it was getting rather late in the day. the sun had already risen high when mr. and mrs. van gulpendam took their seat at the breakfast-table in the pandoppo. the resident, according to his invariable custom, had risen early; but the ladies did not quite so soon recover from the fatigues of the last night’s ball. when, at length, fair laurentia appeared in the pandoppo she found her husband sitting in full dress, light-blue coat and silver buttons on which the arms of holland shone conspicuous; but evidently in very bad temper. he sat impatiently turning about a paper in his hands: “at last!” he cried. [135]
“what do you mean by at last,” she rejoined, “i suppose that is to be my good-morning?”
“very likely,” said he gruffly. “now is this breakfast-time i ask you? you know how very busy i am.”
“then why did you not have your breakfast before?” asked his wife.
“why? why?” he grumbled, “that is always the way you women put us off! you know i don’t like to sit down to meals alone!”
“then why did you not call anna? she would have had some news to tell you,” replied the wife.
it appears that, after the party, laurentia had not taken the trouble to enlighten her husband as to what had occurred on the previous evening. she had so much to do as hostess—and then she had not missed a single dance;—the young men of santjoemeh had been simply charming!
“anna, anna,” growled van gulpendam, “why, i have seen nothing of her yet. you women never can have a good stiff run without being knocked up all the next day! but—what is up with anna? what news may she have to tell me?”
“i will leave that to her—anna!—call your young lady,” said laurentia turning to dalima, who just then came into the pandoppo.
“miss anna will be here presently,” said the baboe.
“but meanwhile,” repeated van gulpendam, “what news has the girl to tell me?”
“oh,” said laurentia wearily, “i would much rather she should herself tell you. she could much better explain it herself why she allowed van nerekool to kiss her last night in the garden. but, i should like to know what paper that is there in your hand. you know i don’t like to see the rubbish at my table. there is room enough in the office for all that sort of thing; and what’s more you have my full leave to keep all those things there!”
van gulpendam had taken the rather startling communication of his wife quite coolly; so coolly, indeed, that it exceedingly provoked fair laurentia. she had, therefore, sought to vent her displeasure upon something, and that something, she had found in the unlucky piece of paper.
“it is a telegram,” said van gulpendam, moodily, “which i have just received, and which has annoyed me not a little.”
“a telegram?” she cried. [136]
“yes, a message from the hague. look! yesterday evening at nine o’clock, this thing was sent off, and this morning by daylight, we have it here.”
“well,” said laurentia, in no mood to humour her husband, “do you call that so very quick? don’t you remember amy’s letter, when we had sent her our congratulations on her engagement? our telegram left the office at santjoemeh at eleven o’clock, and, she wrote to us, that the very same morning at nine o’clock, it was delivered to her. that’s quick if you like—it seems to me, rather more than quick!”
“why, laurentia” said her husband, “i have explained it to you. the reason lies in the difference of longitude.”
“yes, yes, i know all about that, the sun turns—no the earth turns. oh yes, i know all about it. but that does not alter the fact that it was very quick work. fancy to receive a telegram, actually before it was sent off! but what can there be in that telegram from the hague, to put you out so?”
“bah!” said van gulpendam, “what do you women know about business?”
“yes, but tell me,” she insisted, “from whom is it?”
“it is from my brother gerard,” replied van gulpendam shortly.
“and what is it about?” asked laurentia; “now don’t keep me waiting, it is not gallant.”
at the word gallant, van gulpendam made a wry face, “oh,” said he, “it is about the matter of the netherland’s lion. nothing can come to it—unless—”
“yes, unless what?” inquired laurentia.
“unless the opium monopoly at santjoemeh, can be made to bring in a great deal more money than it does at present. the estimates of our colonial secretary are not at all approved of, and they reckon upon getting a couple of millions more from that source.”
“they, they, who are they?” continued laurentia.
“why—sidin, pull down the blinds!” said the resident prudently. “that sun,” continued he, “is so troublesome shining through the venetians. you ask who are they? why they are the government, the ministers, the lower house in fact.”
“oh,” said laurentia, carelessly, “is that all?”
“is that all! of course it is,” replied her husband grumpily, “quite enough too, you know as well as i do that the farmer pays more than twelve hundred thousand guilders for his privilege.” [137]
“well,” said laurentia, “what of that?—next year he will have to put down fifteen or eighteen hundred—there’s the end of it.”
“of course,” growled the resident, “it is easy enough to say there’s the end of it.”
“when is the contract to be renewed?” asked she.
“this september,” was the reply.
“very good, then you leave it to me.”
“yes, but—” objected van gulpendam.
“now, my dear,” said she, “pray, let us have no fuss, our dear javanese friends will have to smoke a little more opium apiece—and—you will wear the bertes knabbeldat—what do you call the thing?”
“virtus nobilitat” said van gulpendam, with dignity.
“all right! the virtus nobilitat, you will wear it in your button hole, but—it will be my doing.”
“how so?” asked the husband, in surprise.
“now gulpie, that is my secret. you will see, the opium contract will produce four or six hundred thousand more. don’t therefore let us have any troubling about it before the time. now let us change the subject. how is it,” she continued, “that you took so coolly what i just now told you about anna? about anna, you know, and van nerekool?”
“come,” said the resident, “let us have our breakfast, anna is not coming down it seems, and i have no time to spare.”
“all right,” said his wife, “let us have breakfast, but that will not, i hope, prevent you from answering my question?”
van gulpendam shook his head.
“pass the coffee, nènèh,” said laurentia to her maid wong toewa.
when the two cups of fragrant coffee stood before the pair, and each had cut a piece of bread, had buttered it, and spread upon it a thin slice of smoked venison, the lady, still anxious to have her answer, asked:
“well now, gulpie dear?”
“if i am ever to succeed in getting more out of the opium contract,” said he musingly, “i shall probably want van nerekool’s help.”
“his help? what? for the opium contract?” said laurentia, with an innocent smile, as if she understood nothing at all about the matter.
“just listen to me,” replied her husband. “if lim ho, in that matter, you know, of ardjan, should be found guilty and [138]condemned—why, then, his father lim yang bing must, of course, be excluded from the competition altogether.”
“why so?” asked laurentia.
“don’t you see why?” retorted van gulpendam—“if for no other reason; then simply to shut the mouth of the papers. what a row they would make if the father of a man found guilty of opium-smuggling and of a barbarous outrage moreover, should have the monopoly granted him. why it would be worse than the noise about the capstan when they are heaving the anchor!”
“but, my dear,” objected laurentia, “do you think that at batavia they will trouble themselves about the barking of the local papers?”
“yes and no,” replied the resident. “the curs themselves will be despised no doubt; but still, in self-defence, they will have to order an inquiry.”
“and you will be the man to hold it, won’t you?” said laurentia, with a meaning smile.
“possibly i might be, but what if the dutch papers were to take up the cry?”
“oh, the dutch press!” said laurentia, disdainfully. “it is pretty tame on the subject of opium. it will never join in a cry against it unless it be actually compelled.”
“yes,” said the resident, “that’s all very fine, but one never can tell how the cat may jump, or what secret influence may be at work. if lim ho is found guilty, it would most certainly be advisable that his father should not bid at all for the monopoly.”
“but,” said laurentia, “he is the wealthiest of the chinese company.”
“i know that as well as you do,” grumbled her husband.
“put him aside, and your bids will fall instead of rising,” insisted his wife.
“no doubt they will—”
“and then, my dear gulpie,” said laurentia, with a laugh, “you may whistle for your bertes knabbeldat.”
“just so,” said he, moodily.
“but, if that be so,” persisted laurentia, “it seems to me that lim ho must not be found guilty. he must be got off at any price, that’s my way of looking at it.”
“you are perfectly right, my dear,” replied the resident, “and it is precisely for the purpose of getting him off, that i shall want van nerekool’s help. if he should become [139]our son-in-law—or if the mere prospect of such a thing were to be held up to him—then—i have already told you, that i intend—as soon as zuidhoorn is out of the way, to appoint him president of the court pro tem.”
“yes,” broke in laurentia, hastily, “but he won’t hear of it.”
“won’t hear of it?” said her husband, slowly, and in surprise.
“no, he won’t hear of it.”
“how do you know that?”
“well,” said laurentia, “i will tell you. when last night i found these two young people hugging and kissing in the garden, i sent anna about her business.”
“yes,” said the resident, very anxiously, “and then—”
“then i just took the opportunity of sounding the young gentleman.”
“of sounding him?” cried van gulpendam in dismay.
“aye, my word was ‘sounding’?” replied laurentia, very quietly, “but i tell you there is no dealing with that fellow.”
thereupon laurentia told her husband pretty accurately what had taken place the night before in the pandan grove and under the tjemara trees, and reported to him the conversation she had there held with charles van nerekool. she omitted to tell him—very prudently too—that if she, by chance, had had to deal with a man of laxer morals and principles, she would have run great risk of becoming her daughter’s rival. when her story was ended, her husband heaved a deep sigh and throwing himself back in his chair he said:
“oh those women, those women! you have gone to work much too rashly,” continued he. “you ought to have tacked about instead of running. no doubt you had a fair chance before you—a very nice south easterly trade—but you have thrown it away. you have gone full tilt at your object, and so have overshot your anchorage!”
“oh, bother your tacks and runnings and trades and anchorages,” cried fair laurentia, out of patience, and vexed beyond measure to find that all her fine management was so lightly spoken of. “you just let me alone, that’s the best thing you can do.”
“but,” said the resident, “you have spoilt the whole job!”
“there was not much to spoil in the job, i can tell you, there was no doing anything with that booby.”
very bitterly indeed did the fair woman speak these words. [140]if but her gulpie had been able to seize the meaning of her smile. but after all the french realistic school may be right when it says that there is no blinder thing in the world than a husband. at all events, poor van gulpendam did not see, or he did not understand that peculiar smile.
“no doing anything with him, you say? ah, well, who knows. just listen to me, laurie. it is just possible, nay it is probable that, after such a conversation, van nerekool will shortly—to-day perhaps or to-morrow—come and ask me for our anna’s hand.”
“well,” said laurentia, “what then?”
“then i shall see,” replied her husband with a self-satisfied smile, “then i shall see what port i must steer for. i may, perhaps, know how to bring him to his bearings. i may be clever enough to drive him into some harbour of refuge.”
“i hope you may,” said laurentia, incredulously, “but i very much doubt your success.”
“meanwhile,” resumed van gulpendam, “you must use all your influence with anna. it is very likely that van nerekool will give her a hail before he makes up his mind to board me. now, should that happen—why then all may be well—you understand me, laurie, don’t you? anna must be our strongest ally.”
“but,” cried laurentia, “would you really give our dear, beautiful child to that sanctimonious young prig?”
“i must, if i can’t manage it otherwise; but, you see we are not on that tack just yet. if once we get into a good steady trade, and we have got what we want—why then, we shall no doubt find some means to get anna to go about.”
laurentia nodded. how little did these two parents know their own child!
“and,” continued the resident, cynically, “to heave the love-stricken simpleton overboard as so much useless ballast.”
“hush,” said he, “here she comes!”
“good morning, anna, my darling. you have slept soundly, i daresay, after your night’s dissipation. how she did enjoy herself! how the little corvette ran from the slips! why! you did not miss a single dance!”
anna, to use her father’s favourite phraseology, was thoroughly taken aback. her father then, had heard nothing at all about it—absolutely nothing! after her adventure in the garden, she quite anticipated stern faces in the morning, and was prepared for a good scolding. that, indeed, was partly the [141]reason why she had lingered so much longer than usual in her room. and now, lo and behold! her father greeted her more kindly and more cheerfully than ever before. perhaps mamma had had no time to make the serious communication. no, that was hardly possible, her parents had been for a considerable time together in the pandoppo, she knew that from dalima. and yet—well—she replied to her father’s hearty greeting with an equally hearty kiss, and was just turning to her mother when van gulpendam said:
“that’s right—now i have had my breakfast, i have had my morning kiss—now i must be off to work, there is plenty of it waiting for me. i must leave you ladies alone.”
“anna,” continued he, more seriously, “listen attentively to what your mother will have to say to you. remember you must take all that she will tell you as if it came from me. good-bye, anna, good-bye, laurentia.”
and off he was, through the inner, into the front gallery, where he met his private secretary who had been, for some time, waiting for him. he shook hands, offered him a cigar, took one himself, and proceeded with great care to light it at the match which his oppasser respectfully offered him. when it was well lighted, he handed the taper to his subordinate, who addressed himself as carefully and as systematically as his chief to the important function of lighting his cigar.
this done, the two officials walked for awhile up and down the roomy gallery, discussing the morning’s news, and making arrangements for the day’s work which lay before them.
meanwhile, nonna anna had exchanged her customary morning greeting with her mother, and had sat down by her side at the breakfast table, while baboe dalima offered her the cup of coffee which she had poured out at the little side-table.
“it is nice, miss anna,” said she, with a pleasant smile to her youthful mistress.
anna gave her a friendly little nod, took up the cup, and slowly sipped the fragrant decoction, now and then passing the tip of her tongue over her rosy lips as if unwilling to lose the least drop. when the little cup was empty, she handed it back to the baboe, with the words:
“another cup.”
“engèh, nana,” answered dalima, as she took the cup and hastened to the side-table.
then anna buttered a slice of bread; but she did this so [142]slowly and deliberately, with such an amount of concentrated attention indeed, that it was clear her mind was not upon what she was doing. in fact, she dreaded the opening of the impending conversation. laurentia sat next to her daughter not speaking a single word; but keeping her eye constantly upon the girl. very steadily she looked at her, and very kindly too. she sat admiring the pure, fresh complexion of the young girl, who, although she had passed a great part of the night in dancing, and had probably slept but very little during the remaining portion, was still as clear and bright as ever. she admired also her slim yet well rounded form, admirably set off by the pretty kabaja, and she sat calculating to what extent those charms might have captivated that cold and pensive van nerekool, to what extent they might force him to bow his neck under the yoke which was being prepared for him. but, if the mother’s eye brightened as she looked upon her daughter’s beauty, yet, amidst all this admiration, one sad thought would come up to her mind. more than a quarter of a century ago, van hoop gave that thought utterance when he said:
“daughter a-courting—mother grows old.” and then there came over her a feeling of jealousy, as she thought of the manly beauty of charles van nerekool, who had treated her with such strange indifference. would she have to give up all hope of entangling that young man if he could be made to despair of ever obtaining anna’s hand?
but—away with all such idle thoughts and fancies. the words of her husband were still ringing in her ears. her business was to save the son of the opium-farmer, if she wished to see her dear gulpie’s breast adorned with the bertes knabbeldat.
thus, in silence, the daughter and the mother sat side by side. the former could not trust herself to speak, and tried to hide her confusion by affecting to be wholly engrossed in her breakfast, for which, if the truth were told, she felt but very little appetite. the latter sat collecting her thoughts, and making up her mind how best to make the attack.
at length, laurentia began in the most affectionate manner.
“anna, my dear child, now just tell me what could have induced you to walk about in the garden alone with mr. van nerekool last night?”
“mother,” stammered the girl, in dire confusion.
“you need not blush so, my dear child,” continued her mother; “i saw quite enough yesterday to tell me all that is [143]going on. but that does not make it clear to me how you formed that attachment. i fancy, anna,” she continued, “i fancy i have some right to your confidence, have i not?”
“o mother!” cried the poor girl, “i cannot myself explain to you how it all happened.”
“but, anna!”
“i love charles,” cried anna, wildly; “i love him, that is all i know about it!”
“but tell me, anna, have you ever seriously asked yourself whether you feel for him that deep and lasting affection without which no woman ought to permit the addresses of any man?”
“yes, mother.”
“have you asked yourself whether this man, who has for the moment gained your affections, is the one to whom you are prepared to devote your whole life?”
“yes, mother,” replied anna, bravely, “yes, mother, for my love for him rests entirely on the noble qualities which distinguish him from all others. it is his honest heart especially which has won my love.”
“now all this, anna,” resumed mrs. van gulpendam, “is somewhat frivolous.”
“frivolous, mother!” cried the young girl; “do you call it frivolous that my eye has been open not to mere outward show, not to the mere superficial varnish and polish of society; but to genuine and substantial qualities, to sterling firmness of character and to honesty of principle?”
“tut, tut, tut!” exclaimed laurentia, “these are mighty fine words indeed.”
“do you disapprove of my choice, mother dear?” asked anna.
“disapprove,” said laurentia, gravely, “no, my child, it is not i who disapprove.”
“oh! yes; i know that papa is not at all fond of mr. van nerekool!”
mrs. van gulpendam made no reply to this exclamation.
“have you loved him long?” asked she at length.
“yes, mamma; my love for him has grown without my knowing it.”
“come now, anna,” said laurentia, with a sad incredulous smile, “come now.”
“i do assure you,” pleaded the girl, “it was altogether without my knowledge.” [144]
“how then, and when did you discover that you were in love with him?” persisted her mother.
“you know, mamma, do you not? that he used to visit here frequently—very frequently.”
“well, yes,” said laurentia, “i know that; but that is no answer to my question.”
“during his visits here,” continued the young girl, “i was generally alone in his company. at one time you would be engaged at cards; at another you were surrounded by your friends and taken up in discussing some article of toilette or deep in the secrets of a plum-pudding. at another time again, you, as hostess and wife of the chief man in the district, had to do the honours of the house and had to occupy yourself with generals, colonels, presidents and such like; and amidst all this business you had no time to devote to your daughter—”
“but,” cried laurentia, interrupting her daughter’s words; “that sounds very much like a reproach.”
“do let me get on, mother dear,” implored anna; “do let me get on. you have asked me how that affection arose in my heart—i would now lay open my heart to you; you have a right to it; you are my mother.”
“then,” she resumed, “i felt myself so utterly lonely in those gay circles in which commonplace, self-sufficiency, mediocrity, and frivolity reigned supreme. i felt myself so lonely in the midst of that buzz of conversation which, to me, had no attraction—in the midst of all those people for whom i had the greatest aversion—”
“anna, anna!” cried her mother, “take care of what you are saying. remember it is your parents’ friends and your parents’ company that you are thus censuring.”
“is it my fault, dearest mother,” continued anna, “that i feel a distaste for all such society? have you not often felt the same aversion—tell me, mother dear?”
laurentia gave no reply; she seemed to devour her daughter’s words.
“go on,” said she, somewhat sternly.
“then,” resumed anna, “i used to slip away quietly to my piano; there i found one never-failing means of getting rid of the company i disliked—then—”
“oh! yes,” said laurentia, sarcastically, “then my daughter used to plunge into beethoven, mendelsohn, mozart, chopin and all the rest of them, and neglect the world—”
“no, mother,” hastily broke in anna, “not neglect—but [145]tried for a while to forget the world which for me, as i have said, has no attractions—in the glorious realm of music, which, as a paradise, lay open before me.”
“that is a mighty fine speech,” said laurentia, with mocking lip but with moistened eye; for the emotional woman could not, with all her cynicism, remain unmoved at her daughter’s enthusiasm. “very fine, indeed; but, all this, remember, does not explain to me how you first came to discover that you were in love with van nerekool.”
“among all the company which surrounded you,” continued anna, “there were but very few indeed who could resist the temptation of a quadrille-party, of some political dispute or of a description of a white damask burnouse to—”
“to group themselves around the priestess of harmony,” said mrs. van gulpendam, with a good-natured smile.
“to enjoy some better and higher pleasure than the trivial conversation of the so-called beau monde,” continued anna. “among those few was mr. van nerekool, or rather i should say he was the only one; for even if now and then some young man would come and stand at my piano for a moment or two,—he did so—not for the sake of the music, still less for the sake of her who played it—”
“now, anna dear!” broke in mrs. van gulpendam, “we are getting a little too modest i think!”
“still less i said,” continued the young girl, not noticing the interruption, “for the sake of her who played it; but merely because i happened to be the daughter of the resident to which some little compliment ought now and then to be paid, and some little politeness was due. all these would run away quickly enough the moment the cards were brought in or the moment they heard some quotation from the colonial news in the java papers. then it was that i was left alone with charles. i found in him a true lover of music, and one who can feel what music means! thus we were generally isolated in the midst of a crowd, and thus used we to express our feelings in the delicious melody which our fingers could produce—no, no, dear mother,” she continued, most seriously, “pray do not smile. on such occasions never one word escaped from the lips of either of us which could convey the slightest hint of what was passing in our hearts. that word might perhaps have remained unspoken; for i am convinced that van nerekool was thinking as little about love as i was, and that we both felt nothing more than a mutual attraction [146]to one another. but last night—during the invitation à la valse, our secret slipped out—and oh, dearest mother, you yourself witnessed our first kiss!”
as she spoke these words the young girl gently laid her head upon her mother’s breast, who flung her arm around her as she looked into her daughter’s appealing eyes.
“and now, mother,” continued anna, softly, “can you forgive your child for having obeyed the voice of her heart?”
“my darling girl,” said laurentia, “not only do i forgive you for what was no more than natural; but what is more, i can tell you that circumstances might arise which would make me fully approve of your choice.”
“approve of my choice, mother!” exclaimed the girl. “oh, you make me happy indeed!” and kneeling down, she hid her face in her mother’s lap and broke out into convulsive sobs which shook her entire frame.
laurentia, wholly unprepared for this storm of passion, lifted her up and tried to soothe her.
“come, now, anna,” said she, “try and be calm; try and compose yourself! how can my simple words have moved you so? could you possibly suspect me of not doing my utmost to secure your happiness?”
“my happiness!” cried the young girl. “yes, my happiness—yes, dearest mother, that is the right word—it is indeed my happiness,” continued she, as she covered her mother’s face with kisses.
“now, anna,” at length said laurentia, anxious to put an end to this tender effusion, “do sit down quietly by my side, as you were sitting just now, and then with your hand in mine and your eye fixed on mine, we can talk over this delicate matter quietly. come and sit down here close to my heart.”
she pressed her child’s head to her bosom. it was a pretty picture, but it conveyed, alas! the exact contrary of the story of the serpent and the husbandman.
“but,” asked anna, anxiously, and folding her hands as if in prayer, “do you think papa will ever give his consent?”
“i think he may,” replied laurentia.
“oh, that would be a blessing!” cried anna. “don’t you think, mammy dear, that would be too great a blessing?”
“no, anna, not at all, now listen to me. your father will not be very easily won, in fact we shall have to take him by storm.” [147]
“dear mother,” cried anna, “have you not spoken to papa about it yet?”
“not only will it be hard to gain him” continued laurentia, coldly, without noticing her daughter’s interruption, “but something would have to happen by which van nerekool might conciliate him.”
“i feel certain, dearest mother,” cried anna, “that charles will do anything to obtain my hand!”
“do you?” asked laurentia. “he would do anything you say. are you quite sure that you are not just a little too sanguine?”
“oh, mother dear!” cried the girl in a deprecating tone.
“yes, i said too sanguine; for i have some reason to fear that charles is not quite so deeply in love as he would wish you to suppose.”
“mother!” cried anna, looking up at her reproachfully.
“don’t interrupt me, anna. last night, as you know, i remained for some time in the garden with mr. van nerekool after i had, from his own lips, heard the confession of his love.”
“mamma dear!” cried the young girl, breathlessly, “his confession did you say!”
“now pray don’t excite yourself,” said laurentia with an icy smile. “after he had confessed his attachment to you—i opened to him the prospect, not only of obtaining your father’s consent—”
“oh, mother, dear, how kind of you,” now sighed the young girl as she covered laurentia’s face with kisses.
laurentia gently put her aside and resumed: “i opened to him not only the prospect of gaining your father’s consent; but i further proposed to him a means of greatly improving his own position, and of thus making his marriage with a girl like you, more possible.”
“a girl like me?” asked anna in surprise. “am i then unlike all other girls that a marriage with me would be less possible?”
“my dear child,” said laurentia, “listen to reason. you know that from your childhood you have been brought up in the midst of a certain degree of luxury,—now surely you would not like to renounce all these comforts, to which you have been born and bred and—”
“for the man i love i would sacrifice anything!” eagerly cried the girl.
“yes, i know,” replied laurentia coldly, “all that reads [148]very well in a novel; but you will not find that it will stand the test of experience. in practical everyday life the saying is but too true: ‘when poverty enters at the door, love flies out at the window.’?”
“oh!” cried anna, “there is no fear of that with me and charles.”
“that is all very fine,” continued laurentia, “but we, your parents, we who have to entrust your future happiness to a husband, we must take care that that husband can offer you a home free from the anxieties of poverty. now we were in hopes that we might have met mr. van nerekool half way in this matter—but—”
“but—what mamma? oh, tell me what he said.”
“why, he had only one word to say—and that word was ‘never.’?”
“never,” cried anna, “i do not quite understand you, mother. you told me that he confessed to you that he loves me—you showed him some prospect of winning my hand and he replies ‘never!’ how can that possibly be?”
“i placed a condition before him,” said laurentia somewhat nervously.
“a condition!” cried anna, “what might that be?”
“well—it was a condition of marriage—if you will have it plainly.”
“and—” cried anna, “to that condition of marriage he replied ‘never?’ i am more puzzled than ever.”
“it was after all but a very trifling matter,” said laurentia, “it was merely just a little thing to please your father and, by complying with it, mr. van nerekool might have helped your father to win honour and glory—and, moreover, he might have considerably improved his own position.”
“oh, dearest mother,” said anna, “there must be some misunderstanding, charles is a noble fellow—it is the true nobility of his soul which mainly attracted me to him—why! not many weeks ago he promised to help me in saving the lover of my baboe and would he now—?”
“what?” exclaimed laurentia, “the lover of your baboe?”
“yes,” replied anna, “of baboe dalima. but what has that to do with it?”
“that is the very case!” cried mrs. van gulpendam, “i was recommending him to—”
“well, then you see,” said anna, quietly, as she interrupted her mother, “you see clearly there must be some misunderstanding[149]—all that will very easily be explained. tell me, pray, what condition did you propose to van nerekool?”
“yes,” said laurentia slowly after a moment’s pause, “you are the only one who can arrange this matter. and, pray remember, that this is a question upon which depends van nerekool’s future career—and your own marriage.”
and then, the proud ambitious woman told her daughter that she was bent upon obtaining for her husband the order of the netherland’s lion; that this distinction, however, would not be got unless the returns of the opium trade at santjoemeh improved considerably—that in fact the virtus nobilitat was to be the price for the increase in the revenue of holland.
“but,” continued laurentia, “in order to make that increase possible, lim yang bing must continue to hold the opium monopoly—and that he must cease to do if his son lim ho be found guilty of smuggling and of outrage upon the natives. therefore we are under the cruel necessity—!”
as her mother began to speak anna listened attentively; as she continued, the girl sat with her eyes fixed on her mother’s lips as though she would read the words before she uttered them; at these last words, she flew up wild and furious and passionately broke in upon laurentia’s speech: “ardjan is to be sacrificed, that my father may get the netherland’s lion—that never—no, mother, do you hear me, that cannot—that shall not be!”
“but, anna!” exclaimed laurentia much alarmed at her daughter’s violence, “pray do not excite yourself so!”
“and did you make that proposal to charles?—yes? oh, then i am wretched indeed!”
“but, anna—” laurentia began to say.
“now i understand his ‘never,’?” said the girl bitterly. “no, he is right, never, never shall he marry the daughter of such parents as mine!”
at these words she dashed out of the pandoppo and locked herself in her own room.
