“He is very triste these days,” continued Madam. “I do not know why, though he is never very communicative, this son of mine. He says little of his affairs, and I shall not tell him all of mine. He and Trynje have been playmates from youth, and she still calls him Bo, as she did when a tiny child and he tried to teach her the English for boy.”
“Must I take my meals with you, madam?”
“You would rather not? I can understand that it might be awkward; then Maria and Johannes shall have your company if you do not mind.”
“I do not mind at all.”
“Then it is settled, and perhaps we shall have a wedding before June, who knows? Trynje has deep affections once they are given, but she has pride as well. Now, then, let us see how well you can act your part in this pretty play.”
In the dusk of the evening there was the sound of trampling of hoofs outside by the porch. Madam arose. “Come, Trynje,” she called, and Trynje ran forward, leaving Alaine in the shadowy corner where they had been sitting. The door opened, and by the waning light Alaine saw a tall form embrace Madam, saw Trynje’s little plump hand carried to a man’s lips, then as the waning light fell upon the man’s face she saw the smile of Lendert Verplanck.
“Lendert!” she whispered, and then she dropped back again upon the settle. “Lendert!” She sat there staring for a moment before she made her escape to her little room above-stairs which Madam had insisted upon her occupying. Her heart was beating tumultuously, her head throbbing. She threw herself face down on the floor. “My Lendert! My Lendert!” she whispered. “He has forgotten me. I dare not make myself known. I must try to get away without his knowledge, for there is Pierre and here is Trynje, who love me. Jeanne must know, and she will help me.” She lay there sobbing convulsively till her first tumult of grief was spent, and then she arose and knelt by the window, her elbows on the sill. The little latticed casement was open, and through it was wafted the mysterious sweetness of May, the sweetness of new-born leaves, of blossoms shaking out their perfume to the winds. So perilously sweet the season to those who love, for the promise of bliss, of beauty, the expectant hush covering things as yet wrapped in mystery, the almost answer to everlasting questions, these are conveyed to the heart of youth on a May night. Unutterable thoughts came to the girl as she leaned out and felt the breath of evening on her hot face. Her yearning heart mounted to the skies bearing the enduring “Why?” and again her eyes overflowed.
A light step along the hall was followed by a tap on the door. “Where are you, little runaway?” came from Madam in a bantering tone. “This is not keeping your word. My son has gone to smoke his pipe on the stoop with our manly Jeanne, who has actually joined him. Did she learn to smoke from the Indians? Trynje is watching for you. It is all very good, for I have had a word with my son, and he has said, ‘We will talk of it after a while; if it be so great a desire with you, madam, my mother, I will try to yield to your wishes. One must marry, I suppose, and why not Trynje as well as another? She is an amiable little girl.’ So, you see, it is as good as settled. Now to make him jealous, and he will think she wears many more virtues than the one of amiability.” She had come in and stood by Alaine’s side. “You have had your supper?”
“No, not yet.”
“And so late. Fie upon you for a bashful child! Go along and get it at once, and then come to us.” And she swept out, leaving Alaine with hands nervously clinched and trembling with overwrought feelings.