CHAPTER XVIII.
Lili was cross, very cross, her lips trembled, and the tears nearly stood in her eyes.
“I really don’t see why he cannot be asked,” she answered Marie pettishly. “He is a regular visitor here.”
“But, Lili, how can you be so foolish? Mamma asked him once or twice this winter, and surely we are not quite so intimate with him that we should invite him to accompany us into the country. When you begin to ask strangers, there is always a sort of constraint.”
“But he is very sociable.”
“That’s true. He improves on further acquaintance, I must admit; but still we don’t know him as we do Paul and Etienne.”
“Oh, they are nice boys! They do nothing all day long but lounge about from the Witte to Linke, and from the Bordelaise to the Bodega, and always with that wretched Vere. We don’t see them at all just now; Paul occasionally condescends to call, and Etienne has now become quite a myth. Ask Vere, if you like,” she concluded pettishly; “then you will have the trio complete.”
Marie shrugged her shoulders.
“Now don’t be angry with me, Lili, because mamma won’t ask de Woude. ’Tis not my fault,” she answered softly.
“Oh no, not at all! But ’tis always so when I—when I have an idea. It’s always pooh-pooh’d. I won’t bother about it any more. I don’t care a rap for the whole party.”
She left the room, with difficulty repressing her tears, while Marie took up her book with a sigh.
Madame Verstraeten had gone to sit down beside her husband in the conservatory. She had overheard something of Lili’s short passionate sentences, and a thought filled her that brought a reflection of hesitation over her kindly face.
“What troubles you?” asked the old gentleman.
“Oh! it is about de Woude,” whispered Madame Verstraeten hesitatingly, so as not to be understood by Marie. “Lili wants me to ask him for the party, but——”
“Well, why not? I don’t dislike de Woude, although he is rather foppish. He can be jolly enough with the girls——”
“But, Charles, really we must not encourage that. When I see him I am always as polite as possible to him, but there’s no occasion for us to encourage him, is there? of what use can that be? Lili is almost a child yet, and gets her head full of fancies; but what—what can come of this now?”
“But why must you all at once think they want to marry? For the present it is only a question of inviting him.”
“Yes, yes, I know; but you never see them when they are together, as I do. I wish you would come to Scheveningen once or twice.”
“No, thanks; I’m much obliged to you.”
“Then you would see for yourself. You can’t get him away from our table. He is discreet enough not always to accept when I ask him to come and have an ice; but he stays till we go, and scarcely says a word to any of his acquaintances. With Marie he’ll just take a little walk, pour acquit de conscience, and after that ’tis Lili here, and Lili everywhere. So you understand I don’t see much good in it.”
“Do you think then that Lili——?”
“Of course, without question! Everybody talks about it too, and they know it; but they don’t care, bless you! I don’t know—I really don’t—what will come of it all,” said the old lady, and once more that hesitating shadow stole over her face.
Mr. Verstraeten sat for a moment in contemplation: then he whispered something to his wife, and for a long time they talked together in an undertone.
Marie however could not get along with her reading, so she went up-stairs to Lili. She found her sobbing, with her little head buried in the pillows.
“Lili!” she cried softly.
Lili started when she heard Marie’s voice.
“Oh, leave me alone, do!” she cried impatiently.
But Marie took her hands and forced her to look up.
“Lili, how can you be so foolish?” she said, in her gently penetrating tones. “You are making yourself miserable about nothing. In this way we won’t be able to get along at all together, if you sit and brood like that at every word that is said. Lili, come now.”
“Oh, do let me alone!”
“Do you think it so nice, then, to make yourself unhappy, and lie here alone, crying? Why don’t you speak to me frankly? Isn’t it much better to trust one another, and be open and straightforward?”
How gladly would she herself have spoken, and unbosomed herself to Lili or to her mother! But no, she could not, there were some feelings that were best hidden.
Lili raised herself a little, and from her tear-stained face she brushed away the dishevelled hair with her hands.
“What would you have me say, then? You know all. There is nothing that Georges can do finds any more favour in mamma’s eyes.”
“Come, you exaggerate. Both papa and mamma like him very much.”
“Oh yes; I know. But if it comes to showing him a little courtesy—And you too——”
“What then?”
“Didn’t you say he was a stranger, who could not be asked?”
“If I had known that that would have caused you pain, I should have said something else. Only I can’t bear to see you agitating yourself about nothing, Lili. Why, you carry on as though your life were for ever ruined, and all that because mamma thinks it better not to ask de Woude.”
“Well, it isn’t very pleasant for me. I have—I have already spoken to him about the picnic, and—of course he expects to be invited.”
“But why are you so hasty, then? ’Tisn’t very nice for mamma either, when people begin to talk about you two. Only yesterday Madame Eekhof asked——”
“What do we care about Madame Eekhof, if we like each other? If you were to trouble yourself about everybody——”
An almost mocking smile formed about Marie’s mouth.
“Yes, Lili,” she answered with an underlying sadness, which however was lost upon Lili, who heard only the laughing banter of her tone, “it’s very terrible! You care for Georges, and Georges cares for you, and all the world is against you—mamma, and Madame Eekhof, and everybody, eh? ’Tis sad, very sad, isn’t it? And I can quite understand how little hope you have that it will ever be otherwise! How sad, how unfortunate it is, to be sure!”
“Oh, Marie! how can you talk like that when you know—when you know it pains me?”
“Yes; I am cruel, eh?” Marie resumed, but her smile grew gentler. “Come, Lili, do cease crying now, and give me a kiss; forgive me for what I said. Shall I have another try, and see if I can induce mamma to change her mind?”
“Oh, do, there’s a good soul! Mamma will consent if you ask her.”
“Yes; no one refuses me, eh? With me all goes smoothly. ’Tis only against you that everybody’s hand is raised. Poor, poor child!”
Lili laughed between her tears as she looked at Marie.
“Marie, how droll you are when you sermonize like that! It makes me laugh, really.”
“All right, sissy, you laugh away; let us laugh as long as we may. Well, good-bye; put your hair straight a little; I am going to mamma.”
She nodded to Lili and left the room, envying her sister who could freely express what she felt, and as she was going down the stairs she smiled a little sad smile when she thought of Lili’s grief and despair about Georges. Her sister seemed to her as a child crying for its toys; she could already see Lili’s little face, now so bitterly sorrowful, beam with gladness, as it would do when she, Marie, should return to her in half an hour.
Happy Lili! that she might weep so freely—that she might exclaim with such exultation—“What do we care for Madame Eekhof, if we like each other?”
They were bound for a farm-house, kept by a farmer with whom the Verstraetens were well acquainted. The road taken lay along the Loosduinschen Weg, and the passengers by the brake felt far from comfortable in the sweltering rays of the mid-day sun, which poured its fierce rays mercilessly down upon their heads. Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde sat on a back seat, with Nico between them; Marie, Lili and Frédérique, Paul, Etienne and Georges were their vis-à-vis, the front bench being occupied by Tine and Lientje, and the little cousins Verstraeten; Johan and little Cateau van der Stoor sat on the box. It would be a cosy little party, entirely among themselves, without the presence of strangers, who would only have interfered with their freedom. Marie was taking handfuls of cherries from a big basket and distributing them all round, and Etienne, between his mouthfuls, was relating how Marguerite van Laren had declared that a brake was a plebeian conveyance.
“When the van Larens go to a picnic they always go in court carriages, I suppose, with powdered footmen!” said Georges.
“In toilettes à la Watteau, and leading little lambs attached to pink ribbons,” added Lili, and they smiled at each other.
Every one laughed, and they felt in a very good humour, the girls in their simple cotton frocks, the young men in their light summer suits and straw hats.
“Cateau, will you have some cherries?” asked Marie, and a handful went across to Cateau. “There you are, divide with Jan.”
“Oh, I shall get my share,” cried Jan, in his loud voice. “Toos, shall I show you a little trick?”
“What sort of trick?” asked Toos.
“Look, you see those two cherries, don’t you? Now then, put that one in your mouth; that’s right.”
“Well, and what then?” asked Toos, doing as she was asked.
“Then I shall take the other, do you see? There!” continued the rascal, and opened his mouth for the second cherry with a smacking kiss on Cateau’s lips.
“I say, Jan!” said Madame Verstraeten indignantly.
“That Cateau! what a stupid girl!” cried Freddie laughing.
“I didn’t know what he was going to do,” declared Cateau; “that wretched boy!”
“Come, Toos, nonsense, you knew all about it!” teased Paul.
Cateau was in despair because Paul refused to believe her.
And the brake rattled on along meadows full of fat grazing cattle, their hides of black and white glossy as satin, while the willows along the edges of the ditches waved their fans of silver-gray foliage from the summits of their gnarled stems.
“I think a willow is such a melancholy tree, don’t you, Georges?” asked Lili.
“Oh, Lili is getting poetic!” cried Etienne. “Come, Lili, an ode to the willow.”
“It seems I can’t say a thing but you must all laugh at me,” answered Lili pouting. “I must be very ridiculous?”
And they continued to tease her, whilst the cherries rained thick and fast in everybody’s lap, amid general laughter. The road grew hilly, whilst in the distance the duny heights arose. Here and there was a villa, hidden amid the foliage, or a farm-house, with fields of turnips and cauliflowers, and rows of climbing beans, or a little garden full of sunflowers, geraniums, and tuberoses. A washerwoman busily wringing clothes by the side of a ditch raised herself up and smiled, and two peasant children ran behind the carriage to catch the cherries which Jan and Cateau threw to them.
The road undulated between yellow fields of oats and flax, bespeckled with the blue and red of corn-flowers and wild peas, until at length the farm-house was reached. The farmer’s wife appeared at the gate with a kindly smile, and from all sides they sprang from the brake, while Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde lifted down an array of boxes, baskets, and hampers. The driver got down from the box and led his steaming horses to the stable. Jan Verstraeten, little Cateau, and the young van Ryssels soon took possession of the two swings. Jan had promised Madame van Ryssel that he would be careful, and Cateau would look after Nico.
“They are just like a married couple with their offspring!” laughed Marie, as she followed them with her eyes.
“I’ll drive them all away from the swing in a moment; I want to swing as well,” cried Etienne noisily, intoxicated with the sun and the fresh air. “Lili, will you have a swing with me presently?—at least, if de Woude does not mind,” he whispered, with longing eyes.
“De Woude has nothing to say about me. But I don’t care for swinging, it gives me a headache, thanks.”
“I am madly fond of it, Eetje,” cried Marie; “I shall be ready in a moment; but high, very high, do you hear? Up to the clouds.”
“Come, let us go and look for a nice little spot, a little further on the dunes,” said Paul.
“Oh, of course; Paul is thinking of his comfort again. But the dunes are very hot, Paully,” said Freddie.
“No; there are trees, oaks I think, the other side of the pavilion.”
“Right away, then. It really is too hot to bustle about much. I am of Paul’s opinion; I like a lazy picnic: lounging in the shade and watching the clouds overhead,” lisped Lili.
“Lili always manages to unite the languorous with the poetical,” laughed her sister. “In Heaven’s name, de Woude, propose something. We are all chattering at once, and you—you say nothing.”
Georges laughed, and they went, picking their way through the overhanging foliage, and pushing back the leafy branches, which again closed behind them with a rustling sound. Lili started, frightened at a spider which hovered over her attached to its silvery thread, and when de Woude brushed away the insect they became the objects of general teasing: she, as the timid maiden; he, as a brave knight, slaying the dragons that surrounded her.
“But what have we done, that you are always down upon us?” cried Georges.
“Oh, Georges, don’t you trouble yourself about it,” said Lili. “They think they are very witty. Oh, Paul, how you let us clamber along in this heat. ’Tis quite a journey to that pretty spot of yours. And those tiresome branches too. Ooh!”
She glanced, pouting, at her finger, which had received a scratch from a thorn.
“Let me walk in front of you,” whispered Georges, and he said it so softly and glided so deftly in front of her that the others, amid their laughter at Lili’s mishap, did not notice it. The two dropped behind a little, and Lili smilingly followed after him, while Georges held back the branches until they could no longer touch her face.
“Let them laugh! You don’t care, do you?” he asked, entirely absorbed in his happiness.
“Not a bit,” she answered calmly, shaking her little fair head under the big hat, while a mocking smile formed about her mouth. “We can laugh at them now. Who is that shrieking?”
“Etienne, of course,” said Georges.
Paul and Etienne had come upon a grassy spot beneath the chestnut trees, from which a small panorama could be seen: some meadow-land, interspersed by the straight lines of the ditches, sparkling under the bright sky, and here and there a cow. In the distance a little windmill, and beyond it a border of poplars, stately and slender.
Lili and Georges approached, and found the others in rapture.
“It’s glorious here,” said Paul. “Cool moss to lie on, and a fine view.”
They all agreed that it was a pleasant spot, and sat down on the ground, tired with their reconnoitring. They removed their hats, which, together with the lace or red parasols of the girls, soon covered the dark greensward with glowing colour, whilst here and there a stray sunbeam, penetrating through the foliage, threw a myriad of glittering, dancing dust-particles across the light cotton of their frocks, and the yellow and brown shades of their hair.
“It isn’t so very shady here, after all. At all events I am quite in the sun,” said Lili, hiding herself in the rosy shade of her en-tout-cas, and she cast an indignant glance on Paul, who had a very shady place, and was lying full length on the ground, his head cosily hidden in a handkerchief.
“Hush, Lili, don’t talk; go to sleep,” he whispered, with closed eyes.
“You are very entertaining; you sleep on then. But I am scorching here.”
“Shall we go and look for a better spot, Lili?” said Georges.
“Yes, do; that’s a good idea,” thought Paul.
“And just whistle when you have found one,” said Etienne.
Georges promised he would. They rose, after which Lili, leaning on him, descended the dune.
“That Lili is always so fussy,” yawned Paul, in his handkerchief.
But his laziness was too much for Etienne, who pulled him down the hillock by his legs, to the great amusement of the girls.
It was very warm, however, and they could not help it—they too began to feel lazy. They would walk about after lunch. When peace had been restored between Paul and Etienne, Frédérique laid her head on Eetje’s knees, whilst he tickled her ears with a straw; Paul was half asleep, languid with heat and comfort, and Marie sat staring contemplatively, with a suggestion of sadness about her mouth, at the meadows and the ditches and the grazing cattle.
The path along which Georges and Lili descended was a very easy one. She floated down, as it were, her hands clasping his shoulder, and he hurried at a quick pace. Quicker and quicker he went; and she laughed lightly; it was as though she were endowed with wings.
“How stupid of them to stay there under that burning sun! Look, over yonder, under those trees.”
“Those chestnuts?”
“Yes; shall we try?”
“Yes.”
They clambered up, he assisting her, and penetrated through on to the wooded hillocks. It was delightfully cool and shady there, whilst just a few paces off the sun was scorching.
“Oh! isn’t it pretty here?” cried Lili. “And look, violets!”
She sat down on the mossy sand, and picked the flowers. And he lay down at her feet, too happy to say much, and played with the red tassels of her parasol.
“Come, now, you must whistle, Georges, as a signal for the others to come,” she said archly, knowing full well that he would not.
“I can’t whistle, I never could,” he answered, and looked at her laughing.
She laughed too, and threw her violets in his face. He gathered them up, and placed them in his button-hole. Then he took her hand, and looked in her face.
“Do you like me?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers. She laid her little white hands on his shoulders, and looking him straight in the face, slowly bent her head.
“What?” he asked, full of tenderness. “Do you like me?” he repeated, and she bent down, so that his lips touched the little locks on her forehead, and kissed them.
“Yes,” she said, and she let her head rest against his face. “Yes, I like you.”
Thus they remained for a while, whilst he, in his uncomfortable posture, enjoyed the weight of the little head on his face. But when she raised herself, and once more smilingly looked at him, he approached closer to her side, and laid her arm round his neck.
“Do you know, Emilie——” he commenced.
“What?” she asked.
“Emilie has been speaking to my father; mightn’t she come and speak with your parents?”
“Yes,” she answered, with a beaming smile. “But I don’t know—I don’t think——”
“Emilie knows how to talk.”
“You are very fond of her, eh?”
“Yes—and of you too.”
She pressed his head closer in the soft bend of her arm and gave him a kiss on his forehead—her first!
And the odour of the moss and the violets became mingled together into a fragrant sigh, whose sweetness made her feel faint, whilst her little hand closed caressingly, and disarranged his light-brown hair. She listened, still with that same happy smile, to his soft voice, as he was telling her of the conversation he had had with his sister, before he knew whether Lili would ever care for him. For a time he had certainly felt anxious; now, however, the whole world seemed to him one smiling landscape.
“Emilie thought you would not have a poor husband. Won’t you have a poor husband?”
“Are you poor?”
“Well, I am not rich.”
“All right, then I will have a poor husband. I can be so economical. Sometimes I make a month’s dress money last me for three months. And don’t I always look neat?”
“Charming.”
“But I don’t believe you are very economical. I think you have a great many more wants than I.”
“I shall have no wants, when I have you. You will be all to me.”
“Does Emilie care for me?”
“Rather! she shall be our little mother. And you will accompany me everywhere? To Cairo? To Constantinople? To the Cape?”
“To Lapland if you like—everywhere.”
“My own little woman.”
He clasped her close to his bosom and kissed her. It was as though the world vanished from them and left them alone in paradise. It seemed to them as though no other couple had ever loved so fondly, as though there had never been any love but theirs.
“Mamma wants to know if you are coming to lunch?” cried Johan van Ryssel to the four, lying sunning themselves yonder. “You lazy people! hallo! you are all asleep, I believe.”
And he clambered towards them and fought with Paul, whose big limbs, stretched at their full length, irritated him. Frédérique and Etienne raised themselves up, and admitted being hungry.
“Through doing nothing, I suppose?” cried Jan, who came to call them too. “We have been swinging and riding in the donkey-cart and climbing a haystack, and you—you can do nothing but doze.”
“Hush! more respect for age, please,” said Marie with dignity.
They all descended the path along which they had come, again struggling with the overhanging branches that barred their passage, when they heard a whistling behind them. On turning round they caught sight of Georges and Lili, full of mysterious gaiety.
“We have found a nice little spot, very cool!” said Georges ironically.
“Oh, so cool!” repeated Lili.
At that they became the butt of indignant glances, and so they wisely lagged behind a little; still they took good care to be in time to join the others at the lunch-table.
Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde had been very busy, notwithstanding the heat. On the coarse white table-cloth there arose heaps of little rolls, together with dishes full of cherries and strawberries, and a big basin of cream between two golden tulbands. Sixteen chairs were ranged around the table, and the little van Ryssels, flushed with the heat, tired after running, with sparkling eyes and moist hair, looked at it all with longing. Nico was already seated at table rattling his fork against his glass, and all now sat down, and Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde were soon busy handing round the different things.
“De Woude, take what you like,” said Madame Verstraeten, and soon the spot resounded with noisy laughter, whilst the rolls and the tulbands disappeared as if by magic, and the fowls were running about nervously round the table, keeping close to Nico, who to Mathilde’s despair offered them immense slices of bread. Jan in the meantime found a fresh cause to reproach the three young men with their laziness.
Behind the farmhouse there was a broad stream, and a little boat lay moored alongside. Jan and Cateau wanted to disport themselves in it, but Madame Verstraeten would not permit them, unless some one older than they accompanied them. So after lunch they stormed up to Paul and Etienne, who were to row them; Jan promised to be a good steersman.
“Do you think Georges and Lili are safe together?” asked Paul, as he pushed off the boat from the shore with his scull. “Come, Etienne, keep time.”
“Where are they? Oh, look, there they go, behind that hedge!” cried Frédérique. “Marie, fancy you as elder sister allowing such a thing.”
Marie laughed kindly.
“Oh, let them be happy,” she answered simply.
Etienne made himself very busy, just to hide his want of skill as an oarsman, whilst he made the strongest possible movements with his oar. Paul grew more desperate every moment.
“I say, Etienne, you don’t know anything about it; for heaven’s sake don’t splash like that.”
A shower of spray fell upon them.
“You are soaking me,” said Frédérique indignantly.
“Go along, do you think I can’t row?”
Cateau and Jan laughed at Etienne, and he carried on in such a ridiculous way, that Toosje at last summed up courage to ask Paul to let her have a row; for she looked upon Mr. van Raat as the captain. Etienne, in spite of his boisterous remonstrances, which nearly caused the boat to capsize, was removed from his seat, and Cateau set herself down triumphantly beside Paul, full of eagerness to keep time with him in the lifting and dropping of her oar, which she clasped, without fear of blisters, closely in her hands. And she enjoyed it when their sculls, as if moved by one power, feathered in light and measured stroke over the greenish water.
“Splendid, Cateau; you understand it!” said Marie. “Jan, just steer across to those lilies.”
Jan steered, and the little boat glided slowly to a pool coated with duckweed, upon which the white cups of the water-lilies floated amid a wealth of flat, glossy green leaves. Marie bent forward, grasped a lily by its tough slimy stalk, and tugged and tugged until she pulled the flower out of the duckweed.
“Over there, look, there are a lot,” cried Jan, pointing to the other side.
And they glided on between overhanging willows, their silver-leafed branches bending over the water, and a long line of meadow-land, and Marie mechanically pulled the muddy flowers out of the water. She no longer heard the laughter of the others; how little Cateau and Etienne were having a lively dispute as to in what fashion an oar was to be handled. She continued, without fear of soiling herself with the mud, wrenching out the flowers, whose stalks she cast at her feet, like so many slippery eels; she wrenched and wrenched so hard that the stalks nearly bruised her hands. Thus too one could wrench a thought from one’s mind, though the heart bled from it.
The young van Ryssels, whom Mathilde did not trust in the boat while Etienne was in it, again consoled themselves with their swing. Tina pushed Nico, who was sitting very dignified, to and fro, whilst Johan, with Lientje sitting between his legs, disported himself on the second swing. But now approached Marie and Etienne, and when Nico was tired of his dignified attitude they both clambered on to the plank.
“High, Eetje, very high!” cried Marie.
Etienne, with his feet firmly placed against the plank, soon sent the swing forward.
“Ah! I see you are a better hand at swinging than at rowing,” cried Marie.
She too pushed the swing forward, and it swung higher and higher, whilst her dress fluttered in the wind, her hat blew off, and a few hairs dangled about her face. She took a deep breath, as high up in the air she hung over Etienne almost horizontally, and swayed up and down. She felt a sensation as if an unfathomable abyss yawned beneath her, and as if she rose higher and higher into the blue sky, borne upward on the wings of a great bird. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and she fain would have let go the ropes, and in a desperate flight plunged herself into space.
Then she caught sight of the four children below, who were staring in open-mouthed and envious wonder at the “big folk” who were allowed to swing so high, and she wanted to call them, but her tongue refused to utter a sound. Etienne was as if intoxicated, and higher, still higher, swung the plank.
“Etienne—enough—enough, Etienne!” murmured Marie, and she closed her eyes.
And she felt quite dazed when the great bird slowly slackened the speed of its flight, and at last ceased altogether. She tottered when she was on terra firma once more.
Etienne picked up her hat.
“A glorious swing, wasn’t it, eh?” he cried, out of breath.
Marie nodded smilingly, and with a gasp and a sigh brushed the dishevelled hair from her face. And when Etienne took to his legs and ran, shouting to his little cousins that they could not catch him, and when the young van Ryssels ran after him, Nico last of all, waddling along on his fat little legs—then Marie, on the grass by the side of the swing, burst into tears. She thought of Lili and Georges, how happy those two had been, whilst she, Marie, had sat gazing at the meadows and the cows until stars shimmered before her eyes; and how happy they, Georges and Lili, had been, while she had been wrenching the lilies out of the water—hard, very hard, with all her might.