Villa Rubein, and Other Stories. Galsworthy John

shall have power – I shan’t forget.”

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

      “Are you going to stay there all night?” he asked. “Greta and I have bored 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 more with your picture. I shan’t touch it again after this.”

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

      Christian ran upstairs. She flew about her room, feeling that if she once stood still it would all crystallise in hard painful thought, which motion alone kept away. She washed, changed her dress and shoes, and ran down to her uncle’s room. Mr. Treffry had just finished dinner, pushed the little table back, and was sitting in his chair, with his glasses on his nose, reading the Tines. Christian touched his forehead with her lips.

      “Glad to see you, Chris. Your stepfather’s out to dinner, and I can’t stand 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 that would not let her keep still.

      “Picture finished?” Mr. Treffry asked suddenly, taking up the paper with a 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 good enough 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 stared at the door, humming to himself, and thoughtfully fingering his chin.

      Christian could not eat; she sat, indifferent to the hoverings of Dominique, 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 the words. “That is why I like Mr. Harz so much; such an immense advantage for a man to know his mind. You have only to look at that young man to see that he knows what he wants, and means to have it.”

      Christian pushed her plate away. Greta, flushing, said abruptly: “Doctor Edmund 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 ordered the 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 to the piano, where her long hair fell almost to the keys; silently she sat there fingering the notes, smiling to herself, and looking at her aunt, who was reading Pater’s essays. Christian too had taken up a book, but soon put it down – of several pages she had not understood a word. She went into the garden and wandered about the lawn, clasping her hands behind her head. The air was heavy; very distant thunder trembled among the mountains, flashes of summer lightning played over the trees; and two great moths were hovering about a rosebush. Christian watched their soft uncertain rushes. Going to the little summer-house she flung herself down on a seat, and pressed her hands to her heart.

      There was a strange and sudden aching there. Was he going from her? If so, what would be left? How little and how narrow seemed the outlook of her life – with the world waiting for her, the world of beauty, effort, self-sacrifice, fidelity! It was as though a flash of that summer lightning had fled by, singeing her, taking from her all powers of flight, burning off her wings, as off one of those pale hovering moths. Tears started up, and trickled down her face. ‘Blind!’ she thought; ‘how could 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 caught her hand; Christian tried to draw it from him, and to turn her eyes away, 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 his hand.

      “What are you doing?” she heard him say. “Is it possible that you love me?” and she felt his kisses on her hair.

      “My sweet! it will be so hard for you; you are so little, so little, and so weak.” Clasping his hand closer to her face, she murmured: “I don’t care.”

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

      “Whatever comes!” she whispered, and gathering her dress, escaped from him 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 were hugging some holy thought. After breakfast she took a book and sat in the open window, whence she could see the poplar-trees guarding the entrance. 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 the room, and Greta’s sighs as she took it down, one eye on her paper, one eye on Scruff, who lay with a black ear flapped across his paw, and his tan eyebrows quivering. He was in disgrace, for Dominique, coming on him unawares, had seen him “say his prayers” before a pudding, and take the pudding for reward.