Yes, it was true enough, all poor van Nerekool’s trouble had been absolutely in vain.  
When he got to Karang Anjer he found in Mrs. Steenvlak a most amiable and highly accomplished lady, who, in her husband’s absence, received him most kindly and hospitably; but who, as regards Anna van Gulpendam, refused to give him the slightest information.
 
The young lawyer did his very best—he questioned and cross-questioned his hostess; but he had to do with a shrewd and clever woman who was quite able to hold her own, and would give him no direct answers. Most amiable Mrs. Steenvlak was no doubt; but he could get no information out of her; and all her replies to his oft-repeated questions left our despairing lover in the greatest perplexity. He begged and entreated, and she listened to him with the most unwearying patience, she showed even the deepest sympathy for his distress; but nevertheless nothing could move her to divulge anything.
 
“Yes,” said she, “Anna has been staying with us for the last few weeks, and I am happy to say, Mr. van Nerekool, that I succeeded in becoming her friend, and in obtaining her confidence. I will tell you further, that in her despair, the poor girl has told me everything—you understand me, do you not, when I say everything? She has told me of your mutual affection, and she has also shown me the barrier, the insurmountable barrier, which must for ever keep you apart.”
 
“Madam!” cried van Nerekool in dismay at her words.
 
“And,” continued Mrs. Steenvlak, “I am bound to tell you that I think the dear girl is right in every word she says. Of a marriage between you and her there cannot possibly be any further question; not even if you could succeed in winning the full consent of her parents. Utter misery for both of you would be the inevitable result of so foolish a step. Anna is, in my opinion, quite right when she maintains that a woman must have an unsullied name for her dowry.”
 
“But, madam!” passionately cried van Nerekool, “Anna is blameless and pure!”
 
“I am speaking of her name, Mr. van Nerekool, not of [358]her person. A man must be able to pronounce his wife’s name without having to blush as he mentions it. Her parents must possess his esteem, and they must be worthy of his respect. If those conditions do not exist then, for both man and wife, existence must soon become intolerable. It must become so to him; for he will always have to be carefully on his guard, weighing every word he speaks or leaves unspoken; and this restraint soon must banish all real confidence between them. Every heedless expression, on the other hand, would inevitably inflict a wound upon her, and, in the most innocent utterances, she needs must see some hidden meaning. In fact, under such circumstances, no compromise is possible.”
 
“But, Mrs. Steenvlak,” insisted van Nerekool, “I have proposed to Anna that we should leave Java altogether and go to Australia, to Singapore, or to any other place she might prefer. There no one would know the name of van Gulpendam, and we might live only for one another—and—and, I believe that our love would enable us to forget the dreary past, and thus a compromise might very easily be possible. As far as I am concerned no single word would ever drop from my lips which would allude to the past—I know how deeply any such hint must wound her, and, believe me, I love her far too dearly to inflict upon her the slightest pain.”
 
“Oh yes, Mr. van Nerekool, of that I have no doubt whatever; but, you see, that very silence, that very reticence on your part would be most painful to her; and it would ultimately become too great a restraint upon you also—you could not possibly bear it. But, for the matter of that, I must tell you that, with respect to your letters to her, she has never told me a single word.”
 
“How could she do so?” asked van Nerekool, “all my letters have been returned to me unopened.”
 
“I am glad of it,” replied Mrs. Steenvlak, “there again Anna has acted most wisely; and in acting thus she has spared herself, and you too, much useless sorrow. Every communication from you, every effort on your part to remove the existing obstacles between you, could only be most painful, and could not possibly lead to any good result.”
 
“Madam!” cried van Nerekool.
 
“You said, for instance, just now, that you have proposed to Anna to go to Singapore, and to be married there. But, just consider, how could you have undertaken that journey? Separately? I do not suppose that you could intend so young [359]a girl to undertake such a journey alone. Together? You feel at once how such a proposition would have wounded her modesty and her feelings. No, I am glad indeed that she had the courage not to read your letters.”
 
“But, Mrs. Steenvlak,” said van Nerekool, adopting another tone, “supposing that I were prepared to accept the present circumstances as they are?”
 
“What can you mean?” asked Mrs. Steenvlak in some surprise.
 
“Supposing,” continued he, “that in spite of her parents, in spite of all that has occurred, I should be prepared to make her my wife?”
 
“Mr. van Nerekool,” replied Mrs. Steenvlak very seriously, “do not speak so wildly I pray. In spite of her parents! That must mean that you are prepared to accept all the consequences such a step would entail. In other words, that you are prepared to show her parents that respect and that esteem which they could justly claim from you as their son-in-law. But do you not see that by thus acting you would be making yourself contemptible in Anna’s eyes?—you would be taking away the last support the girl still has to cling to in her exile. Believe me, the cruellest blow you can strike a woman of her nature, is to prove to her that she placed her affections on one unworthy of her. The unsullied image of him whom once she loved—whom she perhaps still fondly loves—gives her, in spite of the obstacles which separate you from one another, the best consolation in her sorrow. And that pure remembrance will be to her, together with the consciousness of having acted strictly in accordance with her duty, her chief support in a lonely life.”
 
As Mrs. Steenvlak was speaking, Charles van Nerekool had covered his face with his hands. At her last words however he sprang up from his chair, he took her hand and said:
 
“A lonely life you say? Oh, do tell me where Anna now is. I will go to her, perhaps even yet I may succeed in winning her—tell me where to find her!”
 
“Mr. van Nerekool,” rejoined Mrs. Steenvlak, very quietly, “do not, I pray you, try to do any such thing. She has given me her fullest confidence, and I do not intend to betray it. She has told me every detail, she has consulted me about the line of conduct she ought to adopt; and in all she does she has my sanction. Do you think that I would throw fresh difficulties in her way? You surely cannot wish me to do so.” [360]
 
“But,” cried van Nerekool passionately, “what does she intend to do—what kind of plans has she formed?”
 
“She simply intends henceforth to live forgotten.”
 
“Perhaps to mar—!” cried he.
 
“My dear sir,” hastily interrupted Mrs. Steenvlak, “do not pronounce that word, I forbid you to do so. In your mouth such a word conveys a foul calumny. She has refused your hand—she will never marry another.”
 
“But what then does she intend to do?”
 
“I have told you,” replied Mrs. Steenvlak, “she intends to live in perfect solitude and oblivion; and thus she wishes quietly to await death, which, she hopes, will soon release her from all her troubles.”
 
“She is ill then?” cried he in dismay.
 
“No, she is not ill,” replied Mrs. Steenvlak; “but such a trial as she has gone through is not at all unlikely to impair a young girl’s health; and may very probably shorten her life.”
 
“Madam,” cried van Nerekool, “your words are torture!”
 
“I am telling you the simple truth.”
 
“Oh tell me—where is she?”
 
“Never,” was the quiet reply.
 
“Is she in Java? Is she in India?”
 
“I will not give you the slightest clue.”
 
“Has she gone to Europe? Oh, I beg and pray you, have pity upon me and deliver me from this fearful suspense?”
 
“I will tell you nothing at all. Do you understand me, Mr. van Nerekool? nothing at all.”
 
“Can I not in any way move you to pity?”
 
“No, Mr. van Nerekool, I intend to remain true to my word and, moreover—”
 
“But, madam,” interrupted van Nerekool vehemently, “you must take pity upon my wretchedness!”
 
“Moreover,” continued Mrs. Steenvlak calmly, “I feel certain that in acting as I am doing, and in keeping absolute silence, I am preventing much future misery.”
 
“You are hard, you are pitiless!” cried the young man in despair, as he rushed from the house. For a couple of days longer he stayed at Karang Anjer, at the house of the regent of that dessa who entertained him with the utmost hospitality.
 
He cross-examined his host. “Yes—he knew nonna Anna well. She had frequently, in company with the njonja, called upon his wife; but she had gone away without letting anyone [361]know where she intended to go to. His wife and he thought that she had gone back to Santjoemeh.”
 
The unhappy lover kept wandering about the neighbourhood, making inquiries everywhere. He tried to obtain some clue from the loerahs, from the overseer, from the postmasters round about; but nowhere—nowhere—could he obtain the slightest information. Either these people really knew nothing, or else they were obeying orders and would tell him nothing. This seemed to van Nerekool most likely, as he heard at a certain posting station that no one could tell where the young lady had gone. During his wanderings he sat down at many a guard house, and again and again he put the same question: “Could anyone tell him where to look for the young European lady?” But it was only to receive the same answer over and over again, “No, sir.”
 
In his distress and perplexity, he at length left Karang Anjer and went to Tjilatjap, for he wanted to find out whether there was any truth in the report which van Gulpendam had so assiduously circulated, namely that his daughter had gone to Europe. Very luckily for him the regent of Karang Anjer possessed a travelling carriage which he placed at the disposal of his guest. This was a most fortunate thing for van Nerekool; for he would otherwise have had to travel the fifty-two miles to the harbour on horseback, and, in his desponding frame of mind, the fatigue of so long a journey might have had the most serious effect upon his health. The road from Karang Anjer to Tjilatjap lies on one continuous plain which is but very little above the sea-level, while the hills which rise close to the Indian Ocean run north and south, thus preventing the free circulation of land and sea breezes and rendering the atmosphere exceedingly oppressive and stifling.
 
When van Nerekool reached the harbour, he found that there also he could obtain no tidings. Neither the assistant resident of that place, nor the harbour-master nor any of the agents of the steam Navigation Company—nor, in fact any of the other shipping agents, knew anything about the departure of a young girl to Australia or to any other country. For months past no strange ship had sailed from that port; and the boats of the India Navigation Company which run to Australia, do not go along the South coast of Java but get into the Indian Ocean by the Bali straits. It was evident, therefore, that van Gulpendam’s tale of two ladies under whose escort Anna travelled to Europe, was a merely trumped-up story. [362]
 
Weary and sick at heart, van Nerekool was forced to return to Wonosobo by way of Bandjar Negara. There he stayed for a little while longer, and when, in that magnificent climate, he had almost entirely regained his health and strength, he went back to Santjoemeh where he found his friends, August van Beneden, Leendert Grashuis, Theodoor Grenits and Edward van Rheijn anxiously waiting to welcome him home.
 
“Well?” was the question of all of them as soon as they had made inquiries after their friend’s health, “well?”
 
The question alluded of course to his inquiries, for the anxiety and the efforts of van Nerekool had remained no secret among them.
 
“Nothing!” replied van Nerekool fetching a deep sigh, “I have found out nothing, not even the faintest clue.”
 
“No more have I,” added Grenits.
 
“You?” asked Charles in surprise.
 
“Yes,” rejoined the young merchant. “I also have been at work. I have made inquiries amongst all the commercial men in Dutch India; but from all sides I have had but one answer. ‘No young girl in any way corresponding to the description of Miss van Gulpendam has started from any of the shipping stations.’?”
 
“You think therefore—?” asked van Nerekool.
 
“I think that Miss van Gulpendam has not left Java at all.”
 
“But where on earth can she be then?” cried van Rheijn.
 
“God only knows!” sighed van Nerekool.
 
“But her parents?” observed Leendert Grashuis, “we can hardly suppose that a young lady of her age could have thus disappeared without consulting her parents.”
 
“No,” said van Rheijn, “especially as we know that Resident van Gulpendam is not exactly the papa to play tricks with.”
 
“Yet,” rejoined van Nerekool, “I am of opinion that neither the Resident nor his wife have the least idea where Anna now is.”
 
Thereupon he told his friends all about his conversation with Mrs. Steenvlak; and when he had given them a detailed account of all that passed between him and that lady, he concluded by saying, “She only could give us the information we want if she would.”
 
“If that be so,” remarked van Beneden, “we ought to search in the neighbourhood of Karang Anjer.”
 
“I have done so,” was van Nerekool’s reply, “I have most [363]minutely searched the entire district. I have questioned everybody whom I considered in the least likely to know anything about her movements; but all my inquiries have ended in nothing.”
 
“Well, Charles,” said Grashuis, “in that case I can see nothing for it than to leave the solution of the mystery to time.”
 
“To time!” sighed van Nerekool, “I suppose you are right; but, my dear friends, I am most wretched and most miserable.”
 
“You must get to business and, by hard work, seek to divert your thoughts,” said van Beneden. “I can assure you that your absence has not diminished the arrears of work at the Court of Justice. At all events, brooding over your troubles can do no good whatever.”
 
“Well,” replied van Nerekool, “to work then. God grant that hard work may have the effect you anticipate.”
 
“That reminds me,” remarked Grenits, “that to-morrow I shall have to appear in court.”
 
“You? what for?”
 
“Don’t you remember Mokesuep’s business?”
 
“Oh, aye, for the cuffs you administered to that scoundrel!”
 
“That will mean eight days for you, friend Theodoor,” observed van Beneden, “eight days at least of seclusion. Well, that’s not so very formidable after all.”
 
August van Beneden was not very far wrong, for the court condemned Grenits to ten days’ imprisonment and to pay a fine of twenty-five guilders for the assault, which, though it had led to no serious consequences, was no light offence, inasmuch as it had been committed on the person of a witness in a case of opium smuggling. The sentence would probably have been much more severe; but the court made allowance for the natural feelings of indignation called forth by the shameful conduct............