Harz had lain down, fully dressed. He was no longer angry, but felt that
he would rather die than yield. Presently he heard footsteps coming up
the stairs.
“M'sieu!”
It was the voice of Dominique, whose face, illumined by a match, wore an
expression of ironical disgust.
“My master,” he said, “makes you his compliments; he says there is no
time 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 such
an 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 the
dark 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 flank
of the off horse, and, as the carriage rattled forward, Mr. Treffry
called 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 cafes
turned with glasses at their lips to stare after the carriage. The
narrow river of the sky spread suddenly to a vast, limpid ocean
tremulous with stars. They had turned into the road for Italy.
Mr. Treffry took a pull at his horses. “Whoa, mare! Dogged does it!” and
the near horse, throwing up her head, whinnied; a fleck of foam drifted
into Harz's face.
The painter had come on impulse; because Christian had told him to, not
of 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 swift
movement through velvet blackness splashed on either hand with the
flying lamp-light; the strong sweet air blowing in his face-air that
had kissed the tops of mountains and stolen their spirit; the snort and
snuffle of the horses, and crisp rattling of their hoofs—all this soon
roused in him another feeling. He looked at Mr. Treffry's profile, with
its tufted chin; at the grey road adventuring in darkness; at the purple
mass of mountains piled above it. All seemed utterly unreal.
As if suddenly aware that he had a neighbour, Mr. Treffry turned his
head. “We shall do better than this presently,” he said, “bit of a slope
coming. 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 once
in 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 thought
of. 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 to
the 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. Treffry
rummaged 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 the
glimmer 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 the
rolling of the wheels, the snorting of the horses, the huge dark space,
the huge uncertainty, they had found something they could enjoy in
common. The steam from the horses' flanks and nostrils enveloped them
with an odour as of glue.
“You smoke, Mr. Harz?”
Harz took the proffered weed, and lighted it from the glowing tip of
Mr. Treffry's cigar, by light of which his head and hat looked like some
giant 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 and
vanished. With a clink and clatter, a flirt of dust and pebbles, and the
side lamps throwing out a frisky orange blink, the carriage dashed down,
sinking and rising like a boat crossing billows. The world seemed to
rock and sway; to dance up, and be flung flat again. Only the stars
stood still.
Mr. Treffry, putting on the brake, muttered apologetically: “A little
out o'hand!”
Suddenly with a headlong dive, the carriage swayed as if it would fly
in pieces, slithered along, and with a jerk steadied itself. Harz lifted
his voice in a shout of pure excitement. Mr. Treffry let out a short
shaky howl, and from behind there rose a wail. But the hill was over
and the startled horses were cantering with a free, smooth motion. Mr.
Treffry and Harz looked at each other.