by Betty Neels
The look had gone even as she spoke; it was just an elderly face once more, gently smiling at her. ‘Of course not, my dear, just a twinge in my bones, I expect—natural enough at my age, is it not? It’s a little frightening to grow old. One becomes useless…’
Araminta took a small, beringed hand in hers. ‘You are certainly not useless, Mevrouw van Sibbelt, and you have no need to be frightened. You have Crispin and he loves you very much.’ She would have liked to have added ‘And you will have me too,’ but it seemed presumptuous to say that.
Mevrouw van Sibbelt smiled then. ‘You’re a nice child,’ she declared, ‘and not at all like any of the others.’
Araminta didn’t ask who the others were. Her companion was obviously speaking about the other girls whom Crispin must have brought to his home from time to time. And why not? she asked herself stoutly. He had been free to do as he liked and have the friends he chose, had he not? It was a pity that this charitable sentiment should have been entirely swamped by a great wave of jealousy; she hated herself for it.
‘It takes all kinds to make a world,’ she pronounced in a bright voice. ‘Where do we go next, or would you like to rest for a little while?’
‘The first floor, I think.’ Mevrouw van Sibbelt was looking at her with faint disappointment. ‘For a young girl you have very little curiosity,’ she said tartly, and when Araminta didn’t answer, went on: ‘After lunch I shall take my little rest, perhaps you would like to explore the rest of the house then. Let us go back the way we came and go up the main staircase.’
By the time they had reached the head of the stairs, her little flash of ill humour had vanished and they spent the next hour wandering through the rooms which led off the gallery which ran round three sides of the hall. They didn’t go into all of them; Mevrow van Sibbelt paused before the arched door with its swags of fruit and flowers carved above it and which dominated one side of the gallery and explained that it was the principal bedroom of the house and not in use. ‘It will be a different matter when Crispin marries,’ she said, and peered sideways at Araminta. ‘It is a very a lovely room.’
She led the way to another door and opened that instead. ‘This is one of the guest rooms—charming, is it not?’
Araminta looked around her. The room was certainly that, with its heavy Beidermeier furniture and the pale pastel silk of the curtains and bedspread. She began to wonder, a little uneasily, just how rich a man Crispin was; much richer than she had imagined, she realised that now as they continued their inspection of one room after the other, each perfection and all apparently ready for instant occupation. Presently they went down to lunch together in the small room in which she had breakfasted, and over their omelettes and fruit, discussed the house and its treasures, and the old lady, quite forgetting her nap, lingered long after they were finished, talking of her youth and the balls she had attended and telling of the family’s history. Araminta sat enthralled; anything to do with Crispin interested her, and this was his home and his family… She watched her companion mount the staircase for her long delayed rest with a feeling of real regret.
But there was the second floor, and when she reached it presently it was to find that it was almost exactly similar to the one below, save that here, at the back of the house, there was a nursery wing. A large, high-ceilinged room, overlooking the garden and beyond that, a canal and an interesting vista of gabled rooftops. A smaller room led from it, as did a bathroom, tiny kitchen and two much smaller rooms. ‘Enough for six children,’ commented Araminta, aloud, ‘with a couple of nursemaids thrown in.’
There was a cupboard along one wall and after a moment’s hesitation she opened it, to spend an enraptured half hour looking at the toys stacked neatly away on its shelves. Some of them were very old; dolls with china heads and flaxen hair and most beautifully dressed, clockwork toys, a magnificent dolls’ house, small wooden horses on wheels, a whole Noah’s Ark—she inspected them all, wondering which of them had belonged to Crispin when he was a little boy and imagining the delight of future inhabitants of the nursery when they opened the cupboard doors. She heaved an unconscious sigh and went down to the drawing room and had a solitary tea, for Mevrouw van Sibbelt hadn’t reappeared, before getting her coat and going into the garden to play ball with Rikki until it was dark.
Crispin was home when she went to the drawing room an hour later after changing into the jersey dress, and over their drinks engaged her in a pleasant desultory conversation, wanting to know how she had spent her day, which naturally enough led to talk of the house and its history, talk which became general when his aunt joined them, and which stayed so throughout dinner. It was after they had had their coffee and Crispin had suggested that she should get her coat that Araminta feared that the old lady was going to complain at being left alone, but he reminded her kindly that an old friend of hers would be arriving shortly. ‘You won’t miss us at all,’ he told her, laughing. ‘Besides, we shan’t be late back—I’ve a busy day tomorrow.’
Their outing was an unqualified success. True, it had begun to drizzle with a cold rain and the wind was blowing, as Araminta had discovered it did in Holland, round every corner, but she hardly noticed it as they walked briskly through the wet streets, stopping here and there to admire the dark outline of some small bridge or a particularly impressive gable, until they reached the Kalverstraat, where Crispin obligingly shortened his stride so that she might peer into the shop windows. There were quite a lot of people strolling around, despite the weather, doing exactly as they were doing, and when she remarked on it, he said half laughing: ‘I expect they’re couples setting up house together, deciding what they want to buy for their homes.’
‘You’re got everything already,’ she pointed out.
‘I haven’t got you, Araminta-not yet.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him then and there that he had got her—had had her for quite some time, but if she did he might think her too eager. He had said that she was to stay at his home and get to know him and she had been there barely twenty-four hours; he would remind her of that if she said anything, so she kept a prudent silence, albeit with difficulty. Here was a man, she knew that now, who refused to be hurried—or rather, refused to hurry her. She swallowed everything she so longed to tell him and said gaily: ‘This is fun! Most men hate looking at shops—Father would rather run a mile.’
‘Well, I don’t make a habit of it, Araminta, but I must admit that I’m enjoying it very much with you. Shall we have a cup of coffee somewhere?’
They were home again before Tante Maybella’s visitor had gone. Araminta was introduced to the lady, a large, rather plain-faced woman with an overwhelming bosom and an air of consequence. She smiled kindly at Araminta, engaged her in conversation in excellent English, addressed a few laughing remarks to Crispin and took her leave, and very shortly afterwards, Mevrouw van Sibbelt went to her bed.
‘I think I’ll go to bed too,’ said Araminta. ‘I daresay you’ve got some work or something or other to read.’
The doctor looked up from tickling Rikki’s ear. ‘Indeed I have—why not come and keep me company while I do it? There’s a stove in the study and you can curl up in a chair and read too, if you have a mind to do so.’
‘I won’t be in your way?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’ He straightened up and crossed the room to stand before her. ‘Do you know, I am just beginning to realise how lonely I’ve been?’ He took her hand in his. ‘It’s the room next to the small sitting room—did you see it this morning?’
She shook her head. ‘Your aunt said that she never went in there.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t find her tiresome, I hope? She is very difficult sometimes, but then she is an old lady now—I remember her when I was a little boy and she was my favourite aunt.’ He added thoughtfully: ‘She was always so kind…’
Araminta looked up into his dark face. ‘You’re a kind man yourself,’ she told him gravely.
The s
tudy was warm, smelled of leather and tobacco and was furnished with a giant-sized desk and chair and several comfortable armchairs drawn up to the stove. The desk, she noted, was piled high with a conglomeration of papers, notes, letters and a book or two, and once Crispin had settled her in a chair with a copy of The Lancet to amuse her, he sat down contentedly to work. She didn’t read but watched his dark head, the silver in it showing up strongly in the lamp’s light, while he wrote, occasionally telephoned, and then read his letters. She was quite startled when he said: ‘It’s like having a friendly mouse in the room. Rikki always comes with me, of course, but he isn’t the same as a pretty girl.’
‘You called me a mouse!’
He chuckled. ‘A restful mouse as well as a pretty one.’ He cast down the last of the letters on his desk. ‘Thank you for bearing me company, Araminta.’ He shot a quick look at her. ‘You didn’t find it too dull?’
‘No, of course not, I like being here with you.’
‘You enchant me,’ he told her as they crossed the hall, ‘but that’s no reason for keeping you out of your bed.’ He gave her a gentle push in the direction of the staircase. ‘Good night, dear girl.’
Araminta found that the days passed quickly, although she did very little. She spent a good deal of time in Mevrouw van Sibbelt’s company, ventured out by herself in the afternoons and spent her evenings with Crispin, walking Rikki in Vondelpark, driving to Schevingenen to dine and then walk along the boulevard in the cold dark, or visiting the Concertgebouw.
On the fourth afternoon after her arrival she had gone shopping, for it was obvious that her wardrobe fell far short of her requirements. She had liked the look of Krause en Vogelzang when they had been window-shopping, so now she ventured inside its elegant doors, to emerge a good while later, much lighter in the purse but deeply content with her purchase—a silk jersey dress in a soft sage green, its long sleeves gathered into deep cuffs and having a demure neckline ornamented by a chiffon bow under her chin. Just in case Crispin should find the time to take her dancing, as he had hinted the evening before, she had bought an evening dress too, of blue velvet which matched her eyes exactly, its deep neckline outlined with tiny silk frills. She counted herself fortunate in matching it exactly with velvet slippers and a velvet stole which just happened to catch her eye.
She had the opportunity to wear this charming outfit two evenings later. Crispin had telephoned during the afternoon to tell her that he had booked a table at the Amstel Hotel for dinner and dancing; he endeared himself still further to her by asking, in the nicest possible way, if she wanted a new dress for the occasion, because if so she had only to say so and he would instruct his bank.
‘What a dear you are!’ she exclaimed warmly, and heard his chuckle. ‘As a matter of fact, I saw a dress I liked and bought it…’
She found the Amstel Hotel quietly impressive, solidly comfortable to the point of luxury and a most fitting background for the velvet dress, and it was delightful to discover that their table overlooked the Amstel River. Even on a near winter’s evening, it was a pleasant sight, with the lights of countless barges and boats twinkling on its black water. Araminta turned away from watching them to find Crispin’s eyes on her. ‘You look delightful,’ he told her. ‘That’s a pretty dress, and a pretty girl inside it.’
She pinkened. ‘Thank you, Crispin. I—I hoped you’d like it.’ She smiled shyly. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’ he asked blandly.
‘Like that. Did you have a busy day?’
His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Yes, I did. Araminta, you’re shy.’ His smile enfolded her, so that she smiled back at him, suddenly at her ease.
‘What shall we eat?’ he went on matter-of-factly. ‘Shall we order now and then dance?’
They finished their drinks and danced—they danced a great deal. Araminta hardly noticed what they ate and it wasn’t until her glass was being refilled that she remarked dreamily: ‘It’s champagne, isn’t it?’ which made Crispin laugh and urge her to drink up so that they could dance again. It was towards the end of the evening as they were circling the room to ‘Let’s dance the old-fashioned way’ that he said softly: ‘I couldn’t agree more with this song; it’s how I’d like to dance with you always, darling.’ And when the music stopped, he said: ‘Let’s go home. I want to talk to you.’
Araminta had the pleasant sensation that she was dreaming and then waking up to find it was real. ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed in a voice which trembled just a little and sped to get her wrap.
It had begun to freeze outside and she wrapped the soft velvet close as they went out to the car. They hardly spoke on the way home and she was aware of a mounting excitement as the doctor drove through the narrow streets. There were still lights showing in the house, and Jos came from the back of the hall to enquire if they would like coffee, then went away to fetch it.
Araminta allowed the doctor to take her wrap and then her hand as they went into the drawing room. It looked quite beautiful in the firelight and the soft glow of a solitary lamp; Araminta looked lovely too. Crispin eyed her with satisfaction and told her so before he kissed her soundly. ‘I had no idea I was so impatient a man,’ he observed. ‘Will you marry me, Araminta?’
She stood within the circle of his arms, looking up at him. He was a handsome man, if one happened to like dark, beaky-nosed faces and dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and she did. They were smiling at her now in such a way that she could hardly wait to say yes, and it was a good thing that she hadn’t hesitated, for she had barely uttered when the telephone rang and with an impatient word Crispin went to answer it.
Such a pity, she thought, when there was so much to say between them, and listening to his urgent, low-voiced questions. She could see that it was some knotty medical problem, that just for the moment had swept her right out of his head. It didn’t surprise her in the least when he put down the receiver and said: ‘There’s an emergency which presents several problems. Go to bed, my dear, we’ll talk tomorrow.’
He kissed her briefly, his mind already grappling with whatever awaited him at the hospital, and she, understanding very well, said quietly: ‘Yes, dear? I hope it isn’t anything too bad,’ and stood where she was until she heard the heavy thud of the front door. Only when Jos came to take away the coffee tray did she wish him good night and make her way up to bed, still very happy; unwilling to come out of her lovely dreamlike world.
When she got down in the morning, it was to find that Crispin had been home, slept for a couple of hours, breakfasted and returned to the hospital. He hoped to be back, said Jos, in the early afternoon, but there was a possibility that it might be considerably later than that. Araminta ate her breakfast, had a brisk session with Rikki in the garden and came indoors to find Mevrouw van Sibbelt in the little sitting room. The old lady seemed pleased to see her, and they spent an hour together chatting until it was suggested that Araminta might like to take a walk before their lunch. It was colder than it had been for some days, but she walked briskly, coming back with glowing cheeks and bright eyes. The glow evaporated a little when Jos met her with the news that the doctor didn’t expect to get home before evening, a piece of news which took away her appetite, something which the old lady remarked upon while they were having their coffee after lunch.
‘You are excited, my dear,’ she smiled across the room. ‘I think perhaps it is because Crispin has asked you to marry him. Am I right?’
‘Well, yes, he has,’ admitted Araminta, and was a little taken aback when her companion murmured: ‘You are so suitable…’
‘Suitable?’ she echoed, rather at a loss.
The old lady smiled gently. ‘You are young and strong and like children, do you not? And you find this house to your taste—Crispin would never marry a girl who would want to alter his home in any way. You are a pretty young woman too and have nice manners—and quite different from Nelissa.’
‘And who is Nelissa?’ asked Araminta, aware tha
t her voice was too sharp.
‘You do not know about her? She is the girl whom Crispin loved—still loves—and can never marry.’
Araminta felt an icy hand move slowly up her spine. ‘Crispin will tell me about her if he wants to,’ she said stoutly, and heard the hateful shake in her voice as she spoke.
The old lady peeped at her over her old-fashioned gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘My dear, as you grow older you will learn that there are some things about which a man never speaks.’
‘You mean I mustn’t ask him?’
Her companion nodded.
‘But why not? He—he wants to marry me, Mevrouw van Sibbelt.’
‘Crispin is forty years old, Araminta, he knows that he must marry soon if he wishes for a son to carry on the family name, and believe me, he does wish that.’ The silvery voice was decisive. ‘You should count yourself fortunate he has chosen you. There are several suitable girls who would be only too glad to step into your shoes.’
‘But it was me he asked,’ said Araminta flatly.
‘And I am glad, child—his strong feelings of pity for you in the first place, when he discovered you slaving for that cousin of yours, more than tipped the balance in your favour.’ She met Araminta’s outraged eye with a smile and asked in a sympathetic voice: ‘Has he ever said that he loves, you, my dear?’
He never had. Araminta admitted that in a proud little voice which disdained sympathy. ‘This Nelissa,’ she asked in a voice as calm as she could make it, ‘you said that Crispin would marry her if he could—why doesn’t he?’
‘There are circumstances…’ said her companion mysteriously, and paused. ‘A few days ago—you remember that he went away unexpectedly? I must say no more than that, only—if he had not already had an understanding with you…but he had. He made that clear when he came back from your home in England, and he is not a man to go back on his word, whatever the cost to himself.’
‘So I’m standing in the way of his happiness,’ said Araminta. She sat staring at the old lady, sitting there tearing her lovely dreams apart in that silvery voice. Of course the dear soul didn’t realise what she was doing, and that was a good thing really, because there was still time to do something about it—only she would have to look sharp; she felt strangely numb, but her brain was clear enough and already busy with a plan. And after all, it was easy enough. Mevrouw van Sibbelt was making preparations to go upstairs for her nap and she wouldn’t come down again until tea time or later, and Crispin wouldn’t be back until the evening. Araminta could be miles away by then. She went upstairs with the old lady with the remark that she would get her coat and go for a walk.
