For many hours after Dawney had taken him to his hotel, Harz was
prostrate with stunning pains in the head and neck. He had been all
day without food, exposed to burning sun, suffering violent emotion.
Movement of any sort caused him such agony that he could only lie
in stupor, counting the spots dancing before, his eyes. Dawney did
everything for him, and Harz resented in a listless way the intent
scrutiny of the doctor's calm, black eyes.
Towards the end of the second day he was able to get up; Dawney found
him sitting on the bed in shirt and trousers.
“My son,” he said, “you had better tell me what the trouble is—it will
do your stubborn carcase good.”
“I must go back to work,” said Harz.
“Work!” said Dawney deliberately: “you couldn't, if you tried.”
“I must.”
“My dear fellow, you couldn't tell one colour from another.”
“I must be doing something; I can't sit here and think.”
Dawney hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat: “You won't see the sun for
three days yet, if I can help it.”
Harz got up.
“I'm going to my studio to-morrow,” he said. “I promise not to go out.
I must be where I can see my work. If I can't paint, I can draw; I can
feel my brushes, move my things about. I shall go mad if I do nothing.”
Dawney took his arm, and walked him up and down.
“I'll let you go,” he said, “but give me a chance! It's as much to me
to put you straight as it is to you to paint a decent picture. Now go to
bed; I'll have a carriage for you to-morrow morning.”
Harz sat down on the bed again, and for a long time stayed without
moving, his eyes fixed on the floor. The sight of him, so desperate and
miserable, hurt the young doctor.
“Can you get to bed by yourself?” he asked at last.
Harz nodded.
“Then, good-night, old chap!” and Dawney left the room.
He took his hat and turned towards the Villa. Between the poplars he
stopped to think. The farther trees were fret-worked black against the
lingering gold of the sunset; a huge moth, attracted by the tip of his
cigar, came fluttering in his face. The music of a concertina rose and
fell, like the sighing of some disillusioned spirit. Dawney stood for
several minutes staring at the house.
He was shown to Mrs. Decie's room. She was holding a magazine before her
eyes, and received him with as much relief as philosophy permitted.
“You are the very person I wanted to see,” she said.
He noticed that the magazine she held was uncut.
“You are a young man,” pursued Mrs. Decie, “but as my doctor I have a
right to your discretion.”
Dawney smiled; the features of his broad, clean-shaven face looked
ridiculously small on such occasions, but his eyes retained their air of
calculation.
“That is so,” he answered.
“It is about this unfortunate affair. I understand that Mr. Harz is with
you. I want you to use your influence to dissuade him from attempting to
see my niece.”
“Influence!” said Dawney; “you know Harz!”
Mrs. Decie's voice hardened.
“Everybody,” she said, “has his weak points. This young man is open to
approach from at least two quarters—his pride is one, his work an other.
I am seldom wrong in gauging character; these are his vital spots, and
they are of the essence of this matter. I'm sorry for him, of course—but
at his age, and living a man's life, these things—” Her smile was extra
pale. “I wish you could give me something for my head. It's foolish to
worry. Nerves of course! But I can't help it! You know my opinion, Dr.
Dawney. That young man will go far if he remains unfettered; he will
make a name. You will be doing him a great service if you could show
him the affair as it really is—a drag on him, and quite unworthy of his
pride! Do help me! You are just the man to do it!”
Dawney threw up his head as if to shake off this impeachment; the curve
of his chin thus displayed was imposing in its fulness; altogether he
was imposing, having an air of capability.
She struck him, indeed, as really scared; it was as if her mask of smile
had become awry, and failed to cover her emotion; and he was puzzled,
thinking, 'I wouldn't have believed she had it in her....' “It's not an
easy business,” he said; “I'll think it over.”
“Thank you!” murmured Mrs. Decie. “You are most kind.”
Passing the schoolroom, he looked in through the open door. Christian
was sitting there. The sight of her face shocked him, it was so white,
so resolutely dumb. A book lay on her knees; she was not reading, but
staring before her. He thought suddenly: 'Poor thing! If I don't say
something to her, I shall be a brute!'
“Miss Devorell,” he said: “You can reckon on him.”
Christian tried to speak, but her lips trembled so that nothing came
forth.
“Good-night,” said Dawney, and walked out....
Three days later Harz was sitting in the window of his studio. It was
the first day he had found it possible to work, and now, tired out,
he stared through the dusk at the slowly lengthening shadows of the
rafters. A solitary mosquito hummed, and two house sparrows, who had
built beneath the roof, chirruped sleepily. Swallows darted by the
window, dipping their blue wings towards the quiet water; a hush had
stolen over everything. He fell asleep.
He woke, with a dim impression of some near presence. In the pale
glimmer from innumerable stars, the room was full of shadowy shapes. He
lit his lantern. The flame darted forth, bickered, then slowly lit up
the great room.
“Who's there?”
A rustling seemed to answer. He peered about, went to the doorway, and
drew the curtain. A woman's cloaked figure shrank against the wall. Her
face was buried in her hands; her arms, from which the cloak fell back,
were alone visible.
“Christian?”
She ran past him, and when he had put the lantern down, was standing at
the window. She turned quickly to him. “Take me away from here! Let me
come with you!”
“Do you mean it?”
“You said you wouldn't give me up!”
“You know what you are doing?”
She made a motion of assent.
“But you don't grasp what this means. Things to bear that you know
nothing of—hunger perhaps! Think, even hunger! And your people won't
forgive—you'll lose everything.”
She shook her head.
“I must choose—it's one thing or the other. I can't give you up! I
should be afraid!”
“But, dear; how can you come with me? We can't be married here.”
“I am giving my life to you.”
“You are too good for me,” said Harz. “The life you're going into—may be
dark, like that!” he pointed to the window.
A sound of footsteps broke the hush. They could see a figure on the path
below. It stopped, seemed to consider, vanished. They heard the sounds
of groping hands, of a creaking door, of uncertain feet on the stairs.
Harz seized her hand.
“Quick!” he whispered; “behind this canvas!”
Christian was trembling violently. She drew her hood across her face.
The heavy breathing and ejaculations of the visitor were now plainly
audible.
“He's there! Quick! Hide!”
She shook her head.
With a thrill at his heart, Harz kissed her, then walked towards the
entrance. The curtain was pulled aside.