Yes, if Anna would but consent! But, that was the very thing she would not do.
After both her parents, who were so strangely unlike their high-minded child, had employed every means in their power to induce Anna to join their conspiracy by using the influence she had over van Nerekool, the girl had replied: “No, never!” just as firmly and just as resolutely as Charles himself had uttered those words in reply to Mrs. van Gulpendam in the garden of the Residence.
“No, never, never!” said the true-hearted girl as emphatically as it was possible to pronounce the words.
“But remember,” cried Laurentia, “his whole career depends upon the attitude you choose to assume in this matter!”
“Charles shall never condescend to seek promotion by stooping to a mean, dishonourable action,” was the girl’s reply.
“Anna!” shouted the Resident, in a furious rage, “take care what you say! I advise you to keep some check upon your tongue!”
“For goodness sake, Gulpie,” interposed Laurentia soothingly, “now do be quiet—anger will not mend matters.” And then turning again to her daughter, she continued: “And Anna, I wish you not to lose sight of the fact that the possibility of your union with van Nerekool depends wholly on your present line of conduct.”
“My union!” sadly exclaimed the poor girl.
“A woman who is really in love,” continued her mother, “has a very considerable amount of power to influence the man upon whom she has set her affections.” [295]
“But, mother, do you then really wish me to try and persuade Charles to lend himself to an infamous breach of duty?”
“Anna, don’t go too far!” roared van Gulpendam, beside himself with anger.
“Would you,” continued Anna, “would you have me deliberately widen the gap which is already growing between us? No, no, I shall not do that. All joy has been swept out of my life for ever; and I have now but one wish left, and that is that my image, pure and unsullied, may continue to live in his memory. I can never become his wife, that I know well; but my name at least shall remain with him as fair and as spotless as the remembrance of a blissful dream!”
“But, Anna,” persisted her mother, speaking in her most honeyed and winning tones, “but, Anna, my dear girl, why should you talk thus? Why should there be no joy for you in this life? Surely that is tormenting yourself quite needlessly.”
“Oh, mother!” cried the poor girl, “do spare me the pain and the sorrow of having to utter words which will be most distressing to you and most painful to my father to hear. No, no! Of happiness for me there can be no further question—of a union with van Nerekool, I must never again allow myself to think!”
“Ah,” sighed Laurentia, “if you would but—”
“Yes, mother, just so, if I could but—But I will not. Suppose, for a moment, that Charles were weak enough to yield to my persuasion. Suppose I could succeed in talking him over, and could get him to consent to your proposals. Why then, from that very moment, every tender feeling would be wiped clean out of my breast. If such a thing ever could be—why then, I would utterly despise a man who is ready to offer up his duty to his inclination; and who could be base enough to stoop to a crime, in order to win the girl upon whom he has set his heart.”
“Anna, not another word!” cried van Gulpendam, in the most threatening accents.
“But, father,” she continued, “surely I ought to tell you what my feelings are. I must give utterance to thoughts which seem to choke me! As certainly as I know that I wish him to keep a pure and stainless memory of me—so surely am I convinced that he also, on his part, desires nothing more fervently than that his name should dwell with me, as it does now, great, noble, and strictly upright! Oh, I could not, indeed, bear to face the life of utter desolation, which would be in store for [296]me were I compelled to despise him whom now, above all human beings, I look up to as noble and great. No, no, if such a thing could ever come to pass—then my misery would be too great a burden to bear! Come what will, the memory of Charles shall always remain unsullied in my heart.”
Mrs. van Gulpendam could but heave a deep sigh, while her husband was trembling with suppressed rage.
At length he exclaimed, in the tones of a man who has fully made up his mind, “Let us cut this short, it has lasted too long. I take it then, Anna, that you absolutely and finally refuse to accede to your mother’s suggestion?”
“Yes, father—I do refuse most positively,” said Anna, in a tone not one whit less resolute than her father’s.
“Mind, you are utterly spoiling all his prospects in life,” said van Gulpendam, warningly.
“Better that,” was her reply, “much better, than that I should rob him of his honour.”
“It makes your marriage with him impossible.”
“I know it but too well,” sighed Anna, “but I cannot help that—the fault of that lies with my parents.”
“How can you make that out?” exclaimed Laurentia.
“He cannot, and he never shall, marry the daughter of parents who could venture to make him such infamous proposals!”
“Anna!” roared her father, “you are utterly forgetting yourself—it is time we should have no more of this. A girl who dares to make use of such language to her parents shows herself unworthy of them. I fully intended to put an end to this nonsensical love-story altogether. It has, indeed, already compromised you. I intended to send you away, for a while, on a visit to Karang Anjer; and I meant you to start on your journey next week. Now, however, I change my mind; and you must be off at once—to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning!” exclaimed Laurentia. “What will the Steenvlaks say to this sudden change of plan?”
“Assistant Resident Steenvlak,” replied her husband, “has been suddenly called away to Batavia. He has been obliged to leave Mrs. Steenvlak and her daughters at Karang Anjer, and, as he may be away from home for a considerable time, the family will no doubt be glad enough to have someone to stay with them during his absence. However that may be, Anna will, I am sure, be welcome. I am going to my office this moment and will at once send off a telegram to Karang Anjer. To-morrow morning Anna will start for Poerworedjo, a friend [297]of mine will be there to meet her, and he will take her on in his carriage to the Steenvlaks. She will travel by way of Koetoe Ardjo and Keboemen.”
Laurentia heaved a deep sigh. “We shall have but very little time to get her things ready,” said she. The remark itself and still more the way she made it, showed plainly enough that the bother of this sudden departure touched her much more nearly than the separation from her child.
“Oh! mother,” said Anna as quietly as possible, “pray leave all that entirely to me. I shall be quite ready to start to-morrow, as early as ever you please.”
“Do you intend her to stay long with the Steenvlaks?” asked Laurentia.
“That will very much depend upon herself,” was van Gulpendam’s reply. “I don’t want to see her face again, unless she consents to return in a much more submissive mood, and is prepared to behave in a dutiful and becoming manner to her parents.”
As he uttered these words, van Gulpendam glanced at his daughter hoping—perhaps expecting—that he might detect in her some signs of relenting. But, though she was deadly pale, Anna did not betray the feelings which were stirring within her. On her placid features there was no trace either of irresolution or of defiance; there was nothing but quiet determination and settled purpose.
“You have, I presume,” continued the Resident, “well weighed and thoroughly understood what I said?” He rose and prepared to go to his office.
“Certainly, father, I have understood you perfectly. To-morrow morning I leave this house never to set foot in it again. Even if you had not so decided, I myself would have insisted upon an immediate separation.”
“Oh, ho! Does the wind sit in that quarter? And pray, may I be allowed to ask my proud and independent daughter what plans she may have formed for the future? She surely must be aware that she cannot quarter herself for an indefinite period of time upon the Steenvlaks?”
Van Gulpendam, as he put the question, assumed a tone and manner in the highest degree offensive and taunting.
But Anna would not allow herself to be ruffled and, in the calmest possible way she replied:
“You ask me, father, what are my plans for the future, and I must beg you to allow me to keep my intentions to myself. [298]For the present moment I gladly accept the hospitality of the Steenvlaks. You know how fond I am of the two girls and how much I respect and admire their mother. But, as to the future, my plans are, at present, I must confess, very vague. I do not very well know what to say about them; and, even if I were ever so anxious to give you my confidence, I could hardly tell you what I intend to do. Of one thing, however, you may rest assured—whatever may happen, I shall never again be a source of trouble or expense to you.”
“Indeed!” replied van Gulpendam, still in his sneering tone. “Indeed! And so my daughter seems to fancy that she can step out into the wide world without a penny in her pocket! I am very curious to learn what impressions she may have formed of that world.”
“You must pardon me, father,” replied the young girl still very quietly; “but now you compel me to touch upon a subject which I feel is a very delicate one. You have given me an education which has but very poorly fitted me to provide for my own maintenance. Yes—I might, perhaps, earn something by giving music lessons; but here in Java I could not well do so without casting a reflection upon your name. To go to Holland and there have to roam about the streets in search of employment—the very thought is repugnant to my feelings. But all these are matters for future consideration.”
“Oh, you think so?” sneered van Gulpendam, “for future consideration! Now, it appears to me, that in such schemes, the earning of money ought to be the first and most important consideration.”
“Such being your opinion,” replied Anna with a sigh, but no less resolutely and calmly than before, “I must now come to business. I did not think I should ever have had to speak to you on this subject at all—indeed the matter would never have crossed my lips, had not necessity compelled me to speak out freely. Two years ago, you remember, we received the news that Grandmamma van Gulpendam had died at Gouda. The same mail which brought us the sad tidings of her death, brought me a letter forwarded by her lawyer. In that letter the dear old lady took a most affectionate leave of me and told me how much she regretted that she had never had the opportunity of seeing me or becoming acquainted with me. She informed me further that, in her will, she had left me the sum of 30,000 guilders, and that, as soon as I was nineteen, the money would be at my disposal. She begged me, however, [299]not to mention the matter to you as she did not wish to deprive you of the pleasure of giving me that surprise on my nineteenth birthday. Her lawyer merely added a few words confirming my grandmother’s communication; and he went on to tell me that he had invested the capital in the 4? per cents, and that, by the express desire of the deceased, the money was not to be realised. Well, the interest of this sum, which is mine and which you will hardly refuse to give me, is amply sufficient for my present wants. Next year I shall be nineteen and I shall then have the power to dispose of the capital. By that time I shall have made up my mind as to the manner in which I can most usefully employ it.”
All this, the young girl spoke so naturally and so quietly that both her parents, who latterly had gained some insight into the character of their daughter, understood perfectly well that they had to deal with a resolution which nothing could shake. They were, indeed, greatly surprised to find that Anna was so well informed as to the dispositions which her grandmother had made in her favour; but they felt that denial or resistance to her claim were alike impossible. Indeed her better nature began to prevail over the mother, and tears stood in her eyes as she said:
“Anna! poor child! what a terrible future you are laying up for yourself!”
“Mother,” was the girl’s reply, “a future more terrible than that which must await me here, I cannot possibly conceive. What worse misfortunes can overtake me? I defy Fortune to be more cruel to me in the time to come than she has already shown herself in the past.”
At these words van Gulpendam rose from the seat he had resumed. He put his hand to his throat as if to clear away something which was rising there and threatened to choke him. But, his was a tyrannical nature, and he at once repressed the natural emotion which, he feared, might overcome him. The very consciousness, indeed, of the fact that his child was so much purer, so much better and stronger than he was himself, was unbearable to him.
“Yes! yes!” he exclaimed, “that is all mighty fine—very fine and very romantic! Unfortunately it lacks common sense. We have now said all we have to say to each other and the upshot of it is that I stick to my resolution; and that to-morrow morning early, you leave for Karang Anjer.”
“I am not aware, father,” said the girl with much dignity, [300]“I am not aware that I have made any attempt to alter your decision.”
“Very good, that settles the matter!” cried van Gulpendam, and then, with concentrated fury in his voice, he continued: “We shall find some way of breaking that little temper.”
These were his parting words as he turned to go.
On the morrow of this most painful interview, just as day was about to dawn, a carriage stood waiting at the steps of the residential mansion. It was one of those light conveyances drawn by four horses which Europeans often use in the interior of Java where railways are unknown, and which are well suited to traverse long distances along broken roads and steep mountain paths. Under the back seat of this vehicle was strapped a small travelling bag, only just big enough to contain a few necessary articles of clothing. Anna had made up her mind that she would not take away with her out of her father’s house any single thing but what was strictly necessary. Even that she would have left behind, but for the consideration that the interest of the money left her by her aunt which, for the last two years, had not been paid to her, amply sufficed to cover the value of the few things she packed up. Not a single jewel, not one silk dress, not the least bit of lace, did that little bag contain. She carefully left all those superfluities behind her, and would carry away nothing but a little underclothing and a couple of plain muslin dresses.
The small travelling trunk had scarcely been strapped into its place before Anna herself appeared in the front gallery. She was clad with the utmost simplicity in a black dress, and dark-coloured bonnet. There was on her person nothing whatever to catch the eye but the plain linen collar and the cuffs round her wrists, and these narrow strips of white seemed only to increase the demureness and earnestness of her appearance. As she thus prepared to leave her parents’ home, she was alone, not a soul was by to comfort her. The rosy dawn was casting its friendly light over the garden, upon the shrubs, the flowers, the leaves, and even over the furniture of the verandah; and the young girl cast a yearning, sorrowful glance upon all these familiar objects which awakened so many memories in her breast. For an instant it seemed as if she hesitated; but it was only for an instant, for hastily brushing away the tears which were silently stealing down her cheeks, she sprang upon a splendid Devoniensis which was growing [301]against the balustrade, and hastily plucked one just opening bud which she put into her bosom as she muttered with a sob: “My darling flower, you shall go with me into exile!” and the next moment she had jumped into the carriage which immediately started.
Not another sigh, not another look. The final separation was thus accomplished. The vehicle rumbled heavily through the massive and highly ornamented gates, and then with all speed made for the hill-country of the interior of Java. Anna meanwhile throwing herself back in the carriage gave way to sad reflections.
But all the while, hidden by the Venetian blinds, Anna’s mother had been standing and watching her daughter with feverish anxiety. She had caught the desolate expression in Anna’s eyes as she glanced around upon all those familiar objects which from childhood had been so dear to her; she had seen the girl plucking that rosebud, and her eyes had eagerly followed her as she sprang into the carriage. Then a hoarse cry escaped from her lips, “My God, my God,” she sobbed, “has it come to this? Where there was everything to ensure happiness! How will all this end?”
Aye indeed; how was it all to end? That was a question to which the future was to give a terrible answer.
Late on that afternoon, Anna arrived at a small dessa in the interior, and left her carriage while a change of horses was being made. She asked the postmaster if he would allow her to sit down and rest awhile in his bamboo verandah, and he very readily granted her request. Then she drew forth her writing materials and was soon wholly absorbed in the work of writing a letter. For a few moments she sat irresolute, her pale and careworn face plainly enough showing that she had a most difficult and serious task before her. First she heaved a deep sigh; then two big, burning tears slowly trickled down and fell heavily on the paper before her. But at length, by degrees she appeared to be carried away by her subject, and she wrote on in feverish haste. Yes, the subject of that letter was indeed to the young girl a serious and difficult one; for she was composing her last letter to her lover van Nerekool. In the condition of utter loneliness in which she then was, she laid bare her whole soul to him, and, although words thus written were intended to meet the eye only of him to whom th............