CHAPTER XVII.
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?” a