Its nature was, of course, a secret, but it would eventually raise the little army of Holland far above those of all other nations.
Julia listened, but especially to the last piece of information, which struck her as being the one most likely to prove interesting. Soon after hearing it, however, she was obliged to go. She made her farewells, and received messages of affection for Mevrouw, condolence for Mijnheer--who had a cold--and good wishes for Joost's journey.
Then she started homewards, with a light basket and a busy mind.
It did not take her very long to decide that if there was any truth in this talk of Van de Greutz's achievements, it must be the last mentioned--the explosive--which brought Rawson-Clew here. Her judgment of men, for working purposes at least, was quick and fairly accurate, necessity and experience had helped Nature to make it so. There were one or two things in connection with Rawson-Clew which were very clear to her, he was not a scientist pure and simple; she had never met one, but she knew he was not one, and so was not likely to be interested in the great chemist for chemistry only. Nor was he a commercial man; neither his instincts nor his abilities lay in that direction; it was not a new process, not a trade secret which brought him here. Indeed, even though he might appreciate the value of such things, he would never dream of trying to possess himself of them.
Julia understood perfectly the scale in which such acts stood to men like Rawson-Clew. To attempt to master a man's discovery for one's own ends (as in a way she was doing) was impossible, rank dishonesty, never even contemplated; to do it for business purposes--well, he might admit it was sometimes necessary in business--commerce had its morality as law, and the army had theirs--but it was not a thing he would ever do himself, he would not feel it exactly honourable. But to attempt to gain a secret for national use was quite another thing, not only justifiable but right, more especially if, as was probably the case, the attempt was in fulfilment of a direct order. If after Herr Van de Greutz had a secret worth anything to England, it was that which had brought Rawson-Clew to the little town. She was as sure of it as she was that it was the blue daffodil which had brought her.
The hateful blue daffodil! Daily, to possess it grew more imperative.
The intercourse with this man, the curious seeming equality that was being established between them, cried aloud for the paying of the debt, and the establishing of the reality of equality. She longed almost passionately to be able to regard herself, to know that the man had reason to regard her, as his equal. And yet to possess the thing seemed daily more difficult; more and more plainly did she see that bribery, persuasion, cajolery were alike useless. The precious bulb could be got in one way, and one only; it would never fall into her hands by skilful accident, or nicely stimulated generosity; she must take it, or she must do without it. She must get it for herself as deliberately as, in all probability, Rawson-Clew meant to get Herr Van de Greutz's secret.
She raised her head and looked at the flat, wet landscape with unseeing eyes that were contemptuous. How different two not dissimilar acts could be made to look! If she took the daffodil--and she would have unique opportunity to try during the next two days--Rawson-Clew would regard her as little better than a common thief; that is, if he happened to know about it. She winced a little as she thought of the faint expression of surprise the knowledge would call up in his impassive face and cold grey eyes. She could well imagine the slight difference in his manner to her afterwards, scarcely noticeable to the casual observer, impossible to be overlooked by her. She told herself she did not care what he thought; but she did. Pride was grasping at a desired, but impossible, equality with this man, and here, were the means used only known, was the nearest way to lose it. At times he had forgotten the gap of age and circumstances between them--really forgotten it, she knew, not only ignored it in his well-bred way. He had for a moment really regarded her as an equal; not, perhaps, as he might the women of his class, rather the men of like experience and attainments with himself. That was not what she wanted, but she recognised plainly that in grasping at a shadowy social feminine equality by paying the debt, she might well lose this small substance of masculine equality, for there is no gulf so unbridgeable between man and man as a different standard of honour.
But after all, she asked herself, what did it matter? He need not know; she would pay, fulfilling her word, and proving her father an honest man (which he was not); the debtor could not know how it was done. And if he did, what then? If she told him herself--he would know no other way--she would do it deliberately with the set purpose of tarring him with the same brush; she would show him how his attempt on Herr Van de Greutz might also be made to look. He would not be convinced, of course, but at bottom the two things were so related that it would be surprising if she did not get a few shafts home. He would not show the wounds then, but they would be there; they would rankle; there would be some humiliation for him, too. A curious light crept into her eyes at the thought; she was surer of being able to reduce him than of exalting herself, and it is good, when circumstances prevent one from mounting, to drag a superior to the level of one's humiliation. For a moment she understood something of the feelings of the brute mob that throws mud.
By this time she had reached the town, though almost without knowing it; so deep was she in her thoughts that she did not see Joost coming towards her. He had been to escort Denah, who had thoughtfully forgotten to provide herself with a cloak; he was now coming back, carrying the wrap his mother had lent her.
Julia started when she became aware of him just in front of her. She was not pleased to see him; she had no room for him in her mind just then; he seemed incongruous and out of place. She even looked at him a little suspiciously, as if she were afraid the fermenting thoughts in her brain might make themselves felt by him.
He turned and walked beside her. "I have been to take home Miss Denah," he explained. "I saw you a long way off, and thought perhaps I might escort you; but you are angry; I am sorry."
Julia could not forbear smiling at him. "I am not angry," she said, as she would to a child; "I was only thinking."
"Of something unpleasant, then, that makes you angry?"
"No; of something that must have been enjoyable. I was thinking how, in the French Revolution, the women of the people must have enjoyed throwing mud at the women of the aristocrats; how they must have liked scratching the paint and the skin from their faces, and tearing their hair down, and their clothes off."
Joost stared in amazement. "Do you call that not unpleasant?" he said.
"It is the most grievous, the most pitiable thing in all the world."
"For the aristocrats, yes," Julia agreed; "but for the others? Can you not imagine how they must have revelled in it?"
Joost could not; he could not imagine anything violent or terrible, and Julia went on to ask him another question, which, however, she answered herself.
"Do you know why the women of the people did it? It was not only because the others had food and they had not; I think it was more because the aristocrats had a thousand other things that they had not, and could never have--feelings, instincts, pleasures, traditions--which they could not have had or enjoyed even if they had been put in palaces and dressed like queens. It was the fact that they could never, never rise to them, that helped to make them so furious to pull all down."
There was a sincerity of conviction in her tone, but Joost only said, "You cannot enjoy to think of such things; it is horrible and pitiable to remember that human creatures became so like beasts."
Julia's mood altered. "Pitiable, yes; perhaps you are right. After all, we are pitiful creatures, and, under the thin veneer, like enough to the beasts." Then she changed the subject abruptly, and began to talk of his flowers.
But he was not satisfied with the change; instinctively he felt she was talking to his level. "Why do you always speak to me of bulbs and plants?" he said. "Do you think I am interested in nothing else?"
"No," she said; "I speak of them because I am interested. Do you not believe me? It is quite true; you yourself have said that I should make a good florist; already I have learnt a great deal, although I have not been here long, and knew nothing before I came."
"That is so," he admitted; "you are very clever. Nevertheless, I do not think, if you were alone now, you would be thinking of plants. You were not when I met you; it was the Revolution, or, perhaps, human nature--you called it the Revolution in a parable, as you often do when you speak your thoughts."
"Why do you trouble about my thoughts?" Julia said, impatiently. "How do you know what I think?"
"Perhaps I don't," he answered; "only sometimes it seems to me your voice tells me though your words do not."
"My voice?"
"Yes; it is full of notes like a violin, and speaks more than words. I suppose all voices have many notes really, but people do not often use them; they use only a few. You use many; that is why I like to listen to you when you talk to my parents, or any one. It is like a master playing on an instrument; you make simple words mean much, more than I understand sometimes; you can caress and you can laugh with your voice; I have heard you do it when I have not been able to understand what you caress, or at what you laugh, any more than an ignorant person can understand what the violin says, although he may enjoy to hear it. To-night you do not caress or laugh; there is something black in your thoughts."
"That is human nature, as you say," Julia said shortly, ignoring the comment on her voice. "Human nature is a hateful, ugly thing; there is no use in thinking about it."
"It has certainly fallen," Joost allowed; "but I have sometimes thought perhaps, if it were not so, it would be a little--a very little--monotonous."
"You would not find it dull," Julia told him. "I believe you would not have got on very well in the Garden of Eden, except that, since all the herbs grew after their own kind, there would be no opportunity to hybridise them."
But the mystery of production and generation, even in the vegetable world, was not a subject that modesty permitted Joost to discuss with a girl. His manner showed it, to her impatient annoyance, as he hastily introduced another aspect of man's first estate. "If we were not fallen," he added, "we should have no opportunity to rise. That, indeed, would be a loss; is it not the struggle which makes the grand and fine characters which we admire?"
"I don't admire them," Julia returned; "I admire the people who are born good, because they are a miracle."
He stopped to unfasten the gate; it did not occur to him that she was thinking of himself.
"I cannot agree with you," he said, as they went up the drive together. "Rather, I admire those who have fought temptation, who are strong, who know and understand and have conquered; they inspire me to try and follow. What inspiration is there in the other? Consider Miss Denah, for an example; she has perhaps never wanted to do more wrong than to take her mother's prunes, but is there inspiration in her? She is as soft and as kind as a feather pillow, and as inspiring. But you--you told me once you were bad; I did not believe you; I did not understand, but now I know your meaning. You have it in your power to be bad or to be good; you know which is which, for you have seen badness, and know it as men who live see it. You have fought with it and conquered; you have struggled, you do struggle, you have strength in you. That is why you are like a lantern that is sometimes bright and sometimes dim, but always a beacon."
"I am nothing of the sort," Julia said sharply. They were in the dense shadow of the trees, so he could not see her face, but her voice sounded strange to him. "You do not know what you are talking about,"
she said; "hardly in my life have I asked myself if a thing is right or wrong--do you understand me? Right and wrong are not things I think about."
"It is quite likely," he said, serenely; "different persons have different names for the same things, as you have once said; one calls it 'honourable' and 'dishonourable,' and another 'right' and 'wrong,'
and another 'wise' and 'unwise.' But it is always the same thing; it means to choose the more difficult path that leads to the greater end, and leave the other way to the lesser and smaller souls."
Julia caught her breath with a little gasping choke. Joost turned and looked at her, puzzled at last; but though they had now reached the house, and the lamplight shone on her, he could make out nothing; she brushed past him and went in quickly.
The next day Joost started for Germany. It rained more or less all day, and Julia did not go out, except for half-an-hour during the morning, when she was obliged to go marketing. She met Denah bound on the same errand, and heard from her, what she knew already, that she would not be able to come and superintend the crochet that day. And being in a black and reckless mood, she had the effrontery to laugh a silent, comprehending little laugh in the face of the Dutch girl's elaborate explanations. Denah was a good deal annoyed, and, though her self-esteem did not allow her to realise the full meaning of the offence, she did not forget it.
Julia went home with her purchases, and spent the rest of the day in the usual small occupations. It was an interminably long day she found. She contrived to hide her feelings, however, and behaved beautifully, giving the suitable attention and suitable answers to all Mevrouw's little remarks about the weather, and Joost's wet journey (though, since he was in the train, Julia could not see that the wet mattered to him), and about Mijnheer's cold, which was very bad indeed.
The day wore on. Julia missed Joost's presence at meals; they were not in the habit of talking much to each other at such times, it is true, but she always knew when she talked to his parents that he was listening, and putting another and fuller interpretation on her words.
That was stimulating and pleasant too; it was a new form of intercourse, and she did not pretend she did not enjoy it for itself, as well as for the opportunity it gave her of probing his mind and trying different ideas on him.
At last dinner was over, and tea; the tea things were washed, and the long-neglected fancy work brought out. A clock in the passage struck the hour when, of late, after an exhilirating verbal skirmish with the anxious Denah, she had set out for the village and Rawson-Clew.
She did not pretend to herself that she did not enjoy that too, she did immensely; there was a breath from the outside world in it; there was sometimes the inspiring clash of wits, of steel on steel, always the charm of educated intercourse and quick comprehension. To-night there was nothing; no exercise to stir the blood, no solitude to stimulate the imagination, no effort of talk or understanding to rouse the mind. Nothing but to sit at work, giving one-eighth of attention to talk with Mevrouw--more was not needed, and the rest to the blue daffodils that lay securely locked up in a place only too well known.
Evening darkened, grey and dripping, to-night, supper-getting time came, and the hour for locking up the barns. Mijnheer, snuffling and wheezing a good deal, put on a coat, a mackintosh, a comforter, a pair of boots and a pair of galoshes; took an umbrella, the lantern, a great bunch of keys, and went out. Julia watched him go, and said nothing; she had been the rounds a good many times with Joost now; the family had talked about it more than once, and about her bravery with regard to rats and robbers. Neither of the old people would have been surprised if she had volunteered to go in place of Mijnheer, even if his cold had not offered a reason for such a thing. But she did not do it; he went alone, and the blue daffodil bulbs lay snug in their locked place.
The next day it still rained, but a good deal harder. There was a sudden drop in the temperature, too, such as one often finds in an English summer. The Van Heigens did not have a fire on that account, their stoves always kept a four months' sabbath; the advent of a snow-storm in July would not have been allowed to break it. Mijnheer's cold was decidedly worse; towards evening it grew very bad. He came in early from the office, and sat and shivered in the sitting-room with Julia and his wife, who was continuing the crochet unaided, and so laying up much future work for Denah. At last it was considered dark enough for the lamp to be lighted. Julia got up and lit it, and drew the blind, shutting out the grey sheet of the canal and the slanting rain.
"Dear me," Mevrouw said once again, "how bad the rain must be for Joost!"
Julia agreed, but reminded her--also once again--that it was possibly not raining in Germany.
Mijnheer looked up from his paper to remark that the weather was very bad for the crops.
"It is bad for every one," his wife rejoined; "but worse of all for you. You should be in bed. Indeed, it is not fit that you should be up; the house is like a cellar this evening."