The days went by; those long, hot days, when the heat haze swims
up about ten of the forenoon, and, as the sun sinks level with the
mountains, melts into golden ether which sets the world quivering with
sparkles.
At the lighting of the stars those sparkles die, vanishing one by one
off the hillsides; evening comes flying down the valleys, and life rests
under her cool wings. The night falls; and the hundred little voices of
the night arise.
It was near grape-gathering, and in the heat the fight for Nicholas
Treffry's life went on, day in, day out, with gleams of hope and moments
of despair. Doctors came, but after the first he refused to see them.
“No,” he said to Dawney—“throwing away money. If I pull through it won't
be because of them.”
For days together he would allow no one but Dawney, Dominique, and the
paid nurse in the room.
“I can stand it better,” he said to Christian, “when I don't see any of
you; keep away, old girl, and let me get on with it!”
To have been able to help would have eased the tension of her nerves,
and the aching of her heart. At his own request they had moved his bed
into a corner so that he might face the wall. There he would lie for
hours together, not speaking a word, except to ask for drink.
Sometimes Christian crept in unnoticed, and sat watching, with her arms
tightly folded across her breast. At night, after Greta was asleep,
she would toss from side to side, muttering feverish prayers. She spent
hours at her little table in the schoolroom, writing letters to Harz
that were never sent. Once she wrote these words: “I am the most wicked
of all creatures—I have even wished that he may die!” A few minutes
afterwards Miss Naylor found her with her head buried on her arms.
Christian sprang up; tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Don't touch
me!” she cried, and rushed away. Later, she stole into her uncle's
room, and sank down on the floor beside the bed. She sat there silently,
unnoticed all the evening. When night came she could hardly be persuaded
to leave the room.
One day Mr. Treffry expressed a wish to see Herr Paul; it was a long
while before the latter could summon courage to go in.
“There's a few dozen of the Gordon sherry at my Chambers, in London,
Paul,” Mr. Treffry said; “I'd be glad to think you had 'em. And my man,
Dominique, I've made him all right in my will, but keep your eye on him;
he's a good sort for a foreigner, and no chicken, but sooner or later,
the women'll get hold of him. That's all I had to say. Send Chris to
me.”
Herr Paul stood by the bedside speechless. Suddenly he blurted out.
“Ah! my dear! Courage! We are all mortal. You will get well!” All the
morning he walked about quite inconsolable. “It was frightful to see
him, you know, frightful! An iron man could not have borne it.”
When Christian came to him, Mr. Treffry raised himself and looked at her
a long while.
His wistful face was like an accusation. But that very afternoon the
news came from the sickroom that he was better, having had no pain for
several hours.
Every one went about with smiles lurking in their eyes, and ready to
break forth at a word. In the kitchen Barbi burst out crying, and,
forgetting to toss the pan, spoiled a Kaiser-Schmarn she was making.
Dominique was observed draining a glass of Chianti, and solemnly casting
forth the last drops in libation. An order was given for tea to be
taken out under the acacias, where it was always cool; it was felt that
something in the nature of high festival was being held. Even Herr Paul
was present; but Christian did not come. Nobody spoke of illness; to
mention it might break the spell.
Miss Naylor, who had gone into the house, came back, saying:
“There is a strange man standing over there by the corner of the house.”
“Really!” asked Mrs. Decie; “what does he want?”
Miss Naylor reddened. “I did not ask him. I—don't—know—whether he is
quite respectable. His coat is buttoned very close, and he—doesn't
seem—to have a—collar.”
“Go and see what he wants, dear child,” Mrs. Decie said to Greta.
“I don't know—I really do not know—” began Miss Naylor; “he has
very—high—boots,” but Greta was already on her way, with hands clasped
behind her, and demure eyes taking in the stranger's figure.
“Please?” she said, when she was close to him.
The stranger took his cap off with a jerk.
“This house has no bells,” he said in a nasal voice; “it has a tendency
to discourage one.”
“Yes,” said Greta gravely, “there is a bell, but it does not ring now,
because my uncle is so ill.”
“I am very sorry to hear that. I don't know the people here, but I am
very sorry to hear that.
“I would be glad to speak a few words to your sister, if it is your
sister that I want.”
And the stranger's face grew very red.
“Is it,” said Greta, “that you are a friend of Herr Harz? If you are a
friend of his, you will please come and have some tea, and while you are
having tea I will look for Chris.”
Perspiration bedewed the stranger's forehead.
“Tea? Excuse me! I don't drink tea.”
“There is also coffee,” Greta said.
The stranger's progress towards the arbour was so slow that Greta
arrived considerably before him.
“It is a friend of Herr Harz,” she whispered; “he will drink coffee. I
am going to find Chris.”
“Greta!” gasped Miss Naylor.
Mrs. Decie put up her hand.
“Ah!” she said, “if it is so, we must be very nice to him for
Christian's sake.”
Miss Naylor's face grew soft.
“Ah, yes!” she said; “of course.”
“Bah!” muttered Herr Paul, “that recommences.'
“Paul!” murmured Mrs. Decie, “you lack the elements of wisdom.”
Herr Paul glared at the approaching stranger.
Mrs. Decie had risen, and smilingly held out her hand.
“We are so glad to know you; you are an artist too, perhaps? I take
a great interest in art, and especially in that school which Mr. Harz
represents.”
The stranger smiled.
“He is the genuine article, ma'am,” he said. “He represents no school,
he is one of that kind whose corpses make schools.”
“Ah!” murmured Mrs. Decie, “you are an American. That is so nice. Do sit
down! My niece will soon be here.”
Greta came running back.
“Will you come, please?” she said. “Chris is ready.”
Gulping down his coffee, the stranger included them all in a single bow,
and followed her.
“Ach!” said Herr Paul, “garcon tres chic, celui-la!”
Christian was standing by her little table. The stranger began.
“I am sending Mr. Harz's things to England; there are some pictures
here. He would be glad to have them.”
A flood of crimson swept over her face.
“I am sending them to London,” the stranger repeated; “perhaps you could
give them to me to-day.”
“They are ready; my sister will show you.”
Her eyes seemed to dart into his soul, and try to drag something from
it. The words rushed from her lips:
“Is there any message for me?”
The stranger regarded her curiously.
“No,” he stammered, “no! I guess not. He is well.... I wish....” He
stopped; her white face seemed to flash scorn, despair, and entreaty on
him all at once. And turning, she left him standing there.