But the girl, what would become of the girl? In England, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, she would have been dismissed; in Holland that one last hope did not exist. She would be dismissed with her character considerably damaged and her chance of getting another situation entirely gone. What would she do? She had told him yesterday she could not leave, but was obliged to stay on at the Van Heigens'; although she had failed in the first object of her coming, and so had no motive for remaining, she had nowhere else to go. Perhaps she had quarrelled with her relatives; perhaps they could not afford to keep her--they were poor enough he knew. She had once said her eldest sister had lately married the nephew of a bishop; he remembered that, and he also remembered that, after his unfortunate visit to Captain Polkington, he had heard they were people with some good connections.
But that did not mean that they could afford to help this girl, or would be delighted to receive her home under the present conditions.
Rather it indicated that their position was too precarious for them to be able to do it. They would be bitterly hard on her--these aspiring people of gentle birth and doubtful shifts, clinging to society by the skin of their teeth, were the hardest of all. The girl could not go back to them; she could not get anything to do in Holland, or elsewhere--in Heaven's name what could she do?
He asked himself the question with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the street. But the answer did not seem forthcoming.
There was no good blinking the matter; the fact was obvious; the girl was hopelessly and utterly compromised; and he, aided certainly by untoward circumstances--for the sardonic interference of which, in such circumstances, a man of sense usually allows--he had done it.
They had had their "holiday," without taking thought for the morrow, in the way approved by boys and dogs and creatures without experience.
And here was to-morrow, knocking at the door and demanding the price--as experience showed that it usually did. The question was, who was going to pay, he or she? She had taken it upon herself as a matter of course; it seemed natural to her that the burden should be the woman's, but it did not seem so to him; among his people it was the man who was expected, and who himself expected, to pay. When he had grasped the situation fully and saw how she must inevitably stand he also saw at the same time and equally plainly, that he must marry her; nothing else was possible.
He walked away from the window and began to search for writing materials. He could not go and see her, it was out of the question under the circumstances; he would have to write, and, on the whole, perhaps, it was easier that way. He sat down to the table, but he did not at once begin, for between him and the paper there rose up the vision of a stately old Norfolk house. It was his; he had not lived there for years, but he supposed he would some day; all his people had; he remembered his grandfather there and his grandmother--a tall, stately woman, a woman of parts. He thought of her, and his mother, a graceful, gracious woman--he thought of her standing in the drawing-room between the long windows, receiving company. And then he thought of Julia.
He turned away from the vision abruptly, and dated his letter. But soon he had lain down his pen again. He was conservative, and Julia was not of the breed of the women he had recalled; she had no kinship with them or their modern prototypes, one of whom he vaguely supposed he should marry some day--when he went to live in the old Norfolk house. Hers was not a stately or a gracious or an all pervading feminine presence; she demanded no court, no care, no carpet for her way; she could come and go unnoticed and unattended; you could overlook her--though she never overlooked you or anything else. She had her points certainly, she was loyal to the core--she would be loyal to him, he was sure, in this scrape, with a silly wrong-headed loyalty, more like a man's to a woman than a woman's to a man. She was loyal to her none too reputable family--that family was a bitter thing to his pride of race. She was courageous, too, cheerfully enduring, laughing in the face of disaster, patient when action was impossible and when it was possible--he found himself smiling when he recalled her--surely there was never one more gay, more ready, more steady, more quietly alert than she when there was a struggle with men or matters in the wind. She had brains of a sort, there was no doubt of that; it was possible to imagine one would not grow tired of her undiluted company as one would of the other sort of woman. Only of course a man did not have the undiluted company of his wife--perhaps if he were a small shop-keeper or an itinerant organ-grinder--if night and day they lived together and worked together and looked out on the world together--if it was the simple life of which she dreamed--
Rawson-Clew picked up his pen and began to write; it was not a case of whether he would or would not, liked or disliked; he had simply to make a girl he had compromised the only restitution in his power.
In the meantime Julia had set out for the market-place as the idlers had said. But her business there did not take long and she was home again, as she intended, before Mevrouw got back from the Snieders. But she had not been in much more than five minutes before the old lady, supported by Vrouw Snieder and Denah, arrived. Mijnheer came home not long after, and, hearing news of the return of the truant, went to the house to join the others.
Julia waited to receive the attack in the dim sitting-room. She knew as well as Rawson-Clew, or better, that she had not a ghost of a chance of clearing herself; dismissal was inevitable; that was why she went to the market-place. She had not largely assisted her family in living by their wits without having those faculties in exceeding good working order; she had already seen and seized the only thing open to her when the end should come. But the fact that she knew how it would end did not prevent her from giving battle; the knowledge only made her change her tactics, and, as there was no use in defending her position (and companion) she was able to concentrate her forces in harassing the enemy.
In these circumstances it is not wonderful that Denah did not derive the satisfaction she expected from the affair. Julia, unrepentant and reckless because of her known fate, unhampered by Rawson-Clew's presence, and flatly declining to give any particulars about him, would have been an awkward antagonist for one cleverer than the Dutch girl. Poor Denah lost her temper, and lost her head, and lost control of her tongue and her tears. Julia did not lose anything, but again and again winged shafts that went unerringly home. She was genuinely sorry to have upset and disappointed Mevrouw, but for Denah she did not care in the least, and the old lady soon contrived to soften some of the regret, for she was far too angry and shocked at the impropriety to have any gentler feelings of sorrow or to believe what she was told. Vrouw Snieder acted principally as chorus of horror; she was shocked and angry too, on Mevrouw's account and on her own and her daughter's; she seemed to think they had all been outraged together.
When Mijnheer came in they were all talking at once and Denah was weeping copiously. Julia's part in the conversation was small; she just shot a word in here and there, but apparently never without effect, for her utterances, like drops of water on hot metal, were always followed by fresh bursts of excitement. The good man tried in vain to make out what was the matter and what had happened. At last, after his fifth effort elsewhere, he turned to Julia, and she told him briefly. She told the truth, only suppressing Rawson-Clew's name and all details concerning him, saying merely that he was a man she had met before she left England. The two elder sisters gradually became silent to listen; Denah listened too, only sniffing occasionally.
"You pretended you did not know him the day we went the excursion,"
she said vindictively; "I saw you; I knew you were not to be trusted then. Why did you pretend, and how do you know him? He is a man of family; he has the air of it, very distinguished, and you are nothing at all, nobody--"
"Hush!" said Mijnheer; "that is not the point; it is of no importance who the man may be, he is a man, that is enough; and she was out with him--alone--a whole day and night; it is certainly very bad indeed; shocking, if it is true--is it true?"
He looked at Julia, and she answered, "Yes."
She was sorry, very sorry, but more on his account than her own; she could see how heinous he thought it, how she had fallen in his esteem, and she was sorry for it. But at the same time she knew her conduct really had been no more than indiscreet; and she did not repent; she regretted nothing but being found out, and that not so much as she ought now that the joy of battle was upon her. As for the women, they suspected far worse than Mijnheer believed; but even if they had not, if they had believed no more than the truth, that would have been enough for condemnation; her offence--the real one--was past forgiveness; she must go. She received the sentence meekly; she knew she deserved no less from these kind if narrow-minded people. Denah smiled triumphantly; Julia felt she deserved that too; moreover, Denah's nose was so pink and her face so swelled with tears, that the smile was more amusing than exasperating.
"I am sorry," she said; "I am sorry you should all have to think so ill of me, and that I should deserve it. You have been very kind to me while I have been here, and made my service easy; I am ashamed to have deceived you and behaved in such a way as you must condemn."
Unfortunately Vrouw Snieder snorted here; she did not believe in these protestations and she said so, inducing Vrouw Van Heigen to do the same. Mijnheer looked doubtfully at Julia for a moment, then he came to the conclusion that if she was not too abandoned a person to be really repentant, it would be as well to take advantage of her professed state of mind and drive home some moral lessons. Accordingly he and the two elder ladies drove them home, with the result that Julia's regret dwindled to nothing.
"Mijnheer," she said at last, quietly yet effectually breaking in upon his words; "Mijnheer, you are a very good man, Mevrouw is a virtuous woman, and Vrouw Snieder also, all of you. I have often admired your goodness; when you were least conscious of it it preached to me, making me ashamed of my wickedness. But now that you, in your goodness, have taken to preaching to me yourselves, I am no longer ashamed, for it is clear that your goodness dares to do a thing that no man's wickedness would; it turns the foolish and indiscreet into sinners and sinners into devils; it makes the way of wrong-doing very easy. You are so good," she went on, putting aside an interruption; "perhaps you do not know wickedness when you see it; you cannot distinguish between sin and sin; you are like those who would hang a man for stealing bread as soon as for killing a child. What! Are you indignant, Mevrouw, at such a charge? Are you not turning out, with no character and no chance--a good enough imitation of hanging--a girl who has been no more than foolish, just the same as if she had committed the greatest sin?"
Vrouw Heigen broke in angrily, and Vrouw Snieder and Denah, inexpressibly shocked; Mijnheer was also shocked, but he, and they too, were vaguely uneasy under the reproach. Julia was satisfied; more especially as her experience of them led her to expect they would, though never persuaded they had made a mistake, yet feel more uneasy by and by.
She rose from her chair. "Yes," she said, "it is a shame to speak of such things, as you observe; do not let us speak of them any more.
Perhaps Mijnheer you would like to pay me, then I can go."
Mijnheer agreed rather hastily; then, realising the suddenness of the step, he paused with his purse in his hand. "But can you go now?" he asked. "Nothing is arranged; you had better wait a day or two."
"No," Julia answered, "I think not; it would be well to get the thing over and done with; you would rather and so would I."
No one contradicting this, Mijnheer counted the money and gave it to Julia.
"Thank you," she said; "now I will set the table for coffee drinking.
You will stay, of course, Mevrouw," she went on, turning to Vrouw Snieder--"and Miss Denah, that will be two extra--Mijnheer Joost will be in, Denah; you can tell him about it."
Denah flushed indignantly, and Vrouw Snieder could only say "You--You--"
"Oh, I will not sit down with you, of course," Julia answered sweetly; "I will take my coffee in the little room; is it not so, Mevrouw?"
Vrouw Van Heigen nodded; she did not know what else to do, and Julia went away, leaving them as awkward and at a loss for words as if they were the delinquents, not she. Denah felt this and resented it; the elders felt it too, and for a moment or two looked at one another ill at ease. However, in a little they recovered and began to talk over Julia and her wrong doings till they felt quite comfortable again.
Denah did not join very much in the discussion; after she had once again, by request, repeated what she had seen and what deduced therefrom, she was left rather to herself. She went to the window and sat there looking out for Joost; he was certain to come in soon, and she found consolation in the thought. Joost, the model of modesty and decorous serious propriety, would know the English girl in her true colours now, and be justly disgusted and shocked to think that he had ever ridden beside her on a merry-go-round.
Just then Julia passed carrying a tray of cups. "Denah," she said, pitching her voice soft and low in the tone the Dutch girl hated most, "I will give you a piece of advice; take care how you tell Joost about my wickedness; you want to be ever so clever to abuse another girl to a man; it is one of the most difficult things in the world--and you are not very clever, you know, not even clever enough to take my advice."
Denah was not clever enough to take the advice nor in any humour to do so; she stared angrily at Julia, who unconcernedly put the cups on the table and vanished into the kitchen.
Joost came in for coffee drinking, and the whole party with one accord told him the tale; Julia heard them through the closed door as she sat sipping her coffee in the little room. She did not hear him say anything at all except just at first, "I won't believe it!" in a tone which roused again, and with added strength, the regret she had felt before for repaying belief and kindness by such disillusioning.
Afterwards he seemed to say nothing more; presumably they had convinced him with overwhelming evidence. She wondered how he looked; she could picture his serious blue eyes uncomfortable well; poor Joost, who had such high opinions of her, who thought she, seeing the low, chose the high path always in the greatness of her knowledge and strength; who had called her a lantern, sometimes dimmed, but always a beacon! The lantern was obscured just now, very badly obscured. She rose and went up to her room; she would clear the table after Joost had gone back to work.
She did so, coming down when he and Mijnheer were safely in the office. When she had done she went to Mevrouw, who had betaken herself to her room worn out by the morning's excitement.
"Would you prefer that I went at once?" she inquired, "or that I waited till after dinner? I will stay till six if you wish it, or I will go now without waiting to attend to the dinner."
Vrouw Van Heigen preferred the waiting; it would be so very much better for the dinner, and really it hardly seemed as if propriety could suffer much; accordingly she said with what dignity she could that the girl had better stay till the evening.
Julia went down-stairs again and set to work preparing the dinner, and it was perhaps only natural that she took pains to make that dinner a memorably good one. It was while she was busy in the kitchen that a note was brought to her.
"Put it on the table," she said to the servant girl; her hands just then were too floury to take it, but she looked at it as it lay on the table beside her. She did not recognise the writing, though she saw at once that it was not that of a Dutchman. "Who brought it?" she asked, beginning to clean her hands.
The servant could not say, but from her description Julia gathered that it must have been a special messenger of some sort. On hearing this, she did not trouble to clean her hands any more, but opened the letter at once, making floury finger-prints upon it.
"DEAR MISS POLKINGTON, (it ran),
"There is one subject I did not mention to you yesterday; you might perhaps have thought it too serious for holiday consideration; nevertheless, it is a question that I feel I must ask before I leave Holland. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? I know there is rather a difference in years between us, but if you can overlook the discrepancy, and consent, you will give me the utmost satisfaction. I honestly believe it will make for the happiness of us both; I have a feeling that we were meant to continue our 'excursion' together.
"Very sincerely yours,
"H. F. RAWSON-CLEW."
So Julia read, and sat down suddenly on the flour barrel. She turned to the beginning of the letter and read it through again, and when she looked up her eyes were shining with admiration. "I am glad!" she said aloud, but in English, "I am glad he has done it! It's splendid, splendid! I never thought of it--but then I don't believe I knew what a real gentleman was before!"
The maidservant started at her curiously; she could not understand a word, but she saw that the letter gave pleasure, for which she was glad; she liked Julia, and was very sorry she was going in disgrace; she herself had occasional lapses from rectitude and so consequently had a fellow feeling.
"You have a good letter?" she asked.
"Very good," Julia said; "but we must get on with the cooking; I will answer it by and by."
Julia put it in her pocket after another glance, purring to herself in English, "It is so well done, too," she said; "never a word of to-day, only of yesterday--yesterday!" and she laughed softly.
There is no doubt about it, if Julia had got to receive a death sentence she would have liked it to be well given; it is quite possible, had she lived at the time, she would have been one of those who objected to the indignity of riding in the tumbrils quite as much as to the guillotine at the end of the ride.