CHAPTER XIII.
Madame Verstraeten was at home with Lili, who had caught a severe cold, while Marie and Frédérique, skates in hand, accompanied Paul and Etienne to the Ysclub, round by the Laan van Meerdervoort. The old gentleman sat reading in the warm conservatory, in the midst of the glossy green foliage of the azaleas and the palms. Lili was not in her usual good humour; she answered her mother in languid monosyllables, and nearly suffocated herself, trying to repress her coughing. For she was better, she had declared, and coughed no more; it would do her no good to stay at home any longer, and she would go out in a day or two.
And yet, notwithstanding that determination, out yonder it seemed to her like Siberia, when she saw the frozen snow lying hard and white on the bare branches and on the unsoiled marble-like paths. Madame Verstraeten continued her crochet work, and the deft movements of the crochet needle irritated Lili, just as the regular turning of the pages of her father’s book irritated her. She herself did nothing, and her hands lay wearily in her lap, but however much she enjoyed such a dolce far niente at other times, now it wearied her terribly, and yet she felt no desire for any occupation. Secretly she envied Freddie and Marie’s good health and spirits, while she was delicate and was obliged to guard against the slightest draught. But when her sister hesitated to accompany Freddie and Etienne, she herself had induced her to go and fetch her skates; Marie could not always stay at home with her if she were foolish enough to be ill, and besides, mamma would keep her company.
A sigh escaped her lips as she took a lozenge from the little box before her, and the old lady looked at her furtively, well knowing that in her present excitable mood any show of motherly anxiety on her part would irritate Lili more than the utmost indifference.
So the afternoon slowly passed under Lili’s quiet pouting, and no one came to disturb the dull peacefulness that prevailed until past four, when the bell rang and Dien showed Georges de Woude inside. Lili felt annoyed; Dien might have announced him first, she thought. Surely he was not so intimate with them as all that! And while Madame Verstraeten gave him her hand, she greeted him somewhat coolly, slowly reaching her little white fingers towards him—slowly too, following, when her mother conducted him to the conservatory, to the old gentleman. Her parents were already sitting down with him, when she languidly pushed up a cane-chair, and as languidly sat down in it, as though to show him that his visit disturbed her, and that she joined them merely for courtesy’s sake.
At the first few words he addressed to her parents she looked away with somewhat affected absent-mindedness into the garden, as though she took no interest in their conversation. Madame Verstraeten had commenced with a question about Berlin, where he had been attached to the Legation for three months, but he replied rather briefly; half addressing himself to Lili, and by turns looking at her and her mother, he inquired after her health; had she really been seriously ill? Lili muttered something, whilst her mother replied; but it struck her that he asked the question with a certain anxiety, not as a mere commonplace, as if indeed he felt an interest in her welfare. What could it matter to him whether she was ill or not? But he did not seem to remark her coolness, when, seeing the subject was not attractive to her, he again turned his easy flowing conversation to Berlin, and in his agreeable manner replied to her parents’ questions. Each time he looked at her, as if to draw her into the conversation, and out of courtesy she now and again smiled a little, and asked some trifling question, as indifferently as possible.
How he rattled on, she thought, as she had thought before, when he once began to talk; but still, it was as though that thought was rather a forced one, and not entirely spontaneous. He rattled, it was true; but there was something pleasant and sociable in his chat—something that, whether she admitted it or not, entertained her after the tiresome afternoon she had spent by the side of her knitting mother. He did not talk badly, a little excited, but tiresome he was not, and—it seemed as though she had never before remarked it—he was not so terribly affected after all. His accent was perhaps a little too studied, but that was all; his gestures were simple, and through his easy manner there shone an evident sincerity whenever he turned to her. And his dress, it was faultlessly neat, perhaps too much so; still it was not that of a coxcomb, she must admit it was simple enough.
He chatted on as Mr. Verstraeten asked him about his engagements, and whilst she looked at him, she unconsciously smiled at him with more cordiality. It did not escape him, and once more he ventured to ask her, did she feel better now, did she not go out yet? What could it matter to him? again she thought, almost annoyed; he had asked her once out of politeness, that was more than sufficient, but still she answered him, and told him her cough was better—a little cough quickly belied her words—and that she was feeling much easier under the kindly care of mamma and Marie. He felt grateful for those words, but he had heard the suppressed cough, and it was on his lips to caution her to be careful—the weather was so bleak—but he did not do so; she might think it was no business of his, and he asked after Marie.
“Oh yes,” answered Lili; “she has gone skating with Frédérique and Etienne van Erlevoort and with Paul. Don’t you pity me that I have to stay at home again, like the sick child?”
“Are you so very sorry that you could not go? Are you fond of skating?”
“Yes; that is to say, I like it very much; but speaking frankly, I don’t know much about it. Marie and Freddie skate much better than I; they go curling and twisting about while I can only just amble along; I am too frightened, you know, and——”
“But do not Paul or Etienne assist you then?”
“Oh, Paul says frankly that he thinks it tiresome to skate with such a duffer, and Etienne—yes, I must admit—he will sacrifice himself for five minutes sometimes.”
“But, Lili,” said Madame Verstraeten, “if you cannot skate, it is certainly tiresome to them.”
“I was more polite in my time,” said the old gentleman.
“Oh, I make them no reproaches,” said Lili; “I am only telling you the facts,” and she gave a little cough.
“But, when you are better, when you are going out again,” resumed Georges hesitating—he knew he was making a bold plunge—“may I now and then offer you my assistance? I am mostly at my office, ’tis true, but still——”
“You skate, then?” cried Lili. She would never have thought it of him.
“I am passionately fond of it!” he declared. “Do you accept?”
She nearly blushed, and answered, smiling, with downcast eyes—
“Oh, with pleasure, yes. But you will have such a trouble with me. I am so frightened; I always fancy I hear the ice crack, you see—you don’t know what you are offering me.”
“Oh yes,” he answered; “I don’t think I shall ever regret having asked you.”
How was it, thought Lili, that he could repeat a sentence like that, with such an expression of sincerity, and she could find no reply? She only laughed a little. There was a pause in the conversation, but Georges quickly revived it, and continued his pleasant chat until it grew dark, when he rose, apologizing for his lengthy visit.
“Oh, not at all; on the contrary,” said Mr. Verstraeten, “I am very pleased to see you again. Remember me to the old gentleman and to your sister.”
“Emilie declared she could not manage without you,” added Madame Verstraeten. “She will be glad you are home again.”
Lili thought she could understand that Emilie must have missed Georges, and she offered him her hand, and once more cordially thanked him for his offer.
“A good fellow, that de Woude!” said Mr. Verstraeten, when he had gone, and Lili returned to the small drawing-room, and as she went heard mamma also express herself favourably about Georges, charmed as she was with his polished courteousness.
“He always gives us a call when he can. Of course he would not do so if there were no girls in the house, if we received no company, but still——”
Lili heard no more; she smiled at her own fancies, in which she saw herself together with Georges, gliding over the ice, their hands clasped in each other’s.
Marie came home, accompanied by Freddie, Paul, and Etienne, who took leave at the door; she entered the room tired out, cold, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. It had been splendid; the ice was crowded, the little Eekhofs, Eline, and Henk were there.
“De Woude has called here,” said Madame Verstraeten. “He has been back these three days.”
“Indeed!” said Marie with indifference, and she began to unclasp her little cloak.
“And he asked me to go skating with him, when I am better,” said Lili, somewhat embarrassed, and with a little cough.
Marie all at once stopped undoing her cloak, and looked at her sister in astonishment.
“De Woude? With you? And what did you say?”
“That I thought it very nice of him, of course. What else should I have said?”
Marie roared with laughter.
“What, you skating with de Woude? with that ‘stuck-up coxcomb,’ that ‘piece of affectation’? But, Lili, that will never do; you always thought him such an intolerable bore.”
“Qu’est ce que ça fait? At least he is politer than Paul or Etienne, and if he likes to assist me——”
Marie still laughed.
“But he can’t skate!” she cried contemptuously.
“He says he is passionately fond of it.”
“Oh, don’t you believe it. Rubbish!”
Lili shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
“But he wouldn’t tell any fibs about it, surely!”
“Dear me, how eager you are all of a sudden to champion him! At one time there was no good in him at all.”
“I always thought him very nice and polite.”
“Lili, how can you tell such disgraceful fibs? You always thought him unbearable.”
“But, Marie, that is no reason surely why I should not go skating with him,” cried Lili, almost in an imploring tone. “When you go to a dance I am sure you are not so particular about your partners.”
“Still, I hardly know what to think about it,” Marie persisted teasingly. “All at once on the ice together.—Mamma, do you think ’tis right?”
Lili turned away with dignified contempt.
“Child that you are!” she said, looking down upon her sister; and she was much annoyed at herself, for she felt herself blushing, and—for nothing at all.
“Papa is asleep?” asked Georges, as he entered Emilie’s sitting-room in the evening after dinner.
Emilie gave a little start; she was somewhat under the influence of a copious meal; her chair was so comfortable, the fire so sociable.
“Yes; papa is asleep,” she repeated, blinking her eyes.
Georges laughed.
“And how about Emilie; has she been asleep too?” he asked good-humouredly.
“No,” she answered. “I have not been asleep, only dozing a little. Will you stay at home to tea? Yes, that will be sociable.”
And she looked at him with a kindly expression in her honest eyes; she felt a sort of motherly affection for that younger brother, whom she had brought up and petted from his childhood, and who had now returned to her fostering care after a two months’ absence abroad. She was glad that he was looking so well, he had even grown stouter, and with pride she remarked that a more manly expression lay over his delicate features, or was it her fancy, because she had not seen him for some time?
Georges sat down beside her, and they conversed about things in general. She knew him well, she thought, and she felt sure that he was about to ask her some favour. Inwardly she was glad that he needed her, but still she could not resist the temptation to leave him to shift for himself entirely, without helping him to come to the point. He hesitated a great deal, and when from her assumed indifference he judged that it was not the right moment to speak, he seemed of a sudden determined to postpone what he had to say, and in a firmer voice began talking about something else. Then she felt sorry, and said but little in reply, whilst she tried to think of some means to lead him back to his original intention. But she could find no pretext whatever, and so she cut the matter short at once by straightway asking him—
“I say, Georges, what is it? What have you to tell me?”
Now it was his turn to pretend indifference, and with assumed surprise he answered—
“To tell you? How do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I thought—I fancied I could see something in the ends of your moustache,” she said jokingly. “Is there nothing the matter, really? Money affairs, perhaps?”
She knew better, they were no money affairs, it was never anything to do with money affairs, for in money matters he was always so desperately precise that she could never find the slightest flaw in that quarter. And indeed he shook his head in denial, but still, though he looked at her smilingly, he got no farther; his question must indeed be an awkward one if it made such a ready talker as he hesitate.
“Oh no,” he answered. “’Tis all said in a few words, but there are times when words will not come at all; isn’t it so?”
“Look here, Georges, don’t beat about the bush, pray; if you have anything to say or to ask of me, come out with it straight away, without mincing matters, that is quite unnecessary with me!” she resumed almost reproachfully, but with such an encouraging tenderness that he grasped her white hand, and with playful gallantry raised it to his lips.
“And now, allons! fire away!” Emilie urged, giving him a light tap under the chin.
He was forced to speak, he could not go back, and he gathered up his courage and began slowly in broken sentences, but soon came to the point. His position—would she think it very foolish of him, if he—thought of getting married? There was a tremor in his voice, as though his fate depended on her answer.
His words took her by surprise; despite his twenty-four years, she still looked upon him in some way as her boy, her pet child, and—he thought of getting married! But notwithstanding the superficial gloss of his airy manner, she knew him to be manly and sensible; he would not ask her such a thing if he had not thoroughly thought it out, and it would be wrong of her to wound him, perhaps in a deep-seated affection, by one word of banter. Still she felt alarmed at the thought of sooner or later losing him.
“Marry! Georges, do you really think of it?”
He smiled, as though charmed at some bright vision.
“Why not?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Are you—are you then—so much in love?” she asked softly. “Is it——?” and a name rose to her lips, but she failed to pronounce it.
He nodded his head, laughingly, as though he knew that she had guessed right. Some time before his departure to Berlin, already she had teased him about Lili Verstraeten, about whom he always had such a lot to say. But now that he acknowledged it, she felt disappointed. How did he know that Lili could care for him? Was he not building castles in the air? But she did not give expression to the thought; she would not shatter his illusion, he seemed so happy in his quiet hopefulness.
“Georges, if you are in earnest, really—well, let us consider now,” and she moved her chair closer to his. “Suppose it all goes smoothly at first, say you propose, and she accepts you, what then? How long won’t you have to wait before it can come to a marriage?”
“Why?”
“But, Georges, whatever do you mean? How simple you are! You surely don’t intend to marry on your salary as assistant-consul? Twelve hundred florins, is it not? ’Tis true you are entitled to your share of mamma’s legacy, but it is only a trifle, all in all you won’t be very rich. So I ask you, on what are you going to marry then? You cannot depend much on what the Verstraetens will give as a dowry; they live well, but simply; they are not really wealthy.”
“My dear Emilie, if you want to reckon at all, then reckon properly. ’Tis true, on the support of my intended parents-in-law—if they will ever be that,” he whispered smiling, “I—don’t reckon at all; in fact I should not even care about it.”
“For all that, you would not say no, if they were to come forward with anything substantial.”
“I don’t know; that is a factor which I shall put aside for the present, in fact I haven’t even given it a thought; but you were reckoning up just now, and you reckoned rather carelessly. Suppose I don’t pass my examination as vice-consul this year, is my share to the legacy not fifteen hundred florins?”
“About that.”
“Well, twelve hundred plus fifteen hundred makes——”
“Two thousand seven hundred florins! And would you marry on that?”
“Why not?”
She clasped her hands in despair.
“But, Georges, you are—pardonnez-moi le mot—you are out of your senses. Don’t be a child, pray, and don’t create illusions out of impossibilities. Perhaps you have got hold of that little book—let me see, what is it called? ‘How to live a comfortable married life on fifteen hundred florins.’ ”
“No; I don’t know the book, but fifteen hundred is not two thousand seven hundred florins, and I flatter myself——”
“You flatter yourself! Yes, you will do a lot! Are you a fellow to jog along with a wife from January to December on a wretched couple of thousand gulden? Yes, indeed you will do a lot,” she repeated excitedly, and almost angry, when he wanted to interrupt her, and she rose excitedly from her easy-chair. “I fancy I see you, established in apartments on the second floor, luxuriating on a beefsteak once a week, eh! However, ’tis a life I can’t describe to you. I don’t know anything about it, that I will confess. You are used to good living, Lili also; how are you two going to—? Oh! come, ’tis too absurd. Do be sensible, Georges! I know you too well——”
“It seems you do not quite,” he interrupted in his low voice, which contrasted with her indignant tone. “At all events, I think I have the faculty to be able to regulate my wants in proportion to my means.”
“Maybe you do, but how about your wife? Would you force a young girl, brought up with a certain amount of luxury, also to regulate her wants according to your means? Believe me, Georges, nowadays people do not live on love and moonshine, and young people like yourself, like Lili, must have some luxuries, they must go out——”
“Oh! that eternal going out. I went out when I was a youth; surely one need not always to be going out.”
“Egotist! Therefore, because you as a youth went out as much as you liked, you want to marry and stay at home for economy, and sit with your wife luxuriating over your weekly beefsteak. What a grand prospect for her, to be sure!”
“But, Emilie, why must you lay such a stress on the urgent necessity of going out every evening? I don’t see it myself, I must admit. I base my happiness on something altogether different.”
“Up to this moment you have been as gay a butterfly as any one of them—in short, you have gone out. Now you are in love you have had a little poesy infused into your ideas; but believe me, that will wear off, and when you have been married a little while you will find it very sociable indeed to have a pleasant circle of acquaintances.”
“Granted, as far as the circle of acquaintances is concerned; but to give them up is no part of my plan, and it will not cost so very much to keep up their friendship.”
“It costs a great deal, Georges, believe me,” urged Emilie. “You receive invitations; you don’t want to be considered mean; you must give a little dinner, however unpretentious; you have to do so again and again, and all this, mind you, you have to manage on two thousand seven hundred gulden, eh? Well, I fancy I can see you at it already. Especially your wife, who has to keep house on those two thousand seven hundred gulden, or rather on as much of it as you allow her. Anyhow, you won’t catch me coming to stay with you, do you hear?”
He laughed at her indignation, but still he did not yield himself vanquished.
“Emilie, don’t excite yourself about nothing at all, pray!” he said calmly. “Up to now ’tis all in the air yet, eh? I have not yet—taken a step—I don’t know even whether——”
He did not complete the sentence, hesitating to express in words the thoughts that seemed so disagreeable.
“Yes, Georges, I understand,” she replied, somewhat appeased by the calm of his voice; “but still financial circumstances can hardly be put off as second considerations; this much you will admit.”
“Of course; but you must not fix my budget too high. By the bye, dear,” he interrupted himself with a winning smile, “talking about a budget—just help me to arrange one, will you?”
“What! of a total of two thousand seven hundred gulden? Impossible, Georges, I am not equal to the task. Why, to live respectably in apartments, unmarried, you would want more.”
He sighed.
“Then we can’t agree about the matter at all?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You are a child to persist in such foolish ideas. You don’t know what life is.”
She was annoyed that he was so obstinate, and would not listen to her good advice, but he—although he would not have admitted it—felt himself hesitate a little in his so-long-thought-out ideas; he felt a burden of hopelessness overwhelming him, and saw the ground of his expectations glide away from under his feet. Slowly he passed his hand across his forehead; it were better perhaps—if he waited.
“Perhaps—I should—do better to—wait!” he whispered, giving expression to the thoughts that oppressed, and his words were so full of sad resignation that Emilie, notwithstanding the victory she had achieved, felt pained.
She took his head in both her hands, and looked long into his sad, wistful eyes.
“You dreamer!” she said, full of motherly tenderness and sympathy. “Who knows, eh? You are so young—and perhaps, who knows, perhaps——”
“Well—perhaps what?”
“Perhaps you are right, and I am all wrong,” casting aside her victory at the sorrow it caused her spoilt boy. “Only, think well over it; be sensible, Georges, I beg of you!”
And she pressed a loving kiss on his eyelids, which closed, and beneath which she felt a suspicious moisture.