Georges de Woude van Bergh studied hard for his examination for
Vice-Consul, and one day Emilie had betaken herself to the
Verstraetens’ and had a long talk with Mr. and Madame Verstraeten,
whilst Lili, very nervous and unhappy, had found much comfort in
Emilie. Emilie had laughingly apologized for her unceremonious visit;
but really her aged father was ailing and never went out, and she
managed everything for him, took everything off his hands, even to a
request for access for his son. No; she was certainly not of Georges’
thinking, that one could live without money, and quite understood that
Mr. and Madame Verstraeten also could not harbour such an idea; but
after all the boy had a prospect, had he not? and the pair of them
seemed to have so much set their minds upon that folly, that one could
not talk them out of it. The question really was, had Mr. and Madame
Verstraeten any personal objection to him, or would they permit the two
to wait until they could begin life together without too great a risk
of starvation? Would Mr. and Madame Verstraeten be able, at a given
moment, to part with Lili? And if they did not quite refuse, how would
they decide? A regular engagement, or only a—well, a union of hearts,
nothing more? It was a pity, certainly, that the two had made
themselves somewhat conspicuous, and that the whole town knew of it,
but they were a pair of unsophisticated children, and in time they
would be more prudent. The question now was—and Emilie summarized her
questions once more with her genial hearty manner, but inwardly a
little anxious about the reply.
And Madame Verstraeten sighed and shook her head thoughtfully; but the
old gentleman, to Emilie’s joy, did not make any insurmountable
objections. But still he had his objections. Lili was so young, such a
child; would it not be better if she did not bind herself yet, and took
time to make sure that he was Mr. Right? He liked de Woude very much;
he had noticed too that the boy had something in him; but still, were
not his optimistic financial ideas based rather too much on his love?
Had he really no more wants than now in the blindness of his affection
he imagined? He was used to a certain degree of luxury. Emilie listened
attentively, fully convinced of all those difficulties, about which she
had once spoken to him herself. But now—now she had allowed herself to
be persuaded into the folly of this visit, and she did not want to be
faithless to her boy; now she wanted to make it appear as if all those
difficulties merely existed in Mr. Verstraeten’s mind, and so she would
endeavour to remove them. Thus it was ever. When one had committed one
absurdity, one fell from one folly into another, and now she would be
compelled to argue against her own convictions. It was a difficult
task, talk as she might, and it was perhaps to her Georges’ misfortune
that she could plead so well; but dear me, the boy was so smitten, and
perhaps after all he was right! There were other little households that
were not rich—small officials, sub-lieutenants. No, no; at bottom she
was really committing an absurdity; but it could not be helped, it was
too late.
And while she pleaded for Georges, she was inwardly angry that he had
brought her to do such a thing. Could she, then, refuse that boy
nothing, and must she herself be a party to bring about his ruin?
But she kept her word, and pleaded so well that Madame Verstraeten went
to fetch Lili, who wept bitterly and kissed Emilie fondly. But an
engagement was out of the question for the present. Madame Verstraeten
did not care about these poor folks’ engagements, which sometimes
lasted for years, and Emilie declared to Lili that a union of hearts,
sanctioned by her parents, meant much already, under the existing
circumstances. It was better so, after all, was it not? If on further
acquaintance they did not suit each other, there would be no harm done;
and if they grew to like each other more and more—well, so much the
better. Come; she should not look at it too gloomily, the victory
gained over the steel-clad hearts of her parents was not an unimportant
one. And what more did she really want? To marry at once—reception
to-morrow—in a day or two to the Stadhuis and the church, and then make
their entry in a little attic somewhere! Yes; that would be very nice!
Lili laughed between her tears, and kissed her parents; whatever papa
and mamma thought fit, she was satisfied.
That afternoon Georges was asked to dinner, and after the meal a
splendid September night was spent in the garden. It was late when
Georges left; late when Marie and Lili retired to their room and
undressed. Marie listened kindly and patiently to Lili’s chattering
about hundreds of plans for the future. She would love to travel, and
Georges’ employment gave promise of that. Snugly she crept into the
cool sheets, smiling at the rosy visions of her fancy, her arms bent
over the little head encircled by its dishevelled mass of fair hair.
Marie too crept into bed, and for a moment all was quiet in the dark
room, when there was a gentle knocking at the door, which the next
moment was opened. The girls started in alarm.
“Hush, hush! ’tis only me,” whispered a soft, subdued voice, and they
saw a small, bent figure in white night-gown and cap, with a lighted
candle in hand, enter the room. “Hush! I was only coming for a little
chat.”
It was old Dien, the ancient servant of the Verstraetens’, the
good-natured old body who was always so handy when they had parties or
tableaux-vivants. She approached, treading softly in her stockings,
while the candle-light reflected a yellow glow on her shrivelled,
white-capped face.
“But, Dien, you frighten me! You look like a ghost!” cried Marie.
“Hush, quiet! They are all in bed; but I thought you wouldn’t be asleep
yet. I want to have a little chat—may I?”
“Certainly, Dien; certainly you may,” said Lili with animation. “What
have you got to say?”
Dien seated herself on the edge of Lili’s bed.
“You can understand, old Dien is not so old but she can tell when
there’s something stirring. And you see, when she does notice it, she
can’t keep it to herself; she must out with it. You little rascal!” She
held up her finger to Lili threateningly.
“What is it, Dien?” asked Lili.
“Come, deary, now don’t you keep yourself so innocent! Do you think I
don’t know why you cried as you did this afternoon, and why Miss Emilie
made such a long stay in the conservatory? You see I thought there was
something then,” she continued, winking her sunken eye, “and I began
thinking to myself, and there you are—at half-past five in he marches,
and stops nicely to dinner, eh?”
“Get along, Dien; what are you prattling about?”
“No, no; Dien doesn’t prattle. Dien knows what she knows well enough.
And you too, you know what you’re about.”
“What is it then?”
“Well, child, you are quite right. There’s a steady boy he is. Such a
nice, gentle little face, with a neat little fair moustache. A proper
little hubby for you. You are rather dainty yourself. They are well
matched—eh, Miss Marie?”
“Cut out for each other,” yawned Marie from between her sheets.
“You like him then?”
“Rather!” answered Dien. “And he is always so polite to me and Bet. He
always says it so nicely when I open the door to him: ‘Ah, Dien, how
are you?’ Always a word or two to say, you know. Not a bit proud, and
he never forgets to wipe his feet.”
Lili roared.
“You aren’t angry because I say so?”
“No, not at all, Dien; I am very glad he is in your good books.”
“Sleep you won’t for yet awhile, eh? You see, in the daytime I am
always too busy, and now it’s just a nice time for a snug chat. And
Dien may give you a bit of advice, eh? You see, I have been married
too, and it isn’t all honey, child. Yes; at first you think ’tis very
nice to play the wifie, but later on come the youngsters, and the cares
come with them; I have had three of them you see. And what a bother it
is to bring them up! And you know I haven’t had much pleasure of them.
One died, a boy, when he was fourteen, and the other wasn’t quite what
he ought to be, and went to the Indies. Only my girl—yes, she’s a good
girl; you know, she’s in Rotterdam, married to a tailor.”
“Yes, Dien.”
“And, I say, when do you think you will marry?”
“Oh, Dien! really I don’t know yet. We won’t get married for a long
while yet, and you mustn’t chatter about it; do you hear?”
“No, no; don’t you fear. You see, Bet too, she isn’t blind either. Do
you think it will be a twelvemonth yet?”
“Oh, quite. But come, Dien, go to bed now.”
“Yes, deary. But you see, when the youngsters come, those little
fair-haired dots—you are both of you so fair—I shall leave your ma, and
come to stay with you. What do you say to that?”
“What, as nursemaid? No, thank you, you will be much too old for that
then.”
“Oh! I should wash and scrub them nicely, don’t you fear!”
“Dien, I think you are saying improper things!” cried Marie. “Fie!”
“What is there improper in that? But come, I must be off; why, it’s
half-past twelve. And do you hear, Miss Marie, you must make haste and
have your turn—that little dot has stolen a march on you; don’t you lag
behind now, do you hear? Will you see to it?”
“Yes, Dien; I shall do my best,” said Marie.
“Then dream about it nicely. And you too, deary, you dream about him.
And tell him that Dien thinks him a nice boy, with his little
moustache—will you, eh? Will you, you little rascal?”
She grasped Lili, who again roared with laughter, jestingly by the
shoulders.
“Yes, yes, Dien, I shall. But you need not shake me like that—ooh!
Good-night, Dien.”
“Good-night, little pets. Hush, child, don’t laugh like that. You will
wake the old folks. Hush, hush! I am going—quiet now!”
Dien left, looking yellowish-white in the glow of the candle, with a
final wink, full of mystery, her footsteps quite muffled by her woollen
stockings.
“That silly Dien!” lisped Lili, still laughing, and half asleep.
The room was once more in darkness, and it was quiet, very quiet, and
Marie lay with her head on her pillow, her wide-open eyes fixed on the
dark ceiling.