Book: The Good Comrade

U >> Una L. Silberrad >> The Good Comrade




She turned her back on the green distance. "Shall we not go back to
where the music is playing?" she said.

They went, walking with their arms entwined as other girls were doing,
Julia between the broad, white-skinned sisters, like a rapier between
cushions. The two younger girls ran on in front. "There is Mevrouw,"
they cried. "She is calling us. The carriage is ready, too; oh, do you
think it is already time to go?"

It seemed as if it really was the case. Vrouw Snieder stood clapping
her hands and beckoning to them, and the coachman appeared impatient
to be off. With reluctance, and many times repeated regrets, they
collected their wraps and baskets, and got into the carriage.

"Good-bye, beautiful wood, good-bye!" Denah said, leaning far out as
they started. "Oh, if one could but remain here till the moon rose!"

"It would be very damp," her mother observed. "The dew would fall."

To which incontestable remark Denah made no reply.

The return journey was much like the drive there, with one exception;
they passed one object of interest they had not seen before. It was
when they were nearing the outskirts of the town that Anna exclaimed,
"An Englishman! Look, look, Miss Julia, a compatriot of yours!"

The season was full early for tourists, and at no time did the place
attract many. Englishmen who came now probably came on business which
was unlikely to bring them out to these quiet, flat fields. But Anna
and Denah, who joined her in a much more demonstrative look-out than
Marbridge would have considered well-bred, were insistent on the
nationality.

"He walks like an Englishman," Anna said, "as if all the world
belonged to him."

"And looks like one," Denah added; "he has no moustache, and wears a
glass in his eye, look, Miss Julia."

Julia looked, then drew back rather quickly. They were right, it was
an Englishman; it was of all men Rawson-Clew.

What was he doing here? By what extraordinary chance he came to be in
this unlikely place she could not think. She was very glad that
Mevrouw felt the air chilly, and so had had the leather flaps pulled
over part of the open sides of the carriage; this and the eager
sisters screened her so well that it was unlikely he could see her.

"Is he not an Englishman?" Anna asked.

"Yes," she answered; "one could not mistake him for anything else."

"I wonder if he recognised you as a country-woman," Anna speculated;
and Julia said she did not consider herself typically English in
appearance.

The sisters talked for the rest of the way of the Englishman; of his
air and bearing, and the fact, of which they declared themselves
convinced, that he was a person of distinction.

But it was not till the drive was over, and the party had separated,
that Denah was able to say what was burning on her tongue. They had
left the clerk's children at their house, said good-bye to Vrouw Van
Heigen and Julia, and were within their own home at last; the girls
went up to their bedroom, and Denah carefully fastened the door, then
she said mysteriously, "Miss Julia knows that Englishman."

Anna jumped at the intelligence, and still more at the tone. "Did she
tell you?" she asked.

"No," Denah replied with some scorn; "she would not tell any one, she
wishes it concealed; she thinks it is so, but I saw it."

The tone and manner suggested many things, but Anna was a terribly
matter-of-fact person, to whom suggestions were nothing. "Why should
she wish it concealed?" she inquired.

"I do not know why," Denah answered; "that remains to be seen. As for
how I know it, I saw it in her face; when she looked at him her lips
became set, and her eyes--she looked--" She hesitated for a word, and
dropped to the homely, "She looked as if she would bite with annoyance
that he should be here. The expression was gone in a moment; she spoke
with an ease and naturalness that was astonishing, even disgusting;
but it had been there. I do not trust her."

The last was said with great seriousness, and for a little Anna was
impressed. But not for long, she could not accept such evidence as
this; in her opinion it was "fancy."

"You read too many romances," she said; "your head is full of such
things. I do not believe Miss Julia knew the Englishman, she would not
have hidden from us her knowledge if she did; it is not so easy to
hide one's feelings in the flash of an eye, besides there was no
reason. Also"--this as an afterthought--"he was a man of good family;
you could see at a glance that he was of the aristocracy, while she is
a paid companion to Vrouw Van Heigen; she could never before have met
him."

Denah, however, was not convinced; she only repeated darkly, "I
mistrust her."

Julia, in the meantime, was busy with her household duties, talking
over the excursion the while with Mevrouw, and helping to detail it to
Mijnheer. At last the table was ready for supper and the coffee made.
Mevrouw sat with her crochet, and Mijnheer opposite her with his
paper. It wanted more than a quarter of an hour to supper time, Julia
had been too quick; still it did not matter, the coffee would not hurt
standing on the spirit-stove; it stood there half the day. She had all
this time to spare, but she did not fetch her crochet work; she went
outside to the veranda.

It was almost dark by this time, as dark as it ever got on these
nights; the air was still and warm. She opened the glass door and went
out and sat down on the step. There was a smell of water in the air,
not unpleasant, but quite un-English, and mixed with it a faint smell
of flowers, the late blooming bulbs have little scent on the whole; it
was more the heavy dew than the flowers themselves which one could
smell. It was very quiet out here; the town, at no time noisy, was
some distance away--so quiet that Julia could hear the ticking of Mr.
Gillat's large watch in her belt. She pushed it further down; she did
not want to hear it.

She propped her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands. She
wished she had not seen Rawson-Clew that day; she wished she was not
here, she wished there was no such thing as a blue daffodil; she was
vaguely angry and dissatisfied, but not willing to face things. It was
unlikely that the man had seen her, unlikely that she would see him
again; but he was incongruous in this simple life, and he brought
forcibly home the incongruity of herself and her errand. She had come
for the blue daffodil, it was no good pretending she had not; she told
herself angrily, as she had told herself when she had first looked at
Johnny's yellow-faced watch, that she was going to get it in some way
that was justifiable. Only it was not so easy to believe that now she
knew more about it and the Van Heigens. But she must have it, that was
the argument she fell back on, the necessity was so great that she was
justified (the Polkingtons had always found necessity a justification
for doing things that could be anyhow made to square with their
position).

She wished she had not been for the excursion to-day, that she lived
less really in their simple, sincere life. She wished from her heart
that the Van Heigens had been different sort of people--almost any other
sort, then she would not have had these tiresome feelings--Johnny and
Johnny's watch, Joost Van Heigen--there was something about them all
that was hatefully embarrassing. No self-respecting thief robbed a
child; even the most apathetic conscience revolted at such an idea. No
gentleman worthy of the name attacked an unarmed man, the preparedness
of the parties made all the difference between murder and fair fight. Of
course, in the abstract, stealing was stealing under all conditions, and
killing killing, and both open to condemnation; but in the concrete, in
fact, the equality of the two persons made all the difference, at least
to honour.

Julia moved uneasily and looked, without seeing, across the dark
garden. The monotonous sound of voices floated out indistinctly; the
old pair in the sitting-room were talking in the lamplight, Mevrouw
going over once again the little incidents of the day. Joost was in
the drawing-room at the other end of the house; he had been playing
some of his favourite composer; he had stopped now, and was doubtless
sorting his music and putting it away, each piece four-square and
absolutely neat. Day by day, and year by year, they lived this quiet
life, with a drive for a rare holiday treat, and the discovery of a
new flower as the goal of all hope and ambition. Things did not happen
to them, bad things that needed doubtful remedies; they had never had
to scratch for their living, and show one face outwards and another
in. They, none of them, ever wanted to do things; they had not the
courage. How much of virtue was lack of courage and a desire not to be
remarkable?

Julia asked herself the question defiantly, and did not hear Joost
come out of the house. He was carrying a lantern, and was going to
make his nightly round of the barns. She did not hear his step, and so
started when she saw the light swing across the ground at her feet.

He was quite as startled to see her as she was to see him, but his
greeting was a very usual question in Holland, "Will you not catch
cold?"

She shook her head, and he asked, "What are you doing? Thinking?
Weaving in your head all that you have seen and heard to-day?"

"No," she answered; "I was thinking about courage."

"Courage?" he repeated, puzzled.

"Yes, it is very different in different places; some people are afraid
to tell the truth, so they lie; and some are afraid to be dishonest,
so they are honest; I believe it depends partly on fashion."

Joost set down the lantern in sheer surprise. "Such things cannot
depend on fashion," he said severely.

"I am not so sure," Julia answered; "lots of things you would not
expect depend on it. I know people who sometimes go without the food
they want so that they can buy expensive cakes to show off when their
acquaintances come to tea--that's silly, isn't it? Then I know other
people who blush if a pair of breeches, or something equally
inoffensive, are mentioned; that seems equally silly. One lot of
people is ashamed to be seen eating bread-and-cheese suppers, another
lot is ashamed to be seen walking off the side-walk, and with no
gloves on. One would hardly expect in, yet I almost believe these
silly little things somehow make a difference to what the people think
right and wrong."

Joost regarded her doubtfully, though he could only see the outline of
her face. "Are you making fun?" he asked. "I do not know when you are
making fun; I think you must be now. Are you speaking of us?"

"I never felt less like making fun in my life," Julia answered
ignoring the last question. Something in her tone struck Joost as sad,
and he forgot his question in sympathy.

"I am sorry," he said; "you are unhappy, and I have intruded upon you;
will you forgive me? You are thinking of your home, no doubt; you have
not had a letter from England for a long time."

Julia wished he did not notice so many things. "I did not expect a
letter," she said; "my eldest sister was married last week, there
would be no time to write to me till everything was over; most likely
I shall hear to-morrow."

"Is your sister married?" he asked; "and you were not able to be
present?"

"It is too far to go home from here," Julia said; then asked, "Were
you going to the barns?"

"Yes," he answered, suddenly reminded of the fact. Then seeing she did
not resume her seat on the steps, he ventured diffidently, "Will you
come too?"

She assented, and they started together in silence, Joost thinking her
homesick, not knowing quite what to say. When they came to the first
of the dark buildings they went in, and he swung the lantern round so
that their shadows danced fantastically. Then he tried various doors,
and glanced up the wall-ladder to the square opening which led to the
floor above. There was no need to examine the place minutely, it was
all quiet and dark; if there had been any one about they would
certainly have heard, and if there had been anything smouldering--a
danger more to be feared, seeing that the men smoked everywhere--it
could have been smelt in the dry air.

"I like these barns," Julia said, looking round: "they are so big and
quiet and orderly, somehow so respectable."

"Respectable!" he repeated, as if he did not approve of the word. "Is
that what you like? The respectable?"

"Yes, in its place; and its place is here."

"You think us respectable?"

"Well, are you not? I think you are the most respectable people in the
world."

She led the way through to the next barn as she spoke. "You are going
here, too, I suppose?" she said.

"I will just look round," he answered.

They went on together until they came to the last barn of all; while
they paused there a moment they heard a rustling and movement in the
dark, far corner. Joost started violently, then he said, "It is a rat,
you must not be afraid; it will not run this way."

"I am not afraid," Julia said with amusement. "Do you think I am
afraid of rats?"

"Girls often are."

"Well, I am not," and it was clear from her manner that she spoke the
truth.

"Would you be afraid to come out here alone?" he asked curiously.

"No," she said; "any night that you like I will come here alone, go
through the barns and fasten the doors."

"I do not believe there are many girls who would do that," he said; he
was thinking of Denah and Anna.

Julia told him there were plenty who would. As they came back,
stopping to fasten each door after them, he remarked, "I think girls
are usually brought up with too much protection; I mean girls of our
class, they are too much shielded; one has them for the house only; if
they were flowers I would call them stove-plants."

Julia laughed. "You believe in the emancipation of women then?" she
said; "you would rather a woman could take care of herself, and not be
afraid, than be womanly?"

"No," he answered; "I would like them to be both, as you are."

They had come outside now; she was standing in the misty moon-light,
while he stayed to fasten the last door.

"I?" she said; "you seem to think me a paragon--clever, brave,
womanly. Do you know what I really am? I am bad; by a long way the
wickedest person you have known."

But he did not believe her, which was perhaps not altogether
surprising.




CHAPTER VI

DEBTOR AND CREDITOR


Violet Polkington was married, and, as a consequence, the financial
affairs of the family were in a state that can only be described as
wonderful. They were intricately involved, of course, and there was no
chance of their being clear again for a year at least; but, also,
there was no chance of them being found out, appearances were better
than ever.

Mr. Frazer had been given a small living, whether by the deserved
kindness of fortune, or by reason of his own efforts, or the
Polkingtons, is not known. Anyhow he had it, and he and Violet were
married in June with all necessary _eclat_. Local papers described the
event in glowing terms, appreciative friends said it was the prettiest
wedding in years, and in due time Cherie wrote and told Julia about
it. The Captain also wrote; his point of view was rather different,
but his letter filled up gaps in Cherie's information, and Julia's own
past experience filled up the remaining gaps in both.

The letters came on Tuesday, as Julia expected, a little before dinner
time; she was still reading them when Mijnheer and his son came in
from the office. Joost smiled sympathetically when he saw she had
them, glad on her account; and she, almost unconsciously, crumpled
together the sheets that lay on the table beside her, as if she were
afraid they would betray their contents to him.

"You have good news from home?" said Mijnheer; "your parents are
well?"

"Quite well, thank you," Julia answered. She had just come to the
place in her father's letter where he regretted that such very light
refreshments were the fashion at wedding receptions. "It is, of
course, as your mother says, less expensive, but at such a time who
would spare expense--if it were the fashion? I assure you I had
literally nothing to eat at the time, or afterwards; your mother
thinking it advisable as soon as we were alone, to put away the cakes
for future visitors. At such a time, when a man's feelings are nearly
touched, he needs support; I did not have it, and I cannot say that I
have felt myself since."

Julia read to the end of the letter; Mijnheer had by this time taken
up a paper, but Joost watched her as she folded the sheets. He did not
speak, it seemed he would not intrude upon her; there was something
dog-like in this sympathy with what was not understood. She felt
vaguely uncomfortable by reason of it, and spoke to break the spell.
"Everything went off very well," she said.

The words were for him alone, since Mijnheer was now reading, and also
knew nothing of the subject. The smile brightened on his face. "Did
it?" he answered. "I am very glad. They must have missed you much, and
thought often of you."

Julia nodded. Cherie had said. "I must say I think it is a pity you
were not here; it is important to have some one with a head in the
background; mother and I had to be the fore, so of course we could not
do it; if you had been here several things would have gone better, and
some waste have been saved."

This remark Julia did not communicate to Joost; she put the letter in
her pocket, and went to fetch the dinner. After dinner she was to go
on an errand for Mevrouw. It would take a long time, all the evening
in fact, for it was to an old relative who lived in a village about
three miles from the town. Walking was the only way of getting to the
place, except twice a week when a little cargo boat went down the
canal, and took some hours about it. This was neither the day nor the
time for the boat, Julia would have to walk; but, as she assured
Mevrouw, she much preferred it. Accordingly, as soon as dinner was
finished, she was given a great many messages, mostly of a condoling
nature, for the old lady was ill in bed, some strengthening soup, and
a little bottle of the peach-brandy. With these things packed in a
substantial marketing basket, she started.

Through the town she went with that easy step and indifference to the
presence of other people that Denah so criticised, faster and faster
her spirits rising. Once or twice she looked in at the low windows
that stood open on the shady side of the street; there she saw the
heads of families smoking their after-dinner pipes, while their wives
and daughters sat crocheting and watching the passersby. There were
chairs with crimson velvet seats in most of the rooms, and funny
little cabinet, or side-board things of bright red mahogany, with
modern Delft vases, very blue indeed, upon them. And always there was
a certain snugness, perhaps even smugness, about the rooms. At least,
so it seemed to her as she looked in, almost insolently pleased to be
outside, to be free and alone.

In time she came to the outskirts of the town, the canal lay on her
right, and on her left, flat green fields, cut up by innumerable
ditches, and set with frequent windmills, all black and white, and
mostly used for maintaining the water level. There were people busy
in the fields, but to Julia they only gave the idea of ants, and did
not intrude upon her mind in the least. It was all very quiet and
green around, and quiet and blue above, except for the larks singing
rapturously. Certainly it was very good to be away from the Van
Heigens, away from the ceaseless little reiteration of Mevrouw's talk,
from the minute, punctilious conventions, from Joost's quiet gaze,
from the proximity of the hateful, necessary blue daffodil. With a
violent rebound Julia shook off the feeling that had been growing on
her of late, and was once more possibly reckless, but certainly free,
and no longer under the spell of her surroundings. Her young blood
coursed quickly, her eyes shone, the basket she carried grew light;
she might have sung as she went had not Nature, in withholding the
ability, also kindly withheld the inclination.

Soon after leaving the town, a side road cut into the main one; a
waggon was lumbering down it at no great pace, but just before the
branch road joined the main one the driver cracked his whip loudly, so
that his team of young horses started forward suddenly. Too suddenly
for the comprehension of some children who were playing in the road;
for a second or more they looked at the approaching waggon, then, when
the necessity dawned upon them, they ran for safety, one one way, one
another, and the third, a baby boy, like a chicken, half across the
way to the right, then, after a scurry in the middle, back again to
the left, under the horses' feet.

Julia shouted to him, but in the excitement of the moment she spoke
English, and not Dutch, though it hardly mattered, for the little boy
was far too frightened to understand anything. It certainly would have
fared badly with him had she not followed up her cry by darting into
the road, seizing him by the shoulder, and flinging him with
considerable force against the green wayside bank. She was only just
in time; as it was, the foremost horse struck her shoulder and sent
her rolling into the dust.

For an instant she lay there, perilously near the big grinding wheels;
an almost imperceptible space, yet somehow long enough for her to
decide quite calmly that it was impossible to scramble to her feet in
time, so she had better draw her legs up and trust to the wheels
missing her. Then suddenly the wheels stopped, and some one who had
seized the horses' heads addressed the waggoner with the English idiom
that is perhaps most widely known.

Julia heard "damned fool" in quite unemotional English, and almost
simultaneously the guttural shrieks of two peasant women who
approached. She picked herself up, then moving two paces to the side,
stopped to put her hat straight with a calmness she did not quite
feel. There was a volley of exclamations from the peasant women, and
"Are you hurt?" the man who had stopped the horses asked her, speaking
now in Dutch, though with an English accent.

"No," she answered, winking back the water which had come into her
eyes with the force of the blow, and she turned her back on him so
that he should not see her do it.

"My good women," she said shortly to the peasants who, with upraised
hands and many gestures, stared at her, "there is nothing the matter,
there is no reason why you should stand there and look at me; I assure
you no one has been hurt, and no one is going to be; you had much
better go on your way, as I shall do. Good-afternoon."

She walked a few paces down the road, not in the direction she
intended to go certainly, but she was too shaken for the moment to
notice which way she took, and was only actuated by a desire to get
away and put an end to a scene. The movement and the words were not
without effect; the two women, a good deal astonished, obeyed
automatically, and, picking up the burdens they had set down, trudged
on their way, not realising for some time how much offended they were
at the curt behaviour of the "mad English." The children by this time
had ceased staring and returned to their play; the waggoner, muttering
some surly words, drove on. Julia sat on the bank by the roadside, and
tried to brush the dust from her dress. The Englishman, after making
some parting remarks to the waggoner, this time in Dutch, though still
in the quiet, drawling voice which was much at variance with the
language, had gone to pick up the basket. She wished she had thanked
him for his timely assistance when she first scrambled to her feet,
and gone on at once, then she could have done this necessary sitting
down when he was out of sight, and come back for the stupid basket
when she remembered it. But now she would have to thank him formally,
and perhaps explain things, and say expressly that she was not hurt,
and this while she was shaken and dusty. Mercifully he was English,
and so would not expect much; she looked at his back with
satisfaction. He was scarcely as tall as many Hollanders, but very
differently built. To Julia, looking at him rather stupidly, his
proportions, like his clothes, appeared very nearly perfect after
those she had been used to seeing lately. When he turned and she saw
for the first time his face, she was not very much surprised, though
really it was surprising that Rawson-Clew should still be hereabouts.

Their eyes met in mutual recognition. Afterwards she wondered why she
did not pretend to be Dutch, it ought to have been possible; he had
only seen her once before, and her knowledge of the language was much
better than his. And even if he had not been deceived, he would have
been bound to acquiesce to her pretence, had she persisted in it. But
she did not think of it before their mutual recognition had made it
too late.

"I hope you are not hurt," he said, as he crossed the road with the
basket.

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