Accordingly Gerard, by no means indifferent as to the issue, waited upon Mynheer Frederick van Rexelaer, Topsy’s papa, a Judge, and also a Fool. That gentleman received him very affably, and immediately invented an excuse for withdrawing to consult with the head of the household.
“No money and a very desirable connection,” said Mevrouw Rexelaer, sitting up. “I wish it were Van Helmont of Horstwyk and the Horst. But he has behaved like an idiot. This seems a very agreeable young man, and Topsy might do worse. Since her miserable failure with poor deluded René I am often quite anxious about what is to become of her.”
“Oh, she’ll marry,” said the Judge.
“I’m not so sure, Frederick,” replied Mevrouw, who was very impatient, for various reasons, to get this last daughter off her hands.
“Antoinette is so strange, so ungirlish; no man, as yet, has ever proposed to her. My cousin Herman’s legacy was a merciful dispensation; but, all the same, I should consider it very unwise to let this chance escape.”
So Gerard was instructed to make his proposal that night at the Soirée of the Society of Arts, and Topsy was instructed to accept him.
“You may thank your stars,” said Mevrouw Elizabeth, frankly, to her daughter. “Judging by the past, I should think it’s your only opportunity. Money doesn’t go for everything, especially if a girl has no ‘charm.’ I thank Heaven on my bended knees when I remember what might have been!”
“Yes, mamma,” replied Antoinette, meekly, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes. In her own family Mevrouw Elizabeth’s will was law, the immovable incubus of many oppressive years.
“What might have been”—what Mevrouw had once yearned and worked for, in spite of present thanksgiving—was Topsy’s marriage with a cousin, who had never understood Mevrouw Elizabeth’s plans. This cousin was now dead and mad and altogether forgotten and unmentionable. Hush!