“Would you not like to see the house whilst you are in Utrecht? It is beautifully situated, and well worth a visit, I can assure you.”
“No, thank you, sir; but I should like to see the house in which my aunt lived: from its surroundings I may be able to obtain a better idea of her character.”
“Oh, with pleasure, Jonker! I thought I had already told you,” began Van Beek, somewhat embarrassed, “that the old lady had bequeathed it to me, on condition her maid should occupy it as long as she lives. It is a splendid legacy; that I do not deny. But consider, I have served her thirty years in all kinds of business, some of which cost me much trouble and loss of time. And I may remind you that there is no extra money set aside for my expenses as executor, whilst I am recommended to assist the heir in every way, and to serve him to the best of my ability by my counsel.”
“My dear sir,” I rejoined, “it was to be expected that aunt would treat you generously. It is not my intention to dispute any of her bequests. It will be a sort of pilgrimage for me.”
“We will drive there at once after luncheon. It is only half an hour’s distance from the town.”
I must confess the interior of my aunt’s dwelling did not enable me to gather any new ideas of the strange personage who once occupied it. The old waiting-woman received us with coolness, and chanted the praises of her late mistress in pious terms. The young cook shed a torrent of tears, and was evidently astonished not to see me do the same; whilst the man-servant eyed me askance, as if he feared I had come there to cut off his legacy. The house was furnished in a moderately comfortable style, most of the furniture being of the good solid sort common in the reign of King William I., though there had been an attempt to imitate the style of the First French Empire. There was only one sofa in the house, and one armchair à la Voltaire, in which Miss Roselaer reposed herself for just one hour after dinner every day. She must have been a clever, active woman up to the very last.
“She was always making up her accounts or writing,” said her maid, “when she was not either reading or knitting.”
“And what did she read?” I asked.
“Mostly ‘unbelieving books’—those in the bookcase there; sometimes, but very seldom, the Bible.”
The “unbelieving books” were French, German, and English classics. I pointed out to Van Beek that I should like to possess this small but well-selected library. All the books are beautifully though not showily bound, and they bear marks of assiduous reading. Among the “unbelieving books” are the works of Fénelon, Bossuet, and Pascal, peacefully assorted with those of Voltaire and the Encyclopædists, whilst Lavater, Gellert, Lessing, and Klopstock find a place by the side of Goethe and Schiller, and the plays of Iffland and Kotzebue.