The Twilight of the Souls Part 20

"Where have I been hiding? Where have I been hiding? I never have a moment to hide anywhere. I'm far too busy for that!"

"But what have you got to do?"

"What have I got to do? The day flies ... and I never have time to do what I've got to do."

"But what _have_ you got to do, Dorine?"

"My dear Gerrit, I won't bore you with a list of my doings. Take it from me that my life is sometimes _too_ busy and that I _never_ know a second's rest...."

He sat down and looked at her lunch.

"I came to take a snack with you and just to have a chat. But I see that you're in a great hurry and that you haven't a great deal to eat, so I don't expect you want me...."

"Do you think I sit down to an elaborate meal all by myself? No, Gerrit, I've no time for that."

"Have you a mouthful for me?"

"A mouthful, yes. I'll ring and order a couple of eggs for you."

She rang, ordered the eggs; and Gerrit was given a plate on the edge of the unlaid table:

"I'm glad to see you again, Sissy," said Gerrit. "I never see you at all, now that we don't meet at Mamma's."

"Well, you don't miss much."

"I can't say you're very amiable to-day. Have you such a thing as a gla.s.s of beer for me?"

"No, I haven't any beer."

"What are you drinking then?"

"Water, as you see."

"Oh, do you drink nothing but water? Well, then I'll have a gla.s.s of water too. I'm not very hungry either," said Gerrit, fibbing, for he was always hungry. "And, tell me, Dorine: don't you intend to run down to Nunspeet?"

"Ye-es," said Dorine, dubiously. "I ought really to go to Nunspeet....

Mamma's written to me, so has Adeline ... but I don't know how to fit it in."

"How do you mean, to fit it in?"

"Well, with the things I've got to do here."

"But what is it you've got to do?"

"Oh, Gerrit, nothing really that would interest you!... The point is that I'm good enough for Nunspeet ... but then of course they only want me to be nurse to your children."

"Why, Dorine!"

"That's it, of course!" she said, tartly. "To be nurse to your children!"

"I don't think you need be afraid of that. Line has the governess with her...."

"Well, then why does everybody want to get me down to Nunspeet: Mamma, Adeline, you?... I can't do anything for Ernst, because Ernst upsets me too much...."

"But, Dorine, to give you a change ... as you're so lonely here...."

"Lonely?... Lonely?" echoed Dorine.

She drank her last sip of water and said:

"I don't mind being lonely...."

"Yes, I know that, but still it's rather comfortless."

"I like being lonely. I think it very cosy and comfortable."

"You think it cosy?"

"Yes."

"Here, in this bare room of yours?"

"Yes, here, in this bare room of mine."

"But, Dorine, that's not possible!"

"But, good gracious, Gerrit, don't I tell you that it is!"

She stamped her foot angrily and gave him a resentful glance. Behind her dark eyes he saw a whole world of secret bitterness, a fierce grudge which smouldered in the depths of her soul. And it suddenly struck him that she looked very old, though he knew that she was only just thirty-nine. Her hair, drawn into a knot at the back, was beginning to go grey, there were deep wrinkles in her forehead, now that she was out of temper; and the lines of her cheeks and chin and her sharp, bitter mouth gave her almost the look of an old woman. Her figure too appeared withered and shrunken. And he suddenly thought her so much to be pitied in her lonely life as an unmarried woman without interests, over whose head the years had pa.s.sed bringing none of the sweetness of the changing seasons--for it seemed as if she had never known a spring, as if she would never know a summer, as if there would only be the dreary autumn which was now beginning to loom dimly before her, as if there had never been anything for her in life, as if there never would be anything for her, never anything but that weary pa.s.sing of the monotonous, lonely days, so lonely and so monotonous that she created for herself a bustle and flurry that did not exist, interests that were not there, an activity which she imagined, running in and out of shop after shop, for a box of stationery or a skein of thread, with, in between, a casual charitable call, done in a fussy, unpractical fashion--he suddenly thought her so much to be pitied in her loveless, cheerless life that he said:

"Shall I tell you what would be nice of you? And sensible?... To pack up all your traps, say good-bye to your landlady below ... and come and live with _us!_"

She stared at him with angry eyes and pressed her thin lips together:

"Come and live with _you_?" she asked, in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

"What I say. The house is small, but we can manage with the children; you would have a tiny bedroom: that's the best I could do for you. Line is very fond of you and so are the children. And then you'd be living with us and have a jolly time."

"_Live_ with you?" she repeated.

And he saw a shadow of hesitation in her eyes, for, indeed, it seemed to her that a heavenly warmth suddenly lapped her round; and she felt her dark, angry eyes grow moist, she did not know why.

"Yes. Wouldn't you think that jolly?"

"But what put it into your head, Gerrit?"

"Because I don't think it's jolly for you here."