“He has promised me,” replied van Rheijn, “to join us as soon as the music is over; and he is the man to keep to his word.”
“Meanwhile we might get up a little music on our own account,” suggested van Beneden.
“You see,” said Grenits pointing to the piano, “Charles is at his post already.”
Van Nerekool, who had taken but little part in the conversation, had, in fact, risen and gone to the piano. At first, in an absent kind of way, he struck a few chords; but presently, under the influence of thoughts which always reverted to Anna, he had struck up L’absence of Tal. The room soon was filled with melancholy strains and sentimental trills.
“No, no!” cried van Rheijn, “let us have no music, you see what effect it has. Just look at him sitting there, why there are tears in his eyes! A most pernicious thing, believe me, in this climate and in this horrid dungeon.”
The last chord had died away and still van Nerekool remained moodily seated at the instrument, his head bent forward and his hands resting heavily on the keys.
“I say, Charles!” cried Edward, “no more music now. Come and sit here by me, and, while we are waiting for Murowski, I have a letter to read to you which I have just now received from Verstork.”
“From William!” exclaimed van Nerekool; and, rousing himself at the name of his friend, he took the seat van Rheijn indicated to him.
“It is strange,” he continued, “I have had no answer to my letter.”
“No more have I,” said van Beneden.