A reproachful tear--not self-reproachful--stood in Mynheer Mopius’s yellow eye.
“Mine is a more natural affection. I love you in a reasonable, matrimonial way. Not only for your gray hairs”--Jacóbus winced--“but also for the comforts of our mutual _entente_. So we shall order two nice new dresses and depart on Tuesday morning.”
“Your aunt was a better woman than you, Harriet.”
“She was not my aunt; don’t call her so. Of course she was much better than I. Had she not been, you would have been a better man.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mynheer Mopius, helplessly, “but I am not going to the Horst.”
“_Don’t_ want to see wheels go round,” quoted Harriet, whose course of novel-reading in all languages was very extensive, “but you will, though.”
She went over to her writing-table and carefully indited a little note. Jacóbus sat watching her nervously. She closed her envelope and got up without speaking.
“Written to Ursula?” asked her apprehensive lord.
“Oh dear, no; there’s time enough for that. It’s a note to Madame Javardy,” and she rang the bell. “Take this at once,” she said to the servant.
Mynheer Mopius rose on his spindle legs, protuberant and goggling.
“I am master of this house,” he began, “and I forbid--”
“Leave the room, Johan,” broke in Harriet, with suppressed vehemence; and, turning, as the man obeyed, “Jacóbus,” she said, “listen to me for one moment. That man knows you ill-treated your first wife. Everybody in the house knows it, but Drum society doesn’t, so you needn’t mind. Poor thing, she never told; but I shall, mind you, Mynheer the Town Councillor. If you ill-treat me, I shall cry out--cry out as far as--as Mevrouw Pock, for instance, and leave the rest to her!”
“Ill-treat you, Harriet!” spluttered Mynheer Mopius.
“Yes, ill-treat me. Do you know what they call Mevrouw Pock in Drum? ‘Sister Ann,’ because she’s always on the lookout for tidings. Mind they don’t call you ‘Bluebeard’ at the Club to-night.”
“They’ll say: What did you marry me for?” cried Jacóbus.
“Yes, they will--the women will; but the men will pity me, because I’m young and good looking, and you’re--old, Jacóbus. Oh, don’t bother,” she went on, hastily; “I’m sure I make you comfortable enough, and you can have everything you want. Only, I’m not going to put up with being teased out of pure whim, as you used to do. If you’ve a reason for stopping, I’ll stop, but as you’ve no reason, we go.”