The Good Comrade. Una L. Silberrad
fidgeted, becoming more embarrassed. "You are sure you do not mind?" he said. "It is a little conspicuous for you."
Then she understood, and looked up with twinkling eyes. "I am afraid I am conspicuous, anyhow," she said.
This was true enough, for her clothes, fitting like an Englishwoman's, and put on like a Frenchwoman's (the Polkingtons all knew how to dress), were unlike any others in sight. Her face, too, dark and thin and keenly alert, was unlike, and her light, easy walk; and if this was not enough it must be added that she was now walking in the road because the pavement was so crowded.
Joost stepped off the path to make room for her and she saw by his face that his mind was not at ease.
"Pray, Mijnheer," she said, in her softest tones, and her voice had many tones as her companion had not failed to notice, though he was not aware that the softest was also usually the most mischievous, "will you not walk the other side of the way? Then you will not be conspicuous at all."
"I do not mind it," he said, blushing, and Julia decided that his father's description of him as a retiring youth was really short of the mark. They walked along together down the quiet, bright streets; there were many people about, but nobody in a hurry, and all in Sunday clothes, bent on visiting or decorous pleasure-making. Everywhere was sunny and everything looked as if it had had its face washed; week days in the town always looked to Julia like Sundays, and Sundays, this Sunday in particular, looked like Easter.
In time they came to the trees that bordered the canal; there were old Spanish houses here, a beautiful purplish red in colour, and with carving above the doors. Julia looked up at her favourite doorpiece—a galleon in full sail, a veritable picture in relief, unspoiled by three hundred years of wind and weather.
"I think this is the most beautiful town I was ever in," she said. Her companion looked surprised.
"Do you like it?" he asked. "It must be quite unlike what you are used to, all of it must be."
"It is," she answered, "all of it, as you say—the place, the ways, the people."
"And you like it? You do not think it—you do not think us what you call slow, stupid?"
She was a little surprised, it had never occurred to her that he, any more than the others, would think about her point of view. "No," she answered, "I admire it all very much, it is sincere, no one appears other than he is, or aims at being or seeming more. Your house is the same back and front, and you, none of you have a wrong side, the whole life is solid right through."
Joost did not quite understand; had she not guessed that to be likely she would hardly have spoken so frankly. "I fear I do not understand you," he said; "it is difficult when we do not know each other's language perfectly."
"We know it very well," Julia answered; "as well as possible. If we were born in the same place, in the same house, we should not understand it better."
He still looked puzzled; he was half afraid she was laughing at him. "You think I am stupid?" he said, gravely.
She denied it, and they walked on a little in silence. They were in the quieter part of the town now and could talk undisturbed; after a little he spoke again, musingly.
"Often I wonder what you think of, you have such great, shining eyes, they eat up everything; they see everything and through everything, I think. They sweep round the room, or the persons or the place, and gather all—may I say it?—like some fine net—to me it seems they draw all things into your brain, and there you weave them and weave them into thoughts."
Julia swallowed a little exclamation, and by an effort contrived not to appear as surprised as she was by this too discerning remark. She was so young that she did not before know that children and child-like folk sometimes divine by instinct the same conclusions that very clever people arrive at by much reasoning and observation. She felt decidedly uncomfortable at this explanation of Joost's frequent contemplations of herself.
"You seem to think me very clever," she said.
"Of course," he answered simply, "you are clever."
"No, I am not," she returned; "ask your mother; ask Denah Snieder; they do not think me clever. What can I do, except cook? Oh, yes, and speak a few foreign language as you can yourself? I cannot paint, or draw, or sing; I do not understand music; why, when you play Bach, I wish to go out of the room."
"That is true," he admitted; "I have felt it."
Julia bit her lip; she had never before expressed her opinion of Bach, and she did not feel in the least gratified that he had found it out for himself.
"It is absurd to call me clever," she said. "I have little learning and no accomplishments. I cannot even get on with the crochet work Denah showed me, and I do not know how to make flowers of paper."
"But why should one make flowers of paper?" he asked, in his serious way. "They are not at all beautiful."
"Denah makes them beautifully," she answered.
The argument did not seem to carry weight, but Julia advanced no other; she thought silence the wisest course. They had almost reached home now; a little before they came to the gate, Joost opened the subject of herself again. "I think sometimes you must make fun of us; do you not sometimes in your heart laugh just a little bit?"
"I laugh at everything sometimes," she said; "myself most of all. Do you never laugh at yourself? I expect not; you are very serious. I will tell you what it is like: a little goblin comes out of your head and stands in front of you; the goblin is you, a sort of you; the other part, the part people know, sits opposite, and the goblin laughs at it because it sees how ridiculous the other is, how grotesque and how futile. My goblin came out into my room last night and laughed and laughed; you would almost have heard him if you had been there."
They had reached the gate now, and as Joost held it open for her to pass through, she saw that he had blushed to the ears at the lightly spoken words—if he had been in her room last night; the impropriety of them to him was evident. For a moment she blushed, too, then she recovered herself and grew impatient with one so artificial—and yet so simple, so self-conscious—and yet so unconscious, so desperately stupid—and yet so uncomfortably clear-sighted.
CHAPTER V
THE EXCURSION
The following Monday was fine and warm, and since the whole previous week had also been fine and warm, Mevrouw thought they might venture to make the talked-of excursion. Messages were accordingly sent to the Snieders, and from the Snieders back again, and after a wonderful amount of talk and arranging, everything was settled. Dinner was a little early that day, and a little hurried, though, since the carriage was not to come till after five o'clock, there was perhaps not much need for that. However, it is not every day in the week one makes an excursion, so naturally things cannot be expected to go quite as usual when such an event occurs.
The carriage came, Mevrouw had been waiting ten minutes, and three times been to see why Julia was not waiting with her. At the sound of wheels Julia came out; she had just finished washing the glasses (which she had been told not to touch, as there was certainly no time). She was quite ready, but Mevrouw at that moment discovered that she had the wrong sunshade. Julia fetched the right one and carried it out for the old lady; also an umbrella with a bow on the handle, a mackintosh, a shawl, and a large basket. Mijnheer came from the office with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and a minute later Joost also came to say good-bye; even the maidservant came from the kitchen to see them start.
The carriage drew up; it was a strange-looking vehicle, in shape something between a hearse and an ark on wheels, but with the greater