Villa Rubein, and Other Stories. Galsworthy John
“but why – ”
A sound of humming interrupted her.
Nicholas Treffry was coming from the house, holding the Times in one hand, and a huge meerschaum pipe in the other.
“Aha!” he said to Harz: “how goes the picture?” and he lowered himself into a chair.
“Better to-day, Uncle?” said Christian softly.
Mr. Treffry growled. “Confounded humbugs, doctors!” he said. “Your father used to swear by them; why, his doctor killed him – made him drink such a lot of stuff!”
“Why then do you have a doctor, Uncle Nic?” asked Greta.
Mr. Treffry looked at her; his eyes twinkled. “I don’t know, my dear. If they get half a chance, they won’t let go of you!”
There had been a gentle breeze all day, but now it had died away; not a leaf quivered, not a blade of grass was stirring; from the house were heard faint sounds as of some one playing on a pipe. A blackbird came hopping down the path.
“When you were a boy, did you go after birds’ nests, Uncle Nic?” Greta whispered.
“I believe you, Greta.” The blackbird hopped into the shrubbery.
“You frightened him, Uncle Nic! Papa says that at Schloss Konig, where he lived when he was young, he would always be after jackdaws’ nests.”
“Gammon, Greta. Your father never took a jackdaw’s nest, his legs are much too round!”
“Are you fond of birds, Uncle Nic?”
“Ask me another, Greta! Well, I s’pose so.”
“Then why did you go bird-nesting? I think it is cruel”
Mr. Treffry coughed behind his paper: “There you have me, Greta,” he remarked.
Harz began to gather his brushes: “Thank you,” he said, “that’s all I can do to-day.”
“Can I look?” Mr. Treffry inquired.
“Certainly!”
Uncle Nic got up slowly, and stood in front of the picture. “When it’s for sale,” he said at last, “I’ll buy it.”
Harz bowed; but for some reason he felt annoyed, as if he had been asked to part with something personal.
“I thank you,” he said. A gong sounded.
“You’ll stay and have a snack with us?” said Mr. Treffry; “the doctor’s stopping.” Gathering up his paper, he moved off to the house with his hand on Greta’s shoulder, the terrier running in front. Harz and Christian were left alone. He was scraping his palette, and she was sitting with her elbows resting on her knees; between them, a gleam of sunlight dyed the path golden. It was evening already; the bushes and the flowers, after the day’s heat, were breathing out perfume; the birds had started their evensong.
“Are you tired of sitting for your portrait, Fraulein Christian?”
Christian shook her head.
“I shall get something into it that everybody does not see – something behind the surface, that will last.”
Christian said slowly: “That’s like a challenge. You were right when you said fighting is happiness – for yourself, but not for me. I’m a coward. I hate to hurt people, I like them to like me. If you had to do anything that would make them hate you, you would do it all the same, if it helped your work; that’s fine – it’s what I can’t do. It’s – it’s everything. Do you like Uncle Nic?”
The young painter looked towards the house, where under the veranda old Nicholas Treffry was still in sight; a smile came on his lips.
“If I were the finest painter in the world, he wouldn’t think anything of me for it, I’m afraid; but if I could show him handfuls of big cheques for bad pictures I had painted, he would respect me.”
She smiled, and said: “I love him.”
“Then I shall like him,” Harz answered simply.
She put her hand out, and her fingers met his. “We shall be late,” she said, glowing, and catching up her book: “I’m always late!”
VII
There was one other guest at dinner, a well-groomed person with pale, fattish face, dark eyes, and hair thin on the temples, whose clothes had a military cut. He looked like a man fond of ease, who had gone out of his groove, and collided with life. Herr Paul introduced him as Count Mario Sarelli.
Two hanging lamps with crimson shades threw a rosy light over the table, where, in the centre stood a silver basket, full of irises. Through the open windows the garden was all clusters of black foliage in the dying light. Moths fluttered round the lamps; Greta, following them with her eyes, gave quite audible sighs of pleasure when they escaped. Both girls wore white, and Harz, who sat opposite Christian, kept looking at her, and wondering why he had not painted her in that dress.
Mrs. Decie understood the art of dining – the dinner, ordered by Herr Paul, was admirable; the servants silent as their shadows; there was always a hum of conversation.
Sarelli, who sat on her right hand, seemed to partake of little except olives, which he dipped into a glass of sherry. He turned his black, solemn eyes silently from face to face, now and then asking the meaning of an English word. After a discussion on modern Rome, it was debated whether or no a criminal could be told by the expression of his face.
“Crime,” said Mrs. Decie, passing her hand across her brow – “crime is but the hallmark of strong individuality.”
Miss Naylor, gushing rather pink, stammered: “A great crime must show itself – a murder. Why, of course!”
“If that were so,” said Dawney, “we should only have to look about us – no more detectives.”
Miss Naylor rejoined with slight severity: “I cannot conceive that such a thing can pass the human face by, leaving no impression!”
Harz said abruptly: “There are worse things than murder.”
“Ah! par exemple!” said Sarelli.
There was a slight stir all round the table.
“Verry good,” cried out Herr Paul, “a vot’ sante, cher.”
Miss Naylor shivered, as if some one had put a penny down her back; and Mrs. Decie, leaning towards Harz, smiled like one who has made a pet dog do a trick. Christian alone was motionless, looking thoughtfully at Harz.
“I saw a man tried for murder once,” he said, “a murder for revenge; I watched the judge, and I thought all the time: ‘I’d rather be that murderer than you; I’ve never seen a meaner face; you crawl through life; you’re not a criminal, simply because you haven’t the courage.’”
In the dubious silence following the painter’s speech, Mr. Treffry could distinctly be heard humming. Then Sarelli said: “What do you say to anarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom I would tear to pieces!”
“As to that,” Harz answered defiantly, “it maybe wise to hang them, but then there are so many other men that it would be wise to hang.”
“How can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?” murmured Christian.
Miss Naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed it hastily. “They are – always given a chance to – repent – I believe,” she said.
“For what they are about to receive,” drawled Dawney.
Mrs. Decie signalled with her fan: “We are trying to express the inexpressible – shall we go into the garden?”
All rose; Harz stood by the window, and in passing, Christian looked at him.
He sat down again with a sudden sense of loss. There was no white figure opposite now. Raising his eyes he met Sarelli’s. The Italian was regarding him with a curious stare.
Herr