The wind, stirring among trees and bushes, flung the young leaves skywards.The trembling of their silver linings was like the joyful flutter of a heart at good news.It was one of those Spring mornings when everything seems full of a sweet restlessness--soft clouds chasing fast across the sky; soft scents floating forth and dying;the notes of birds, now shrill and sweet, now hushed in silences; all nature striving for something, nothing at peace.
Villa Rubein withstood the influence of the day, and wore its usual look of rest and isolation.Harz sent in his card, and asked to see "der Herr." The servant, a grey-eyed, clever-looking Swiss with no hair on his face, came back saying:
"Der Herr, mein Herr, is in the Garden gone." Harz followed him.
Herr Paul, a small white flannel cap on his head, gloves on his hands, and glasses on his nose, was watering a rosebush, and humming the serenade from Faust.
This aspect of the house was very different from the other.The sun fell on it, and over a veranda creepers clung and scrambled in long scrolls.There was a lawn, with freshly mown grass; flower-beds were laid out, and at the end of an avenue of young acacias stood an arbour covered with wisteria.
In the east, mountain peaks--fingers of snow--glittered above the mist.A grave simplicity lay on that scene, on the roofs and spires, the valleys and the dreamy hillsides, with their yellow scars and purple bloom, and white cascades, like tails of grey horses swishing in the wind.
Herr Paul held out his hand: "What can we do for you?" he said.
"I have to beg a favour," replied Harz."I wish to paint your daughters.I will bring the canvas here--they shall have no trouble.
I would paint them in the garden when they have nothing else to do."Herr Paul looked at him dubiously--ever since the previous day he had been thinking: 'Queer bird, that painter--thinks himself the devil of a swell! Looks a determined fellow too!' Now--staring in the painter's face--it seemed to him, on the whole, best if some one else refused this permission.
"With all the pleasure, my dear sir," he said."Come, let us ask these two young ladies!" and putting down his hose, he led the way towards the arbour, thinking: 'You'll be disappointed, my young conqueror, or I'm mistaken.'
Miss Naylor and the girls were sitting in the shade, reading La Fontaine's fables.Greta, with one eye on her governess, was stealthily cutting a pig out of orange peel.
"Ah! my dear dears!" began Herr Paul, who in the presence of Miss Naylor always paraded his English."Here is our friend, who has a very flattering request to make; he would paint you, yes--both together, alfresco, in the air, in the sunshine, with the birds, the little birds!"Greta, gazing at Harz, gushed deep pink, and furtively showed him her pig.
Christian said: "Paint us? Oh no!"
She saw Harz looking at her, and added, slowly: "If you really wish it, I suppose we could!" then dropped her eyes.
"Ah!" said Herr Paul raising his brows till his glasses fell from his nose: "And what says Gretchen? Does she want to be handed up to posterities a little peacock along with the other little birds?"Greta, who had continued staring at the painter, said: "Of--course--I--want--to--be."
"Prrt!" said Herr Paul, looking at Miss Naylor.The little lady indeed opened her mouth wide, but all that came forth was a tiny squeak, as sometimes happens when one is anxious to say something, and has not arranged beforehand what it shall be.
The affair seemed ended; Harz heaved a sigh of satisfaction.But Herr Paul had still a card to play.
"There is your Aunt," he said; "there are things to be considered--one must certainly inquire--so, we shall see." Kissing Greta loudly on both cheeks, he went towards the house.
"What makes you want to paint us?" Christian asked, as soon as he was gone.
"I think it very wrong," Miss Naylor blurted out.
"Why?" said Harz, frowning.
"Greta is so young--there are lessons--it is such a waste of time!"His eyebrows twitched: "Ah! You think so!""I don't see why it is a waste of time," said Christian quietly;"there are lots of hours when we sit here and do nothing.""And it is very dull," put in Greta, with a pout.
"You are rude, Greta," said Miss Naylor in a little rage, pursing her lips, and taking up her knitting.
"I think it seems always rude to speak the truth," said Greta.Miss Naylor looked at her in that concentrated manner with which she was in the habit of expressing displeasure.
But at this moment a servant came, and said that Mrs.Decie would be glad to see Herr Harz.The painter made them a stiff bow, and followed the servant to the house.Miss Naylor and the two girls watched his progress with apprehensive eyes; it was clear that he had been offended.
Crossing the veranda, and passing through an open window hung with silk curtains, Hart entered a cool dark room.This was Mrs.Decie's sanctum, where she conducted correspondence, received her visitors, read the latest literature, and sometimes, when she had bad headaches, lay for hours on the sofa, with a fan, and her eyes closed.There was a scent of sandalwood, a suggestion of the East, a kind of mystery, in here, as if things like chairs and tables were not really what they seemed, but something much less commonplace.
The visitor looked twice, to be quite sure of anything; there were many plants, bead curtains, and a deal of silverwork and china.
Mrs.Decie came forward in the slightly rustling silk which--whether in or out of fashion--always accompanied her.A tall woman, over fifty, she moved as if she had been tied together at the knees.Her face was long, with broad brows, from which her sandy-grey hair was severely waved back; she had pale eyes, and a perpetual, pale, enigmatic smile.Her complexion had been ruined by long residence in India, and might unkindly have been called fawn-coloured.She came close to Harz, keeping her eyes on his, with her head bent slightly forward.