TOPSY REXELAER

Gerard went back to Drum before his leave had expired.

“Your share shall be paid to you,” Otto had said, perusing the carpet-pattern. “Mother and Aunt Louisa will combine to make that possible. I think that is all, Gerard. Good-bye.”

So, dismissed like a footman, the young fellow turned his back on the home of his youth. He little guessed that the stern, middle-aged man, seated at his father’s desk, in possession, was, even at that very moment, inwardly tossed by a passion of prayer to keep back the furious inculpations that were beating at his lips.

So Gerard went back to Drum. He realized, as he drove away, taking Beauty’s successor with him, that even though he might visit the Manor-house again, henceforth it would be as a stranger. During all the years of his growth into manhood, ever since he could remember, he had been practically the only son, the “young squire” in the eyes of the peasantry. He felt cheated of his birthright.

The packing-up had been a terrible business. Nothing had been said about retaining his rooms, and his nature was one that shrank back before the shadow of a coming hint. Quietly he had put all his things together, turning from Ursula’s silent, terrified gaze. Silence seemed to have fallen upon them all like a paralysis. The servants looked at each other.

All his life had been sheltered too warmly in his father’s fostering affection. The luxury of his youth hung about him—the easy generosity which had accounted money only a thing to spend on himself or on others, according to requirement. It is a cruel thing, that flow of parental good-nature, while the fingers of Death are playing with the tap.

And at this supreme moment even his mother’s sure preference deserted him. The Baroness, whose faculties seemed to lie dulled beneath the veil of her widowhood, had understood, clearly enough, without need of any malice on Otto’s part, that Gerard objected to the terms of the will. The discovery had galvanized her into feverish activity. She had insisted upon sacrificing whatever her husband’s improvidence had left her still unsacrificed. Half a dozen times in the course of one day she rang for Otto, to ascertain whether everything was settled. For the moment, Gerard had become the enemy against whom the forces of the family must unite. She was very angry with him for wishing to destroy his father’s life-work. “You won’t allow it, Otto,” she repeated, excitedly. “You will never allow it.” She clung to her strong eldest, in the weakness of abandonment. Her farewell to the traitor was full of reproach. Gerard went back into life from his father’s funeral, alone.

As soon as the money was in his possession he sought an interview with the creditor at the Hague and discharged his debt, or rather his departed friend’s. But he had plenty of liabilities of his own incurring, and these now came tumbling about his ears in the crash of his father’s removal. By the time he had effected a settlement there was very little left of his original curtailed inheritance. This would hardly have disturbed his calm fruition of all things needful but for the brusque discovery that his credit was gone. One afternoon he stepped into a familiar shop to order a new saddle, and the obsequious tradesman asked prepayment of his standing account. Gerard came away bewildered. It was the turning-point of his life. He was poor.

Before all this, before the Baron’s death, he had made one attempt to act on Mademoiselle Papotier’s suggestion. He had written a long letter to Helena. It had been returned to him unopened, and from that moment he felt his case was utterly hopeless. For a woman hardly ever returns a letter unopened. She is quite willing to do so, only she must read it first. Some of them manage to.

Gerard was in the position of many a modern spendthrift. Steal he could not, to work he was ashamed. Besides, what was he fit for, excepting parade? It is one of the saddest confusions of this muddled society of ours that only the poor can beg and only the rich can steal. Nothing was left, therefore, to our young soldier but to return to his simplified avocations in the endeavor to make both ends meet on starvation pay. All the color and cake went out of his existence, which became drab, like rye-bread.

Adeline was married to her lawyer’s clerk; Helena’s wedding-dress had been ordered. Under these circumstances, in his handsome forlornness, dawdling about dull Drum, Gerard found one motherly bosom on which to rest his curly head. The plump Baroness van Trossart, disgusted by her niece’s perversity, but resolved not to fret over anything, immediately set herself to pay the poor boy what she considered a family debt, and, after a little preliminary reconnoitring, backed by an artillery fire of praises and pushes, she successfully manoeuvred the rejected suitor into a fresh flirtation with one of the most charming girls in Holland, Antoinette van Rexelaer. The Freule Antoinette was not an heiress, like Helena, but she had lately, and quite unexpectedly, come into a snug little fortune through her godfather, a relation of her mother’s, and former Minister of State—a windfall, indeed, to the youngest of five children! “A dispensation!” mysteriously ejaculated the young lady’s mother, Mevrouw Elizabeth van Rexelaer, nÉe Borck.

Topsy, as her own circle called her, was a distant connection of Gerard’s; but then in Holland we are all that, and it no longer counts. The two mothers were some sort of cousins.

From the Hague, where the Rexelaers lived, Antoinette came to stay with the Baroness van Trossart, and, under that match-maker’s auspices, she saw a good deal of Gerard. Now, for Gerard to see a nice girl was to be charming to her; he was charming in the most natural, innocent, and infectious way. The Freule Antoinette understood this perfectly, and they lived together in that happy mutual desire to please which may mean everything or nothing, according to Cupid’s caprice. When the guest returned home, Mevrouw van Trossart felt convinced it meant everything, and she had easily persuaded Gerard to think so too, for Gerard had taken a real liking to the frank-faced, bright-witted girl.

“My dear boy,” said the good-natured Baroness, intent on further arrangement, “you are positively too dangerous; I cannot introduce you to any more young ladies. You are irresistible; you have now carried off the heart of my poor little Antoinette!”

“One young lady did not find me irresistible, Mevrouw,” replied Gerard, bitterly. He was angry with Helena, but he had never really cared for her. It was she who now avoided him.

“Ah, dear boy, do not let us speak of that; it is too dreadful. Be thankful that you, at least, did not love your cousin. No, no.” She held up a fat forefinger. “Of course you protest; but an old woman like me sees what she sees. We all make mistakes. As for poor Helena, hers”—She stopped. “This time, at any rate,” she cried, gayly, “there must be no blundering. Go at once and propose to Mevrouw Elizabeth. To know you prosperously settled will be a load off my heart.”

“Propose to Mevrouw Elizabeth!” said Gerard, with a grimace.

“Don’t be stupid, Gerard. Yes, considering the undoubted fact that Antoinette Rexelaer is so much richer than you—there’s no use in ignoring what every one knows—I think it would be in better taste for you to speak first to the father—which means the mother; especially as in this case I feel sure you can safely do so.”

Accordingly Gerard, by no means indifferent as to the issue, waited upon Mynheer Frederick van Rexelaer, Topsy’s papa, a Judge, and also a Fool. That gentleman received him very affably, and immediately invented an excuse for withdrawing to consult with the head of the household.

“No money and a very desirable connection,” said Mevrouw Rexelaer, sitting up. “I wish it were Van Helmont of Horstwyk and the Horst. But he has behaved like an idiot. This seems a very agreeable young man, and Topsy might do worse. Since her miserable failure with poor deluded RenÉ I am often quite anxious about what is to become of her.”

“Oh, she’ll marry,” said the Judge.

“I’m not so sure, Frederick,” replied Mevrouw, who was very impatient, for various reasons, to get this last daughter off her hands.

“Antoinette is so strange, so ungirlish; no man, as yet, has ever proposed to her. My cousin Herman’s legacy was a merciful dispensation; but, all the same, I should consider it very unwise to let this chance escape.”

So Gerard was instructed to make his proposal that night at the SoirÉe of the Society of Arts, and Topsy was instructed to accept him.

“You may thank your stars,” said Mevrouw Elizabeth, frankly, to her daughter. “Judging by the past, I should think it’s your only opportunity. Money doesn’t go for everything, especially if a girl has no ‘charm.’ I thank Heaven on my bended knees when I remember what might have been!”

“Yes, mamma,” replied Antoinette, meekly, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes. In her own family Mevrouw Elizabeth’s will was law, the immovable incubus of many oppressive years.

“What might have been”—what Mevrouw had once yearned and worked for, in spite of present thanksgiving—was Topsy’s marriage with a cousin, who had never understood Mevrouw Elizabeth’s plans. This cousin was now dead and mad and altogether forgotten and unmentionable. Hush!

The evening exhibitions of the Arts Society are very brilliant social events. Some first-rate private collection or portfolio forms the welcome excuse for coming together, and the people who go everywhere and see nothing insure, by their presence, artistic success. There was such a crowd in the central room—a chattering crowd, unconcernedly self-obstructive with regard to the pictures—that it took Gerard some time to worm his way to Antoinette. His heart fluttered. How sweet she looked with her provokingly clever little face in the turquoise cloud of her evening-dress!

“Let’s go into that little side-room, Freule,” he stammered. “I should like to show you a picture there.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to go into the little side-room, Mynheer van Helmont.” Her voice was uncertain, like his. “Please don’t,” she said, “I’m much happier as I am.”

He looked at her without immediate answer, offering his arm. Suddenly she seemed to grasp at some mighty resolve, and, checking further protest, she allowed him to lead her away.

The little alcove was empty but for a couple of expectantly staring portraits, forlorn in the gaslight.

“How stupid they look!” exclaimed Gerard, impatiently; then, rebelling against the still atmosphere of imminence which seemed to thicken upon this sudden solitude, “Freule, I want to say something to you,” he murmured, hastily. “I don’t quite know how to begin, but, perhaps—”

“Oh, don’t,” she interrupted him, releasing her arm. “Don’t, please, Mynheer van Helmont, I know what you are going to say, and I want you to leave it unsaid. I am so sorry, for I know it must be all my fault. I never thought of anything of the kind. I had understood you—I believed your affections were placed elsewhere. I—I am so sorry.” She faltered. “I shall never marry,” she said, and plucked at her fan.

He did not answer, in the silence, with the senseless hum beyond. Opposite him, in a big gilt frame, a woman sat eternally simpering, a lay figure with black laces and Raglan roses. He hated that woman.

“Shall I take you back to Mevrouw van Rexelaer?” he said.

The name seemed to arouse her from her dream of unmerited self-reproach.

“Just one moment,” she began, hurriedly. “There is—I should like—Mynheer van Helmont, I am going to ask you an immense favor! I know I have no right, but I want you to tell my parents that it is you who have changed your mind. You haven’t really asked me anything, you know. Well, say you haven’t.”

“I don’t quite understand.” Gerard spoke a little haughtily.

“Perhaps it isn’t so much of a favor,” the poor girl went on. “It’ll save you the appearance of having been refused. Forgive me, Mynheer van Helmont; I don’t quite know what I’m saying. But my life will be even more miserable than it is; it will be unbearable, if my mother knows you asked me to be your wife.”

She looked up at him pleadingly. He was amazed. What had become of the bright creature he knew, with her sparkle of innocent repartee?

“My word is passed to your father,” he said, tremulously. “You ask me to disgrace myself in the eyes of every decent man.”

“Oh no! not that! not that!” She spoke almost wildly. “But, oh, my God! what am I to do? Mynheer van Helmont, don’t think me too much of a coward. I believe I could nerve myself to one great sacrifice; it is the daily bickering and nagging which I cannot endure. Never mind, I am ashamed of myself.” She dashed her hand across her eyes—but too late. “Good-bye, and forget me. It doesn’t matter.”

He bent low over her hand.

“It shall be as you wish,” he said, very firm and soldierly.

Once more she looked up at him, her eyes full of far-away tenderness.

“I cannot help myself,” she whispered. “I shall never love—again.”

Gerard found the Judge in the coffee-room. And with the best face possible—which was a bad one—he confessed that he had reconsidered his proposal of the morning, and must withdraw it. Difficulties had intervened.

“Really?” said the little Judge, coffee-cup in hand. “This is very extraordinary. Of course, if you wish, there is an end of it. But—really, Mynheer van Helmont, you must excuse me—for a moment.” He sidled to the entrance, in wild yearning for his better half, who fortunately met him there, having gathered that something was wrong.

“My dear,” whispered the Judge, “Mynheer van Helmont has changed his mind about marrying Topsy. He isn’t going to.”

“Nonsense, Frederick!” ejaculated Mevrouw Elizabeth. “Tell him it’s all right. Tell him to go and ask her at once.”

The little Judge went back into the desolate refreshment-room. His substantial consort lingered near the door.

“Mynheer van Helmont,” said Frederick, “it’s all right. You had better go and ask her at once.”

“Mynheer van Rexelaer,” replied Gerard, scarlet as a poppy, “I thought I had made myself understood. I abandon all further idea of proposing to your daughter.”

Frederick fell back to the door. In her eagerness Mevrouw put through her big heliotrope-crowned head. “My dear, he won’t ask her,” breathed Frederick.

“What?” cried the lady, casting furious glances towards the young officer, erect and helpless in the middle of the bare, blazing room. “Go to him, Frederick, at once! Tell him he’s a coward and no gentleman! Tell him you’ll horsewhip him! No, you can’t do that, you’re a Judge. Tell him one of her brothers will horsewhip him! Guy ought to. I’ll make him do it!” She pushed forward her small husband, who reluctantly returned to the charge.

“You have behaved very badly, Mynheer,” he began. “You must permit me to say that.” He looked round nervously. Mevrouw Elizabeth, distrusting the atmosphere of calm, had come forward into the full light, and was unconsciously straining nearer. “That your conduct is ”—he raised his voice—“not such as one has a right to expect from a gentleman. And here the matter must end.” He turned hastily; Mevrouw Elizabeth stood close behind him.

“Say it is blackguardly,” she hissed.

“I won’t!” replied Frederick van Rexelaer, in a funk.

“It is blackguardly, Mynheer,” cried the matron, pushing past. “You are a coward, Mynheer, and no gentleman.”

Gerard retreated towards the gas-smitten wall, looking, in his tight-fitting blue-black hussar uniform, like an Apollo in utter disgrace. He wondered, for a moment, whether the woman was going to strike him.

“My son shall speak to you, Mynheer, as you deserve,” shrieked Mevrouw Elizabeth. “My son! I will send you my son, sir, to settle this matter.”

“Oh, do, Mevrouw, do!” eagerly exclaimed Gerard, in a sudden rush of relief.