"I am so sorry!" she said; "I am so sorry. Oh, why is everything so hard! Joost, dear Joost, you must not mind; I am not half good enough for you; I'm not, indeed. Please forget me and--let me go."
And with that she turned and fled into the house.
The maidservant in the kitchen was minding the pots; it still wanted some while to dinner time; she did not expect the English miss would come yet, probably not till it was necessary to dish up. The letter, of course, would have occupied her some time; she had gone out probably to meet the writer--the maid never for a moment doubted him to be the sharer of yesterday's escapade. She heard Julia come in, and judged the meeting to have been a pleasant one, as it had taken time.
She had gone up-stairs now, doubtless to pack her things; that would occupy her till almost dinner time.
It did, for she did not begin directly, but sat on her bed instead, doing nothing for a time. But when she did begin, she went to work methodically, folding garments with care and packing them neatly; her heart ached for Joost and for the tangle things were in, but that did not prevent her attending to details when she once set to work. At last she had everything done, even her hat and coat ready to put on when dinner should be over. Then, after a final glance round to see that she had left nothing but the charred fragments of Rawson-Clew's letter, she went down-stairs and got the dinner ready.
She did not take her meal with the family, but again had it in the little room. She brought the dishes to and fro from the kitchen, however, so she passed close to Joost once or twice and saw his grave face and serious blue eyes, as she had seen them every day since her first coming. And when she looked at him, and saw him, his appearance, his small mannerisms, himself in fact, a voice inside her cried down the aching pity, saying, "I could not do it, I could not do it!" But when she was alone in the little room with the door shut between, the pity grew strong again till it almost welled up in tears. Poor Joost!
Poor humble, earnest, unselfish Joost! That he should care so, that he should have set his hopes on her, his star--a will-o'-wisp of devious ways! That he should ache for this unworthy cause, and for it shut his eyes to the homely happiness which might have been his!
She rose quickly and went up-stairs to get her hat and jacket. Soon after, the carriage, which she had extravagantly ordered, came, and she called the servant to help her down with her luggage. They got it down the narrow staircase between them and into the hall; Julia glanced back at the white marble kitchen for the last time, and at the dim little sitting-room. Vrouw Van Heigen was there, very much absorbed in crochet; but she had left the door ajar so that she might know when Julia went, and that must have occupied a prominent place in her mind, for she made a mistake at every other stitch.
"Good-bye, Mevrouw," Julia said.
Vrouw Van Heigen grunted; she remembered what was due to herself and propriety.
"And, oh," Julia looked back to say as she remembered it, "don't forget that last lot of peach-brandy we made, it was not properly tied down; you ought to look at the covers some time this week."
"Ah, yes," said the old lady, forgetting propriety, "thank you, thank you, I'll see to it; it will never do to have that go; such fine peaches too."
Then Julia went out and got into the carriage. Mijnheer was in his office; he did not think it quite right to come to see her start either; all the same he came to the door to tell the driver to be careful not to go on the grass. Joost came also and looked over his father's shoulder, and Julia, who had been amused at Vrouw Van Heigen, suddenly forgot this little amusement again.
Joost left his father. "I will tell the man," he said. "I will go after him too and shut the gate; it grows late for it to be open."
The carriage had already started, and he had to hurry after it; even then he did not catch it up till it was past the bend of the drive.
Then the man saw him and pulled up, though it is doubtful if he got any order or, indeed, any word. Julia had been looking back, but from the other side; and because she had been looking back and remembering much happiness and simplicity here, she was so grieved for one at least who dwelt here that her eyes were full of tears.
Joost saw them when, on the stopping of the carriage, she turned. "Do not weep," he said; "you must not weep for me."
"I am so sorry," she said; "so dreadfully sorry!"
"But you must not be," he told her; "there is no need."
"There is every need; you have been so kind to me, so good; you have almost taught me--though you don't know it--some goodness too, and in return I have brought you nothing but sadness."
"Ah, yes, sadness," he said; "but gladness too, and the gladness is more than the sadness. Would you not sooner know the fine even though you cannot attain to it, than be content with the little all your life? I would, and it is that which you have given me. It is I who give nothing--"
He hesitated as if for a moment at a loss, and she had no words to fill in the pause.
"Will you take this?" he said, half thrusting something forward. "It is, perhaps, not much to some, but I would like you to have it; it seems fitting; I think I owe it to you, and you to it."
"Oh, yes, yes," she murmured, hardly hearing and not grasping the last words; there was something choking in her throat; it was this strange, humble, disinterested love, so new to her, which brought it there and prevented her from understanding.
She stretched out her hands, and he put something into them; then he stepped back, and the carriage drove on. It was not till the gateway was passed that she realised what it was she held--a small bag made of the greyish-brown paper used on a bulb farm; inside, a single bulb; and outside, written, according to the invariable custom of growers--
"Narcissus Triandrus Azureum Vrouw Van Heigen."
CHAPTER XI
A REPRIEVE
Rawson-Clew was reading a letter. It was breakfast time; the letter had missed the afternoon post yesterday, which was what the writer would have wished, and so was not delivered at the hotel till the morning. It was short, from the beginning--"I am so glad you have done it," to the end of the postscript--"this is to-morrow, so good-bye."
There was not much to read; yet he looked at it for some time. Did ever man receive such a refusal to an offer of marriage? It was almost absurd, and perhaps hardly flattering, yet somehow characteristic of the writer; Rawson-Clew recognised that now, though it had surprised him none the less. What was to be done next? See the girl, he supposed, and hear what she proposed to do; she wrote that she had arranged "capitally," but she did not say what. He was quite certain she was not going to remain with the Van Heigens; if by some extraordinary accident she had been able to bring that about, she would certainly have told him so triumphantly. He could not think of anything "capital" she could have arranged; he was persuaded, either that she only said it to reassure him, or else, if she believed it, it was in her ignorance of the extent of the damage done yesterday. He must go and see her, hear what she had planned, and what further trouble she was thinking to get herself into, and prevent it in the only way possible; and there was only one way, there was absolutely no other solution of the difficulty; she must marry him, and there was an end of it. He glanced at her refusal again, and liked it in spite of its absurdity; after all, perhaps it would have been better if he had been frank too; one could afford to dispense with the delicate conventions that he associated with women in dealing with this girl.
He wished he had gone to her and spoken freely, as man to man, saying plainly that since they had together been indiscreet, they must together take the consequence, and make the best of it--and really the best might be very good.
Soon after he had finished breakfast he set out for the Van Heigens'
house. But as yet, though he had some comprehension of Julia, he had not fully realised the promptness of action which necessity had taught her. When he reached the Van Heigens' she had been gone some sixteen hours.
It was Vrouw Van Heigen who told him; she was in the veranda when he arrived, and so, perforce, saw him and answered his inquiries. It was evident, at the outset, that neither his appearance nor name conveyed anything to her; she had not seen him the day of the excursion, and Denah's description, purposely complicated by a cross description of Julia's, had conveyed nothing, and his name had never transpired. He saw he was unknown, and recognised Julia's loyal screening of him, not with any satisfaction; evidently it was part of her creed to stand between a man (father or otherwise) and the consequence of his acts.
That was an additional reason for finding her and explaining that he, unlike Captain Polkington, was not used to anything of the sort.
"She has gone?" he said, in answer to Vrouw Van Heigen's brief information. The old lady was decidedly nervous of the impressive Englishman who had come asking after her disgraced companion; she moved her fat hands uneasily even before he asked, "Where has she gone? Perhaps you would be kind enough to give me her address?"
"I cannot," she was obliged to say; "I have not it. I do not know where she is."
Rawson-Clew stared. "But surely," he said, "you are mistaken? She was here yesterday."
"Yes, yes; I know. But she is not here now; she went last night in haste. I will tell you about it. You are a friend? Come in."
Without waiting, she led him into the drawing-room, and there left him in some haste. The room struck him as familiar; he wondered why, until he remembered that it must have been Julia's description which made him so well acquainted with it. It was all just as she described; the thick, dark-coloured carpet, with the little carefully-bound strips of the same material laid over it to make paths to the piano, the stove, and other frequented spots. The highly-polished furniture, upholstered in black and yellow Utrecht velvet, the priceless Chinese porcelain brought home by old Dutch merchants, and handed down from mother to daughter for generations; the antimacassars of crochet work, the snuff-coloured wall-paper, the wonderful painted tiles framed in ebony that hung upon it. It was all just as she had said; the very light and smell seemed familiar, she must somehow have given him an idea of them too.
Just then Vrouw Van Heigen came back, and her husband with her; she had been to fetch him, not feeling equal to dealing with the visitor alone. Mijnheer, by her request, had put on his best coat, but he still had his spectacles pushed upon his forehead, as they always were when he was disturbed in the office.
There was a formal greeting--one never dispensed with that in Holland, then Mijnheer said, "You are, I suppose, a friend of Miss Polkington's father?"
Rawson-Clew, remembering the winter day at Marbridge, answered, "I am acquainted with him."
Mijnheer nodded. "Yes, yes," he said; then, "it is very sad, and much to be regretted. I cannot but give to you, and through you to her father, very bad news of Miss Polkington. She is not what we thought her; she has disgraced--"
But here Rawson-Clew interrupted, but in the quiet, leisurely way which was so incomprehensible to the Hollanders. "My dear sir," he said, "please spare yourself the trouble of these details; I am the man with whom Miss Polkington had the misfortune to be lost on the Dunes."
Vrouw Van Heigen gasped; the gentle, drawling voice, the manner, the whole air of the speaker overwhelmed her, and shattered all her previous thoughts of the affair. With Mijnheer it was different; right was right, and wrong wrong to him, no matter who the persons concerned might be.
"Then, sir," he said, growing somewhat red, "I am glad indeed that I cannot tell you where she is."
Rawson-Clew looked up with faint admiration, righteous indignation, or at all events the open expression of it, was a discourtesy practically extinct with the people among whom he usually lived. He felt respect for the old bulb grower who would be guilty of it.
"I am sorry you should think so badly of me," he said; "I can only assure you that it is without reason. You do not believe me? I suppose it is quite useless for me to say that my sole motive in seeking Miss Polkington is a desire to prevent her from coming to any harm?"
"She will, I should think, come to less harm without you than with you," Mijnheer retorted; and Rawson-Clew, seeing as plainly as Julia had yesterday, the impossibility of making the position clear, did not attempt it.
"I hope you may be right," he said, "but I am afraid she will be in difficulties. She had little money, and no friends in Holland, and was, I have reason to believe, on such terms with her family that it would not suit her to return to England."
"Ah, but she must have gone to England!" Vrouw Van Heigen cried. "She went away in a carriage as one does when one goes to the station to start on a journey."