There he stands again on the cliff of Naxos and wishes to steal the beloved for himself. Nor, not steal! Why not honorably and manfully step forward and say: “I am your rival, Maurits. Your betrothed must choose between us. You are not married; there is no sin in trying to win her from you. Look well after her. I mean to use every expedient.”
Then he would be warned, and she would know what alternative lay before her.
His knuckles cracked when he clenched his fists again. How Maurits would laugh at his old uncle when he stepped forward and explained that! And what would be the good of it? Would he frighten her, so that he would not even be allowed to help them in the future?
But how will it go now when she approaches to say good-bye to him? He almost screams to her to take care, to keep three paces away from him.
He remains at the window and turns his back on them all, while they are busy with their wraps and their luncheon-basket. Will they never be ready to go? He has already lived it through a thousand times. He has taken her hand, kissed her, helped her into the chaise. He has done it so many times that he believes she is already gone.
He has also wished her happiness. Happiness—Can she be happy with Maurits? She has not looked happy this morning. Oh yes, certainly she has. She wept with joy.
While he is standing there Maurits suddenly says to Anne-Marie: “What a dunce I am! I am quite forgetting to speak to Uncle about father’s shares.”
“I think it would be best if you did not,” Downie answers. “Perhaps it is not right.”
“Nonsense, Anne-Marie. The shares do not pay anything just now. But who knows if they will not be better some day? And besides, what does it matter to Uncle? Such a little thing—”
She interrupts with unusual eagerness, almost anxiously. “I beg of you, Maurits, do not do it. Give in to me this once.”