Decie at random.Greta kept stealing looks at her from under her lashes.
"Decided characters are charming, don't you think so, Christian?"Mrs.Decie said, thrusting her chin a little forward, and modelling the words."That is why I like Mr.Harz so much; such an immense advantage for a man to know his mind.You have only to look at that young man to see that he knows what he wants, and means to have it."Christian pushed her plate away.Greta, flushing, said abruptly:
"Doctor Edmund is not a decided character, I think.This afternoon he said: 'Shall I have some beer-yes, I shall--no, I shall not'; then he ordered the beer, so, when it came, he gave it to the soldiers."Mrs.Decie turned her enigmatic smile from one girl to the other.
When dinner was over they went into her room.Greta stole at once to the piano, where her long hair fell almost to the keys; silently she sat there fingering the notes, smiling to herself, and looking at her aunt, who was reading Pater's essays.Christian too had taken up a book, but soon put it down--of several pages she had not understood a word.She went into the garden and wandered about the lawn, clasping her hands behind her head.The air was heavy; very distant thunder trembled among the mountains, flashes of summer lightning played over the trees; and two great moths were hovering about a rosebush.
Christian watched their soft uncertain rushes.Going to the little summer-house she flung herself down on a seat, and pressed her hands to her heart.
There was a strange and sudden aching there.Was he going from her?
If so, what would be left? How little and how narrow seemed the outlook of her life--with the world waiting for her, the world of beauty, effort, self-sacrifice, fidelity! It was as though a flash of that summer lightning had fled by, singeing her, taking from her all powers of flight, burning off her wings, as off one of those pale hovering moths.Tears started up, and trickled down her face.
'Blind!' she thought; 'how could I have been so blind?'
Some one came down the path.
"Who's there?" she cried.
Harz stood in the doorway.
"Why did you come out?" he said."Ah! why did you come out?" He caught her hand; Christian tried to draw it from him, and to turn her eyes away, but she could not.He flung himself down on his knees, and cried: "I love you!"In a rapture of soft terror Christian bent her forehead down to his hand.
"What are you doing?" she heard him say."Is it possible that you love me?" and she felt his kisses on her hair.
"My sweet! it will be so hard for you; you are so little, so little, and so weak." Clasping his hand closer to her face, she murmured: "Idon't care."
There was a long, soft silence, that seemed to last for ever.
Suddenly she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"Whatever comes!" she whispered, and gathering her dress, escaped from him into the darkness.
XII
Christian woke next morning with a smile.In her attitudes, her voice, her eyes, there was a happy and sweet seriousness, as if she were hugging some holy thought.After breakfast she took a book and sat in the open window, whence she could see the poplar-trees guarding the entrance.There was a breeze; the roses close by kept nodding to her; the cathedral bells were in full chime; bees hummed above the lavender; and in the sky soft clouds were floating like huge, white birds.
The sounds of Miss Naylor's staccato dictation travelled across the room, and Greta's sighs as she took it down, one eye on her paper, one eye on Scruff, who lay with a black ear flapped across his paw, and his tan eyebrows quivering.He was in disgrace, for Dominique, coming on him unawares, had seen him "say his prayers" before a pudding, and take the pudding for reward.
Christian put her book down gently, and slipped through the window.
Harz was coming in from the road."I am all yours!" she whispered.
His fingers closed on hers, and he went into the house.
She slipped back, took up her book, and waited.It seemed long before he came out, but when he did he waved her back, and hurried on; she had a glimpse of his face, white to the lips.Feeling faint and sick, she flew to her stepfather's room.
Herr Paul was standing in a corner with the utterly disturbed appearance of an easy-going man, visited by the unexpected.His fine shirt-front was crumpled as if his breast had heaved too suddenly under strong emotion; his smoked eyeglasses dangled down his back;his fingers were embedded in his beard.He was fixing his eye on a spot in the floor as though he expected it to explode and blow them to fragments.In another corner Mrs.Decie, with half-closed eyes, was running her finger-tips across her brow.
"What have you said to him?" cried Christian.
Herr Paul regarded her with glassy eyes.
"Mein Gott!" he said."Your aunt and I!""What have you said to him?" repeated Christian.
"The impudence! An anarchist!.A beggar!""Paul!" murmured Mrs.Decie.
"The outlaw! The fellow!" Herr Paul began to stride about the room.
Quivering from head to foot, Christian cried: "How dared you?" and ran from the room, pushing aside Miss Naylor and Greta, who stood blanched and frightened in the doorway.
Herr Paul stopped in his tramp, and, still with his eyes fixed on the floor, growled:
"A fine thing-hein? What's coming? Will you please tell me? An anarchist--a beggar!""Paul!" murmured Mrs.Decie.
"Paul! Paul! And you!" he pointed to Miss Naylor--"Two women with eyes!--hein!""There is nothing to be gained by violence," Mrs.Decie murmured, passing her handkerchief across her lips.Miss Naylor, whose thin brown cheeks had flushed, advanced towards him.
"I hope you do not--"she said; "I am sure there was nothing that Icould have prevented--I should be glad if that were understood."And, turning with some dignity, the little lady went away, closing the door behind her.
