Nicholas Treffry sat reading the paper in his room by the light of a
lamp with a green shade; on his sound foot the terrier Scruff was asleep
and snoring lightly—the dog habitually came down when Greta was in
bed, and remained till Mr. Treffry, always the latest member of the
household, retired to rest.
Through the long window a little river of light shone out on the veranda
tiles, 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 in
the girl's eyes.
“Chris! What is it?”
“Hateful!”
“Chris!”
“Oh! Uncle! He's insulted, threatened! And I love his little finger more
than all the world!”
Her passionate voice trembled, her eyes were shining.
Mr. Treffry's profound discomfort found vent in the gruff words: “Sit
down!”
“I'll never speak to Father again! Oh! Uncle! I love him!”
Quiet in the extremity of his disturbance, Mr. Treffry leaned forward in
his 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 heavy
droop of his moustache. The girl's face had suddenly grown white. She
sank down on her knees, and laid her cheek against his hand. He felt it
wet; and a lump rose in his throat. Drawing his hand away, he stared at
it, 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 with
sudden rage.
“What's the matter? How the devil can I do anything if you don't tell
me?”
She looked up at him. The distress of the last days, the passion and
fear of the last hour, the tide of that new life of the spirit and the
flesh, stirring within her, flowed out in a stream of words.
When she had finished, there was so dead a silence that the fluttering
of 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 and
shoulders 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 he
deserves!—it's more than you deserve, Chris. Sit down there and write to
him; tell him to put himself entirely in my hands.” He turned his back
on her, and went into his bedroom.
Christian rose, and sat down at the writing-table. A whisper startled
her. It came from Dominique, who was holding out a pair of boots.
“M'mselle Chris, what is this?—to run about all night?” But Christian
did not answer.
“M'mselle Chris, are you ill?” Then seeing her face, he slipped away
again.
She finished her letter and went out to the carriage. Mr. Treffry was
seated 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 a
crunch of wheels, and vanished, swinging between the black tree-pillars
at the entrance....
Christian stood, straining to catch the failing sound of the hoofs.
Down the passage came a flutter of white garments; soft limbs were
twined about her, some ends of hair fell on her face.
“What is it, Chris? Where have you been? Where is Uncle Nic going? Tell
me!”
Christian tore herself away. “I don't know,” she cried, “I know
nothing!”
Greta stroked her face. “Poor Chris!” she murmured. Her bare feet
gleamed, her hair shone gold against her nightdress. “Come to bed, poor
Chris!”
Christian laughed. “You little white moth! Feel how hot I am! You'll
burn your wings!”