The Later Life/Chapter XVIII
There was a big official dinner at Van Naghel's; and the guests were expected in three-quarters of an hour.
"Mamma," whined Huigje to Frances, as she was dressing, "what's happening?"
"There are people coming," said Frances, without looking up.
"What sort of people, Mamma?"
"Oh, there's a dinner-party, dear!" said Frances, irritably.
Huigje did not know what a dinner-party was:
"What's dinner-party?" he asked his little sister Ottelientje.
"Things to eat," said Ottelientje, importantly.
"Things to eat?"
"Yes, nice things . . . ices."
"Shall we have dinner-party, Mamma, and ices?" whined Huigje.
"Allah,[1] baboe,[2] keep the sinjo[3] with you! . . . But, baboe, do me up first."
Otto, who now had a billet at the Foreign Office, came in, followed by Louise.
"Oh, aren't you dressing, Louise?" said Frances.
"No, I'm not going down," she answered. "I shall have my meal with the children and with Marietje and Karel, in the nursery."
"I don't want you to have your dinner with the children," said Frances, fastening her bracelet.
"No," said Louise, gently, "but I'm having dinner with Karel and Marie in any case."
"One would think you were mad," said Frances. "Why aren't you at the dinner?"
"I arranged it with Mamma. There's a place short."
"But you're not a child!"
"Frances, what do I care about these dinners?" said Louise, with a gentle little laugh.
"If there's a place short," said Frances, working herself up about nothing, "I'll have my dinner with the children."
"Frances, please . . ."
"I will!"
"But, Frances, why make difficulties when there are none?" Louise replied, very gently. "Really, it has all been arranged . . . with Mamma."
"I'm only a step-daughter!" cried Frances.
"You mean, a daughter-in-law!" Otto put in, with a laugh.
"A step-daughter!" Frances repeated, trembling with nervous irritation. "You're a daughter. Your place is at the dinner."
"Frances, I assure you, I'm not going in to dinner," said Louise, quietly but decidedly.
"Oh, shut up, Frances!" said Otto.
But Frances wanted to get angry, about nothing, merely for the sake of working herself up. She scolded the baboe, pushed the children out of her way, broke a fan:
"There, I've smashed the rotten thing!"
"Is that your new fan?" asked Otto, furiously.
"Yes. R-r-rootsh! . . . There, it's in shreds!"
He flew into a rage:
"You needn't think I'll ever give you anything again! . . . You're not worth it!"
"That's right, then you can give everything to your sister: you're fonder of Louise as it is . . . you're in love with Louise. R-r-rootsh! . . . R-r-rootsh!"
And she sent the fan flying across the room, in pieces.
"Eh, njonja!",[4] said the baboe in mild astonishment.
"You're a regular nonna,[5] that's what you are!" said Otto, flushing angrily.
But his wife laughed. The broken fan had relieved her, made her feel livelier:
"Give me that other fan, baboe."
She was ready. She looked at her face in the glass, added a touch of powder and smiled. She thought that she looked nice, though she was a little pale and thin. Suddenly, she sat down, straight up in a chair:
"I feel so faint!" she murmured.
Louise went to her:
"What's the matter, Frances?"
"I feel so faint!" she said, almost inaudibly.
She was as white as a sheet.
"Give me some eau-de-Cologne . . ."
"What's the matter with you now?" cried Otto, in despair.
"Baboe," said Louise, "get some vinegar; mevrouw's fainting."
"No," moaned Frances, "vinegar . . . stains . . . one's . . . things . . . Mind . . . my . . . dress. Eau . . . de . . . Cologne."
Louise dabbed her forehead.
"Don't ruffle my hair!" screamed Frances. "Oh dear, oh dear!" she moaned, the next second.
She rested her head against Louise:
"Louise!"
"What is it, Frances?"
"I haven't been nice to you . . . I'm going to die."
"No, no, you're not."
"Yes, I am . . . Huigje! Ottelientje! Mamma's going to die."
Otto took the children out of the room.
"Leave them with me!" she moaned. "I'm dying! . . ."
"No, Frances. But won't you lie down a little? Take off your things? Lie down on your bed?"
"No . . . no . . . I'm a little better . . . I must go down . . ."
"Are you feeling better?"
"Yes . . . Give me some . . . eau-de-Cologne . . . Oh, Louise, everything suddenly went black! . . ."
"You felt giddy, I expect. Did you take your drops to-day?"
"Yes, but they're no good, those drops. I'm much better now, Louise. Are you angry with me? . . ."
"No."
"For saying Otto was in love with you?"
"Oh, nonsense, Frances!"
"Yes, he is in love with you. You're mad, you two: brother and sister; I never heard of such a thing . . . I'm better, Louise. Will you help me downstairs? And will you . . . will you have your dinner with the children? That's sweet of you . . . You see, the foreign secretary's coming and that's why Papa wants Otto and me to be at the dinner. Otherwise I don't care about that sort of thing . . . I'm much better now, Louise . . . Come, take me downstairs."
She stood up and Louise helped her down the stairs, tenderly.
The maids were running upstairs, downstairs and along the passages; footmen were waiting in the hall; the house was one blaze of light. In the drawing-room, Bertha, already dressed, was speaking to Willem, the butler; the doors were open, showing the long table glittering through its flowers.
"What's the matter with Frances?" asked Bertha, seeing Frances come in slowly, looking very pale, leaning on Louise's arm.
"I'm better now, Mamma . . . I thought I was dying . . ."
At that moment, there was a loud peal at the front-door bell.
"Who can that be?"
One of the footmen opened the door.
"Who is it?" asked Bertha, softly, from the stairs.
"It's I, Mamma!"
"Emilie!"
"Yes . . . I . . ."
Emilie came up. She had flung down a wet waterproof in the hall and was very pale; her hair hung in disorder over her face.
"But, Emilie . . . what's the matter?"
She had flown upstairs precipitately, seeing nothing; now she suddenly perceived the rooms, all open and lit up, with the long table and the flowers; and she remembered that there was a dinner-party . . .
"I've run away!" she said. "I'm not going back!"
"Run away!"
"Yes. Eduard struck me . . . and insulted me . . . insulted me . . . I won't go back home . . . I shall stay here!"
"Emilie! Good heavens!"
"Unless you turn me away . . . Then I'll go into the streets, I don't know where . . . to Leiden . . . to Henri . . . I'll go to Henri. Understand what I say, Mamma: I'll never go back to Eduard."
Van Naghel appeared at the door:
"What's happened, Emilie?"
"Papa, Papa, I've run away . . ."
"Run away . . ."
"From Eduard. It's a dog's life. He's a miser. He's always bullying me, reproaching me, saying that I spend too much money . . . that my parents, yes, that you . . . that you spend too much money! He's mad with meanness. He locks up my linen-cupboard . . . because I wear too many chemises and send too many things to the wash and employ too expensive a laundress! He grudges me more than one chemise a week! He's mad . . . he's gone mad! For a whole week, I put on three fresh chemises a day, to annoy him, and I threw all those chemises into his dirty-clothes-basket, to annoy him! He found them this morning! I told him that I was the mistress of my own chemises and that I should wear just as many as I pleased. Then he flew into a passion and he struck me . . ."
She burst out laughing:
"I flung all my chemises at his head!" she screamed, hysterically. "And he flung them all back. The room was one vast chemise! . . . Oh, it's terrible . . . It's a dog's life. I won't go back to him . . . Papa, I needn't go back to him, need I?"
"Emilie, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
She threw herself upon her father, crushed herself against the orders on his breast:
"Oh, Papa, I am so unhappy! I can't stand any more of it: I am so unhappy!"
Marianne came in. She was looking very pretty: a delicate, fair little society-girl, in her low-necked white frock. She heard Emilie's last words, saw her pale, thin, dishevelled:
"Emilietje! . . . Sissy! . . . What is it?" she exclaimed. "Oh, that horrid man! It's that horrid man!"
Bertha shut her eyes:
"Emilie," she said, wearily.
"Mamma, don't be angry . . . but I'm staying!"
The bell rang.
"There's the bell, Emilie!" said Van Naghel, sternly.
"I'm going, Papa . . ."
She looked around her in perplexity, not knowing which door to go out by.
"Come with me," said Louise, quickly.
And, taking Emilie almost in her arms, she hurried her away.
The first arrivals were coming up the stairs. Louise and Emilie just managed to escape into a little boudoir. But the doors were open.
"We can run across the passage presently," whispered Louise.
"Just think," whispered Emilie, "he's absolutely mad! He interferes with the cook's housekeeping-book. He checks what she spends each day . . . He's mad, he's mad! He won't eat at meals, so as to save a bit of meat for next day. And, when we give a little dinner, nothing's good enough. It's all for people, all for show: he'd starve, in order to give his friends champagne!"
"Hush, Emilie!"
They heard the exchange of greetings in the drawing-room; their parents' well-bred, expressionless voices; Marianne's nervous, tinkling laugh; Otto and Frances making up to the foreign secretary. It all sounded false. The bell kept on ringing. More guests came upstairs, with a rustle of skirts, a creaking of shoes . . .
"We can't get away!" said Emilie, plaintively, almost collapsing in Louise's arms.
They succeeded in running upstairs between two rings at the bell. The table was laid in the nursery: Karel and Marietje were there, playing with Ottelientje and Huig; the baboe sat huddled in a corner.
"I'll have something with you!" said Emilie. "I'm faint with hunger . . . What a day, good God, what a day!"
"We'll get something to eat in between," said Louise. "Come, Emilie, come to my room."
And, as if they were fleeing again, this time from the children, she dragged Emilie up to her own room.
"Emilie, do be sensible!" she implored.
"Louise, I mean what I said, give me a glass of wine, a biscuit, anything: I'm sinking . . ."
Louise went out and Emilie was left alone. She looked around the bright, cosy sitting-room, stamped with the gentle personality of its owner: there were many books about; the doors of a book-case were open.
"The dear girl!" thought Emilie, lying back wearily in a chair. "She lives her own life peacefully . . . and, when there's anything wrong, she's the one who helps. Her life just goes on, the same thing day after day! She was a girl while we were still children; and, properly speaking, we never knew her as we know one another. She's fond of Otto, just as I'm very fond of Otto . . . but, apart from that, her life just goes on in the same way . . . She's always silent . . . She just lives and reads up here . . . and, if there's anything wrong, she's the one who helps . . . What have I done, my God, what have I done! . . . But I won't go back! . . ."
Louise returned, with a glass of wine and a few biscuits.
"We're dining presently," she said. "There, drink that and be sensible, Emilie. Does Eduard know you're here?"
"No. He was out when I left. I waited till he was out . . . Louise, I won't go back! I've telegraphed to Henri to help me. I'm expecting him here."
They heard voices below.
"Listen!" said Louise.
"Who is it?"
"Perhaps it's some one who has come late . . . But that's impossible . . . I hear a noise on the stairs . . ."
"My God!" cried Emilie. "It's Eduard! Hide me! Say you don't know where I am!"
"I can't do that, Emilie. Keep calm, Emilie, be sensible. Go to my bedroom, if you like . . ."
Emilie fled. It was a renewed flight, the fluttering of a young bird, a frail butterfly, hither and thither. Her eyes seemed to be seeking, vaguely and anxiously. . . . She and Louise had to go down to the next landing and Emilie managed to escape to Marianne's room, once the boudoir which they had shared between them:
"My own little room!" she sobbed, throwing herself into a chair.
The gas was half-lowered. Everywhere lay things of Marianne's; the dressing-table was in disorder, as though Marianne had had to dress quickly and hurriedly for the dinner-party.
"How nice she looked!" sobbed Emilie. "My little sister, my dear little sister! O God, they say she's in love with Uncle Henri!"
She sprang up again in nervous restlessness, turned the gas on, looked round, anxiously, feeling lost, even in this room:
"His portrait!" she cried. "Uncle Henri's portrait!"
She saw Van der Welcke's photograph. True, it was between Constance' and Addie's; but there was another on Marianne's writing-table.
"My little sister, my poor little sister!" sobbed Emilie.
And she dropped limply into another chair, on the top of a corset and petticoats of Marianne's. She lay like that, with drooping arms, among her sister's things. Suddenly she sat up. She heard voices outside, in the passage: Louise with Eduard, her husband.
"She's mad, she's mad!" he was snarling. "She's run away! The servant didn't know where to. Where is she, where is she?"
"She's here," said Louise, calmly.
"Where?"
"She's resting. But keep calm, Eduard, and don't let them hear you downstairs. There's a dinner-party."
"I don't care! I insist . . ."
"I insist that you keep quiet and don't make a scene . . ."
"Where is Emilie?"
"If you're quiet, you can speak to her. If you shout like that, so that you can be heard downstairs, I'll send a message to Papa."
Emilie, on tenterhooks, quivering in every nerve, stood up and opened the door:
"I am here," she said.
She stood in front of her husband. He was no longer the dapper nonentity; he stood there coarse, raving, like a clod-hopper:
"You're coming home with me!" he shouted. "This minute!"
"Eduard!" Louise entreated. "Don't shout. Come in."
She pushed him into Marianne's room.
"You're coming home!" he shouted again. "Are you coming? Are you coming?"
"No, I'm not," said Emilie.
"You're not?"
"No! I won't go back to you."
"You've got to!"
"I want a divorce."
"I don't; and you're coming home."
"I'm not going home. You've struck me . . . and I'm placing myself under my father's protection. I don't know the law, but I'm not going to be struck by you."
"If you don't come . . . I'll make you, I'll thrash you to the door."
She gave a contemptuous laugh:
"You're not a man," she said. "You're a cowardly brute!"
He raved as though beside himself. He cursed and foamed at the mouth. Louise stared at him in dismay; hardly knew him, now that he had lost all his veneer of manner, all his German, would-be correct politeness.
"Home you go!" he roared again, pointing to the door with his finger.
"I am not going."
He flew at her, seized her by her frail shoulders, shook her, his mouth distorted by passion, his eyes starting out of his head, like a madman's. She writhed herself free, struck him full in the face. He hit her back.
"Eduard! Emilie!" screamed Louise.
Her anger gave her strength. She threw herself upon her brother-in-law, strong in her indignation, pushed him away from his wife.
"Go away!" she cried aloud, clasping Emilie in her arms. "Go away! Out of the room!"
"I want my wife back!"
Louise calmed herself:
"Eduard," she said, quietly, "leave the room."
"No."
"Once more, Eduard, leave the room, or I'll send one of the men to Papa. If you want to make a scandal, very well, do; but you'll be the chief sufferer."
He suddenly remembered the Hague, his career . . .
"Go out of the room, Eduard."
"He's hurt me!" moaned Emilie. "I've got a pain, here . . ."
She lay like a dead thing in her sister's arms.
"Eduard, go out of the room."
"I'll go," he said. "But I shall stay until the dinner is over . . ."
He went away.
"The wretch! The wretch!" moaned Emilie.
"He's bruised my breast. Lucky that he did: now I can get a divorce, can't I, Louise? . . . Louise, do you know the law?"
"No, my darling, but Papa will tell you all about it. But keep calm, keep calm . . ."
"Where has he gone?"
"If you don't mind being left alone, I'll go and see . . ."
"No, stay with me, stay with me . . ."
There was a knock at the door.
"Who's there?"
An old nurse entered:
"Freule," she said to Louise, "meneer asks if you'll please not talk so loud up here. Meneer can hear Mr. van Raven's voice."
"Where is Mr. van Raven now?"
"The blackguard has gone to Mr. Frans and Mr. Henri's sitting-room."
"Very well, Leentje, we'll make less noise. But you mustn't talk like that."
"It hurts!" moaned Emilie.
The woman looked at her compassionately:
"The dirty blackguard!" she said. "Did he hit you, my poor dear? . . ."
"Leentje, I won't have you speak like that!" said Louise.
"And I'll tell him to his face . . . that he's a dirty blackguard," the old nurse insisted, obstinately.
She knelt beside Emilie, opened the girl's blouse and softly rubbed her breast:
"The blackguard!" she repeated.
The sisters let her alone. They were silent, all three; the room was all in confusion. Emilie had dropped back again limply among Marianne's clothes. Leentje got up and began tidying.
"Louise," whispered Emilie.
"My poor sissy!"
"I see Uncle Henri's portrait there . . . And there . . . And another over there . . . Marianne's fond of Uncle Henri . . ."
"Yes, but hush!"
"She's fond of him . . . she's in love with him, Louise."
"Yes, I know. Hush, Emilie!"
"Does Mamma know?"
"We don't talk about it. But I think so."
"Does everybody know?"
"No, no, not everybody!"
"Does Marianne never talk about it?"
"No, never."
"Is there nothing to be done? Aunt Adolphine and Aunt Cateau were speaking of it the other day. Everybody knows about it."
"No, no, not everybody, surely?"
"Yes, everybody. And everybody knows too that Eduard beats me . . . Louise!"
"Ssh! I hear voices."
"That's . . . Henri!"
"Yes, it's Henri's voice . . ."
"And Eduard . . ."
"Heavens! . . . Leentje!" cried Louise. "Go to Mr. Henri and Mr. Eduard and tell them that Papa doesn't wish them to speak loud."
"The blackguard!" said Leentje.
She left the room and went down the stairs. The whole house was lit up, the doors of the reception-rooms were open; one caught the glitter of the dinner-table amid its flowers and the sound of laughing voices: a soft, well-bred society-ripple, a ring of silver, a faint tinkling of crystal.
"The blackguard!" thought the old nurse.
She was down in the hall now: from the kitchen came the voices of bustling maids, of the chef, the footmen. The cloak-room was lighted and open, was full of wraps and overcoats. On the other side of the hall was the sitting-room of the two undergraduates.
Old Leentje opened the door. She saw Van Raven standing opposite Henri; their voices clashed, in bitter enmity:
"Then why did Emilie telegraph to me?"
"I don't know; but our affairs don't concern you."
"Mr. Henri, Mr. Eduard," said the old nurse, "your papa asks, will you please not speak loud . . ."
"Where is Emilie?" asked Henri.
"The poor dear is in Marianne's room," said Leentje. "Come with me, my boy . . ."
She took Henri, who was shaking all over, by the hand. And, as she left the room with Henri, she said, out loud:
"The blackguard!"
"Who?" asked Henri.
"He!"
"What has he done?"
"What hasn't he done!"
She hesitated to tell him, dreading his temper, went cautiously up the stairs, past the open doors of the lighted rooms.
Henri caught a glimpse of the dinner-table, through the flowers, and of three of the guests talking and laughing, lightly and pleasantly, in their well-bred, expressionless voices.
And then he found his two sisters in Marianne's room. As soon as Emilie saw him, she threw herself into his arms:
"Henri!"
"Sissy, what is it?"
She told him, briefly.
"The cad!" he cried. "The cad! Has he hit you? I'll . . . I'll . . ."
He wanted to rush downstairs; they held him back:
"Henri, for goodness' sake," Louise entreated, "remember there are people here!"
"Don't you all want your dinner?" asked Karel, at the door. "We're starving."
They went to the nursery, as it had been called for years, and sat down to table.
"I'm not hungry now," said Emilie.
"I don't want anything either," said Henri. "I'm calmer now . . . and I'm going downstairs."
They held him back again. And the time dragged on. Ottelientje and Huig were put to bed; Karel went to do his home-work; Marietje hung round her elder sisters, inquisitively. And they listened, with the doors open, to the sounds below.
"They've finished dinner . . ."
"Yes, I can hear them in the drawing-room . . ."
Marianne suddenly came running upstairs, appeared in the doorway, looking very white and sweet:
"I couldn't bear it any longer!" she exclaimed. "The dinner's over. I escaped for a moment. Emilie! Sissy!"
"He's here!" said Emilie. "Eduard: he's waiting downstairs. He wants to take me home with him. You must all help me. He struck me!"
"My sissy, my sissy!" cried Marianne, excitedly, wringing her arms and her hands, kissing Emilie. "Is he downstairs? I'll tell Papa. I daren't stay any longer. Oh, those tiresome people down there! It's nearly nine. They'll be gone in an hour. Now I must go."
And she started to hurry away.
"Marianne!" said Henri.
"What is it?"
"I want to speak to you presently."
"Very well, presently."
And she flitted down the stairs.
"How pretty she's growing!" said Henri.
"And I," said Emilie, "so ugly!"
She leant against Louise. They heard a rustle on the stairs. It was Bertha herself:
"My child!"
"Mamma!"
"I managed to slip away, just for a moment. My dear child!"
"Eduard is here, Mamma. He's downstairs. He wants to take me away with him. He is waiting till the people are gone. He was shouting so. . . ."
"I heard him."
"We told him to be quiet. I won't go with him, Mamma. I'll stay with you, I'll stay with you. He struck me!"
"The cad!" cried Henri, pale in the face.
"The dirty blackguard!" said the old nurse.
Bertha, very pale, shut her eyes, heaved a deep sigh:
"My child, my dear child . . . be sensible, make it up."
"But he is brutal to me, Mamma!"
She flung herself, sobbing, into Bertha's arms.
"My darling!" Bertha wept. "I can't stay away any longer."
She released herself, went away; her dress rustled down the stairs. Her guests were sitting in the drawing-room; one or two looked at her strangely, because she had absented herself. In a moment she was once more the tactful, charming hostess.
Marianne, with a smile on her face, had gone to Van Naghel's study, where the men were having their coffee, smoking:
"Papa . . ."
"What is it, dear?"
"Eduard is downstairs!" she whispered. "I only came to tell you. He wants to take Emilie with him. He has struck her."
"Tell him I'll speak to him . . . as soon as our visitors have gone."
And, as the host, he turned to his guests again.
Marianne went downstairs, found Eduard in the boys' sitting-room. He was quietly smoking.
"Papa will speak to you as soon as they're all gone. The carriages will be here in three-quarters of an hour."
"Very well," he said laconically.
Her blood seethed up:
"You're a cowardly wretch!" she cried. "You've struck Emilie!"
He flared up, losing all his stiff German society-manners:
"And I'm her husband!" he roared. "But you . . . you . . ."
"What about me?"
"You've no decency! You're in love with your uncle! With a married man!"
"O-o-oh!" screamed Marianne.
She hid her face with her hands, terrified. Then she recovered herself, but her pale face flushed red with shame:
"You don't know what you're saying!" she said, haughtily, trying to withdraw into her maidenly reserve. "You don't know what you're saying. But your manners are only put on, for strangers. And at heart you're a cowardly cad, a cowardly cad, who strikes and insults women."
He made an angry movement at her words.
"You're not going to strike me, I suppose?" she said, drawing herself up haughtily. "You've insulted me: isn't that enough for you?"
She made an effort to turn away calmly, walked out of the room, up the stairs. The sobs welled up in her throat; she could no longer keep them back:
"O God!" she thought. "Everybody knows it. Everybody sees it. I can't keep it hidden: I love him, I love him! . . . Hush! Hush! I must suppress it, deep, deep down in myself. But, if I love him, if I love him . . . if I am happy when I see him . . . Oh, hush, hush!"
She pressed her two hands to her breast, as though to thrust her emotion deep down in her soul. She wiped her eyes, had the strength to return to the drawing-room. She talked gaily and pleasantly, as the daughter of the house, but she suddenly felt tired to death:
"Everybody knows it, everybody sees it," she kept on thinking; and she tried to read in the faces of the guests what they saw, what they knew.
It was over at last. The butler was continually coming to the door, announcing the carriages. Those people would not remain much longer. It was ten o'clock; and they began to say good-bye. They followed one after the other, at short intervals, as is proper at big dinner-parties . . . There was only one of the ministers left, talking earnestly to Van Naghel, in a low voice, probably about some government matter: he was not thinking yet of going . . . But at last he also hastened away, apologizing. And Van Naghel and Bertha, Marianne, Frances and Otto all listened while he put on his overcoat downstairs, said a word to the butler . . . The front-door slammed. They were alone.
They looked at one another . . .
And, as if driven by an irresistible impulse, Van Naghel went downstairs, to his son-in-law, and Bertha and Marianne upstairs, to Emilie . . .
"Mamma, have you come to me at last?" said Emilie, plaintively. "Mamma, I shall stay here: I won't go back . . ."
She was clutching Henri desperately; and Marianne went up to her, comforted her, kissed her.
"Marianne," said Henri, "here, a minute . . ."
He led her out into the passage:
"Marianne," he said, "you don't know how fond I am of you . . . almost as fond as of Emilie. Marianne, let me just say this to you: be sensible; everybody's talking about it . . ."
"Everybody?" she asked, frightened; and she did not even ask what it was, because she understood.
"You even know it yourself then?" he asked, quickly, to take her by surprise.
She withdrew into the mysterious recesses of her little soul, which was too transparent, reflected its radiance too much; she wanted to veil that radiance from him and from the others:
"What?" she said. "There's nothing to know! . . . Everybody? Everybody who? Everybody what? . . ."
"Everybody's talking about it, about Uncle Henri's making love to you?"
She tried to laugh; and the little silver bells sounded shrill and false:
"Making love to me? . . . Uncle Henri? . . . People are mad!"
"You were out with him yesterday . . . in a motor-car."
"And what is there in that?"
"Don't do it again."
"Why not?"
"Everybody's talking about it."
Again she tried to laugh; and the little silver bells sounded shrill and false:
"Uncle Henri!" she said. "Why, he might be my father!"
"You know you don't mean what you say."
"Uncle Henri!"
"He is a young man . . . Marianne, tell me that it's not true . ."
"That he makes love to me? I'm fond of him . . . just as I'm fond of Aunt Constance."
"That you love him. There, you can't deny it. You love him."
"I do not love him," she lied.
"Yes, you do, you love him."
"I do not love him."
"Yes, you do."
"Very well, then, I do!" she said, curtly. "I love him. What then?"
"Marianne . . ."
"I like being with him, like talking to him, cycling with him, motoring with him: what then? There's no harm in it; and . . . I love Aunt Constance too."
"Marianne, I've warned you," he said, sadly. "Be sensible."
"Yes," she answered. "But you be sensible also."
"How do you mean?"
"Be sensible with Eduard! Control your temper, Henri! It can only make things worse, if you don't control your temper."
"I will control myself!" he promised, clenching his fists as he spoke.
"Henri . . ."
"I hate the bounder . . . I could murder him, wring his neck."
"Henri, be quiet, I hear Papa coming."
"Promise me, Marianne, that you will be careful."
"Yes, Henri. And you promise me also, Henri, that you will be careful."
"I promise you."
She went up to him, put her arms round his neck:
"My brother, my poor brother!"
"My dear little sister, my little sister!"
"Hush, hush! . . ."
"Hush! . . ."
"Here's Papa . . ."
Van Naghel came up the stairs.
And they went with him into the nursery, where Bertha was waiting with Emilie, Otto and Frances.
"Eduard has gone now," said Van Naghel, quietly. "I calmed him down; he is coming back to-morrow, to talk things over. You can stay here to-night, Emilie."
"Papa, I won't go back to him!"
"No, Emilie," cried Frances, excitedly, "you can't go back to him!"
"Be quiet, Frances," said Van Naghel, severely. And he repeated, "You . . . can . . . stay here, Emilie . . . to-night . . ."
He suddenly turned purple.
"Tell me what the law is, Papa," Emilie insisted.
"The law?" asked Van Naghel. "The law? . . ."
And, almost black in the face, he pulled at his collar.
"Bertha!" he cried, in a hoarse voice.
They were all terrified . . .
He tore open his collar, his tie, his shirt:
"Air!" he implored.
And his eyes started from his head, he staggered, fell into a chair.
Louise rang the bell. The girls screamed for the maids, the butler. Henri flew down the stairs to fetch a doctor.
It was was too late . . .
Van Naghel lay dead, struck down by apoplexy.