“Yes, we are, because I want to,” she said, cruelly, without a shadow of playfulness. Mopius by this time had resolved that wild horses should not drag him to the Horst.
A simple Dutchwoman, however, is not a wild horse. Alas, she is more commonly a jade. Occasionally she is a mule.
Harriet sat down, watching her husband’s sullen face. Suddenly, from love of ease, she changed her tone.
“Did he want to stay at home with his own wifie?” she said, “like two turtles in a nest. Did he want to have a Christmas-tree all to themselves, and buy her a lot of lovely presents? That was good of him, and his wifie will give him a kiss for it.”
In the first months of their married life this tone had been fairly successful; it had obtained for her the numerous fineries of which Jacóbus’s soul now repented.
“Stop fooling, Harriet,” he now said, most unexpectedly. “I’m going to remain where I am because I hate dancing attendance on lords and beggarly great people. I’m a rich man, I am. And besides there’s a meeting of the Town Council on Tuesday.”
“Did you hear me suggest,” continued Harriet, sweetly, “that it was my intention to go?”
“Yes, hold your tongue and attend to your house-keeping. The beef was underdone yesterday. It never used to be in my dear departed’s time.”
“Jacóbus, that is your second allusion this morning to your dead wife. It marks a new departure, for till now you had wisely kept her in the background. But I must warn you, once for all, that I won’t stand it. Besides, it’s quite useless. Didn’t I know the poor fool? Wasn’t I present at her daily sacrifice? I am perfectly aware that she loved you in a different way from mine. She was like a faithful dog, poor creature, and you led her a dog’s life.”
A reproachful tear—not self-reproachful—stood in Mynheer Mopius’s yellow eye.