At Villa Rubein people went about, avoiding each other as if detected
in conspiracy. Miss Naylor, who for an inscrutable reason had put on
her best frock, a purple, relieved at the chest with bird's-eye blue,
conveyed an impression of trying to count a chicken which ran about
too 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 little
table. She had had no sleep. Herr Paul coming into the room about noon
gave her a furtive look and went out again; after this he went to his
bedroom, took off all his clothes, flung them passionately one by one
into a footbath, and got into bed.
“I might be a criminal!” he muttered to himself, while the buttons of
his garments rattled on the bath.
“Am I her father? Have I authority? Do I know the world? Bssss! I might
be a frog!”
Mrs. Decie, having caused herself to be announced, found him smoking a
cigar, 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 us
all 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 was
there in it? I suppose you know that Nicholas has driven him to the
frontier? Nicholas is probably more dead than alive by this time; you
know 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 be made
angry; do you understand? I will not be worried—I am not fit for it.”
His prominent brown eyes stared round the room, as if looking for a way
of escape.
“If I may prophesy, you will be worried a good deal,” said Mrs. Decie
coldly, “before you have finished with this affair.”
The anxious, uncertain glance which Herr Paul gave her at these words
roused an unwilling feeling of compunction in her.
“You are not made for the outraged father of the family,” she said. “You
had 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 the
right 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; in
her place stood a stiff man in blue....
Thus the morning dragged itself away without any one being able to
settle to anything, except Herr Paul, who was settled in bed. As was
fitting in a house that had lost its soul, meals were neglected, even by
the dog.
About three o'clock a telegram came for Christian, containing these
words: “All right; self returns to-morrow. Treffry.” After reading it
she put on her hat and went out, followed closely by Greta, who, when
she thought that she would not be sent away, ran up from behind and
pulled her by the sleeve.
“Let me come, Chris—I shall not talk.”
The two girls walked on together. When they had gone some distance
Christian 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, pushed
the door; it was immovable.
“Look!” said Greta, “they have screwed it!” She pointed out three screws
with 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, she
regarded Christian with her wide blue eyes.
“I can't make any plan,” Christian cried at last, “while you stare at me
like 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 of
Fritz.”
“It would take a long time; people are always passing.”
“People do not pass in the evening,” murmured Greta, “because the gate
at 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 the
big screw-driver of Fritz. At dusk they slipped downstairs and out.
They arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow of
the doorway. The only sounds were those of distant barking dogs, and of
the bugles at the barracks.
“Quick!” whispered Christian; and Greta, with all the strength of her
small hands, began to turn the screws. It was some time before
they yielded; the third was very obstinate, till Christian took the
screw-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 twisting
staircase, 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 had
better go home!”
Greta choked a little in the dark.
“I am—not—going home, but I'm afraid of bats. O Chris! aren't you
afraid?”
“Yes,” said Christian, “but I'm going to have the pictures.”
Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over. Having found the
bottom step she began to mount with Greta clinging to her skirts.
The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all
things, hated darkness. The blanket across the doorway of the loft had
been 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 the
wall, like one of the bats she dreaded.
“But they have been here!” cried Christian angrily. “They have broken
this.” She pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had been
thrown down.
Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden
frames, 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 them
before 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 gate
is 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. The
girls, 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; “I
shall call him; he is going away!” cried Christian catching her
sister's—“Don't!” cried Christian catching her sister's dress.
“He would help us,” Greta said reproachfully, “and it would not be so
dark if he were here.”
Christian's cheeks were burning.
“I don't choose,” she said, and began handling the pictures, feeling
their 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 go
home. In the morning you must come early, when the gate is open, unscrew
me 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 comes
to our room there will be nobody to answer. We can't lift these pictures
over the gate. One of us must go back; you can climb over the gate—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 little
animal 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 telling
her 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 you
are in bed; you must go to bed here, Chris, so it shall be true after
all.”
Christian threw her arms about her.
“I am so sorry, darling; I wish I could go instead. But if you have to
tell 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, “I
think I will tell it in my way.” She shuddered and went on groping in
the 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 a
picture. Her heart throbbed distressfully; at the stir of wind-breath
or any distant note of clamour she stopped, and held her breathing. No
sounds came near. She toiled on, trying only to think that she was at
the very spot where last night his arms had been round her. How long ago
it seemed! She was full of vague terror, overmastered by the darkness,
dreadfully alone. The new glow of resolution seemed suddenly to have
died down in her heart, and left her cold.
She would never be fit to be his wife, if at the first test her courage
failed! She set her teeth; and suddenly she felt a kind of exultation,
as if she too were entering into life, were knowing something within
herself that she had never known before. Her fingers hurt, and the pain
even gave pleasure; her cheeks were burning; her breath came fast. They
could not stop her now! This feverish task in darkness was her baptism
into life. She finished; and rolling the pictures very carefully, tied
them with cord. She had done something for him! Nobody could take that
from her! She had a part of him! This night had made him hers! They
might do their worst! She lay down on his mattress and soon fell
asleep....
She was awakened by Scruff's tongue against her face. Greta was standing
by 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 the
morning—I—think it was fun; and O Chris!” she ended with a rueful gleam
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 set
out with their corpse-like burden along the wall-path between the river
and the vines.