LITMIR.BIZ

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on side by side.

      “I think,” said Greta, “you are very much afraid of losing time. Chris says that time is nothing.”

      “Time is everything,” responded Harz.

      “She says that time is nothing, and thought is everything,” Greta murmured, rubbing a rose against her cheek, “but I think you cannot have a thought unless you have the time to think it in. There are the others! Look!”

      A cluster of sunshades on the bridge glowed for a moment and was lost in shadow.

      “Come,” said Harz, “let’s join them!”

      At Meran, under Schloss Tirol, people were streaming across the meadows into the open theatre. Here were tall fellows in mountain dress, with leather breeches, bare knees, and hats with eagles’ feathers; here were fruit-sellers, burghers and their wives, mountebanks, actors, and every kind of visitor. The audience, packed into an enclosure of high boards, sweltered under the burning sun. Cousin Teresa, tall and thin, with hard, red cheeks, shaded her pleasant eyes with her hand.

      The play began. It depicted the rising in the Tyrol of 1809: the village life, dances and yodelling; murmurings and exhortations, the warning beat of drums; then the gathering, with flintlocks, pitchforks, knives; the battle and victory; the homecoming, and festival. Then the second gathering, the roar of cannon; betrayal, capture, death. The impassive figure of the patriot Andreas Hofer always in front, black-bearded, leathern-girdled, under the blue sky, against a screen of mountains.

      Harz and Christian sat behind the others. He seemed so intent on the play that she did not speak, but watched his face, rigid with a kind of cold excitement; he seemed to be transported by the life passing before them. Something of his feeling seized on her; when the play was over she too was trembling. In pushing their way out they became separated from the others.

      “There’s a short cut to the station here,” said Christian; “let’s go this way.”

      The path rose a little; a narrow stream crept alongside the meadow, and the hedge was spangled with wild roses. Christian kept glancing shyly at the painter. Since their meeting on the river wall her thoughts had never been at rest. This stranger, with his keen face, insistent eyes, and ceaseless energy, had roused a strange feeling in her; his words had put shape to something in her not yet expressed. She stood aside at a stile to make way for some peasant boys, dusty and rough-haired, who sang and whistled as they went by.

      “I was like those boys once,” said Harz.

      Christian turned to him quickly. “Ah! that was why you felt the play, so much.”

      “It’s my country up there. I was born amongst the mountains. I looked after the cows, and slept in hay-cocks, and cut the trees in winter. They used to call me a ‘black sheep,’ a ‘loafer’ in my village.”

      “Why?”

      “Ah! why? I worked as hard as any of them. But I wanted to get away. Do you think I could have stayed there all my life?”

      Christian’s eyes grew eager.

      “If people don’t understand what it is you want to do, they always call you a loafer!” muttered Harz.

      “But you did what you meant to do in spite of them,” Christian said.

      For herself it was so hard to finish or decide. When in the old days she told Greta stories, the latter, whose instinct was always for the definite, would say: “And what came at the end, Chris? Do finish it this morning!” but Christian never could. Her thoughts were deep, vague, dreamy, invaded by both sides of every question. Whatever she did, her needlework, her verse-making, her painting, all had its charm; but it was not always what it was intended for at the beginning. Nicholas Treffry had once said of her: “When Chris starts out to make a hat, it may turn out an altar-cloth, but you may bet it won’t be a hat.” It was her instinct to look for what things meant; and this took more than all her time. She knew herself better than most girls of nineteen, but it was her reason that had informed her, not her feelings. In her sheltered life, her heart had never been ruffled except by rare fits of passion – “tantrums” old Nicholas Treffry dubbed them – at what seemed to her mean or unjust.

      “If I were a man,” she said, “and going to be great, I should have wanted to begin at the very bottom as you did.”

      “Yes,” said Harz quickly, “one should be able to feel everything.”

      She did not notice how simply he assumed that he was going to be great. He went on, a smile twisting his mouth unpleasantly beneath its dark moustache – “Not many people think like you! It’s a crime not to have been born a gentleman.”

      “That’s a sneer,” said Christian; “I didn’t think you would have sneered!”

      “It is true. What is the use of pretending that it isn’t?”

      “It may be true, but it is finer not to say it!”

      “By Heavens!” said Harz, striking one hand into the other, “if more truth were spoken there would not be so many shams.”

      Christian looked down at him from her seat on the stile.

      “You are right all the same, Fraulein Christian,” he added suddenly; “that’s a very little business. Work is what matters, and trying to see the beauty in the world.”

      Christian’s face changed. She understood, well enough, this craving after beauty. Slipping down from the stile, she drew a slow deep breath.

      “Yes!” she said. Neither spoke for some time, then Harz said shyly:

      “If you and Fraulein Greta would ever like to come and see my studio, I should be so happy. I would try and clean it up for you!”

      “I should like to come. I could learn something. I want to learn.”

      They were both silent till the path joined the road.

      “We must be in front of the others; it’s nice to be in front – let’s dawdle. I forgot – you never dawdle, Herr Harz.”

      “After a big fit of work, I can dawdle against any one; then I get another fit of work – it’s like appetite.”

      “I’m always dawdling,” answered Christian.

      By the roadside a peasant woman screwed up her sun-dried face, saying in a low voice: “Please, gracious lady, help me to lift this basket!”

      Christian stooped, but before she could raise it, Harz hoisted it up on his back.

      “All right,” he nodded; “this good lady doesn’t mind.”

      The woman, looking very much ashamed, walked along by Christian; she kept rubbing her brown hands together, and saying; “Gracious lady, I would not have wished. It is heavy, but I would not have wished.”

      “I’m sure he’d rather carry it,” said Christian.

      They had not gone far along the road, however, before the others passed them in a carriage, and at the strange sight Miss Naylor could be seen pursing her lips; Cousin Teresa nodding pleasantly; a smile on Dawney’s face; and beside him Greta, very demure. Harz began to laugh.

      “What are you laughing at?” asked Christian.

      “You English are so funny. You mustn’t do this here, you mustn’t do that there, it’s like sitting in a field of nettles. If I were to walk with you without my coat, that little lady would fall off her seat.” His laugh infected Christian; they reached the station feeling that they knew each other better.

      The sun had dipped behind the mountains when the little train steamed down the valley. All were subdued, and Greta, with a nodding head, slept fitfully. Christian, in her corner, was looking out of the window, and Harz kept studying her profile.

      He tried to see her eyes. He had remarked indeed that, whatever their expression, the brows, arched and rather wide apart, gave them a peculiar look of understanding. He thought of his picture. There was nothing in her face to seize on, it was too sympathetic, too much like light. Yet her chin was firm, almost obstinate.

      The

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