And she threw herself back, sobbed out her words, as though she no longer dared fling herself into Constance’ arms.
“Marianne, he is very fond of you ... and he is such a good fellow....”
“Oh, Auntie, no, no, no!... No, no, Auntie, no!... I can’t do it!”
Constance was silent. Then she said:
“So, it’s no, darling?”
“No, Auntie, no, no!... I don’t care for him, I can never, never care for him! Oh, no, no, it is cruel of you, if you ask that of me, if you want to force me into it!... I don’t care for him.... There is ... there is some one else....”
She was silent, stared before her like a madwoman, with the same fixed stare as her mother. And suddenly she became very still, accepting her anguish, and said, gently, with a heart-rending smile:
“No, Auntie ... no. I would rather go ... with Mamma and Louise ... to Baarn. We shall live very pleasantly there ... cosily, the three of us together.... Marietje will join us later, from her boarding-school.... Karel....”
She tried to utter just a word of interest in her mother, sisters and brothers, but her indifferent, dead voice belied her. There was nothing in her but what had once shone from her, what was now trying to sob from her....
Constance clasped her in her arms: