CHAPTER V.
About a week after the tableaux-vivants, Lili Verstraeten was sitting in the small drawing-room, where the representation had taken place. The room had long since resumed its usual appearance, and in the grate burned a cheerful fire. Outdoors it was cold; there was a bleak wind, and it threatened rain. Marie had gone shopping with Frédérique van Erlevoort, but Lili had preferred to stay at home, and so she settled herself cosily in a big, old-fashioned, tapestry-covered arm-chair. She had taken Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris with her, but she did not wish to force herself to read, if she did not care for it, and the book, in its red calf cover and with gilt edges, lay unopened in her lap. How nice it was to do nothing except dream the time away! how stupid of Marie and Freddie to go out in such wretched weather! What did she care about the weather! let it pour and blow outdoors as much as it liked, indoors it was beautiful; the clouds subdued the light, the low hanging curtains allowed it but a modest access. Papa sat reading in the conservatory, where it was lightest; she could just catch a glimpse of his dear gray head, and she noticed how quickly he turned the pages; yes, he was really reading, not like her, who had taken her book just for a make-believe. She never felt ennui, though she did nothing at all; on the contrary, she enjoyed those musing thoughts, rose-leaves wafted along by gentle breezes; soap-bubbles, bright and airy, which she loved to watch, floating on high, and the rose-leaves blew away, the bubbles broke, but she wished neither her rose-leaf to be an ivy plant, clinging closely to her, nor her bubbles to be a captive balloon. Mamma was still up-stairs, ever active—ah! she could not lighten mamma’s work; she would do everything herself, though Marie occasionally helped a little. She inwardly hoped no visitors would come to disturb her in her dolce far niente. How jolly it was! How nice to watch the flame curling and twisting round the live coal! The grate was a miniature hell, the peat-blocks were rocks, and between them there were yawning precipices, all fire and glowing embers—it was like Dante! The souls of the damned hovered about the brinks of the precipices, shuddering at the fiery mass.… And, smiling at the wildness of her own fantasy, she averted her eyes, somewhat dazed with staring into the fire. But a week ago, on that very spot yonder, they had posed before their applauding acquaintances. How different it all looked then! The scenes, the lyres, the cross, and all the rest of the paraphernalia were stowed away in the lumber-room. The dresses were nicely folded up by Dien, and put away in boxes. But it had been a jolly time, what with the consultations beforehand with Paul and Etienne, the rehearsals, and so forth. How they had laughed! what trouble they had taken for the sake of a few moments’ entertainment!
Papa still read on, turning page after page. How the rain beat against the window-panes! how it rushed down the pipe! Yes; Freddie and Marie were out for their enjoyment … how grand it was to be snug and safe from all the wet. And her feet sought the soft warmth of the hearth-rug; her fair head nestled deeper into the cushions of the old chair.
Freddie was to go to a dance that evening. How could she stand it, going out night after night! Yes; she was very fond of it herself—a nice dance, a sociable soirée; but she liked staying at home too; to read, to work, or to—do nothing. But as for ennui, she did not know what it was, and her life flowed on like a limpid rivulet. She was so entirely in love with her darling parents; she only hoped things would ever remain as they were; she would not mind being an old maid.… Quasimodo, Esmeralda, Phœbus de Châteaupers—oh, why had she not taken Longfellow with her? she did not care about the Cour des Miracles, but she longed for Evangeline or the Golden Legend—
“My life is little,
Only a cup of water,
But pure and limpid——”
How poetic she was getting! she laughed at herself, and looked out into the garden, where the dripping bare branches were swaying to and fro in the wind. There was a ring at the bell, and light footsteps and laughter echoed through the hall. Freddie and Marie were returning home, they would go up-stairs she supposed; no—they were coming this way, and entered the room, their wet wraps removed, but bringing with them a rush of wind and a chill dampness.
“Well, I never!” cried Marie; “my lady seated by the fire warming herself. That’s right!”
“Would my lady like a pillow for her back?” asked Freddie teasingly.
“Yes; you laugh as much as you like,” murmured Lili with a smile, and she nestled herself more snugly in the chair. “I am warm and jolly here, and my feet are not cold and damp. You go and splash in the mud by yourselves!”
Freddie went to speak to Mr. Verstraeten, and Marie thought she would like a refresher, and she set about making a cup of tea. So the girls sat down; yes, Lili would like a cup of tea too, although she had not been out mud-splashing.
“How dark it is here, Lili! how could you see to read? Why, it’s enough to blind you, peering away in the dark like this!” cried Marie.
“But I have not been reading,” replied Lili, enjoying her dolce far niente.
“My lady has been musing,” mocked Freddie.
“Ah,” said Lili with a smile, “it’s grand, doing nothing at all—just dreaming the time away.”
And they all three burst out laughing at such a confession of shameless laziness, when Madame Verstraeten came down, looking for her bunch of keys.
Frédérique said she had to go soon; she was asked to a dance at the Eekhofs’ that evening, and there were one or two things she had to see to yet, and Madame Verstraeten thought Lili much more sensible than Freddie and Marie, who were foolish enough to go shopping in such weather.
Again there was a ring at the bell.
It was Paul, bringing with him such a marked odour of wind and damp, that he was sent out of the room again to wipe his feet better.
“There’s weather!” he sighed, as he sat down.
Madame Verstraeten left the young people to themselves, and sat down beside her husband, who, however, on hearing that Paul had come, rose and walked to the back drawing-room.
“Morning, uncle.”
“Ah! morning, Paul; how are you?—how is your mother?”
“Mother is very well. I lift her reading a book that Eline had sent her.”
“And how is it—have you paid a visit to Hovel yet?”
“No, uncle, not yet.”
“But do so then. Don’t delay too long about it; Hovel wants to make your acquaintance.”
“Paul, it’s four days ago that you said you were going to Hovel,” cried Marie. “How can you be thinking so long about it? It isn’t such a great journey.”
“I intended to go to-morrow.”
“Then go to-morrow, about half-past six. You are sure to find him at home then. I should advise you not to fail,” said Uncle Verstraeten, and in his usually so friendly dark brown eyes there gleamed something like annoyance, when he turned to go back to the conservatory.
“Paul, Paul,” said Frédérique, shaking her head, “how can you be so lazy? You are even lazier than Lili.”
“Oh, to-morrow will be quite time enough,” grumbled Paul, as he finished drinking his cup of tea.
“Yes; but you’re very lazy, all the same. And I tell you frankly that we don’t think it nice of you at all, any of us.”
“Go on, grandmother, give me a good sermon; that’s right.”
“Grandmother or no grandmother, that’s my opinion. And you see, I think it’s a great pity that you should be like that; you could do a great deal more if you only had a little energy. Mark my words, now, if you don’t better yourself you will grow just like Henk—a dear good fellow, but good for nothing. You know very well that I am not altogether in love with Betsy, but I can quite understand that she must sometimes feel terribly bored with that brother of yours, doing nothing all day long.”
“Don’t you say anything against Henk now; Henk is a thorough good fellow,” cried Marie. “And besides,” Marie continued, “you have much more ability than Henk; and that’s just why I think that laziness and want of energy are doubly inexcusable in you.”
“Come, Marie,” said Lili, rising, “don’t go firing away like that at Paul, poor boy! You go to Hovel to-morrow, do you hear?” she whispered in his ear; “then it will be all right.”
He laughed, and promised to better himself under the able guidance of the three of them.
“And as I have evidently been placed under the guardianship of my cousins and Miss Erlevoort,” said he good-humouredly, “may I ask if they’ll allow their little protégé another cup of tea?”
The heavy rain had ceased, but the wind still shook the dripping branches.
It was half-past five when the door-bell rang once more.
“Half-past five!” exclaimed Frédérique. “I must go; I ought to have gone long ago; I have some bows to fix on my dress. Oh! I shall look bewitching to-night, all in flot de tulle! Where are my parcels, Marie?”
“There goes the bell; I wonder if there are any visitors,” said Lili.
Frédérique was about to go, when Dien came in to say that Mr. de Woude van Bergh was there.
“What! that unspeakable bore!”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” said Paul.
“Well, I don’t care; I’m going to close the folding doors. I don’t wish to see him!” she continued, and she was just about to suit the action to the word.
“Come, Lili, don’t be so silly; come this way,” said Marie.
“No, thanks; you go by yourself,” she answered and closed the doors, just as de Woude entered the front drawing-room, where Marie received him.
Paul and Frédérique laughed, and took leave of Lili, and all three passed through the dining-room to the hall.
“Good-bye; give my regards to uncle and aunt, and tell uncle that I shall go to Hovel to-morrow for certain,” said Paul.
“Remember me to them also, and tell them I really had to go,” said Freddie.
“All right; much pleasure to-night in your flot de tulle. Boo! how cold it is here in this hall!”
Paul and Freddie left, and Lili returned through the dining-room. And Georges de Woude, what had he come for? No; she could not bear him at all. So affected and formal. How could Paul see anything in him? Paul she thought ever so much nicer and manlier. And how Marie did lecture him! he was a good boy, too; and what if he were a little lazy—he had money, and might just as well enjoy himself a little now; later he could look out for a situation, and he would soon find one, that was certain. Yes; she would tell pa Paul had promised to go to Hovel to-morrow, and he always kept his word.
She sat down once more in the old chair, and poked the fire. She warmed her fingers and rubbed her little hands, soft as satin. Through the closed doors she could hear the sound of voices, amongst which that of Georges prevailed—he seemed to be telling them a long story. She must have a look for one moment, and she rose and cautiously pushed one of the doors aside a little. Yes; that would do; pa and ma she could not see, but Marie she could just see in the face, and of Georges she got a back view. What fun it would be if Marie were to catch sight of her; but no, she appeared to be all attention for that little fop. Lili could just admire his shining white collar, and the tails of his coat—superfine, all of it! There—Marie looked up—there—she just caught sight of her through the crack in the door: “Hallo! bon jour;” she shook her finger at Marie, then she curtseyed and made grimaces, until Marie had to compress her lips, so as not to burst out laughing.
As it was getting dark, Frédérique hurried home to the Voorhout. On arriving, she rushed up the broad staircase. She nearly stumbled over Lientje and Nico, two children of Madame van Ryssel, her eldest sister, who since her divorce from her husband had been living with her four children at Madame van Erlevoort’s.
“Miss Frantzen, do look after the children, they will fall!” said Frédérique, out of breath, to the bonne, whom she met on the first landing, searching high and low for the youngsters.
“Do you know where Ernestine and Johan are?” asked Miss Frantzen.
“No; I have only just come home,” answered Frédérique, quite indignant, and she hurried further, flew into her room, threw off her cloak, and with nervous fingers proceeded to open one of the little parcels she had brought with her in her muff and her pockets.
“I shall never be ready!” she muttered, and she drew aside the green damask curtains from her bedstead, disclosing her ball dress, spread out on the bed—a diaphanous cloud of light-blue tulle.
That morning Frédérique’s dress had been sent home from the dressmaker, but she wanted to add a bow here and there herself, although she almost feared to touch it, lest she should tangle the filmy, web-like stuff.
“Oh, what shall I do!” she cried; then a sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she rushed out of the room, and on the landing she cried—
“Tilly, Tilly, Mathilde!”
One of the doors opened, and her sister, Madame van Ryssel, entered in some alarm.
“Freddie, what is the matter? why do you scream so? is the house on fire?”
“No; if it were I shouldn’t call for your help. But do help me a bit, or I shall never be ready.”
“Help you? what with?”
“With my ball-dress. I want to put on a bow or two. It’s so bare at the side, and I bought some ribbon.”
Madame van Ryssel was about to reply, when the door of Madame van Erlevoort’s room opened, and the old lady came out to ask what was the matter. At the same moment a shrill burst of laughter and a sound of children’s voices re-echoed from the landing, there was a loud tripping of little feet, and a girl of seven came half tumbling down the stairs, followed by a lad of six.
“Mamma, mamma!” the child cried, as she jumped down the last steps.
“I say, Tine, Johan, what a noise you are making! What are you doing, you two?” asked Madame van Ryssel severely.
“Jo is always teasing me; Jo wants to tickle me, and he knows I can’t bear it,” panted the girl, and she hid herself behind her grandma’s petticoats, whilst Frédérique caught hold of Johan.
“I told you before that I won’t have all that running and noise in the house!” resumed Madame van Ryssel. “I wish you would remember that grandma cannot bear it.”
“Never mind,” said Madame van Erlevoort kindly, “they were only playing; eh, Tine?”
“Look out, do you hear, or I’ll tickle you!” cried Frédérique, and she tickled Johan under his little arms, so that he fell, struggling and crowing, on the floor.
“Mais comme vous les gâtez, toutes les deux! ne les choyez donc pas, quand je suis fâchée. Je perdrai tout mon pouvoir, si vous continuez ainsi!” exclaimed Madame van Ryssel despairingly, as she glanced over the banisters, for down below Madeline and Nikolaas were giving Miss Frantzen a terrible trouble and would not go up-stairs with her.
“Lientje, Nico!” cried Madame van Ryssel in her severest tones.
“Come, Mathilde, do leave the children alone for a moment, and come and look at my dress!” Freddie implored.
“I can’t keep them in order any longer, really,” said Mathilde, with a sigh of despair.
“Make haste, Freddie; we dine rather earlier to-day,” said Madame van Erlevoort.
The street door was being opened; it was Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort who were coming home, and their cheerful voices mingled with the laughter and screams of the children, the chiding tones of Miss Frantzen, and the barking of Hector, Otto’s dog.
“Come, Mathilde, do just have a look at my dress,” Freddie pleaded, in coaxing tones.
Mathilde thought it best to give up all attempts at exerting her maternal influence in that Babel of confusion, and yielded to Frédérique’s coaxing.
“Really, I mean it, I have no more control over them——”
“Come, children, don’t fight any more now; be good!” said Madame van Erlevoort to Ernestine and Johan. “Come with us down-stairs, ’tis enough to freeze you here.”
Madame van Erlevoort had always been used to excitement and hubbub, and it never seemed to upset her. Herself mother of seven children, she had always been surrounded by noisy laughter, turmoil and excitement, and she could not have understood how a large family could have existed in any atmosphere that was calmer than her own. From the first, her house had been filled with the shrill voices, the boisterous laughter, and the continual running to and fro of her children, until they grew up, in all the joyful freshness of their youthful spirits. Then with the death of her husband, Théodore Otto, Baron van Erlevoort ter Horze, member of the Second Chamber of the States General, commenced a period of unwonted calm and peacefulness, which grew even more so when her four children, one after another, left her house and got married. The first to go was Théodore, the eldest, who now managed their estates in Gelderland, and who, in the midst of his numerous family, lived at the Huis ter Horze the life of a gentleman-farmer and of a youthful patriarch combined. He was followed by her third daughter, Mathilde, whose brief married life had been very unhappy; after her, the two eldest girls, Cathérine and Suzanne, left their mother’s home, the former married to an English banker, Mr. Percy Howard, living in London, the other to Jonkheer Arnold van Stralenburg, Recorder at the Court of Justice at Zwolle.
Thus Madame van Erlevoort was left with her two sons, Otto, assistant clerk at the Ministry of the Interior, Etienne, studying for the bar at Leiden, and her youngest child, Frédérique; and without the novel charm and refreshing emotions of her grandmothership, the comparative calm by which she was surrounded would certainly have made her ill with ennui, used as she was to the tripping of light feet and the song and laughter of clear young voices.
A few years after her marriage, Mathilde with four children returned to Madame van Erlevoort, the children being assigned to her on her divorce from her husband. Since then, van Ryssel had been living abroad, and little more was heard of him.
Madame van Erlevoort sympathized deeply with her daughter, who had so long and with such dignity sustained her part of neglected and misjudged wife, and she received her with the greatest love, inwardly happy in the new, fresh-budding life which the four grandchildren had brought into her house. She spoilt them all, as she had never spoilt her own children. Try what she would to be cross with them, their wildest pranks failed to provoke her anger, whilst Mathilde they often drove to desperation, for she feared what would become of them with so much indulgence. She begged Madame van Erlevoort not to oppose her when she meted out some well-deserved punishment; Madame van Erlevoort promised readily enough, but as quickly forgot her promise on the first opportunity; whilst Frédérique, herself a spoilt child, always thought Mathilde right in her complaints, but for the rest did little to encourage a firm discipline. It was only from Otto that Mathilde could now and then expect a little support, and accordingly it was for Uncle Ot alone that the four young rascals had any respect. With his mother’s kindliness of disposition he combined his father’s common sense and practical nature, and in the unruffled calm of his demeanour he appeared older than he really was; but over his manly features there lay such a charming geniality, there was so much that was sympathetic and trustful in his bright dark eyes, that his earnestness and his sound sense attracted rather than appeared too severe in a young man of eight-and-twenty. Etienne, on the other hand, was all gaiety and thoughtlessness, and his mother’s idol, in fact her nature seemed to bask in the glow and sunshine of his character. Frédérique loved both her brothers passionately, but Otto she was fond of nicknaming papa, whilst with Etienne she would romp about much as Lientje did with Nico, and Tina with Johan.
Madame van Erlevoort wished to dine a little earlier that day, intending to have her siesta before going to dress. In the evening she was going with Freddie and her two sons to the ball at the Eekhofs’, whilst Madame van Ryssel stayed at home, a quiet, saddened young woman, whose smile but faintly lit up her wax-like face, and who lived but for her children.
By Mathilde’s express desire, the four noisy customers always dined in a separate room, with Miss Frantzen. As for Madame van Erlevoort, there was nothing she would have liked better than to have sat at table with the whole batch of them, Miss Frantzen included, not caring one iota whether her damask table-cloths were swimming in gravy, her glass ware broken to bits, or the preserves mauled about by a set of greasy little fingers. Thus Mathilde had been unable to prevent the children, who dined earlier and whose meal was over sooner, from running in one after another into the dining-room, to the despair of Miss Frantzen, whose round face and terrified eyes would then appear at the half-open door. This sort of thing Madame van Erlevoort in her kindliness having tolerated once or twice, soon became the rule, and Mathilde was obliged with a sigh to resign herself to the inevitable. As for Etienne and Frédérique, they only helped to make the youngsters noisier than ever. Otto also played with them, and Mathilde with a smile shrugged her shoulders; she could not help it, let things go as they would.
“No, thank you, Otto, nothing more,” said Frédérique, at the dinner-table. “I can never eat when I am going to a ball; you know that.”
“Is it still like that?” asked Otto. “I always thought that it was only very young girls who could not eat at their first entrée into society. Are you still so nervous? Poor girl!”
“Freddie, what have you been doing to your dress? I hope you have not spoilt anything?” asked Madame van Erlevoort, with some anxiety.
“No, ma; I took Mathilde’s advice and did not touch it at all. Ah! you shall see me this evening,” she continued to Otto; “I shall look quite ethereal in my blue tulle—just fit to be blown away, you know. Hallo! there they come, the young Vandals!”
This was meant for the four little van Ryssels, who now came storming into the room, Nico with an ear-splitting trumpet in his mouth. They came to eat their orange with wine and sugar. Madame van Erlevoort took Nico next to her and gave him his plate full of fruit, and ere long the young rascal was sucking away at the luscious morsels, varying the repast with an occasional blare from his trumpet.
Ernestine, Johan, and Etienne were picking their hardest from one dish, and amid loud laughter their forks got jangled one in another, whilst Freddie told Otto who were coming to the Eekhofs’ that evening.
“There are the Hydrechts, Eline Vere, the van Larens, Françoise Oudendyk. Don’t you think Françoise prettier than Marguerite van Laren? Eh, Otto, which of the two are you going to mash? Oh, Nico! my nerves! Nico!”
Tootterootoo, too, went the trumpet.
“Nico, you will drive me crazy with that blaring noise. Put that thing down now, and eat properly. There, it’s all running down your jacket!” cried Mathilde.
“Oh, he is only making a little music; eh, little dot?” said Madame van Erlevoort, and she drew her arm round the child, who, without much respect for his grandma, blew his trumpet right into her ear.
After dinner Freddie and Etienne romped about with the children, whilst Madame van Erlevoort retired to her boudoir, and Otto sat down to smoke his cigar beside Mathilde, who took up some embroidery. Rika, the servant, cleared the table, much hampered in the process by Nico, and in fear and trembling for the safety of the tray upon which she had placed the dirty plates and glasses. At last the clock struck eight, and Miss Frantzen came to fetch the children.
“Ciel de mon âme!” cried Frédérique, half smothered on the sofa between Ernestine, Johan, and Lientje, and with an effort she extricated herself from the labyrinth of arms and legs that twined itself about her like an octopus. “I must get up-stairs; Mathilde, will you help me?”
“Yes; I am coming,” answered Mathilde, rising. “And you, children, you be off to bed, quick!”
“No, I won’t; I want to see Aunt Freddie look pretty first,” cried Ernestine, in a little whining voice. “And I want to help auntie, too.”
“Auntie can do without your help, and pretty she always is. Come now, go up-stairs, all of you, with Miss Frantzen; allons, like good children.”
Freddie ran off, and as Madame van Erlevoort was asleep, Mathilde could for once exert her influence, and the four of them were bundled off up the stairs, with an admonition on each step, as Nico wanted to run down again, and Lientje remained sitting on the floor, playing with Hector.
“I am coming directly, Freddie!” cried Mathilde; “as soon as the children are up-stairs.”
Freddie was already in her room, brushing out the wavy masses of her hair. Mathilde was to dress it: she did it so deftly. And she set about arranging everything—her fan, her gloves, her handkerchief, her pale-blue satin shoes. A nervous blush suffused her clear pale face, as she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled, until in each cheek there formed a little dimple. “Yes; it would be all right,” she said. In half an hour Mathilde came back with Martha, the chamber-maid, and Frédérique sat down in front of the glass, in her white under-bodice and blue shoes.
“Just as simple and fetching as last time you did it, Tilly,” coaxed Frédérique, as Martha handed her the comb, the curling-tongs, or a hairpin, as they were wanted. “Oh! it’s quite cold here! Do wrap something round my shoulders, Martha!”
Martha wrapt a fur cape about her. With deft fingers, Mathilde had soon completed her task.
“There!” said she, and arranged the frizzy fringe in front. “Simple, tasteful, and fetching—are you satisfied?”
Frédérique looked at herself, and with the tips of her fingers she just touched her hair.
“Rather!” she said. “And now—my flot de tulle.”
The fur cape was thrown on the floor, and Martha arranged the confused mass of garments which were spread about the room. Mathilde lifted up the cloud of delicate azure, and light as a sigh she let it glide about Freddie’s shoulders.
“There’s something fairy, something naiad-like about me!” said Freddie, raising her arms, and Tilly and Martha knelt down and drew open the folds of silky gauze. “La, la, la——” and Freddie’s little feet kept time to the tune she hummed.
“Freddie, Freddie, do be quiet now! Martha, a pin; here, that bow is undone.”
“How do I look, Martha?”
“Sweetly pretty, miss.”
“Doesn’t it look bare at the side, Tilly?”
“Oh, dear, no; ’tis all bows and ribbons. Come, Freddie, do sit still a moment, now.”
All at once the door opened slowly, with a creaking sound.
“What now?” cried Mathilde impatiently, and her anger rose when she caught sight of Ernestine, shivering in her white nightgown, making her appearance behind the door, a little frightened, but with an elf-like impudence.
“Oh, ma, I want so much——”
“But, Tine, ’tis enough to get your death of cold, running about like that! I don’t know how you can be so disobedient.”
“Get into my bed, Tine, quick; but mind my bodice!” cried Freddie. “Never mind, Tilly, let her alone,” she whispered.
Tine crept into the bed, and nestled herself like a dove in the blankets, and her little fingers passed over the blue satin of Frédérique’s corsage, which was lying on the pillow.
Mathilde shrugged her shoulders with a sigh, resigned as usual, but the bodice she took away. Madame van Erlevoort appeared in the open door, rustling in silk moiré.
“Oh, how nice mamma is looking!” cried Frédérique excitedly; “you will see, Tilly, I shall be the last again to be ready. Make haste a bit, do!”
Mathilde laced in the satin bodice, and Madame van Erlevoort smiled in admiration at her airy Undine. But what was that shuffling sound behind her? Looking round, she caught sight of Johan and Lientje, both numbed with cold, and in their nightgowns.
“No; this is really too bad. ’Tis enough to drive one mad,” cried Mathilde, and she left Frédérique standing with her bodice half-laced, and rushed away to the young rascals. “How can you be so naughty, all of you, and worry ma so! To-morrow you will all be ill. Come, up-stairs at once!”
She spoke with much annoyance, and the children half began to cry; but Madame van Erlevoort came to the rescue.
“Never mind, Mathilde, let them stop a little while.”
“In my bed—get in, quick!” cried Frédérique, laughing her hardest; “but don’t you touch my tulle; hands off there!” and she drew back in fear from the outstretched hands of the little Vandals, who were burning to tumble the filmy gauze, and pull at the long bows.
Mathilde could see well