of thehousehold, retired to rest. 

Through the long window a little river of light shone out on the verandatiles, 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 inthe girl's eyes. 

"Chris! What is it?"

"Hateful!"

"Chris!"

"Oh! Uncle! He's insulted, threatened! And I love his little finger morethan all the world!"

Her passionate voice trembled, her eyes were shining. 

Mr. Treffry's profound discomfort found vent in the gruff words: "Sitdown!"

"I'll never speak to Father again! Oh! Uncle! I love him!"

Quiet in the extremity of his disturbance, Mr. Treffry leaned forward inhis 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 heavydroop of his moustache. The girl's face had suddenly grown white. Shesank down on her knees, and laid her cheek against his hand. He felt itwet; and a lump rose in his throat. Drawing his hand away, he stared atit, 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 withsudden rage. 

"What's the matter? How the devil can I do anything if you don't tellme?"

She looked up at him. The distress of the last days, the passion andfear of the last hour, the tide of that new life of the spirit and theflesh, stirring within her, flowed out in a stream of words. 

When she had finished, there was so dead a silence that the flutteringof 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 andshoulders 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 hedeserves!--it's more than you deserve, Chris. Sit down there and writeto him; tell him to put himself entirely in my hands. " He turned hisback on her, and went into his bedroom. 

Christian rose, and sat down at the writing-table. A whisper startledher. It came from Dominique, who was holding out a pair of boots. 

"M'mselle Chris, what is this?--to run about all night?" But Christiandid not answer. 

"M'mselle Chris, are you ill?" Then seeing her face, he slipped awayagain. 

She finished her letter and went out to the carriage. Mr. Treffry wasseated 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 acrunch of wheels, and vanished, swinging between the black tree-pillarsat the entrance. .. . 

Christian stood, straining to catch the failing sound of the hoofs. 

Down the passage came a flutter of white garments; soft limbs weretwined about her, some ends of hair fell on her face. 

"What is it, Chris? Where have you been? Where is Uncle Nic going? Tellme!"

Christian tore herself away. "I don't know, " she cried, "I knownothing!"

Greta stroked her face. "Poor Chris!" she murmured. Her bare feetgleamed, her hair shone gold against her nightdress. "Come to bed, poorChris!"

Christian laughed. "You little white moth! Feel how hot I am! You'llburn your wings!"

XVI

Harz had lain down, fully dressed. He was no longer angry, but felt thathe would rather die than yield. Presently he heard footsteps coming upthe stairs. 

"M'sieu!"

It was the voice of Dominique, whose face, illumined by a match, wore anexpression of ironical disgust. 

"My master, " he said, "makes you his compliments; he says there is notime 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 suchan 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 thedark 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 flankof the off horse, and, as the carriage rattled forward, Mr. Treffrycalled 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 cafesturned with glasses at their lips to stare after the carriage. Thenarrow river of the sky spread suddenly to a vast, limpid oceantremulous with stars. They had turned into the road for Italy. 

Mr. Treffry took a pull at his horses. "Whoa, mare! Dogged does it!" andthe near horse, throwing up her head, whinnied; a fleck of foam driftedinto Harz's face. 

The painter had come on impulse; because Christian had told him to, notof 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 swiftmovement through velvet blackness splashed on either hand with theflying lamp-light; the strong sweet air blowing in his face-air thathad kissed the tops of mountains and stolen their spirit; the snort andsnuffle of the horses, and crisp rattling of their hoofs--all this soonroused in him another feeling. He looked at Mr. Treffry's profile, withits tufted chin; at the grey road adventuring in darkness; at the purplemass of mountains piled above it. All seemed utterly unreal. 

As if suddenly aware that he had a neighbour, Mr. Treffry turned hishead. "We shall do better than this presently, " he said, "bit of a slopecoming. 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 oncein 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 thoughtof. 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 tothe 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. Treffryrummaged 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 theglimmer 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 therolling of the wheels, the snorting of the horses, the huge dark space, the huge uncertainty, they had found something they could enjoy incommon. The steam from the horses' flanks and nostrils enveloped themwith an odour as of glue. 

"You smoke, Mr. Harz?"

Harz took the proffered weed, and lighted it from the glowing tip ofMr. Treffry's cigar, by light of which his head and hat looked like somegiant 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 andvanished. With a clink and clatter, a flirt of dust and pebbles, and theside lamps throwing out a frisky orange blink, the carriage dashed down, sinking and rising like a boat crossing billows. The world seemed torock and sway; to dance up, and be flung flat again. Only the starsstood still. 

Mr. Treffry, putting on the brake, muttered apologetically: "A littleout o'hand!"

Suddenly with a headlong dive, the carriage swayed as if it would flyin pieces, slithered along, and with a jerk steadied itself. Harz liftedhis voice in a shout of pure excitement. Mr. Treffry let out a shortshaky howl, and from behind there rose a wail. But the hill was overand the startled horses were cantering with a free, smooth motion. Mr. Treffry and Harz looked at each other. 

XVII

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 feltbefore. Presently Mr. Treffry began: "Look here, Mr. Harz, my niece isa slip of a thing, with all a young girl's notions! What have you got togive her, eh? Yourself? That's surely not enough; mind this--six monthsafter marriage we all turn out much the same--a selfish lot! Not tomention this anarchist affair!

"You're not of her blood, nor of her way of life, nor anything--it'staking chances--and--" his hand came down on the young man's knee, "I'mfond 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 infailure, there's no such thing. Suppose she does suffer a little? Willit 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 'emwhen they're used about my niece. "

He pulled the horses up, and peered into the darkness. "We're goingthrough this bit quietly; if they lose track of us here so much thebetter. Dominique! put out the lamps. Soho, my beauties!" The horsespaced forward at a walk the muffled beat of their hoofs in the dusthardly broke the hush. Mr. Treffry pointed to the left: "It'll beanother thirty-five miles to the frontier. "

They passed the whitewashed houses, and village church with its sentinelcypress-trees. A frog was croaking in a runlet; there was a faint spicyscent of lemons. But nothing stirred. 

It was wood now on either side, the high pines, breathing theirfragrance out into the darkness, and, like ghosts amongst them, thesilver stems of birch-trees. 

Mr. Treffry said gruffly: "You won't give her up? Her happiness means alot to me. "

"To you!" said Harz: "to him! And I am nothing! Do you think I don'tcare 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 plainlyWhat position have you got to give her?"

"If she marries me, " said Harz, "she comes into my world. You think thatI'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 rollingof the wheels in this night progress, the pine-drugged air, sent Harzto sleep. When he woke it was to the same tune, varied by Mr. Treffry'suneasy snoring; the reins were hanging loose, and, peering out, he sawDominique shuffling along at the horses' heads. He joined him, and, one on each side, they plodded up and up. A haze had begun to bathethe trees, the stars burnt dim, the air was colder. Mr. Treffry wokecoughing. It was like some long nightmare, this interminable experienceof muffled sounds and shapes, of perpetual motion, conceived, andcarried out in darkness. But suddenly the day broke. Heralded by thesnuffle of the horses, light began glimmering over a chaos of lines andshadows, pale as mother-o'-pearl. The stars faded, and in a smoulderingzigzag the dawn fled along the mountain tops, flinging out little islesof cloud. From a lake, curled in a hollow like a patch of smoke, camethe cry of a water-bird. A cuckoo started a soft mocking; and close tothe carriage a lark flew up. Beasts and men alike stood still, drinkingin the air-sweet with snows and dew, and vibrating faintly with therunning of the water and the rustling of the leaves. 

The night had played sad tricks with Mr. Nicholas Treffry; his hat wasgrey with dust; his cheeks brownish-purple, there were heavy pouchesbeneath his eyes, which stared painfully. 

"We'll call a halt, " he said, "and give the gees their grub, poorthings. Can you find some water, Mr. Harz? There's a rubber bucket inbehind. 

"Can't get about myself this morning; make that lazy fellow of mine stirhis stumps. "

Harz saw that he had drawn off one of his boots, and stretched the footout 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 ofwater. When he came back the horses were feeding from an india-rubbertrough 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 bathedin a gentle radiance; and the peaks ahead were like amber. Everywherewere threads of water, threads of snow, and little threads of dewygreen, glistening like gossamer. 

Mr. Treffry called out: "Give me your arm, Mr. Harz; I'd like to shakethe reefs out of me. When one comes to stand over at the knees, it's nosuch easy matter, eh?" He groaned as he put his foot down, and grippedthe young man's shoulder as in a vise. Presently he lowered himself onto a stone. 

"'All over now!' as Chris would say when she was little; nasty tempershe had too--kick and scream on the floor! Never lasted long though. .. . 'Kiss her! take her up! show her the pictures!' Amazing fond of picturesChris was!" He looked dubiously at Harz; then took a long pull at hisflask. "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 theflask, he was grey from head to foot. 

Harz had dropped on to another stone. He, too, was worn out by theexcitement and fatigue, coming so soon after his illness. His head waswhirling, and the next thing he remembered was a tree walking at him, turning round, yellow from the roots up; everything seemed yellow, evenhis own feet. Somebody opposite to him was jumping up and down, a greybear--with a hat--Mr. Treffry! He cried: "Ha-alloo!" And the figureseemed to fall and disappear. .. . 

When Harz came to himself a hand was pouring liquor into his mouth, anda wet cloth was muffled round his brows; a noise of humming and hoofsseemed familiar. Mr. Treffry loomed up alongside, smoking a cigar;he was muttering: "A low trick, Paul--bit of my mind!" Then, as if acurtain had been snatched aside, the vision before Harz cleared again. The carriage was winding between uneven, black-eaved houses, pastdoorways from which goats and cows were coming out, with bells on theirnecks. 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 angryold 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 carriagewith its trail of dust became entombed once more in the gloom of talltrees, along a road that cleft a wilderness of mossgrown rocks, and dewystems, through which the sun had not yet driven paths. 

Dominique came round to them, bearing appearance of one who has seenbetter days, and a pot of coffee brewed on a spirit lamp. Breakfast--hesaid--was served!

The ears of the horses were twitching with fatigue. Mr. Treffry saidsadly: "If I can see this through, you can. Get on, my beauties!"

As soon as the sun struck through the trees, Mr. Treffry's strengthebbed again. He seemed to suffer greatly; but did not complain. They hadreached the pass at last, and the unchecked sunlight was streaming downwith a blinding glare. 

"Jump up!" Mr. Treffry cried out. "We'll make a finish of it!" and hegave the reins a jerk. The horses flung up their heads, and the bleakpass with its circling crown of jagged peaks soon slipped away. 

Between the houses on the very top, they passed at a slow trot; and soonbegan slanting down the other side. Mr. Treffry brought them to a haltwhere 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 acouple of hours. Get rail at Feltre. Money? Yes? Well!" He held out hishand; Harz gripped it. 

"Give her up, eh?"

Harz shook his head. 

"No? Then it's 'pull devil, pull baker, ' between us. Good-bye, and goodluck 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 carriagemoved slowly away. 

XVIII

At Villa Rubein people went about, avoiding each other as if detectedin conspiracy. Miss Naylor, who for an inscrutable reason had put onher best frock, a purple, relieved at the chest with bird's-eye blue, conveyed an impression of trying to count a chicken which ran abouttoo 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 littletable. She had had no sleep. Herr Paul coming into the room about noongave her a furtive look and went out again; after this he went to hisbedroom, took off all his clothes, flung them passionately one by oneinto a footbath, and got into bed. 

"I might be a criminal!" he muttered to himself, while the buttons ofhis garments rattled on the bath. 

"Am I her father? Have I authority? Do I know the world? Bssss! I mightbe a frog!"

Mrs. Decie, having caused herself to be announced, found him smoking acigar, 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 usall 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 wasthere in it? I suppose you know that Nicholas has driven him to thefrontier? Nicholas is probably more dead than alive by this time; youknow 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 bemade angry; do you understand? I will not be worried--I am not fit forit. " His prominent brown eyes stared round the room, as if looking for away of escape. 

"If I may prophesy, you will be worried a good deal, " said Mrs. Deciecoldly, "before you have finished with this affair. "

The anxious, uncertain glance which Herr Paul gave her at these wordsroused an unwilling feeling of compunction in her. 

"You are not made for the outraged father of the family, " she said. "Youhad 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 theright 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; inher place stood a stiff man in blue. .. . 

Thus the morning dragged itself away without any one being able tosettle to anything, except Herr Paul, who was settled in bed. As wasfitting in a house that had lost its soul, meals were neglected, even bythe dog. 

About three o'clock a telegram came for Christian, containing thesewords: "All right; self returns to-morrow. Treffry. " After reading itshe put on her hat and went out, followed closely by Greta, who, whenshe thought that she would not be sent away, ran up from behind andpulled her by the sleeve. 

"Let me come, Chris--I shall not talk. "

The two girls walked on together. When they had gone some distanceChristian 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, pushedthe door; it was immovable. 

"Look!" said Greta, "they have screwed it!" She pointed out three screwswith 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, sheregarded Christian with her wide blue eyes. 

"I can't make any plan, " Christian cried at last, "while you stare at melike 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 ofFritz. "

"It would take a long time; people are always passing. "

"People do not pass in the evening, " murmured Greta, "because the gateat 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 thebig screw-driver of Fritz. At dusk they slipped downstairs and out. 

They arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow ofthe doorway. The only sounds were those of distant barking dogs, and ofthe bugles at the barracks. 

"Quick!" whispered Christian; and Greta, with all the strength of hersmall hands, began to turn the screws. It was some time beforethey yielded; the third was very obstinate, till Christian took thescrew-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 twistingstaircase, 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 hadbetter go home!"

Greta choked a little in the dark. 

"I am--not--going home, but I'm afraid of bats. O Chris! aren't youafraid?"

"Yes, " said Christian, "but I'm going to have the pictures. "

Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over. Having found thebottom step she began to mount with Greta clinging to her skirts. 

The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of allthings, hated darkness. The blanket across the doorway of the loft hadbeen 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 thewall, like one of the bats she dreaded. 

"But they have been here!" cried Christian angrily. "They have brokenthis. " She pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had beenthrown down. 

Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, woodenframes, 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 thembefore 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 gateis 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. Thegirls, 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; "Ishall call him; he is going away!" cried Christian catching hersister's--"Don't!" cried Christian catching her sister's dress. 

"He would help us, " Greta said reproachfully, "and it would not be sodark if he were here. "

Christian's cheeks were burning. 

"I don't choose, " she said, and began handling the pictures, feelingtheir 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 gohome. In the morning you must come early, when the gate is open, unscrewme 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 comesto our room there will be nobody to answer. We can't lift thesepictures over the gate. One of us must go back; you can climb over thegate--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 littleanimal 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 tellingher 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 youare in bed; you must go to bed here, Chris, so it shall be true afterall. "

Christian threw her arms about her. 

"I am so sorry, darling; I wish I could go instead. But if you have totell 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, "Ithink I will tell it in my way. " She shuddered and went on groping inthe 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 apicture. Her heart throbbed distressfully; at the stir of wind-breathor any distant note of clamour she stopped, and held her breathing. Nosounds came near. She toiled on, trying only to think that she was atthe very spot where last night his arms had been round her. How long agoit seemed! She was full of vague terror, overmastered by the darkness, dreadfully alone. The new glow of resolution seemed suddenly to havedied down in her heart, and left her cold. 

She would never be fit to be his wife, if at the first test her couragefailed! She set her teeth; and suddenly she felt a kind of exultation, as if she too were entering into life, were knowing something withinherself that she had never known before. Her fingers hurt, and the paineven gave pleasure; her cheeks were burning; her breath came fast. Theycould not stop her now! This feverish task in darkness was her baptisminto life. She finished; and rolling the pictures very carefully, tiedthem with cord. She had done something for him! Nobody could take thatfrom her! She had a part of him! This night had made him hers! Theymight do their worst! She lay down on his mattress and soon fellasleep. .. . 

She was awakened by Scruff's tongue against her face. Greta was standingby 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 themorning--I--think it was fun; and O Chris!" she ended with a ruefulgleam 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 setout with their corpse-like burden along the wall-path between the riverand the vines. 

XIX

Hidden by the shade of rose-bushes Greta lay stretched at length, cheekon arm, sleeping the sleep of the unrighteous. Through the flowers thesun flicked her parted lips with kisses, and spilled the withered petalson her. In a denser islet of shade, Scruff lay snapping at a fly. Hishead lolled drowsily in the middle of a snap, and snapped in the middleof a loll. 

At three o'clock Miss Naylor too came out, carrying a basket and pairof scissors. Lifting her skirts to avoid the lakes of water left by thegarden hose, she stopped in front of a rose-bush, and began to snip offthe shrivelled flowers. The little lady's silvered head and thin, brownface sustained the shower of sunlight unprotected, and had a gentledignity 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 havehappened. 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'ssuch 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--thatis--an--an agriculturalist!"

"A farmer with vineyards--he told us, and he is not ashamed. Why is it apity, 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 iswhy, 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 totalk 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 spokeagain:

"Chris said: 'I have got the pictures, I shall tell her'; but I shalltell you instead, because it was I that told the story. "

Miss Naylor stared, wrinkling her nose, and holding the scissors wideapart. .. . 

"Last night, " said Greta slowly, "I and Chris went to his studio andtook his pictures, and so, because the gate was shut, I came back totell it; and when you asked me where Chris was, I told it; because shewas in the studio all night, and I and Scruff sat up all night, and inthe morning we brought the pictures, and hid them under our beds, andthat is why--we--are--so--sleepy. "

Over the rose-bush Miss Naylor peered down at her; and though she wasobliged to stand on tiptoe this did not altogether destroy her dignity. 

"I am surprised at you, Greta; I am surprised at Christian, moresurprised 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, " shemurmured 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 goodbuds, " 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, andgirlish. At a deeper breath from Greta, the little lady put down herbasket, and began to pace the lawn, followed dubiously by Scruff. It wasthus that Christian came on them. 

Miss Naylor slipped her arm into the girl's and though she made nosound, her lips kept opening and shutting, like the beak of a birdcontemplating 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 eversee 'Five Fingers' look so beautiful?" And she pointed to the greatpeaks 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 withclouds about them. They look almost hot and greasy, don't they. .. . Mydear!" she went on, giving Christian's arm a dozen little squeezes, "weall 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 allof 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 bobbedher 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 withthe tip of a polished finger-nail; the room was very cool. She held aletter out. "Your uncle is not coming back tonight. "

Christian took the letter. It was curtly worded, in a thin, topplinghand:

"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 nicetime to catch the train. Give my love to your uncle. You must takeBarbi with you, I insist on that. " She rose from her chair and heldChristian's hand: "My dear! You look very tired--very! Almost ill. Idon't like to see you look like that. Come!" She thrust her pale lipsforward, and kissed the girl's paler cheek. 

Then as Christian left the room she sank back in her chair, withcreases in her forehead, and began languidly to cut a magazine. 'PoorChristian!' she thought, 'how hardly she does take it! I am sorryfor 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 afew minutes they were driving to the station. She made Dominique takethe 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--mymaster is not well; he has terrible pain here; he has a cough; he is notwell 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 themorning 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 SanMartino, and my master went to bed. It was time; I had much trouble withhis clothes, his legs were swollen. In the afternoon came a signorof police, on horseback, red and hot; I persuaded him that we were atPaneveggio, but as we were not, he came back angry--Mon Die! as angryas a cat. It was not good to meet him--when he was with my master I wasoutside. There was much noise. I do not know what passed, but atlast 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 palmof one hand with the finger of the other. "Mr. Treffry made me givehim whisky afterwards, and he had no money to pay the bill--that I knowbecause I paid it. Well, M'mselle, to-day he would be dressed and veryslowly we came as far as Auer; there he could do no more, so went tobed. He is not well at all. "

Christian was overwhelmed by forebodings; the rest of the journey wasmade in silence, except when Barbi, a country girl, filled with thedelirium of railway travel, sighed: "Ach! gnadige Fraulein!" looking atChristian with pleasant eyes. 

At once, on arriving at the little hostel, Christian went to see heruncle. 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 acouch lengthened artificially by chairs; the arm he reached out issuedmany 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 quitethe 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, asdoctors go, but I can't stand his puddin's--slops and puddin's, and allthat trumpery medicine on the top. Send me Dominique, my dear--I'll putmyself to rights a bit!" He fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutchedthe gown together on his chest. "Got this from the landlord. When youcome back we'll have a little talk!"

He was asleep when she came into the room an hour later. Watching hisuneasy breathing, she wondered what it was that he was going to say. 

He looked ill! And suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not ofhim. .. . When she was little he would take her on his back; he had builtcocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slidher between his knees; given her things without number; and taken hispayment 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 wouldonly come the vision of another. 

Mr. Treffry woke suddenly. "Not been asleep, have I? The beds here areinfernal 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 longago; 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 theposition; 'tisn't so much the money; because after all there's alwaysmine--" Christian shook her head. "But, " he went on with shaky emphasis, "there's the difference of blood, and that's a serious thing; andthere's this anarch--this political affair; and there's the sort oflife, 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 whatI think. He's got pluck, he's strong, he's in earnest; but he's got adamned hot temper, he's an egotist, and--he's not the man for you. Ifyou marry him, as sure as I lie here, you'll be sorry for it. You're notyour father's child for nothing; nice fellow as ever lived, but soft asbutter. 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, andstretching out his hand, repeated wistfully: "Take my word for it, mydear, he's not the man for you. "

Christian, staring at the wall beyond, said quietly: "I can't take anyone's word for that. "

"Ah!" muttered Mr. Treffry, "you're obstinate enough, but obstinacyisn't strength. 

"You'll give up everything to him, you'll lick his shoes; and you'llnever play anything but second fiddle in his life. He'll always be firstwith 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 likeit 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; youdon't see! If I do come after his work--if I do give him everything, andhe can't give all back--I don't care! He'll give what he can; I don'twant any more. If you're afraid of the life for me, uncle, if you thinkit'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. IfI 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 anap, " he said. 

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she stole out of the room. 

XX

By a stroke of Fate Mr. Treffry's return to Villa Rubein befell at thepsychological moment when Herr Paul, in a suit of rather too brightblue, was starting for Vienna. 

As soon as he saw the carriage appear between the poplars he became aspensive as a boy caught in the act of stealing cherries. Pitching hishatbox to Fritz, he recovered himself, however, in time to whistle whileMr. Treffry was being assisted into the house. Having forgotten hisanger, he was only anxious now to smooth out its after effects; in theglances he cast at Christian and his brother-in-law there was a kind ofshamed entreaty which seemed to say: "For goodness' sake, don't worry meabout 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, heexclaimed 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. " Thenturning to Christian, he said: "Shake hands, you two!"

Christian looked from one to the other, and at last held out her handto Herr Paul, who brushed it with his moustache, gazing after her as sheleft the room with a queer expression. 

"My dear!" he began, "you support her in this execrable matter? Youforget my position, you make me ridiculous. I have been obliged to go tobed in my own house, absolutely to go to bed, because I was in danger ofbecoming funny. "

"Look here, Paul!" Mr. Treffry said gruffly, "if any one's to bullyChris, 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--inmy opinion it was low to set the police on that young chap; a low, dirtytrick. "

Herr Paul divided his beard carefully in two, took his seat on the veryedge 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--itis very hot weather!--there were drinks at the Kurhaus--I am herguardian--the affair is a very beastly one--there were more drinks--Iwas a little enfin!" He shrugged his shoulders. "Adieu, my dear; I shallbe some time in Vienna; I need rest!" He rose and went to the door; thenhe turned, and waved his cigar. "Adieu! Be good; get well! I willbuy you some cigars up there. " And going out, he shut the door on anypossibility of answer. 

Mr. Treffry lay back amongst his cushions. The clock ticked; pigeonscooed on the veranda; a door opened in the distance, and for a moment atreble voice was heard. Mr. Treffry's head drooped forward; across hisface, 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 feetand reach the bell, but could not, and sat on the side of the couchwith drops of sweat rolling off his forehead, and his hands clawing hischest. There was no sound at all throughout the house. He looked abouthim, and tried to call, but again could not. He tried once more to reachthe 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 thistime!" 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 thebell. 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'thumbug me. "

Dawney bent down, and took his wrist. 

"I don't know how you've got into this state, sir, " he said with thebrusqueness of emotion. "You're in a bad way. It's the old trouble; andyou know what that means as well as I. All I can tell you is, I'm goingto have a big fight with it. It shan't be my fault, there's my hand onthat. "

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 ifI 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 wentout. 

A moment later Greta stole in on tiptoe. She bent over till her hairtouched 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. Papasays 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 toVienna, 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 assmart 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, UncleNic. "

"I've known her longer. "

"Perhaps when you've known me as long as Chris, you shall be as fond ofme. "

"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 threeo'clock. This kiss is for myself, this is for Scruff, and this is forMiss Naylor. "

She stood upright again; a tremulous, joyful gravity was in her eyes andon 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 deadgold of her hair gleamed in the doorway. Mr. Treffry raised himself uponhis 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. 

XXI

After many days of hot, still weather, the wind had come, and whirledthe dust along the parched roads. The leaves were all astir, like tinywings. Round Villa Rubein the pigeons cooed uneasily, all the otherbirds were silent. Late in the afternoon Christian came out on theveranda, reading a letter:

"DEAR CHRIS, --We are here now six days, and it is a very large placewith many churches. In the first place then we have been to a greatmany, but the nicest of them is not St. Stephan's Kirche, it is another, but I do not remember the name. Papa is out nearly all the night; hesays he is resting here, so he is not able to come to the churches withus, but I do not think he rests very much. The day before yesterday we, that is, Papa, I, and Miss Naylor, went to an exhibition of pictures. Itwas quite beautiful and interesting (Miss Naylor says it is not rightto say 'quite' beautiful, but I do not know what other word could mean'quite' except the word 'quite, ' because it is not exceedingly and notextremely). And O Chris! there was one picture painted by him; it wasabout a ship without masts--Miss Naylor says it is a barge, but I do notknow what a barge is--on fire, and, floating down a river in a fog. I think it is extremely beautiful. Miss Naylor says it is veryimpressionistick--what is that? and Papa said 'Puh!' but he did not knowit was painted by Herr Harz, so I did not tell him. 

"There has also been staying at our hotel that Count Sarelli who cameone evening to dinner at our house, but he is gone away now. He sat allday in the winter garden reading, and at night he went out with Papa. Miss Naylor says he is unhappy, but I think he does not take enoughexercise; and O Chris! one day he said to me, 'That is your sister, Mademoiselle, that young lady in the white dress? Does she always wearwhite dresses?' and I said to him: 'It is not always a white dress; inthe picture, it is green, because the picture is called 'Spring. ' ButI did not tell him the colours of all your dresses because he looked sotired. Then he said to me: 'She is very charming. ' So I tell you this, Chris, because I think you shall like to know. Scruff' has a sore toe;it is because he has eaten too much meat. 

"It is not nice without you, Chris, and Miss Naylor says I am improvingmy mind here, but I do not think it shall improve very much, becauseat night I like it always best, when the shops are lighted and thecarriages are driving past; then I am wanting to dance. The first nightPapa said he would take me to the theatre, but yesterday he said it wasnot good for me; perhaps to-morrow he shall think it good for me again. 

"Yesterday we have been in the Prater, and saw many people, and somethat Papa knew; and then came the most interesting part of all, sittingunder the trees in the rain for two hours because we could not get acarriage (very exciting). 

"There is one young lady here, only she is not any longer very young, who knew Papa when he was a boy. I like her very much; she shall soonknow me quite to the bottom and is very kind. 

"The ill husband of Cousin Teresa who went with us to Meran and lost herumbrella and Dr. Edmund was so sorry about it, has been very much worse, so she is not here but in Baden. I wrote to her but have no news, so Ido not know whether he is still living or not, at any rate he can't getwell again so soon (and I don't think he ever shall). I think as theweather is very warm you and Uncle Nic are sitting much out of doors. Iam sending presents to you all in a wooden box and screwed very firm, so you shall have to use again the big screw-driver of Fritz. For AuntConstance, photographs; for Uncle Nic, a green bird on a stand with ahole in the back of the bird to put his ashes in; it is a good green andnot expensif please tell him, because he does not like expensif presents(Miss Naylor says the bird has an inquiring eye--it is a parrat); foryou, a little brooch of turquoise because I like them best; for Dr. Edmund a machine to weigh medicines in because he said he could not geta good one in Botzen; this is a very good one, the shopman told me so, and is the most expensif of all the presents--so that is all my money, except two gulden. If Papa shall give me some more, I shall buy forMiss Naylor a parasol, because it is useful and the handle of hers is'wobbley' (that is one of Dr. Edmund's words and I like it). 

"Good-bye for this time. Greta sends you her kiss. 

"P. S. --Miss Naylor has read all this letter (except about the parasol)and there are several things she did not want me to put, so I havecopied it without the things, but at the last I have kept that copymyself, so that is why this is smudgy and several words are not speltwell, but all the things are here. "

Christian read, smiling, but to finish it was like dropping a talisman, and her face clouded. A sudden draught blew her hair about, and fromwithin, Mr. Treffry's cough mingled with the soughing of the wind;the sky was fast blackening. She went indoors, took a pen and began towrite:

"MY FRIEND, --Why haven't you written to me? It is so, long to wait. Uncle says you are in Italy--it is dreadful not to know for certain. Ifeel you would have written if you could; and I can't help thinking ofall the things that may have happened. I am unhappy. Uncle Nic is ill;he will not confess it, that is his way; but he is very ill. Thoughperhaps you will never see this, I must write down all my thoughts. Sometimes I feel that I am brutal to be always thinking about you, scheming how to be with you again, when he is lying there so ill. Howgood he has always been to me; it is terrible that love should pullone apart so. Surely love should be beautiful, and peaceful, instead offilling me with bitter, wicked thoughts. I love you--and I love him;I feel as if I were torn in two. Why should it be so? Why shouldthe beginning of one life mean the ending of another, one love thedestruction of another? I don't understand. The same spirit makes melove you and him, the same sympathy, the same trust--yet it sometimesseems as if I were a criminal in loving you. You know what he thinks--heis too honest not to have shown you. He has talked to me; he likes youin a way, but you are a foreigner--he says-your life is not my life. 'Heis not the man for you!' Those were his words. And now he doesn'ttalk to me, but when I am in the room he looks at me--that's worse--athousand times; when he talks it rouses me to fight--when it's his eyesonly, I'm a coward at once; I feel I would do anything, anything, onlynot to hurt him. Why can't he see? Is it because he's old and we areyoung? He may consent, but he will never, never see; it will always hurthim. 

"I want to tell you everything; I have had worse thoughts thanthese--sometimes I have thought that I should never have the courage toface the struggle which you have to face. Then I feel quite broken; itis like something giving way in me. Then I think of you, and it is over;but it has been there, and I am ashamed--I told you I was a coward. It'slike the feeling one would have going out into a storm on a dark night, away from a warm fire--only of the spirit not the body--which makes itworse. I had to tell you this; you mustn't think of it again, I meanto fight it away and forget that it has ever been there. But UncleNic--what am I to do? I hate myself because I am young, and he isold and weak--sometimes I seem even to hate him. I have all sorts ofthoughts, and always at the end of them, like a dark hole at the end ofa passage, the thought that I ought to give you up. Ought I? Tell me. I want to know, I want to do what is right; I still want to do that, though sometimes I think I am all made of evil. 

"Do you remember once when we were talking, you said: 'Nature alwayshas an answer for every question; you cannot get an answer from laws, conventions, theories, words, only from Nature. ' What do you say to menow; do you tell me it is Nature to come to you in spite of everything, and so, that it must be right? I think you would; but can it be Natureto do something which will hurt terribly one whom I love and who lovesme? If it is--Nature is cruel. Is that one of the 'lessons of life'?Is that what Aunt Constance means when she says: 'If life were nota paradox, we could not get on at all'? I am beginning to see thateverything has its dark side; I never believed that before. 

"Uncle Nic dreads the life for me; he doesn't understand (how shouldhe?--he has always had money) how life can be tolerable withoutmoney--it is horrible that the accident of money should make suchdifference in our lives. I am sometimes afraid myself, and I can'toutface that fear in him; he sees the shadow of his fear in me--his eyesseem to see everything that is in me now; the eyes of old people are thesaddest things in the world. I am writing like a wretched coward, butyou will never see this letter I suppose, and so it doesn't matter; butif you do, and I pray that you may--well, if I am only worth taking atmy best, I am not worth taking at all. I want you to know the worst ofme--you, and no one else. 

"With Uncle Nic it is not as with my stepfather; his opposition onlymakes me angry, mad, ready to do anything, but with Uncle Nic I feel sobruised--so sore. He said: 'It is not so much the money, because thereis always mine. ' I could never do a thing he cannot bear, and take hismoney, and you would never let me. One knows very little of anything inthe world till trouble comes. You know how it is with flowers and trees;in the early spring they look so quiet and self-contained; then all in amoment they change--I think it must be like that with the heart. I usedto think I knew a great deal, understood why and how things came about;I thought self-possession and reason so easy; now I know nothing. Andnothing in the world matters but to see you and hide away from that lookin Uncle Nic's eyes. Three months ago I did not know you, now I writelike this. Whatever I look at, I try to see as you would see; I feel, now you are away even more than when you were with me, what yourthoughts would be, how you would feel about this or that. Some thingsyou have said seem always in my mind like lights--"

A slanting drift of rain was striking the veranda tiles with a cold, ceaseless hissing. Christian shut the window, and went into her uncle'sroom. 

He was lying with closed eyes, growling at Dominique, who moved aboutnoiselessly, putting the room ready for the night. When he had finished, and with a compassionate bow had left the room, Mr. Treffry opened hiseyes, and said:

"This is beastly stuff of the doctor's, Chris, it puts my monkey up;I can't help swearing after I've taken it; it's as beastly as a vulgarwoman's laugh, and I don't know anything beastlier than that!"

"I have a letter from Greta, Uncle Nic; shall I read it?"

He nodded, and Christian read the letter, leaving out the mention ofHarz, and for some undefined reason the part about Sarelli. 

"Ay!" said Mr. Treffry with a feeble laugh, "Greta and her money! Sendher some more, Chris. Wish I were a youngster again; that's a beast ofa proverb about a dog and his day. I'd like to go fishing again in theWest Country! A fine time we had when we were youngsters. You don'tget such times these days. 'Twasn't often the fishing-smacks went outwithout us. We'd watch their lights from our bedroom window; when theywere swung aboard we were out and down to the quay before you couldsay 'knife. ' They always waited for us; but your Uncle Dan was thefavourite, he was the chap for luck. When I get on my legs, we mightgo down there, you and I? For a bit, just to see? What d'you say, oldgirl?"

Their eyes met. 

"I'd like to look at the smack lights going to sea on a dark night;pity you're such a duffer in a boat--we might go out with them. Do you apower of good! You're not looking the thing, my dear. "

His voice died wistfully, and his glance, sweeping her face, rested onher hands, which held and twisted Greta's letter. After a minute or twoof silence he boomed out again with sudden energy:

"Your aunt'll want to come and sit with me, after dinner; don't lether, Chris, I can't stand it. Tell her I'm asleep--the doctor'll be heredirectly; ask him to make up some humbug for you--it's his business. "

He was seized by a violent fit of pain which seemed to stab his breathaway, and when it was over signed that he would be left alone. Christianwent back to her letter in the other room, and had written these words, when the gong summoned her to dinner:

"I'm like a leaf in the wind, I put out my hand to one thing, and it'sseized and twisted and flung aside. I want you--I want you; if I couldsee you I think I should know what to do--"

XXII

The rain drove with increasing fury. The night was very black. NicholasTreffry slept heavily. By the side of his bed the night-lamp cast on tothe opposite wall a bright disc festooned by the hanging shadow of theceiling. Christian was leaning over him. For the moment he filled allher heart, lying there, so helpless. Fearful of waking him she slippedinto the sitting-room. Outside the window stood a man with his facepressed to the pane. Her heart thumped; she went up and unlatched thewindow. It was Harz, with the rain dripping off him. He let fall his hatand cape. 

"You!" she said, touching his sleeve. "You! You!"

He was sodden with wet, his face drawn and tired; a dark growth of beardcovered his cheeks and chin. 

"Where is your uncle?" he said; "I want to see him. "

She put her hand up to his lips, but he caught it and covered it withkisses. 

"He's asleep--ill--speak gently!"

"I came to him first, " he muttered. 

Christian lit the lamp; and he looked at her hungrily without a word. 

"It's not possible to go on like this; I came to tell your uncle so. He is a man. As for the other, I want to have nothing to do with him! Icame back on foot across the mountains. It's not possible to go on likethis, Christian. "

She handed him her letter. He held it to the light, clearing his browof raindrops. When he had read to the last word he gave it her back, andwhispered: "Come!"

Her lips moved, but she did not speak. 

"While this goes on I can't work; I can do nothing. I can't--I won'tbargain with my work; if it's to be that, we had better end it. Whatare we waiting for? Sooner or later we must come to this. I'm sorry thathe's ill, God knows! But that changes nothing. To wait is tying me handand foot--it's making me afraid! Fear kills! It will kill you! It killswork, and I must work, I can't waste time--I won't! I will sooner giveyou up. " He put his hands on her shoulders. "I love you! I want you!Look in my eyes and see if you dare hold back!"

Christian stood with the grip of his strong hands on her shoulders, without a movement or sign. Her face was very white. And suddenly hebegan to kiss that pale, still face, to kiss its eyes and lips, to kissit from its chin up to its hair; and it stayed pale, as a white flower, beneath those kisses--as a white flower, whose stalk the fingers bendback a little. 

There was a sound of knocking on the wall; Mr. Treffry called feebly. Christian broke away from Harz. 

"To-morrow!" he whispered, and picking up his hat and cloak, went outagain into the rain. 

XXIII

It was not till morning that Christian fell into a troubled sleep. She dreamed that a voice was calling her, and she was filled with ahelpless, dumb dream terror. 

When she woke the light was streaming in; it was Sunday, and thecathedral bells were chiming. Her first thought was of Harz. One step, one moment of courage! Why had she not told her uncle? If he had onlyasked! But why--why should she tell him? When it was over and she wasgone, he would see that all was for the best. 

Her eyes fell on Greta's empty bed. She sprang up, and bending over, kissed the pillow. 'She will mind at first; but she's so young! Nobodywill really miss me, except Uncle Nic!' She stood along while in thewindow without moving. When she was dressed she called out to her maid:

"Bring me some milk, Barbi; I'm going to church. "

"Ach! gnadiges Fraulein, will you no breakfast have?"

"No thank you, Barbi. "

"Liebes Fraulein, what a beautiful morning after the rain it has become!How cool! It is for you good--for the colour in your cheeks; now theywill bloom again!" and Barbi stroked her own well-coloured cheeks. 

Dominique, sunning himself outside with a cloth across his arm, bowed asshe passed, and smiled affectionately:

"He is better this morning, M'mselle. We march--we are getting on. Goodnews will put the heart into you. "

Christian thought: 'How sweet every one is to-day!'

Even the Villa seemed to greet her, with the sun aslant on it; and thetrees, trembling and weeping golden tears. At the cathedral she wasearly for the service, but here and there were figures on their knees;the faint, sickly odour of long-burnt incense clung in the air; a priestmoved silently at the far end. She knelt, and when at last she rose theservice had begun. With the sound of the intoning a sense of peace cameto her--the peace of resolution. For good or bad she felt that she hadfaced her fate. 

She went out with a look of quiet serenity and walked home along thedyke. Close to Harz's studio she sat down. Now--it was her own; all thathad belonged to him, that had ever had a part in him. 

An old beggar, who had been watching her, came gently from behind. "Gracious lady!" he said, peering at her eyes, "this is the lucky dayfor you. I have lost my luck. "

Christian opened her purse, there was only one coin in it, a gold piece;the beggar's eyes sparkled. 

She thought suddenly: 'It's no longer mine; I must begin to be careful, 'but she felt ashamed when she looked at the old man. 

"I am sorry, " she said; "yesterday I would have given you this, but--butnow it's already given. "

He seemed so old and poor--what could she give him? She unhooked alittle silver brooch at her throat. "You will get something for that, "she said; "it's better than nothing. I am very sorry you are so old andpoor. "

The beggar crossed himself. "Gracious lady, " he muttered, "may you neverwant!"

Christian hurried on; the rustling of leaves soon carried the wordsaway. She did not feel inclined to go in, and crossing the bridge beganto climb the hill. There was a gentle breeze, drifting the clouds acrossthe sun; lizards darted out over the walls, looked at her, and whiskedaway. 

The sunshine, dappling through the tops of trees, gashed down on atorrent. The earth smelt sweet, the vineyards round the white farmsglistened; everything seemed to leap and dance with sap and life; it wasa moment of Spring in midsummer. Christian walked on, wondering at herown happiness. 

'Am I heartless?' she thought. 'I am going to leave him--I am going intolife; I shall have to fight now, there'll be no looking back. '

The path broke away and wound down to the level of the torrent; on theother side it rose again, and was lost among trees. The woods were dank;she hastened home. 

In her room she began to pack, sorting and tearing up old letters. 'Onlyone thing matters, ' she thought; 'singleness of heart; to see your way, and keep to it with all your might. '

She looked up and saw Barbi standing before her with towels in herhands, and a scared face. 

"Are you going a journey, gnadiges Fraulein?"

"I am going away to be married, Barbi, " said Christian at last; "don'tspeak of it to any one, please. "

Barbi leant a little forward with the towels clasped to the blue cottonbosom of her dress. 

"No, no! I will not speak. But, dear Fraulein, that is a big matter;have you well thought?"

"Thought, Barbi? Have I not!"

"But, dear Fraulein, will you be rich?"

"No! I shall be as poor as you. "

"Ach! dear God! that is terrible. Katrina, my sister, she is married;she tells me all her life; she tells me it is very hard, and but for themoney in her stocking it would be harder. Dear Fraulein, think again!And is he good? Sometimes they are not good. "

"He is good, " said Christian, rising; "it is all settled!" and shekissed Barbi on the cheek. 

"You are crying, liebes Fraulein! Think yet again, perhaps it is notquite all settled; it is not possible that a maiden should not a way outleave?"

Christian smiled. "I don't do things that way, Barbi. "

Barbi hung the towels on the horse, and crossed herself. 

XXIV

Mr. Treffry's gaze was fixed on a tortoise-shell butterfly flutteringround the ceiling. The insect seemed to fascinate him, as things whichmove quickly always fascinate the helpless. Christian came softly in. 

"Couldn't stay in bed, Chris, " he called out with an air of guilt. "Theheat was something awful. The doctor piped off in a huff, just becauseo' this. " He motioned towards a jug of claret-cup and a pipe on thetable by his elbow. "I was only looking at 'em. "

Christian, sitting down beside him, took up a fan. 

"If I could get out of this heat--" he said, and closed his eyes. 

'I must tell him, ' she thought; 'I can't slink away. '

"Pour me out some of that stuff, Chris. "

She reached for the jug. Yes! She must tell him! Her heart sank. 

Mr. Treffry took a lengthy draught. "Broken my promise; don'tmatter--won't hurt any one but me. " He took up the pipe and pressedtobacco into it. "I've been lying here with this pain going rightthrough me, and never a smoke! D'you tell me anything the parsons saycan do me half the good of this pipe?" He leaned back, steeped in aluxury of satisfaction. He went on, pursuing a private train of thought:"Things have changed a lot since my young days. When I was a youngster, a young fellow had to look out for peck and perch--he put the future inhis pocket. He did well or not, according as he had stuff in him. Nowhe's not content with that, it seems--trades on his own opinion ofhimself; thinks he is what he says he's going to be. "

"You are unjust, " said Christian. 

Mr. Treffry grunted. "Ah, well! I like to know where I am. If I lendmoney to a man, I like to know whether he's going to pay it back; I maynot care whether he does or not, but I like to know. The same with otherthings. I don't care what a man has--though, mind you, Chris, it's nota bad rule that measures men by the balance at their banks; but when itcomes to marriage, there's a very simple rule, What's not enough for oneis not enough for two. You can't talk black white, or bread into yourmouth. I don't care to speak about myself, as you know, Chris, but Itell you this--when I came to London I wanted to marry--I hadn't anymoney, and I had to want. When I had the money--but that's neither herenor there!" He frowned, fingering his pipe. 

"I didn't ask her, Chris; I didn't think it the square thing; it seemsthat's out of fashion!"

Christian's cheeks were burning. 

"I think a lot while I lie here, " Mr. Treffry went on; "nothing muchelse to do. What I ask myself is this: What do you know about what'sbest for you? What do you know of life? Take it or leave it, life'snot all you think; it's give and get all the way, a fair start iseverything. "

Christian thought: 'Will he never see?'

Mr. Treffry went on:

"I get better every day, but I can't last for ever. It's not pleasant tolie here and know that when I'm gone there'll be no one to keep a handon the check string!"

"Don't talk like that, dear!" Christian murmured. 

"It's no use blinking facts, Chris. I've lived a long time in the world;I've seen things pretty well as they are; and now there's not much leftfor me to think about but you. "

"But, Uncle, if you loved him, as I do, you couldn't tell me to beafraid! It's cowardly and mean to be afraid. You must have forgotten!"

Mr. Treffry closed his eyes. 

"Yes, " he said; "I'm old. "

The fan had dropped into Christian's lap; it rested on her white frocklike a large crimson leaf; her eyes were fixed on it. 

Mr. Treffry looked at her. "Have you heard from him?" he asked withsudden intuition. 

"Last night, in that room, when you thought I was talking toDominique--"

The pipe fell from his hand. 

"What!" he stammered: "Back?"

Christian, without looking up, said:

"Yes, he's back; he wants me--I must go to him, Uncle. "

There was a long silence. 

"You must go to him?" he repeated. 

She longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, thatto move seemed impossible; she remained silent, with folded hands. 

Mr. Treffry spoke:

"You'll let me know--before--you--go. Goodnight!"

Christian stole out into the passage. A bead curtain rustled in thedraught; voices reached her. 

"My honour is involved, or I would give the case up. "

"He is very trying, poor Nicholas! He always had that peculiar qualityof opposition; it has brought him to grief a hundred times. There isopposition in our blood; my family all have it. My eldest brother diedof it; with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took theform of doing the right thing in the wrong place. It is a matter oftemperament, you see. You must have patience. "

"Patience, " repeated Dawney's voice, "is one thing; patience where thereis responsibility is another. I've not had a wink of sleep these lasttwo nights. "

There was a faint, shrill swish of silk. 

"Is he so very ill?"

Christian held her breath. The answer came at last. 

"Has he made his will? With this trouble in the side again, I tell youplainly, Mrs. Decie, there's little or no chance. "

Christian put her hands up to her ears, and ran out into the air. Whatwas she about to do, then--to leave him dying!

XXV

On the following day Harz was summoned to the Villa. Mr. Treffry hadjust risen, and was garbed in a dressing-suit, old and worn, which had acertain air of magnificence. His seamed cheeks were newly shaved. 

"I hope I see you well, " he said majestically. 

Thinking of the drive and their last parting, Harz felt sorry andashamed. Suddenly Christian came into the room; she stood for a momentlooking at him; then sat down. 

"Chris!" said Mr. Treffry reproachfully. She shook her head, and did notmove; mournful and intent, her eyes seemed full of secret knowledge. 

Mr. Treffry spoke:

"I've no right to blame you, Mr. Harz, and Chris tells me you cameto see me first, which is what I would have expected of you; but youshouldn't have come back. "

"I came back, sir, because I found I was obliged. I must speak out. "

"I ask nothing better, " Mr. Treffry replied. 

Harz looked again at Christian; but she made no sign, sitting with herchin resting on her hands. 

"I have come for her, " he said; "I can make my living--enough for bothof us. But I can't wait. "

"Why?"

Harz made no answer. 

Mr. Treffry boomed out again: "Why? Isn't she worth waiting for? Isn'tshe worth serving for?"

"I can't expect you to understand me, " the painter said. "My art is mylife to me. Do you suppose that if it wasn't I should ever have left myvillage; or gone through all that I've gone through, to get as far evenas I am? You tell me to wait. If my thoughts and my will aren't free, how can I work? I shan't be worth my salt. You tell me to go back toEngland--knowing she is here, amongst you who hate me, a thousandmiles away. I shall know that there's a death fight going on in her andoutside her against me--you think that I can go on working under theseconditions. Others may be able, I am not. That's the plain truth. If Iloved her less--"

There was a silence, then Mr. Treffry said:

"It isn't fair to come here and ask what you're asking. You don't knowwhat's in the future for you, you don't know that you can keep a wife. It isn't pleasant, either, to think you can't hold up your head in yourown country. "

Harz turned white. 

"Ah! you bring that up again!" he broke out. "Seven years ago I was aboy and starving; if you had been in my place you would have done what Idid. My country is as much to me as your country is to you. I've beenan exile seven years, I suppose I shall always be I've had punishmentenough; but if you think I am a rascal, I'll go and give myself up. " Heturned on his heel. 

"Stop! I beg your pardon! I never meant to hurt you. It isn't easy forme to eat my words, " Mr. Treffry said wistfully, "let that count forsomething. " He held out his hand. 

Harz came quickly back and took it. Christian's gaze was never for amoment withdrawn; she seemed trying to store up the sight of him withinher. The light darting through the half-closed shutters gave her eyesa strange, bright intensity, and shone in the folds of her white dresslike the sheen of birds' wings. 

Mr. Treffry glanced uneasily about him. "God knows I don't want anythingbut her happiness, " he said. "What is it to me if you'd murdered yourmother? It's her I'm thinking of. "

"How can you tell what is happiness to her? You have your own ideas ofhappiness--not hers, not mine. You can't dare to stop us, sir!"

"Dare?" said Mr. Treffry. "Her father gave her over to me when she wasa mite of a little thing; I've known her all her life. I've--I've lovedher--and you come here with your 'dare'!" His hand dragged at his beard, and shook as though palsied. 

A look of terror came into Christian's face. 

"All right, Chris! I don't ask for quarter, and I don't give it!"

Harz made a gesture of despair. 

"I've acted squarely by you, sir, " Mr. Treffry went on, "I ask the sameof you. I ask you to wait, and come like an honest man, when you cansay, 'I see my way--here's this and that for her. ' What makes this artyou talk of different from any other call in life? It doesn't alterfacts, or give you what other men have no right to expect. It doesn'tput grit into you, or keep your hands clean, or prove that two and twomake five. "

Harz answered bitterly:

"You know as much of art as I know of money. If we live a thousand yearswe shall never understand each other. I am doing what I feel is best forboth of us. "

Mr. Treffry took hold of the painter's sleeve. 

"I make you an offer, " he said. "Your word not to see or write to herfor a year! Then, position or not, money or no money, if she'll haveyou, I'll make it right for you. "

"I could not take your money. "

A kind of despair seemed suddenly to seize on Mr. Nicholas Treffry. Herose, and stood towering over them. 

"All my life--" he said; but something seemed to click deep down in histhroat, and he sank back in his seat. 

"Go!" whispered Christian, "go!" But Mr. Treffry found his voice again:"It's for the child to say. Well, Chris!"

Christian did not speak. 

It was Harz who broke the silence. He pointed to Mr. Treffry. 

"You know I can't tell you to come with--that, there. Why did you sendfor me?" And, turning, he went out. 

Christian sank on her knees, burying her face in her hands. Mr. Treffrypressed his handkerchief with a stealthy movement to his mouth. It wasdyed crimson with the price of his victory. 

XXVI

A telegram had summoned Herr Paul from Vienna. He had started forthwith, leaving several unpaid accounts to a more joyful opportunity, amongstthem a chemist's bill, for a wonderful quack medicine of which hebrought six bottles. 

He came from Mr. Treffry's room with tears rolling down his cheeks, saying:

"Poor Nicholas! Poor Nicholas! Il n'a pas de chance!"

It was difficult to find any one to listen; the women were scared andsilent, waiting for the orders that were now and then whispered throughthe door. Herr Paul could not bear this silence, and talked to hisservant for half an hour, till Fritz also vanished to fetch somethingfrom the town. Then in despair Herr Paul went to his room. 

It was hard not to be allowed to help--it was hard to wait! When theheart was suffering, it was frightful! He turned and, looking furtivelyabout him, lighted a cigar. Yes, it came to every one--at some time orother; and what was it, that death they talked of? Was it any worse thanlife? That frightful jumble people made for themselves! Poor Nicholas!After all, it was he that had the luck!

His eyes filled with tears, and drawing a penknife from his pocket, he began to stab it into the stuffing of his chair. Scruff, who satwatching the chink of light under the door, turned his head, blinked athim, and began feebly tapping with a claw. 

It was intolerable, this uncertainty--to be near, and yet so far, wasnot endurable!

Herr Paul stepped across the room. The dog, following, threw hisblack-marked muzzle upwards with a gruff noise, and went back to thedoor. His master was holding in his hand a bottle of champagne. 

Poor Nicholas! He had chosen it. Herr Paul drained a glass. 

Poor Nicholas! The prince of fellows, and of what use was one? They kepthim away from Nicholas!

Herr Paul's eyes fell on the terrier. "Ach! my dear, " he said, "you andI, we alone are kept away!"

He drained a second glass. 

What was it? This life! Froth-like that! He tossed off a third glass. Forget! If one could not help, it was better to forget!

He put on his hat. Yes. There was no room for him there! He was notwanted!

He finished the bottle, and went out into the passage. Scruff ran andlay down at Mr. Treffry's door. Herr Paul looked at him. "Ach!" he said, tapping his chest, "ungrateful hound!" And opening the front door hewent out on tiptoe. .. . 

Late that afternoon Greta stole hatless through the lilac bushes; shelooked tired after her night journey, and sat idly on a chair in thespeckled shadow of a lime-tree. 

'It is not like home, ' she thought; 'I am unhappy. Even the birds aresilent, but perhaps that is because it is so hot. I have never beensad like this--for it is not fancy that I am sad this time, as it issometimes. It is in my heart like the sound the wind makes through awood, it feels quite empty in my heart. If it is always like this to beunhappy, then I am sorry for all the unhappy things in the world; I amsorrier than I ever was before. '

A shadow fell on the grass, she raised her eyes, and saw Dawney. 

"Dr. Edmund!" she whispered. 

Dawney turned to her; a heavy furrow showed between his brows. His eyes, always rather close together, stared painfully. 

"Dr. Edmund, " Greta whispered, "is it true?"

He took her hand, and spread his own palm over it. 

"Perhaps, " he said; "perhaps not. We must hope. "

Greta looked up, awed. 

"They say he is dying. "

"We have sent for the best man in Vienna. "

Greta shook her head. 

"But you are clever, Dr. Edmund; and you are afraid. "

"He is brave, " said Dawney; "we must all be brave, you know. You too!"

"Brave?" repeated Greta; "what is it to be brave? If it is not to cryand make a fuss--that I can do. But if it is not to be sad in here, " shetouched her breast, "that I cannot do, and it shall not be any good forme to try. "

"To be brave is to hope; don't give up hope, dear. "

"No, " said Greta, tracing the pattern of the sunlight on her skirt. "ButI think that when we hope, we are not brave, because we are expectingsomething for ourselves. Chris says that hope is prayer, and if it isprayer, then all the time we are hoping, we are asking for something, and it is not brave to ask for things. "

A smile curved Dawney's mouth. 

"Go on, Philosopher!" he said. "Be brave in your own way, it will bejust as good as anybody else's. "

"What are you going to do to be brave, Dr. Edmund?"

"I? Fight! If only we had five years off his life!"

Greta watched him as he walked away. 

"I shall never be brave, " she mourned; "I shall always be wanting to behappy. " And, kneeling down, she began to disentangle a fly, imprisonedin a cobweb. A plant of hemlock had sprung up in the long grass by herfeet. Greta thought, dismayed: 'There are weeds!'

It seemed but another sign of the death of joy. 

'But it's very beautiful, ' she thought, 'the blossoms are like stars. Iam not going to pull it up. I will leave it; perhaps it will spread allthrough the garden; and if it does I do not care, for now things are notlike they used to be and I do not, think they ever shall be again. '

XXVII

The days went by; those long, hot days, when the heat haze swimsup about ten of the forenoon, and, as the sun sinks level with themountains, melts into golden ether which sets the world quivering withsparkles. 

At the lighting of the stars those sparkles die, vanishing one by oneoff the hillsides; evening comes flying down the valleys, and life restsunder her cool wings. The night falls; and the hundred little voices ofthe night arise. 

It was near grape-gathering, and in the heat the fight for NicholasTreffry's life went on, day in, day out, with gleams of hope and momentsof despair. Doctors came, but after the first he refused to see them. 

"No, " he said to Dawney--"throwing away money. If I pull through itwon't be because of them. "

For days together he would allow no one but Dawney, Dominique, and thepaid nurse in the room. 

"I can stand it better, " he said to Christian, "when I don't see any ofyou; 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 bedinto a corner so that he might face the wall. There he would lie forhours together, not speaking a word, except to ask for drink. 

Sometimes Christian crept in unnoticed, and sat watching, with her armstightly folded across her breast. At night, after Greta was asleep, she would toss from side to side, muttering feverish prayers. She spenthours at her little table in the schoolroom, writing letters to Harzthat were never sent. Once she wrote these words: "I am the most wickedof all creatures--I have even wished that he may die!" A few minutesafterwards Miss Naylor found her with her head buried on her arms. Christian sprang up; tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Don't touchme!" she cried, and rushed away. Later, she stole into her uncle'sroom, and sank down on the floor beside the bed. She sat there silently, unnoticed all the evening. When night came she could hardly be persuadedto leave the room. 

One day Mr. Treffry expressed a wish to see Herr Paul; it was a longwhile 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 tome. "

Herr Paul stood by the bedside speechless. Suddenly he blurted out. 

"Ah! my dear! Courage! We are all mortal. You will get well!" All themorning he walked about quite inconsolable. "It was frightful to seehim, you know, frightful! An iron man could not have borne it. "

When Christian came to him, Mr. Treffry raised himself and looked at hera long while. 

His wistful face was like an accusation. But that very afternoon thenews came from the sickroom that he was better, having had no pain forseveral hours. 

Every one went about with smiles lurking in their eyes, and ready tobreak 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 castingforth the last drops in libation. An order was given for tea to betaken out under the acacias, where it was always cool; it was felt thatsomething in the nature of high festival was being held. Even Herr Paulwas present; but Christian did not come. Nobody spoke of illness; tomention 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 heis quite respectable. His coat is buttoned very close, and he--doesn'tseem--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 hasvery--high--boots, " but Greta was already on her way, with hands claspedbehind 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 tendencyto 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 amvery sorry to hear that. 

"I would be glad to speak a few words to your sister, if it is yoursister 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 afriend of his, you will please come and have some tea, and while you arehaving 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 Gretaarrived considerably before him. 

"It is a friend of Herr Harz, " she whispered; "he will drink coffee. Iam 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 forChristian'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 takea great interest in art, and especially in that school which Mr. Harzrepresents. "

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 sitdown! 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 pictureshere. 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 couldgive 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 fromit. 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. .. . " Hestopped; her white face seemed to flash scorn, despair, and entreaty onhim all at once. And turning, she left him standing there. 

XXVIII

When Christian went that evening to her uncle's room he was sitting upin bed, and at once began to talk. "Chris, " he said, "I can't stand thisdying by inches. I'm going to try what a journey'll do for me. I wantto get back to the old country. The doctor's promised. There's a shotin the locker yet! I believe in that young chap; he's stuck to me likea man. .. . It'll be your birthday, on Tuesday, old girl, and you'll betwenty. Seventeen years since your father died. You've been a lot tome. .. . 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 anythingin 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 ofMr. Harz with this damned pitifulness of mine. You've a right to look atme as I've seen you sometimes when you thought I was asleep. If I hadn'tbeen 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 therun-in. Don't cry! Our minds aren't Sunday-school books; you're findingit out, that's all!" He sighed and turned away. 

The noise of sun-blinds being raised vibrated through the house. Afeeling of terror seized on the girl; he lay so still, and yet thedrawing of each breath was a fight. If she could only suffer in hisplace! She went close, and bent over him. 

"It's air we want, both you and I!" he muttered. Christian beckoned tothe nurse, and stole out through the window. 

A regiment was passing in the road; she stood half-hidden amongst thelilac bushes watching. The poplar leaves drooped lifeless and almostblack above her head, the dust raised by the soldiers' feet hung inthe air; it seemed as if in all the world no freshness and no life werestirring. The tramp of feet died away. Suddenly within arm's length ofher a man appeared, his stick shouldered like a sword. He raised hishat. 

"Good-evening! You do not remember me? Sarelli. Pardon! You looked likea ghost standing there. How badly those fellows marched! We hang, yousee, on the skirts of our profession and criticise; it is all we are fitfor. " His black eyes, restless and malevolent like a swan's, seemed tostab her face. "A fine evening! Too hot. The storm is wanted; you feelthat? It is weary waiting for the storm; but after the storm, my dearyoung lady, comes peace. " He smiled, gently, this time, and baring hishead again, was lost to view in the shadow of the trees. 

His figure had seemed to Christian like the sudden vision of athreatening, hidden force. She thrust out her hands, as though to keepit 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 lowtones. To hear their voices brought back the touch of this world ofeveryday 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 bya light flashed in his eyes. Christian was standing there, her face paleand 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 waveredbetween life and death. When it had ceased, he sank into a sort ofstupor. About six o'clock he came back to consciousness; watching hiseyes, they could see a mental struggle taking place within him. At lasthe 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 itthrough--but here's the end. " He lifted his hand ever so little, and letit fall again. When told a little later that a telegram had been sent toHarz his eyes expressed satisfaction. 

Herr Paul came down in ignorance of the night's events. He stopped infront of the barometer and tapped it, remarking to Miss Naylor: "Theglass has gone downstairs; we shall have cool weather--it will still gowell with him!"

When, with her brown face twisted by pity and concern, she told him thatit was a question of hours, Herr Paul turned first purple, thenpale, and sitting down, trembled violently. "I cannot believe it, " heexclaimed almost angrily. "Yesterday he was so well! I cannot believeit! 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, andstriking at his forehead, "it is too terrible; only yesterday he spoketo 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 ofcolour 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 hisback against it. Ugh! Death! It came to all! Some day it would come tohim. 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 eveningfaint tremblings were felt at intervals, as from the shock of immenselydistant earthquakes. 

Nobody went to bed that night, but in the morning the report was thesame: "Unconscious--a question of hours. " Once only did he recoverconsciousness, and then asked for Harz. A telegram had come from him, he was on the way. Towards seven of the evening the long-expectedstorm broke in a sky like ink. Into the valleys and over the crests ofmountains it seemed as though an unseen hand were spilling gobletsof pale wine, darting a sword-blade zigzag over trees, roofs, spires, peaks, into the very firmament, which answered every thrust withgreat bursts of groaning. Just beyond the veranda Greta saw a glowwormshining, as it might be a tiny bead of the fallen lightning. Soon therain covered everything. Sometimes a jet of light brought the hilltops, towering, dark, and hard, over the house, to disappear again behind theraindrops and shaken leaves. Each breath drawn by the storm was like theclash of a thousand cymbals; and in his room Mr. Treffry lay unconsciousof its fury. 

Greta had crept in unobserved; and sat curled in a corner, with Scruffin her arms, rocking slightly to and fro. When Christian passed, shecaught 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 hertears 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 diedaway, but very far off the thunder was still muttering. 

His eyes opened once more, rested on her, and passed beyond, into thatabyss dividing youth from age, conviction from conviction, life fromdeath. 

At the foot of the bed Dawney stood covering his face; behind himDominique knelt with hands held upwards; the sound of Greta's breathing, soft in sleep, rose and fell in the stillness. 

XXIX

One afternoon in March, more than three years after Mr. Treffry's death, Christian was sitting at the window of a studio in St. John's Wood. The sky was covered with soft, high clouds, through which shone littlegleams of blue. Now and then a bright shower fell, sprinkling the trees, where every twig was curling upwards as if waiting for the gift of itsnew leaves. And it seemed to her that the boughs thickened and buddedunder her very eyes; a great concourse of sparrows had gathered on thoseboughs, and kept raising a shrill chatter. Over at the far side of theroom Harz was working at a picture. 

On Christian's face was the quiet smile of one who knows that shehas only to turn her eyes to see what she wishes to see; of one whosepossessions are safe under her hand. She looked at Harz with thatpossessive smile. But as into the brain of one turning in his bed grimfancies will suddenly leap up out of warm nothingness, so there leapedinto her mind the memory of that long ago dawn, when he had found herkneeling by Mr. Treffry's body. She seemed to see again the dead face, so gravely quiet, and furrowless. She seemed to see her lover andherself setting forth silently along the river wall where they hadfirst met; sitting down, still silent, beneath the poplar-tree where thelittle bodies of the chafers had lain strewn in the Spring. To see thetrees changing from black to grey, from grey to green, and in the darksky long white lines of cloud, lighting to the south like birds; and, very far away, rosy peaks watching the awakening of the earth. And nowonce again, after all that time, she felt her spirit shrink away fromhis; as it had shrunk in that hour, when she had seemed hateful toherself. She remembered the words she had spoken: "I have no heart left. You've torn it in two between you. Love is all self--I wanted him todie. " She remembered too the raindrops on the vines like a million tinylamps, and the throstle that began singing. Then, as dreams die out intowarm nothingness, recollection vanished, and the smile came back to herlips. 

She took out a letter. 

". .. . O Chris! We are really coming; I seem to be always telling it tomyself, and I have told Scruff many times, but he does not care, becausehe is getting old. Miss Naylor says we shall arrive for breakfast, andthat we shall be hungry, but perhaps she will not be very hungry, if itis rough. Papa said to me: 'Je serai inconsolable, mais inconsolable!'But I think he will not be, because he is going to Vienna. When we arecome, there will be nobody at Villa Rubein; Aunt Constance has gone afortnight ago to Florence. There is a young man at her hotel; she sayshe will be one of the greatest playwriters in England, and she sent me aplay of his to read; it was only a little about love, I did not like itvery much. .. . O Chris! I think I shall cry when I see you. As I am quitegrown up, Miss Naylor is not to come back with me; sometimes she is sad, but she will be glad to see you, Chris. She seems always sadder when itis Spring. Today I walked along the wall; the little green balls of woolare growing on the poplars already, and I saw one chafer; it will not belong before the cherry blossom comes; and I felt so funny, sad and happytogether, and once I thought that I had wings and could fly away up thevalley to Meran--but I had none, so I sat on the bench where we sat theday we took the pictures, and I thought and thought; there was nothingcame to me in my thoughts, but all was sweet and a little noisy, andrather sad; it was like the buzzing of the chafer, in my head; and now Ifeel so tired and all my blood is running up and down me. I do not mind, because I know it is the Spring. 

"Dominique came to see us the other day; he is very well, and is halfthe proprietor of the Adler Hotel, at Meran; he is not at all different, and he asked about you and about Alois--do you know, Chris, to myself Icall him Herr Harz, but when I have seen him this time I shall call himAlois in my heart also. 

"I have a letter from Dr. Edmund; he is in London, so perhaps you haveseen him, only he has a great many patients and some that he has 'hopesof killing soon'! especially one old lady, because she is always wantinghim to do things for her, and he is never saying 'No, ' so he does notlike her. He says that he is getting old. When I have finished thisletter I am going to write and tell him that perhaps he shall see mesoon, and then I think he will be very sad. Now that the Spring is comethere are more flowers to take to Uncle Nic's grave, and every day, whenI am gone, Barbi is to take them so that he shall not miss you, Chris, because all the flowers I put there are for you. 

"I am buying some toys without paint on for my niece. 

"O Chris! this will be the first baby that I have known. 

"I am only to stay three weeks with you, but I think when I am oncethere I shall be staying longer. I send a kiss for my niece, and to HerrHarz, my love--that is the last time I shall call him Herr Harz; and toyou, Chris, all the joy that is in my heart. --Your loving

"GRETA. "

Christian rose, and, turning very softly, stood, leaning her elbows onthe back of a high seat, looking at her husband. 

In her eyes there was a slow, clear, faintly smiling, yet yearning look, as though this strenuous figure bent on its task were seen for a momentas something apart, and not all the world to her. 

"Tired?" asked Harz, putting his lips to her hand. 

"No, it's only--what Greta says about the Spring; it makes one want morethan one has got. "

Slipping her hand away, she went back to the window. Harz stood, lookingafter her; then, taking up his palette, again began painting. 

In the world, outside, the high soft clouds flew by; the trees seemedthickening and budding. 

And Christian thought:

'Can we never have quite enough?'

December 1890. 

TO

MY FATHER

A MAN OF DEVON

I

"MOOR, 20th July. 

. .. . It is quiet here, sleepy, rather--a farm is never quiet; the sea, too, is only a quarter of a mile away, and when it's windy, the soundof it travels up the combe; for distraction, you must go four miles toBrixham or five to Kingswear, and you won't find much then. The farmlies in a sheltered spot, scooped, so to speak, high up the combeside--behind is a rise of fields, and beyond, a sweep of down. You havethe feeling of being able to see quite far, which is misleading, asyou soon find out if you walk. It is true Devon country-hills, hollows, hedge-banks, lanes dipping down into the earth or going up like thesides of houses, coppices, cornfields, and little streams whereverthere's a place for one; but the downs along the cliff, all gorse andferns, are wild. The combe ends in a sandy cove with black rock on oneside, pinkish cliffs away to the headland on the other, and a coastguardstation. Just now, with the harvest coming on, everything looks itsrichest, the apples ripening, the trees almost too green. It's veryhot, still weather; the country and the sea seem to sleep in the sun. In front of the farm are half-a-dozen pines that look as if they hadstepped out of another land, but all round the back is orchard as lush, and gnarled, and orthodox as any one could wish. The house, a long, white building with three levels of roof, and splashes of brown all overit, looks as if it might be growing down into the earth. It was freshlythatched two years ago--and that's all the newness there is about it;they say the front door, oak, with iron knobs, is three hundred yearsold at least. You can touch the ceilings with your hand. The windowscertainly might be larger--a heavenly old place, though, with a flavourof apples, smoke, sweetbriar, bacon, honeysuckle, and age, all over it. 

The owner is a man called John Ford, about seventy, and seventeen stonein weight--very big, on long legs, with a grey, stubbly beard, grey, watery eyes, short neck and purplish complexion; he is asthmatic, andhas a very courteous, autocratic manner. His clothes are made of Harristweed--except on Sundays, when he puts on black--a seal ring, and athick gold cable chain. There's nothing mean or small about John Ford; Isuspect him of a warm heart, but he doesn't let you know much about him. He's a north-country man by birth, and has been out in New Zealand allhis life. This little Devonshire farm is all he has now. He had a large"station" in the North Island, and was much looked up to, keptopen house, did everything, as one would guess, in a narrow-minded, large-handed way. He came to grief suddenly; I don't quite know how. Ibelieve his only son lost money on the turf, and then, unable to facehis father, shot himself; if you had seen John Ford, you could imaginethat. His wife died, too, that year. He paid up to the last penny, andcame home, to live on this farm. He told me the other night that he hadonly one relation in the world, his granddaughter, who lives here withhim. Pasiance Voisey--old spelling for Patience, but they pronounce, it Pash-yence--is sitting out here with me at this moment on a sort ofrustic loggia that opens into the orchard. Her sleeves are rolled up, and she's stripping currants, ready for black currant tea. Now and thenshe rests her elbows on the table, eats a berry, pouts her lips, and, begins again. She has a round, little face; a long, slender body; cheekslike poppies; a bushy mass of black-brown hair, and dark-brown, almostblack, eyes; her nose is snub; her lips quick, red, rather full; all hermotions quick and soft. She loves bright colours. She's rather like alittle cat; sometimes she seems all sympathy, then in a moment as hardas tortoise-shell. She's all impulse; yet she doesn't like to show herfeelings; I sometimes wonder whether she has any. She plays the violin. 

It's queer to see these two together, queer and rather sad. The old manhas a fierce tenderness for her that strikes into the very roots ofhim. I see him torn between it, and his cold north-country horror of hisfeelings; his life with her is an unconscious torture to him. She's arestless, chafing thing, demure enough one moment, then flashing outinto mocking speeches or hard little laughs. Yet she's fond of him inher fashion; I saw her kiss him once when he was asleep. She obeys himgenerally--in a way as if she couldn't breathe while she was doing it. She's had a queer sort of education--history, geography, elementarymathematics, and nothing else; never been to school; had a few lessonson the violin, but has taught herself most of what she knows. She iswell up in the lore of birds, flowers, and insects; has three cats, whofollow her about; and is full of pranks. The other day she called out tome, "I've something for you. Hold out your hand and shut your eyes!"It was a large, black slug! She's the child of the old fellow's onlydaughter, who was sent home for schooling at Torquay, and made a runawaymatch with one Richard Voisey, a yeoman farmer, whom she met in thehunting-field. John Ford was furious--his ancestors, it appears, usedto lead ruffians on the Cumberland side of the Border--he looked on"Squire" Rick Voisey as a cut below him. He was called "Squire, " as faras I can make out, because he used to play cards every evening with aparson in the neighbourhood who went by the name of "Devil" Hawkins. Notthat the Voisey stock is to be despised. They have had this farm sinceit was granted to one Richard Voysey by copy dated 8th September, 13Henry VIII. Mrs. Hopgood, the wife of the bailiff--a dear, quaint, serene old soul with cheeks like a rosy, withered apple, and anunbounded love of Pasiance--showed me the very document. 

"I kape it, " she said. "Mr. Ford be tu proud--but other folks be proudtu. 'Tis a pra-aper old fam'ly: all the women is Margery, Pasiance, or Mary; all the men's Richards an' Johns an' Rogers; old as theyapple-trees. "

Rick Voisey was a rackety, hunting fellow, and "dipped" the old farmup to its thatched roof. John Ford took his revenge by buying up themortgages, foreclosing, and commanding his daughter and Voisey to goon living here rent free; this they dutifully did until they were bothkilled in a dog-cart accident, eight years ago. Old Ford's financialsmash came a year later, and since then he's lived here with Pasiance. I fancy it's the cross in her blood that makes her so restless, andirresponsible: if she had been all a native she'd have been happy enoughhere, or all a stranger like John Ford himself, but the two strainsstruggling for mastery seem to give her no rest. You'll think this afar-fetched theory, but I believe it to be the true one. She'll standwith lips pressed together, her arms folded tight across her narrowchest, staring as if she could see beyond the things round her; thensomething catches her attention, her eyes will grow laughing, soft, orscornful all in a minute! She's eighteen, perfectly fearless in aboat, but you can't get her to mount a horse--a sore subject with hergrandfather, who spends most of his day on a lean, half-bred pony, thatcarries him like a feather, for all his weight. 

They put me up here as a favour to Dan Treffry; there's an arrangementof L. S. D. With Mrs. Hopgood in the background. They aren't at all welloff; this is the largest farm about, but it doesn't bring them inmuch. To look at John Ford, it seems incredible he should be short ofmoney--he's too large. 

We have family prayers at eight, then, breakfast--after that freedom forwriting or anything else till supper and evening prayers. At midday oneforages for oneself. On Sundays, two miles to church twice, or youget into John Ford's black books. .. . Dan Treffry himself is staying atKingswear. He says he's made his pile; it suits him down here--like asleep after years of being too wide-awake; he had a rough time in NewZealand, until that mine made his fortune. You'd hardly remember him;he reminds me of his uncle, old Nicholas Treffry; the same slow way ofspeaking, with a hesitation, and a trick of repeating your name witheverything he says; left-handed too, and the same slow twinkle in hiseyes. He has a dark, short beard, and red-brown cheeks; is a little baldon the temples, and a bit grey, but hard as iron. He rides over nearlyevery day, attended by a black spaniel with a wonderful nose and ahorror of petticoats. He has told me lots of good stories of John Fordin the early squatter's times; his feats with horses live to this day;and he was through the Maori wars; as Dan says, "a man after Uncle Nic'sown heart. "

They are very good friends, and respect each other; Dan has a greatadmiration for the old man, but the attraction is Pasiance. He talksvery little when she's in the room, but looks at her in a sidelong, wistful sort of way. Pasiance's conduct to him would be cruel in any oneelse, but in her, one takes it with a pinch of salt. Dan goes off, butturns up again as quiet and dogged as you please. 

Last night, for instance, we were sitting in the loggia after supper. Pasiance was fingering the strings of her violin, and suddenly Dan (abold thing for him) asked her to play. 

"What!" she said, "before men? No, thank you!"

"Why not?"

"Because I hate them. "

Down came John Ford's hand on the wicker table: "You forget yourself! Goto bed!"

She gave Dan a look, and went; we could hear her playing in her bedroom;it sounded like a dance of spirits; and just when one thought she hadfinished, out it would break again like a burst of laughter. Presently, John Ford begged our pardons ceremoniously, and stumped off indoors. Theviolin ceased; we heard his voice growling at her; down he cameagain. Just as he was settled in his chair there was a soft swish, andsomething dark came falling through the apple boughs. The violin! Youshould have seen his face! Dan would have picked the violin up, but theold man stopped him. Later, from my bedroom window, I saw John Ford comeout and stand looking at the violin. He raised his foot as if to stampon it. At last he picked it up, wiped it carefully, and took it in. .. . 

My room is next to hers. I kept hearing her laugh, a noise too as if shewere dragging things about the room. Then I fell asleep, but woke witha start, and went to the window for a breath of fresh air. Such a black, breathless night! Nothing to be seen but the twisted, blacker branches;not the faintest stir of leaves, no sound but muffled grunting from thecowhouse, and now and then a faint sigh. I had the queerest feelingof unrest and fear, the last thing to expect on such a night. There issomething here that's disturbing; a sort of suppressed struggle. I'venever in my life seen anything so irresponsible as this girl, or souncompromising as the old man; I keep thinking of the way he wiped thatviolin. It's just as if a spark would set everything in a blaze. There'sa menace of tragedy--or--perhaps it's only the heat, and too much ofMother Hopgood's crame. .. . 

II

"Tuesday. 

. .. . I've made a new acquaintance. I was lying in the orchard, andpresently, not seeing me, he came along--a man of middle height, witha singularly good balance, and no lumber--rather old blue clothes, aflannel shirt, a dull red necktie, brown shoes, a cap with a leatherpeak pushed up on the forehead. Face long and narrow, bronzed with akind of pale burnt-in brownness; a good forehead. A brown moustache, beard rather pointed, blackening about the cheeks; his chin not visible, but from the beard's growth must be big; mouth I should judge sensuous. Nose straight and blunt; eyes grey, with an upward look, not exactlyfrank, because defiant; two parallel furrows down each cheek, onefrom the inner corner of the eye, one from the nostril; age perhapsthirty-five. About the face, attitude, movements, something immenselyvital, adaptable, daring, and unprincipled. 

He stood in front of the loggia, biting his fingers, a kind ofnineteenth-century buccaneer, and I wondered what he was doing in thisgalley. They say you can tell a man of Kent or a Somersetshire man;certainly you can tell a Yorkshire man, and this fellow could only havebeen a man of Devon, one of the two main types found in this county. Hewhistled; and out came Pasiance in a geranium-coloured dress, lookinglike some tall poppy--you know the slight droop of a poppy's head, andthe way the wind sways its stem. .. . She is a human poppy, her fuzzydark hair is like a poppy's lustreless black heart, she has a poppy'stantalising attraction and repulsion, something fatal, or ratherfateful. She came walking up to my new friend, then caught sight of me, and stopped dead. 

"That, " she said to me, "is Zachary Pearse. This, " she said to him, "isour lodger. " She said it with a wonderful soft malice. She wanted toscratch me, and she scratched. Half an hour later I was in the yard, when up came this fellow Pearse. 

"Glad to know you, " he said, looking thoughtfully at the pigs. 

"You're a writer, aren't you?"

"A sort of one, " I said. 

"If by any chance, " he said suddenly, "you're looking for a job, I couldput something in your way. Walk down to the beach with me, and I'll tellyou; my boat's at anchor, smartest little craft in these parts. "

It was very hot, and I had no desire whatever to go down to the beach--Iwent, all the same. We had not gone far when John Ford and Dan Treffrycame into the lane. Our friend seemed a little disconcerted, but soonrecovered himself. We met in the middle of the lane, where there washardly room to pass. John Ford, who looked very haughty, put on hispince-nez and stared at Pearse. 

"Good-day!" said Pearse; "fine weather! I've been up to ask Pasianceto come for a sail. Wednesday we thought, weather permitting; thisgentleman's coming. Perhaps you'll come too, Mr. Treffry. You've neverseen my place. I'll give you lunch, and show you my father. He's worth acouple of hours' sail any day. " It was said in such an odd way thatone couldn't resent his impudence. John Ford was seized with a fit ofwheezing, and seemed on the eve of an explosion; he glanced at me, andchecked himself. 

"You're very good, " he said icily; "my granddaughter has other thingsto do. You, gentlemen, will please yourselves"; and, with a very slightbow, he went stumping on to the house. Dan looked at me, and I looked athim. 

"You'll come?" said Pearse, rather wistfully. Dan stammered: "Thank you, Mr. Pearse; I'm a better man on a horse than in a boat, but--thank you. "Cornered in this way, he's a shy, soft-hearted being. Pearse smiled histhanks. "Wednesday, then, at ten o'clock; you shan't regret it. "

"Pertinacious beggar!" I heard Dan mutter in his beard; and found myselfmarching down the lane again by Pearse's side. I asked him what he wasgood enough to mean by saying I was coming, without having asked me. Heanswered, unabashed:

"You see, I'm not friends with the old man; but I knew he'd not beimpolite to you, so I took the liberty. "

He has certainly a knack of turning one's anger to curiosity. We weredown in the combe now; the tide was running out, and the sand alllittle, wet, shining ridges. About a quarter of a mile out lay a cutter, with her tan sail half down, swinging to the swell. The sunlight wasmaking the pink cliffs glow in the most wonderful way; and shiftingin bright patches over the sea like moving shoals of goldfish. Pearseperched himself on his dinghy, and looked out under his hand. He seemedlost in admiration. 

"If we could only net some of those spangles, " he said, "an' make goldof 'em! No more work then. "

"It's a big job I've got on, " he said presently; "I'll tell you about iton Wednesday. I want a journalist. "

"But I don't write for the papers, " I said; "I do other sort of work. Mygame is archaeology. "

"It doesn't matter, " he said, "the more imagination the better. It'd bea thundering good thing for you. "

His assurance was amazing, but it was past supper-time, and hungergetting the better of my curiosity, I bade him good-night. When I lookedback, he was still there, on the edge of his boat, gazing at the sea. Aqueer sort of bird altogether, but attractive somehow. 

Nobody mentioned him that evening; but once old Ford, after staringa long time at Pasiance, muttered a propos of nothing, "Undutifulchildren!" She was softer than usual; listening quietly to our talk, and smiling when spoken to. At bedtime she went up to her grand-father, without waiting for the usual command, "Come and kiss me, child. "

Dan did not stay to supper, and he has not been here since. This morningI asked Mother Hopgood who Zachary Pearse was. She's a true Devonian;if there's anything she hates, it is to be committed to a definitestatement. She ambled round her answer, and at last told me that hewas "son of old Cap'en Jan Pearse to Black Mill. 'Tes an old family toDartymouth an' Plymouth, " she went on in a communicative outburst. "Theydu say Francis Drake tuke five o' they Pearses with 'en to fightthe Spaniards. At least that's what I've heard Mr. Zachary zay; butHa-apgood can tell yu. " Poor Hopgood, the amount of information shesaddles him with in the course of the day! Having given me thus tounderstand that she had run dry, she at once went on:

"Cap'en Jan Pearse made a dale of ventures. He's old now--they du saynigh an 'undred. Ha-apgood can tell yu. "

"But the son, Mrs. Hopgood?"

Her eyes twinkled with sudden shrewdness: She hugged herself placidly. 

"An' what would yu take for dinner to-day? There's duck; or yu mightlike 'toad in the hole, ' with an apple tart; or then, there's--Well!we'll see what we can du like. " And off she went, without waiting for myanswer. 

To-morrow is Wednesday. I shan't be sorry to get another look at thisfellow Pearse. .. . 

III

"Friday, 29th July. 

. .. . Why do you ask me so many questions, and egg me on to write aboutthese people instead of minding my business? If you really want to hear, I'll tell you of Wednesday's doings. 

It was a splendid morning; and Dan turned up, to my surprise--though Imight have known that when he says a thing, he does it. John Ford cameout to shake hands with him, then, remembering why he had come, breathedloudly, said nothing, and went in again. Nothing was to be seen ofPasiance, and we went down to the beach together. 

"I don't like this fellow Pearse, George, " Dan said to me on the way; "Iwas fool enough to say I'd go, and so I must, but what's he after? Notthe man to do things without a reason, mind you. "

I remarked that we should soon know. 

"I'm not so sure--queer beggar; I never look at him without thinking ofa pirate. "

The cutter lay in the cove as if she had never moved. There too wasZachary Pearse seated on the edge of his dinghy. 

"A five-knot breeze, " he said, "I'll run you down in a couple of hours. "He made no inquiry about Pasiance, but put us into his cockleshell andpulled for the cutter. A lantern-Jawed fellow, named Prawle, witha spiky, prominent beard, long, clean-shaven upper lip, and tannedcomplexion--a regular hard-weather bird--received us. 

The cutter was beautifully clean; built for a Brixham trawler, she stillhad her number--DH 113--uneffaced. We dived into a sort of cabin, airy, but dark, fitted with two bunks and a small table, on which stood somebottles of stout; there were lockers, too, and pegs for clothes. Prawle, who showed us round, seemed very proud of a steam contrivance forhoisting sails. It was some minutes before we came on deck again; andthere, in the dinghy, being pulled towards the cutter, sat Pasiance. 

"If I'd known this, " stammered Dan, getting red, "I wouldn't have come. "She had outwitted us, and there was nothing to be done. 

It was a very pleasant sail. The breeze was light from the south-east, the sun warm, the air soft. Presently Pasiance began singing:

"Columbus is dead and laid in his grave, Oh! heigh-ho! and laid in hisgrave; Over his head the apple-trees wave Oh! heigh-ho! the apple-treeswave. .. . 

"The apples are ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heigh-ho! and ready tofall; There came an old woman and gathered them all, Oh! heigh-ho! andgathered them all. .. . 

"The apples are gathered, and laid on the shelf, Oh! heigh-ho! and laidon the shelf; If you want any more, you must sing for yourself, Oh!heigh-ho! and sing for yourself. "

Her small, high voice came to us in trills and spurts, as the wind letit, like the singing of a skylark lost in the sky. Pearse went up to herand whispered something. I caught a glimpse of her face like a startledwild creature's; shrinking, tossing her hair, laughing, all in the samebreath. She wouldn't sing again, but crouched in the bows with her chinon her hands, and the sun falling on one cheek, round, velvety, red as apeach. .. . 

We passed Dartmouth, and half an hour later put into a little woodedbay. On a low reddish cliff was a house hedged round by pine-trees. Abit of broken jetty ran out from the bottom of the cliff. We hooked onto this, and landed. An ancient, fish-like man came slouching down andtook charge of the cutter. Pearse led us towards the house, Pasiancefollowing mortally shy all of a sudden. 

The house had a dark, overhanging thatch of the rush reeds that growin the marshes hereabouts; I remember nothing else remarkable. It wasneither old, nor new; neither beautiful, nor exactly ugly; neitherclean, nor entirely squalid; it perched there with all its windows overthe sea, turning its back contemptuously on the land. 

Seated in a kind of porch, beside an immense telescope, was a veryold man in a panama hat, with a rattan cane. His pure-white beard andmoustache, and almost black eyebrows, gave a very singular, piercinglook to his little, restless, dark-grey eyes; all over his mahoganycheeks and neck was a network of fine wrinkles. He sat quite upright, inthe full sun, hardly blinking. 

"Dad!" said Zachary, "this is Pasiance Voisey. " The old man turned hiseyes on her and muttered, "How do you do, ma'am?" then took no furthernotice. And Pasiance, who seemed to resent this, soon slipped away andwent wandering about amongst the pines. An old woman brought some platesand bottles and laid them casually on a table; and we sat round thefigure of old Captain Pearse without a word, as if we were all under aspell. 

Before lunch there was a little scene between Zachary Pearse and Dan, as to which of them should summon Pasiance. It ended in both going, andcoming back without her. She did not want any lunch, would stay whereshe was amongst the pines. 

For lunch we had chops, wood-pigeons, mushrooms, and mulberry preserve, and drank wonderful Madeira out of common wine-glasses. I asked the oldman where he got it; he gave me a queer look, and answered with a littlebow:

"Stood me in tu shillin' the bottle, an' the country got nothing out ofit, sir. In the early Thirties; tu shillin' the bottle; there's no suchwine nowadays and, " he added, looking at Zachary, "no such men. "

Zachary smiled and said: "You did nothing so big, dad, as what I'mafter, now!"

The old man's eyes had a sort of disdain in them. 

"You're going far, then, in the Pied Witch, Zack?"

"I am, " said Zachary. 

"And where might yu be goin' in that old trampin' smut factory?"

"Morocco. "

"Heu!" said the old man, "there's nothing there; I know that coast, asI know the back o' my hand. " He stretched out a hand covered with veinsand hair. 

Zachary began suddenly to pour out a flood of words:

"Below Mogador--a fellow there--friend of mine--two years agonow. Concessions--trade-gunpowder--cruisers--feuds--money--chiefs--Gatling guns--Sultan--rifles--rebellion--gold. " Hedetailed a reckless, sordid, bold scheme, which, on the pivot ofa trading venture, was intended to spin a whole wheel of politicalconvulsions. 

"They'll never let you get there, " said old Pearse. 

"Won't they?" returned Zachary. "Oh yes, they will, an' when I leave, there'll be another dynasty, and I'll be a rich man. "

"Yu'll never leave, " answered the old man. 

Zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures. He hadworked the whole thing out. So much--equipment, so much--trade, somuch--concessions, so much--emergencies. "My last mag!" he ended, "athousand short; the ship's ready, and if I'm not there within a month mychance is as good as gone. "

This was the pith of his confidences--an appeal for money, and we alllooked as men will when that crops up. 

"Mad!" muttered the old man, looking at the sea. 

"No, " said Zachary. That one word was more eloquent than all the rest ofhis words put together. This fellow is no visionary. His scheme may bedaring, and unprincipled, but--he knows very well what he's about. 

"Well!" said old Pearse, "you shall have five 'undred of my money, ifit's only to learn what yu're made of. Wheel me in!" Zachary wheeled himinto the house, but soon came back. 

"The old man's cheque for five hundred pounds!" he said, holding itup. "Mr. Treffry, give me another, and you shall have a third of theprofits. "

I expected Dan to give a point-blank refusal. But he only asked:

"Would that clear you for starting?"

"With that, " said Zachary, "I can get to sea in a fortnight. "

"Good!" Dan said slowly. "Give me a written promise! To sea in fourteendays and my fair share on the five hundred pounds--no more--no less. "

Again I thought Pearse would have jumped at this, but he leaned his chinon his hand, and looked at Dan, and Dan looked at him. While they werestaring at each other like this, Pasiance came up with a kitten. 

"See!" she said, "isn't it a darling?" The kitten crawled and clawedits way up behind her neck. I saw both men's eyes as they looked atPasiance, and suddenly understood what they were at. The kitten rubbeditself against Pasiance's cheek, overbalanced, and fell, clawing, downher dress. She caught it up and walked away. Some one, I don't knowwhich of us, sighed, and Pearse cried "Done!"

The bargain had been driven. 

"Good-bye, Mr. Pearse, " said Dan; "I guess that's all I'm wanted for. I'll find my pony waiting in the village. George, you'll see Pasiancehome?"

We heard the hoofs of his pony galloping down the road; Pearse suddenlyexcused himself, and disappeared. 

This venture of his may sound romantic and absurd, but it'smatter-of-fact enough. He's after L. S. D. ! Shades of Drake, Raleigh, Hawkins, Oxenham! The worm of suspicion gnaws at the rose of romance. What if those fellows, too, were only after L. S. D. .. . ?

I strolled into the pine-wood. The earth there was covered like a bee'sbody with black and gold stripes; there was the blue sea below, andwhite, sleepy clouds, and bumble-bees booming above the heather; itwas all softness, a summer's day in Devon. Suddenly I came on Pearsestanding at the edge of the cliff with Pasiance sitting in a littlehollow below, looking up at him. I heard him say:

"Pasiance--Pasiance!" The sound of his voice, and the sight of her soft, wondering face made me furious. What business has she with love, at herage? What business have they with each other?

He told me presently that she had started off for home, and drove me tothe ferry, behind an old grey pony. On the way he came back to his offerof the other day. 

"Come with me, " he said. "It doesn't do to neglect the Press; you cansee the possibilities. It's one of the few countries left. If I onceget this business started you don't know where it's going to stop. You'dhave free passage everywhere, and whatever you like in reason. "

I answered as rudely as I could--but by no means as rudely as Iwanted--that his scheme was mad. As a matter of fact, it's much too sanefor me; for, whatever the body of a scheme, its soul is the fibre of theschemer. 

"Think of it, " he urged, as if he could see into me. "You can make whatyou like of it. Press paragraphs, of course. But that's mechanical;why, even I could do it, if I had time. As for the rest, you'll be asfree--as free as a man. "

There, in five words of one syllable, is the kernel of this fellowPearse--"As free as a man!" No rule, no law, not even the mysteriousshackles that bind men to their own self-respects! "As free as a man!"No ideals; no principles; no fixed star for his worship; no coil hecan't slide out of! But the fellow has the tenacity of one of the oldDevon mastiffs, too. He wouldn't take "No" for an answer. 

"Think of it, " he said; "any day will do--I've got a fortnight. .. . Look! there she is!" I thought that he meant Pasiance; but it was anold steamer, sluggish and black in the blazing sun of mid-stream, with ayellow-and-white funnel, and no sign of life on her decks. 

"That's her--the Pied Witch! Do her twelve knots; you wouldn't thinkit! Well! good-evening! You'd better come. A word to me at any time. I'mgoing aboard now. "

As I was being ferried across I saw him lolling in the stern-sheets of alittle boat, the sun crowning his straw hat with glory. 

I came on Pasiance, about a mile up the road, sitting in the hedge. We walked on together between the banks--Devonshire banks, as highas houses, thick with ivy and ferns, bramble and hazel boughs, andhoneysuckle. 

"Do you believe in a God?" she said suddenly. 

"Grandfather's God is simply awful. When I'm playing the fiddle, I canfeel God; but grandfather's is such a stuffy God--you know what I mean:the sea, the wind, the trees, colours too--they make one feel. But Idon't believe that life was meant to 'be good' in. Isn't there anythingbetter than being good? When I'm 'good, ' I simply feel wicked. " Shereached up, caught a flower from the hedge, and slowly tore its petals. 

"What would you do, " she muttered, "if you wanted a thing, but wereafraid of it? But I suppose you're never afraid!" she added, mockingme. I admitted that I was sometimes afraid, and often afraid of beingafraid. 

"That's nice! I'm not afraid of illness, nor of grandfather, nor of hisGod; but--I want to be free. If you want a thing badly, you're afraidabout it. "

I thought of Zachary Pearse's words, "free as a man. "

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said. 

I stammered: "What do you mean by freedom?"

"Do you know what I shall do to-night?" she answered. "Get out of mywindow by the apple-tree, and go to the woods, and play!"

We were going down a steep lane, along the side of a wood, where there'salways a smell of sappy leaves, and the breath of the cows that comeclose to the hedge to get the shade. 

There was a cottage in the bottom, and a small boy sat outside playingwith a heap of dust. 

"Hallo, Johnny!" said Pasiance. "Hold your leg out and show this manyour bad place!" The small boy undid a bandage round his bare and dirtylittle leg, and proudly revealed a sore. 

"Isn't it nasty?" cried Pasiance ruefully, tying up the bandage again;"poor little feller! Johnny, see what I've brought you!" She producedfrom her pocket a stick of chocolate, the semblance of a soldier made ofsealing-wax and worsted, and a crooked sixpence. 

It was a new glimpse of her. All the way home she was telling me thestory of little Johnny's family; when she came to his mother's death, she burst out: "A beastly shame, wasn't it, and they're so poor; itmight just as well have been somebody else. I like poor people, but Ihate rich ones--stuck-up beasts. "

Mrs. Hopgood was looking over the gate, with her cap on one side, andone of Pasiance's cats rubbing itself against her skirts. At the sightof us she hugged herself. 

"Where's grandfather?" asked Pasiance. The old lady shook her head. 

"Is it a row?" Mrs. Hopgood wriggled, and wriggled, and out came:

"Did you get yure tay, my pretty? No? Well, that's a pity; yu'll befalin' low-like. "

Pasiance tossed her head, snatched up the cat, and ran indoors. Iremained staring at Mrs. Hopgood. 

"Dear-dear, " she clucked, "poor lamb. So to spake it's--" and sheblurted out suddenly, "chuckin' full of wra-ath, he is. Well, there!"

My courage failed that evening. I spent it at the coastguard station, where they gave me bread and cheese and some awful cider. I passed thekitchen as I came back. A fire was still burning there, and two figures, misty in the darkness, flitted about with stealthy laughter like spiritsafraid of being detected in a carnal-meal. They were Pasiance and Mrs. Hopgood; and so charming was the smell of eggs and bacon, and they hadsuch an air of tender enjoyment of this dark revel, that I stifled manypangs, as I crept hungry up to bed. 

In the middle of the night I woke and heard what I thought wasscreaming; then it sounded like wind in trees, then like the distantshaking of a tambourine, with the high singing of a human voice. Suddenly it stopped--two long notes came wailing out like sobs--thenutter stillness; and though I listened for an hour or more there was noother sound . .. . 

IV

"4th August. 

. .. . For three days after I wrote last, nothing at all happened here. I spent the mornings on the cliff reading, and watching the sun-sparksraining on the sea. It's grand up there with the gorse all round, thegulls basking on the rocks, the partridges calling in the corn, andnow and then a young hawk overhead. The afternoons I spent out inthe orchard. The usual routine goes on at the farm all thetime--cow-milking, bread-baking, John Ford riding in and out, Pasiancein her garden stripping lavender, talking to the farm hands; and thesmell of clover, and cows and hay; the sound of hens and pigs andpigeons, the soft drawl of voices, the dull thud of the farm carts; andday by day the apples getting redder. Then, last Monday, Pasiance wasaway from sunrise till sunset--nobody saw her go--nobody knew whereshe had gone. It was a wonderful, strange day, a sky of silver-grey andblue, with a drift of wind-clouds, all the trees sighing a little, the sea heaving in a long, low swell, the animals restless, the birdssilent, except the gulls with their old man's laughter and kitten'smewing. 

A something wild was in the air; it seemed to sweep across the downs andcombe, into the very house, like a passionate tune that comes driftingto your ears when you're sleepy. But who would have thought the absenceof that girl for a few hours could have wrought such havoc! We were likeuneasy spirits; Mrs. Hopgood's apple cheeks seemed positively to witherbefore one's eyes. I came across a dairymaid and farm hand discussingit stolidly with very downcast faces. Even Hopgood, a hard-bitten fellowwith immense shoulders, forgot his imperturbability so far as to harnesshis horse, and depart on what he assured me was "just a wild-gusechaace. " It was long before John Ford gave signs of noticing thatanything was wrong, but late in the afternoon I found him sitting withhis hands on his knees, staring straight before him. He rose heavilywhen he saw me, and stalked out. In the evening, as I was starting forthe coastguard station to ask for help to search the cliff, Pasianceappeared, walking as if she could hardly drag one leg after the other. Her cheeks were crimson; she was biting her lips to keep tears of sheerfatigue out of her eyes. She passed me in the doorway without a word. The anxiety he had gone through seemed to forbid the old man fromspeaking. He just came forward, took her face in his hands, gave it agreat kiss, and walked away. Pasiance dropped on the floor in the darkpassage, and buried her face on her arms. "Leave me alone!" was allshe would say. After a bit she dragged herself upstairs. Presently Mrs. Hopgood came to me. 

"Not a word out of her--an' not a bite will she ate, an' I had a pie allready--scrumptious. The good Lord knows the truth--she asked for brandy;have you any brandy, sir? Ha-apgood'e don't drink it, an' Mister Ford 'edon't allaow for anything but caowslip wine. "

I had whisky. 

The good soul seized the flask, and went off hugging it. She returned itto me half empty. 

"Lapped it like a kitten laps milk. I misdaoubt it's straong, poorlamb, it lusened 'er tongue praaperly. 'I've a-done it, ' she says to me, 'Mums-I've a-done it, ' an' she laughed like a mad thing; and then, sir, she cried, an' kissed me, an' pusshed me thru the door. Gude Lard! Whatis 't she's a-done. .. ?"

It rained all the next day and the day after. About five o'clockyesterday the rain ceased; I started off to Kingswear on Hopgood'snag to see Dan Treffry. Every tree, bramble, and fern in the lanes wasdripping water; and every bird singing from the bottom of his heart. I thought of Pasiance all the time. Her absence that day was still amystery; one never ceased asking oneself what she had done. There arepeople who never grow up--they have no right to do things. Actions haveconsequences--and children have no business with consequences. 

Dan was out. I had supper at the hotel, and rode slowly home. In thetwilight stretches of the road, where I could touch either bank ofthe lane with my whip, I thought of nothing but Pasiance and hergrandfather; there was something in the half light suited to wonder anduncertainty. It had fallen dark before I rode into the straw-yard. Twoyoung bullocks snuffled at me, a sleepy hen got up and ran off with atremendous shrieking. I stabled the horse, and walked round to theback. It was pitch black under the apple-trees, and the windows were alldarkened. I stood there a little, everything smelled so delicious afterthe rain; suddenly I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was beingwatched. Have you ever felt like that on a dark night? I called out atlast: "Is any one there?" Not a sound! I walked to the gate-nothing! Thetrees still dripped with tiny, soft, hissing sounds, but that was all. Islipped round to the front, went in, barricaded the door, and groped upto bed. But I couldn't sleep. I lay awake a long while; dozed at last, and woke with a jump. A stealthy murmur of smothered voices was goingon quite close somewhere. It stopped. A minute passed; suddenly came thesoft thud as of something falling. I sprang out of bed and rushed tothe window. Nothing--but in the distance something that sounded likefootsteps. An owl hooted; then clear as crystal, but quite low, I heardPasiance singing in her room:

"The apples are ripe and ready to fall. Oh! heigh-ho! and ready tofall. "

I ran to her door and knocked. 

"What is it?" she cried. 

"Is anything the matter?"

"Matter?"

"Is anything the matter?"

"Ha-ha-ha-ha! Good-night!" then quite low, I heard her catch her breath, hard, sharply. No other answer, no other sound. 

I went to bed and lay awake for hours. .. . 

This evening Dan came; during supper he handed Pasiance a roll of music;he had got it in Torquay. The shopman, he said, had told him that it wasa "corker. "

It was Bach's "Chaconne. " You should have seen her eyes shine, herfingers actually tremble while she turned over the pages. Seems odd tothink of her worshipping at the shrine of Bach as odd as to think of awild colt running of its free will into the shafts; but that's just itwith her you can never tell. "Heavenly!" she kept saying. 

John Ford put down his knife and fork. 

"Heathenish stuff!" he muttered, and suddenly thundered out, "Pasiance!"

She looked up with a start, threw the music from her, and resumed herplace. 

During evening prayers, which follow every night immediately on food, her face was a study of mutiny. She went to bed early. It was ratherlate when we broke up--for once old Ford had been talking of hissquatter's life. As we came out, Dan held up his hand. A dog wasbarking. "It's Lass, " he said. "She'll wake Pasiance. "

The spaniel yelped furiously. Dan ran out to stop her. He was soon back. 

"Somebody's been in the orchard, and gone off down to the cove. " He ranon down the path. I, too, ran, horribly uneasy. In front, through thedarkness, came the spaniel's bark; the lights of the coastguard stationfaintly showed. I was first on the beach; the dog came to me at once, her tail almost in her mouth from apology. There was the sound of oarsworking in rowlocks; nothing visible but the feathery edges of thewaves. Dan said behind, "No use! He's gone. " His voice sounded hoarse, like that of a man choking with passion. 

"George, " he stammered, "it's that blackguard. I wish I'd put a bulletin him. " Suddenly a light burned up in the darkness on the sea, seemedto swing gently, and vanished. Without another word we went back up thehill. John Ford stood at the gate motionless, indifferent--nothing haddawned on him as yet. I whispered to Dan, "Let it alone!"

"No, " he said, "I'm going to show you. " He struck a match, and slowlyhunted the footsteps in the wet grass of the orchard. "Look--here!"

He stopped under Pasiance's window and swayed the match over the ground. Clear as daylight were the marks of some one who had jumped or fallen. Dan held the match over his head. 

"And look there!" he said. The bough of an apple-tree below the windowwas broken. He blew the match out. 

I could see the whites of his eyes, like an angry animal's. 

"Drop it, Dan!" I said. 

He turned on his heel suddenly, and stammered out, "You're right. "

But he had turned into John Ford's arms. 

The old man stood there like some great force, darker than the darkness, staring up at the window, as though stupefied. We had not a word tosay. He seemed unconscious of our presence. He turned round, and left usstanding there. 

"Follow him!" said Dan. "Follow him--by God! it's not safe. "

We followed. Bending, and treading heavily, he went upstairs. He strucka blow on Pasiance's door. "Let me in!" he said. I drew Dan into mybedroom. The key was slowly turned, her door was flung open, and thereshe stood in her dressing-gown, a candle in her hand, her face crimson, and oh! so young, with its short, crisp hair and round cheeks. The oldman--like a giant in front of her--raised his hands, and laid them onher shoulders. 

"What's this? You--you've had a man in your room?"

Her eyes did not drop. 

"Yes, " she said. Dan gave a groan. 

"Who?"

"Zachary Pearse, " she answered in a voice like a bell. 

He gave her one awful shake, dropped his hands, then raised them asthough to strike her. She looked him in the eyes; his hands dropped, andhe too groaned. As far as I could see, her face never moved. 

"I'm married to him, " she said, "d' you hear? Married to him. Go out ofmy room!" She dropped the candle on the floor at his feet, and slammedthe door in his face. The old man stood for a minute as though stunned, then groped his way downstairs. 

"Dan, " I said, "is it true?"

"Ah!" he answered, "it's true; didn't you hear her?"

I was glad I couldn't see his face. 

"That ends it, " he said at last; "there's the old man to think of. "

"What will he do?"

"Go to the fellow this very night. " He seemed to have no doubt. Trustone man of action to know another. 

I muttered something about being an outsider--wondered if there wasanything I could do to help. 

"Well, " he said slowly, "I don't know that I'm anything but an outsidernow; but I'll go along with him, if he'll have me. "

He went downstairs. A few minutes later they rode out from thestraw-yard. I watched them past the line of hayricks, into the blackershadows of the pines, then the tramp of hoofs began to fail in thedarkness, and at last died away. 

I've been sitting here in my bedroom writing to you ever since, till mycandle's almost gone. I keep thinking what the end of it is to be; andreproaching myself for doing nothing. And yet, what could I have done?I'm sorry for her--sorrier than I can say. The night is so quiet--Ihaven't heard a sound; is she asleep, awake, crying, triumphant?

It's four o'clock; I've been asleep. 

They're back. Dan is lying on my bed. I'll try and tell you his story asnear as I can, in his own words. 

"We rode, " he said, "round the upper way, keeping out of the lanes, and got to Kingswear by half-past eleven. The horse-ferry had stoppedrunning, and we had a job to find any one to put us over. We hired thefellow to wait for us, and took a carriage at the 'Castle. ' Before wegot to Black Mill it was nearly one, pitch-dark. With the breeze fromthe southeast, I made out he should have been in an hour or more. Theold man had never spoken to me once: and before we got there I had begunto hope we shouldn't find the fellow after all. We made the driver pullup in the road, and walked round and round, trying to find the door. Then some one cried, 'Who are you?'

"'John Ford. '

"'What do you want?' It was old Pearse. 

"'To see Zachary Pearse. '

"The long window out of the porch where we sat the other day was open, and in we went. There was a door at the end of the room, and a lightcoming through. John Ford went towards it; I stayed out in the dark. 

"'Who's that with you?'

"'Mr. Treffry. '

"'Let him come in!' I went in. The old fellow was in bed, quite still onhis pillows, a candle by his side; to look at him you'd think nothing ofhim but his eyes were alive. It was queer being there with those two oldmen!"

Dan paused, seemed to listen, then went on doggedly. 

"'Sit down, gentleman, ' said old Pearse. 'What may you want to see myson for?' John Ford begged his pardon, he had something to say, he said, that wouldn't wait. 

"They were very polite to one another, " muttered Dan . .. . 

"'Will you leave your message with me?' said Pearse. 

"'What I have to say to your son is private. '

"'I'm his father. '

"'I'm my girl's grandfather; and her only stand-by. '

"'Ah!' muttered old Pearse, 'Rick Voisey's daughter?'

"'I mean to see your son. '

"Old Pearse smiled. Queer smile he's got, sort of sneering sweet. 

"'You can never tell where Zack may be, ' he said. 'You think I want toshield him. You're wrong; Zack can take care of himself. '

"'Your son's here!' said John Ford. 'I know. ' Old Pearse gave us a veryqueer look. 

"'You come into my house like thieves in the night, ' he said, 'and giveme the lie, do you?'

"'Your son came to my child's room like a thief in the night; it's forthat I want to see him, ' and then, " said Dan, "there was a long silence. At last Pearse said:

"'I don't understand; has he played the blackguard?'

"John Ford answered, 'He's married her, or, before God, I'd kill him. '

"Old Pearse seemed to think this over, never moving on his pillows. 'Youdon't know Zack, ' he said; 'I'm sorry for you, and I'm sorry for RickVoisey's daughter; but you don't know Zack. '

"'Sorry!' groaned out John Ford; 'he's stolen my child, and I'll punishhim. '

"'Punish!' cried old Pearse, 'we don't take punishment, not in myfamily. '

"'Captain Jan Pearse, as sure as I stand here, you and your breed willget your punishment of God. ' Old Pearse smiled. 

"'Mr. John Ford, that's as may be; but sure as I lie here we won't takeit of you. You can't punish unless you make to feel, and that you can'tdu. '"

And that is truth!

Dan went on again:

"'You won't tell me where your son is!' but old Pearse never blinked. 

"'I won't, ' he said, 'and now you may get out. I lie here an old manalone, with no use to my legs, night on night, an' the house open; anyrapscallion could get in; d' ye think I'm afraid of you?'

"We were beat; and walked out without a word. But that old man; I'vethought of him a lot--ninety-two, and lying there. Whatever he's been, and they tell you rum things of him, whatever his son may be, he's aman. It's not what he said, nor that there was anything to be afraidof just then, but somehow it's the idea of the old chap lying there. Idon't ever wish to see a better plucked one. .. . "

We sat silent after that; out of doors the light began to stir among theleaves. There were all kinds of rustling sounds, as if the world wereturning over in bed. 

Suddenly Dan said:

"He's cheated me. I paid him to clear out and leave her alone. D' youthink she's asleep?" He's made no appeal for sympathy, he'd take pityfor an insult; but he feels it badly. 

"I'm tired as a cat, " he said at last, and went to sleep on my bed. 

It's broad daylight now; I too am tired as a cat. .. . 

V

"Saturday, 6th August. 

. .. . I take up my tale where I left off yesterday. .. . Dan and Istarted as soon as we could get Mrs. Hopgood to give us coffee. The oldlady was more tentative, more undecided, more pouncing, than I had everseen her. She was manifestly uneasy: Ha-apgood--who "don't slape" don'the, if snores are any criterion--had called out in the night, "Hark toth' 'arses' 'oofs!" Had we heard them? And where might we be going then?'Twas very earrly to start, an' no breakfast. Haapgood had said it wasgoin' to shaowerr. Miss Pasiance was not to 'er violin yet, an' MisterFord 'e kept 'is room. Was it?--would there be--? "Well, an' therr's an'arvest bug; 'tis some earrly for they!" Wonderful how she pounces onall such creatures, when I can't even see them. She pressed it absentlybetween finger and thumb, and began manoeuvring round another way. Longbefore she had reached her point, we had gulped down our coffee, anddeparted. But as we rode out she came at a run, holding her skirtshigh with either hand, raised her old eyes bright and anxious in theirsetting of fine wrinkles, and said:

"'Tidden sorrow for her?"

A shrug of the shoulders was all the answer she got. We rode by thelanes; through sloping farmyards, all mud and pigs, and dirty straw, andfarmers with clean-shaven upper lips and whiskers under the chin; pastfields of corn, where larks were singing. Up or down, we didn't drawrein till we came to Dan's hotel. 

There was the river gleaming before us under a rainbow mist thathallowed every shape. There seemed affinity between the earth and thesky. I've never seen that particular soft unity out of Devon. And everyship, however black or modern, on those pale waters, had the look of adream ship. The tall green woods, the red earth, the white houses, wereall melted into one opal haze. It was raining, but the sun was shiningbehind. Gulls swooped by us--ghosts of the old greedy wanderers of thesea. 

We had told our two boatmen to pull us out to the Pied Witch! Theystarted with great resolution, then rested on their oars. 

"The Pied Witch, zurr?" asked one politely; "an' which may her be?"

That's the West countryman all over! Never say you "nay, " neverlose an opportunity, never own he doesn't know, or can't doanything--independence, amiability, and an eye to the main chance. We mentioned Pearse's name. 

"Capt'n Zach'ry Pearse!" They exchanged a look half-amused, half-admiring. 

"The Zunflaower, yu mane. That's her. Zunflaower, ahoy!" As we mountedthe steamer's black side I heard one say:

"Pied Witch! A pra-aper name that--a dandy name for her!" They laughedas they made fast. 

The mate of the Sunflower, or Pied Witch, or whatever she was called, met us--a tall young fellow in his shirtsleeves, tanned to the roots ofhis hair, with sinewy, tattooed arms, and grey eyes, charred round therims from staring at weather. 

"The skipper is on board, " he said. "We're rather busy, as you see. Geton with that, you sea-cooks, " he bawled at two fellows who were doingnothing. All over the ship, men were hauling, splicing, and stowingcargo. 

"To-day's Friday: we're off on Wednesday with any luck. Will you comethis way?" He led us down the companion to a dark hole which he calledthe saloon. "Names? What! are you Mr. Treffry? Then we're partners!" Aschoolboy's glee came on his face. 

"Look here!" he said; "I can show you something, " and he unlocked thedoor of a cabin. There appeared to be nothing in it but a huge piece oftarpaulin, which depended, bulging, from the topmost bunk. He pulled itup. The lower bunk had been removed, and in its place was the ugly bodyof a dismounted Gatling gun. 

"Got six of them, " he whispered, with unholy mystery, through which hisnative frankness gaped out. "Worth their weight in gold out therejust now, the skipper says. Got a heap of rifles, too, and lots ofammunition. He's given me a share. This is better than the P. AndO. , and playing deck cricket with the passengers. I'd made up my mindalready to chuck that, and go in for plantin' sugar, when I ran acrossthe skipper. Wonderful chap, the skipper! I'll go and tell him. He'sbeen out all night; only came aboard at four bells; having a nap now, but he won't mind that for you. "

Off he went. I wondered what there was in Zachary Pearse to attract ayoungster of this sort; one of the customary twelve children of somecountry parson, no doubt-burning to shoot a few niggers, and for everfrank and youthful. 

He came back with his hands full of bottles. 

"What'll you drink? The skipper'll be here in a jiffy. Excuse my goin'on deck. We're so busy. "

And in five minutes Zachary Pearse did come. He made no attempt to shakehands, for which I respected him. His face looked worn, and more defiantthan usual. 

"Well, gentlemen?" he said. 

"We've come to ask what you're going to do?" said Dan. 

"I don't know, " answered Pearse, "that that's any of your business. "

Dan's little eyes were like the eyes of an angry pig. 

"You've got five hundred pounds of mine, " he said; "why do you think Igave it you?"

Zachary bit his fingers. 

"That's no concern of mine, " he said. "I sail on Wednesday. Your money'ssafe. "

"Do you know what I think of you?" said Dan. 

"No, and you'd better not tell me!" Then, with one of his peculiarchanges, he smiled: "As you like, though. "

Dan's face grew very dark. "Give me a plain answer, " he said: "What areyou going to do about her?"

Zachary looked up at him from under his brows. 

"Nothing. "

"Are you cur enough to deny that you've married her?"

Zachary looked at him coolly. "Not at all, " he said. 

"What in God's name did you do it for?"

"You've no monopoly in the post of husband, Mr. Treffry. "

"To put a child in that position! Haven't you the heart of a man? Whatd' ye come sneaking in at night for? By Gad! Don't you know you've donea beastly thing?"

Zachary's face darkened, he clenched his fists. Then he seemed to shuthis anger into himself. 

"You wanted me to leave her to you, " he sneered. "I gave her my promisethat I'd take her out there, and we'd have gone off on Wednesday quietlyenough, if you hadn't come and nosed the whole thing out with yourinfernal dog. The fat's in the fire! There's no reason why I should takeher now. I'll come back to her a rich man, or not at all. "

"And in the meantime?" I slipped in. 

He turned to me, in an ingratiating way. 

"I would have taken her to save the fuss--I really would--it's not myfault the thing's come out. I'm on a risky job. To have her with memight ruin the whole thing; it would affect my nerve. It isn't safe forher. "

"And what's her position to be, " I said, "while you're away? Do youthink she'd have married you if she'd known you were going to leave herlike this? You ought to give up this business. 

"You stole her. Her life's in your hands; she's only a child!"

A quiver passed over his face; it showed that he was suffering. 

"Give it up!" I urged. 

"My last farthing's in it, " he sighed; "the chance of a lifetime. "

He looked at me doubtfully, appealingly, as if for the first time in hislife he had been given a glimpse of that dilemma of consequenceswhich his nature never recognises. I thought he was going to give in. Suddenly, to my horror, Dan growled, "Play the man!"

Pearse turned his head. "I don't want your advice anyway, " he said;"I'll not be dictated to. "

"To your last day, " said Dan, "you shall answer to me for the way youtreat her. "

Zachary smiled. 

"Do you see that fly?" he said. "Wel--I care for you as little as this, "and he flicked the fly off his white trousers. "Good-morning. .. !"

The noble mariners who manned our boat pulled lustily for the shore, butwe had hardly shoved off' when a storm of rain burst over the ship, andshe seemed to vanish, leaving a picture on my eyes of the mate wavinghis cap above the rail, with his tanned young face bent down at us, smiling, keen, and friendly. 

. .. . We reached the shore drenched, angry with ourselves, and witheach other; I started sulkily for home. 

As I rode past an orchard, an apple, loosened by the rainstorm, camedown with a thud. 

"The apples were ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heigh-ho! and ready tofall. "

I made up my mind to pack, and go away. But there's a strangeness, a sort of haunting fascination in it all. To you, who don't know thepeople, it may only seem a piece of rather sordid folly. But it isn'tthe good, the obvious, the useful that puts a spell on us in life. It'sthe bizarre, the dimly seen, the mysterious for good or evil. 

The sun was out again when I rode up to the farm; its yellow thatchshone through the trees as if sheltering a store of gladness and goodnews. John Ford himself opened the door to me. 

He began with an apology, which made me feel more than ever an intruder;then he said:

"I have not spoken to my granddaughter--I waited to see Dan Treffry. "

He was stern and sad-eyed, like a man with a great weight of grief onhis shoulders. He looked as if he had not slept; his dress was out oforder, he had not taken his clothes off, I think. He isn't a man whomyou can pity. I felt I had taken a liberty in knowing of the matter atall. When I told him where we had been, he said:

"It was good of you to take this trouble. That you should have had to!But since such things have come to pass--" He made a gesture full ofhorror. He gave one the impression of a man whose pride was strugglingagainst a mortal hurt. Presently he asked:

"You saw him, you say? He admitted this marriage? Did he give anexplanation?"

I tried to make Pearse's point of view clear. Before this old man, withhis inflexible will and sense of duty, I felt as if I held a brief forZachary, and must try to do him justice. 

"Let me understand, " he said at last. "He stole her, you say, to makesure; and deserts her within a fortnight. "

"He says he meant to take her--"

"Do you believe that?"

Before I could answer, I saw Pasiance standing at the window. How longshe had been there I don't know. 

"Is it true that he is going to leave me behind?" she cried out. 

I could only nod. 

"Did you hear him your own self?"

"Yes. "

She stamped her foot. 

"But he promised! He promised!"

John Ford went towards her. 

"Don't touch me, grandfather! I hate every one! Let him do what helikes, I don't care. "

John Ford's face turned quite grey. 

"Pasiance, " he said, "did you want to leave me so much?"

She looked straight at us, and said sharply:

"What's the good of telling stories. I can't help its hurting you. "

"What did you think you would find away from here?"

She laughed. 

"Find? I don't know--nothing; I wouldn't be stifled anyway. Now Isuppose you'll shut me up because I'm a weak girl, not strong like men!"

"Silence!" said John Ford; "I will make him take you. "

"You shan't!" she cried; "I won't let you. He's free to do as he likes. He's free--I tell you all, everybody--free!"

She ran through the window, and vanished. 

John Ford made a movement as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. I left him there. 

I went to the kitchen, where Hopgood was sitting at the table, eatingbread and cheese. He got up on seeing me, and very kindly brought mesome cold bacon and a pint of ale. 

"I thart I shude be seeing yu, zurr, " he said between his bites;"Therr's no thart to 'atin' 'bout the 'ouse to-day. The old wumman'spuzzivantin' over Miss Pasiance. Young girls are skeery critters"--hebrushed his sleeve over his broad, hard jaws, and filled a pipe"specially when it's in the blood of 'em. Squire Rick Voisey werr adandy; an' Mistress Voisey--well, she werr a nice lady tu, but"--rollingthe stem of his pipe from corner to corner of his mouth--"she werr apra-aper vixen. "

Hopgood's a good fellow, and I believe as soft as he looks hard, buthe's not quite the sort with whom one chooses to talk over a matter likethis. I went upstairs, and began to pack, but after a bit dropped it fora book, and somehow or other fell asleep. 

I woke, and looked at my watch; it was five o'clock. I had been asleepfour hours. A single sunbeam was slanting across from one of my windowsto the other, and there was the cool sound of milk dropping into pails;then, all at once, a stir as of alarm, and heavy footsteps. 

I opened my door. Hopgood and a coast-guardsman were carrying Pasianceslowly up the stairs. She lay in their arms without moving, her facewhiter than her dress, a scratch across the forehead, and two or threedrops there of dried blood. Her hands were clasped, and she slowlycrooked and stiffened out her fingers. When they turned with her at thestair top, she opened her lips, and gasped, "All right, don't put medown. I can bear it. " They passed, and, with a half-smile in her eyes, she said something to me that I couldn't catch; the door was shut, andthe excited whispering began again below. I waited for the men to comeout, and caught hold of Hopgood. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. 

"Poor young thing!" he said. "She fell--down the cliffs--'tis herback--coastguard saw her 'twerr they fetched her in. The Lord 'elp hermebbe she's not broken up much! An' Mister Ford don't know! I'm gwinefor the doctor. "

There was an hour or more to wait before he came; a young fellow; almosta boy. He looked very grave, when he came out of her room. 

"The old woman there fond of her? nurse her well. .. ? Fond as adog!--good! Don't know--can't tell for certain! Afraid it's the spine, must have another opinion! What a plucky girl! Tell Mr. Ford to have thebest man he can get in Torquay--there's C---. I'll be round the firstthing in the morning. Keep her dead quiet. I've left a sleeping draught;she'll have fever tonight. "

John Ford came in at last. Poor old man! What it must have cost him notto go to her for fear of the excitement! How many times in the nextfew hours didn't I hear him come to the bottom of the stairs; his heavywheezing, and sighing; and the forlorn tread of his feet going back!About eleven, just as I was going to bed, Mrs. Hopgood came to my door. 

"Will yu come, sir, " she said; "she's asking for yu. Naowt I can zay butwhat she will see yu; zeems crazy, don't it?" A tear trickled downthe old lady's cheek. "Du 'ee come; 'twill du 'err 'arm mebbe, but Idunno--she'll fret else. "

I slipped into the room. Lying back on her pillows, she was breathingquickly with half-closed eyes. There was nothing to show that she hadwanted me, or even knew that I was there. The wick of the candle, setby the bedside, had been snuffed too short, and gave but a faint light;both window and door stood open, still there was no draught, and thefeeble little flame burned quite still, casting a faint yellow stainon the ceiling like the refection from a buttercup held beneath a chin. These ceilings are far too low! Across the wide, squat window the applebranches fell in black stripes which never stirred. It was too dark tosee things clearly. At the foot of the bed was a chest, and there Mrs. Hopgood had sat down, moving her lips as if in speech. Mingled with thehalf-musty smell of age; there were other scents, of mignonette, apples, and some sweet-smelling soap. The floor had no carpet, and there was notone single dark object except the violin, hanging from a nail over thebed. A little, round clock ticked solemnly. 

"Why won't you give me that stuff, Mums?" Pasiance said in a faint, sharp voice. "I want to sleep. "

"Have you much pain?" I asked. 

"Of course I have; it's everywhere. "

She turned her face towards me. 

"You thought I did it on purpose, but you're wrong. If I had, I'd havedone it better than this. I wouldn't have this brutal pain. " She put herfingers over her eyes. "It's horrible to complain! Only it's so bad! ButI won't again--promise. "

She took the sleeping draught gratefully, making a face, like a childafter a powder. 

"How long do you think it'll be before I can play again? Oh! Iforgot--there are other things to think about. " She held out her hand tome. "Look at my ring. Married--isn't it funny? Ha, ha! Nobody willever understand--that's funny too! Poor Gran! You see, there wasn't anyreason--only me. That's the only reason I'm telling you now; Mums isthere--but she doesn't count; why don't you count, Mums?"

The fever was fighting against the draught; she had tossed the clothesback from her throat, and now and then raised one thin arm a little, asif it eased her; her eyes had grown large, and innocent like a child's;the candle, too, had flared, and was burning clearly. 

"Nobody is to tell him--nobody at all; promise. .. ! If I hadn't slipped, it would have been different. What would have happened then? You can'ttell; and I can't--that's funny! Do you think I loved him? Nobodymarries without love, do they? Not quite without love, I mean. But yousee I wanted to be free, he said he'd take me; and now he's left meafter all! I won't be left, I can't! When I came to the cliff--thatbit where the ivy grows right down--there was just the sea there, underneath; so I thought I would throw myself over and it would be allquiet; and I climbed on a ledge, it looked easier from there, but it wasso high, I wanted to get back; and then my foot slipped; and now it'sall pain. You can't think much, when you're in pain. "

From her eyes I saw that she was dropping off. 

"Nobody can take you away from-yourself. He's not to be told--noteven--I don't--want you--to go away, because--" But her eyes closed, andshe dropped off to sleep. 

They don't seem to know this morning whether she is better or worse. .. . 

VI

"Tuesday, 9th August. 

. .. . It seems more like three weeks than three days since I wrote. The timepasses slowly in a sickhouse. .. ! The doctors were here this morning, they give her forty hours. Not a word of complaint has passed her lipssince she knew. To see her you would hardly think her ill; her cheekshave not had time to waste or lose their colour. There is not muchpain, but a slow, creeping numbness. .. . It was John Ford's wish that sheshould be told. She just turned her head to the wall and sighed; then topoor old Mrs. Hopgood, who was crying her heart out: "Don't cry, Mums, Idon't care. "

When they had gone, she asked for her violin. She made them hold it forher, and drew the bow across the strings; but the notes that came outwere so trembling and uncertain that she dropped the bow and broke intoa passion of sobbing. Since then, no complaint or moan of any kind. .. . 

But to go back. On Sunday, the day after I wrote, as I was coming from awalk, I met a little boy making mournful sounds on a tin whistle. 

"Coom ahn!" he said, "the Miss wahnts t' zee yu. "

I went to her room. In the morning she had seemed better, but now lookedutterly exhausted. She had a letter in her hand. 

"It's this, " she said. "I don't seem to understand it. He wants me todo something--but I can't think, and my eyes feel funny. Read it to me, please. "

The letter was from Zachary. I read it to her in a low voice, for Mrs. Hopgood was in the room, her eyes always fixed on Pasiance above herknitting. When I'd finished, she made me read it again, and yet again. At first she seemed pleased, almost excited, then came a weary, scornfullook, and before I'd finished the third time she was asleep. It was aremarkable letter, that seemed to bring the man right before one's eyes. I slipped it under her fingers on the bed-clothes, and went out. Fancytook me to the cliff where she had fallen. I found the point of rockwhere the cascade of ivy flows down the cliff; the ledge on which shehad climbed was a little to my right--a mad place. It showed plainlywhat wild emotions must have been driving her! Behind was a half-cutcornfield with a fringe of poppies, and swarms of harvest insectscreeping and flying; in the uncut corn a landrail kept up a continualcharring. The sky was blue to the very horizon, and the sea wonderful, under that black wild cliff stained here and there with red. Over thedips and hollows of the fields great white clouds hung low down abovethe land. There are no brassy, east-coast skies here; but alwayssleepy, soft-shaped clouds, full of subtle stir and change. Passages ofZachary's Pearse's letter kept rising to my lips. After all he's the manthat his native place, and life, and blood have made him. It is uselessto expect idealists where the air is soft and things good to look on(the idealist grows where he must create beauty or comfort for himself);useless to expect a man of law and order, in one whose fathers havestared at the sea day and night for a thousand years--the sea, full ofits promises of unknown things, never quite the same, a slave to its ownimpulses. Man is an imitative animal. .. . 

"Life's hard enough, " he wrote, "without tying yourself down. Don'tthink too hardly of me! Shall I make you happier by taking you intodanger? If I succeed you'll be a rich woman; but I shall fail if you'rewith me. To look at you makes me soft. At sea a man dreams of all thegood things on land, he'll dream of the heather, and honey--you'relike that; and he'll dream of the apple-trees, and the grass of theorchards--you're like that; sometimes he only lies on his back andwishes--and you're like that, most of all like that. .. . "

When I was reading those words I remember a strange, soft, half-scornfullook came over Pasiance's face; and once she said, "But that's allnonsense, isn't it. .. ?"

Then followed a long passage about what he would gain if he succeeded, about all that he was risking, the impossibility of failure, if he kepthis wits about him. "It's only a matter of two months or so, " he wenton; "stay where you are, dear, or go to my Dad. He'll be glad to haveyou. There's my mother's room. There's no one to say 'No' to your fiddlethere; you can play it by the sea; and on dark nights you'll have thestars dancing to you over the water as thick as bees. I've looked atthem often, thinking of you. .. . "

Pasiance had whispered to me, "Don't read that bit, " and afterwardsI left it out. .. . Then the sensuous side of him shows up: "When I'vebrought this off, there's the whole world before us. There are placesI can take you to. There's one I know, not too warm and not too cold, where you can sit all day in the shade and watch the creepers, and thecocoa-palms, still as still; nothing to do or care about; all the fruitsyou can think of; no noise but the parrots and the streams, and a splashwhen a nigger dives into a water-hole. Pasiance, we'll go there! Withan eighty-ton craft there's no sea we couldn't know. The world's a fineplace for those who go out to take it; there's lots of unknown stuff'in it yet. I'll fill your lap, my pretty, so full of treasures that youshan't know yourself. A man wasn't meant to sit at home. .. . "

Throughout this letter--for all its real passion--one could feel howthe man was holding to his purpose--the rather sordid purpose of thisventure. He's unconscious of it; for he is in love with her; but he mustbe furthering his own ends. He is vital--horribly vital! I wonder lessnow that she should have yielded. 

What visions hasn't he dangled before her. There was physicalattraction, too--I haven't forgotten the look I saw on her face atBlack Mill. But when all's said and done, she married him, because she'sPasiance Voisey, who does things and wants "to get back. " And she liesthere dying; not he nor any other man will ever take her away. It'spitiful to think of him tingling with passion, writing that letter tothis doomed girl in that dark hole of a saloon. "I've wanted money, " hewrote, "ever since I was a little chap sitting in the fields among thecows. .. . I want it for you now, and I mean to have it. I've studied thething two years; I know what I know. .. . 

"The moment this is in the post I leave for London. There are a hundredthings to look after still; I can't trust myself within reach of youagain till the anchor's weighed. When I re-christened her the PiedWitch, I thought of you--you witch to me. .. . "

There followed a solemn entreaty to her to be on the path leading to thecove at seven o'clock on Wednesday evening (that is, to-morrow) whenhe would come ashore and bid her good-bye. It was signed, "Your lovinghusband, Zachary Pearse. .. . "

I lay at the edge of that cornfield a long time; it was very peaceful. The church bells had begun to ring. The long shadows came stealing outfrom the sheaves; woodpigeons rose one by one, and flapped off to roost;the western sky was streaked with red, and all the downs and combebathed in the last sunlight. Perfect harvest weather; but oppressivelystill, the stillness of suspense. .. . 

Life at the farm goes on as usual. We have morning and evening prayers. John Ford reads them fiercely, as though he were on the eve of a revoltagainst his God. Morning and evening he visits her, comes out wheezingheavily, and goes to his own room; I believe, to pray. Since thismorning I haven't dared meet him. He is a strong old man--but this willbreak him up. .. . 

VII

"KINGSWEAR, Saturday, 13th August. 

. .. . It's over--I leave here to-morrow, and go abroad. 

A quiet afternoon--not a breath up in the churchyard! I was therequite half an hour before they came. Some red cows had strayed into theadjoining orchard, and were rubbing their heads against the railing. While I stood there an old woman came and drove them away; afterwards, she stooped and picked up the apples that had fallen before their time. 

"The apples are ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heigh-ho! and ready tofall; There came an old woman and gathered them all, Oh! heigh-ho! andgathered them all. "

. .. . They brought Pasiance very simply--no hideous funeral trappings, thank God--the farm hands carried her, and there was no one there butJohn Ford, the Hopgoods, myself, and that young doctor. They read theservice over her grave. I can hear John Ford's "Amen!" now. When it wasover he walked away bareheaded in the sun, without a word. I went upthere again this evening, and wandered amongst the tombstones. "RichardVoisey, " "John, the son of Richard and Constance Voisey, " "MargeryVoisey, " so many generations of them in that corner; then "RichardVoisey and Agnes his wife, " and next to it that new mound on whicha sparrow was strutting and the shadows of the apple-trees alreadyhovering. 

I will tell you the little left to tell. .. . 

On Wednesday afternoon she asked for me again. 

"It's only till seven, " she whispered. "He's certain to come then. Butif I--were to die first--then tell him--I'm sorry for him. They keepsaying: 'Don't talk--don't talk!' Isn't it stupid? As if I should haveany other chance! There'll be no more talking after to-night! Makeeverybody come, please--I want to see them all. When you're dying you'refreer than any other time--nobody wants you to do things, nobody careswhat you say. .. . He promised me I should do what I liked if I marriedhim--I never believed that really--but now I can do what I like; and sayall the things I want to. " She lay back silent; she could not after allspeak the inmost thoughts that are in each of us, so sacred that theymelt away at the approach of words. 

I shall remember her like that--with the gleam of a smile in herhalf-closed eyes, her red lips parted--such a quaint look of mockery, pleasure, regret, on her little round, upturned face; the room white, and fresh with flowers, the breeze guttering the apple-leaves againstthe window. In the night they had unhooked the violin and taken it away;she had not missed it. .. . When Dan came, I gave up my place to him. Hetook her hand gently in his great paw, without speaking. 

"How small my hand looks there, " she said, "too small. " Dan put itsoftly back on the bedclothes and wiped his forehead. Pasiance cried ina sharp whisper: "Is it so hot in here? I didn't know. " Dan bent down, put his lips to her fingers and left the room. 

The afternoon was long, the longest I've ever spent. Sometimes sheseemed to sleep, sometimes whispered to herself about her mother, her grandfather, the garden, or her cats--all sorts of inconsequent, trivial, even ludicrous memories seemed to throng her mind--never once, I think, did she speak of Zachary, but, now and then, she asked thetime. .. . Each hour she grew visibly weaker. John Ford sat by her withoutmoving, his heavy breathing was often the only sound; sometimes sherubbed her fingers on his hand, without speaking. It was a summary oftheir lives together. Once he prayed aloud for her in a hoarse voice;then her pitiful, impatient eyes signed to me. 

"Quick, " she whispered, "I want him; it's all so--cold. "

I went out and ran down the path towards the cove. 

Leaning on a gate stood Zachary, an hour before his time; dressed in thesame old blue clothes and leather-peaked cap as on the day when I sawhim first. He knew nothing of what had happened. But at a quarter of thetruth, I'm sure he divined the whole, though he would not admit it tohimself. He kept saying, "It can't be. She'll be well in a few days--asprain! D' you think the sea-voyage. .. . Is she strong enough to be movednow at once?"

It was painful to see his face, so twisted by the struggle between hisinstinct and his vitality. The sweat poured down his forehead. He turnedround as we walked up the path, and pointed out to sea. There was hissteamer. "I could get her on board in no time. Impossible! What is it, then? Spine? Good God! The doctors. .. . Sometimes they'll do wonders!" Itwas pitiful to see his efforts to blind himself to the reality. 

"It can't be, she's too young. We're walking very slow. " I told him shewas dying. 

For a second I thought he was going to run away. Then he jerked up hishead, and rushed on towards the house. At the foot of the staircase hegripped me by the shoulder. 

"It's not true!" he said; "she'll get better now I'm here. I'll stay. Let everything go. I'll stay. "

"Now's the time, " I said, "to show you loved her. Pull yourselftogether, man!" He shook all over. 

"Yes!" was all he answered. We went into her room. It seemed impossibleshe was going to die; the colour was bright in her cheeks, her lipstrembling and pouted as if she had just been kissed, her eyes gleaming, her hair so dark and crisp, her face so young. .. . 

Half an hour later I stole to the open door of her room. She was stilland white as the sheets of her bed. John Ford stood at the foot; and, bowed to the level of the pillows, his head on his clenched fists, satZachary. It was utterly quiet. The guttering of the leaves had ceased. When things have come to a crisis, how little one feels--no fear, nopity, no sorrow, rather the sense, as when a play is over, of anxiety toget away!

Suddenly Zachary rose, brushed past me without seeing, and randownstairs. 

Some hours later I went out on the path leading to the cove. It waspitch-black; the riding light of the Pied Witch was still there, lookingno bigger than a firefly. Then from in front I heard sobbing--a man'ssobs; no sound is quite so dreadful. Zachary Pearse got up out of thebank not ten paces off. 

I had no heart to go after him, and sat down in the hedge. There wassomething subtly akin to her in the fresh darkness of the young night;the soft bank, the scent of honeysuckle, the touch of the ferns andbrambles. Death comes to all of us, and when it's over it's over; butthis blind business--of those left behind!

A little later the ship whistled twice; her starboard light gleamedfaintly--and that was all. .. . 

VIII

"TORQUAY, 30th October. 

. .. . Do you remember the letters I wrote you from Moor Farm nearly threeyears ago? To-day I rode over there. I stopped at Brixham on the way forlunch, and walked down to the quay. There had been a shower--but the sunwas out again, shining on the sea, the brown-red sails, and the rampartof slate roofs. 

A trawler was lying there, which had evidently been in a collision. Thespiky-bearded, thin-lipped fellow in torn blue jersey and sea-boots whowas superintending the repairs, said to me a little proudly:

"Bane in collision, zurr; like to zee over her?" Then suddenly screwingup his little blue eyes, he added:

"Why, I remembers yu. Steered yu along o' the young lady in this yervery craft. "

It was Prawle, Zachary Pearse's henchman. 

"Yes, " he went on, "that's the cutter. "

"And Captain Pearse?"

He leant his back against the quay, and spat. "He was a pra-aper man; Inever zane none like 'en. "

"Did you do any good out there?"

Prawle gave me a sharp glance. 

"Gude? No, t'was arrm we done, vrom ztart to finish--had trouble all thetime. What a man cude du, the skipper did. When yu caan't du right, zomecalls it 'Providence'! 'Tis all my eye an' Betty Martin! What I zay es, 'tis these times, there's such a dale o' folk, a dale of puzzivantin'fellers; the world's to small. "

With these words there flashed across me a vision of Drake crushedinto our modern life by the shrinkage of the world; Drake caught in themeshes of red tape, electric wires, and all the lofty appliances of ourcivilization. Does a type survive its age; live on into times thathave no room for it? The blood is there--and sometimes there's athrow-back. .. . All fancy! Eh?

"So, " I said, "you failed?"

Prawle wriggled. 

"I wudden' goo for to zay that, zurr--'tis an ugly word. Da-am!" headded, staring at his boots, "'twas thru me tu. We were along among thehaythen, and I mus' nades goo for to break me leg. The capt'n he wudden'lave me. 'One Devon man, ' he says to me, 'don' lave anotherr. ' We werrsix days where we shuld ha' been tu; when we got back to the ship acruiser had got her for gun-runnin'. "

"And what has become of Captain Pearse?"

Prawle answered, "Zurr, I belave 'e went to China, 'tis onsartin. "

"He's not dead?"

Prawle looked at me with a kind of uneasy anger. 

"Yu cudden' kell 'en! 'Tis true, mun 'll die zome day. But therr's not aone that'll show better zport than Capt'n Zach'ry Pearse. "

I believe that; he will be hard to kill. The vision of him comes up, with his perfect balance, defiant eyes, and sweetish smile; the way thehair of his beard crisped a little, and got blacker on the cheeks; thesort of desperate feeling he gave, that one would never get the betterof him, that he would never get the better of himself. 

I took leave of Prawle and half a crown. Before I was off the quay Iheard him saying to a lady, "Bane in collision, marm! Like to zee overher?"

After lunch I rode on to Moor. The old place looked much the same; butthe apple-trees were stripped of fruit, and their leaves beginning to goyellow and fall. One of Pasiance's cats passed me in the orchard huntinga bird, still with a ribbon round its neck. John Ford showed me all hislatest improvements, but never by word or sign alluded to the past. Heinquired after Dan, back in New Zealand now, without much interest; hisstubbly beard and hair have whitened; he has grown very stout, and Inoticed that his legs are not well under control; he often stops to leanon his stick. He was very ill last winter; and sometimes, they say, willgo straight off to sleep in the middle of a sentence. 

I managed to get a few minutes with the Hopgoods. We talked of Pasiancesitting in the kitchen under a row of plates, with that clinging smellof wood-smoke, bacon, and age bringing up memories, as nothing butscents can. The dear old lady's hair, drawn so nicely down her foreheadon each side from the centre of her cap, has a few thin silver lines;and her face is a thought more wrinkled. The tears still come into hereyes when she talks of her "lamb. "

Of Zachary I heard nothing, but she told me of old Pearse's death. 

"Therr they found 'en, zo to spake, dead--in th' sun; but Ha-apgood cantell yu, " and Hopgood, ever rolling his pipe, muttered something, andsmiled his wooden smile. 

He came to see me off from the straw-yard. "'Tis like death to thevarrm, zurr, " he said, putting all the play of his vast shoulders intothe buckling of my girths. "Mister Ford--well! And not one of th' oldstock to take it when 'e's garn. .. . Ah! it werr cruel; my old woman'snever been hersel' since. Tell 'ee what 'tis--don't du t' think tomuch. "

I went out of my way to pass the churchyard. There were flowers, quitefresh, chrysanthemums, and asters; above them the white stone, alreadystained:

 "PASIANCE

 "WIFE OF ZACHARY PEARSE

 "'The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away. '"

The red cows were there too; the sky full of great white clouds, somebirds whistling a little mournfully, and in the air the scent of fallenleaves. .. . 

May, 1900. 

A KNIGHT

TO MY MOTHER

A KNIGHT

I

At Monte Carlo, in the spring of the year 189-, I used to notice an oldfellow in a grey suit and sunburnt straw hat with a black ribbon. Everymorning at eleven o'clock, he would come down to the Place, followedby a brindled German boarhound, walk once or twice round it, and seathimself on a bench facing the casino. There he would remain in the sun, with his straw hat tilted forward, his thin legs apart, his brown handscrossed between them, and the dog's nose resting on his knee. After anhour or more he would get up, and, stooping a little from the waist, walk slowly round the Place and return up hill. Just before three, he would come down again in the same clothes and go into the casino, leaving the dog outside. 

One afternoon, moved by curiosity, I followed him. He passed through thehall without looking at the gambling-rooms, and went into the concert. It became my habit after that to watch for him. When he sat in the PlaceI could see him from the window of my room. The chief puzzle to me wasthe matter of his nationality. 

His lean, short face had a skin so burnt that it looked like leather;his jaw was long and prominent, his chin pointed, and he had hollowsin his cheeks. There were wrinkles across his forehead; his eyes werebrown; and little white moustaches were brushed up from the corners ofhis lips. The back of his head bulged out above the lines of his leanneck and high, sharp shoulders; his grey hair was cropped quite close. In the Marseilles buffet, on the journey out, I had met an Englishman, almost his counterpart in features--but somehow very different! This oldfellow had nothing of the other's alert, autocratic self-sufficiency. He was quiet and undemonstrative, without looking, as it were, insulatedagainst shocks and foreign substances. He was certainly no Frenchman. His eyes, indeed, were brown, but hazel-brown, and gentle--not thered-brown sensual eye of the Frenchman. An American? But was ever anAmerican so passive? A German? His moustache was certainly brushed up, but in a modest, almost pathetic way, not in the least Teutonic. Nothingseemed to fit him. I gave him up, and named him "the Cosmopolitan. "

Leaving at the end of April, I forgot him altogether. In the same month, however, of the following year I was again at Monte Carlo, and going oneday to the concert found myself seated next this same old fellow. Theorchestra was playing Meyerbeer's "Prophete, " and my neighbour wasasleep, snoring softly. He was dressed in the same grey suit, with thesame straw hat (or one exactly like it) on his knees, and his handscrossed above it. Sleep had not disfigured him--his little whitemoustache was still brushed up, his lips closed; a very good and gentleexpression hovered on his face. A curved mark showed on his righttemple, the scar of a cut on the side of his neck, and his left hand wascovered by an old glove, the little forger of which was empty. He wokeup when the march was over and brisked up his moustache. 

The next thing on the programme was a little thing by Poise from Le joliGilles, played by Mons. Corsanego on the violin. Happening to glance atmy old neighbour, I saw a tear caught in the hollow of his cheek, andanother just leaving the corner of his eye; there was a faint smile onhis lips. Then came an interval; and while orchestra and audience wereresting, I asked him if he were fond of music. He looked up withoutdistrust, bowed, and answered in a thin, gentle voice: "Certainly. Iknow nothing about it, play no instrument, could never sing a note; butfond of it! Who would not be?" His English was correct enough, but withan emphasis not quite American nor quite foreign. I ventured to remarkthat he did not care for Meyerbeer. He smiled. 

"Ah!" he said, "I was asleep? Too bad of me. He is a little noisy--Iknow so little about music. There is Bach, for instance. Would youbelieve it, he gives me no pleasure? A great misfortune to be nomusician!" He shook his head. 

I murmured, "Bach is too elevating for you perhaps. "

"To me, " he answered, "any music I like is elevating. People say somemusic has a bad effect on them. I never found any music that gave me abad thought--no--no--quite the opposite; only sometimes, as you see, I go to sleep. But what a lovely instrument the violin!" A faint flushcame on his parched cheeks. "The human soul that has left the body. Acurious thing, distant bugles at night have given me the same feeling. "The orchestra was now coming back, and, folding his hands, my neighbourturned his eyes towards them. When the concert was over we came outtogether. Waiting at the entrance was his dog. 

"You have a beautiful dog!"

"Ah! yes, Freda, mia cara, da su mano!" The dog squatted on herhaunches, and lifted her paw in the vague, bored way of big dogs whenrequested to perform civilities. She was a lovely creature--the purestbrindle, without a speck of white, and free from the unbalanced look ofmost dogs of her breed. 

"Basta! basta!" He turned to me apologetically. "We have agreed to speakItalian; in that way I keep up the language; astonishing the number ofthings that dog will understand!" I was about to take my leave, when heasked if I would walk a little way with him--"If you are free, that is. "We went up the street with Freda on the far side of her master. 

"Do you never 'play' here?" I asked him. 

"Play? No. It must be very interesting; most exciting, but as a matterof fact, I can't afford it. If one has very little, one is too nervous. "

He had stopped in front of a small hairdresser's shop. "I live here, " hesaid, raising his hat again. "Au revoir!--unless I can offer you a glassof tea. It's all ready. Come! I've brought you out of your way; give methe pleasure!"

I have never met a man so free from all self-consciousness, and yet sodelicate and diffident the combination is a rare one. We went up a steepstaircase to a room on the second floor. My companion threw the shuttersopen, setting all the flies buzzing. The top of a plane-tree was ona level with the window, and all its little brown balls were dancing, quite close, in the wind. As he had promised, an urn was hissing on atable; there was also a small brown teapot, some sugar, slices of lemon, and glasses. A bed, washstand, cupboard, tin trunk, two chairs, and asmall rug were all the furniture. Above the bed a sword in a leathersheath was suspended from two nails. The photograph of a girl stood onthe closed stove. My host went to the cupboard and produced a bottle, a glass, and a second spoon. When the cork was drawn, the scent of rumescaped into the air. He sniffed at it and dropped a teaspoonful intoboth glasses. 

"This is a trick I learned from the Russians after Plevna; they had mylittle finger, so I deserved something in exchange. " He looked round;his eyes, his whole face, seemed to twinkle. "I assure you it was worthit--makes all the difference. Try!" He poured off the tea. 

"Had you a sympathy with the Turks?"

"The weaker side--" He paused abruptly, then added: "But it was notthat. " Over his face innumerable crow's-feet had suddenly appeared, hiseyes twitched; he went on hurriedly, "I had to find something to do justthen--it was necessary. " He stared into his glass; and it was some timebefore I ventured to ask if he had seen much fighting. 

"Yes, " he replied gravely, "nearly twenty years altogether; I was one ofGaribaldi's Mille in '60. "

"Surely you are not Italian?"

He leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "I was in Genoa at thattime learning banking; Garibaldi was a wonderful man! One could not helpit. " He spoke quite simply. "You might say it was like seeing a littleman stand up to a ring of great hulking fellows; I went, just as youwould have gone, if you'd been there. I was not long with them--our warbegan; I had to go back home. " He said this as if there had been but onewar since the world began. "In '60, " he mused, "till '65. Just think ofit! The poor country. Why, in my State, South Carolina--I was through itall--nobody could be spared there--we were one to three. "

"I suppose you have a love of fighting?"

"H'm!" he said, as if considering the idea for the first time. "Sometimes I fought for a living, and sometimes--because I was obliged;one must try to be a gentleman. But won't you have some more?"

I refused more tea and took my leave, carrying away with me a pictureof the old fellow looking down from the top of the steep staircase, one hand pressed to his back, the other twisting up those little whitemoustaches, and murmuring, "Take care, my dear sir, there's a step thereat the corner. "

"To be a gentleman!" I repeated in the street, causing an old Frenchlady to drop her parasol, so that for about two minutes we stood bowingand smiling to each other, then separated full of the best feeling. 

II

A week later I found myself again seated next him at a concert. In themeantime I had seen him now and then, but only in passing. He seemeddepressed. The corners of his lips were tightened, his tanned cheeks hada greyish tinge, his eyes were restless; and, between two numbers ofthe programme, he murmured, tapping his fingers on his hat, "Do you everhave bad days? Yes? Not pleasant, are they?"

Then something occurred from which all that I have to tell you followed. There came into the concert-hall the heroine of one of those romances, crimes, follies, or irregularities, call it what you will, which hadjust attracted the "world's" stare. She passed us with her partner, andsat down in a chair a few rows to our right. She kept turning her headround, and at every turn I caught the gleam of her uneasy eyes. Some onebehind us said: "The brazen baggage!"

My companion turned full round, and glared at whoever it was who hadspoken. The change in him was quite remarkable. His lips were drawn backfrom his teeth; he frowned; the scar on his temple had reddened. 

"Ah!" he said to me. "The hue and cry! Contemptible! How I hate it! Butyou wouldn't understand--!" he broke off, and slowly regained his usualair of self-obliteration; he even seemed ashamed, and began trying tobrush his moustaches higher than ever, as if aware that his heat hadrobbed them of neatness. 

"I'm not myself, when I speak of such matters, " he said suddenly; andbegan reading his programme, holding it upside down. A minute later, however, he said in a peculiar voice: "There are people to be found whoobject to vivisecting animals; but the vivisection of a woman, who mindsthat? Will you tell me it's right, that because of some tragedy likethis--believe me, it is always a tragedy--we should hunt down a woman?That her fellow-women should make an outcast of her? That we, who aremen, should make a prey of her? If I thought that. .. . " Again he brokeoff, staring very hard in front of him. "It is we who make them whatthey are; and even if that is not so--why! if I thought there was awoman in the world I could not take my hat off to--I--I--couldn'tsleep at night. " He got up from his seat, put on his old straw hat withtrembling fingers, and, without a glance back, went out, stumbling overthe chair-legs. 

I sat there, horribly disturbed; the words, "One must try to be agentleman!" haunting me. When I came out, he was standing by theentrance with one hand on his hip and the other on his dog. In thatattitude of waiting he was such a patient figure; the sun glared downand showed the threadbare nature of his clothes and the thinness ofhis brown hands, with their long forgers and nails yellow from tobacco. Seeing me he came up the steps again, and raised his hat. 

"I am glad to have caught you; please forget all that. " I asked if hewould do me the honour of dining at my hotel. 

"Dine?" he repeated with the sort of smile a child gives if you offerhim a box of soldiers; "with the greatest pleasure. I seldom dine out, but I think I can muster up a coat. Yes--yes--and at what time shall Icome? At half-past seven, and your hotel is--? Good! I shall be there. Freda, mia cara, you will be alone this evening. You do not smokecaporal, I fear. I find it fairly good; though it has too much bite. " Hewalked off with Freda, puffing at his thin roll of caporal. 

Once or twice he stopped, as if bewildered or beset by some suddendoubt or memory; and every time he stopped, Freda licked his hand. Theydisappeared round the corner of the street, and I went to my hotel tosee about dinner. On the way I met Jules le Ferrier, and asked him tocome too. 

"My faith, yes!" he said, with the rosy pessimism characteristic of theFrench editor. "Man must dine!"

At half-past six we assembled. My "Cosmopolitan" was in an oldfrock-coat braided round the edges, buttoned high and tight, definingmore than ever the sharp lines of his shoulders and the slight kink ofhis back; he had brought with him, too, a dark-peaked cap of militaryshape, which he had evidently selected as more fitting to the coat thana straw hat. He smelled slightly of some herb. 

We sat down to dinner, and did not rise for two hours. He was a charmingguest, praised everything he ate--not with commonplaces, but in wordsthat made you feel it had given him real pleasure. At first, wheneverJules made one of his caustic remarks, he looked quite pained, butsuddenly seemed to make up his mind that it was bark, not bite; and thenat each of them he would turn to me and say, "Aha! that's good--isn'tit?" With every glass of wine he became more gentle and more genial, sitting very upright, and tightly buttoned-in; while the little whitewings of his moustache seemed about to leave him for a better world. 

In spite of the most leading questions, however, we could not get him totalk about himself, for even Jules, most cynical of men, had recognisedthat he was a hero of romance. He would answer gently and precisely, andthen sit twisting his moustaches, perfectly unconscious that we wantedmore. Presently, as the wine went a little to his head, his thin, highvoice grew thinner, his cheeks became flushed, his eyes brighter; at theend of dinner he said: "I hope I have not been noisy. "

We assured him that he had not been noisy enough. "You're laughing atme, " he answered. "Surely I've been talking all the time!"

"Mon Dieu!" said Jules, "we have been looking for some fables of yourwars; but nothing--nothing, not enough to feed a frog!"

The old fellow looked troubled. 

"To be sure!" he mused. "Let me think! there is that about Colhounat Gettysburg; and there's the story of Garibaldi and the Miller. " Heplunged into a tale, not at all about himself, which would have beenextremely dull, but for the conviction in his eyes, and the way hestopped and commented. "So you see, " he ended, "that's the sort ofman Garibaldi was! I could tell you another tale of him. " Catching anintrospective look in Jules's eye, however, I proposed taking our cigarsover to the cafe opposite. 

"Delightful!" the old fellow said: "We shall have a band and the freshair, and clear consciences for our cigars. I cannot like this smoking ina room where there are ladies dining. "

He walked out in front of us, smoking with an air of great enjoyment. Jules, glowing above his candid shirt and waistcoat, whispered to me, "Mon cher Georges, how he is good!" then sighed, and added darkly: "Thepoor man!"

We sat down at a little table. Close by, the branches of a plane-treerustled faintly; their leaves hung lifeless, speckled like the breastsof birds, or black against the sky; then, caught by the breeze, fluttered suddenly. 

The old fellow sat, with head thrown back, a smile on his face, comingnow and then out of his enchanted dreams to drink coffee, answer ourquestions, or hum the tune that the band was playing. The ash of hiscigar grew very long. One of those bizarre figures in Oriental garb, who, night after night, offer their doubtful wares at a great price, appeared in the white glare of a lamp, looked with a furtive smile athis face, and glided back, discomfited by its unconsciousness. It wasa night for dreams! A faint, half-eastern scent in the air, of blacktobacco and spice; few people as yet at the little tables, the waitersleisurely, the band soft! What was he dreaming of, that old fellow, whose cigar-ash grew so long? Of youth, of his battles, of those thingsthat must be done by those who try to be gentlemen; perhaps only of hisdinner; anyway of something gilded in vague fashion as the light wasgilding the branches of the plane-tree. 

Jules pulled my sleeve: "He sleeps. " He had smilingly dropped off; thecigar-ash--that feathery tower of his dreams--had broken and fallen onhis sleeve. He awoke, and fell to dusting it. 

The little tables round us began to fill. One of the bandsmen played aczardas on the czymbal. Two young Frenchmen, talking loudly, sat down atthe adjoining table. They were discussing the lady who had been at theconcert that afternoon. 

"It's a bet, " said one of them, "but there's the present man. I takethree weeks, that's enough 'elle est declassee; ce n'est que le premierpas--'"

My old friend's cigar fell on the table. "Monsieur, " he stammered, "youspeak of a lady so, in a public place?"

The young man stared at him. "Who is this person?" he said to hiscompanion. 

My guest took up Jules's glove that lay on the table; before eitherof us could raise a finger, he had swung it in the speaker's face. "Enough!" he said, and, dropping the glove, walked away. 

We all jumped to our feet. I left Jules and hurried after him. His facewas grim, his eyes those of a creature who has been struck on a rawplace. He made a movement of his fingers which said plainly. "Leave me, if you please!"

I went back to the cafe. The two young men had disappeared, so hadJules, but everything else was going on just as before; the bandsmanstill twanging out his czardas; the waiters serving drinks; theorientals trying to sell their carpets. I paid the bill, sought out themanager, and apologised. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled and said:"An eccentric, your friend, nicht wahr?" Could he tell me where M. LeFerrier was? He could not. I left to look for Jules; could not find him, and returned to my hotel disgusted. I was sorry for my old guest, butvexed with him too; what business had he to carry his Quixotism to suchan unpleasant length? I tried to read. Eleven o'clock struck; the casinodisgorged a stream of people; the Place seemed fuller of life than ever;then slowly it grew empty and quite dark. The whim seized me to go out. It was a still night, very warm, very black. On one of the seats aman and woman sat embraced, on another a girl was sobbing, on athird--strange sight--a priest dozed. I became aware of some one at myside; it was my old guest. 

"If you are not too tired, " he said, "can you give me ten minutes?"

"Certainly; will you come in?"

"No, no; let us go down to the Terrace. I shan't keep you long. "

He did not speak again till we reached a seat above the pigeon-shootinggrounds; there, in a darkness denser for the string of lights stillburning in the town, we sat down. 

"I owe you an apology, " he said; "first in the afternoon, then againthis evening--your guest--your friend's glove! I have behaved as nogentleman should. " He was leaning forward with his hands on the handleof a stick. His voice sounded broken and disturbed. 

"Oh!" I muttered. "It's nothing!"'

"You are very good, " he sighed; "but I feel that I must explain. Iconsider I owe this to you, but I must tell you I should not have thecourage if it were not for another reason. You see I have no friend. " Helooked at me with an uncertain smile. I bowed, and a minute or two laterhe began. .. . 

III

"You will excuse me if I go back rather far. It was in '74, when I hadbeen ill with Cuban fever. To keep me alive they had put me on board aship at Santiago, and at the end of the voyage I found myself in London. I had very little money; I knew nobody. I tell you, sir, there are timeswhen it's hard for a fighting man to get anything to do. People wouldsay to me: 'Afraid we've nothing for a man like you in our business. ' Itried people of all sorts; but it was true--I had been fighting here andthere since '60, I wasn't fit for anything--" He shook his head. "In theSouth, before the war, they had a saying, I remember, about a dog and asoldier having the same value. But all this has nothing to do with whatI have to tell you. " He sighed again and went on, moistening his lips:"I was walking along the Strand one day, very disheartened, when I heardmy name called. It's a queer thing, that, in a strange street. By theway, " he put in with dry ceremony, "you don't know my name, I think:it is Brune--Roger Brune. At first I did not recognise the person whocalled me. He had just got off an omnibus--a square-shouldered man withheavy moustaches, and round spectacles. But when he shook my hand Iknew him at once. He was a man called Dalton, who was taken prisoner atGettysburg; one of you Englishmen who came to fight with us--a major inthe regiment where I was captain. We were comrades during two campaigns. If I had been his brother he couldn't have seemed more pleased to seeme. He took me into a bar for the sake of old times. The drink went tomy head, and by the time we reached Trafalgar Square I was quite unableto walk. He made me sit down on a bench. I was in fact--drunk. It'sdisgraceful to be drunk, but there was some excuse. Now I tell you, sir"(all through his story he was always making use of that expression, itseemed to infuse fresh spirit into him, to help his memory in obscureplaces, to give him the mastery of his emotions; it was like the pieceof paper a nervous man holds in his hand to help him through a speech), "there never was a man with a finer soul than my friend Dalton. He wasnot clever, though he had read much; and sometimes perhaps he was toofond of talking. But he was a gentleman; he listened to me as if I hadbeen a child; he was not ashamed of me--and it takes a gentleman notto be ashamed of a drunken man in the streets of London; God knows whatthings I said to him while we were sitting there! He took me to his homeand put me to bed himself; for I was down again with fever. " He stopped, turned slightly from me, and put his hand up to his brow. "Well, thenit was, sir, that I first saw her. I am not a poet and I cannot tell youwhat she seemed to me. I was delirious, but I always knew when she wasthere. I had dreams of sunshine and cornfields, of dancing waves at sea, young trees--never the same dreams, never anything for long together;and when I had my senses I was afraid to say so for fear she would goaway. She'd be in the corner of the room, with her hair hanging abouther neck, a bright gold colour; she never worked and never read, butsat and talked to herself in a whisper, or looked at me for a long timetogether out of her blue eyes, a little frown between them, and herupper lip closed firm on her lower lip, where she had an uneven tooth. When her father came, she'd jump up and hang on to his neck until hegroaned, then run away, but presently come stealing back on tiptoe. Iused to listen for her footsteps on the stairs, then the knock, the doorflung back or opened quietly--you never could tell which; and her voice, with a little lisp, 'Are you better today, Mr. Brune? What funny thingsyou say when you're delirious! Father says you've been in heaps ofbattles!"'

He got up, paced restlessly to and fro, and sat down again. "I rememberevery word as if it were yesterday, all the things she said, and did;I've had a long time to think them over, you see. Well, I must tell you, the first morning that I was able to get up, I missed her. Daltoncame in her place, and I asked him where she was. 'My dear fellow, 'he answered, 'I've sent Eilie away to her old nurse's inn down on theriver; she's better there at this time of year. ' We looked at eachother, and I saw that he had sent her away because he didn't trust me. Iwas hurt by this. Illness spoils one. He was right, he was quite right, for all he knew about me was that I could fight and had got drunk; butI am very quick-tempered. I made up my mind at once to leave him. ButI was too weak--he had to put me to bed again. The very next morning hecame and proposed that I should go into partnership with him. He kept afencing-school and pistol-gallery. It seemed like the finger of God; andperhaps it was--who knows?" He fell into a reverie, and taking outhis caporal, rolled himself a cigarette; having lighted it, he went onsuddenly: "There, in the room above the school, we used to sit in theevenings, one on each side of the grate. The room was on the secondfloor, I remember, with two windows, and a view of nothing but thehouses opposite. The furniture was covered up with chintz. The things onthe bookshelf were never disturbed, they were Eilie's--half-broken caseswith butterflies, a dead frog in a bottle, a horse-shoe covered withtinfoil, some shells too, and a cardboard box with three speckled eggsin it, and these words written on the lid: 'Missel-thrush from Lucy'stree--second family, only one blown. '" He smoked fiercely, with puffsthat were like sharp sighs. 

"Dalton was wrapped up in her. He was never tired of talking to me abouther, and I was never tired of hearing. We had a number of pupils; butin the evening when we sat there, smoking--our talk would sooner orlater--come round to her. Her bedroom opened out of that sitting--room;he took me in once and showed me a narrow little room the width of apassage, fresh and white, with a photograph of her mother above the bed, and an empty basket for a dog or cat. " He broke off with a vexed air, and resumed sternly, as if trying to bind himself to the narration ofhis more important facts: "She was then fifteen--her mother had beendead twelve years--a beautiful, face, her mother's; it had been herdeath that sent Dalton to fight with us. Well, sir, one day in August, very hot weather, he proposed a run into the country, and who shouldmeet us on the platform when we arrived but Eilie, in a blue sun-bonnetand frock-flax blue, her favourite colour. I was angry with Dalton fornot telling me that we should see her; my clothes were not quite--myhair wanted cutting. It was black then, sir, " he added, tracing apattern in the darkness with his stick. "She had a little donkey-cart;she drove, and, while we walked one on each side, she kept looking atme from under her sunbonnet. I must tell you that she never laughed--hereyes danced, her cheeks would go pink, and her hair shake about on herneck, but she never laughed. Her old nurse, Lucy, a very broad, goodwoman, had married the proprietor of the inn in the village there. Ihave never seen anything like that inn: sweethriar up to the roof! Andthe scent--I am very susceptible to scents!" His head drooped, and thecigarette fell from his hand. A train passing beneath sent up a showerof sparks. He started, and went on: "We had our lunch in the parlour--Iremember that room very well, for I spent the happiest days of my lifeafterwards in that inn. .. . We went into a meadow after lunch, andmy friend Dalton fell asleep. A wonderful thing happened then. Eiliewhispered to me, 'Let's have a jolly time. ' She took me for the mostglorious walk. The river was close by. A lovely stream, your riverThames, so calm and broad; it is like the spirit of your people. I wasbewitched; I forgot my friend, I thought of nothing but how to keep herto myself. It was such a day! There are days that are the devil's, but that was truly one of God's. She took me to a little pond under anelm-tree, and we dragged it, we two, an hour, for a kind of tiny redworm to feed some creature that she had. We found them in the mud, andwhile she was bending over, the curls got in her eyes. If you could haveseen her then, I think, sir, you would have said she was like the firstsight of spring. .. . We had tea afterwards, all together, in the longgrass under some fruit-trees. If I had the knack of words, there arethings that I could say. " He bent, as though in deference to thoseunspoken memories. "Twilight came on while we were sitting there. Awonderful thing is twilight in the country! It became time for us to go. There was an avenue of trees close by--like a church with a window atthe end, where golden light came through. I walked up and down it withher. 'Will you come again?' she whispered, and suddenly she lifted upher face to be kissed. I kissed her as if she were a little child. Andwhen we said good-bye, her eyes were looking at me across her father'sshoulder, with surprise and sorrow in them. 'Why do you go away?' theyseemed to say. .. . But I must tell you, " he went on hurriedly, "of athing that happened before we had gone a hundred yards. We were smokingour pipes, and I, thinking of her--when out she sprang from the hedgeand stood in front of us. Dalton cried out, 'What are you here foragain, you mad girl?' She rushed up to him and hugged him; but when shelooked at me, her face was quite different--careless, defiant, as onemight say--it hurt me. I couldn't understand it, and what one doesn'tunderstand frightens one. "

IV

"Time went on. There was no swordsman, or pistol-shot like me in London, they said. We had as many pupils as we liked--it was the only part of mylife when I have been able to save money. I had no chance to spend it. We gave lessons all day, and in the evening were too tired to go out. That year I had the misfortune to lose my dear mother. I became a richman--yes, sir, at that time I must have had not less than six hundred ayear. 

"It was a long time before I saw Eilie again. She went abroad to Dresdenwith her father's sister to learn French and German. It was in theautumn of 1875 when she came back to us. She was seventeen then--abeautiful young creature. " He paused, as if to gather his forces fordescription, and went on. 

"Tall, as a young tree, with eyes like the sky. I would not say she wasperfect, but her imperfections were beautiful to me. What is it makesyou love--ah! sir, that is very hidden and mysterious. She had neverlost the trick of closing her lips tightly when she remembered heruneven tooth. You may say that was vanity, but in a young girl--andwhich of us is not vain, eh? 'Old men and maidens, young men andchildren!'

"As I said, she came back to London to her little room, and in theevenings was always ready with our tea. You mustn't suppose shewas housewifely; there is something in me that never admiredhousewifeliness--a fine quality, no doubt, still--" He sighed. 

"No, " he resumed, "Eilie was not like that, for she was never quite thesame two days together. I told you her eyes were like the sky--thatwas true of all of her. In one thing, however, at that time, she alwaysseemed the same--in love for her father. For me! I don't know whatI should have expected; but my presence seemed to have the effect ofmaking her dumb; I would catch her looking at me with a frown, and then, as if to make up to her own nature--and a more loving nature never cameinto this world, that I shall maintain to my dying day--she would goto her father and kiss him. When I talked with him she pretended not tonotice, but I could see her face grow cold and stubborn. I am not quick;and it was a long time before I understood that she was jealous, shewanted him all to herself. I've often wondered how she could be hisdaughter, for he was the very soul of justice and a slow man too--andshe was as quick as a bird. For a long time after I saw her dislike ofme, I refused to believe it--if one does not want to believe a thingthere are always reasons why it should not seem true, at least so it iswith me, and I suppose with all selfish men. 

"I spent evening after evening there, when, if I had not thought only ofmyself, I should have kept away. But one day I could no longer be blind. 

"It was a Sunday in February. I always had an invitation on Sundaysto dine with them in the middle of the day. There was no one in thesitting-room; but the door of Eilie's bedroom was open. I heard hervoice: 'That man, always that man!' It was enough for me, I went downagain without coming in, and walked about all day. 

"For three weeks I kept away. To the school of course I came as usual, but not upstairs. I don't know what I told Dalton--it did not signifywhat you told him, he always had a theory of his own, and was persuadedof its truth--a very single-minded man, sir. 

"But now I come to the most wonderful days of my life. It was an earlyspring that year. I had fallen away already from my resolution, andused to slink up--seldom, it's true--and spend the evening with themas before. One afternoon I came up to the sitting-room; the light wasfailing--it was warm, and the windows were open. In the air was thatfeeling which comes to you once a year, in the spring, no matter whereyou may be, in a crowded street, or alone in a forest; only once--afeeling like--but I cannot describe it. 

"Eilie was sitting there. If you don't know, sir, I can't tell youwhat it means to be near the woman one loves. She was leaning on thewindowsill, staring down into the street. It was as though she mightbe looking out for some one. I stood, hardly breathing. She turnedher head, and saw me. Her eyes were strange. They seemed to ask me aquestion. But I couldn't have spoken for the world. I can't tell youwhat I felt--I dared not speak, or think, or hope. I have been innineteen battles--several times in positions of some danger, when thelifting of a finger perhaps meant death; but I have never felt whatI was feeling at that moment. I knew something was coming; and I wasparalysed with terror lest it should not come!" He drew a long breath. 

"The servant came in with a light and broke the spell. All that nightI lay awake and thought of how she had looked at me, with the colourcoming slowly up in her cheeks--

"It was three days before I plucked up courage to go again; and then Ifelt her eyes on me at once--she was making a 'cat's cradle' with a bitof string, but I could see them stealing up from her hands to my face. And she went wandering about the room, fingering at everything. When herfather called out: 'What's the matter with you, Elie?' she stared at himlike a child caught doing wrong. I looked straight at her then, shetried to look at me, but she couldn't; and a minute later she went outof the room. God knows what sort of nonsense I talked--I was too happy. 

"Then began our love. I can't tell you of that time. Often and oftenDalton said to me: 'What's come to the child? Nothing I can do pleasesher. ' All the love she had given him was now for me; but he was toosimple and straight to see what was going on. How many times haven't Ifelt criminal towards him! But when you're happy, with the tide in yourfavour, you become a coward at once. .. . "

V

"Well, sir, " he went on, "we were married on her eighteenth birthday. Itwas a long time before Dalton became aware of our love. But one day hesaid to me with a very grave look:

"'Eilie has told me, Brune; I forbid it. She's too young, andyou're--too old!' I was then forty-five, my hair as black and thick as arook's feathers, and I was strong and active. I answered him: 'We shallbe married within a month!' We parted in anger. It was a May night, and I walked out far into the country. There's no remedy for anger, or, indeed, for anything, so fine as walking. Once I stopped--it was on acommon, without a house or light, and the stars shining like jewels. Iwas hot from walking, I could feel the blood boiling in my veins--I saidto myself 'Old, are you?' And I laughed like a fool. It was the thoughtof losing her--I wished to believe myself angry, but really I wasafraid; fear and anger in me are very much the same. A friend of mine, abit of a poet, sir, once called them 'the two black wings of self. ' Andso they are, so they are. .. ! The next morning I went to Dalton again, and somehow I made him yield. I'm not a philosopher, but it has oftenseemed to me that no benefit can come to us in this life without anequal loss somewhere, but does that stop us? No, sir, not often. .. . 

"We were married on the 30th of June 1876, in the parish church. Theonly people present were Dalton, Lucy, and Lucy's husband--a big, red-faced fellow, with blue eyes and a golden beard parted in two. Ithad been arranged that we should spend the honeymoon down at their innon the river. My wife, Dalton and I, went to a restaurant for lunch. She was dressed in grey, the colour of a pigeon's feathers. " He paused, leaning forward over the crutch handle of his stick; trying to conjureup, no doubt, that long-ago image of his young bride in her dress "thecolour of a pigeon's feathers, " with her blue eyes and yellow hair, thelittle frown between her brows, the firmly shut red lips, opening tospeak the words, "For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, insickness and in health. "

"At that time, sir, " he went on suddenly, "I was a bit of a dandy. Iwore, I remember, a blue frock-coat, with white trousers, and a grey tophat. Even now I should always prefer to be well dressed. .. . 

"We had an excellent lunch, and drank Veuve Clicquot, a wine that youcannot get in these days! Dalton came with us to the railway station. Ican't bear partings; and yet, they must come. 

"That evening we walked out in the cool under the aspen-trees. Whatshould I remember in all my life if not that night--the young bullockssnuffling in the gateways--the campion flowers all lighted up along thehedges--the moon with a halo-bats, too, in and out among the stems, andthe shadows of the cottages as black and soft as that sea down there. For a long time we stood on the river-bank beneath a lime-tree. Thescent of the lime flowers! A man can only endure about half his joy;about half his sorrow. Lucy and her husband, " he went on, presently, "his name was Frank Tor--a man like an old Viking, who ate nothing butmilk, bread, and fruit--were very good to us! It was like Paradise inthat inn--though the commissariat, I am bound to say, was limited. Thesweethriar grew round our bedroom windows; when the breeze blew theleaves across the opening--it was like a bath of perfume. Eilie grew asbrown as a gipsy while we were there. I don't think any man could haveloved her more than I did. But there were times when my heart stoodstill; it didn't seem as if she understood how much I loved her. One day, I remember, she coaxed me to take her camping. We drifteddown-stream all the afternoon, and in the evening pulled into the reedsunder the willow-boughs and lit a fire for her to cook by--though, as amatter of fact, our provisions were cooked already--but you know how itis; all the romance was in having a real fire. 'We won't pretend, 'she kept saying. While we were eating our supper a hare came to ourclearing--a big fellow--how surprised he looked! 'The tall hare, ' Eiliecalled him. After that we sat by the ashes and watched the shadows, tillat last she roamed away from me. The time went very slowly; I got up tolook for her. It was past sundown. I called and called. It was a longtime before I found her--and she was like a wild thing, hot and flushed, her pretty frock torn, her hands and face scratched, her hair down, likesome beautiful creature of the woods. If one loves, a little thing willscare one. I didn't think she had noticed my fright; but when we gotback to the boat she threw her arms round my neck, and said, 'I won'tever leave you again!'

"Once in the night I woke--a water-hen was crying, and in the moonlighta kingfisher flew across. The wonder on the river--the wonder of themoon and trees, the soft bright mist, the stillness! It was like anotherworld, peaceful, enchanted, far holier than ours. It seemed like avision of the thoughts that come to one--how seldom! and go if one triesto grasp them. Magic--poetry-sacred!" He was silent a minute, then wenton in a wistful voice: "I looked at her, sleeping like a child, with herhair loose, and her lips apart, and I thought: 'God do so to me, ifever I bring her pain!' How was I to understand her? the mysteryand innocence of her soul! The river has had all my light and all mydarkness, the happiest days, and the hours when I've despaired; and Ilike to think of it, for, you know, in time bitter memories fade, onlythe good remain. .. . Yet the good have their own pain, a different kindof aching, for we shall never get them back. Sir, " he said, turning tome with a faint smile, "it's no use crying over spilt milk. .. . In theneighbourhood of Lucy's inn, the Rose and Maybush--Can you imagine aprettier name? I have been all over the world, and nowhere found namesso pretty as in the English country. There, too, every blade of grass;and flower, has a kind of pride about it; knows it will be cared for;and all the roads, trees, and cottages, seem to be certain that theywill live for ever. .. . But I was going to tell you: Half a mile from theinn was a quiet old house which we used to call the 'Convent'--thoughI believe it was a farm. We spent many afternoons there, trespassingin the orchard--Eilie was fond of trespassing; if there were a longway round across somebody else's property, she would always take it. Wespent our last afternoon in that orchard, lying in the long grass. I wasreading Childe Harold for the first time--a wonderful, a memorable poem!I was at that passage--the bull-fight--you remember:

 "'Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The din expands, and expectation mute'

--"when suddenly Eilie said: 'Suppose I were to leave off loving you?'It was as if some one had struck me in the face. I jumped up, and triedto take her in my arms, but she slipped away; then she turned, and beganlaughing softly. I laughed too. I don't know why. .. . "

VI

"We went back to London the next day; we lived quite close to theschool, and about five days a week Dalton came to dine with us. He wouldhave come every day, if he had not been the sort of man who refuses toconsult his own pleasure. We had more pupils than ever. In my leisure Itaught my wife to fence. I have never seen any one so lithe and quick;or so beautiful as she looked in her fencing dress, with embroideredshoes. 

"I was completely happy. When a man has obtained his desire he becomescareless and self-satisfied; I was watchful, however, for I knew thatI was naturally a selfish man. I studied to arrange my time and save mymoney, to give her as much pleasure as I could. What she loved best inthe world just then was riding. I bought a horse for her, and in theevenings of the spring and summer we rode together; but when it was toodark to go out late, she would ride alone, great distances, sometimesspend the whole day in the saddle, and come back so tired she couldhardly walk upstairs--I can't say that I liked that. It made me nervous, she was so headlong--but I didn't think it right to interfere with her. I had a good deal of anxiety about money, for though I worked hard andmade more than ever, there never seemed enough. I was anxious to save--Ihoped, of course--but we had no child, and this was a trouble to me. Shegrew more beautiful than ever, and I think was happy. Has it ever struckyou that each one of us lives on the edge of a volcano? There is, Iimagine, no one who has not some affection or interest so strong that hecounts the rest for nothing, beside it. No doubt a man may live hislife through without discovering that. But some of us--! I am notcomplaining; what is--is. " He pulled the cap lower over his eyes, andclutched his hands firmly on the top of his stick. He was like a man whorushes his horse at some hopeless fence, unwilling to give himself time, for fear of craning at the last moment. "In the spring of '78, a newpupil came to me, a young man of twenty-one who was destined for thearmy. I took a fancy to him, and did my best to turn him into a goodswordsman; but there was a kind of perverse recklessness in him; fora few minutes one would make a great impression, then he would growutterly careless. 'Francis, ' I would say, 'if I were you I should beashamed. ' 'Mr. Brune, ' he would answer, 'why should I be ashamed? Ididn't make myself. ' God knows, I wish to do him justice, he had aheart--one day he drove up in a cab, and brought in his poor dog, whohad been run over, and was dying: For half an hour he shut himself upwith its body, we could hear him sobbing like a child; he came out withhis eyes all red, and cried: 'I know where to find the brute who droveover him, ' and off he rushed. He had beautiful Italian eyes; a slightfigure, not very tall; dark hair, a little dark moustache; and his lipswere always a trifle parted--it was that, and his walk, and the way hedrooped his eyelids, which gave him a peculiar, soft, proud look. I usedto tell him that he'd never make a soldier! 'Oh!' he'd answer, 'that'llbe all right when the time comes! He believed in a kind of luck that wasto do everything for him, when the time came. One day he came in asI was giving Eilie her lesson. This was the first time they saw eachother. After that he came more often, and sometimes stayed to dinnerwith us. I won't deny, sir, that I was glad to welcome him; I thought itgood for Eilie. Can there be anything more odious, " he burst out, "thansuch a self-complacent blindness? There are people who say, 'Poor man, he had such faith!' Faith, sir! Conceit! I was a fool--in this world onepays for folly. .. . 

"The summer came; and one Saturday in early June, Eilie, I, andFrancis--I won't tell you his other name--went riding. The night hadbeen wet; there was no dust, and presently the sun came out--a gloriousday! We rode a long way. About seven o'clock we started back-slowly, forit was still hot, and there was all the cool of night before us. Itwas nine o'clock when we came to Richmond Park. A grand place, RichmondPark; and in that half-light wonderful, the deer moving so softly, youmight have thought they were spirits. We were silent too--great treeshave that effect on me. .. . 

"Who can say when changes come? Like a shift of the wind, the oldpasses, the new is on you. I am telling you now of a change like that. Without a sign of warning, Eilie put her horse into a gallop. 'What areyou doing?' I shouted. She looked back with a smile, then he dashed pastme too. A hornet might have stung them both: they galloped over fallentrees, under low hanging branches, up hill and down. I had to watch thatmadness! My horse was not so fast. I rode like a demon; but fell farbehind. I am not a man who takes things quietly. When I came up withthem at last, I could not speak for rage. They were riding side by side, the reins on the horses' necks, looking in each other's faces. 'Youshould take care, ' I said. 'Care!' she cried; 'life is not all takingcare!' My anger left me. I dropped behind, as grooms ride behind theirmistresses. .. Jealousy! No torture is so ceaseless or so black. .. . Inthose minutes a hundred things came up in me--a hundred memories, true, untrue, what do I know? My soul was poisoned. I tried to reason withmyself. It was absurd to think such things! It was unmanly. .. . Evenif it were true, one should try to be a gentleman! But I found myselflaughing; yes, sir, laughing at that word. " He spoke faster, as ifpouring his heart out not to a live listener, but to the night. "I couldnot sleep that night. To lie near her with those thoughts in my brainwas impossible! I made an excuse, and sat up with some papers. Thehardest thing in life is to see a thing coming and be able to do nothingto prevent it. What could I do? Have you noticed how people may becomeutter strangers without a word? It only needs a thought. .. . The verynext day she said: 'I want to go to Lucy's. ' 'Alone?' 'Yes. ' I had madeup my mind by then that she must do just as she wished. Perhaps I actedwrongly; I do not know what one ought to do in such a case; but beforeshe went I said to her: 'Eilie, what is it?' 'I don't know, ' sheanswered; and I kissed her--that was all. .. . A month passed; I wrote toher nearly every day, and I had short letters from her, telling me verylittle of herself. Dalton was a torture to me, for I could not tell him;he had a conviction that she was going to become a mother. 'Ah, Brune!'he said, 'my poor wife was just like that. ' Life, sir, is a somewhatironical affair. .. ! He--I find it hard to speak his name--came to theschool two or three times a week. I used to think I saw a change, apurpose growing up through his recklessness; there seemed a violence inhim as if he chafed against my blade. I had a kind of joy in feeling Ihad the mastery, and could toss the iron out of his hand any minutelike a straw. I was ashamed, and yet I gloried in it. Jealousy is a lowthing, sir--a low, base thing! When he asked me where my wife was, Itold him; I was too proud to hide it. Soon after that he came no more tothe school. 

"One morning, when I could bear it no longer, I wrote, and said I wascoming down. I would not force myself on her, but I asked her to meet mein the orchard of the old house we called the Convent. I asked her tobe there at four o'clock. It has always been my belief that a man mustneither beg anything of a woman, nor force anything from her. Womenare generous--they will give you what they can. I sealed my letter, andposted it myself. All the way down I kept on saying to myself, 'She mustcome--surely she will come!'"

VII

"I was in high spirits, but the next moment trembled like a man withague. I reached the orchard before my time. She was not there. You knowwhat it is like to wait? I stood still and listened; I went to the pointwhence I could see farthest; I said to myself, 'A watched pot neverboils; if I don't look for her she will come. ' I walked up and down withmy eyes on the ground. The sickness of it! A hundred times I took out mywatch. .. . Perhaps it was fast, perhaps hers was slow--I can't tell youa thousandth part of my hopes and fears. There was a spring of water, in one corner. I sat beside it, and thought of the last time I had beenthere--and something seemed to burst in me. It was five o'clock before Ilost all hope; there comes a time when you're glad that hope is dead, itmeans rest. 'That's over, ' you say, 'now I can act. ' But what was I todo? I lay down with my face to the ground; when one's in trouble, it'sthe only thing that helps--something to press against and cling to thatcan't give way. I lay there for two hours, knowing all the time thatI should play the coward. At seven o'clock I left the orchard and wenttowards the inn; I had broken my word, but I felt happy. .. . I should seeher--and, sir, nothing--nothing seemed to matter beside that. Tor wasin the garden snipping at his roses. He came up, and I could see thathe couldn't look me in the face. 'Where's my wife?' I said. He answered, 'Let's get Lucy. ' I ran indoors. Lucy met me with two letters; thefirst--my own--unopened; and the second, this:

"'I have left you. You were good to me, but now--it is no use. 

"EILIE. '"

"She told me that a boy had brought a letter for my wife the day before, from a young gentleman in a boat. When Lucy delivered it she asked, 'Who is he, Miss Eilie? What will Mr. Brune say?' My wife looked at herangrily, but gave her no answer--and all that day she never spoke. Inthe evening she was gone, leaving this note on the bed. .. . Lucy cried asif her heart would break. I took her by the shoulders and put her fromthe room; I couldn't bear the noise. I sat down and tried to think. While I was sitting there Tor came in with a letter. It was written onthe notepaper of an inn twelve miles up the river: these were the words. 

"'Eilie is mine. I am ready to meet you where you like. '"

He went on with a painful evenness of speech. "When I read those words, I had only one thought--to reach them; I ran down to the river, andchose out the lightest boat. Just as I was starting, Tor came running. 'You dropped this letter, sir, ' he said. 'Two pair of arms are betterthan one. ' He came into the boat. I took the sculls and I pulled outinto the stream. I pulled like a madman; and that great man, with hisbare arms crossed, was like a huge, tawny bull sitting there oppositeme. Presently he took my place, and I took the rudder lines. I could seehis chest, covered with hair, heaving up and down, it gave me a sort ofcomfort--it meant that we were getting nearer. Then it grew dark, therewas no moon, I could barely see the bank; there's something in the darkwhich drives one into oneself. People tell you there comes a moment whenyour nature is decided--'saved' or 'lost' as they call it--for goodor evil. That is not true, your self is always with you, and cannot bealtered; but, sir, I believe that in a time of agony one finds out whatare the things one can do, and what are those one cannot. You get toknow yourself, that's all. And so it was with me. Every thought andmemory and passion was so clear and strong! I wanted to kill him. Iwanted to kill myself. But her--no! We are taught that we possess ourwives, body and soul, we are brought up in that faith, we are commandedto believe it--but when I was face to face with it, those words had nomeaning; that belief, those commands, they were without meaning to me, they were--vile. Oh yes, I wanted to find comfort in them, I wanted tohold on to them--but I couldn't. You may force a body; how can you forcea soul? No, no--cowardly! But I wanted to--I wanted to kill him andforce her to come back to me! And then, suddenly, I felt as if I werepressing right on the most secret nerve of my heart. I seemed to seeher face, white and quivering, as if I'd stamped my heel on it. They saythis world is ruled by force; it may be true--I know I have a weak spotin me. .. . I couldn't bear it. At last I Jumped to my feet and shoutedout, 'Turn the boat round!' Tor looked up at me as if I had gone mad. And I had gone mad. I seized the boat-hook and threatened him; I calledhim fearful names. 'Sir, ' he said, 'I don't take such names from anyone!' 'You'll take them from me, ' I shouted; 'turn the boat round, youidiot, you hound, you fish!. .. ' I have a terrible temper, a perfectcurse to me. He seemed amazed, even frightened; he sat down againsuddenly and pulled the boat round. I fell on the seat, and hid my face. I believe the moon came up; there must have been a mist too, for Iwas cold as death. In this life, sir, we cannot hide our faces--but bydegrees the pain of wounds grows less. Some will have it that such blowsare mortal; it is not so. Time is merciful. 

"In the early morning I went back to London. I had fever on me--and wasdelirious. I dare say I should have killed myself if I had not been soused to weapons--they and I were too old friends, I suppose--I can'texplain. It was a long while before I was up and about. Dalton nursedme through it; his great heavy moustache had grown quite white. We nevermentioned her; what was the good? There were things to settle of course, the lawyer--this was unspeakably distasteful to me. I told him it wasto be as she wished, but the fellow would come to me, with his--there, I don't want to be unkind. I wished him to say it was my fault, but hesaid--I remember his smile now--he said, that was impossible, would beseen through, talked of collusion--I don't understand these things, andwhat's more, I can't bear them, they are--dirty. 

"Two years later, when I had come back to London, after theRusso-Turkish war, I received a letter from her. I have it here. " Hetook an old, yellow sheet of paper out of a leathern pockethook, spreadit in his fingers, and sat staring at it. For some minutes he did notspeak. 

"In the autumn of that same year she died in childbirth. He had desertedher. Fortunately for him, he was killed on the Indian frontier, thatvery year. If she had lived she would have been thirty-two next June;not a great age. .. . I know I am what they call a crank; doctors willtell you that you can't be cured of a bad illness, and be the same managain. If you are bent, to force yourself straight must leave you weakin another place. I must and will think well of women--everything done, and everything said against them is a stone on her dead body. Could yousit, and listen to it?" As though driven by his own question, he rose, and paced up and down. He came back to the seat at last. 

"That, sir, is the reason of my behaviour this afternoon, and again thisevening. You have been so kind, I wanted!--wanted to tell you. She had alittle daughter--Lucy has her now. My friend Dalton is dead; there wouldhave been no difficulty about money, but, I am sorry to say, that hewas swindled--disgracefully. It fell to me to administer his affairs--henever knew it, but he died penniless; he had trusted some wretchedfellows--had an idea they would make his fortune. As I very soonfound, they had ruined him. It was impossible to let Lucy--such a dearwoman--bear that burden. I have tried to make provision; but, you see, "he took hold of my sleeve, "I, too, have not been fortunate; in fact, it's difficult to save a great deal out of L 190 a year; but the capitalis perfectly safe--and I get L 47, 10s. A quarter, paid on the nail. Ihave often been tempted to reinvest at a greater rate of interest, butI've never dared. Anyway, there are no debts--I've been obliged tomake a rule not to buy what I couldn't pay for on the spot. .. . Now I amreally plaguing you--but I wanted to tell you--in case-anything shouldhappen to me. " He seemed to take a sudden scare, stiffened, twisted hismoustache, and muttering, "Your great kindness! Shall never forget!"turned hurriedly away. 

He vanished; his footsteps, and the tap of his stick grew fainter andfainter. They died out. He was gone. Suddenly I got up and hastenedafter him. I soon stopped--what was there to say?

VIII

The following day I was obliged to go to Nice, and did not return tillmidnight. The porter told me that Jules le Ferrier had been to see me. The next morning, while I was still in bed, the door was opened, andJules appeared. His face was very pale; and the moment he stood stilldrops of perspiration began coursing down his cheeks. 

"Georges!" he said, "he is dead. There, there! How stupid you look! Myman is packing. I have half an hour before the train; my evidence shallcome from Italy. I have done my part, the rest is for you. Why did youhave that dinner? The Don Quixote! The idiot! The poor man! Don't move!Have you a cigar? Listen! When you followed him, I followed the othertwo. My infernal curiosity! Can you conceive a greater folly? How fastthey walked, those two! feeling their cheeks, as if he had struck themboth, you know; it was funny. They soon saw me, for their eyes were allround about their heads; they had the mark of a glove on their cheeks. "The colour began to come back, into Jules's face; he gesticulatedwith his cigar and became more and more dramatic. "They waited for me. 'Tiens!' said one, 'this gentleman was with him. My friend's name is M. Le Baron de---. The man who struck him was an odd-looking person;kindly inform me whether it is possible for my friend to meet him?' Eh!"commented Jules, "he was offensive! Was it for me to give our dignityaway? 'Perfectly, monsieur!' I answered. 'In that case, ' he said, 'please give me his name and ad dress. .. . I could not remember his name, and as for the address, I never knew it. .. ! I reflected. 'That, ' I said, 'I am unable to do, for special reasons. ' 'Aha!' he said, 'reasons thatwill prevent our fighting him, I suppose? 'On the contrary, ' I said. 'Iwill convey your request to him; I may mention that I have heard he isthe best swordsman and pistol-shot in Europe. Good-night!' I wished togive them something to dream of, you understand. .. . Patience, my dear!Patience! I was, coming to you, but I thought I would let them sleepon it--there was plenty of time! But yesterday morning I came into thePlace, and there he was on the bench, with a big dog. I declare to youhe blushed like a young girl. 'Sir, ' he said, 'I was hoping to meetyou; last evening I made a great disturbance. I took an unpardonableliberty'--and he put in my hand an envelope. My friend, what do yousuppose it contained--a pair of gloves! Senor Don Punctilioso, hein? Hewas the devil, this friend of yours; he fascinated me with his gentleeyes and his white moustachettes, his humility, his flames--poor man. .. !I told him I had been asked to take him a challenge. 'If anything comesof it, ' I said, 'make use of me!' 'Is that so?' he said. 'I am mostgrateful for your kind offer. Let me see--it is so long since I foughta duel. The sooner it's over the better. Could you arrange to-morrowmorning? Weapons? Yes; let them choose. ' You see, my friend, there wasno hanging back here; nous voila en train. "

Jules took out his watch. "I have sixteen minutes. It is lucky for youthat you were away yesterday, or you would be in my shoes now. I fixedthe place, right hand of the road to Roquebrune, just by the railwaycutting, and the time--five-thirty of the morning. It was arranged thatI should call for him. Disgusting hour; I have not been up so earlysince I fought Jacques Tirbaut in '85. At five o'clock I found him readyand drinking tea with rum in it--singular man! he made me have some too, brrr! He was shaved, and dressed in that old frock-coat. His great dogjumped into the carriage, but he bade her get out, took her paws on hisshoulders, and whispered in her ear some Italian words; a charm, hein!and back she went, the tail between the legs. We drove slowly, so as notto shake his arm. He was more gay than I. All the way he talked to me ofyou: how kind you were! how good you had been to him! 'You do not speakof yourself!' I said. 'Have you no friends, nothing to say? Sometimes anaccident will happen!' 'Oh!' he answered, 'there is no danger; but ifby any chance--well, there is a letter in my pocket. ' 'And if you shouldkill him?' I said. 'But I shall not, ' he answered slyly: 'do you think Iam going to fire at him? No, no; he is too young. ' 'But, ' I said, 'I--'Iam not going to stand that!' 'Yes, ' he replied, 'I owe him a shot; butthere is no danger--not the least danger. ' We had arrived; already theywere there. Ah bah! You know the preliminaries, the politeness--thisduelling, you know, it is absurd, after all. We placed them at twentypaces. It is not a bad place. There are pine-trees round, and rocks; atthat hour it was cool and grey as a church. I handed him the pistol. Howcan I describe him to you, standing there, smoothing the barrel with hisfingers! 'What a beautiful thing a good pistol!' he said. 'Only a foolor a madman throws away his life, ' I said. 'Certainly, ' he replied, 'certainly; but there is no danger, ' and he regarded me, raising hismoustachette. 

"There they stood then, back to back, with the mouths of their pistolsto the sky. 'Un!' I cried, 'deux! tirez!' They turned, I saw the smokeof his shot go straight up like a prayer; his pistol dropped. I ran tohim. He looked surprised, put out his hand, and fell into my arms. Hewas dead. Those fools came running up. 'What is it?' cried one. I madehim a bow. 'As you see, ' I said; 'you have made a pretty shot. My friendfired in the air. Messieurs, you had better breakfast in Italy. ' Wecarried him to the carriage, and covered him with a rug; the othersdrove for the frontier. I brought him to his room. Here is his letter. "Jules stopped; tears were running down his face. "He is dead; I haveclosed his eyes. Look here, you know, we are all of us cads--it is therule; but this--this, perhaps, was the exception. " And without anotherword he rushed away. .. . 

Outside the old fellow's lodging a dismounted cocher was standingdisconsolate in the sun. "How was I to know they were going to fighta duel?" he burst out on seeing me. "He had white hair--I call youto witness he had white hair. This is bad for me: they will ravish mylicence. Aha! you will see--this is bad for me!" I gave him the slip andfound my way upstairs. The old fellow was alone, lying on the bed, hisfeet covered with a rug as if he might feel cold; his eyes were closed, but in this sleep of death, he still had that air of faint surprise. Atfull length, watching the bed intently, Freda lay, as she lay nightlywhen he was really asleep. The shutters were half open; the room stillsmelt slightly of rum. I stood for a long time looking at the face:the little white fans of moustache brushed upwards even in death, thehollows in his cheeks, the quiet of his figure; he was like some oldknight. .. . The dog broke the spell. She sat up, and resting her paws onthe bed, licked his face. I went downstairs--I couldn't bear to hear herhowl. This was his letter to me, written in a pointed handwriting:

"MY DEAR SIR, --Should you read this, I shall be gone. I am ashamed totrouble you--a man should surely manage so as not to give trouble; andyet I believe you will not consider me importunate. If, then, you willpick up the pieces of an old fellow, I ask you to have my sword, theletter enclosed in this, and the photograph that stands on the stoveburied with me. My will and the acknowledgments of my property arebetween the leaves of the Byron in my tin chest; they should go to LucyTor--address thereon. Perhaps you will do me the honour to retain foryourself any of my books that may give you pleasure. In the Pilgrim'sProgress you will find some excellent recipes for Turkish coffee, Italian and Spanish dishes, and washing wounds. The landlady's daughterspeaks Italian, and she would, I know, like to have Freda; the poor dogwill miss me. I have read of old Indian warriors taking their horsesand dogs with them to the happy hunting-grounds. Freda would come--nobleanimals are dogs! She eats once a day--a good large meal--and requiresmuch salt. If you have animals of your own, sir, don't forget--allanimals require salt. I have no debts, thank God! The money in mypockets would bury me decently--not that there is any danger. And I amashamed to weary you with details--the least a man can do is not to makea fuss--and yet he must be found ready. --Sir, with profound gratitude, your servant, "ROGER BRUNE. "

Everything was as he had said. The photograph on the stove was that ofa young girl of nineteen or twenty, dressed in an old-fashioned style, with hair gathered backward in a knot. The eyes gazed at you with alittle frown, the lips were tightly closed; the expression of the facewas eager, quick, wilful, and, above all, young. 

The tin trunk was scented with dry fragments of some herb, the historyof which in that trunk man knoweth not. .. . There were a few clothes, butvery few, all older than those he usually wore. Besides the Byron andPilgrim's Progress were Scott's Quentin Durward, Captain Marryat'sMidshipman Easy, a pocket Testament, and a long and frightfully stiffbook on the art of fortifying towns, much thumbed, and bearing date1863. By far the most interesting thing I found, however, was a diary, kept down to the preceding Christmas. It was a pathetic document, fullof calculations of the price of meals; resolutions to be careful overthis or that; doubts whether he must not give up smoking; sentences offear that Freda had not enough to eat. It appeared that he had tried tolive on ninety pounds a year, and send the other hundred pounds home toLucy for the child; in this struggle he was always failing, having tosend less than the amount-the entries showed that this was a nightmareto him. The last words, written on Christmas Day, were these "What isthe use of writing this, since it records nothing but failure!"

The landlady's daughter and myself were at the funeral. The sameafternoon I went into the concert-room, where I had spoken to him first. When I came out Freda was lying at the entrance, looking into the facesof every one that passed, and sniffing idly at their heels. Close by thelandlady's daughter hovered, a biscuit in her hand, and a puzzled, sorrylook on her face. 

September 1900. 

TO

MY BROTHER HUBERT GALSWORTHY

SALVATION OF A FORSYTE

I

Swithin Forsyte lay in bed. The corners of his mouth under his whitemoustache drooped towards his double chin. He panted:

"My doctor says I'm in a bad way, James. "

His twin-brother placed his hand behind his ear. "I can't hear you. They tell me I ought to take a cure. There's always a cure wanted forsomething. Emily had a cure. "

Swithin replied: "You mumble so. I hear my man, Adolph. I trainedhim. .. . You ought to have an ear-trumpet. You're getting very shaky, James. "

There was silence; then James Forsyte, as if galvanised, remarked: "Is'pose you've made your will. I s'pose you've left your money to thefamily; you've nobody else to leave it to. There was Danson died theother day, and left his money to a hospital. "

The hairs of Swithin's white moustache bristled. "My fool of a doctortold me to make my will, " he said, "I hate a fellow who tells you tomake your will. My appetite's good; I ate a partridge last night. I'mall the better for eating. He told me to leave off champagne! I eat agood breakfast. I'm not eighty. You're the same age, James. You lookvery shaky. "

James Forsyte said: "You ought to have another opinion. Have Blank; he'sthe first man now. I had him for Emily; cost me two hundred guineas. He sent her to Homburg; that's the first place now. The Prince wasthere--everybody goes there. "

Swithin Forsyte answered: "I don't get any sleep at night, now I can'tget out; and I've bought a new carriage--gave a pot of money for it. D'you ever have bronchitis? They tell me champagne's dangerous; it's mybelief I couldn't take a better thing. "

James Forsyte rose. 

"You ought to have another opinion. Emily sent her love; she would havecome in, but she had to go to Niagara. Everybody goes there; it's theplace now. Rachel goes every morning: she overdoes it--she'll be laid upone of these days. There's a fancy ball there to-night; the Duke givesthe prizes. "

Swithin Forsyte said angrily: "I can't get things properly cooked here;at the club I get spinach decently done. " The bed-clothes jerked at thetremor of his legs. 

James Forsyte replied: "You must have done well with Tintos; you musthave made a lot of money by them. Your ground-rents must be fallingin, too. You must have any amount you don't know what to do with. " Hemouthed the words, as if his lips were watering. 

Swithin Forsyte glared. "Money!" he said; "my doctor's bill's enormous. "

James Forsyte stretched out a cold, damp hand "Goodbye! You ought tohave another opinion. I can't keep the horses waiting: they're a newpair--stood me in three hundred. You ought to take care of yourself. Ishall speak to Blank about you. You ought to have him--everybody sayshe's the first man. Good-bye!"

Swithin Forsyte continued to stare at the ceiling. He thought: 'Apoor thing, James! a selfish beggar! Must be worth a couple of hundredthousand!' He wheezed, meditating on life. .. . 

He was ill and lonely. For many years he had been lonely, and for twoyears ill; but as he had smoked his first cigar, so he would live hislife-stoutly, to its predestined end. Every day he was driven to theclub; sitting forward on the spring cushions of a single brougham, hishands on his knees, swaying a little, strangely solemn. He ascendedthe steps into that marble hall--the folds of his chin wedged into theaperture of his collar--walking squarely with a stick. Later he woulddine, eating majestically, and savouring his food, behind a bottle ofchampagne set in an ice-pail--his waistcoat defended by a napkin, hiseyes rolling a little or glued in a stare on the waiter. Never did hesuffer his head or back to droop, for it was not distinguished so to do. 

Because he was old and deaf, he spoke to no one; and no one spoke tohim. The club gossip, an Irishman, said to each newcomer: "Old Forsyte!Look at 'um! Must ha' had something in his life to sour 'um!" ButSwithin had had nothing in his life to sour him. 

For many days now he had lain in bed in a room exuding silver, crimson, and electric light, smelling of opopanax and of cigars. The curtainswere drawn, the firelight gleamed; on a table by his bed were a jug ofbarley-water and the Times. He made an attempt to read, failed, and fellagain to thinking. His face with its square chin, looked like a blockof pale leather bedded in the pillow. It was lonely! A woman in theroom would have made all the difference! Why had he never married? Hebreathed hard, staring froglike at the ceiling; a memory had come intohis mind. It was a long time ago--forty odd years--but it seemed likeyesterday. .. . 

It happened when he was thirty-eight, for the first and only time in hislife travelling on the Continent, with his twin-brother James and a mannamed Traquair. On the way from Germany to Venice, he had found himselfat the Hotel Goldene Alp at Salzburg. It was late August, and weatherfor the gods: sunshine on the walls and the shadows of the vine-leaves, and at night, the moonlight, and again on the walls the shadows of thevine-leaves. Averse to the suggestions of other people, Swithin hadrefused to visit the Citadel; he had spent the day alone in the windowof his bedroom, smoking a succession of cigars, and disparaging theappearance of the passers-by. After dinner he was driven by boredom intothe streets. His chest puffed out like a pigeon's, and with something ofa pigeon's cold and inquiring eye, he strutted, annoyed at the frequencyof uniforms, which seemed to him both needless and offensive. His spleenrose at this crowd of foreigners, who spoke an unintelligible language, wore hair on their faces, and smoked bad tobacco. 'A queer lot!' hethought. The sound of music from a cafe attracted him; he walked in, vaguely moved by a wish for the distinction of adventure, without thetrouble which adventure usually brought with it; spurred too, perhaps, by an after-dinner demon. The cafe was the bier-halle of the 'Fifties, with a door at either end, and lighted by a large wooden lantern. On asmall dais three musicians were fiddling. Solitary men, or groups, sat at some dozen tables, and the waiters hurried about replenishingglasses; the air was thick with smoke. Swithin sat down. "Wine!" he saidsternly. The astonished waiter brought him wine. Swithin pointed to abeer glass on the table. "Here!" he said, with the same ferocity. Thewaiter poured out the wine. 'Ah!' thought Swithin, 'they can understandif they like. ' A group of officers close by were laughing; Swithinstared at them uneasily. A hollow cough sounded almost in his ear. Tohis left a man sat reading, with his elbows on the corners of a journal, and his gaunt shoulders raised almost to his eyes. He had a thin, longnose, broadening suddenly at the nostrils; a black-brown beard, spreadin a savage fan over his chest; what was visible of the face was thecolour of old parchment. A strange, wild, haughty-looking creature!Swithin observed his clothes with some displeasure--they were theclothes of a journalist or strolling actor. And yet he was impressed. This was singular. How could he be impressed by a fellow in suchclothes! The man reached out a hand, covered with black hairs, and tookup a tumbler that contained a dark-coloured fluid. 'Brandy!' thoughtSwithin. The crash of a falling chair startled him--his neighbour hadrisen. He was of immense height, and very thin; his great beard seemedto splash away from his mouth; he was glaring at the group of officers, and speaking. Swithin made out two words: "Hunde! Deutsche Hunde!"'Hounds! Dutch hounds!' he thought: 'Rather strong!' One of the officershad jumped up, and now drew his sword. The tall man swung his chair up, and brought it down with a thud. Everybody round started up and closedon him. The tall man cried out, "To me, Magyars!"

Swithin grinned. The tall man fighting such odds excited his unwillingadmiration; he had a momentary impulse to go to his assistance. 'Onlyget a broken nose!' he thought, and looked for a safe corner. But atthat moment a thrown lemon struck him on the jaw. He jumped out of hischair and rushed at the officers. The Hungarian, swinging his chair, threw him a look of gratitude--Swithin glowed with momentary admirationof himself. A sword blade grazed his--arm; he felt a sudden dislike ofthe Hungarian. 'This is too much, ' he thought, and, catching up a chair, flung it at the wooden lantern. There was a crash--faces and swordsvanished. He struck a match, and by the light of it bolted for the door. A second later he was in the street. 

II

A voice said in English, "God bless you, brother!"

Swithin looked round, and saw the tall Hungarian holding out his hand. He took it, thinking, 'What a fool I've been!' There was something inthe Hungarian's gesture which said, "You are worthy of me!"

It was annoying, but rather impressive. The man seemed even taller thanbefore; there was a cut on his cheek, the blood from which was tricklingdown his beard. "You English!" he said. "I saw you stone Haynau--I sawyou cheer Kossuth. The free blood of your people cries out to us. " Helooked at Swithin. "You are a big man, you have a big soul--and strong, how you flung them down! Ha!" Swithin had an impulse to take to hisheels. "My name, " said the Hungarian, "is Boleskey. You are my friend. "His English was good. 

'Bulsh-kai-ee, Burlsh-kai-ee, ' thought Swithin; 'what a devil of aname!' "Mine, " he said sulkily, "is Forsyte. "

The Hungarian repeated it. 

"You've had a nasty jab on the cheek, " said Swithin; the sight of thematted beard was making him feel sick. The Hungarian put his fingersto his cheek, brought them away wet, stared at them, then with anindifferent air gathered a wisp of his beard and crammed it against thecut. 

"Ugh!" said Swithin. "Here! Take my handkerchief!"

The Hungarian bowed. "Thank you!" he said; "I couldn't think of it!Thank you a thousand times!"

"Take it!" growled Swithin; it seemed to him suddenly of the firstimportance. He thrust the handkerchief into the Hungarian's hand, andfelt a pain in his arm. 'There!' he thought, 'I've strained a muscle. '

The Hungarian kept muttering, regardless of passers-by, "Swine! Howyou threw them over! Two or three cracked heads, anyway--the cowardlyswine!"

"Look here!" said Swithin suddenly; "which is my way to the GoldeneAlp?"

The Hungarian replied, "But you are coming with me, for a glass ofwine?"

Swithin looked at the ground. 'Not if I know it!' he thought. 

"Ah!" said the Hungarian with dignity, "you do not wish for myfriendship!"

'Touchy beggar!' thought Swithin. "Of course, " he stammered, "if you putit in that way--"

The Hungarian bowed, murmuring, "Forgive me!"

They had not gone a dozen steps before a youth, with a beardless faceand hollow cheeks, accosted them. "For the love of Christ, gentlemen, "he said, "help me!"

"Are you a German?" asked Boleskey. 

"Yes, " said the youth. 

"Then you may rot!"

"Master, look here!" Tearing open his coat, the youth displayed hisskin, and a leather belt drawn tight round it. Again Swithin felt thatdesire to take to his heels. He was filled with horrid forebodings--asense of perpending intimacy with things such as no gentleman haddealings with. 

The Hungarian crossed himself. "Brother, " he said to the youth, "comeyou in!"

Swithin looked at them askance, and followed. By a dim light they gropedtheir way up some stairs into a large room, into which the moon wasshining through a window bulging over the street. A lamp burned low;there was a smell of spirits and tobacco, with a faint, peculiar scent, as of rose leaves. In one corner stood a czymbal, in another a greatpile of newspapers. On the wall hung some old-fashioned pistols, and arosary of yellow beads. Everything was tidily arranged, but dusty. Nearan open fireplace was a table with the remains of a meal. The ceiling, floor, and walls were all of dark wood. In spite of the strangedisharmony, the room had a sort of refinement. The Hungarian tooka bottle out of a cupboard and, filling some glasses, handed one toSwithin. Swithin put it gingerly to his nose. 'You never know your luck!Come!' he thought, tilting it slowly into his mouth. It was thick, toosweet, but of a fine flavour. 

"Brothers!" said the Hungarian, refilling, "your healths!"

The youth tossed off his wine. And Swithin this time did the same; hepitied this poor devil of a youth now. "Come round to-morrow!" he said, "I'll give you a shirt or two. " When the youth was gone, however, heremembered with relief that he had not given his address. 

'Better so, ' he reflected. 'A humbug, no doubt. '

"What was that you said to him?" he asked of the Hungarian. 

"I said, " answered Boleskey, "'You have eaten and drunk; and now you aremy enemy!'"

"Quite right!" said Swithin, "quite right! A beggar is every man'senemy. "

"You do not understand, " the Hungarian replied politely. "While he wasa beggar--I, too, have had to beg" (Swithin thought, 'Good God! this isawful!'), "but now that he is no longer hungry, what is he but a German?No Austrian dog soils my floors!"

His nostrils, as it seemed to Swithin, had distended in an unpleasantfashion; and a wholly unnecessary raucousness invaded his voice. "Iam an exile--all of my blood are exiles. Those Godless dogs!" Swithinhurriedly assented. 

As he spoke, a face peeped in at the door. 

"Rozsi!" said the Hungarian. A young girl came in. She was rather short, with a deliciously round figure and a thick plait of hair. She smiled, and showed her even teeth; her little, bright, wide-set grey eyesglanced from one man to the other. Her face was round, too, high in thecheekbones, the colour of wild roses, with brows that had a twist-up atthe corners. With a gesture of alarm, she put her hand to her cheek, andcalled, "Margit!" An older girl appeared, taller, with fine shoulders, large eyes, a pretty mouth, and what Swithin described to himselfafterwards as a "pudding" nose. Both girls, with little cooing sounds, began attending to their father's face. 

Swithin turned his back to them. His arm pained him. 

'This is what comes of interfering, ' he thought sulkily; 'I might havehad my neck broken!' Suddenly a soft palm was placed in his, two eyes, half-fascinated, half-shy, looked at him; then a voice called, "Rozsi!"the door was slammed, he was alone again with the Hungarian, harassed bya sense of soft disturbance. 

"Your daughter's name is Rosy?" he said; "we have it in England--fromrose, a flower. "

"Rozsi (Rozgi), " the Hungarian replied; "your English is a hard tongue, harder than French, German, or Czechish, harder than Russian, orRoumanian--I know no more. "

"What?" said Swithin, "six languages?" Privately he thought, 'He knowshow to lie, anyway. '

"If you lived in a country like mine, " muttered the Hungarian, "with allmen's hands against you! A free people--dying--but not dead!"

Swithin could not imagine what he was talking of. This man's face, withits linen bandage, gloomy eyes, and great black wisps of beard, hisfierce mutterings, and hollow cough, were all most unpleasant. He seemedto be suffering from some kind of mental dog-bite. His emotion indeedappeared so indecent, so uncontrolled and open, that its obvioussincerity produced a sort of awe in Swithin. It was like being forcedto look into a furnace. Boleskey stopped roaming up and down. "Youthink it's over?" he said; "I tell you, in the breast of each one of usMagyars there is a hell. What is sweeter than life? What is more sacredthan each breath we draw? Ah! my country!" These words were uttered soslowly, with such intense mournfulness, that Swithin's jaw relaxed; heconverted the movement to a yawn. 

"Tell me, " said Boleskey, "what would you do if the French conqueredyou?"

Swithin smiled. Then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, hegrunted, "The 'Froggies'? Let 'em try!"

"Drink!" said Boleskey--"there is nothing like it"; he filled Swithin'sglass. "I will tell you my story. "

Swithin rose hurriedly. "It's late, " he said. "This is good stuff, though; have you much of it?"

"It is the last bottle. "

"What?" said Swithin; "and you gave it to a beggar?"

"My name is Boleskey--Stefan, " the Hungarian said, raising his head; "ofthe Komorn Boleskeys. " The simplicity of this phrase--as who shall say:What need of further description?--made an impression on Swithin; hestopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on. "There were manyabuses, " boomed his deep voice, "much wrong done--much cowardice. Icould see clouds gathering--rolling over our plains. The Austrian wishedto strangle the breath of our mouths--to take from us the shadow of ourliberty--the shadow--all we had. Two years ago--the year of '48, whenevery man and boy answered the great voice--brother, a dog's life!--touse a pen when all of your blood are fighting, but it was decreed forme! My son was killed; my brothers taken--and myself was thrown out likea dog--I had written out my heart, I had written out all the bloodthat was in my body!" He seemed to tower, a gaunt shadow of a man, withgloomy, flickering eyes staring at the wall. 

Swithin rose, and stammered, "Much obliged--very interesting. " Boleskeymade no effort to detain him, but continued staring at the wall. "Good-night!" said Swithin, and stamped heavily downstairs. 

III

When at last Swithin reached the Goldene Alp, he found his brother andfriend standing uneasily at the door. Traquair, a prematurely dried-upman, with whiskers and a Scotch accent, remarked, "Ye're airly, man!"Swithin growled something unintelligible, and swung up to bed. Hediscovered a slight cut on his arm. He was in a savage temper--theelements had conspired to show him things he did not want to see; yetnow and then a memory of Rozsi, of her soft palm in his, a sense ofhaving been stroked and flattered, came over him. During breakfast nextmorning his brother and Traquair announced their intention of moving on. James Forsyte, indeed, remarked that it was no place for a "collector, "since all the "old" shops were in the hands of Jews or very graspingpersons--he had discovered this at once. Swithin pushed his cup aside. "You may do what you like, " he said, "I'm staying here. "

James Forsyte replied, tumbling over his own words: "Why! what do youwant to stay here for? There's nothing for you to do here--there'snothing to see here, unless you go up the Citadel, an' you won't dothat. "

Swithin growled, "Who says so?" Having gratified his perversity, he feltin a better temper. He had slung his arm in a silk sash, and accountedfor it by saying he had slipped. Later he went out and walked on to thebridge. In the brilliant sunshine spires were glistening against thepearly background of the hills; the town had a clean, joyous air. Swithin glanced at the Citadel and thought, 'Looks a strong place!Shouldn't wonder if it were impregnable!' And this for some occultreason gave him pleasure. It occurred to him suddenly to go and look forthe Hungarian's house. 

About noon, after a hunt of two hours, he was gazing about him blankly, pale with heat, but more obstinate than ever, when a voice above himcalled, "Mister!" He looked up and saw Rozsi. She was leaning her roundchin on her round hand, gazing down at him with her deepset, clevereyes. When Swithin removed his hat, she clapped her hands. Again hehad the sense of being admired, caressed. With a careless air, that satgrotesquely on his tall square person, he walked up to the door; bothgirls stood in the passage. Swithin felt a confused desire to speak insome foreign tongue. "Maam'selles, " he began, "er--bong jour-er, yourfather--pare, comment?"

"We also speak English, " said the elder girl; "will you come in, please?"

Swithin swallowed a misgiving, and entered. The room had a wornappearance by daylight, as if it had always been the nest of tragic orvivid lives. He sat down, and his eyes said: "I am a stranger, but don'ttry to get the better of me, please--that is impossible. " The girlslooked at him in silence. Rozsi wore a rather short skirt of blackstuff, a white shirt, and across her shoulders an embroidered yoke; hersister was dressed in dark green, with a coral necklace; both girls hadtheir hair in plaits. After a minute Rozsi touched the sleeve of hishurt arm. 

"It's nothing!" muttered Swithin. 

"Father fought with a chair, but you had no chair, " she said in awondering voice. 

He doubled the fist of his sound arm and struck a blow at space. To hisamazement she began to laugh. Nettled at this, he put his hand beneaththe heavy table and lifted it. Rozsi clapped her hands. "Ah I now Isee--how strong you are!" She made him a curtsey and whisked roundto the window. He found the quick intelligence of her eyes confusing;sometimes they seemed to look beyond him at something invisible--this, too, confused him. From Margit he learned that they had been twoyears in England, where their father had made his living by teachinglanguages; they had now been a year in Salzburg. 

"We wait, " suddenly said. Rozsi; and Margit, with a solemn face, repeated, "We wait. "

Swithin's eyes swelled a little with his desire to see what they werewaiting for. How queer they were, with their eyes that gazed beyond him!He looked at their figures. 'She would pay for dressing, ' he thought, and he tried to imagine Rozsi in a skirt with proper flounces, a thinwaist, and hair drawn back over her ears. She would pay for dressing, with that supple figure, fluffy hair, and little hands! And instantlyhis own hands, face, and clothes disturbed him. He got up, examinedthe pistols on the wall, and felt resentment at the faded, dusty room. 'Smells like a pot-house!' he thought. He sat down again close to Rozsi. 

"Do you love to dance?" she asked; "to dance is to live. First youhear the music--how your feet itch! It is wonderful! You begin slow, quick--quicker; you fly--you know nothing--your feet are in the air. Itis wonderful!"

A slow flush had mounted into Swithin's face. 

"Ah!" continued Rozsi, her eyes fixed on him, "when I am dancing--outthere I see the plains--your feet go one--two--three--quick, quick, quick, quicker--you fly. "

She stretched herself, a shiver seemed to pass all down her. "Margit!dance!" and, to Swithin's consternation, the two girls--their hands oneach other's shoulders--began shuffling their feet and swaying to andfro. Their heads were thrown back, their eyes half-closed; suddenly thestep quickened, they swung to one side, then to the other, and beganwhirling round in front of him. The sudden fragrance of rose leavesenveloped him. Round they flew again. While they were still dancing, Boleskey came into the room. He caught Swithin by both hands. 

"Brother, welcome! Ah! your arm is hurt! I do not forget. " His yellowface and deep-set eyes expressed a dignified gratitude. "Let meintroduce to you my friend Baron Kasteliz. "

Swithin bowed to a man with a small forehead, who had appeared softly, and stood with his gloved hands touching his waist. Swithin conceiveda sudden aversion for this catlike man. About Boleskey there was thatwhich made contempt impossible--the sense of comradeship begotten in thefight; the man's height; something lofty and savage in his face; andan obscure instinct that it would not pay to show distaste; but thisKasteliz, with his neat jaw, low brow, and velvety, volcanic look, excited his proper English animosity. "Your friends are mine, " murmuredKasteliz. He spoke with suavity, and hissed his s's. A long, vibratingtwang quavered through the room. Swithin turned and saw Rozsi sittingat the czymbal; the notes rang under the little hammers in her hands, incessant, metallic, rising and falling with that strange melody. Kasteliz had fixed his glowing eyes on her; Boleskey, nodding his head, was staring at the floor; Margit, with a pale face, stood like a statue. 

'What can they see in it?' thought Swithin; 'it's not a tune. ' Hetook up his hat. Rozsi saw him and stopped; her lips had parted with afaintly dismayed expression. His sense of personal injury diminished;he even felt a little sorry for her. She jumped up from her seat andtwirled round with a pout. An inspiration seized on Swithin. "Come anddine with me, " he said to Boleskey, "to-morrow--the Goldene Alp--bringyour friend. " He felt the eyes of the whole room on him--the Hungarian'sfine eyes; Margit's wide glance; the narrow, hot gaze of Kasteliz; andlastly--Rozsi's. A glow of satisfaction ran down his spine. When heemerged into the street he thought gloomily, 'Now I've done it!' And notfor some paces did he look round; then, with a forced smile, turned andremoved his hat to the faces at the window. 

Notwithstanding this moment of gloom, however, he was in an exaltedstate all day, and at dinner kept looking at his brother and Traquairenigmatically. 'What do they know of life?' he thought; 'they might behere a year and get no farther. ' He made jokes, and pinned the menu tothe waiter's coat-tails. "I like this place, " he said, "I shall spendthree weeks here. " James, whose lips were on the point of taking in aplum, looked at him uneasily. 

IV

On the day of the dinner Swithin suffered a good deal. He reflectedgloomily on Boleskey's clothes. He had fixed an early hour--there wouldbe fewer people to see them. When the time approached he attired himselfwith a certain neat splendour, and though his arm was still sore, leftoff the sling. .. . 

Nearly three hours afterwards he left the Goldene Alp between hisguests. It was sunset, and along the riverbank the houses stood out, unsoftened by the dusk; the streets were full of people hurrying home. Swithin had a hazy vision of empty bottles, of the ground before hisfeet, and the accessibility of all the world. Dim recollections ofthe good things he had said, of his brother and Traquair seated in thebackground eating ordinary meals with inquiring, acid visages, causedperpetual smiles to break out on his face, and he steered himselfstubbornly, to prove that he was a better man than either' of hisguests. He knew, vaguely, that he was going somewhere with an object;Rozsi's face kept dancing before him, like a promise. Once or twice hegave Kasteliz a glassy stare. Towards Boleskey, on the other hand, hefelt quite warm, and recalled with admiration the way he had set hisglass down empty, time after time. 'I like to see him take his liquor, 'he thought; 'the fellow's a gentleman, after all. ' Boleskey strode on, savagely inattentive to everything; and Kasteliz had become more likea cat than ever. It was nearly dark when they reached a narrow streetclose to the cathedral. They stopped at a door held open by an oldwoman. The change from the fresh air to a heated corridor, the noiseof the door closed behind him, the old woman's anxious glances, soberedSwithin. 

"I tell her, " said Boleskey, "that I reply for you as for my son. "

Swithin was angry. What business had this man to reply for him!

They passed into a large room, crowded with men all women; Swithinnoticed that they all looked fit him. He stared at them in turn--theyseemed of all classes, some in black coats or silk dresses, others inthe clothes of work-people; one man, a cobbler, still wore his leatherapron, as if he had rushed there straight from his work. Laying his handon Swithin's arm, Boleskey evidently began explaining who he was; handswere extended, people beyond reach bowed to him. Swithin acknowledgedthe greetings with a stiff motion of his head; then seeing otherpeople dropping into seats, he, too, sat down. Some one whispered hisname--Margit and Rozsi were just behind him. 

"Welcome!" said Margit; but Swithin was looking at Rozsi. Her face wasso alive and quivering! 'What's the excitement all about?' he thought. 'How pretty she looks!' She blushed, drew in her hands with a quicktense movement, and gazed again beyond him into the room. 'What is it?'thought Swithin; he had a longing to lean back and kiss her lips. Hetried angrily to see what she was seeing in those faces turned all oneway. 

Boleskey rose to speak. No one moved; not a sound could be heard but thetone of his deep voice. On and on he went, fierce and solemn, and withthe rise of his voice, all those faces-fair or swarthy--seemed to beglowing with one and the same feeling. Swithin felt the white heat inthose faces--it was not decent! In that whole speech he only understoodthe one word--"Magyar" which came again and again. He almost dozed offat last. The twang of a czymbal woke him. 'What?' he thought, 'moreof that infernal music!' Margit, leaning over him, whispered: "Listen!Racoczy! It is forbidden!" Swithin saw that Rozsi was no longer inher seat; it was she who was striking those forbidden notes. He lookedround--everywhere the same unmoving faces, the same entrancement, and fierce stillness. The music sounded muffled, as if it, too, werebursting its heart in silence. Swithin felt within him a touch of panic. Was this a den of tigers? The way these people listened, the ferocity oftheir stillness, was frightful. .. ! He gripped his chair and broke intoa perspiration; was there no chance to get away? 'When it stops, ' hethought, 'there'll be a rush!' But there was only a greater silence. Itflashed across him that any hostile person coming in then would be tornto pieces. A woman sobbed. The whole thing was beyond words unpleasant. He rose, and edged his way furtively towards the doorway. There was acry of "Police!" The whole crowd came pressing after him. Swithin wouldsoon have been out, but a little behind he caught sight of Rozsi sweptoff her feet. Her frightened eyes angered him. 'She doesn't deserve it, 'he thought sulkily; 'letting all this loose!' and forced his way back toher. She clung to him, and a fever went stealing through his veins; hebutted forward at the crowd, holding her tight. When they were outsidehe let her go. 

"I was afraid, " she said. 

"Afraid!" muttered Swithin; "I should think so. " No longer touching her, he felt his grievance revive. 

"But you are so strong, " she murmured. 

"This is no place for you, " growled Swithin, "I'm going to see youhome. "

"Oh!" cried Rozsi; "but papa and--Margit!"

"That's their look-out!" and he hurried her away. 

She slid her hand under his arm; the soft curves of her form brushedhim gently, each touch only augmented his ill-humour. He burned with aperverse rage, as if all the passions in him were simmering and ready toboil over; it was as if a poison were trying to work its way out of him, through the layers of his stolid flesh. He maintained a dogged silence;Rozsi, too, said nothing, but when they reached the door, she drew herhand away. 

"You are angry!" she said. 

"Angry, " muttered Swithin; "no! How d'you make that out?" He had atorturing desire to kiss her. 

"Yes, you are angry, " she repeated; "I wait here for papa and Margit. "

Swithin also waited, wedged against the wall. Once or twice, for hissight was sharp, he saw her steal a look at him, a beseeching look, andhardened his heart with a kind of pleasure. After five minutes Boleskey, Margit, and Kasteliz appeared. Seeing Rozsi they broke into exclamationsof relief, and Kasteliz, with a glance at Swithin, put his lips to herhand. Rozsi's look said, "Wouldn't you like to do that?" Swithin turnedshort on his heel, and walked away. 

V

All night he hardly slept, suffering from fever, for the first time inhis life. Once he jumped out of bed, lighted a candle, and going tothe glass, scrutinised himself long and anxiously. After this he fellasleep, but had frightful dreams. His first thought when he woke was, 'My liver's out of order!' and, thrusting his head into cold water, hedressed hastily and went out. He soon left the house behind. Dew coveredeverything; blackbirds whistled in the bushes; the air was fresh andsweet. He had not been up so early since he was a boy. Why was hewalking through a damp wood at this hour of the morning? Somethingintolerable and unfamiliar must have sent him out. No fellow inhis senses would do such a thing! He came to a dead stop, and beganunsteadily to walk back. Regaining the hotel, he went to bed again, and dreamed that in some wild country he was living in a room full ofinsects, where a housemaid--Rozsi--holding a broom, looked at him withmournful eyes. There seemed an unexplained need for immediate departure;he begged her to forward his things; and shake them out carefully beforeshe put them into the trunk. He understood that the charge for sendingwould be twenty-two shillings, thought it a great deal, and had thehorrors of indecision. "No, " he muttered, "pack, and take them myself. "The housemaid turned suddenly into a lean creature; and he awoke with asore feeling in his heart. 

His eye fell on his wet boots. The whole thing was scaring, and jumpingup, he began to throw his clothes into his trunks. It was twelve o'clockbefore he went down, and found his brother and Traquair still at thetable arranging an itinerary; he surprised them by saying that he toowas coming; and without further explanation set to work to eat. Jameshad heard that there were salt-mines in the neighbourhood--his proposalwas to start, and halt an hour or so on the road for their inspection;he said: "Everybody'll ask you if you've seen the salt-mines: Ishouldn't like to say I hadn't seen the salt-mines. What's the good, they'd say, of your going there if you haven't seen the salt-mines?" Hewondered, too, if they need fee the second waiter--an idle chap!

A discussion followed; but Swithin ate on glumly, conscious that hismind was set on larger affairs. Suddenly on the far side of the streetRozsi and her sister passed, with little baskets on their arms. Hestarted up, and at that moment Rozsi looked round--her face was theincarnation of enticement, the chin tilted, the lower lip thrust alittle forward, her round neck curving back over her shoulder. Swithinmuttered, "Make your own arrangements--leave me out!" and hurried fromthe room, leaving James beside himself with interest and alarm. 

When he reached the street, however, the girls had disappeared. Hehailed a carriage. "Drive!" he called to the man, with a flourish of hisstick, and as soon as the wheels had begun to clatter on the stones heleaned back, looking sharply to right and left. He soon had to giveup thought of finding them, but made the coachman turn round and roundagain. All day he drove about, far into the country, and kept urgingthe driver to use greater speed. He was in a strange state of hurry andelation. Finally, he dined at a little country inn; and this gave themeasure of his disturbance--the dinner was atrocious. 

Returning late in the evening he found a note written by Traquair. "Are you in your senses, man?" it asked; "we have no more time to wasteidling about here. If you want to rejoin us, come on to Danielli'sHotel, Venice. " Swithin chuckled when he read it, and feelingfrightfully tired, went to bed and slept like a log. 

VI

Three weeks later he was still in Salzburg, no longer at the GoldeneAlp, but in rooms over a shop near the Boleskeys'. He had spent a smallfortune in the purchase of flowers. Margit would croon over them, butRozsi, with a sober "Many tanks!" as if they were her right, would looklong at herself in the glass, and pin one into her hair. Swithin ceasedto wonder; he ceased to wonder at anything they did. One evening hefound Boleskey deep in conversation with a pale, dishevelled-lookingperson. 

"Our friend Mr. Forsyte--Count D. .. . , " said Boleskey. 

Swithin experienced a faint, unavoidable emotion; but looking at theCount's trousers, he thought: 'Doesn't look much like one!' And with anironic bow to the silent girls, he turned, and took his hat. But when hehad reached the bottom of the dark stairs he heard footsteps. Rozsi camerunning down, looked out at the door, and put her hands up to her breastas if disappointed; suddenly with a quick glance round she saw him. Swithin caught her arm. She slipped away, and her face seemed to bubblewith defiance or laughter; she ran up three steps, stopped, looked athim across her shoulder, and fled on up the stairs. Swithin went outbewildered and annoyed. 

'What was she going to say to me?' he kept thinking. During these threeweeks he had asked himself all sorts of questions: whether he were beingmade a fool of; whether she were in love with him; what he was doingthere, and sometimes at night, with all his candles burning as if hewanted light, the breeze blowing on him through the window, his cigar, half-smoked, in his hand, he sat, an hour or more, staring at the wall. 'Enough of this!' he thought every morning. Twice he packed fully--oncehe ordered his travelling carriage, but countermanded it the followingday. What definitely he hoped, intended, resolved, he could not havesaid. He was always thinking of Rozsi, he could not read the riddle inher face--she held him in a vice, notwithstanding that everythingabout her threatened the very fetishes of his existence. And Boleskey!Whenever he looked at him he thought, 'If he were only clean?' andmechanically fingered his own well-tied cravatte. To talk with thefellow, too, was like being forced to look at things which had no placein the light of day. Freedom, equality, self-sacrifice!

'Why can't he settle down at some business, ' he thought, 'instead of allthis talk?' Boleskey's sudden diffidences, self-depreciation, fits ofdespair, irritated him. "Morbid beggar!" he would mutter; "thank GodI haven't a thin skin. " And proud too! Extraordinary! An impecuniousfellow like that! One evening, moreover, Boleskey had returned homedrunk. Swithin had hustled him away into his bedroom, helped him toundress, and stayed until he was asleep. 'Too much of a good thing!'he thought, 'before his own daughters, too!' It was after this that heordered his travelling carriage. The other occasion on which he packedwas one evening, when not only Boleskey, but Rozsi herself had pickedchicken bones with her fingers. 

Often in the mornings he would go to the Mirabell Garden to smokehis cigar; there, in stolid contemplation of the statues--rows ofhalf-heroic men carrying off half-distressful females--he would spendan hour pleasantly, his hat tilted to keep the sun off his nose. The dayafter Rozsi had fled from him on the stairs, he came there as usual. Itwas a morning of blue sky and sunlight glowing on the old prim garden, on its yew-trees, and serio-comic statues, and walls covered withapricots and plums. When Swithin approached his usual seat, who shouldbe sitting there but Rozsi--"Good-morning, " he stammered; "you knew thiswas my seat then?"

Rozsi looked at the ground. "Yes, " she answered. 

Swithin felt bewildered. "Do you know, " he said, "you treat me veryfunnily?"

To his surprise Rozsi put her little soft hand down and touched his;then, without a word, sprang up and rushed away. It took him a minute torecover. There were people present; he did not like to run, but overtookher on the bridge, and slipped her hand beneath his arm. 

"You shouldn't have done that, " he said; "you shouldn't have run awayfrom me, you know. "

Rozsi laughed. Swithin withdrew his arm; a desire to shake her seizedhim. He walked some way before he said, "Will you have the goodness totell me what you came to that seat for?"

Rozsi flashed a look at him. "To-morrow is the fete, " she answered. 

Swithin muttered, "Is that all?"

"If you do not take us, we cannot go. "

"Suppose I refuse, " he said sullenly, "there are plenty of others. "

Rozsi bent her head, scurrying along. "No, " she murmured, "if you do notgo--I do not wish. "

Swithin drew her hand back within his arm. How round and soft it was!He tried to see her face. When she was nearly home he said goodbye, notwishing, for some dark reason, to be seen with her. He watched till shehad disappeared; then slowly retraced his steps to the Mirabell Garden. When he came to where she had been sitting, he slowly lighted his cigar, and for a long time after it was smoked out remained there in the silentpresence of the statues. 

VII

A crowd of people wandered round the booths, and Swithin found himselfobliged to give the girls his arms. 'Like a little Cockney clerk!' hethought. His indignation passed unnoticed; they talked, they laughed, each sight and sound in all the hurly-burly seemed to go straight intotheir hearts. He eyed them ironically--their eager voices, and littlecoos of sympathy seemed to him vulgar. In the thick of the crowd heslipped his arm out of Margit's, but, just as he thought that he wasfree, the unwelcome hand slid up again. He tried again, but again Margitreappeared, serene, and full of pleasant humour; and his failure thistime appeared to him in a comic light. But when Rozsi leaned across him, the glow of her round cheek, her curving lip, the inscrutable grey gleamof her eyes, sent a thrill of longing through him. He was obliged tostand by while they parleyed with a gipsy, whose matted locks and skinnyhands inspired him with a not unwarranted disgust. "Folly!" he muttered, as Rozsi held out her palm. The old woman mumbled, and shot a malignantlook at him. Rozsi drew back her hand, and crossed herself. 'Folly!'Swithin thought again; and seizing the girls' arms, he hurried themaway. 

"What did the old hag say?" he asked. 

Rozsi shook her head. 

"You don't mean that you believe?"

Her eyes were full of tears. "The gipsies are wise, " she murmured. 

"Come, what did she tell you?"

This time Rozsi looked hurriedly round, and slipped away into the crowd. After a hunt they found her, and Swithin, who was scared, growled: "Youshouldn't do such things--it's not respectable. "

On higher ground, in the centre of a clear space, a military band wasplaying. For the privilege of entering this charmed circle Swithin paidthree kronen, choosing naturally the best seats. He ordered wine, too, watching Rozsi out of the corner of his eye as he poured it out. Theprotecting tenderness of yesterday was all lost in this medley. It wasevery man for himself, after all! The colour had deepened again in hercheeks, she laughed, pouting her lips. Suddenly she put her glass aside. "Thank you, very much, " she said, "it is enough!"

Margit, whose pretty mouth was all smiles, cried, "Lieber Gott! is itnot good-life?" It was not a question Swithin could undertake to answer. The band began to play a waltz. "Now they will dance. Lieber Gott! andare the lights not wonderful?" Lamps were flickering beneath the treeslike a swarm of fireflies. There was a hum as from a gigantic beehive. Passers-by lifted their faces, then vanished into the crowd; Rozsi stoodgazing at them spellbound, as if their very going and coming were adelight. 

The space was soon full of whirling couples. Rozsi's head began to beattime. "O Margit!" she whispered. 

Swithin's face had assumed a solemn, uneasy expression. A man raisinghis hat, offered his arm to Margit. She glanced back across her shoulderto reassure Swithin. "It is a friend, " she said. 

Swithin looked at Rozsi--her eyes were bright, her lips tremulous. He slipped his hand along the table and touched her fingers. Then sheflashed a look at him--appeal, reproach, tenderness, all were expressedin it. Was she expecting him to dance? Did she want to mix with therift-raff there; wish him to make an exhibition of himself in thishurly-burly? A voice said, "Good-evening!" Before them stood Kasteliz, in a dark coat tightly buttoned at the waist. 

"You are not dancing, Rozsi Kozsanony?" (Miss Rozsi). "Let me, then, have the pleasure. " He held out his arm. Swithin stared in front ofhim. In the very act of going she gave him a look that said as plain aswords: "Will you not?" But for answer he turned his eyes away, and whenhe looked again she was gone. He paid the score and made his way intothe crowd. But as he went she danced by close to him, all flushed andpanting. She hung back as if to stop him, and he caught the glisteningof tears. Then he lost sight of her again. To be deserted the firstminute he was alone with her, and for that jackanapes with the smallhead and the volcanic glances! It was too much! And suddenly it occurredto him that she was alone with Kasteliz--alone at night, and far fromhome. 'Well, ' he thought, 'what do I care?' and shouldered his way onthrough the crowd. It served him right for mixing with such people here. He left the fair, but the further he went, the more he nursed his rage, the more heinous seemed her offence, the sharper grew his jealousy. "Abeggarly baron!" was his thought. 

A figure came alongside--it was Boleskey. One look showed Swithin hiscondition. Drunk again! This was the last straw!

Unfortunately Boleskey had recognised him. He seemed violently excited. "Where--where are my daughters?" he began. 

Swithin brushed past, but Boleskey caught his arm. "Listen--brother!" hesaid; "news of my country! After to-morrow. .. . "

"Keep it to yourself!" growled Swithin, wrenching his arm free. He wentstraight to his lodgings, and, lying on the hard sofa of his unlightedsitting-room, gave himself up to bitter thoughts. But in spite of allhis anger, Rozsi's supply-moving figure, with its pouting lips, androguish appealing eyes, still haunted him. 

VIII

Next morning there was not a carriage to be had, and Swithin wascompelled to put off his departure till the morrow. The day was grey andmisty; he wandered about with the strained, inquiring look of a lost dogin his eyes. 

Late in the afternoon he went back to his lodgings. In a corner ofthe sitting-room stood Rozsi. The thrill of triumph, the sense ofappeasement, the emotion, that seized on him, crept through to his lipsin a faint smile. Rozsi made no sound, her face was hidden by her hands. And this silence of hers weighed on Swithin. She was forcing him tobreak it. What was behind her hands? His own face was visible! Whydidn't she speak? Why was she here? Alone? That was not right surely. 

Suddenly Rozsi dropped her hands; her flushed face was quivering--itseemed as though a word, a sign, even, might bring a burst of tears. 

He walked over to the window. 'I must give her time!' he thought; thenseized by unreasoning terror at this silence, spun round, and caughther by the arms. Rozsi held back from him, swayed forward and buried herface on his breast. .. . 

Half an hour later Swithin was pacing up and down his room. The scent ofrose leaves had not yet died away. A glove lay on the floor; he pickedit up, and for a long time stood weighing it in his hand. All sorts ofconfused thoughts and feelings haunted him. It was the purest and leastselfish moment of his life, this moment after she had yielded. But thatpure gratitude at her fiery, simple abnegation did not last; it wasfollowed by a petty sense of triumph, and by uneasiness. He was stillweighing the little glove in his hand, when he had another visitor. Itwas Kasteliz. 

"What can I do for you?" Swithin asked ironically. 

The Hungarian seemed suffering from excitement. Why had Swithin lefthis charges the night before? What excuse had he to make? What sort ofconduct did he call this?

Swithin, very like a bull-dog at that moment, answered: What businesswas it of his?

The business of a gentleman! What right had the Englishman to pursue ayoung girl?

"Pursue?" said Swithin; "you've been spying, then?"

"Spying--I--Kasteliz--Maurus Johann--an insult!"

"Insult!" sneered Swithin; "d'you mean to tell me you weren't in thestreet just now?"

Kasteliz answered with a hiss, "If you do not leave the city I will makeyou, with my sword--do you understand?"

"And if you do not leave my room I will throw you out of the window!"

For some minutes Kasteliz spoke in pure Hungarian while Swithin waited, with a forced smile and a fixed look in his eye. He did not understandHungarian. 

"If you are still in the city to-morrow evening, " said Kasteliz at lastin English, "I will spit you in the street. "

Swithin turned to the window and watched his visitor's retiring backwith a queer mixture of amusement, stubbornness, and anxiety. 'Well, ' hethought, 'I suppose he'll run me through!' The thought was unpleasant;and it kept recurring, but it only served to harden his determination. His head was busy with plans for seeing Rozsi; his blood on fire withthe kisses she had given him. 

IX

Swithin was long in deciding to go forth next day. He had made up hismind not to go to Rozsi till five o'clock. 'Mustn't make myself toocheap, ' he thought. It was a little past that hour when he at lastsallied out, and with a beating heart walked towards Boleskey's. Helooked up at the window, more than half expecting to see Rozsi there;but she was not, and he noticed with faint surprise that the window wasnot open; the plants, too, outside, looked singularly arid. He knocked. No one came. He beat a fierce tattoo. At last the door was opened bya man with a reddish beard, and one of those sardonic faces only to beseen on shoemakers of Teutonic origin. 

"What do you want, making all this noise?" he asked in German. 

Swithin pointed up the stairs. The man grinned, and shook his head. 

"I want to go up, " said Swithin. 

The cobbler shrugged his shoulders, and Swithin rushed upstairs. Therooms were empty. The furniture remained, but all signs of life weregone. One of his own bouquets, faded, stood in a glass; the ashes ofa fire were barely cold; little scraps of paper strewed the hearth;already the room smelt musty. He went into the bedrooms, and with afeeling of stupefaction stood staring at the girls' beds, side by sideagainst the wall. A bit of ribbon caught his eye; he picked it up andput it in his pocket--it was a piece of evidence that she had onceexisted. By the mirror some pins were dropped about; a little powder hadbeen spilled. He looked at his own disquiet face and thought, 'I've beencheated!'

The shoemaker's voice aroused him. "Tausend Teufel! Eilen Sie, nur! Zeitis Geld! Kann nich' Langer warten!" Slowly he descended. 

"Where have they gone?" asked Swithin painfully. "A pound for everyEnglish word you speak. A pound!" and he made an O with his fingers. 

The corners of the shoemaker's lips curled. "Geld! Mf! Eilen Sie, nur!"

But in Swithin a sullen anger had begun to burn. "If you don't tell me, "he said, "it'll be the worse for you. "

"Sind ein komischer Kerl!" remarked the shoemaker. "Hier ist meineFrau!"

A battered-looking woman came hurrying down the passage, calling out inGerman, "Don't let him go!"

With a snarling sound the shoemaker turned his back, and shambled off. 

The woman furtively thrust a letter into Swithin's hand, and furtivelywaited. 

The letter was from Rozsi. 

"Forgive me"--it ran--"that I leave you and do not say goodbye. To-dayour father had the call from our dear Father-town so long awaited. Intwo hours we are ready. I pray to the Virgin to keep you ever safe, andthat you do not quite forget me. --Your unforgetting good friend, ROZSI. "

When Swithin read it his first sensation was that of a man sinking in abog; then his obstinacy stiffened. 'I won't be done, ' he thought. Takingout a sovereign he tried to make the woman comprehend that she couldearn it, by telling him where they had gone. He got her finally to writethe words out in his pocket-book, gave her the sovereign, and hurriedto the Goldene Alp, where there was a waiter who spoke English. Thetranslation given him was this:

"At three o'clock they start in a carriage on the road to Linz--theyhave bad horses--the Herr also rides a white horse. "

Swithin at once hailed a carriage and started at full gallop on the roadto Linz. Outside the Mirabell Garden he caught sight of Kasteliz andgrinned at him. 'I've sold him anyway, ' he thought; 'for all their talk, they're no good, these foreigners!'

His spirits rose, but soon fell again. What chance had he of catchingthem? They had three hours' start! Still, the roads were heavy from therain of the last two nights--they had luggage and bad horses; his ownwere good, his driver bribed--he might overtake them by ten o'clock!But did he want to? What a fool he had been not to bring his luggage; hewould then have had a respectable position. What a brute he would lookwithout a change of shirt, or anything to shave with! He saw himselfwith horror, all bristly, and in soiled linen. People would think himmad. 'I've given myself away, ' flashed across him, 'what the devil canI say to them?' and he stared sullenly at the driver's back. Heread Rozsi's letter again; it had a scent of her. And in the growingdarkness, jolted by the swinging of the carriage, he suffered torturesfrom his prudence, tortures from his passion. 

It grew colder and dark. He turned the collar of his coat up to hisears. He had visions of Piccadilly. This wild-goose chase appearedsuddenly a dangerous, unfathomable business. Lights, fellowship, security! 'Never again!' he brooded; 'why won't they let me alone?'But it was not clear whether by 'they' he meant the conventions, theBoleskeys, his passions, or those haunting memories of Rozsi. If he hadonly had a bag with him! What was he going to say? What was he goingto get by this? He received no answer to these questions. The darknessitself was less obscure than his sensations. From time to time he tookout his watch. At each village the driver made inquiries. It was pastten when he stopped the carriage with a jerk. The stars were bright assteel, and by the side of the road a reedy lake showed in the moonlight. Swithin shivered. A man on a horse had halted in the centre of the road. "Drive on!" called Swithin, with a stolid face. It turned out to beBoleskey, who, on a gaunt white horse, looked like some winged creature. He stood where he could bar the progress of the carriage, holding out apistol. 

'Theatrical beggar!' thought Swithin, with a nervous smile. He made nosign of recognition. Slowly Boleskey brought his lean horse up to thecarriage. When he saw who was within he showed astonishment and joy. 

"You?" he cried, slapping his hand on his attenuated thigh, and leaningover till his beard touched Swithin. "You have come? You followed us?"

"It seems so, " Swithin grunted out. 

"You throw in your lot with us. Is it possible? You--you are aknight-errant then!"

"Good God!" said Swithin. Boleskey, flogging his dejected steed, cantered forward in the moonlight. He came back, bringing an old cloak, which he insisted on wrapping round Swithin's shoulders. He handed him, too, a capacious flask. 

"How cold you look!" he said. "Wonderful! Wonderful! you English!" Hisgrateful eyes never left Swithin for a moment. They had come up to theheels of the other carriage now, but Swithin, hunched in the cloak, didnot try to see what was in front of him. To the bottom of his soul heresented the Hungarian's gratitude. He remarked at last, with wastedirony:

"You're in a hurry, it seems!"

"If we had wings, " Boleskey answered, "we would use them. "

"Wings!" muttered Swithin thickly; "legs are good enough for me. "

X

Arrived at the inn where they were to pass the night, Swithin waited, hoping to get into the house without a "scene, " but when at last healighted the girls were in the doorway, and Margit greeted him with anadmiring murmur, in which, however, he seemed to detect irony. Rozsi, pale and tremulous, with a half-scared look, gave him her hand, and, quickly withdrawing it, shrank behind her sister. When they had gone upto their room Swithin sought Boleskey. His spirits had risen remarkably. "Tell the landlord to get us supper, " he said; "we'll crack a bottle toour luck. " He hurried on the landlord's preparations. The window of theroom faced a wood, so near that he could almost touch the trees. Thescent from the pines blew in on him. He turned away from that scenteddarkness, and began to draw the corks of winebottles. The sound seemedto conjure up Boleskey. He came in, splashed all over, smelling slightlyof stables; soon after, Margit appeared, fresh and serene, but Rozsi didnot come. 

"Where is your sister?" Swithin said. Rozsi, it seemed, was tired. "Itwill do her good to eat, " said Swithin. And Boleskey, murmuring, "Shemust drink to our country, " went out to summon her, Margit followed him, while Swithin cut up a chicken. They came back without her. She had "amegrim of the spirit. "

Swithin's face fell. "Look here!" he said, "I'll go and try. Don't waitfor me. "

"Yes, " answered Boleskey, sinking mournfully into a chair; "try, brother, try-by all means, try. "

Swithin walked down the corridor with an odd, sweet, sinking sensationin his chest; and tapped on Rozsi's door. In a minute, she peeped forth, with her hair loose, and wondering eyes. 

"Rozsi, " he stammered, "what makes you afraid of me, now?"

She stared at him, but did not answer. 

"Why won't you come?"

Still she did not speak, but suddenly stretched out to him her bare arm. Swithin pressed his face to it. With a shiver, she whispered above him, "I will come, " and gently shut the door. 

Swithin stealthily retraced his steps, and paused a minute outside thesitting-room to regain his self-control. 

The sight of Boleskey with a bottle in his hand steadied him. 

"She is coming, " he said. And very soon she did come, her thick hairroughly twisted in a plait. 

Swithin sat between the girls; but did not talk, for he was reallyhungry. Boleskey too was silent, plunged in gloom; Rozsi was dumb;Margit alone chattered. 

"You will come to our Father-town? We shall have things to show you. Rozsi, what things we will show him!" Rozsi, with a little appealingmovement of her hands, repeated, "What things we will show you!" Sheseemed suddenly to find her voice, and with glowing cheeks, mouths full, and eyes bright as squirrels', they chattered reminiscences of the "dearFather-town, " of "dear friends, " of the "dear home. "

'A poor place!' Swithin could not help thinking. This enthusiasm seemedto him common; but he was careful to assume a look of interest, feedingon the glances flashed at him from Rozsi's restless eyes. 

As the wine waned Boleskey grew more and more gloomy, but now and thena sort of gleaming flicker passed over his face. He rose to his feet atlast. 

"Let us not forget, " he said, "that we go perhaps to ruin, to death; inthe face of all this we go, because our country needs--in this there isno credit, neither to me nor to you, my daughters; but for this nobleEnglishman, what shall we say? Give thanks to God for a great heart. He comes--not for country, not for fame, not for money, but to help theweak and the oppressed. Let us drink, then, to him; let us drink againand again to heroic Forsyte!" In the midst of the dead silence, Swithincaught the look of suppliant mockery in Rozsi's eyes. He glanced at theHungarian. Was he laughing at him? But Boleskey, after drinking up hiswine, had sunk again into his seat; and there suddenly, to the surpriseof all, he began to snore. Margit rose and, bending over him like amother, murmured: "He is tired--it is the ride!" She raised him in herstrong arms, and leaning on her shoulder Boleskey staggered from theroom. Swithin and Rozsi were left alone. He slid his hand towards herhand that lay so close, on the rough table-cloth. It seemed to awaithis touch. Something gave way in him, and words came welling up; for themoment he forgot himself, forgot everything but that he was near her. Her head dropped on his shoulder, he breathed the perfume of her hair. "Good-night!" she whispered, and the whisper was like a kiss; yet beforehe could stop her she was gone. Her footsteps died away in the passage, but Swithin sat gazing intently at a single bright drop of spilt winequivering on the table's edge. In that moment she, in her helplessnessand emotion, was all in all to him--his life nothing; all the realthings--his conventions, convictions, training, and himself--all seemedremote, behind a mist of passion and strange chivalry. Carefully witha bit of bread he soaked up the bright drop; and suddenly he thought:'This is tremendous!' For a long time he stood there in the window, close to the dark pine-trees. 

XI

In the early morning he awoke, full of the discomfort of this strangeplace and the medley of his dreams. Lying, with his nose peeping overthe quilt, he was visited by a horrible suspicion. When he could bear itno longer, he started up in bed. What if it were all a plot to get himto marry her? The thought was treacherous, and inspired in him a faintdisgust. Still, she might be ignorant of it! But was she so innocent?What innocent girl would have come to his room like that? What innocentgirl? Her father, who pretended to be caring only for his country? Itwas not probable that any man was such a fool; it was all part of thegame-a scheming rascal! Kasteliz, too--his threats! They intended himto marry her! And the horrid idea was strengthened by his reverence formarriage. It was the proper, the respectable condition; he was genuinelyafraid of this other sort of liaison--it was somehow too primitive! Andyet the thought of that marriage made his blood run cold. Consideringthat she had already yielded, it would be all the more monstrous! Withthe cold, fatal clearness of the morning light he now for the first timesaw his position in its full bearings. And, like a fish pulled out ofwater, he gasped at what was disclosed. Sullen resentment against thisattempt to force him settled deep into his soul. 

He seated himself on the bed, holding his head in his hands, solemnlythinking out what such marriage meant. In the first place it meantridicule, in the next place ridicule, in the last place ridicule. Shewould eat chicken bones with her fingers--those fingers his lips stillburned to kiss. She would dance wildly with other men. She would talk ofher "dear Father-town, " and all the time her eyes would look beyond him, some where or other into some d--d place he knew nothing of. He sprangup and paced the room, and for a moment thought he would go mad. 

They meant him to marry her! Even she--she meant him to marry her! Hertantalising inscrutability; her sudden little tendernesses; her quicklaughter; her swift, burning kisses; even the movements of her hands;her tears--all were evidence against her. Not one of these things thatNature made her do counted on her side, but how they fanned his longing, his desire, and distress! He went to the glass and tried to part hishair with his fingers, but being rather fine, it fell into lank streaks. There was no comfort to be got from it. He drew his muddy boots on. Suddenly he thought: 'If I could see her alone, I could arrive at somearrangement!' Then, with a sense of stupefaction, he made the discoverythat no arrangement could possibly be made that would not be dangerous, even desperate. He seized his hat, and, like a rabbit that has beenfired at, bolted from the room. He plodded along amongst the damp woodswith his head down, and resentment and dismay in his heart. But, as thesun rose, and the air grew sweet with pine scent, he slowly regained asort of equability. After all, she had already yielded; it was not asif. .. ! And the tramp of his own footsteps lulled him into feeling thatit would all come right. 

'Look at the thing practically, ' he thought. The faster he walked thefirmer became his conviction that he could still see it through. He tookout his watch--it was past seven--he began to hasten back. In the yardof the inn his driver was harnessing the horses; Swithin went up to him. 

"Who told you to put them in?" he asked. 

The driver answered, "Der Herr. "

Swithin turned away. 'In ten minutes, ' he thought, 'I shall be inthat carriage again, with this going on in my head! Driving away fromEngland, from all I'm used to-driving to-what?' Could he face it? Couldhe face all that he had been through that morning; face it day afterday, night after night? Looking up, he saw Rozsi at her open windowgazing down at him; never had she looked sweeter, more roguish. Aninexplicable terror seized on him; he ran across the yard and jumpedinto his carriage. "To Salzburg!" he cried; "drive on!" And rattling outof the yard without a look behind, he flung a sovereign at the hostler. Flying back along the road faster even than he had come, with pale face, and eyes blank and staring like a pug-dog's, Swithin spoke no singleword; nor, till he had reached the door of his lodgings, did he sufferthe driver to draw rein. 

XII

Towards evening, five days later, Swithin, yellow and travel-worn, wasferried in a gondola to Danielli's Hotel. His brother, who was on thesteps, looked at him with an apprehensive curiosity. 

"Why, it's you!" he mumbled. "So you've got here safe?"

"Safe?" growled Swithin. 

James replied, "I thought you wouldn't leave your friends!" Then, with ajerk of suspicion, "You haven't brought your friends?"

"What friends?" growled Swithin. 

James changed the subject. "You don't look the thing, " he said. 

"Really!" muttered Swithin; "what's that to you?"

He appeared at dinner that night, but fell asleep over his coffee. Neither Traquair nor James asked him any further question, nor did theyallude to Salzburg; and during the four days which concluded the stayin Venice Swithin went about with his head up, but his eyes half-closedlike a dazed man. Only after they had taken ship at Genoa did he showsigns of any healthy interest in life, when, finding that a man on boardwas perpetually strumming, he locked the piano up and pitched the keyinto the sea. 

That winter in London he behaved much as usual, but fits of morosenesswould seize on him, during which he was not pleasant to approach. 

One evening when he was walking with a friend in Piccadilly, a girlcoming from a side-street accosted him in German. Swithin, after staringat her in silence for some seconds, handed her a five-pound note, to thegreat amazement of his friend; nor could he himself have explained themeaning of this freak of generosity. 

Of Rozsi he never heard again. .. . 

This, then, was the substance of what he remembered as he lay ill inbed. Stretching out his hand he pressed the bell. His valet appeared, crossing the room like a cat; a Swede, who had been with Swithin manyyears; a little man with a dried face and fierce moustache, morbidlysharp nerves, and a queer devotion to his master. 

Swithin made a feeble gesture. "Adolf, " he said, "I'm very bad. "

"Yes, sir!"

"Why do you stand there like a cow?" asked Swithin; "can't you see I'mvery bad?"

"Yes, sir!" The valet's face twitched as though it masked the dance ofobscure emotions. 

"I shall feel better after dinner. What time is it?"

"Five o'clock. "

"I thought it was more. The afternoons are very long. "

"Yes, sir!" Swithin sighed, as though he had expected the consolation ofdenial. 

"Very likely I shall have a nap. Bring up hot water at half-past six andshave me before dinner. "

The valet moved towards the door. Swithin raised himself. 

"What did Mr. James say to you?"

"He said you ought to have another doctor; two doctors, he said, betterthan one. He said, also, he would look in again on his way 'home. '"

Swithin grunted, "Umph! What else did he say?"

"He said you didn't take care of yourself. "

Swithin glared. 

"Has anybody else been to see me?"

The valet turned away his eyes. "Mrs. Thomas Forsyte came last Mondayfortnight. "

"How long have I been ill?"

"Five weeks on Saturday. "

"Do you think I'm very bad?"

Adolf's face was covered suddenly with crow's-feet. "You have nobusiness to ask me question like that! I am not paid, sir, to answerquestion like that. "

Swithin said faintly: "You're a peppery fool! Open a bottle ofchampagne!"

Adolf took a bottle of champagne--from a cupboard and held nippers toit. He fixed his eyes on Swithin. "The doctor said--"

"Open the bottle!"

"It is not--"

"Open the bottle--or I give you warning. "

Adolf removed the cork. He wiped a glass elaborately, filled it, andbore it scrupulously to the bedside. Suddenly twirling his moustaches, he wrung his hands, and burst out: "It is poison. "

Swithin grinned faintly. "You foreign fool!" he said. "Get out!"

The valet vanished. 

'He forgot himself!' thought Swithin. Slowly he raised the glass, slowlyput it back, and sank gasping on his pillows. Almost at once he fellasleep. 

He dreamed that he was at his club, sitting after dinner in the crowdedsmoking-room, with its bright walls and trefoils of light. It was therethat he sat every evening, patient, solemn, lonely, and sometimes fellasleep, his square, pale old face nodding to one side. He dreamed thathe was gazing at the picture over the fireplace, of an old statesmanwith a high collar, supremely finished face, and sceptical eyebrows--thepicture, smooth, and reticent as sealing-wax, of one who seemed for everexhaling the narrow wisdom of final judgments. All round him, his fellowmembers were chattering. Only he himself, the old sick member, wassilent. If fellows only knew what it was like to sit by yourself andfeel ill all the time! What they were saying he had heard a hundredtimes. They were talking of investments, of cigars, horses, actresses, machinery. What was that? A foreign patent for cleaning boilers? Therewas no such thing; boilers couldn't be cleaned, any fool knew that! Ifan Englishman couldn't clean a boiler, no foreigner could clean one. He appealed to the old statesman's eyes. But for once those eyes seemedhesitating, blurred, wanting in finality. They vanished. In their placewere Rozsi's little deep-set eyes, with their wide and far-off look; andas he gazed they seemed to grow bright as steel, and to speak to him. Slowly the whole face grew to be there, floating on the dark backgroundof the picture; it was pink, aloof, unfathomable, enticing, with itsfluffy hair and quick lips, just as he had last seen it. "Are youlooking for something?" she seemed to say: "I could show you. "

"I have everything safe enough, " answered Swithin, and in his sleep hegroaned. 

He felt the touch of fingers on his forehead. 'I'm dreaming, ' he thoughtin his dream. 

She had vanished; and far away, from behind the picture, came a sound offootsteps. 

Aloud, in his sleep, Swithin muttered: "I've missed it. "

Again he heard the rustling of those light footsteps, and close in hisear a sound, like a sob. He awoke; the sob was his own. Great drops ofperspiration stood on his forehead. 'What is it?' he thought; 'what haveI lost?' Slowly his mind travelled over his investments; he could notthink of any single one that was unsafe. What was it, then, that he hadlost? Struggling on his pillows, he clutched the wine-glass. His lipstouched the wine. 'This isn't the "Heidseck"!' he thought angrily, andbefore the reality of that displeasure all the dim vision passed away. But as he bent to drink, something snapped, and, with a sigh, SwithinForsyte died above the bubbles. .. . 

When James Forsyte came in again on his way home, the valet, tremblingtook his hat and stick. 

"How's your master?"

"My master is dead, sir!"

"Dead! He can't be! I left him safe an hour ago. "

On the bed Swithin's body was doubled like a sack; his hand stillgrasped the glass. 

James Forsyte paused. "Swithin!" he said, and with his hand to his earhe waited for an answer; but none came, and slowly in the glass a lastbubble rose and burst. 

December 1900. 

To

MY SISTER MABEL EDITH REYNOLDS

THE SILENCE

I

In a car of the Naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag forpapers. The strong sunlight showed the fine wrinkles on his brownface and the shabbiness of his short, rough beard. A newspaper cuttingslipped from his fingers; he picked it up, thinking: 'How the dickensdid that get in here?' It was from a colonial print of three years back;and he sat staring, as if in that forlorn slip of yellow paper he hadencountered some ghost from his past. 

These were the words he read: "We hope that the setback to civilisation, the check to commerce and development, in this promising centre of ourcolony may be but temporary; and that capital may again come to therescue. Where one man was successful, others should surely not fail? Weare convinced that it only needs. .. . " And the last words: "For what canbe sadder than to see the forest spreading its lengthening shadows, likesymbols of defeat, over the untenanted dwellings of men; and where wasonce the merry chatter of human voices, to pass by in the silence. .. . "

On an afternoon, thirteen years before, he had been in the city ofLondon, at one of those emporiums where mining experts perch, beforefresh flights, like sea-gulls on some favourite rock. A clerk said tohim: "Mr. Scorrier, they are asking for you downstairs--Mr. Hemmings ofthe New Colliery Company. "

Scorrier took up the speaking tube. "Is that you, Mr. Scorrier? I hopeyou are very well, sir, I am--Hemmings--I am--coming up. "

In two minutes he appeared, Christopher Hemmings, secretary of theNew Colliery Company, known in the City-behind his back--as"Down-by-the-starn" Hemmings. He grasped Scorrier's hand--the gesturewas deferential, yet distinguished. Too handsome, too capable, too important, his figure, the cut of his iron-grey beard, and hisintrusively fine eyes, conveyed a continual courteous invitation toinspect their infallibilities. He stood, like a City "Atlas, " withhis legs apart, his coat-tails gathered in his hands, a whole globe offinancial matters deftly balanced on his nose. "Look at me!" he seemedto say. "It's heavy, but how easily I carry it. Not the man to let itdown, Sir!"

"I hope I see you well, Mr. Scorrier, " he began. "I have come roundabout our mine. There is a question of a fresh field being openedup--between ourselves, not before it's wanted. I find it difficult toget my Board to take a comprehensive view. In short, the question is:Are you prepared to go out for us, and report on it? The fees will beall right. " His left eye closed. "Things have been very--er--dicky; weare going to change our superintendent. I have got little Pippin--youknow little Pippin?"

Scorrier murmured, with a feeling of vague resentment: "Oh yes. He's nota mining man!"

Hemmings replied: "We think that he will do. " 'Do you?' thoughtScorrier; 'that's good of you!'

He had not altogether shaken off a worship he had felt forPippin--"King" Pippin he was always called, when they had been boysat the Camborne Grammar-school. "King" Pippin! the boy with the brightcolour, very bright hair, bright, subtle, elusive eyes, broad shoulders, little stoop in the neck, and a way of moving it quickly like a bird;the boy who was always at the top of everything, and held his head asif looking for something further to be the top of. He remembered how oneday "King" Pippin had said to him in his soft way, "Young Scorrie, I'll do your sums for you"; and in answer to his dubious, "Is that allright?" had replied, "Of course--I don't want you to get behind thatbeast Blake, he's not a Cornishman" (the beast Blake was an Irishman notyet twelve). He remembered, too, an occasion when "King" Pippin with twoother boys fought six louts and got a licking, and how Pippin sat forhalf an hour afterwards, all bloody, his head in his hands, rocking toand fro, and weeping tears of mortification; and how the next day he hadsneaked off by himself, and, attacking the same gang, got frightfullymauled a second time. 

Thinking of these things he answered curtly: "When shall I start?"

"Down-by-the-starn" Hemmings replied with a sort of fearfulsprightliness: "There's a good fellow! I will send instructions; so gladto see you well. " Conferring on Scorrier a look--fine to the vergeof vulgarity--he withdrew. Scorrier remained, seated; heavy withinsignificance and vague oppression, as if he had drunk a tumbler ofsweet port. 

A week later, in company with Pippin, he was on board a liner. 

The "King" Pippin of his school-days was now a man of forty-four. Heawakened in Scorrier the uncertain wonder with which men look backwardat their uncomplicated teens; and staggering up and down the decks inthe long Atlantic roll, he would steal glances at his companion, as ifhe expected to find out from them something about himself. Pippin hadstill "King" Pippin's bright, fine hair, and dazzling streaks in hisshort beard; he had still a bright colour and suave voice, and whatthere were of wrinkles suggested only subtleties of humour and ironicsympathy. From the first, and apparently without negotiation, he hadhis seat at the captain's table, to which on the second day Scorrier toofound himself translated, and had to sit, as he expressed it ruefully, "among the big-wigs. "

During the voyage only one incident impressed itself on Scorrier'smemory, and that for a disconcerting reason. In the forecastle were theusual complement of emigrants. One evening, leaning across the rail towatch them, he felt a touch on his arm; and, looking round, saw Pippin'sface and beard quivering in the lamplight. "Poor people!" he said. Theidea flashed on Scorrier that he was like some fine wire sound-recordinginstrument. 

'Suppose he were to snap!' he thought. Impelled to justify this fancy, he blurted out: "You're a nervous chap. The way you look at those poordevils!"

Pippin hustled him along the deck. "Come, come, you took me off myguard, " he murmured, with a sly, gentle smile, "that's not fair. "

He found it a continual source of wonder that Pippin, at his age, shouldcut himself adrift from the associations and security of London life tobegin a new career in a new country with dubious prospect of success. 'I always heard he was doing well all round, ' he thought; 'thinks he'llbetter himself, perhaps. He's a true Cornishman. '

The morning of arrival at the mines was grey and cheerless; a cloud ofsmoke, beaten down by drizzle, clung above the forest; the wooden housesstraggled dismally in the unkempt semblance of a street, against abackground of endless, silent woods. An air of blank discouragementbrooded over everything; cranes jutted idly over empty trucks; the longjetty oozed black slime; miners with listless faces stood in the rain;dogs fought under their very legs. On the way to the hotel they met noone busy or serene except a Chinee who was polishing a dish-cover. 

The late superintendent, a cowed man, regaled them at lunch with hisforebodings; his attitude toward the situation was like the food, whichwas greasy and uninspiring. Alone together once more, the two newcomerseyed each other sadly. 

"Oh dear!" sighed Pippin. "We must change all this, Scorrier; it willnever do to go back beaten. I shall not go back beaten; you will haveto carry me on my shield;" and slyly: "Too heavy, eh? Poor fellow!" Thenfor a long time he was silent, moving his lips as if adding up the cost. Suddenly he sighed, and grasping Scorrier's arm, said: "Dull, aren't I?What will you do? Put me in your report, 'New Superintendent--sad, dulldog--not a word to throw at a cat!'" And as if the new task weretoo much for him, he sank back in thought. The last words he said toScorrier that night were: "Very silent here. It's hard to believeone's here for life. But I feel I am. Mustn't be a coward, though!"and brushing his forehead, as though to clear from it a cobweb of faintthoughts, he hurried off. 

Scorrier stayed on the veranda smoking. The rain had ceased, a few starswere burning dimly; even above the squalor of the township the scent ofthe forests, the interminable forests, brooded. There sprang into hismind the memory of a picture from one of his children's fairy books--thepicture of a little bearded man on tiptoe, with poised head and a greatsword, slashing at the castle of a giant. It reminded him of Pippin. Andsuddenly, even to Scorrier--whose existence was one long encounter withstrange places--the unseen presence of those woods, their heavy, healthyscent, the little sounds, like squeaks from tiny toys, issuing out ofthe gloomy silence, seemed intolerable, to be shunned, from the mereinstinct of self-preservation. He thought of the evening he had spentin the bosom of "Down-by-the-starn" Hemmings' family, receiving hislast instructions--the security of that suburban villa, its discouraginggentility; the superior acidity of the Miss Hemmings; the noble namesof large contractors, of company promoters, of a peer, dragged with thelightness of gun-carriages across the conversation; the autocracy ofHemmings, rasped up here and there, by some domestic contradiction. Itwas all so nice and safe--as if the whole thing had been fastened toan anchor sunk beneath the pink cabbages of the drawing-room carpet!Hemmings, seeing him off the premises, had said with secrecy: "LittlePippin will have a good thing. We shall make his salary L----. He'll bea great man-quite a king. Ha-ha!"

Scorrier shook the ashes from his pipe. 'Salary!' he thought, straininghis ears; 'I wouldn't take the place for five thousand pounds a year. And yet it's a fine country, ' and with ironic violence he repeated, 'adashed fine country!'

Ten days later, having finished his report on the new mine, he stood onthe jetty waiting to go abroad the steamer for home. 

"God bless you!" said Pippin. "Tell them they needn't be afraid; andsometimes when you're at home think of me, eh?"

Scorrier, scrambling on board, had a confused memory of tears in hiseyes, and a convulsive handshake. 

II

It was eight years before the wheels of life carried Scorrier back tothat disenchanted spot, and this time not on the business of the NewColliery Company. He went for another company with a mine some thirtymiles away. Before starting, however, he visited Hemmings. The secretarywas surrounded by pigeon-holes and finer than ever; Scorrier blinked inthe full radiance of his courtesy. A little man with eyebrows full ofquestions, and a grizzled beard, was seated in an arm-chair by the fire. 

"You know Mr. Booker, " said Hemmings--"one of my directors. This is Mr. Scorrier, sir--who went out for us. "

These sentences were murmured in a way suggestive of their uncommonvalue. The director uncrossed his legs, and bowed. Scorrier also bowed, and Hemmings, leaning back, slowly developed the full resources of hiswaistcoat. 

"So you are going out again, Scorrier, for the other side? I tell Mr. Scorrier, sir, that he is going out for the enemy. Don't find them amine as good as you found us, there's a good man. "

The little director asked explosively: "See our last dividend? Twentyper cent; eh, what?"

Hemmings moved a finger, as if reproving his director. "I will notdisguise from you, " he murmured, "that there is friction between usand--the enemy; you know our position too well--just a little too well, eh? 'A nod's as good as a wink. '"

His diplomatic eyes flattered Scorrier, who passed a hand over hisbrow--and said: "Of course. "

"Pippin doesn't hit it off with them. Between ourselves, he's a leetletoo big for his boots. You know what it is when a man in his positiongets a sudden rise!"

Scorrier caught himself searching on the floor for a sight of Hemmings'boots; he raised his eyes guiltily. The secretary continued: "We don'thear from him quite as often as we should like, in fact. "

To his own surprise Scorrier murmured: "It's a silent place!"

The secretary smiled. "Very good! Mr. Scorrier says, sir, it's a silentplace; ha-ha! I call that very good!" But suddenly a secret irritationseemed to bubble in him; he burst forth almost violently: "He's nobusiness to let it affect him; now, has he? I put it to you, Mr. Scorrier, I put it to you, sir!"

But Scorrier made no reply, and soon after took his leave: he had beenasked to convey a friendly hint to Pippin that more frequent letterswould be welcomed. Standing in the shadow of the Royal Exchange, waitingto thread his way across, he thought: 'So you must have noise, mustyou--you've got some here, and to spare. .. . '

On his arrival in the new world he wired to Pippin asking if he mightstay with him on the way up country, and received the answer: "Be sureand come. "

A week later he arrived (there was now a railway) and found Pippinwaiting for him in a phaeton. Scorrier would not have known the placeagain; there was a glitter over everything, as if some one had touchedit with a wand. The tracks had given place to roads, running firm, straight, and black between the trees under brilliant sunshine; thewooden houses were all painted; out in the gleaming harbour amongst thegreen of islands lay three steamers, each with a fleet of busy boats;and here and there a tiny yacht floated, like a sea-bird on the water. Pippin drove his long-tailed horses furiously; his eyes brimmed withsubtle kindness, as if according Scorrier a continual welcome. Duringthe two days of his stay Scorrier never lost that sense of glamour. Hehad every opportunity for observing the grip Pippin had over everything. The wooden doors and walls of his bungalow kept out no sounds. Helistened to interviews between his host and all kinds and conditionsof men. The voices of the visitors would rise at first--angry, discontented, matter-of-fact, with nasal twang, or guttural drawl; thenwould come the soft patter of the superintendent's feet crossing andrecrossing the room. Then a pause, the sound of hard breathing, andquick questions--the visitor's voice again, again the patter, andPippin's ingratiating but decisive murmurs. Presently out would come thevisitor with an expression on his face which Scorrier soon began to knowby heart, a kind of pleased, puzzled, helpless look, which seemed tosay, "I've been done, I know--I'll give it to myself when I'm round thecorner. "

Pippin was full of wistful questions about "home. " He wanted to talkof music, pictures, plays, of how London looked, what new streets therewere, and, above all, whether Scorrier had been lately in the WestCountry. He talked of getting leave next winter, asked whether Scorrierthought they would "put up with him at home"; then, with the agitationwhich had alarmed Scorrier before, he added: "Ah! but I'm not fit forhome now. One gets spoiled; it's big and silent here. What should I goback to? I don't seem to realise. "

Scorrier thought of Hemmings. "'Tis a bit cramped there, certainly, " hemuttered. 

Pippin went on as if divining his thoughts. "I suppose our friendHemmings would call me foolish; he's above the little weaknesses ofimagination, eh? Yes; it's silent here. Sometimes in the evening I wouldgive my head for somebody to talk to--Hemmings would never give his headfor anything, I think. But all the same, I couldn't face them at home. Spoiled!" And slyly he murmured: "What would the Board say if they couldhear that?"

Scorrier blurted out: "To tell you the truth, they complain a little ofnot hearing from you. "

Pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away. "Let them try thelife here!" he broke out; "it's like sitting on a live volcano--whatwith our friends, 'the enemy, ' over there; the men; the Americancompetition. I keep it going, Scorrier, but at what a cost--at what acost!"

"But surely--letters?"

Pippin only answered: "I try--I try!"

Scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth. Thefollowing day he left for his inspection, and while in the camp of "theenemy" much was the talk he heard of Pippin. 

"Why!" said his host, the superintendent, a little man with a facesomewhat like an owl's, "d'you know the name they've given him down inthe capital--'the King'--good, eh? He's made them 'sit up' all alongthis coast. I like him well enough--good--hearted man, shocking nervous;but my people down there can't stand him at any price. Sir, he runs thiscolony. You'd think butter wouldn't melt in that mouth of his; but healways gets his way; that's what riles 'em so; that and the success he'smaking of his mine. It puzzles me; you'd think he'd only be too gladof a quiet life, a man with his nerves. But no, he's never happy unlesshe's fighting, something where he's got a chance to score a victory. I won't say he likes it, but, by Jove, it seems he's got to do it. Now that's funny! I'll tell you one thing, though shouldn't be a bitsurprised if he broke down some day; and I'll tell you another, "he added darkly, "he's sailing very near the wind, with those largecontracts that he makes. I wouldn't care to take his risks. Just letthem have a strike, or something that shuts them down for a spell--andmark my words, sir--it'll be all up with them. But, " he concludedconfidentially, "I wish I had his hold on the men; it's a great thingin this country. Not like home, where you can go round a corner and getanother gang. You have to make the best you can out of the lot you have;you won't, get another man for love or money without you ship him a fewhundred miles. " And with a frown he waved his arm over the forests toindicate the barrenness of the land. 

III

Scorrier finished his inspection and went on a shooting trip into theforest. His host met him on his return. "Just look at this!" he said, holding out a telegram. "Awful, isn't it?" His face expressed a profoundcommiseration, almost ludicrously mixed with the ashamed contentmentthat men experience at the misfortunes of an enemy. 

The telegram, dated the day before, ran thus "Frightful explosion NewColliery this morning, great loss of life feared. "

Scorrier had the bewildered thought: 'Pippin will want me now. '

He took leave of his host, who called after him: "You'd better wait fora steamer! It's a beastly drive!"

Scorrier shook his head. All night, jolting along a rough track cutthrough the forest, he thought of Pippin. The other miseries of thiscalamity at present left him cold; he barely thought of the smotheredmen; but Pippin's struggle, his lonely struggle with this hydra-headedmonster, touched him very nearly. He fell asleep and dreamed of watchingPippin slowly strangled by a snake; the agonised, kindly, ironic facepeeping out between two gleaming coils was so horribly real, that heawoke. It was the moment before dawn: pitch-black branches barred thesky; with every jolt of the wheels the gleams from the lamps danced, fantastic and intrusive, round ferns and tree-stems, into the cold heartof the forest. For an hour or more Scorrier tried to feign sleep, andhide from the stillness, and overmastering gloom of these great woods. Then softly a whisper of noises stole forth, a stir of light, and thewhole slow radiance of the morning glory. But it brought no warmth; andScorrier wrapped himself closer in his cloak, feeling as though old agehad touched him. 

Close on noon he reached the township. Glamour seemed still to hoverover it. He drove on to the mine. The winding-engine was turning, the pulley at the top of the head-gear whizzing round; nothing lookedunusual. 'Some mistake!' he thought. He drove to the mine buildings, alighted, and climbed to the shaft head. Instead of the usual rumblingof the trolleys, the rattle of coal discharged over the screens, therewas silence. Close by, Pippin himself was standing, smirched with dirt. The cage, coming swift and silent from below, shot open its doors with asharp rattle. Scorrier bent forward to look. There lay a dead man, witha smile on his face. 

"How many?" he whispered. 

Pippin answered: "Eighty-four brought up--forty-seven still below, " andentered the man's name in a pocket-book. 

An older man was taken out next; he too was smiling--there had beenvouchsafed to him, it seemed, a taste of more than earthly joy. Thesight of those strange smiles affected Scorrier more than all theanguish or despair he had seen scored on the faces of other dead men. Heasked an old miner how long Pippin had been at work. 

"Thirty hours. Yesterday he wer' below; we had to nigh carry mun up atlast. He's for goin' down again, but the chaps won't lower mun;" the oldman gave a sigh. "I'm waiting for my boy to come up, I am. "

Scorrier waited too--there was fascination about those dead, smilingfaces. The rescuing of these men who would never again breathe went onand on. Scorrier grew sleepy in the sun. The old miner woke him, saying:"Rummy stuff this here chokedamp; see, they all dies drunk!" The verynext to be brought up was the chief engineer. Scorrier had known himquite well, one of those Scotsmen who are born at the age of fortyand remain so all their lives. His face--the only one that wore nosmile--seemed grieving that duty had deprived it of that last luxury. With wide eyes and drawn lips he had died protesting. 

Late in the afternoon the old miner touched Scorrier's arm, and said:"There he is--there's my boy!" And he departed slowly, wheeling the bodyon a trolley. 

As the sun set, the gang below came up. No further search was possibletill the fumes had cleared. Scorrier heard one man say: "There's somewe'll never get; they've had sure burial. "

Another answered him: "'Tis a gude enough bag for me!" They passed him, the whites of their eyes gleaming out of faces black as ink. 

Pippin drove him home at a furious pace, not uttering a single word. Asthey turned into the main street, a young woman starting out before thehorses obliged Pippin to pull up. The glance he bent on Scorrier wasludicrously prescient of suffering. The woman asked for her husband. Several times they were stopped thus by women asking for their husbandsor sons. "This is what I have to go through, " Pippin whispered. 

When they had eaten, he said to Scorrier: "It was kind of you to comeand stand by me! They take me for a god, poor creature that I am. Butshall I ever get the men down again? Their nerve's shaken. I wish I wereone of those poor lads, to die with a smile like that!"

Scorrier felt the futility of his presence. On Pippin alone must be theheat and burden. Would he stand under it, or would the whole thing comecrashing to the ground? He urged him again and again to rest, but Pippinonly gave him one of his queer smiles. "You don't know how strong I am!"he said. 

IV

He himself slept heavily; and, waking at dawn, went down. Pippin wasstill at his desk; his pen had dropped; he was asleep. The ink was wet;Scorrier's eye caught the opening words:

"GENTLEMEN, --Since this happened I have not slept. .. . "

He stole away again with a sense of indignation that no one could bedragged in to share that fight. The London Board-room rose before hismind. He imagined the portentous gravity of Hemmings; his face andvoice and manner conveying the impression that he alone could savethe situation; the six directors, all men of commonsense and certainlyhumane, seated behind large turret-shaped inkpots; the concern andirritation in their voices, asking how it could have happened; theircomments: "An awful thing!" "I suppose Pippin is doing the best he can!""Wire him on no account to leave the mine idle!" "Poor devils!" "Afund? Of course, what ought we to give?" He had a strong conviction thatnothing of all this would disturb the commonsense with which they wouldgo home and eat their mutton. A good thing too; the less it was takento heart the better! But Scorrier felt angry. The fight was so unfair!A fellow all nerves--with not a soul to help him! Well, it was his ownlookout! He had chosen to centre it all in himself, to make himself itsvery soul. If he gave way now, the ship must go down! By a thin thread, Scorrier's hero-worship still held. 'Man against nature, ' he thought, 'I back the man. ' The struggle in which he was so powerless to giveaid, became intensely personal to him, as if he had engaged his own goodfaith therein. 

The next day they went down again to the pit-head; and Scorrier himselfdescended. The fumes had almost cleared, but there were some placeswhich would never be reached. At the end of the day all but four bodieshad been recovered. "In the day o' judgment, " a miner said, "theyfour'll come out of here. " Those unclaimed bodies haunted Scorrier. Hecame on sentences of writing, where men waiting to be suffocated hadwritten down their feelings. In one place, the hour, the word "Sleepy, "and a signature. In another, "A. F. --done for. " When he came up at lastPippin was still waiting, pocket-book in hand; they again departed at afurious pace. 

Two days later Scorrier, visiting the shaft, found its neighbourhooddeserted--not a living thing of any sort was there except one Chinamanpoking his stick into the rubbish. Pippin was away down the coastengaging an engineer; and on his return, Scorrier had not the heart totell him of the desertion. He was spared the effort, for Pippin said:"Don't be afraid--you've got bad news? The men have gone on strike. "

Scorrier sighed. "Lock, stock, and barrel"

"I thought so--see what I have here!" He put before Scorrier a telegram:

"At all costs keep working--fatal to stop--manage thissomehow. --HEMMINGS. "

Breathing quickly, he added: "As if I didn't know! 'Manage thissomehow'--a little hard!"

"What's to be done?" asked Scorrier. 

"You see I am commanded!" Pippin answered bitterly. "And they're quiteright; we must keep working--our contracts! Now I'm down--not a soulwill spare me!"

The miners' meeting was held the following day on the outskirts of thetown. Pippin had cleared the place to make a public recreation-ground--asort of feather in the company's cap; it was now to be the spot whereonshould be decided the question of the company's life or death. 

The sky to the west was crossed by a single line of cloud like a bar ofbeaten gold; tree shadows crept towards the groups of men; the eveningsavour, that strong fragrance of the forest, sweetened the air. Theminers stood all round amongst the burnt tree-stumps, cowed and sullen. They looked incapable of movement or expression. It was this dumbparalysis that frightened Scorrier. He watched Pippin speaking from hisphaeton, the butt of all those sullen, restless eyes. Would he lastout? Would the wires hold? It was like the finish of a race. He caughta baffled look on Pippin's face, as if he despaired of piercing thatterrible paralysis. The men's eyes had begun to wander. 'He's lost hishold, ' thought Scorrier; 'it's all up!'

A miner close beside him muttered: "Look out!"

Pippin was leaning forward, his voice had risen, the words fell like awhiplash on the faces of the crowd: "You shan't throw me over; do youthink I'll give up all I've done for you? I'll make you the first powerin the colony! Are you turning tail at the first shot? You're a set ofcowards, my lads!"

Each man round Scorrier was listening with a different motion of thehands--one rubbed them, one clenched them, another moved hisclosed fist, as if stabbing some one in the back. A grisly-bearded, beetle-browed, twinkling-eyed old Cornishman muttered: "A'hm nottroublin' about that. " It seemed almost as if Pippin's object was toget the men to kill him; they had gathered closer, crouching for a rush. Suddenly Pippin's voice dropped to a whisper: "I'm disgraced Men, areyou going back on me?"

The old miner next Scorrier called out suddenly: "Anny that's Cornishmenhere to stand by the superintendent?" A group drew together, and withmurmurs and gesticulation the meeting broke up. 

In the evening a deputation came to visit Pippin; and all night longtheir voices and the superintendent's footsteps could be heard. In themorning, Pippin went early to the mine. Before supper the deputationcame again; and again Scorrier had to listen hour after hour to thesound of voices and footsteps till he fell asleep. Just before dawn hewas awakened by a light. Pippin stood at his bedside. "The men go downto-morrow, " he said: "What did I tell you? Carry me home on my shield, eh?"

In a week the mine was in full work. 

V

Two years later, Scorrier heard once more of Pippin. A note fromHemmings reached him asking if he could make it convenient to attendtheir Board meeting the following Thursday. He arrived rather before theappointed time. The secretary received him, and, in answer to inquiry, said: "Thank you, we are doing well--between ourselves, we are doingvery well. "

"And Pippin?"

The secretary frowned. "Ah, Pippin! We asked you to come on his account. Pippin is giving us a lot of trouble. We have not had a single linefrom him for just two years!" He spoke with such a sense of personalgrievance that Scorrier felt quite sorry for him. "Not a single line, "said Hemmings, "since that explosion--you were there at the time, Iremember! It makes it very awkward; I call it personal to me. "

"But how--" Scorrier began. 

"We get--telegrams. He writes to no one, not even to his family. Andwhy? Just tell me why? We hear of him; he's a great nob out there. Nothing's done in the colony without his finger being in the pie. He turned out the last Government because they wouldn't grant us anextension for our railway--shows he can't be a fool. Besides, look atour balance-sheet!"

It turned out that the question on which Scorrier's opinion was desiredwas, whether Hemmings should be sent out to see what was the matterwith the superintendent. During the discussion which ensued, he was anunwilling listener to strictures on Pippin's silence. "The explosion, "he muttered at last, "a very trying time!"

Mr. Booker pounced on him. "A very trying time! So it was--to all of us. But what excuse is that--now, Mr. Scorrier, what excuse is that?"

Scorrier was obliged to admit that it was none. 

"Business is business--eh, what?"

Scorrier, gazing round that neat Board-room, nodded. A deaf director, who had not spoken for some months, said with sudden fierceness: "It'sdisgraceful!" He was obviously letting off the fume of long-unuttereddisapprovals. One perfectly neat, benevolent old fellow, however, who had kept his hat on, and had a single vice--that of coming to theBoard-room with a brown paper parcel tied up with string--murmured: "Wemust make all allowances, " and started an anecdote about his youth. Hewas gently called to order by his secretary. Scorrier was asked forhis opinion. He looked at Hemmings. "My importance is concerned, " waswritten all over the secretary's face. Moved by an impulse of loyalty toPippin, Scorrier answered, as if it were all settled: "Well, let me knowwhen you are starting, Hemmings--I should like the trip myself. "

As he was going out, the chairman, old Jolyon Forsyte, with a grave, twinkling look at Hemmings, took him aside. "Glad to hear you say thatabout going too, Mr. Scorrier; we must be careful--Pippin's such a goodfellow, and so sensitive; and our friend there--a bit heavy in the hand, um?"

Scorrier did in fact go out with Hemmings. The secretary was sea-sick, and his prostration, dignified but noisy, remained a memory for ever;it was sonorous and fine--the prostration of superiority; and the way inwhich he spoke of it, taking casual acquaintances into the caves of hisexperience, was truly interesting. 

Pippin came down to the capital to escort them, provided for theircomforts as if they had been royalty, and had a special train to takethem to the mines. 

He was a little stouter, brighter of colour, greyer of beard, morenervous perhaps in voice and breathing. His manner to Hemmings was fullof flattering courtesy; but his sly, ironical glances played on thesecretary's armour like a fountain on a hippopotamus. To Scorrier, however, he could not show enough affection:

The first evening, when Hemmings had gone to his room, he jumped uplike a boy out of school. "So I'm going to get a wigging, " he said; "Isuppose I deserve it; but if you knew--if you only knew. .. ! Out herethey've nicknamed me 'the King'--they say I rule the colony. It's myselfthat I can't rule"; and with a sudden burst of passion such as Scorrierhad never seen in him: "Why did they send this man here? What can heknow about the things that I've been through?" In a moment he calmeddown again. "There! this is very stupid; worrying you like this!" andwith a long, kind look into Scorrier's face, he hustled him off to bed. 

Pippin did not break out again, though fire seemed to smoulder behindthe bars of his courteous irony. Intuition of danger had evidentlysmitten Hemmings, for he made no allusion to the object of hisvisit. There were moments when Scorrier's common-sense sided withHemmings--these were moments when the secretary was not present. 

'After all, ' he told himself, 'it's a little thing to ask--one letter amonth. I never heard of such a case. ' It was wonderful indeed how theystood it! It showed how much they valued Pippin! What was the matterwith him? What was the nature of his trouble? One glimpse Scorrier hadwhen even Hemmings, as he phrased it, received "quite a turn. " It wasduring a drive back from the most outlying of the company's trial mines, eight miles through the forest. The track led through a belt of treesblackened by a forest fire. Pippin was driving. The secretary seatedbeside him wore an expression of faint alarm, such as Pippin's drivingwas warranted to evoke from almost any face. The sky had darkenedstrangely, but pale streaks of light, coming from one knew not where, filtered through the trees. No breath was stirring; the wheels andhorses' hoofs made no sound on the deep fern mould. All around, theburnt tree-trunks, leafless and jagged, rose like withered giants, thepassages between them were black, the sky black, and black the silence. No one spoke, and literally the only sound was Pippin's breathing. Whatwas it that was so terrifying? Scorrier had a feeling of entombment;that nobody could help him; the feeling of being face to face withNature; a sensation as if all the comfort and security of words andrules had dropped away from him. And-nothing happened. They reached homeand dined. 

During dinner he had again that old remembrance of a little man choppingat a castle with his sword. It came at a moment when Pippin had raisedhis hand with the carving-knife grasped in it to answer some remark ofHemmings' about the future of the company. The optimism in his upliftedchin, the strenuous energy in his whispering voice, gave Scorrier a morevivid glimpse of Pippin's nature than he had perhaps ever had before. This new country, where nothing but himself could help a man--that wasthe castle! No wonder Pippin was impatient of control, no wonder hewas out of hand, no wonder he was silent--chopping away at that! Andsuddenly he thought: 'Yes, and all the time one knows, Nature must beathim in the end!'

That very evening Hemmings delivered himself of his reproof. He had satunusually silent; Scorrier, indeed, had thought him a little drunk, soportentous was his gravity; suddenly, however he rose. It was hard on aman, he said, in his position, with a Board (he spoke as of a familyof small children), to be kept so short of information. He was actuallycompelled to use his imagination to answer the shareholders' questions. This was painful and humiliating; he had never heard of any secretaryhaving to use his imagination! He went further--it was insulting! He hadgrown grey in the service of the company. Mr. Scorrier would bear himout when he said he had a position to maintain--his name in the City wasa high one; and, by George! he was going to keep it a high one; hewould allow nobody to drag it in the dust--that ought clearly to beunderstood. His directors felt they were being treated like children;however that might be, it was absurd to suppose that he (Hemmings) couldbe treated like a child. .. ! The secretary paused; his eyes seemed tobully the room. 

"If there were no London office, " murmured Pippin, "the shareholderswould get the same dividends. "

Hemmings gasped. "Come!" he said, "this is monstrous!"

"What help did I get from London when I first came here? What help haveI ever had?"

Hemmings swayed, recovered, and with a forced smile replied that, ifthis were true, he had been standing on his head for years; he did notbelieve the attitude possible for such a length of time; personally hewould have thought that he too had had a little something to say to thecompany's position, but no matter. .. ! His irony was crushing. .. . Itwas possible that Mr. Pippin hoped to reverse the existing laws of theuniverse with regard to limited companies; he would merely say thathe must not begin with a company of which he (Hemmings) happened to besecretary. Mr. Scorrier had hinted at excuses; for his part, with thebest intentions in the world, he had great difficulty in seeing them. Hewould go further--he did not see them! The explosion. .. ! Pippin shrankso visibly that Hemmings seemed troubled by a suspicion that he had gonetoo far. 

"We know, " he said, "that it was trying for you. .. . "

"Trying!" "burst out Pippin. 

"No one can say, " Hemmings resumed soothingly, "that we have not dealtliberally. " Pippin made a motion of the head. "We think we have a goodsuperintendent; I go further, an excellent superintendent. What I sayis: Let's be pleasant! I am not making an unreasonable request!" Heended on a fitting note of jocularity; and, as if by consent, all threewithdrew, each to his own room, without another word. 

In the course of the next day Pippin said to Scorrier: "It seems I havebeen very wicked. I must try to do better"; and with a touch of bitterhumour, "They are kind enough to think me a good superintendent, yousee! After that I must try hard. "

Scorrier broke in: "No man could have done so much for them;" and, carried away by an impulse to put things absolutely straight, went on"But, after all, a letter now and then--what does it amount to?"

Pippin besieged him with a subtle glance. "You too?" he said--"I mustindeed have been a wicked man!" and turned away. 

Scorrier felt as if he had been guilty of brutality; sorry for Pippin, angry with himself; angry with Pippin, sorry for himself. He earnestlydesired to see the back of Hemmings. The secretary gratified the wisha few days later, departing by steamer with ponderous expressions ofregard and the assurance of his goodwill. 

Pippin gave vent to no outburst of relief, maintaining a courteoussilence, making only one allusion to his late guest, in answer to aremark of Scorrier:

"Ah! don't tempt me! mustn't speak behind his back. "

VI

A month passed, and Scorrier still--remained Pippin's guest. As eachmail-day approached he experienced a queer suppressed excitement. On oneof these occasions Pippin had withdrawn to his room; and when Scorrierwent to fetch him to dinner he found him with his head leaning on hishands, amid a perfect fitter of torn paper. He looked up at Scorrier. 

"I can't do it, " he said, "I feel such a hypocrite; I can't put myselfinto leading-strings again. Why should I ask these people, when I'vesettled everything already? If it were a vital matter they wouldn't wantto hear--they'd simply wire, 'Manage this somehow!'"

Scorrier said nothing, but thought privately 'This is a mad business!'What was a letter? Why make a fuss about a letter? The approach ofmail-day seemed like a nightmare to the superintendent; he becamefeverishly nervous like a man under a spell; and, when the mail hadgone, behaved like a respited criminal. And this had been going on twoyears! Ever since that explosion. Why, it was monomania!

One day, a month after Hemmings' departure, Pippin rose early fromdinner; his face was flushed, he had been drinking wine. "I won't bebeaten this time, " he said, as he passed Scorrier. The latter could hearhim writing in the next room, and looked in presently to say that he wasgoing for a walk. Pippin gave him a kindly nod. 

It was a cool, still evening: innumerable stars swarmed in clustersover the forests, forming bright hieroglyphics in the middle heavens, showering over the dark harbour into the sea. Scorrier walked slowly. Aweight seemed lifted from his mind, so entangled had he become in thatuncanny silence. At last Pippin had broken through the spell. To getthat, letter sent would be the laying of a phantom, the rehabilitationof commonsense. Now that this silence was in the throes of being broken, he felt curiously tender towards Pippin, without the hero-worship of olddays, but with a queer protective feeling. After all, he was differentfrom other men. In spite of his feverish, tenacious energy, in spite ofhis ironic humour, there was something of the woman in him! And as forthis silence, this horror of control--all geniuses had "bees in theirbonnets, " and Pippin was a genius in his way!

He looked back at the town. Brilliantly lighted it had a thrivingair-difficult to believe of the place he remembered ten years back; thesounds of drinking, gambling, laughter, and dancing floated to his ears. 'Quite a city!' he thought. 

With this queer elation on him he walked slowly back along the street, forgetting that he was simply an oldish mining expert, with a look ofshabbiness, such as clings to men who are always travelling, as if their"nap" were for ever being rubbed off. And he thought of Pippin, creatorof this glory. 

He had passed the boundaries of the town, and had entered the forest. Afeeling of discouragement instantly beset him. The scents and silence, after the festive cries and odours of the town, were undefinablyoppressive. Notwithstanding, he walked a long time, saying to himselfthat he would give the letter every chance. At last, when he thoughtthat Pippin must have finished, he went back to the house. 

Pippin had finished. His forehead rested on the table, his arms hung athis sides; he was stone-dead! His face wore a smile, and by his side layan empty laudanum bottle. 

The letter, closely, beautifully written, lay before him. It was a finedocument, clear, masterly, detailed, nothing slurred, nothing concealed, nothing omitted; a complete review of the company's position; it endedwith the words: "Your humble servant, RICHARD PIPPIN. "

Scorrier took possession of it. He dimly understood that with those lastwords a wire had snapped. The border-line had been overpassed; the pointreached where that sense of proportion, which alone makes life possible, is lost. He was certain that at the moment of his death Pippin couldhave discussed bimetallism, or any intellectual problem, except the oneproblem of his own heart; that, for some mysterious reason, had beentoo much for him. His death had been the work of a moment of supremerevolt--a single instant of madness on a single subject! He found onthe blotting-paper, scrawled across the impress of the signature, "Can'tstand it!" The completion of that letter had been to him a struggleungraspable by Scorrier. Slavery? Defeat? A violation of Nature? Thedeath of justice? It were better not to think of it! Pippin could havetold--but he would never speak again. Nature, at whom, unaided, he haddealt so many blows, had taken her revenge. .. !

In the night Scorrier stole down, and, with an ashamed face, cut off alock of the fine grey hair. 'His daughter might like it!' he thought. .. . 

He waited till Pippin was buried, then, with the letter in his pocket, started for England. 

He arrived at Liverpool on a Thursday morning, and travelling to town, drove straight to the office of the company. The Board were sitting. Pippin's successor was already being interviewed. He passed out asScorrier came in, a middle-aged man with a large, red beard, and a foxy, compromising face. He also was a Cornishman. Scorrier wished him luckwith a very heavy heart. 

As an unsentimental man, who had a proper horror of emotion, whoseliving depended on his good sense, to look back on that interview withthe Board was painful. It had excited in him a rage of which he was nowheartily ashamed. Old Jolyon Forsyte, the chairman, was not there foronce, guessing perhaps that the Board's view of this death would be toosmall for him; and little Mr. Booker sat in his place. Every one hadrisen, shaken hands with Scorrier, and expressed themselves indebted forhis coming. Scorrier placed Pippin's letter on the table, andgravely the secretary read out to his Board the last words of theirsuperintendent. When he had finished, a director said, "That's not theletter of a madman!" Another answered: "Mad as a hatter; nobody but amadman would have thrown up such a post. " Scorrier suddenly withdrew. Heheard Hemmings calling after him. "Aren't you well, Mr. Scorrier? aren'tyou well, sir?"

He shouted back: "Quite sane, I thank you. .. . "

The Naples "express" rolled round the outskirts of the town. Vesuviusshone in the sun, uncrowned by smoke. But even as Scorrier looked, awhite puff went soaring up. It was the footnote to his memories. 

February 1901. February 1901.