Home > Authors Index > John Galsworthy > Villa Rubein > This page
Villa Rubein, a fiction by John Galsworthy |
||
Chapter 23 |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ Chapter XXIII It was not till morning that Christian fell into a troubled sleep. She dreamed that a voice was calling her, and she was filled with a helpless, dumb dream terror. When she woke the light was streaming in; it was Sunday, and the cathedral bells were chiming. Her first thought was of Harz. One step, one moment of courage! Why had she not told her uncle? If he had only asked! But why--why should she tell him? When it was over and she was gone, he would see that all was for the best. Her eyes fell on Greta's empty bed. She sprang up, and bending over, kissed the pillow. 'She will mind at first; but she's so young! Nobody will really miss me, except Uncle Nic!' She stood along while in the window without moving. When she was dressed she called out to her maid: "Bring me some milk, Barbi; I'm going to church." "Ach! gnadiges Fraulein, will you no breakfast have?" "No thank you, Barbi." "Liebes Fraulein, what a beautiful morning after the rain it has become! How cool! It is for you good--for the colour in your cheeks; now they will bloom again!" and Barbi stroked her own well-coloured cheeks. Dominique, sunning himself outside with a cloth across his arm, bowed as she passed, and smiled affectionately: "He is better this morning, M'mselle. We march--we are getting on. Good news will put the heart into you." Christian thought: 'How sweet every one is to-day!' Even the Villa seemed to greet her, with the sun aslant on it; and the trees, trembling and weeping golden tears. At the cathedral she was early for the service, but here and there were figures on their knees; the faint, sickly odour of long-burnt incense clung in the air; a priest moved silently at the far end. She knelt, and when at last she rose the service had begun. With the sound of the intoning a sense of peace came to her--the peace of resolution. For good or bad she felt that she had faced her fate. She went out with a look of quiet serenity and walked home along the dyke. Close to Harz's studio she sat down. Now--it was her own; all that had belonged to him, that had ever had a part in him. An old beggar, who had been watching her, came gently from behind. "Gracious lady!" he said, peering at her eyes, "this is the lucky day for you. I have lost my luck." Christian opened her purse, there was only one coin in it, a gold piece; the beggar's eyes sparkled. She thought suddenly: 'It's no longer mine; I must begin to be careful,' but she felt ashamed when she looked at the old man. "I am sorry," she said; "yesterday I would have given you this, but--but now it's already given." He seemed so old and poor--what could she give him? She unhooked a little silver brooch at her throat. "You will get something for that," she said; "it's better than nothing. I am very sorry you are so old and poor." The beggar crossed himself. "Gracious lady," he muttered, "may you never want!" Christian hurried on; the rustling of leaves soon carried the words away. She did not feel inclined to go in, and crossing the bridge began to climb the hill. There was a gentle breeze, drifting the clouds across the sun; lizards darted out over the walls, looked at her, and whisked away. The sunshine, dappling through the tops of trees, gashed down on a torrent. The earth smelt sweet, the vineyards round the white farms glistened; everything seemed to leap and dance with sap and life; it was a moment of Spring in midsummer. Christian walked on, wondering at her own happiness. 'Am I heartless?' she thought. 'I am going to leave him--I am going into life; I shall have to fight now, there'll be no looking back.' The path broke away and wound down to the level of the torrent; on the other side it rose again, and was lost among trees. The woods were dank; she hastened home. In her room she began to pack, sorting and tearing up old letters. 'Only one thing matters,' she thought; 'singleness of heart; to see your way, and keep to it with all your might.' She looked up and saw Barbi standing before her with towels in her hands, and a scared face. "Are you going a journey, gnadiges Fraulein?" "I am going away to be married, Barbi," said Christian at last; "don't speak of it to any one, please." Barbi leant a little forward with the towels clasped to the blue cotton bosom of her dress. "No, no! I will not speak. But, dear Fraulein, that is a big matter; have you well thought?" "Thought, Barbi? Have I not!" "But, dear Fraulein, will you be rich?" "No! I shall be as poor as you." "Ach! dear God! that is terrible. Katrina, my sister, she is married; she tells me all her life; she tells me it is very hard, and but for the money in her stocking it would be harder. Dear Fraulein, think again! And is he good? Sometimes they are not good." "He is good," said Christian, rising; "it is all settled!" and she kissed Barbi on the cheek. "You are crying, liebes Fraulein! Think yet again, perhaps it is not quite all settled; it is not possible that a maiden should not a way out leave?" Christian smiled. "I don't do things that way, Barbi." Barbi hung the towels on the horse, and crossed herself. _ |
||