Villa Rubein, and Other Stories

“My honour is involved, or I would give the case up.”

“He is very trying, poor Nicholas! He always had that peculiar quality of opposition; it has brought him to grief a hundred times. There is opposition in our blood; my family all have it. My eldest brother died of it; with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took the form of doing the right thing in the wrong place. It is a matter of temperament, you see. You must have patience.”

“Patience,” repeated Dawney’s voice, “is one thing; patience where there is responsibility is another. I’ve not had a wink of sleep these last two nights.”

There was a faint, shrill swish of silk.

“Is he so very ill?”

Christian held her breath. The answer came at last.

“Has he made his will? With this trouble in the side again, I tell you plainly, Mrs. Decie, there’s little or no chance.”

Christian put her hands up to her ears, and ran out into the air. What was she about to do, then – to leave him dying!

XXV

On the following day Harz was summoned to the Villa. Mr. Treffry had just risen, and was garbed in a dressing-suit, old and worn, which had a certain air of magnificence. His seamed cheeks were newly shaved.

“I hope I see you well,” he said majestically.

Thinking of the drive and their last parting, Harz felt sorry and ashamed. Suddenly Christian came into the room; she stood for a moment looking at him; then sat down.

“Chris!” said Mr. Treffry reproachfully. She shook her head, and did not move; mournful and intent, her eyes seemed full of secret knowledge.

Mr. Treffry spoke:

“I’ve no right to blame you, Mr. Harz, and Chris tells me you came to see me first, which is what I would have expected of you; but you shouldn’t have come back.”

“I came back, sir, because I found I was obliged. I must speak out.”

“I ask nothing better,” Mr. Treffry replied.

Harz looked again at Christian; but she made no sign, sitting with her chin resting on her hands.

“I have come for her,” he said; “I can make my living – enough for both of us. But I can’t wait.”

“Why?”

Harz made no answer.

Mr. Treffry boomed out again: “Why? Isn’t she worth waiting for? Isn’t she worth serving for?”

“I can’t expect you to understand me,” the painter said. “My art is my life to me. Do you suppose that if it wasn’t I should ever have left my village; or gone through all that I’ve gone through, to get as far even as I am? You tell me to wait. If my thoughts and my will aren’t free, how can I work? I shan’t be worth my salt. You tell me to go back to England – knowing she is here, amongst you who hate me, a thousand miles away. I shall know that there’s a death fight going on in her and outside her against me – you think that I can go on working under these conditions. Others may be able, I am not. That’s the plain truth. If I loved her less – ”

There was a silence, then Mr. Treffry said:

“It isn’t fair to come here and ask what you’re asking. You don’t know what’s in the future for you, you don’t know that you can keep a wife. It isn’t pleasant, either, to think you can’t hold up your head in your own country.”

Harz turned white.

“Ah! you bring that up again!” he broke out. “Seven years ago I was a boy and starving; if you had been in my place you would have done what I did. My country is as much to me as your country is to you. I’ve been an exile seven years, I suppose I shall always be I’ve had punishment enough; but if you think I am a rascal, I’ll go and give myself up.” He turned on his heel.

“Stop! I beg your pardon! I never meant to hurt you. It isn’t easy for me to eat my words,” Mr. Treffry said wistfully, “let that count for something.” He held out his hand.

Harz came quickly back and took it. Christian’s gaze was never for a moment withdrawn; she seemed trying to store up the sight of him within her. The light darting through the half-closed shutters gave her eyes a strange, bright intensity, and shone in the folds of her white dress like the sheen of birds’ wings.

Mr. Treffry glanced uneasily about him. “God knows I don’t want anything but her happiness,” he said. “What is it to me if you’d murdered your mother? It’s her I’m thinking of.”

“How can you tell what is happiness to her? You have your own ideas of happiness – not hers, not mine. You can’t dare to stop us, sir!”

“Dare?” said Mr. Treffry. “Her father gave her over to me when she was a mite of a little thing; I’ve known her all her life. I’ve – I’ve loved her – and you come here with your ‘dare’.” His hand dragged at his beard, and shook as though palsied.

A look of terror came into Christian’s face.

“All right, Chris! I don’t ask for quarter, and I don’t give it!”

Harz made a gesture of despair.

“I’ve acted squarely by you, sir,” Mr. Treffry went on, “I ask the same of you. I ask you to wait, and come like an honest man, when you can say, ‘I see my way – here’s this and that for her.’ What makes this art you talk of different from any other call in life? It doesn’t alter facts, or give you what other men have no right to expect. It doesn’t put grit into you, or keep your hands clean, or prove that two and two make five.”

Harz answered bitterly:

“You know as much of art as I know of money. If we live a thousand years we shall never understand each other. I am doing what I feel is best for both of us.”

Mr. Treffry took hold of the painter’s sleeve.

“I make you an offer,” he said. “Your word not to see or write to her for a year! Then, position or not, money or no money, if she’ll have you, I’ll make it right for you.”

“I could not take your money.”

A kind of despair seemed suddenly to seize on Mr. Nicholas Treffry. He rose, and stood towering over them.

“All my life – ” he said; but something seemed to click deep down in his throat, and he sank back in his seat.

“Go!” whispered Christian, “go!” But Mr. Treffry found his voice again: “It’s for the child to say. Well, Chris!”

Christian did not speak.

It was Harz who broke the silence. He pointed to Mr. Treffry.

“You know I can’t tell you to come with – that, there. Why did you send for me?” And, turning, he went out.

Christian sank on her knees, burying her face in her hands. Mr. Treffry pressed his handkerchief with a stealthy movement to his mouth. It was dyed crimson with the price of his victory.

XXVI

A telegram had summoned Herr Paul from Vienna. He had started forthwith, leaving several unpaid accounts to a more joyful opportunity, amongst them a chemist’s bill, for a wonderful quack medicine of which he brought six bottles.

He came from Mr. Treffry’s room with tears rolling down his cheeks, saying:

“Poor Nicholas! Poor Nicholas! Il n’a pas de chance!”

It was difficult to find any one to listen; the women were scared and silent, waiting for the orders that were now and then whispered through the door. Herr Paul could not bear this silence, and talked to his servant for half an hour, till Fritz also vanished to fetch something from the town. Then in despair Herr Paul went to his room.

It was hard not to be allowed to help – it was hard to wait! When the heart was suffering, it was frightful! He turned and, looking furtively about him, lighted a cigar. Yes, it came to every one – at some time or other; and what was it, that death they talked of? Was it any worse than life? That frightful jumble people made for themselves! Poor Nicholas! After all, it was he that had the luck!

His eyes filled with tears, and drawing a penknife from his pocket, he began to stab it into the stuffing of his chair. Scruff, who sat watching the chink of light under the door, turned his head, blinked at him, and began feebly tapping with a claw.

It was intolerable, this uncertainty – to be near, and yet so far, was not endurable!

Herr Paul stepped across the room. The dog, following, threw his black-marked muzzle upwards with a gruff noise, and went back to the door. His master was holding in his hand a bottle of champagne.

Poor Nicholas! He had chosen it. Herr Paul drained a glass.

Poor Nicholas! The prince of fellows, and of what use was one? They kept him away from Nicholas!

Herr Paul’s eyes fell on the terrier. “Ach! my dear,” he said, “you and I, we alone are kept away!”

He drained a second glass.

What was it? This life! Froth-like that! He tossed off a third glass. Forget! If one could not help, it was better to forget!

He put on his hat. Yes. There was no room for him there! He was not wanted!

He finished the bottle, and went out into the passage. Scruff ran and lay down at Mr. Treffry’s door. Herr Paul looked at him. “Ach!” he said, tapping his chest, “ungrateful hound!” And opening the front door he went out on tiptoe…

Late that afternoon Greta stole hatless through the lilac bushes; she looked tired after her night journey, and sat idly on a chair in the speckled shadow of a lime-tree.

‘It is not like home,’ she thought; ‘I am unhappy. Even the birds are silent, but perhaps that is because it is so hot. I have never been sad like this – for it is not fancy that I am sad this time, as it is sometimes. It is in my heart like the sound the wind makes through a wood, it feels quite empty in my heart. If it is always like this to be unhappy, then I am sorry for all the unhappy things in the world; I am sorrier than I ever was before.’

A shadow fell on the grass, she raised her eyes, and saw Dawney.

“Dr. Edmund!” she whispered.

Dawney turned to her; a heavy furrow showed between his brows. His eyes, always rather close together, stared painfully.

“Dr. Edmund,” Greta whispered, “is it true?”

He took her hand, and spread his own palm over it.

“Perhaps,” he said; “perhaps not. We must hope.”

Greta looked up, awed.

“They say he is dying.”

“We have sent for the best man in Vienna.”

Greta shook her head.

“But you are clever, Dr. Edmund; and you are afraid.”

“He is brave,” said Dawney; “we must all be brave, you know. You too!”

“Brave?” repeated Greta; “what is it to be brave? If it is not to cry and make a fuss – that I can do. But if it is not to be sad in here,” she touched her breast, “that I cannot do, and it shall not be any good for me to try.”

“To be brave is to hope; don’t give up hope, dear.”

“No,” said Greta, tracing the pattern of the sunlight on her skirt. “But I think that when we hope, we are not brave, because we are expecting something for ourselves. Chris says that hope is prayer, and if it is prayer, then all the time we are hoping, we are asking for something, and it is not brave to ask for things.”

A smile curved Dawney’s mouth.

“Go on, Philosopher!” he said. “Be brave in your own way, it will be just as good as anybody else’s.”

“What are you going to do to be brave, Dr. Edmund?”

“I? Fight! If only we had five years off his life!”

Greta watched him as he walked away.

“I shall never be brave,” she mourned; “I shall always be wanting to be happy.” And, kneeling down, she began to disentangle a fly, imprisoned in a cobweb. A plant of hemlock had sprung up in the long grass by her feet. Greta thought, dismayed: ‘There are weeds!’

It seemed but another sign of the death of joy.

‘But it’s very beautiful,’ she thought, ‘the blossoms are like stars. I am not going to pull it up. I will leave it; perhaps it will spread all through the garden; and if it does I do not care, for now things are not like they used to be and I do not, think they ever shall be again.’

XXVII

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.

XXVIII

When Christian went that evening to her uncle’s room he was sitting up in bed, and at once began to talk. “Chris,” he said, “I can’t stand this dying by inches. I’m going to try what a journey’ll do for me. I want to get back to the old country. The doctor’s promised. There’s a shot in the locker yet! I believe in that young chap; he’s stuck to me like a man… It’ll be your birthday, on Tuesday, old girl, and you’ll be twenty. Seventeen years since your father died. You’ve been a lot to me… A parson came here today. That’s a bad sign. Thought it his duty! Very civil of him! I wouldn’t see him, though. If there’s anything in what they tell you, I’m not going to sneak in at this time o’ day. There’s one thing that’s rather badly on my mind. I took advantage of Mr. Harz with this damned pitifulness of mine. You’ve a right to look at me as I’ve seen you sometimes when you thought I was asleep. If I hadn’t been ill he’d never have left you. I don’t blame you, Chris – not I! You love me? I know that, my dear. But one’s alone when it comes to the run-in. Don’t cry! Our minds aren’t Sunday-school books; you’re finding it out, that’s all!” He sighed and turned away.

The noise of sun-blinds being raised vibrated through the house. A feeling of terror seized on the girl; he lay so still, and yet the drawing of each breath was a fight. If she could only suffer in his place! She went close, and bent over him.

“It’s air we want, both you and I!” he muttered. Christian beckoned to the nurse, and stole out through the window.

A regiment was passing in the road; she stood half-hidden amongst the lilac bushes watching. The poplar leaves drooped lifeless and almost black above her head, the dust raised by the soldiers’ feet hung in the air; it seemed as if in all the world no freshness and no life were stirring. The tramp of feet died away. Suddenly within arm’s length of her a man appeared, his stick shouldered like a sword. He raised his hat.

“Good-evening! You do not remember me? Sarelli. Pardon! You looked like a ghost standing there. How badly those fellows marched! We hang, you see, on the skirts of our profession and criticise; it is all we are fit for.” His black eyes, restless and malevolent like a swan’s, seemed to stab her face. “A fine evening! Too hot. The storm is wanted; you feel that? It is weary waiting for the storm; but after the storm, my dear young lady, comes peace.” He smiled, gently, this time, and baring his head again, was lost to view in the shadow of the trees.

His figure had seemed to Christian like the sudden vision of a threatening, hidden force. She thrust out her hands, as though to keep it off.

No use; it was within her, nothing could keep it away! She went to Mrs. Decie’s room, where her aunt and Miss Naylor were conversing in low tones. To hear their voices brought back the touch of this world of everyday which had no part or lot in the terrifying powers within her.

Dawney slept at the Villa now. In the dead of night he was awakened by a light flashed in his eyes. Christian was standing there, her face pale and wild with terror, her hair falling in dark masses on her shoulders.

“Save him! Save him!” she cried. “Quick! The bleeding!”

He saw her muffle her face in her white sleeves, and seizing the candle, leaped out of bed and rushed away.

The internal haemorrhage had come again, and Nicholas Treffry wavered between life and death. When it had ceased, he sank into a sort of stupor. About six o’clock he came back to consciousness; watching his eyes, they could see a mental struggle taking place within him. At last he singled Christian out from the others by a sign.

“I’m beat, Chris,” he whispered. “Let him know, I want to see him.”

His voice grew a little stronger. “I thought that I could see it through – but here’s the end.” He lifted his hand ever so little, and let it fall again. When told a little later that a telegram had been sent to Harz his eyes expressed satisfaction.

Herr Paul came down in ignorance of the night’s events. He stopped in front of the barometer and tapped it, remarking to Miss Naylor: “The glass has gone downstairs; we shall have cool weather – it will still go well with him!”

When, with her brown face twisted by pity and concern, she told him that it was a question of hours, Herr Paul turned first purple, then pale, and sitting down, trembled violently. “I cannot believe it,” he exclaimed almost angrily. “Yesterday he was so well! I cannot believe it! Poor Nicholas! Yesterday he spoke to me!” Taking Miss Naylor’s hand, he clutched it in his own. “Ah!” he cried, letting it go suddenly, and striking at his forehead, “it is too terrible; only yesterday he spoke to me of sherry. Is there nobody, then, who can do good?”

“There is only God,” replied Miss Naylor softly.

“God?” said Herr Paul in a scared voice.

“We – can – all – pray to Him,” Miss Naylor murmured; little spots of colour came into her cheeks. “I am going to do it now.”

Herr Paul raised her hand and kissed it.

“Are you?” he said; “good! I too.” He passed through his study door, closed it carefully behind him, then for some unknown reason set his back against it. Ugh! Death! It came to all! Some day it would come to him. It might come tomorrow! One must pray!

The day dragged to its end. In the sky clouds had mustered, and, crowding close on one another, clung round the sun, soft, thick, greywhite, like the feathers on a pigeon’s breast. Towards evening faint tremblings were felt at intervals, as from the shock of immensely distant earthquakes.

Nobody went to bed that night, but in the morning the report was the same: “Unconscious – a question of hours.” Once only did he recover consciousness, and then asked for Harz. A telegram had come from him, he was on the way. Towards seven of the evening the long-expected storm broke in a sky like ink. Into the valleys and over the crests of mountains it seemed as though an unseen hand were spilling goblets of pale wine, darting a sword-blade zigzag over trees, roofs, spires, peaks, into the very firmament, which answered every thrust with great bursts of groaning. Just beyond the veranda Greta saw a glowworm shining, as it might be a tiny bead of the fallen lightning. Soon the rain covered everything. Sometimes a jet of light brought the hilltops, towering, dark, and hard, over the house, to disappear again behind the raindrops and shaken leaves. Each breath drawn by the storm was like the clash of a thousand cymbals; and in his room Mr. Treffry lay unconscious of its fury.