Lili sat reading in the small drawing-room, when Frédérique entered.
She had been paying some visits and came to finish her afternoon at the
Verstraetens’.
“Is Marie out?” asked Freddie.
“No,” answered Lili; “we have been out. Marie is still up-stairs.”
“What is Marie doing there?” resumed Frédérique, in some surprise.
“What in Heaven’s name is she always doing up-stairs lately? Whenever I
come here, she is up-stairs. You haven’t fallen out, have you?”
“Oh no; not at all,” replied Lili. “Marie is doing some drawing, I
believe; or perhaps she has some writing to do, as she often has.”
“Writing what—a letter?”
“Oh, no—a novel, or something of the sort; but you had better not say
anything about it; perhaps she does not like us to know.”
Frédérique was silent for a moment.
“Don’t you find Marie rather changed?” she resumed.
“Changed? Marie? No; I have noticed nothing. Why do you ask?”
“Oh! for no special reason; I was only thinking. Marie is always so
busy just now, with one thing or another.”
“But so she has always been; she always tries to find something to do.
Papa says I am the only lazy one in the family.”
Frédérique was silent; but inwardly she wondered that Lili had not
remarked how lately there was something unusual about Marie, something
excitable and nervous, so very different from her former healthy
cheerfulness. However, she thought, perhaps it was only her fancy after
all.
“You know we are going to the Oudendyks’ this evening,” she said, to
turn the conversation.
“Oh yes; you told me some time ago that you were invited. So you are
going out again, eh? You have been a little blasé for a time, haven’t
you? at least you were always taken ill after an invitation,” laughed
Lili.
“Oh, I felt very ill at ease,” Frédérique answered frankly. “It was,
you know, on account of that folly of Otto’s. But now that there is
nothing more to do in the affair, I wash my hands of it. He ought to
know best, eh? Anyhow, I don’t see the use of fretting because——”
She did not finish the sentence, and her eyes became moist, as an
expression of haughty disdain formed about her mouth.
“But, Freddie,” Lili gently remonstrated, “he has known her so long;
all the time she has been living at the van Raats’; and if he really
cares for her——”
“Oh, there’s nothing I should desire more, than that all may go well,
and they may be happy. But I can’t help it. Eline I cannot bear. Of
course now I force myself to be nice and friendly to her; but you know
it is so difficult for me to make myself appear different from what I
am. But come, let us talk about something else; it can’t be helped now,
and the less I think of it the better. Shall we go up-stairs to Marie?”
Lili agreed, and they went. In the girls’ sitting-room Marie was seated
at a little writing-table; a few sheets of writing lay before her, but
her head was resting on her hand, and with her pen she was, as if lost
in thought, drawing some strokes across a blank sheet of paper. When
Freddie and Lili entered, she gave a sudden start.
“We have come to disturb you in your busy occupations,” commenced
Freddie, laughing; “that is, unless you would rather have us go.”
“Certainly not; you know better, don’t you? So unsociable too of Lili,
to sit down all by herself, down-stairs.”
Lili did not answer; neither of them was in the habit of staying in her
room in the afternoon, and it was Marie herself who was unsociable.
“What is it you are writing? is it a secret?” asked Freddie, with a
glance at the scribbled sheets.
“Oh no,” answered Marie, with seeming indifference. “’Tis something I
started long ago—a sort of diary, a description of our trip in
Thuringia and the Black Forest last year. I wanted to make up a little
sketch about it, something romantic if possible, but ’tis getting
tiresome. I really don’t know what made me start it,” she added softly;
“I’m not cut out for writing, eh?”
“I can’t say,” said Freddie encouragingly. “Just read us a little of
it.”
“Yes; fancy boring you with my school-girl scribble. Pas si bête,”
cried Marie laughing. “You see, a person must do something; I felt
bored, so I started writing. I’ll tell you what it is, Frédérique,” she
continued, with a tragic-comic glance at her friend, “I think we are
growing so old. Yes, downright old; we are getting tiresome. Do you
know, ’tis months since we had a good laugh together, as we used to so
often.”
“With Paul or Etienne?” added Lili, smiling at the recollection.
“With or without them. We used to amuse ourselves without the boys just
as well. But now—I don’t know what you think, but I think we are all of
us awful bores. We are each of us getting our worries—you have for some
time suffered from an antipathy towards Eline. Lili does not speak a
word; she is either in dreamland all day, or overwhelms me with her
romantic musings; and as for myself, out of sheer ennui I start writing
about blue mountains and misty horizons.”
“What will it all end in?” laughed Freddie. “The future looks very
dismal, especially in your case. Behind those blue mountains and the
misty horizon there is something hidden, I know.”
“Something hidden?” repeated Marie. “Oh no, not at all; nothing.”
Frédérique fancied she could see a tear glide through Marie’s fingers,
which she held in front of her eyes. Lili kept herself occupied
arranging a few books in a bookcase.
“Marie,” whispered Freddie softly, “come, tell me. Is anything the
matter? can I do anything for you? I wish you would tell me if there
is. I can see there is something that troubles you.”
Marie rose, and turned her face away.
“Oh dear, no, Freddie; don’t you fancy anything of the sort. You are
getting just as romantic as Lili. There is nothing, really. ’Tis only
that I feel wretchedly bored, that is all; I want some cheerfulness.
Hallo, old chappie!”
Her brother entered, somewhat surprised.
“Eh! what are you three doing here? Talking about your gentleman
friends, I’ll bet!” he cried noisily.
“What a wise remark,” answered Marie. “Just like the men. ’Tis your
natural vanity that makes you say such a thing, though you are but a
boy yourself. Wait a bit, I’ll teach you.”
She ran after him round the table, whilst he, mocking her, deftly
skipped over a chair, which he quickly placed in her way. Freddie and
Lili roared with laughter at their antics. All at once he rushed out of
the room, and Marie after him.
“What a girl that Marie is!” cried Freddie wonderingly. It passed her
understanding. After a while Marie returned, all out of breath.
“Did you catch him?” asked Lili.
“Of course not,” she answered. “That boy is like a goat, so nimble, he
skips over everything. Ah, ’tis a treat, a run like that. I wish I were
a boy.”
Freddie left, and Lili accompanied her down-stairs; Marie was coming
down directly. But she stayed at the window for a while, and looked
out. In the falling twilight, which was wrapping everything in a
transparent ashen-hued mist, lay the canal, green and still,
overshadowed by the leafy boughs of the bordering trees. Beyond it lay
the Maliebaan, dim in the gathering shadows, with a moist thin veil of
grayish dew rising upward from its surface.
Marie looked out and sighed. Yes; she would always laugh away that
feeling, that cruel, gnawing bitterness, out of her heart, as she had
done just now. She was growing old, downright old, and tiresome.
Without mercy for herself she would wrench away that blossom from her
soul, she would again and again blot out that vision. It was torture,
but still she must do it.
And as she stared away into that melancholy mist, ascending in gray
layers over the valley yonder, a beloved face rose up before her moist
eyes—a manly face, with an expression of frankness and sincerity in its
eyes, and beaming with a winning smile; but it was not upon her, but
upon Eline, that that smile threw its brightness.
The tramcars running between the Ouden Schevening road and the Kurhaus
were thronged. At the junction of the Anna Paulownastraat and the Laan
Copes van Cattenburgh they were stormed by waiting crowds, and in a
moment they were filled to overflowing—inside, outside, and on the
platforms. There was a vast amount of pushing to obtain even the merest
standing-room, among the numbers of ladies, who, nervous and excited,
fluttered about in their gay toilets, peering through the windows in
the hope of finding a vacant spot. The conductors pulled the bells, and
shouted to those who were left behind, who turned away and began to
watch for the next car to arrive. The horses started, and the faces of
those who had managed to wedge their way in, and were seated packed
close as herrings, now beamed with happiness after the successful
struggle.
“What a crowd! It’s fearful,” said Eline, looking down upon the surging
mass with a placid smile.
She sat beside Betsy in the open landau, with Henk and Otto facing her.
Dirk, the coachman, had been compelled to halt a moment, but now again
the long file of carriages began to move. Herman, the little footman,
sat on the box with crossed arms, motionless and straight in his light
gray livery with its bright buttons.
“There will be a terrible crowd,” said Betsy. “But it’s in the open
air, so we need not fear we shall get no seat.”
Not a breath of wind stirred through the dense foliage, and after a day
of intense heat and glaring sun, with the gathering twilight a leaden
heaviness seemed to descend over everything. Eline, rather faint with
the heat, leaned back with pale cheeks and spoke little; only now and
then glancing at Otto through her drooping lashes, with an archness
that was full of happiness. Betsy kept up a lively conversation with
van Erlevoort, for Henk was not very talkative either, reflecting as he
was whether it would not have been wiser to have stayed at home
drinking a cup of tea in the garden, rather than rush away directly
after dinner to Scheveningen.
Betsy, however, robust and cheerful, enjoyed the fragrant air, of which
she took deep breaths. She enjoyed the soft, padded cushions of her
luxurious, well-appointed carriage, contrasting so brightly with the
other vehicles; she enjoyed even the sight of Herman’s dignified
attitude, and of the silver initials worked on the hangings of the box.
She was contented with herself, with the luxury that she displayed, and
contented with her company. Eline was so charmingly pretty, just like a
little doll; her dress of light gray étamine was almost striking in its
simplicity, while the coquettish little hat enclosed her face in a
framework of silk. Erlevoort was such a fine-looking fellow, and so
distingué; Henk looked so comfortable and stout, so well-fed—her
husband was really not so bad; she might have fared worse. And she
nodded to her acquaintances as their carriage passed by with her most
captivating smile; no, she must not seem proud, though her fine bay
mares ran never so fast.
“Oh, glorious! the air is getting fresher, I am beginning to revive!”
murmured Eline, raising herself up, with a deep breath, when they had
passed the Promenade. “I feel I want some fresh air, after the
temperature of this afternoon.”
“Come, child, it was delicious!” declared Betsy. “The sort of weather I
should always like to have.”
“Well, all I can say is, I should be dead after a month of it. I say,
Otto, you are laughing; tell me honestly now—do you think it’s
affectation, or do you really believe that I cannot bear such heat?”
“Of course I believe you, Elly.”
She looked at him with feigned anger, and shook her little head
reproachfully.
“Elly again,” she whispered.
“Oh yes; how stupid of me. Well, I do believe I know something!” he
whispered back delightedly.
“What are you two planning together?” asked Henk, with curiosity.
“Nothing at all; eh, Otto? A little secret between us; hush!” and she
held her finger to her mouth, enjoying their mystification.
The fact was she did not wish Otto to call her by the familiar
diminutive every one else gave her. She wanted him to invent one for
himself alone, one that was not worn and stale, something new and
fresh. He did not think it very childish of her, eh? And he had
exhausted himself trying to think of one, but whatever he said she was
not satisfied; he had better try again. Well, had he found something at
last?
“I am really anxious to know what it is,” she whispered once more,
smiling.
“Afterwards,” he whispered back, and then both smiled.
“Look here, until now I have found you less tiresome than most engaged
couples, so don’t you, too, start these intolerable inanities,” cried
Betsy indignantly, but without much anger.
“Well; and how about you and Henk then, at one time!” laughed Eline.
“Eh, Henk?”
“Ah, I should think so!” answered Henk laughing, whilst she, at the
thought of her sister’s betrothal, now years ago, felt a faint
recollection of her feelings in those days rise to her mind, like
something very far away and strange.
But they had long passed by the villas along the Badhuis road, and by
the Galeries at the rear of the Kurhaus, and they drew up at the steps
of the terrace, by the sea.
The Eekhofs and the Hydrechts were seated at a little table close to
the band-stand, when Betsy, Eline, Otto, and Henk passed one by one
through the turnstile. They never saw them, however, and walked on,
Otto’s hand resting on Eline’s arm.
“Look, there are the van Raats, and Miss Vere, with Erlevoort!” said
young Hydrecht. “They are here every evening lately.”
“How ridiculously plain Eline dresses just now!” remarked Léonie. “What
is the meaning of that, I wonder? Nothing but affectation. And just
fancy—a bonnet and veil! Every engaged girl thinks she must wear a
bonnet and veil. Ridiculous!”
“But they are a nice pair,” said Madame Eekhof. “There are less
suitable matches.”
“Anyhow, they walk decently,” said Ange. “Sometimes those engaged
couples make themselves ridiculous—Marguerite van Laren, for instance,
who is always brushing the dust off her intended’s coat.”
Betsy meanwhile, bowing and smiling right and left, thought they had
better not walk about any more, but look for a table somewhere.
Fortunately it was pleasant everywhere; it was even desirable to sit at
some distance from the band-stand, otherwise the noise would have been
too great. So they sat down at a little distance, at the side of the
Conversatie-zaal, where there were still several tables unoccupied, but
from where they could see and be seen.
It was a constant interchange of nods and smiles, and Betsy and Eline
now and again whispered amusedly when they caught sight of some absurd
toilette or ridiculous hat. Eline herself was very satisfied at the
simplicity with which, ever since her engagement, she had dressed
herself; a simplicity which, elegant though it still was, was in too
great contrast with her former luxurious toilettes not to be much
remarked. That simplicity, she thought, brought out her captivating
beauty in a sort of plastic relief, and modelled her slender form as
though it were a marble statue. In her eyes it veiled her former
frivolousness as with a film of graceful seriousness, a seriousness
which to Otto, with his native simplicity, must be most attractive.
She could not help being as she was; she felt it difficult to be
nothing but herself; but, on the other hand, it was easy for her to
imagine herself playing one or another part: this time it was that of
the somewhat affected but ever-charming and happy fiancée of a manly
young fellow, one of her own circle, who was liked everywhere for his
unaffected pleasantness. Yes; she was happy—she felt it, with all the
delight of a satisfied longing in her heart, which had so long craved
for happiness; she was happy in the peace and calm which his great,
silent love—which she guessed at rather than understood—had given her;
she was happy in the blue stillness of that limpid lake, that Nirvana
into which her fantasy-burdened soul had glided as into a bed of down.
So happy was she, even to her very nerves, which were as loosened
chords after their long-continued tension, that often she felt a tear
of intense gratefulness rise to her eye. The stream of people passed by
her incessantly, and began to whirl a little before her eyes, so that
once or twice she did not return their greetings.
“Eline, why don’t you bow? Can’t you see Madame van der Stoor and
little Cateau?” whispered Betsy reproachingly.
Eline looked round, and gave her friendliest nod, when Vincent Vere and
Paul van Raat approached them. They remained standing, as there were no
vacant chairs to be seen.
“Would you two like to sit down for a moment; that is, if Eline cares
to walk?” asked Otto, half rising.
Eline thought it was a capital idea, and whilst Vincent and Paul took
their seats, she and Otto slowly followed the stream of promenaders.
They approached the band-stand, and the high violin movements in the
overture to Lohengrin were swelling out fuller and fuller, like rays of
crystal.
A group of attentive music-lovers was ranged about the band in a
semi-circle. Otto wanted to let Eline pass through the narrow gangway
between the rows of chairs and the standing group, but she turned
round, and whispered—
“Listen for a moment; shall we?”
He nodded his head, and they stood still. How she enjoyed the stately
swell of melody. It seemed to her as though it were not notes of music,
but the blue waters of her lake that flowed by, limpid and clear as the
stream along whose bosom Lohengrin’s bark had glided, and she beheld
the swans, stately and beautiful.
At the loud fortissimo she took a deep breath, and while the brittle
threads of harmony brought forth by the violins spun themselves out,
thinner and thinner in texture, the swans, stately and beautiful, also
floated away.
The applause resounded on all sides; the semi-circle broke.
“Beautiful—oh, how beautiful!” murmured Eline as in a dream. And
delightedly she felt Otto’s hand searching for her arm; life was sweet
indeed!
“Don’t you think it foolish? I always feel myself so—so much better
than at other times, when I hear beautiful music; it is then that I get
a feeling as though I am not quite unworthy of you,” she lisped at his
ear, so that none overheard her. “Perhaps it is childish, but I really
cannot help it.”
She looked at him smiling, but almost anxiously, in suspense at what he
would answer. She often felt some fear at what he might think of her,
as though by one thoughtless word she might lose him; for she did not
yet understand how and why he loved her.
“Oh, don’t for heaven’s sake place me on such a lofty pedestal,” he
answered kindly. “I feel myself so very commonplace, so little raised
above others; you must not put yourself so far beneath me. You not
quite unworthy of me! What puts that idea into your head? Little silly!
Shall I tell you something? I really don’t think that you know
yourself.”
Could he be right? she wondered; did she not know herself? A glad
surprise filled her; she thought she knew herself so well. Maybe there
was yet something in her soul of which she knew nothing, something
perhaps from which her love for him flowed? Was it left for him to
disclose to her her own inward nature?
“Oh, Otto——” she began.
“What?” he asked softly.
“Nothing. I like you so much when you say anything about yourself and
me,” she murmured, full of a blissful feeling to which she could give
no utterance. His hand gently pressed her arm, and a tremor passed
through her, as they walked on amid the laughing, pushing throng
between the tables, stared at by all who knew them.
“Look at Erlevoort and Eline there, walking blissfully side by side,
perdus dans le même rêve. They don’t see us again!” cried Léonie,
almost regretfully, as she passed by them with Hydrecht.
Eline and Otto all at once heard their names softly mentioned. They
looked round and saw Madame Verstraeten with Marie, Lili, and
Frédérique seated at a little table. Georges de Woude had already risen
and nodded to them, smiling. They came nearer and shook hands.
“Hallo, Freddie!” said Otto, surprised.
“Madame Verstraeten was kind enough to ask me to come,” she answered,
by way of explanation. “Otto, we have just received a letter from the
Horze: they are all quite well, and they want to be remembered to you.
To you too, Eline.”
“Thanks, very much!” replied Eline cordially, while for a moment she
sat down in Georges’ chair beside Madame Verstraeten. Marie had turned
very pale, but it was not noticeable under her white veil.
“Théodore writes that Suzanne and van Stralenburg, with the baby, are
coming to stay with them next week, and mamma is all excitement about
it.”
“What, was mamma going to the Horze? And Howard is coming here?”
“Yes; that’s just the dilemma.”
“Dear old Madame Erlevoort!” said Madame Verstraeten.
“Percy wrote he was coming towards the latter part of July. Well, van
Stralenburg cannot stay longer than the twentieth, writes Théodore. So
you can understand”—and she forced herself to look kindly at Eline—“you
can understand how mamma feels about it. To journey to Zwolle, that she
will not be able to manage; and to leave the Hague before the
twentieth, while Howard and Cathérine are coming—that of course she
cannot do.”
“But Howard is also going to the Horze later on, is he not?” asked
Otto.
“Yes; but he will want to stay a little in the Hague first, and take
advantage of Scheveningen,” answered Frédérique. “Mamma is thinking of
all sorts of plans; she would be in despair if she did not see her new
grandchild this summer, you can understand that.”
“Well, then, I shall prevail on mamma to go to Zwolle with me, one of
these days; that will be the best way out of it,” answered Otto. “The
journey to the Horze is still more troublesome.”
“You might try,” said Frédérique. “That would certainly solve the
problem.”
Meanwhile Lili told Madame Verstraeten that she would take a walk round
with de Woude, and the old lady asked Otto to sit down for a moment
until they returned.
“How pretty Eline is, is she not, de Woude?” asked Lili. Since she had
been skating with him she allowed him to call her by her name, and she
called him simply de Woude. “I can’t help remarking it whenever I see
her.”
“Yes; she looks very nice,” answered Georges indifferently.
“No; I think she is downright pretty,” persisted Lili. “How is it
possible that you don’t think her pretty? What a curious taste you
have, to be sure!”
He laughed gaily, in the enjoyment of a secret thought.
“I can’t help it—can I?—if she leaves me entirely indifferent; I have
another ideal of beauty. But if you absolutely want me to think her
pretty, why then I’ll take another look.”
“Oh no, no; I don’t care a bit,” she answered, also laughing; “only all
the gentlemen think her pretty, that’s why I can’t understand that you
don’t. And I can’t make out either why Frédérique does not like her. If
I were a man, I should fall madly in love with her.”
“And fight a duel with Erlevoort, I suppose.”
The first part of the programme was at an end, and the throng of
promenaders grew denser. Georges and Lili found themselves hemmed in on
all sides, and they could proceed no farther.
“’Tis awful,” said Lili. “I don’t see any pleasure in it when there are
so many.”
“Shall we make our way to the sands?” he asked softly.
“If we can,” said Lili, glad at the idea. “Mamma will not mind, I
suppose?”
“Oh, of course not, under my care,” he said reassuringly, and with
evident pride.
They quickly passed through the turnstile. With a feeling of relief
they descended the steps of the terrace, crossed over the road, and
hastened down the broad flight of steps that led to the sands. Here and
there a Scheveninger was strolling along with a slow, measured, heavy
step, keeping time with the swaying of his companion’s thick mass of
petticoats.
And straight in front of the Kurhaus, bathed in the yellow glow of the
gas-light, the waves were washing with refreshingly cool sound.
“Ah!” cried Lili, “how much nicer it is here!”
The sea, calm and unruffled, was flowing on in tints of green, azure,
and violet, here and there capped with glistening white foam all along
the beach. In the sky above myriads of stars sparkled, and the Milky
Way seemed like a cloth of pearls in the midst of the mysterious
infinity of faint blue. From out of the sea there seemed to rise an
indefinable murmur, like that produced by a gigantic sea-shell.
“How beautiful and quiet it is here, after the noise yonder; it’s quite
entrancing!” murmured Lili in ecstasy.
“Yes,” answered Georges.
She nearly stumbled over something; thereupon he asked her to take his
arm, and she did so. It seemed to him as though he had very much to say
to her, and as though he would never be able to express himself without
appearing ridiculous. She too felt a delicious longing to open her
mind, to speak about the sea and sky which seemed to her so beautiful;
but she felt a little ashamed at the poesy that was in her heart, which
contrasted too drolly with the prosy commonplace circles in which they
generally moved. She feared to appear affected, and she said nothing.
They both kept silent as they slowly walked along, with the roar of the
sea in their ears, and with a soft soothing feeling in their hearts
that seemed to them more expressive than words.
They went slowly on, wrapt in their solitude, with the calm of the sea
before them. And he felt that he must say something.
“I could go on walking like that with you for ever,” said he, and his
bantering tone somewhat concealed the meaning of his words.
She laughed; it was only fun after all.
“Then perhaps I might get tired.”
“Then I should carry you.”
“You couldn’t; my weight would crush you.”
“Do you think so little of my strength then? Come, I’ll just show you.”
“But, Georges, how dare you? I shall end by getting angry with you, at
least if you don’t beg my pardon at once.”
“How shall I set about that?” he asked, with mock humility.
She let him spin out a long rigmarole—
“I, Georges de Woude van Bergh, humbly apologize to —— for having—” and
he repeated every word, while their echo vibrated pleasingly upon her
ear.
For she was not quite so angry as she wanted to appear. It seemed to
her as though their walk would never end, as if they would continue
strolling along that light surging strand until they should come within
sight of a fresh horizon.
“Come, we must return,” she said suddenly; “we are going too far.”
They turned back, and were quite frightened when they saw how far away
the Kurhaus lay, bathed in a ruddy glow of light; but to her that alarm
suddenly melted into a tenderness, a soft indifference; what cared she
for the others over there? they were together by the sea.
“Lili, really we must hurry,” said he laughing, somewhat confused.
“Your mother will wonder where we have got to.”
This time she felt quite hurt at his hurrying; he could not be
sensible, then, of that tender indifference; he did not feel as she
did, that they were together by the sea, and that all the rest was
nothing, nothing!
“I really cannot trudge at such a pace through the sand,” she said, a
little vexed, and she clung closer to his arm. But he was inexorable;
she had better lean on his support if she could not get along fast
enough. He certainly could be surprisingly obstinate under the veil of
his gentle affability.
“But, Georges, I cannot really, I am tired out!” she panted peevishly,
although the would-be anger in her voice melted away in a coaxing tone.
He, however, laughingly rushed up the broad steps, nearly dragging her
after him, with her arm clasped fast in his own, and really she could
not help laughing. It was very funny, certainly, rushing along in that
way in the darkness.
Somewhat more slowly they ascended the little steps leading to the
terrace, and while Georges was searching for the enclosure tickets,
Lili shook the sand from her dress.
The second part of the programme had commenced, and the band was
blaring out the metallic fanfares of the march in the Reine de Saba; a
few promenaders were still about, but there was no longer a crowd. They
hurried with apparent indifference, although Lili’s cheeks were red as
fire, to their little table. Madame Verstraeten was seated alone with
Marie and Frédérique; Otto and Eline were gone.
“Good gracious, where have you two been hiding?” cried Marie, while
Georges and Lili sat down on the chairs, across which a cloak had been
thrown to reserve them. “I have been walking with Paul, and Eline and
Otto could not really keep your seats for you any longer.”
“We made almost superhuman efforts to reserve them, did we not, madam?”
added Frédérique.
“But where have you been, then?” asked Madame Verstraeten wonderingly.
“In the Conversazione Room, looking at the dancing?”
Georges told them of their walk by the sea, and Lili inwardly admired
him for the tact with which he replied to her mother’s questioning.
Henk and Vincent were seated by themselves at a table near the
Conversazione Room, while Betsy and young Hydrecht were strolling about
in a somewhat too boisterous flirtation, and Eline and Otto had sat
down for a moment next to Madame Eekhof, whom they had passed by four
times without any greeting, as Ange declared.
“I was nearly dead with this terrible heat to-day,” muttered Vincent.
“Yes; Eline can’t bear it either,” answered Henk, emptying his glass of
Pilsener.
Vincent drank nothing; he felt rather giddy at the incessant surging
round and round of all these people. He rarely went to Scheveningen; in
the morning the heat was unbearable on the scorching sand, and at night
it tired him too much. Once or twice he went, just for the sake of
saying he had been.
A question to Henk was on his lips, one which he scarcely dared to
put—a request for money. The second time that Henk had advanced him
money, he had not done so with his usual brusque bonhomie. Vere’s
eternal impecuniosity was beginning to tire him—it was always the same
tune! This had not escaped Vincent; but still he could not help it, and
he began with an introduction, with an assumed lightness of manner.
“I think I shall be able to repay you part of my debt this week, van
Raat. I am expecting money. Only for the moment I am awfully short. If
I had not taken advantage of your kindness so often already, I would
ask your assistance once more; but I am afraid I’m getting indiscreet
now. I shall see and get along just for this week.”
Henk did not answer. With his stick he sat slowly beating time to the
music.
“It’s a nuisance that I did not come to an arrangement with that
quinine affair,” resumed Vincent. “But you see I have just received a
letter from a friend in America; he is rich and is well connected, and
will get me an introduction to a business house in New York. But for
the moment, you know—I say, van Raat, you would be rendering me an
immense service—lend me another fifty florins.”
Henk turned round to face Vincent, with a passionate movement.
“Look here, Vere, is there never going to be an end of that bother? I
must frankly admit that it is beginning to sicken me. One day ’tis
fifteen hundred florins, then a hundred, then fifty. What—what in
Heaven’s name are you waiting for then? What is it you intend to do?
why do you laze about so, if you haven’t a cent in the world? why don’t
you try and get something to do? I can’t keep you, can I?”
Vincent had felt a vague presentiment of a coming storm, and let the
curt disjointed sentences which Henk in his clumsy passion grunted out,
pass over him without contradiction. But his silence made Henk feel
almost embarrassed, and the sound of his own voice reverberated roughly
in his ears. Still he proceeded—
“Then again you talk a lot of nonsense about money from Brussels—or
from Malaga; another time it is to come from New York. When is it
coming, I should like to know? You understand, it won’t ruin me if you
don’t pay me what you owe me, neither shall I ever trouble you about
it; but taken altogether it’s now not far short of two thousand
florins, and I am getting sick of it. Don’t in Heaven’s name keep
loafing about in the Hague here; look for something to do.”
Henk’s passionate tone was already giving way to a kindlier one, but
Vincent remained silent, his eyes fixed on the points of his boots,
which he was gently tapping with his stick, and Henk was at a loss what
to say next. And it was a relief to him when Vincent at length lifted
up his head and whispered—
“It’s quite true—you are right—but it’s not my fault—circumstances.
Anyhow I shall see what I can do—excuse my troubling you.”
He slowly rose from his seat, while Henk, whom that placid resignation
greatly embarrassed, sought in vain for some appropriate phrase.
“Well, good-night, au revoir!” Vincent said with a faint smile, and he
nodded to Henk without offering him his hand. “Good-night; I must be
off.”
Henk wanted to give him his hand, but Vincent had already turned his
back on him, and Henk saw him slowly picking out his way through the
throng, now and then raising his hat with a languid movement.
Very dissatisfied with himself, Henk remained seated alone at his
table. After a while, however, Eline and Otto returned and laughingly
expressed their sympathy for his loneliness. Betsy too was soon after
brought back by Hydrecht, whose hand she cordially pressed. It was
late; many people had already left before the last number, and now that
the concert was at an end, the crowds slowly moved away through the
Kurhaus. Gradually the noise of the music and laughter-laden atmosphere
subsided into a restful calm, whilst here and there the gas-lamps were
already being extinguished, and only a stray group or two were still
sitting down, enjoying the balmy air, which was growing fresher and
purer at every moment.
“It’s glorious here; shall we sit a little longer?” asked Betsy.
“Let us rather have a drive round,” said Eline; “at least unless you
think it will be getting too late, and the horses are not tired, Henk.”
Betsy thought Eline rather eccentric to want to drive so late at night,
but still the idea pleased her. And they walked to the rear of the
Kurhaus, where the carriage was waiting.
Eline thought the wind had risen, and preferred to sit forward under
the half-closed hood, next to Otto. Betsy told Dirk to drive home
through the Van Stolkpark.
The outlines of the villas looked dim and shadowy between the vague,
dark masses of foliage, through which now and then a gentle gust of
wind rustled with a lulling sound. But the clatter of the horses and
the light rumbling of the wheels along the road drowned the sighing of
the wind with a noise that remained unbroken by words.
Betsy lay back comfortably, and enjoyed the cool night air. Henk was
still under the uncomfortable influence of his conversation with
Vincent, whom he thought he had hurt, and Eline let her thoughts wander
away in a delicious reverie. She had removed her hat, and she bent a
little towards Otto, and listened to his regular breathing. He,
effectually hidden in the shadow of the raised hood, had his arm round
her waist, and had drawn her a little towards him, so that her cheek
nearly lay on his shoulder. And she was very happy, she wished nothing
more than thus, in his arm, to be driven along in the evening breeze,
beneath the gently rustling foliage. She could conceive of nothing
sweeter, than thus to lean against him, to feel the passage of his
breath through her hair, and his arm about her waist like a girdle of
love.
And yielding to the delicious influences of the moment, she let her
head fall on his shoulder.
“What name have you thought of for me?” she whispered in his ear.
“Nily,” he whispered back, and whilst she felt his arm clasp her waist
more closely, her lips inaudibly repeated the name, the echo of which
resounded through her being like a caress of jubilant love.
Mathilde van Ryssel had taken a tent by the sea, and told Jeanne
Ferelyn to come and sit there with her children as often as she chose.
At first, out of diffidence, Jeanne had only occasionally availed
herself of the invitation; but Mathilde was pressing, and Jeanne now
came very frequently. Sometimes they both arranged that they should
start in the morning early, and take some sandwiches—the children could
get plenty of milk to drink at the milk stall; and so they would sit
down, both of them under the awning of the tent, chatting over their
work, whilst their children were delving with their little spades in a
big sand-pit in front of them, or were busy along the beach,
constructing the most wonderful aqueducts. And Jeanne fancied that her
children were getting more robust and less peevish, now that they were
in company with the noisy, playful little van Ryssels, and she and
Mathilde gazed delightedly at the boisterous little band. Jeanne
especially felt the influence of that frequent intercourse with
Mathilde, in whom she had found a friend who understood her troubles,
and who, with her sad experience and placid resignation, was ever ready
to advise and aid her. They spoke frequently about their children and
their domestic affairs, and Jeanne thought Mathilde, used though she
was to the cosiest of surroundings, exceedingly practical and frugal.
But those pleasant days by the sunny seaside did not last long, for the
Ferelyns had to leave. They were going to Boppard, where Frans was to
undergo the cold-water cure, and Jeanne racked her brains trying to
calculate the probable expenses of the trip. How could they afford to
stay at Boppard perhaps for six weeks, with their three children, while
at the same time they could not give up their rooms in the Hugo de
Grootstraat?
Madame van Erlevoort, with Otto and Eline, who wanted to make the
acquaintance of her fiancé’s relatives, had been to Zwolle for a day or
two, and the old lady was in raptures about the little van Stralenburg,
a baby plump and firm as any she had seen, with such a head of curly
dark hair. She was grateful to Otto for having pressed her to make the
journey to Zwolle; to the Horze she went every summer, and the trip to
her country seat was such an ordinary occurrence that she saw no
inconvenience in it at all; but any other removal from her home circle
pained her, as though she were tearing herself away from her dear ones
for ever. It was a luxury to her to be back once more in her roomy
house on the Voorhout, with its somewhat faded, old-fashioned
furniture, but full of comfort and ease. Eline thought the van
Stralenburgs most charming people: Suzanne, a darling little mother,
not pretty, at times rather careless in her dress, but so unaffected
and genial, so mad with her little boy, that it was a treat to behold
her; her husband, a good-natured, kindly fellow, but thoroughly spoilt
by his wife, who was constantly at his beck and call, and who ran up
and down the stairs for him, in a way that made Eline sometimes roar
with laughter. No, she would never be like that to Otto; he had better
be sure of that. But although she thus spoke laughingly to Otto, at the
bottom of her heart she felt it would be bliss indeed thus to devote
oneself entirely to one’s husband, as Suzanne devoted herself to van
Stralenburg; to exist but for him and be his faithful slave.
And then a charming picture of home life with Otto, of the life that
would be hers, would arise to her imagination, ever active, and ever in
want of vivid imagery, which even in the happiness of to-day could not
refrain from calling into being a yet happier future.
In this mood, which filled her soul with idylls, she saw in everything
but a reflection of that happiness, and the people with whom she
mingled all seemed to her genial and kindly, never giving themselves up
to bitter quarrelling, and living for each other, without a semblance
of egotism. Scenes with Betsy appeared never destined to recur, now
that she answered her sister’s sharp tone in a voice full of
gentleness, as though she was loth to desecrate her happiness by a
single discordant sound. A great calm came over her nerves, and she
herself could not refrain from wondering at her equable, cheerful
good-humour, quite undisturbed by the usual periodic attacks of
listless melancholy. No gray and black mists surrounded her; it was as
though she breathed a light atmosphere, full of brilliancy, fragrance,
and sparkle.
For a day or two after his talk with Vincent, Henk felt very ill at
ease. In his native kindliness he did not like to hurt any one’s
feelings, and he thought he had wounded Vere’s pride. After all, the
poor devil could not help it, that everything he undertook failed. So
Henk had called on Vincent, and four times he wanted to put the sum he
had asked of him in his hands; but Vincent refused to accept it, and
instead, in fact, had repaid Henk a considerable portion of what he
owed him. How he had managed to procure the money remained a puzzle to
Henk, as everything else about Vincent was a puzzle to him. At home,
Betsy reproached her husband with his want of tact in dealing with
Vere, and she, in her vague fear of that cousin, in whom she suspected
a latent power, which could at will crush her with all her strength of
mind, resolved at any price to make him forget her husband’s
brusquerie. Théodore had invited Eline to come and stay at the Horze,
and she was to go there towards the end of July together with the
Erlevoorts and the Howards, who were just now in the Hague, and remain
in Gelderland all through August. It would therefore, so Betsy thought,
be lonely in her big house on the Nassauplein; the idea of going out of
town with Henk did not much fascinate her; she would rather make a trip
to the South at the commencement of the winter, when Eline should be
married; and it was therefore as much from a longing after change, as
from diplomatic cordiality, that she invited Vincent to pitch his tent
with them during Eline’s absence. She made her request with the most
charming manner possible. She would miss Eline so terribly, she would
be so lonely, and Vincent could be so sociable, and chat so pleasantly
about his wanderings; so he must not refuse, he would be doing her an
immense favour. Vincent was overjoyed at the request, opening to him as
it did a prospect of peace and placid luxury. He would lead a life of
luxury without having to spend a cent, a month long! and a month of
rest seemed to him, in his wretched hand-to-mouth existence, a period
of bliss without end, an eternity of happiness. He therefore accepted
Betsy’s invitation with a secret gladness, outwardly however with a
certain condescension, as though wanting to show that he still felt
hurt at Henk’s refusal, and as though he were happy to give Betsy an
opportunity to make up for van Raat’s unfriendliness.