Part 33

“If you were in my place,” said Harz, “would you give her up?”

Mr. Treffry groaned. “Lord knows!”

“Men have made themselves before now. For those who don't believe in failure, there's no such thing. Suppose she does suffer a little? Will it do her any harm? Fair weather love is no good.”

Mr. Treffry sighed.

“Brave words, sir! You'll pardon me if I'm too old to understand 'em when they're used about my niece.”

He pulled the horses up, and peered into the darkness. “We're going through this bit quietly; if they lose track of us here so much the better. Dominique! put out the lamps. Soho, my beauties!” The horses paced forward at a walk the muffled beat of their hoofs in the dust hardly broke the hush. Mr. Treffry pointed to the left: “It'll be another thirty-five miles to the frontier.”

They passed the whitewashed houses, and village church with its sentinel cypress-trees. A frog was croaking in a runlet; there was a faint spicy scent of lemons. But nothing stirred.

It was wood now on either side, the high pines, breathing their fragrance out into the darkness, and, like ghosts amongst them, the silver stems of birch-trees.

Mr. Treffry said gruffly: “You won't give her up? Her happiness means a lot to me.”

“To you!” said Harz: “to him! And I am nothing! Do you think I don't care for her happiness? Is it a crime for me to love her?”

“Almost, Mr. Harz—considering....”

“Considering that I've no money! Always money!”

To this sneer Mr. Treffry made no answer, clucking to his horses.

“My niece was born and bred a lady,” he said at last. “I ask you plainly What position have you got to give her?”

“If she marries me,” said Harz, “she comes into my world. You think that I'm a common....”

Mr. Treffry shook his head: “Answer my question, young man.”

But the painter did not answer it, and silence fell.

A light breeze had sprung up; the whispering in the trees, the rolling of the wheels in this night progress, the pine-drugged air, sent Harz to sleep. When he woke it was to the same tune, varied by Mr. Treffry's uneasy snoring; the reins were hanging loose, and, peering out, he saw Dominique shuffling along at the horses' heads. He joined him, and, one on each side, they plodded up and up. A haze had begun to bathe the trees, the stars burnt dim, the air was colder. Mr. Treffry woke coughing. It was like some long nightmare, this interminable experience of muffled sounds and shapes, of perpetual motion, conceived, and carried out in darkness. But suddenly the day broke. Heralded by the snuffle of the horses, light began glimmering over a chaos of lines and shadows, pale as mother-o'-pearl. The stars faded, and in a smouldering zigzag the dawn fled along the mountain tops, flinging out little isles of cloud. From a lake, curled in a hollow like a patch of smoke, came the cry of a water-bird. A cuckoo started a soft mocking; and close to the carriage a lark flew up. Beasts and men alike stood still, drinking in the air--sweet with snows and dew, and vibrating faintly with the running of the water and the rustling of the leaves.

The night had played sad tricks with Mr. Nicholas Treffry; his hat was grey with dust; his cheeks brownish-purple, there were heavy pouches beneath his eyes, which stared painfully.

“We'll call a halt,” he said, “and give the gees their grub, poor things. Can you find some water, Mr. Harz? There's a rubber bucket in behind.

“Can't get about myself this morning; make that lazy fellow of mine stir his stumps.”

Harz saw that he had drawn off one of his boots, and stretched the foot out on a cushion.

“You're not fit to go farther,” he said; “you're ill.”

“Ill!” replied Mr. Treffry; “not a bit of it!”

Harz looked at him, then catching up the bucket, made off in search of water. When he came back the horses were feeding from an india-rubber trough slung to the pole; they stretched their heads towards the bucket, pushing aside each other's noses.

The flame in the east had died, but the tops of the larches were bathed in a gentle radiance; and the peaks ahead were like amber. Everywhere were threads of water, threads of snow, and little threads of dewy green, glistening like gossamer.

Mr. Treffry called out: “Give me your arm, Mr. Harz; I'd like to shake the reefs out of me. When one comes to stand over at the knees, it's no such easy matter, eh?” He groaned as he put his foot down, and gripped the young man's shoulder as in a vise. Presently he lowered himself on to a stone.

“'All over now!' as Chris would say when she was little; nasty temper she had too—kick and scream on the floor! Never lasted long though.... 'Kiss her! take her up! show her the pictures!' Amazing fond of pictures Chris was!” He looked dubiously at Harz; then took a long pull at his flask. “What would the doctor say? Whisky at four in the morning! Well! Thank the Lord Doctors aren't always with us.” Sitting on the stone, with one hand pressed against his side, and the other tilting up the flask, he was grey from head to foot.