“I am glad of it,” replied Mrs. Steenvlak, “there again Anna has acted most wisely; and in acting thus she has spared herself, and you too, much useless sorrow. Every communication from you, every effort on your part to remove the existing obstacles between you, could only be most painful, and could not possibly lead to any good result.”
“Madam!” cried van Nerekool.
“You said, for instance, just now, that you have proposed to Anna to go to Singapore, and to be married there. But, just consider, how could you have undertaken that journey? Separately? I do not suppose that you could intend so young a girl to undertake such a journey alone. Together? You feel at once how such a proposition would have wounded her modesty and her feelings. No, I am glad indeed that she had the courage not to read your letters.”
“But, Mrs. Steenvlak,” said van Nerekool, adopting another tone, “supposing that I were prepared to accept the present circumstances as they are?”
“What can you mean?” asked Mrs. Steenvlak in some surprise.
“Supposing,” continued he, “that in spite of her parents, in spite of all that has occurred, I should be prepared to make her my wife?”
“Mr. van Nerekool,” replied Mrs. Steenvlak very seriously, “do not speak so wildly I pray. In spite of her parents! That must mean that you are prepared to accept all the consequences such a step would entail. In other words, that you are prepared to show her parents that respect and that esteem which they could justly claim from you as their son-in-law. But do you not see that by thus acting you would be making yourself contemptible in Anna’s eyes?—you would be taking away the last support the girl still has to cling to in her exile. Believe me, the cruellest blow you can strike a woman of her nature, is to prove to her that she placed her affections on one unworthy of her. The unsullied image of him whom once she loved—whom she perhaps still fondly loves—gives her, in spite of the obstacles which separate you from one another, the best consolation in her sorrow. And that pure remembrance will be to her, together with the consciousness of having acted strictly in accordance with her duty, her chief support in a lonely life.”
As Mrs. Steenvlak was speaking, Charles van Nerekool had covered his face with his hands. At her last words however he sprang up from his chair, he took her hand and said:
“A lonely life you say? Oh, do tell me where Anna now is. I will go to her, perhaps even yet I may succeed in winning her—tell me where to find her!”
“Mr. van Nerekool,” rejoined Mrs. Steenvlak, very quietly, “do not, I pray you, try to do any such thing. She has given me her fullest confidence, and I do not intend to betray it. She has told me every detail, she has consulted me about the line of conduct she ought to adopt; and in all she does she has my sanction. Do you think that I would throw fresh difficulties in her way? You surely cannot wish me to do so.”