The Quest

V

Even before his "ya" (instead of the "yes" he had firmly intended to say, but was surprised out of saying), the door flew open, and the chambermaid came in bearing a big, silver tea-tray. She looked still more trig and trim than the day before, as if all this time she had been standing under a bell-glass. Without the least embarrassment, she went up to Johannes and presented the tea.

Oh, woe! That was a distressing situation! Nothing of the kind had befallen him since the whooping-cough period while his mother was still living, and when she had brought him, abed, tea and toast. Daatje had, indeed, come just once to call him, and it had made him angry because it seemed as if he were still a child. In Daatje's case, too, it was quite different. She looked more like a nurse-maid.

But this utterly strange and stylish little lady, with arranged hair, and a cap with snow-white strings, who surprised him in his nightgown, sound and well, in bed, while his dicky was still hanging by itself over the back of a chair, and the green glass studs were looking in a frightened way at the rest of the shabby clothes lying scattered over the table —this housemaid put him out of countenance. Blushing deeply, he declined the tea. As each of his poor garments came under the eye or hand of this pert chambermaid, he could feel her scornful, unuttered thoughts, and he lay dead still while his room was being put in order. He shrank under the sheets up to his nose, and grew wet with perspiration. When the door closed behind her, he took breath again, and regarded, in astonishment, the pitcher of hot water and the snowy towels that she had left him, uncertain exactly what it was he was expected to do with them all.

Really, it was no trifling matter for Johannes – that entrance into a higher and finer station.

Things went rather better during the forenoon, for he stayed with the two children and their German governess. With this kind, every-day sort of person, Johannes felt more at his ease; and he ventured to consult her about his clothes, and what he might, and might not, do in such a grand house.

The countess herself he did not see until afternoon. Then, through the medium of a housemaid, he received an invitation to go to her. She wished to talk with him.

She was again resting on the sofa, and beckoned him to a seat beside her. Johannes thought that she wished to ask him about something. But no! She simply wanted a little conversation – he must know what about. Then, very naturally, Johannes could not think at all; and after a painful quarter of an hour, during which he uttered scarcely anything more than "Yes, Mevrouw!" or "No, Mevrouw!" he was dismissed, still more unhappy than before.

The principal meal, at half-past eight in the evening, was no less distressingly formal, and full of trials. It was as quiet as a funeral, voices were low and whispering, and the servants moved noiselessly to and fro. The governess had told Johannes that he must "dress" for dinner. But alas! poor fellow! What had he to do it with?

As he stood behind his chair, in his shabby jacket and dicky, while the rose-shaded candles lighted up the flowers and the glittering table-furnishings, and the countess came into the great dim dining-room in her rustling, silk attire – then again he felt really wretched. Besides, it was very awkward trying to talk English here, and Dutch seemed not to be in favor. He was conscious during each course of doing something wrong or clumsy; and the lackeys, as they bent over him in offering the dishes, breathed slightingly on his neck.

The second night, being tired from lack of sleep, he soon lost consciousness. But during the small hours he had a thrilling and stirring time. Surely I do not need to tell you what rude occurrences there may be in one's dreams. Raging bulls tore after him as he tried to escape, meeting him again and again at the turning of a lane. There were lonely rooms whose doors flew open of their own accord – a footstep, and a shadow around the corner – of it! There were railway tracks with an oncoming train, and, suddenly – paralysis! Then loud hangings at the door, and a call of "Johannes! Johannes!" and, waking up, a deathly stillness. After that he noticed some very queer and most astonishing things in the room – a pair of pantaloons that walked away of itself, and in the corner a blood-curdling phantom. And then he was conscious of not being awake, and of making a desperate effort to shake off sleep. Such was the frightful time which befell Johannes that night.

At last, when he actually woke himself up with a scream that he heard resounding in the stillness, and while he lay listening to the beating of his heart, he also heard, like a soft echo of his cry, a fearful, smothered moaning and lamenting that lingered in the silent hallways of the darkened house When all was still, he thought it had been a part of his dreams. But even while he was lying wide awake, it began again, and it was such a dismal sound he could feel the goose-flesh forming. Then silence. "It must have been a dog," he thought. But there it was! A dog does not groan like that! It was a human voice. Could Olga or Frieda be ill?

The next time it came, he knew it was not the voice either of Olga or of Frieda. It was that of a much older person – not an invalid, but some one in mortal anguish – some one being menaced, who was imploring pity. He heard something like "Oh! Oh! – O God, have mercy!" But he could not understand the words, for the sounds came faintly.

He thought a murder was being committed, and he recalled that Death had been his fellow traveler. He sprang out of bed and stepped into the dark hall. Everything was quiet there. The sound came from upstairs, and now he heard, replying to the groans, a calm, soothing, hushing voice – sometimes commanding, sometimes coaxing. A door opened, and a faint light shone out. Another door was opened and then closed. All this seemed to prove that Johannes' intervention was not at all necessary, and that he would perhaps cut a ridiculous figure by attempting to step in as a rescuer. Then, unnerved and miserable, he went to sleep again.

In the morning, both little girls and the governess partook of their breakfast of tea, malted milk, toasted bread, and ham and eggs, just as if nothing had happened. The mother was to be away again until afternoon. Frieda and Olga sat peacefully and quietly eating, like well bred little girls.

At last Johannes could keep silence no longer, and said to the governess:

"Did anything bad happen in the night?"

"No," said the young German lady, looking at her plate. "There is an invalid in the house."

"Did you hear Heléne?" asked Olga, looking at Johannes earnestly. "I never hear her now. At first I used to very plainly, but now I sleep through it. Poor Heléne!"

"Poor Heléne!" lisped Frieda dutifully after her, resuming her busy spooning of the malted milk.

At noon Johannes was again summoned to the drawing-room. He had had a long walk, alone, beside the sea, and felt more at his ease. He had resolved to ask if he might not go away, since he was out of place here, and felt unhappy. And the party the next evening, at Lady Crimmetart's, where he was expected with an instrument – that was too much for him. He must get away before that.

But ere he had a chance to speak about it, his hostess began thus:

"Were you alarmed in the night, Johannes? Did you hear anything?"

Johannes nodded.

"Well, now that I trust you, fully, I will confide to you my sorrowful secret. Listen."

And the estimable and attractive woman beckoned him, with her loveliest smile, to sit beside the sofa, on a low stool.

It made Johannes feel as if he had been brought, nearly benumbed, into a warm room. Pleasant tinglings coursed down his back, and a fine feeling of contentment and security came over him. The countess rested her soft, delicate hand upon his own, and looked into his eyes, kindly. How beautiful she was! And what a sweet, caressing voice she had! All the distress of those recent days was more than amended.

"I am going to speak to you, my dear Johannes, as if you were much older than you are. You really do seem to me older and wiser than your years would lead one to expect."

Johannes was charmed.

"You must know, then, that my life has been full of suffering. Sorrow has been, so to speak, my constant companion, from earliest youth."

Johannes' heart was aglow with compassion. In well-chosen words, and in the flowing English that Johannes more admired than comprehended, the lady continued:

"My marriage was very unhappy. Constrained by my parents I married a rich man whom I did not love. He is dead now. I will not speak any evil of him."

Johannes that instant made up his mind to a certainty that the man had been a wretch.

"Neither will I trouble you with the story of all our misery. It suffices to say that we did not belong to each other, and each embittered the other's life. After six years of torture – it was nothing else – something happened … what usually happens in such cases… Do you understand?"

Johannes, greatly to his vexation, did not understand, and he felt himself to be very stupid.

"I became fond of another… Do you think less of me for that?"

"No! No!" said Johannes' head, as he shook it emphatically.

"Fortunately, my dear boy, I can say that I have nothing to reproach myself with, and can look into the faces of my children without shame. The man for whom I cared was unhappily married – just as I was. We have never seen each other again – not even…"

There was a pause in which the voice of the beautiful speaker broke, while her eyes were veiled in the tears that she was making an effort to repress. Johannes' heart was melting with sympathy.

"Not even," she resumed, "when I was free. My husband made this the opportunity for taking away from me my two children. For years I lived separated from them, even in poverty and privation, with only one old servant who, notwithstanding his low wages, would not desert me.

"During that time, my boy, – you may be surprised to know it, – I longed not only for my children, but even for him who had caused me so much suffering. The mutual parentage of dearly loved children is a wonderful bond that is never completely severed. I would have forgiven him all if he had only called me back."

A silence, in which Johannes' heart, already so inclined to admiration, surrendered itself wholly. The lady continued:

"I was recalled, but alas! too late. They telegraphed me that he was ill, and wished to speak with me. When I arrived, he lay raving, and never recovered his reason. For three days and nights I sat beside him, almost without sleep, to catch anything he might have to say to me. But he raved and raved, incessantly, uttering nothing but nonsense and inarticulate sounds. He certainly knew me; but just the same, he remained hard and cold – sometimes taunting, sometimes angry and abusive. Never shall I forget that night…"

"With my own two children I found an older girl whom I had never seen. They told me she was a child of a former union. I had never even heard of her. Where the mother was, no one could say. It was thought she was not living. The girl was then about fifteen years of age, beautiful, with a brilliant color, a fine profile, and flowing black hair."

"More beautiful than Frieda or Olga?" asked Johannes.

The countess smiled.

"Quite another kind of beauty. Much more gloomy and melancholy. When I went to her, she sat crying, and would pay no attention to me. 'Every one dislikes me,' she kept saying. And she repeated this all day long. She did nothing but walk back and forth, crying and lamenting. Only with the greatest trouble could she be induced to rise in the morning, and be dressed, and in the evening, to go to sleep. Her mind was diseased, and little by little it has grown worse. My husband died, and I remained with the three daughters, caring for them as well as I could."

Countess Dolores studied for a while her beautiful, gem-adorned hands, and then went on, with frequent pauses.

"Heléne knew very little concerning her mother; but she steadfastly maintained that she was living, and would return, and also … that her father and mother had been married…"

Another prolonged silence, the countess regarding Johannes with her lightly half-closed eyes, to see if he understood. Apparently he did not understand; for he sat, in unsuspecting patience, waiting for whatever else was to be said.

"Can you fancy, Johannes, what that would signify to me to my children … if it were true?"

Johannes fancied only that he was looking at the speaker in a somewhat confounded and sheepish manner.

"Bigamy, Johannes, is a terrible crime!"

Wait! – A light broke in upon him, albeit a feeble one. His dearly loved children, then, were not legal – were illegitimate – natural, or whatever it was called. Yes, indeed! That was terrible, even though no one, to look at them, would ever think it. But the countess enlightened him still further.

"The idea of living upon the property of another, Johannes, is, to a woman of honor, insufferable!"

What more? The property of another? Then all this sumptuousness, belonged, perhaps, to poor, crazed Heléne; and his dear, pretty children and their beautiful mother were only illegal intruders – usurpers of another's possessions!

Johannes faithfully tried his best to feel as the speaker did about all these curious and confusing things. But he did not succeed. Then, in his desire to comfort her, he gallantly uttered in broken English whatever came into his head.

"No, Mevrouw; you must not think that. You are beautiful and your children are beautiful, and therefore everything that is beautiful belongs to you. I do not believe you have cause to be ashamed, for I have seen no sign of it. If there were any disgrace, I should have detected it. And how is any one to suppose that such evidence exists either on paper or in some secret closet or other – who knows where? Are you and Frieda and Olga any less beautiful, less lovely, less good? I do not care a bit about it. Absolutely nothing."

The countess laughed so heartily, and pressed his hand so warmly, that Johannes was embarrassed.

"Oh, you lovely boy!" she laughingly cried. "Oh, you queer, funny, darling of a boy! How you cheer me up! I have not been so light-hearted in a long time."

Johannes was very glad, and proud of his success. Countess Dolores dried her tears of laughter upon her lace handkerchief, and resumed:

"But now we must be in earnest. It will be clearer to you now why I am so interested in all that pertains to spiritualism and theosophy – why I listen so eagerly to the wisdom of Mijnheer van Lieverlee, and of Lady Crimmetart – why I attend the circle of the Pleiades, at the Hague – and, too, why it made me so happy to meet you, when I heard that you also were a medium, and could see the elementals, in full daylight."

"But why, Mevrouw?" asked Johannes, in some distress.

"How can you ask that, my dear boy! Nothing can ever bring back my peace of mind, except one word from him, from the other side of the grave!"

Ah! but that was a hard blow for Johannes. He was not so troubled at having been invited as a guest, for a side purpose – he was not so overweening as that – but because he was surely going to be a disappointment to his beloved countess. With a sigh he looked down at the carpet.

"Shall we not make a call upon the invalid?" asked the lady, rising.

Johannes nodded, and followed her.

The door of the sick-room was barely open, when a pitiable scream rang out from the corner. The poor girl sat on the floor, huddled up in her nightgown, her long black hair disheveled, and hanging down over face and back. Her beautiful dark eyes were widely distended, and her features wore an expression of mortal anguish.

"Oh, God! – It is coming!" she shrieked, trembling. "Now it will happen! Oh, God! It surely will! I know it will! There it comes! Did I not say so? Now it comes! – Oh! Oh! Oh!"

The nurse hushed and commanded, but the poor, tormented creature trembled and wept, and seemed so desperately afraid, that Johannes, greatly moved, begged leave to go away again. It seemed as if she were afraid of him.

"No, my boy!" said the countess. "It is not on account of you. She does that way whoever comes in. She is afraid of everybody and everything she sees or hears."

That whole day, and a good deal of the night, Johannes mused over this one query: "Why —why is that poor girl so afraid?"

VI

Johannes did not leave, and at last came the day of the dreaded party. Having grown more confident, he had spoken of his needs. The carriage put in an appearance, and in the neighboring town, he was soon provided with suitable clothing.

Still, his mind was not quite at rest.

"Will you also say, dear lady," said Johannes that afternoon, when with the children and their mother, "that I truly cannot play upon any instrument? Please don't ask me to do anything!"

"But, Johannes," urged the countess, "that would really be very disagreeable in me. After what I have said, something will be expected of you."

"I cannot do anything!" said Johannes, in distress.

"He is joking, Mama," said Olga; "he can play the castanets and can imitate animals."

"Oh, yes! all kinds of animals! Awfully nice!" cried Frieda.

"Is that so, Johannes? Well, then?"

It was true that Johannes had amused his two little friends while they were taking walks together – mimicking all sorts of animal sounds, like those of the horse, donkey, cow, dog, cat, pig, sheep, and goat. He had whistled like the birds so cleverly that the two little girls had been enraptured. And one single instrument he did indeed play admirably – the genuine boys' castanets that every schoolboy and street urchin in Holland carries in his pocket certain months of the year. Many an autumn day, sauntering home from school, he had shortened the way for himself with the sharp, clear, uninterrupted "a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty tick! – a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty tick! – a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty tick! – tack! tack!"

The little girls now begged him to let their mama hear. So he took out his castanets, which he himself had made while there, and clicked away with them lustily.

"Delightful!" cried the countess. "Now you must sing and dance at the same time, like the Spaniards."

Johannes shied at the dancing. But indeed he would sing. And he sang all kinds of street ditties, such as "Oh, Mother, the Sailor!" and "Sara, you're losing your Petticoat," to the merry music of the castanets. The children thought it splendid.

Their enthusiasm excited him, and he began improvising all sorts of nonsense. The little girls clapped their hands, and the longer he played the more merry they grew. Johannes struck an attitude, and announced his selections just as if he were before an audience. The countess and her daughters went and sat in a row – the little girls wild with delight.

"Sketches from Animal Life," announced Johannes, beginning, to the time-keeping accompaniment of the castanets, the well-known air from The Carnival of Venice,

"A hen that came from JapanAssured a crippled toadShe'd never have him for her man.That was a sorry load."

The little girls shouted and stamped, with glee.

"More, Jo! – More, more, Johannes! Do!"

"Splendid!" cried the countess, speaking in Dutch, now, herself.

"A rhinoceros said to a louse,'I'll stamp you flat on the ground!'The louse made tracks for his house,And there he is now to be found."A grasshopper sat in the grass,And said to a chimpanzee:'Your coat I will thank you to pass,That I may attend a partie.'"A snoop who stood on the stoopAsked of his fellow boarderIf hairs he found in the soup.The hostess? – 'Twas malice toward her!"A crab who enjoyed a joke,Gave his mama a kick.And when she dropped at his poke,He laughed till the tears fell thick."

"Hey, there!" the little girls shouted boisterously. "Jolly! More, more! Jo!"

"A stock-fish, deaf-and-dumb born,Once said to a billy-goat:'Of my head I see I am shorn —'Twas you did it, silly goat!'"

"There, there, Johannes! That will do. Now you are getting foolish," said the mother.

"Oh, no, Mama! Only funny!" cried Frieda and Olga. "He is so funny! Go on, Jo!"

But Johannes was quite disconcerted by the mother's comment, and there was no further exposition of "Sketches from Animal Life."

In the evening Johannes drove with the countess in the state-coach to Lady Crimmetart's. Milady dwelt in a very handsome house – a castle in a large park. From a distance, Johannes could see the brightly lighted windows, and also the vehicles in front of the pillars, at the entrance.

Overhead, an awning was spread, and a long strip of heavy, bright-red carpeting laid down, so that the guests might be protected in passing from their carriages to the magnificent vestibule. The way was lined with lackeys – full twenty on each side. They looked very impressive, all of them tall and heavy, wearing knee-breeches of yellow plush, and red lace-trimmed coats. Johannes was puzzled because they all seemed to be such old men. Their hair was white as snow. That was powder, however, and it added to their dignity. How small and shabby Johannes felt while running the gauntlet of those liveried lackeys!

Indoors, Johannes was completely blinded by the dazzling light. He ascended a vaulted staircase, the broad steps of which were of many-colored marble. He saw vaguely, flowers, electric lamps, variegated carpets, broad, conspicuously white expanses of shirt-linen bordered with black coat, and bare necks adorned with gems and white lace. He heard a subdued murmur of soft voices, the rustling of silk clothing, the announcement of names.

In the background, at the top of the stairs, the swollen visage of Lady Crimmetart was glowing like a railway danger-signal. All the guests went up to her, and their names being spoken, each one received a bow and a handshake.

"What name, sir?" asked a colossal lackey, as he bent obliquely over Johannes. Johannes stammered out something, but the countess repeated it, changed.

"Professor Johannes, of Holland!" he heard called out. He bowed, received a handshake, and saw the powdered face smiling – or grinning – with affected sweetness. Lady Crimmetart's neck and arms were so fat and bare that Johannes was nearly terrified by them, and did not dare look straight. They were loaded with precious stones – big, flat, square, uniformly cut diamonds, alternating with pear-shaped pearls. Three white ostrich feathers bobbed in her head-dress. There were no animals at her side, but of course she had her fan and her gold-headed crutch.

"How do you do?" inquired the deep voice. But before Johannes could reply that he was pretty well, she addressed herself, with a grinning smile, to the next comer. Beside her stood a short, heavily built man. He had a shiny, bald head, a red face with deeply cut lines, and a large, bony nose. It was precisely such a head as one sees carved upon knobs of walking-sticks and parasols. It was Lord Crimmetart who stood there, and he gave Johannes' hand a firm clasp.

For an hour or so Johannes wandered about in the midst of the crowd. He felt dispirited and lonesome to begin with; and the babel of voices, the sheen and rustle of silken garments, the glitter of lights and of precious stones, the uniforms, bare necks, and white shirt-fronts, and the heavy scent of perfumery and of flowers, – all this oppressed him until he became deeply dejected. There was such a press of people that at times he could not stir, and the ladies and gentlemen talked straight into his face. How he longed for a quiet corner and an every-day companion! Everybody except himself had something to say. There was no one among those passing by so forlorn as he. He did not understand what they all could be saying to one another. The scraps of conversation that did reach him were about the stir in the room and the magnificence of the party. But the saying of that was not the reason for their having come together.

Johannes felt that the feast of the elves in the dunes had been far more pleasant.

Then, strains of music reached him from a stringed orchestra hidden behind green laurel. That awakened longings almost painful, and he drew closer, to sit down, unobserved, and let the people stream by. There he sat, with moistened eyes, looking dreamily out before him, while his thoughts dwelt upon quiet dunes and sounding seas on a moonlit night.