“I came back, sir, because I found I was obliged. I must speak out.”
“I ask nothing better,” Mr. Treffry replied.
Harz looked again at Christian; but she made no sign, sitting with her chin resting on her hands.
“I have come for her,” he said; “I can make my living—enough for both of us. But I can't wait.”
“Why?”
Harz made no answer.
Mr. Treffry boomed out again: “Why? Isn't she worth waiting for? Isn't she worth serving for?”
“I can't expect you to understand me,” the painter said. “My art is my life to me. Do you suppose that if it wasn't I should ever have left my village; or gone through all that I've gone through, to get as far even as I am? You tell me to wait. If my thoughts and my will aren't free, how can I work? I shan't be worth my salt. You tell me to go back to England—knowing she is here, amongst you who hate me, a thousand miles away. I shall know that there's a death fight going on in her and outside her against me—you think that I can go on working under these conditions. Others may be able, I am not. That's the plain truth. If I loved her less—”
There was a silence, then Mr. Treffry said:
“It isn't fair to come here and ask what you're asking. You don't know what's in the future for you, you don't know that you can keep a wife. It isn't pleasant, either, to think you can't hold up your head in your own country.”