“Beethoven!” cried van Nerekool, “most delightful, Miss Anna, do let me beg of you to give us the second sonata in D dur Op. 36.”
“What tyrants you gentlemen are,” replied the young girl. “Very well, you shall have your sonata, but, after that, remember, ‘Fleurs d’oranger.’ Now go and take your lesson.”
The young lawyer went and took a seat behind Mrs. van Gulpendam’s chair, and, although he did not pretend to any great knowledge of cards, yet he could not help admiring that lady’s fine and close play, while Anna did the honours of the tea-table, and was busily tripping about to see that the servants did not neglect their duties, and that the guests were properly attended to.
As he was seated there behind fair Laurentia, and was attentively studying her cards, the glow of light which numerous splendid chandeliers shed over the entire gallery, finely brought out his clearly cut profile.
Charles van Nerekool was a man of five or six and twenty years of age. After he had most honourably completed his studies at the university of Leyden, he had been appointed junior member of the Court of Justice at Santjoemeh when, a few months back, he had arrived from Holland.
He was a tall, fair-haired man, scrupulously neat in his attire, and most careful of his personal appearance. His fine, sharply chiselled features had not yet lost their European freshness and bloom, and were well set off by a thick curly beard and moustache, some shades lighter than his hair. His winning manners, which were those of a courteous and highly-bred gentleman, perfectly harmonized with his handsome countenance, and he was universally esteemed an accomplished and most agreeable companion. But, though society had justly formed a high opinion of him, there was one point in his character which would not allow him ever to become a popular man. He was a lawyer in the truest and noblest sense of the word. A man who, deeply versed in the law, yet would tolerate nothing that was not strictly just and upright. Quibbling and casuistry had no attractions for him; he was, in fact, honest as gold and true as a diamond.
Hence his manner of speech was always frank and straightforward—oftentimes he was too plain spoken, for he would not and could not condescend to wrap up his real sentiments in fine words or ambiguous phrases. Anyone therefore, who has the slightest knowledge of the present state of society, may readily understand why the number of his real friends was but small. A strict sense of justice, a noble frankness of expression, and an intense love of truth, for truth’s sake, are, unfortunately, not the qualities which serve to push a man forward most quickly in the official world—at least not in the official world of India. Van Gulpendam, especially—though he could not close his doors to a man in van Nerekool’s position, heartily detested him, and had repeatedly expressed his dislike to the old judge who presided over the Council at Santjoemeh.
“Ah well!” this latter had, on one occasion, said to him, “you are rather too hard upon our young colleague. Remember this Mr. van Nerekool is but a newly fledged chicken. You will see when he has been here a year or two he will turn out a very useful fellow indeed. Why, every one of us had, at his age, just those fine idealistic views of life which he now holds.”
This answer made our worthy friend, van Gulpendam, look rather queer. His conscience, at any rate, did not accuse him of fine principles and idealistic views,—not such views, at least, as those for which he found fault with van Nerekool.
The young man was still seated behind Laurentia’s chair, attentively keeping his eye on her cards.