CHAPTER XVI.
It was a fresh, bright May day, after a week of rain and chill mists. Jeanne had sent her children—Dora, Wim, and Fritsje—for a walk with their nurse, to the Schevening Boschjes. She herself, however, had stayed at home, as she was always much occupied, and she felt lonely in her apartments, sitting there by herself, doing her knitting and darning in a pale sunbeam which she, regardless of her carpet and her curtains, allowed to stream freely into the room. Frans was away in Amsterdam, where he had gone to consult a physician. It was now half-past one, thought Jeanne, as she glanced at the timepiece, the tick of which was heard very distinctly in the quiet room. About half-past five Frans would return, and the time which she had yet to wait seemed so many ages to her, although she thought it splendid for once to be able to do such a lot of work undisturbed.
The pale sunbeam fell right over her, but it did not trouble her; on the contrary she basked in its faint warmth. The light shimmered about her light-brown hair, and imparted to her sunken white cheeks an alabaster transparency; it shimmered too over her thin, delicate fingers, as with a steady, rhythmical motion she plied her needle. And how she longed for the summer! oh, that May, with its damp misty weather and its rare bright days, might soon be passed! how could she have cherished any illusion of May being a month of spring beauty, as the poets falsely said?
She smiled a little sadly as she bent over the chemisette she was making, to press down a seam with her fingers; she smiled when she reflected that every illusion, the smallest even, vanished into air, while her life rolled on, and the future, which she feared with a great, mysterious, unspeakable terror, continually faded away, to make room for that gloomy, monotonous reality. And now—now she shuddered, now once more that fearful presentiment rose up in her soul, like a veiled spectre; something would happen to them, some inevitable disaster would crush them. She took a deep breath, shuddering, her hand pressed on her bosom; shuddering, not for herself, not for him—but for the children.
She rose, it was impossible for her to continue her work, and yet she must not be idle on the rare day when the children left her undisturbed. Oh, why was she not stronger? And leaning [[152]]against the window-sill she let herself be entirely covered by the ray of sunshine, like a pale hot-house flower longing for light and air, and she gazed, absorbed in her thoughts of what was to be, into the little square patch of garden behind the grocery shop below. A lilac was just budding into leaf, but in the centre or side beds nothing as yet was growing, and before Jeanne’s eyes there suddenly arose a vision of Persian roses, such as those that bloomed on their property at Temanggoeng, big, like pink beakers, full of sweet odour. It was as though she smelt that odour; it was as though the blushing tint of those flowers dispelled the dull gray thoughts, and left in their place merely a longing for warmth and love.
Thus she felt when the bell rang, and Mathilde van Ryssel entered. They had met each other once or twice at the van Raats’, and they were aware of a certain sympathy between them.
“I have really come with the evil intention of tempting you out for a walk,” said Mathilde smiling. “It is glorious weather, and it will do you good.”
“But, Tilly, the children are out, and Frans as well. Really I can’t, I have work to do.”
“What insurmountable objects, to be sure!” laughed Mathilde. “You need not take care of the house.”